The Black Sun (37 page)

Again, he had to remove four screws. This time it took him considerably longer, the constrained space making it difficult to maneuver the screwdriver. Eventually the plate came free in his hands and he removed his gloves, probing inside the lock until his fingertips connected with the rear of the combination wheel. The vertical direction of the marker groove indicated that it was set to zero.

Cracking combination locks had been one of the first skills he’d mastered. Although the prevalence of digital security systems had rendered it almost obsolete, Tom put himself through regular training drills to maintain the technique. Less skilled thieves might be content to drill a safe and then use an endoscope to see the mechanism—

occasionally a necessary precaution, where an alarmed dial or mercury switch was involved—but Tom preferred to trust his senses. It was just as well, because in this instance, he had no choice.

Tom shut his eyes and began to turn the wheel. His breathing slowed as he concentrated. The noise of the individual tumblers slowly bumping against the wheel’s tiny teeth was almost inaudible, but to Tom’s highly tuned ear each infinitesimal click was a deafening crash, the minute vibration almost stinging the tips of his trained fingers. Click, click, click, CLUNK. The change in tone, the slight variation in feel, was minute. But to Tom, it was as clear as if one of the statues in the room outside had just toppled to the floor. He had his first number. He’d counted it as seventeen. 320 james twining

He closed his eyes again and turned the dial the other way. This time the change came quickly. Eight. He moved it back the other way, going past thirty, then forty, then fifty, the lever eventually dropping on fifty-three. Then back again, he assumed for the final time, since this model of safe was usually programmed with four numbers, although it could take up to five. Twenty-seven.

He tugged on the steel rod that controlled the upper set of restraining bolts. Nothing. He frowned and tried it again. Still it wouldn’t open. So he placed his finger on the dial, turned it one notch, and smiled as he heard the tumbler fall into place. It was an old trick, placing an additional number just one or two places on from the previous one. This time when he pulled on the rod it moved down, the upper bolts retracting smoothly. He repeated the procedure on the bottom and side rods, and these too pulled free

in

his

hands.

With

a

firm

push,

the

door

swung

open.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

THE HERMITAGE, ST. PETERSBURG

January 11—12:22 a.m.

Grigory Mironov cleared the final flight of stairs and headed for the Western Art gallery. In addition to handing out the night’s work rotas, it was his responsibility to check that all the cleaners had followed their instructions and that they were doing a good job. It was a responsibility that he took very seriously.

He entered the Rodin Room and ran a finger along the nearest frame. It came away dusty. Then he made his way to the Gauguin Room, only to discover that it too had yet to be cleaned. They must be in the Monet Room, he muttered to himself, but that too was untouched. He felt the anger building inside him.

The three guards who were supposed to be patrolling that section of the museum were loitering in the Renoir Room, taking a cigarette break. As usual. “You seen the two cleaners for this section?” Mironov demanded. “A big fat guy and his mute friend?”

One of the guards broke away from the other two and hustled Mironov out of the room, draping

a

protective

arm

around

his

shoulder.

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“Don’t worry. They explained everything. I let them through, no questions asked.” He winked.

“What?”

“A third for you, a third for me. The director gets his office cleaned and everyone’s happy.” The guard patted him warmly on the back. “Good doing business with you.” He laughed and went to rejoin his colleagues.

Mironov stood in the middle of the room, seething with rage. So, those two jokers were freelancing, were they? Thought they could get away with cutting him out. Well, he’d have them up in front of the Committee for neglecting their jobs. And he’d report the director, too. He’d never liked him anyway.

Muttering

angrily

to

himself,

he

set

off

for

the

staff

offices.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

MAIN ATELIER, RESTORATION DEPARTMENT,

January 11—12:22 a.m.

Tom stepped gratefully into the room. But his elation was short-lived. Someone was approaching. He could hear footsteps that paused suddenly, followed by a rattle, then footsteps again. His eyes shot to the door handle. Would Renwick have bothered to lock it?

Unwilling to take the risk, Tom gently pushed the vault door shut behind him and slipped under the sheet covering a tall statue of Mercury near the door. As the footsteps grew louder, he huddled close to the statue, his nose inches away from a vine leaf that had been strategically positioned to preserve its modesty. The winged god’s arms were outstretched in flight, creating a tentlike space under the thin white shroud. Even so, Tom hardly dared breathe in case the rise of his chest could be detected through the fabric. A sharp rattle on the handle was followed by the groan of the hinges as the door creaked open. A squeak of shoe leather on the marble floor, and then nothing. Tom guessed that whoever it was had stopped for a good look around. There was a slight gap between the sheet and the floor, and he could just make out a pair of old but wellpolished shoes.

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He heard someone muttering in Russian, and the shoes turned back toward the door. The shoes were almost out of the room when they stopped again. The man crouched down, Tom able to make out an outstretched index finger being run across the floor’s surface. As the finger was lifted, Tom could see the dark stain left by Turnbull’s blood. The man sprang up, the shoes swiveling and following the trail of blood to the vault. Tom leapt from his cover as the man ran past, the sheet coming with him as he shouldercharged him. The impact sent the guard crashing into one of the workbenches, and he let out a grunt as the wind was knocked out of him.

Tom scrambled to his feet, desperately trying to wrestle his way out of the sheet that was still wrapped around his head and arms in case the guard went for his gun. But in that moment a large bottle on the workbench, unbalanced by the impact of the collision, teetered off the edge and dropped onto the Russian’s skull.

Brown glass flew everywhere as the bottle exploded with a crash, and the guard’s head slumped

to

his

chest.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

12:25 a.m.

Grigory Mironov turned the corner just in time to hear the sound of breaking glass, followed almost immediately by the sound of the door to the Restoration Department being locked.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, beating on the door with his fist. “Open up.”

Mironov had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan back in the eighties. His fitness levels might have dropped, but he reckoned he still knew how to handle himself. Certainly, he had no qualms about confronting whoever was inside.

“I’m coming in,” he warned. There was no answer, just the sound of more glass being broken.

Reaching for the massive bunch of keys attached to his leather belt, he frantically rattled through them, identified the one he was looking for, tried it, found it didn’t work, tried another.

The door opened.

He leaped into the room, his flashlight raised over his head as a makeshift club. But the room was empty. A sharp bite of cold air on the back of his neck made him look up. One of the skylights had been smashed. The intruder had escaped to the roof. 326 james twining

Glass crunched beneath his feet and he looked down. The floor was wet. His eyes followed the stream of dark liquid to the guard’s body, slumped against a workbench. Mironov ran to his side and felt for a pulse. Seeing that he was still alive, he laid him down on the floor and radioed for assistance.

Within forty-five seconds, men were pouring through the door, guns drawn.

“What happened?” demanded the senior officer.

“We had two new men start tonight. I sent them up to clean a few of the Western Art galleries, but they never showed up. I think they bribed one of the guards to allow them down here. I came looking for them. All I heard was a shout and then the sound of breaking glass. I think they must have gone up there.” He pointed up at the shattered skylight.

“Could you recognize them if you saw them?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. In that case you’re coming with us. I want people up on the roof and all exits sealed. Then I want a room-by-room search until we find these bastards. Alexsei?”

“Yes, sir.” A young guard who had until now remained by the door stepped forward.

“Stay here with Ivan. I’ll get a medical team up here as soon as I can.”

“Yes sir.”

Mironov and the guards trooped out of the room, their voices excited and determined. Alexsei crouched next to Ivan and loosened his collar, wiping small pieces of broken glass

from

his

hair.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

12:28 a.m.

As he crouched behind the worktop, Tom’s mind was racing. Smashing the skylight had convinced the guards that he must have escaped through it. But it was a trick that would last only as long as it took them to get up there and find the roof deserted. He had to find a way past the guard and out of this room. Fast.

He peeked out from behind the worktop and caught a glimpse of the guard they’d left—Alexsei, the others had called him. Tom’s heart leapt. It was the same guard who’d deactivated the metal detector when scanning Turnbull. Clearly, he owed Viktor a favor. Tom hoped the debt would extend to helping him. He was hardly loaded with options. Tom stood up and the guard’s hand shot instinctively to his hip.

“Wait,” Tom said urgently.

“You go.” The guard looked terrified. His eyes flicked nervously to the door.

“How?” Tom pulled out his map of the museum and pointed at it questioningly. The guard grabbed it and traced a route with a shaking finger. It led down an adjacent stairwell, all the way along the first floor into the Small Hermitage, 328 james twining

then into the Great Hermitage until . . . Tom squinted, un

certain that he was seeing it right.

“The canal?” he asked uncertainly.

“
Da
,” said the guard, then made some hand and leg movements that seemed to imply Tom should make his escape by climbing down into the canal and swimming away. Now wasn’t the time to explain that, with his shoulder in its current state, he wouldn’t be able to climb or swim anywhere. He’d have to figure something out when he got there. With a muttered “
spasibo
” he grabbed the key that the guard was holding out to him.

“Call Viktor. Let her know what’s happening,” said Tom, acting out making a phone call while thrusting the scrap of paper Viktor had given him with her number written on it into the guard’s hand.

The guard nodded dumbly in response, but Tom was already gone, the crunching of feet on the roof overhead as the guards arrived at the shattered skylight echoing in his ears as he sprinted out of the room.

The key the guard had given him unlocked the door at the top of the staircase. Tom flew down it, emerging onto the first floor moments later. The corridor was deserted, the guards having presumably joined the search upstairs and on the roof, and he broke into a run across the polished herringbone parquet floor, his shoulder burning, the pain making him feel faint. He followed the map across the small bridge into the northern pavilion of the Small Hermitage and then used the key to enter the passage gallery that led into the Great Hermitage.

He found himself in the museum’s Italian collection, a group of thirty rooms dedicated to the development of Italian art between the thirteenth and nineteenth centuries, and slowed to a cautious walk. The parts of the museum he had just run through were mainly administrative and therefore only sparsely patrolled. The galleries, however, contained two of only twelve paintings in the world known to have been painted by Leonardo da Vinci. Here, security wouldn’t be so lax.

His

caution

was

well

founded.

No

sooner

had

he

crossed

the black sun 329

into the first room than he made out a man’s silhouette in the distance. The rooms here were all interconnected, and it was almost possible to see from one end of the building to the other through the open doorways. Tom estimated that the person he had seen was no more than two rooms away.

He quickly decided against taking him on. Even if his shoulder had been up to it, he couldn’t risk the guard getting a shot off. Moreover, he didn’t know how many other guards there were on that floor. Any disturbance would bring them all rushing in. The room offered no natural cover apart from the wood-paneled walls, so Tom crouched by the door, his back flat to the wall, hidden in the shadows. A few moments later, the guard entered the room and walked straight past him.