The Black Sun (39 page)

“Why don’t we talk this over inside,” said Cunningham. He turned to the functionary at the desk who had just tried to have Tom thrown out. “It’s okay, Roland, he’s with me. Sign

him

in,

will

you?”

the black sun 339

Armed with a visitor’s pass, Tom followed Cunningham through a reinforced door that another marine stationed on the other side buzzed open for them, through an anonymous labyrinth of secretarial pens and dingy offices, down a flight of stairs, and then along a narrow corridor that seemed to have six cells along it, three down each side.

“He’s in here.” Cunningham reached the far left-hand cell and swiped a card through a magnetic reader. The door buzzed open.

“Archie?” Tom stepped inside the cell.

“Tom.” Archie’s face broke into a smile. “You took your time.” He was lying on a narrow bed, thumbing through a two-year-old edition of
GQ
, a cigarette jammed in his mouth.

“You two must have a lot of catching up to do,” Cunningham said coldly. He slammed the cell door shut.

Tom stared at the closed door, then turned to Archie and gave a shrug.

“Nice escape plan, mate,” Archie grunted, turning back to the magazine. “What did you do? Smuggle a spoon in so we can dig our way out?”

“He’s pleasant, isn’t he?” Tom sat down heavily on the bed next to him.

“Tell me about it. I’ve had to put up with his shit all night long.”

“What does he think you’ve done now?”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Archie. “Just the odd murder or thirty. Including Lasche, it seems.”

“Lasche? But we saw him only a few days ago.”

“Exactly. That’s when they think I did it.”

“But why?”

“For the same reason they think I killed Lammers’s niece.”

“She’s dead too?” Tom gasped.

“Apparently, poor thing.” Archie sighed. “This whole business is getting out of control. They think I was trying to cover my tracks.”

“Tracks from what?” Tom said dismissively. “This is total bullshit. You haven’t done anything.”

340 james twining

“I know that. You know that. But as far as they’re concerned, I’m not only involved in a theft that Lasche got me to carry out from some museum in the States, but I then gassed a roomful of neo-Nazis I’d recruited to do the job for me. Their kids too.” Archie spoke with his eyes still fixed on the magazine.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I was.”

“Well, what is it you’re meant to have stolen, exactly?”

“An Enigma machine.”

“An Enigma machine?” Tom’s tone switched from outrage to interest.

“Yeah.” Archie looked up, his face lifting with sudden understanding. “Why, you don’t think . . .”

“Why not?” Tom nodded slowly. “A neo-Nazi group. A wartime decoder. Lasche supposedly involved, then turning up dead. There must be a connection.”

“Well, the Enigma’s a collectible piece, I guess. But I don’t see what use it would be to anyone.”

“Unless you needed to decode something.”

“The final Bellak painting!” Archie exclaimed. “We need to get in touch with Kristenko again and get it out.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a bit late for that,” Tom said bitterly, briefly recounting the previous night’s events for Archie’s benefit.

“So Renwick’s got the painting and the Enigma.” Archie sighed. “We’ve got nothing.”

“Maybe we do,” said Tom.

“Maybe we do what?”

“Have something. My camera. The one I loaned to Kristenko. I grabbed it off him when I was in the vault. It’ll be ruined, but the memory card should still work.”

“I don’t see . . .”

“He took photos of the painting, didn’t he? To prove that he had it. If we’ve got that, we might not need the painting at all.”

“Then we just need to get out of here,” said Archie, motioning toward the steel door.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

9:27 a.m.

Before Tom could answer, the door flew open and Bailey marched into the room. He didn’t bother introducing himself, fixing Tom instead with an excited stare. “Tell me about this painting.”

“You’ve been listening?” Tom shot back, furious with himself for not having been more careful. Bailey indicated a small black hole over the bed that he hadn’t noticed before.

“I was on the first shift in case you two got careless. Don’t worry, it’s turned off now.”

“Like hell it is.” Tom eyed him with distrust.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on.”

“We’re not telling you nothing,” Archie snorted.

“Look, you’re in deep shit here. Real deep. You want to have a chance of getting out of here, you gotta share. Then maybe I can help.”

“Why should you help us?”

“If my boss knew I was in here, he’d kill me,” Bailey said earnestly. “But I’m here because, for better or worse, I go with my gut. Always have. And my gut tells me you guys weren’t bullshitting just now.”

“You first, then,” Tom said slowly. “What is it you think we’re involved in?”

342 james twining

“Two weeks ago a guard was murdered and an Enigma machine was stolen from the NSA Museum in Maryland. We got a tip-off that a neo-Nazi group in Idaho called the Sons of American Liberty were involved. When we went to check out their HQ, someone had locked them all in a booby-trapped room. Every single person inside died. Gassed.”

“But how did that lead you to me?” Archie asked.

“We had an eyewitness. His description was a good match to a man filmed boarding a flight to Zurich. When we checked out the names of Zurich-based major players in the military memorabilia game, Lasche’s name came up, so we staked out his hotel. Then you showed up.”

“And . . . ?”

“And matched the description.”

“That’s impossible,” Archie said dismissively. “I don’t even know where Idaho is. Like I told you, I was in Vegas when this happened.”

“Vegas?” said Tom in surprise. “Is that what you were up to?”

“Do we have to go into this now?” Archie said, rolling his eyes, before turning back to Bailey. “Show me the picture.”

Bailey reached into his jacket and drew out a sheet of paper. Archie unfolded it, studied the CCTV image, and looked up skeptically. “That’s not me,” he said with a mixture of relief and indignation.

“That’s Lasche’s nurse,” Tom said grimly, snatching the paper from his hands.

“Lasche’s nurse?” Bailey stammered. “Are you sure?”

“I never forget a face. Heinrich, I think he said his name was.”

“You’re right, now you mention it.” Archie nodded his agreement. “He was there when we went to see him the other day.”

“What’s Lasche’s involvement in all this?” Tom asked.

“Well,” Bailey began uncertainly, still staring uneasily at the picture, “we guessed that Lasche was the middleman for the Enigma machine. That you’d stolen it and then sold it to him.”

“That’s

about

the

only

thing

you’ve

got

right

so

far,”

Tom

the black sun 343

said. “Except that it wasn’t Archie he sent to steal it but Heinrich. Lasche must have been betrayed by whoever he sold the machine to. That same person murdered the Sons of American Liberty and, in all probability, Lasche as well, to ensure no one could make the link back to him.”

“ ‘Him’ being . . . ?” Bailey quizzed.

“In my opinion Harry Renwick, a.k.a. Cassius—or someone acting on his behalf. Check your records. Last time I looked, he was on your top ten most wanted list. He’s the one you should be looking for. He’s behind this whole thing, I’m sure of it.”

“But what’s this got to do with a painting? How did you get mixed up in it?”

Tom paused for a second, debating how much he was willing to reveal. His natural instinct was to say nothing, but there was something about Bailey, an honesty allied with an eagerness that inspired a sense of grudging confidence. He took a snap decision to trust him. But only as far as he had to.

“We were approached by a guy called William Turnbull from MI6’s counterterrorist team,” Tom began slowly. “They were worried about a terrorist group in Germany who had linked up with Renwick. They wanted our help to find out what they were up to.”

“Why you? Did you know him or something?”

“He’s an old friend of the family,” Tom said with a hollow laugh. “Anyway, it turns out they were looking for something. Something that was hidden at the end of the war. We think the painting is the final clue to revealing its location. I only found out about the Enigma machine just now, but I’m guessing that he needed one in order to unlock some sort of coded message written on the painting.”

“And how did that lead you to Lasche?”

“It was just dumb coincidence. The painting was hidden by a secret order of highranking SS officers. Lasche is the expert on that period, so we wanted his opinion. We had no idea that Renwick had already involved him in the Enigma theft.”

“And

the

girl—Maria

Lammers—what

was

her

involvement?”

344 james twining

“Her uncle was a member of the Order,” Archie explained. “We were just following the trail to see whether it led anywhere. But why Renwick should want to kill her, I don’t know.” He shook his head, mystified. “She knew nothing.”

“You’re right.” Tom frowned. “It’s like what happened in the nightclub. There’s something else going on here that we’re missing.”

Bailey blew out his cheeks, leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he stared down at the floor, his voice a monotone. “Okay. You two stay here. I’m going to check some of this out.”

Tom jerked his head toward the door. “Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

9:35 a.m.

Bailey’s eyes widened as the search results flashed up in front of him.
HENRY J.
RENWICK, A.K.A. CASSIUS. RACKETEERING INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT

ORGANIZATIONS (RICO)—MURDER (18 COUNTS), CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT

MURDER, CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT EXTORTION, ARMED ROBBERY, HANDLING

STOLEN GOODS, CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT MONEY LAUNDERING, EXTORTION,
MONEY LAUNDERING . . .

He gave a low whistle. Maybe there was more to Kirk’s story than he’d thought. “Find something good?” Cunningham had stepped into the room behind him.

“Not sure yet.” Bailey flicked the screen to another program and turned to face Cunningham with a nervous smile.

Carter’s instructions had been clear: observe and report. Nothing more. By going into Kirk and Connolly’s cell unaccompanied, he had stepped well outside that remit. How 346 james twining

could he explain his decision to Cunningham, let alone Carter? “You come up with anything on Connolly?” Bailey asked casually.

“No. We’re still trying to run him down, but it looks like we’ve never come across him before. I’m going to check with Interpol.”

“Makes sense.” “We caught a real break with Kirk, huh?” Cunningham said with a grin. “How’s that?” “Him just walking in here. We didn’t need those extra men to go and take him down after all.” “Yeah, but we’ve still got nothing on him,” Bailey pointed out. “We got time.” Cunningham shrugged. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

Bailey turned back to his computer, hoping that Cunningham would take the hint and leave, but he hovered near the door, finally breaking the silence with a cough.

“Is everything okay?” Cunningham asked. “Sure.” “You seem kinda tense.” Bailey took a deep breath, realizing he was going to have

to come clean. “There’s something you should take a look at.” He flicked the screen back to the FBI Ten Most Wanted page.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

9:50 a.m.

When Bailey returned about twenty-five minutes later, it was with a pensive expression and Cunningham by his side. The latter took up a position leaning by the door, one leg raised and bent back behind him, so that the sole of his black shoe was flat to the wall.

“Renwick showed up on our system,” Bailey began. “He certainly fits the profile.”

“No kidding,” Tom said drily.

“Lasche’s nurse too. Heinrich Henschell. The photo we have on file matches the description. Rough customer. Did time in Spain for murdering a rare book dealer about ten years ago before escaping while being transferred to another prison. The Swiss police think they may have just found him in a ditch twenty miles outside Zurich.”

Bailey paused.

“Why do I think there’s a
but
coming up?” Archie asked coldly.

“Because there’s no William Turnbull.”

“The guy’s a spook.” Tom shrugged. “I’m not surprised he doesn’t show up.”

“Since

9/11

we

have

reciprocal

information-sharing

348 james twining

agreements with the British on all counterterrorist person

nel. Turnbull’s not one of them.”

“Well maybe he’s part—”

“He
was
one of them. Until he got taken out in Moscow six months ago.”

“What?” Archie gasped.

“He was shot dead coming out of a bookshop next to Red Square. Whoever approached you wasn’t MI6, and certainly wasn’t William Turnbull.”

“He was a ringer?” Archie’s tone was a mixture of surprise and anger. “He can’t be. I checked him out.”

“You checked that there was an MI6 agent by that name,” Tom corrected him, nodding slowly as the past few days rearranged themselves in his mind. “And there was. Only he was dead.”

“But the cars, all those men . . . ?”

“Probably hired for the day. Oh, he played it beautifully. He knew that if he mentioned Renwick’s name, I’d listen. That if he just pointed us in the right direction and let us off the leash, we’d do all the running.” Tom shook his head, furious with himself.