The Black Sun (6 page)

behind the Iron Curtain, but these days they’re into small-scale drug and protection rackets. They’re suspected of involvement in a range of guerrilla-style terrorist atrocities aimed primarily at Jewish communities in Germany and Austria. There are no more than ten or twenty active members, with a wider group of supporters and sympathizers perhaps a hundred strong. But that’s what makes them so dangerous. They slip under the radar of most law-enforce-ment agencies and are almost impossible to pin down.”

“Like I said, I’ve never heard of them.”

Turnbull continued, undeterred. “Nine days ago, two men broke into St. Thomas’

Hospital and murdered three people. Two of them were medical staff—witnesses, most likely. The third was an eighty-one-year-old patient by the name of Andreas Weissman. He was an Auschwitz survivor who moved here after the war.” Tom was silent, still uncertain where this was leading and what it had to do with him. “They amputated Weissman’s left arm below the elbow while he was still alive. He died of a heart attack.”

“They did what?” Archie sat forward at this latest piece of information.

“Cut his arm off. His left forearm.”

“What the hell for?” Tom this time.

“That’s where we want your help.” Turnbull smiled, revealing a disconcerting set of overlapping and crooked teeth.

“My help?” Tom frowned. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

“I thought you’d say that,” said Turnbull, bracing himself against the window as the car turned a corner. “The killers stole the surveillance tapes from the ward, but one of them was caught on CCTV as they left the building.” He produced another photo and passed it back. Tom and Archie took it in turn to examine the image, but both shook their heads.

“No idea,” said Archie.

“Never seen him before,” Tom agreed.

“No, but we have,” Turnbull continued. “Which is how we were able to make the link to Kristall Blade. He’s Dmi-tri’s number two, Colonel Johann Hecht. Last time we caught up

with

him

was

in

Vienna

about

three

months

ago

when

47 the black sun

one of our agents snapped him in a restaurant.” He handed Tom a third photograph.

“He’s about six foot seven and has a scar down his right cheek and across his lip, so you can’t exactly miss him.”

“I’m still waiting for the punch line here.” Tom’s frustration was mounting, and he passed the photo to Archie without even glancing at it. “What’s this man got to do with me?”

“Christ!” Archie grabbed Tom’s arm. “Look at who he’s sitting opposite.”

The color drained from Tom’s face as he recognized the man that Archie was pointing at.

“It’s Harry,” he stammered, the smiling, carefree face in the photo instantly sweeping away the fragile barricades he had sought to erect around that part of his life over the last six

months.

“It’s

Renwick.”

TIVOLI GARDENS, COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

January 5—2:03 p.m.

Harry Renwick paid his admission at the Glyptotek entrance on the corner of Tietgensgade and H. C. Andersens Boulevard and walked inside. It was still quiet at this hour, most people, he knew, preferring to visit after dark when the Tivoli turned into a light-filled oasis of over 115,000 incandescent bulbs amid the city’s dark winter nights. Despite the time, though, most of the rides were already open. The oldest, a large wooden roller coaster known to locals as Bjergrutschebanen, or the Mountain Roller Coaster, roared in the distance, the screams of its few passengers evaporating into the thin winter air in clouds of warm steam.

Renwick was certainly dressed for the weather, a blue velvet trilby pulled down low over his ears, a yellow silk scarf wound several times around his neck before disappearing into the folds of his dark blue overcoat. With his chin buried in the warmth of his upturned collar, only his nose and eyes could be seen, intelligent, alert, and as cold and unfeeling as the snow that coated the trees and rooftops around him. He paused in front of a souvenir stall, icicles dangling menacingly from the overhanging roof. As he scanned its contents he shifted his right arm in his pocket, wincing

49 the black sun

slightly. No matter how well he wrapped it up, the cold penetrated the stump where his hand had once been and made it ache. Eventually he found what he was looking for and pointed it out to the sales assistant, handing over a hundred-kroner note. Slipping his purchase into a red bag, she counted out his change and smiled as he tipped his hat in thanks.

He walked on, past the skating rink, and then the lake, the only part of Copenhagen’s original fortifications to have survived the city’s growth as it swallowed up land that, like Tivoli, had once stood outside its moat and ramparts. Reaching the Chinese pagoda, he stepped into the warmth of the Kinesiske Tårn restaurant housed within, stamping his feet in the entrance vestibule to shake the snow off his shoes. A welcoming cloakroom attendant relieved him of his hat and coat, revealing a charcoal gray double-breasted suit. In his midfifties, Renwick was tall and still obviously strong, his shoulders and head held high and stiff as if on parade. He had a full head of white hair, usually immaculately parted down one side, but the removal of his hat had left it sticking up in places. Nestled under a pair of thick, craggy eyebrows, his large green eyes looked younger than his face, which was etched with wrinkles and sagged a little across the cheeks.

“Two, please. In the back,” he demanded.

“Of course, sir. This way, please.”

The maître d’hôtel steered him to a table. Renwick opted for the seat that left him with a clear view of the entrance and the windows overlooking the lake. He ordered some wine and checked his watch, a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronograph that he kept in his top pocket on a thin gold chain fixed to his buttonhole. Hecht was late, but then Renwick was early. Experience had taught him to take no chances. He surveyed the dining room. It was the usual lunchtime crowd. Young couples, hands clasped, gazing into each oth-er’s eyes with looks that spoke volumes. Older couples, having long since run out of words, silently gazing in opposite directions. Parents, struggling to control their children, trying desperately to keep an eye on everything at once.

Little

people

with

little

lives.

50 james twining

Hecht arrived five minutes later, towering over the waiter who ushered him over. He was wearing lace-up boots, jeans, and a cheap brown leather jacket decorated with zipper and press-stud pockets that looked stiff and plastic.

“You are late,” Renwick admonished him as he sat down, awkwardly folding his long legs under the table. Hecht had a cruel, lumbering face, a white scar down his right cheek pulling his mouth into a permanent grin, his gray eyes bulging and moist from the cold. His dyed black hair had been plastered to his scalp with some sort of oil.

“We watched you all the way from the main gate,” Hecht corrected him. “I thought I’d give you a few minutes to get settled in. I know you like to choose the wine.”

Renwick smiled and indicated for the waiter to fill Hecht’s glass. “So? Did you get it?”

Renwick’s tone had been casual, but Hecht wasn’t fooled. “Don’t insult me. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I had.”

“Where is it then?”

Hecht unzipped his jacket and withdrew a short cardboard tube. Renwick snatched it from him, popped the plastic cover off one end, and emptied the canvas scroll into his lap.

“Is it the one?”

“Patience, Johann,” Renwick chided, although he was having difficulty disguising the excitement in his own voice.

Holding the painting out of sight below the table with his left hand, he unscrolled it across his lap and inspected its battered surface. Seeing nothing there, he flipped it over to examine the reverse. His face fell. Nothing. “Damn.”

“I don’t know where else to look.” Hecht’s voice was laced with disappointment.

“That’s six we have taken, and none of them the right one—or so you say.”

“What are you implying?” Renwick snapped.

“That perhaps if we knew what you were looking for, it would help us find the right painting.”

“That is not our arrangement. I am paying you to steal the paintings, nothing more.”

“Then

perhaps

it’s

time

the

deal

changed.”

51 the black sun

“What do you mean?” Renwick asked sharply, not liking the mischievous sparkle in Hecht’s eyes.

“That Jew you asked us to keep an eye on . . .”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Renwick’s eyes widened. “How?”

“We killed him.”

“You killed . . . You idiot,” Renwick spluttered. “You have no idea what you are meddling in. How dare you—”

“Don’t worry.” Hecht interrupted him with a wink. “We got it.”

Renwick nodded slowly, as if trying to calm himself, although in truth Hecht’s revelation was no surprise; he had known for several days now about Kristall Blade’s thoughtless attack on Weissman. If things had been different, he might even have been in a position to prevent it. No matter. For now, the important thing was for them to think they had gained an advantage. If they felt they were in control, it would make them complacent. And their complacency would eventually present him with the opportunity to make his move. Until then, he was happy to grant them their small victory and pretend to have been outsmarted.

“And now I suppose you think that little bit of cleverness entitles you to a seat at the top table?”

“This is bigger than an old painting. We can sense it. We want a share in whatever it is you are after.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“You get the arm and whatever it can tell you.”

There was a pause as Renwick pretended to consider Hecht’s offer. His wineglass sounded like a deadened bell as he rhythmically tapped the squat gold signet ring on his little finger against the rim.

“Where is the arm now?”

“Still in London. One phone call from me and it will be flown out here—or destroyed. You choose.”

Renwick shrugged. “Very well. Eighty-twenty split.” He had no intention of splitting anything but knew it would arouse suspicion if he didn’t try to negotiate.

“Fifty-fifty.”

52 james twining

“Do not push your luck, Johann,” Renwick warned him.

“Sixty-forty then.”

“Seventy-thirty. That’s my final offer,” Renwick said firmly.

“Done.” Hecht took out his phone. “Where do you want it delivered?”

“I will go to London,” Renwick said with a wry smile. “Things are already in motion there. Maybe we can use this to our advantage.”

“You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”

Renwick shook his head. “I will talk to Dmitri. What I have to say, he should hear first.”

Hecht leaned into the table and raised his voice ever so slightly. “He will only speak to you once I have verified your story. If we are to be partners, he needs more than promises.”

“Very well.” Renwick sighed. “I will tell you what you need to know, but no more. The full story will have to wait for Dmitri. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Renwick reached into the red bag by his chair. Hecht’s hand flashed across his chest as he felt for his gun.

“Careful, Renwick. No tricks.”

“No tricks,” Renwick agreed. His hand emerged from the bag clutching a small model steam train. He placed it on the table and pushed it over to Hecht. The miniature pistons pumped merrily as it rolled over the tablecloth until it bumped into Hecht’s plate with a resonant
ping
and came to a stop.

“What is this? Some sort of joke?” Hecht’s tone was suspicious.

“No joke.”

“But it’s a train,” he said dismissively.

“Not

just

any

train.

A

gold

train.”

NEAR BOROUGH MARKET, LONDON

January 5—1:03 p.m.

What’s he got to do with this?” Tom’s voice was at once angry and uncertain. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t even think about Harry without remembering how much of himself he had lost the day he finally uncovered the truth. It was as if half his life had been revealed as one long lie.

“That’s what we’d like to find out.”

“What do you know?”

“Not as much as you”—Turnbull snorted—“given that you and dear old Uncle Harry were almost family.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tom said bitterly. “The Harry Renwick I knew was intelligent, funny, kind, and caring.” Tom couldn’t stop his voice from softening at the memory of Renwick in his tatty old white linen suit. Renwick, who’d never forgotten his birthday, not once. His own father had never managed that. “The Harry Renwick I knew was my friend.”

“You were taken in then, just like everybody else? You never suspected the truth?”

Turnbull sounded skeptical.

“Why are you asking me, if you already know the answers?” Tom snapped. “I don’t want

to

talk

about

Harry

Renwick.”

54 james twining

“Talk to me about Cassius then,” Turnbull pressed. “Tell me what you knew about him.”

Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

“Everyone in the business knew Cassius. Knew
of
him, that is, because nobody had ever seen him. Or rather, not seen him and lived.”

“He was a ruthless, murdering bastard, that’s who he was,” said Archie. “His crew had a crooked finger in every crooked scam going. Thefts, forgeries, grave robbing, smuggling— you name it. And if you didn’t play along, well . . . I heard he once put a man’s eyes out with a fountain pen for not authenticating a forged Pisanello drawing he was trying to shift.”