The Black Sun (38 page)

As soon as the guard had moved on, Tom slipped into the adjacent room, then the one after that. Again, though, he saw the looming shadow of an approaching guard. This time, with light pouring through the window from one of the floodlights outside, there were no shadows to hide him. Tom dropped to his belly and crawled under a red velvet chaise longue. Peering through the golden-tasseled brocade, he saw the guard enter the gallery, pause, look around, then move on.

Tom continued on to the next room and ducked behind the base of a large statue. He was almost at the northeastern corner of the building. Ahead of him, he could see the glazed bridge that led over the Winter Canal to the Hermitage Theatre. But first he would have to evade one final guard, who was loitering in the room, muttering to himself. Finally he gave a sigh, turned on his heel, and retreated south. From his movements, it looked as though he was on some sort of set patrol, which meant that the others would soon be retracing their steps toward Tom. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now.

As soon as he was certain that it was safe, he padded over to the far wall and looked expectantly out the window. His heart sank. Not only was the canal’s surface frozen, but even if he’d been able to negotiate the thirty-foot drop, his escape route to the river was barred by a thick iron grille that ran between the underside of the bridge’s arch and the ice.

He

was

trapped.

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He turned, desperately searching for some inspiration, however remote, before the guards returned. Almost unconsciously, he found himself locking eyes with a large white marble bust of Catherine the Great, who leered at him, silently challenging him to escape her palace.

But her unfeeling stare gave him an idea. He examined the windows that gave onto the narrow canal. They were alarmed but, thankfully, not screwed shut. That meant he could open them if he wanted to.

He went back to the bust and, grimacing with the pain, lifted it off its plinth and staggered over to the window, rolling it with relief onto the top of the deep wooden windowsill. He wasn’t sure how thick the ice would be, or how heavy the bust was, but he knew that it would fall heavily from that height. If it broke through, he could jump through the hole, swim under the ice and the grille, and come up in the Neva itself, which thankfully had not frozen that year.

Of course, getting out of the river would be another matter. In those temperatures, hypothermia would set in within minutes, so he wouldn’t be able to afford to hang around. Whatever the risks, it still beat getting shot in the back by a panicked guard. He climbed up onto the windowsill, took a deep breath, then lifted the latch and opened the window. Immediately a deafening alarm filled the room and he heard the sound of shouts and running feet.

With a firm kick, he toppled the statue over the edge. Its white bulk sailed gracefully through the air and crashed into the ice, splitting a wide hole in its surface and then sinking out of sight.

The shouts were closer now, the footsteps almost in the same room. Tom stood up and looked over his shoulder. Five guards were bearing down on him, their guns pointing in his general direction. The first shot rang out, the bullet fizzing past his ear and slamming into the plasterwork.

Without

hesitating

Tom

jumped

into

the

dark

waters

below.

12:51 a.m.

The cold water bit savagely into him as he arrowed through the hole in the ice. The shock made him inhale sharply, his lungs only half filling with air as the water closed over his head. His momentum carried him down to the canal floor, and he felt its soft, loamy bed grasp his ankles as he touched down, as if trying to hold him there. Immediately Tom kicked off in what he believed to be the direction of the metal grille and the river, hoping that he could hold his breath long enough to get there.

He tried to open his eyes to see where he was going, but the cold clawed against them like a blunt knife, forcing him to screw them tightly shut. Unable to tell where he was going, or even if he was heading up or down, Tom kicked furiously with his legs, his hands scooping the water ahead of him.

A sharp knock on the back of his head told him that he’d hit the ice, a series of highpitched pings echoing immediately above him confirming it—bullets drilling into the ice as the guards fired down on him from the rooms above. For a moment he was grateful that the ice was as thick as it was, until he remembered that he was trapped beneath it. He

tried

to

angle

himself

down

a

bit

but

found

that

his

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legs were becoming strangely unresponsive, as if the cold had wrapped a thick blanket around them that he was trying to kick free. His damaged shoulder had seized up completely. With his other hand he reached out and felt a wall to his left—the side of the Hermitage. Using it as a guide, he half dragged himself, half swam toward the river, his chest and throat burning as the muscles constricted, his heart pounding, his stomach feeling bruised.

He swam on, each kick of his legs tightening the metal fist that was closing slowly around his lungs. Every muscle, every organ in his body was crying out for air, and Tom was gripped by the strange sensation that he was falling through the water from a great height. He knew then that he was drowning.

With a last, desperate thrust, he propelled himself forward and felt the grille in front of him, cold and hard as the bars on a prison cell. He pulled himself down its face, kicking and kicking until it felt he must have swum almost to the center of the earth, a sharp, stabbing pain in his eyes and ears.

Finally he found a gap between the canal bed and the bottom of the grille. He squeezed through it, his head exploding, small stars and flashes of light strobing across the inside of his eyelids.

He tried one last kick, but his legs barely moved, the riverbed soft and inviting beneath him, the lights of St. Petersburg glimmering soothingly down through the water like stars on the far side of the universe. Everything was quiet and still. Two hands suddenly surged out of the darkness and grabbed him roughly. He had the sensation of flying, of soaring toward the stars like a rocket, his body screaming, his brain roaring. And then he was free, coughing and gasping, his lungs hungrily sucking in air, his throat uncoiling itself, the knot of his heart slackening off.

“Get him in the boat.” He heard Viktor’s voice behind him and realized that it was her hand that was wrapped protectively across his chest as she dragged him backward through

the

water.

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Two pairs of arms reached down and hauled him out of the water, immediately wrapping several towels around him. He caught a glimpse of Viktor, fully clothed, climbing up the ladder behind him.

“Let’s go,” he heard her say. The engine that had been idling roared into life, the speedboat lifting its nose out of the water as it accelerated. The fiberglass hull skipped and slapped across the river’s surface as the Hermitage receded into the distance. Viktor sat down opposite him, handing him a hot drink that he held between his clenched fists, still unable to move his fingers.

“I guess now we’re even,” she shouted over the engine.

Tom nodded, his whole body shaking with cold.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Where’s Archie?” he croaked.

“We’ve found out he’s being held at the U.S. Consulate. What happened to Turnbull?”

“He

didn’t

make

it.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

REKI FONTANKI EMBANKMENT, ST. PETERSBURG

1:36 a.m.

Dominique heard voices and edged her head around the corner. Viktor, her hair still wet, was talking earnestly in a low voice to three of her men. They were listening intently, nodding every so often as if she was giving them instructions. Dominique wondered what Viktor was up to as she watched her handing them several large bags. One of the men then glanced through the open door into the room beyond it and asked something. Viktor’s eyes followed his, then looked around with a smile.

“Da.”

A board creaked under Dominique’s bare feet and she snatched her head back. The voices stopped, then she heard the sound of footsteps fading away.

“You can come out now.” Viktor’s voice echoed down the corridor. Dominique stepped sheepishly out of the shadows. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to

. . . Is he all right?” “He’s fine,” Viktor replied. “We got him just in time. He needs to get some sleep, that’s all.” “And Turnbull?”

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Viktor shook her head.

“How . . . ?” asked Dominique.

“Tom didn’t say. But I told him about Archie. He’s going to go there in the morning and find out why they’re holding him.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s asleep,” said Viktor, shutting the door gently. “Leave him now.”

“Okay.”

There was a long, awkward pause as both women stood in silence, neither wanting to be the first to move.

“You and Tom,” Viktor said eventually, “you never . . . ?” She let the question hang there suggestively.

“Tom and me?” Dominique laughed. “Is that what you think?”

“I just wondered. I mean, you’re very beautiful and he . . . he’s very . . .”

“Tom.” Dominique finished the sentence for her, smiling to herself at the effect that Tom had on some women, even women like Viktor who appeared to have no soft edges left. His strength seemed to appeal to their need to be protected, his vulnerability to their desire to protect. She had never really felt that way about him herself. There was just too much history there with his father.

“I just wondered . . .” Viktor shrugged, not sounding as casual as she had probably intended.

“The thing about Tom,” said Dominique slowly, “is that he’s not very good with people. It’s not his fault. It’s what he’s had to do to survive. Everyone who he has ever relied on has ended up leaving him. It’s easier for him just to never get close. That way he’s never disappointed and he never lets anyone else down.”

“And you? What about you—and Archie? He’s close to the two of you?”

“Yes. But only because neither of us really needs him. He knows that we are strong enough to survive on our own. In fact, I think that’s the one thing in life he’s really scared of.”

“What?”

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“Someone else depending on him.”

“Maybe he just hasn’t yet found the person he wants to have depending on him,”

Viktor speculated.

“Maybe,” Dom agreed with a smile. Somehow, she wasn’t so sure.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

U.S. CONSULATE, FURSHTADSKAYA STREET,

ST. PETERSBURG

January 11—8:30 a.m.

By the time Tom got to the U.S. Consulate the following morning, a small queue had already formed outside the main door. He patiently took his place in it, mulling over the previous night’s events. Images of Turnbull and Kristenko, the lost Bellak, Renwick’s sneering face, and his brush with death at the bottom of the Neva kept flashing into his head.

“Yes?” The voice of the suited and spectacled functionary sitting at the front desk interrupted his thoughts.

“I want to see the Consul General,” Tom said. The man was waving most people toward the visa section, and he seemed to welcome the change in inquiry, looking up at him with a lazy smile.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“No.”

His smile faded. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. All appointments have to be arranged in advance with his office and cleared by security. Next.” He looked past Tom to the person standing behind him.

“It’s about a man you’re holding in custody here,” Tom insisted. “I need to speak to him.”

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The functionary nodded to two marines, who peeled themselves away from the wall and approached Tom from either side.

“Please step out of the line, sir,” one of them droned robotically. Tom ignored him, still fixing the seated man with a firm stare.

“You’ve arrested a friend of mine. A British citizen. You’re holding him here. I demand to be told what he’s been charged with and to see him.”

“Get him out of here,” the functionary instructed the two marines, his nonchalant manner suggesting that he’d handled similar situations many times before. They grabbed Tom, one holding each arm, and marched him toward the door, lifting him clear off the floor so that his feet dangled uselessly beneath him.

“Get your hands off me,” Tom shouted, struggling vainly, wincing from the pain in his shoulder.

“Hold it,” a voice called out over Tom’s shouts and the excited hubbub of the crowd in the reception area. The marines stopped and turned Tom to face the direction the voice had come from. “Are you here about Archie Connolly?”

“Yeah,” Tom said with relief. “You know about him?”

“Sure.” The man smiled and waved the marines away with an impatient flick of his hand. They released Tom and returned to their posts, their faces never once registering any expression. “I’m Special Agent Cliff Cunningham. Maybe I can help.”

“Is he still here?”

“Absolutely. Mr. Connolly is helping us with our inquiries. Voluntarily, of course.”

Tom didn’t comment. The idea of Archie voluntarily helping anyone, especially the Yanks, was ridiculous.

“Look, whatever he’s done or you think he’s done, it’s just a mistake.”