“No one realized that all along Cassius was Uncle—was Renwick.”
“Have you spoken to him since?”
Tom gave a short laugh. “Last time I saw him, he was trying to shoot me—right up until I severed his hand in a vault door. We’re not exactly on speaking terms anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ve read the FBI case file on what happened in Paris.” Tom met his eye, surprised. “Believe it or not, we do occasionally share information with our American colleagues,” Turnbull explained with a wry smile. “Especially now he’s made their Most Wanted list.”
“And what did the file say?”
“That, although a known thief, you cooperated with the
U.S. government to help recover five priceless gold coins stolen from Fort Knox. And that during the course of that investigation, you helped unmask Renwick as Cassius and apprehend a rogue FBI agent.”
“And Renwick? What did it say about him?”
“Not much more than what you’ve just told us. That’s the problem. We’ve picked up on some rumors, but that’s it. That his syndicate has disintegrated. That he’s lost everything. That he’s on the run.”
“From you?” “Us, Interpol, the Yanks—the usual suspects. But
we’re not the only ones.” “What do you mean?”
55 the black sun
“We’ve intercepted messages from a group of people who seem to be trying to hunt Renwick down.”
“The coded Personals ads in the
Tribune
?”
“You know about those?” Turnbull’s surprise was evident.
“Only since yesterday. Any ideas on who’s running them?”
“They’re sent by post. Typed. Standard HP laser printer. Different country of origin each time. Could be anyone.”
“Well, I don’t care either way.” Tom shrugged. “Whoever gets him first will be doing us all a favor. Good luck to them.”
“Except that this isn’t just about Renwick. Despite what the media might say, not all terrorists wave a Kalashnikov in one hand and a Koran in the other. Kristall Blade is a violent, fanatical sect bent on restoring the Third Reich, whatever the cost. Up till now they’ve remained in the shadows, carrying out deadly but mainly small-scale operations within a limited geographical area. Our sources tell us that this is about to change. They are looking to fund a massive expansion of their activities, in terms of personnel, size of target, and geographic reach. If Renwick’s helping them to achieve their goal, we’ll all pay the price.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
“We’d like your help. You know Renwick better than anyone, understand him and his methods and the world he operates in. We need to find out what he’s working on with Hecht before it’s too late. I suggest you start by looking at these hospital murders.”
Tom laughed and shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry, but I investigate stolen art, not stolen arms. No one wants to see Renwick stopped more than I do, but I’m not getting involved. That life’s behind me.”
“Behind us both,” Archie chimed in, thumping the seat next to him for emphasis.
“And how long before Renwick decides to come looking for you? How long before he decides it’s time to settle old scores?”
“That’s my problem, not yours,” Tom said with finality. “And it’s certainly not a good enough
reason
to
do
anything
56 james twining
other than walk away from your mess without making it any worse. I don’t trust you people. Never have. Never will.”
There was a long pause, during which Turnbull stared at him stonily before turning to face the front again and letting out a long sigh.
“Take this, then.” Turnbull held out a piece of paper, his arm bending back over his shoulder. It had a number scrawled on it. “In case you change your mind.”
The car slowed to a halt and the door flashed open. Tom and Archie stepped blinking out onto the street. It took them a few seconds to realize that they were back at Archie’s car. The clamp had been removed.
“So, what do you want to do?” asked Archie as he beeped the car open and slipped behind the wheel.
“Nothing, until we’ve checked him out,” Tom said, settling back into the soft black leather passenger seat just as the engine snarled into life. “I want to know what he’s really
after.”
GREENWICH, LONDON
January 5—1:22 p.m.
The room hadn’t changed. It only seemed a little emptier without him, as if all the energy had been sucked out of it. The faded brown curtain that he’d refused to open fully, even in the summer, remained drawn. The dark green carpet still bristled with dog hair and ash. The awful 1950s writing desk had not moved from the bay window, while on the mantelpiece the three volcanic rocks that he’d picked up from the slopes of Mount Etna when on honeymoon with her mother many years before, radiated their usual warm glow. As she crossed the room, Elena Weissman caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and flinched. Although only forty-five, and a young forty-five at that, she knew the last week had aged her ten years. Her green eyes were puffy and red, her face flushed and tired; the lines across her forehead and around her eyes and mouth had deepened from shallow indentations to small valleys. Her black hair, usually well groomed, was a mess. For the first time since her teens she was wearing no makeup. She hated being this way.
“Here you go, my love.” Sarah, her best friend, came back into the room with two mugs of tea. “Thanks.” Elena took a sip.
58 james twining
“These all need to be boxed up, do they?” Sarah asked, trying to sound cheerful, though her face betrayed her disgust at the state of the room.
Stacked up against the walls and fireplace and armchairs, and every other surface that would support them, were precarious towers of books and magazines—hardbacks and pa-perbacks and periodicals and pamphlets of various shapes and sizes and colors, some old with smooth leather spines stamped with faded gold letters, others new and bright with shiny dust jackets.
She remembered with a sad smile how the piles used to topple over, to an accompaniment of florid German curses. How her father would then try to stuff them into the overflowing bookcase that ran the length of the right-hand wall, only to admit defeat and arrange them into a fresh tower in a new location. A tower that would itself, in time, tumble to the floor as surely as if it had been built on sand.
Her grief took hold once again and she felt an arm placed around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said gently.
“I just can’t believe he’s dead. That he’s really gone.” Elena’s shoulders shook as she sobbed.
“I know how hard it must be,” came the comforting reply.
“No one deserves to die like that. After everything he’d been through, all that suffering.” She looked into Sarah’s eyes for support and found it.
“The world’s gone mad,” Sarah agreed. “To kill an innocent man in his bed and then . .
.”
Her voice trailed off and Elena knew that she couldn’t bring herself to repeat what she herself had told Sarah only a few days before, although it seemed a lifetime ago now. That her father, a frail old man, had been murdered. That his body had been butchered like a piece of meat. She still couldn’t quite believe it herself.
“It’s like a terrible nightmare,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
“Maybe we should finish this another day,” Sarah suggested gently. 59 the black sun
“No.” Elena took a deep breath and fought to bring herself under control. “It’s got to be done at some stage. Besides, I need to keep busy. It keeps my mind off . . . things.”
“I’ll go and grab some boxes then, shall I? Why don’t you start with the bookcase?”
Sarah went off in search of boxes as Elena, clearing a space in the middle of the room, began to empty the shelves onto the floor, sorting the books as she went along. Her father’s taste had been eclectic, but the bulk of his library seemed to be devoted to his twin hobbies of ornithology and trains. There was a vast array of books on each subject, many of them in French or German, and she found herself wishing that she’d kept her languages up so that she would know what was the French for
bird
and the German for
railway
.
Together, they emptied the first set of shelves and were about halfway down the middle set when Elena noticed something strange. One of the books, a leather-bound volume with an indecipherable title in faded black letters, refused to move when she tried to grab it. At first she assumed that it must be glued there, no doubt the result of some careless accident years before. But once she had removed all the other books from the shelf, she could see that there was no sign of anything sticking it down.
She gave it a firm tug with both hands, but still it wouldn’t come free. Exasperated now, she reached around behind the book and, to her surprise, felt a thin metal rod emerging from it and disappearing into the wall. Further inspection revealed that the pages, if any had ever existed, had been replaced by a solid block of what felt like wood. She stepped back and stared at the book pensively. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she stepped forward and with a deep breath, pressed gently against the book’s spine. The book edged forward easily as if on some sort of track, and at the same time there was a click as the right-hand edge of the central bookcase shifted about half an inch. Hearing the scrape of wood, Sarah looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor.
“Found something, dear?”
Elena
didn’t
reply.
Grasping
one
of
the
shelves,
she
pulled
60 james twining
the bookcase toward her. It swung open noiselessly, skating just above the carpet, until it had folded back on itself.
“Oh my!” Sarah exclaimed breathlessly, struggling to her feet.
The bookcase had revealed a section of wall still covered in what looked like the original Victorian wallpaper, an ornate floral pattern painted over with thick brown varnish. In a few places the paper had fallen off, revealing the cracked and crumbling plaster beneath.
But Elena’s eyes were fixed not on the wall but on the narrow green door set into it. On the
hinges
glistening
with
oil.
Recently
applied
oil.
LOCATION UNKNOWN
January 5—4:32 p.m.
Large damp patches had formed around his armpits and across his back as he leaned forward on the long table and stared at the jet black conference phone that lay in the middle of it, a small red light on one side flashing steadily.
“What is it?” The voice that floated up from the phone was calm and cold.
“We’ve found him.”
“Where? In Denmark, like we thought?”
“No, not Cassius.”
“Who, then?”
“Him. The last one.”
A pause.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where.”
“London. But we were too late. He’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen the police report.”
“And the body? Did you see the body?”
“No. But I’ve seen the photos taken at the autopsy and a copy of the dental records. They
match.”
62 james twining
A long silence. “So,” the voice eventually sighed, “it is over. He was the last.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.” As he spoke, he spun the gold signet ring on his little finger. The ring’s flat upper surface was engraved with a small grid of twelve squares, one of which had been set with a lone diamond.
“The beginning?” the voice laughed. “What are you talking about? Everything is safe now. He was the only one left who knew.”
“He was murdered. Killed in his hospital bed.” “He deserved a far worse death for what he had done”
was the unfeeling response. “His arm was cut off.” “Cut off?” The question was spat into the room. “Who
by?” “Someone who knows.” “Impossible.” “Why else would they have taken it?”
Silence. “I will have to call the others together.” “That’s not all. British Intelligence is involved.” “I’ll call the others. We must meet and discuss this.” “They’re working with someone.” “Who? Cassius? We’ll have caught up with him before he gets any further. He’s been sniffing around this for years. He knows nothing. The same goes for all the others who’ve tried.”
“No, not Cassius. Tom Kirk.” “Charles Kirk’s son? The art thief?” “Yes.” “Following in his father’s footsteps? How touching.” “What do you want me to do?” “Watch him. See where he goes, who he talks to.” “Do you think he could—” “Never!” the voice cut him off. “Too much time has gone
by. The trail is too cold. Even for him.”
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
January 5—8:35 p.m.
Tom had never really been one for possessions before now. There had been no need, no point even, in owning anything: until recently he had rarely spent more than two weeks in the same place. He had accepted that this was the price for always having to stay one step ahead of the law.
It was not, in truth, a price that had cost him too dear, for he had never been a natural hoarder or acquirer of belongings. He had gotten into the game because he loved the thrill and because he was good at it, not so he could one day enjoy a comfortable retirement sipping cocktails in the Cayman Islands. He’d have done the job for free if money hadn’t been the only way of keeping score.
He was, therefore, well aware of the significance of the few pieces he’d recently bought at auction and scattered throughout his apartment. He recognized them as a tangible sign that he had changed. That he was no longer just a packed suitcase away from skipping town at the slightest sign of trouble, a mercenary wandering wherever the winds of fortune blew him. He had a home now. Roots. Responsibilities even. To him, at least, the accumulation of “stuff ” was a proxy for the first stirrings of the normality he had craved for