The Black Sun

by James Twining

  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.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  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.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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 magazi
nes—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?”