“It was a gift from my father, a few weeks before he died. It’s one of the only things he ever gave me. I know it sounds strange, but I think of him every time my fingers rub against it in my pocket. It’s like it’s a tiny piece of him.” He looked up and locked eyes with Archie. “Whatever Renwick’s doing, it involves something my father was 106 james twining
working on. Something that mattered to him. Another small piece of him. So I’m not going to just stand by and watch Renwick steal it like he’s taken everything else from me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m already involved. I’ve always been involved.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HOTEL VIER JAHRESZEITEN KEMPINSKI, MUNICH,
GERMANY
January 7—3:07 p.m.
Harry Renwick walked into the hotel and up to the main reception desk. The concierge, steel-rimmed pince-nez teetering on his nose, looked up with tired eyes. Renwick noticed that the golden crossed keys he wore pinned to the lapel of his black suit coat had twisted around, suggesting he was approaching the end of a long shift.
“Guten Abend, mein herr.”
“Guten Abend. I am here for Herr Hecht.”
“Ah, yes.” He switched seamlessly to English. “I believe he is
expecting you, Herr . . . ?” “Smith.” “Smith, yes.” He gave a
distracted smile as he searched
through the entries on the screen in front of him. “He is in the Bellevue Suite on the seventh floor. You’ll find the lifts on the other side of the lounge. I’ll ring ahead and let Herr Hecht know you are here.”
“Thank you.” The concierge, his hand shaking a little from what
Renwick guessed was tiredness, reached for the phone as
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Renwick turned on his heel and walked toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby.
Places like this disquieted him. Not because of any increased security risk; if anything, hotels offered a multiplicity of escape routes and the comfort of civilian cover. Rather, the hotel offended him aesthetically. It was, in his view, a Frankenstein creation, the bastard child of a monstrous marriage between an idealized vision of a British colonial club and the uncompromising functionality and ugliness of an airport executive lounge. Although the lobby was luxurious, it was in an impersonal, mass-market sort of way. The dark wooden paneling was laminate, millimeters thin. The carpet was bland and soulless and industrial. Reproduction antiques had been “casually” scattered. The mahogany-effect furniture was squat and square, lacking any delicacy or subtlety, the chairs upholstered with a coordinated palette of indifferent reds and golds and browns. Its very inoffensiveness offended him. Even the elevator music, it seemed, had been sanitized, with complex orchestral pieces reduced to a syrupy flute solo. A sign on the seventh floor pointed him toward the Bellevue Suite. Renwick knocked, and a few moments later Hecht opened the door. Renwick stared at him, unable to tell whether his toothy grimace was a genuine smile or a by-product of his scar. Hecht held out his right hand, but Renwick offered his left instead, still not able to bring himself to let others feel his prosthetic hand’s unnatural hardness. Hecht swapped sides with an apologetic nod.
The suite, although large, replicated most of the lobby’s failings. The ceiling was low and oppressive, the furniture thick and ungainly, the curtains and cushions and carpets all in varying shades of brown, the walls red. Hecht led Renwick through to the sitting room and waved him to a beige sofa, then sat down heavily on the one opposite. This time he smiled, Renwick was sure of it.
“Drink?”
Renwick shook his head. “Where is Dmitri?”
“He
is
here.”
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Renwick got to his feet and looked around him. The room was empty. “We agreed—no games, Johann.”
“Calm yourself, Cassius.”
The voice came from a speakerphone that Renwick had not noticed until now. It had been placed in the middle of the white marble-effect table between the sofas. The accent was a mixture of American vowels and clipped German consonants, no doubt the product of some expensive East Coast postgrad program.
“Dmitri?” he asked uncertainly.
“I apologize for the rather melodramatic circumstances. Please do not blame Colonel Hecht. He was adamant that we should meet in person, but unfortunately it is very difficult for me to travel unobserved.”
“What is this? How do I even know it is you?” Renwick, suspicious, had remained standing.
“We are partners now. You must trust me.”
“Trusting people do not live long in my business.”
“You have my word of honor, then.”
“The difference being . . . ?”
“The difference being nothing to a businessman like yourself, but everything to soldiers like Johann and me. To a soldier, honor and loyalty count above all else.”
“A soldier?” Renwick gave a half-smile. “In whose army?”
“An army fighting a war that has never ended. A war to protect our Fatherland from the hordes of Jews and immigrants who daily defile our soil and desecrate the purity of our blood.” As Dmitri’s voice grew in intensity, Hecht nodded fervently. “A war to remove the shackles of Zionist propaganda, which for too long has choked the silent majority of the German nation with guilt, when it is we, the true Germans, who suffered and died for our country. When it is we who continue to suffer, and yet are condemned to silence by the lies of the Jewish-controlled press and the undeserved power of their financial and political institutions.” Dmitri paused as if to compose himself, then continued. “But the tide is turning in our favor. Our supporters are no longer ashamed to show where their loyalties
lie.
In
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the cities and the towns and the villages they march for us once more. They fight for us. They vote for us. We are everywhere.”
Renwick shrugged. The speech sounded rehearsed and left him unmoved. “Your beliefs are no concern of mine.”
There was a pause and when Dmitri next spoke his voice was almost gentle. “Tell me, what do you believe in, Cassius?”
“I believe in me.”
Dmitri laughed. “An idealist, then?”
Renwick sat down again. “A realist, certainly. I think I will have that drink now.” He turned to Hecht. “Scotch.”
“Excellent,” the speakerphone chuckled as Hecht raised himself to his feet and shuffled over to the liquor cabinet. “Let’s get down to business.”
Hecht returned with Renwick’s drink and then sat down again.
“Your war is no concern of mine,” said Renwick. “But what I have to tell you will give you the means to win it.”
“I have here in front of me the little toy that you gave to Colonel Hecht in Copenhagen. Most amusing. He mentioned a train. A gold train?”
“There
is
more
to
this
than
gold,”
said
Renwick.
“Much
more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HOTEL DREI KÖNIGE, ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
January 7—3:07 p.m.
The hotel, lovingly crafted from the careful blending of four or five separate medieval town houses, had a timeless, almost rustic quality that gave it a feeling of permanence and history that even the incongruously fresh mortar couldn’t erode. The interior, however, could not have been more of a contrast. Here, only the faintest traces of the original building survived in a few rough stone walls and oak beams that had been left exposed. The rest was uncompromisingly modern: the floor a shiny gray marble, the walls white, the furniture black, recessed halogen lights washing everything with a bleaching glare. Most impressively, a huge glass-and-steel staircase and elevator had been inserted through the center of the building like some shiny medical implant. Tom, gripping a large brown leather
carryall, walked up to the semicircular walnut reception desk. The attractively fresh-faced girl behind it smiled a welcome.
“I’d like to see Herr Lasche, please.” Her smile vanished as quickly as it had materialized. “We have no guest here by that name.”
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“I have something for him.” He deposited the bag on the desk.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Believe me, he’ll want to see this. And give him my card.”
He slipped one of his business cards across the desk. Tom had to admit that after years of striving never to alert the authorities to his existence, there was something rather therapeutic about advertising himself in such a public way. The design was simple: just his name across the center together with his contact details. His one extravagance had been to have the reverse printed in a deep vermilion, with the firm’s name, Kirk Duval, in white. It was only later, when Dominique commented on the similarity to his father’s business cards, that he realized he had chosen exactly the same color scheme. The receptionist shook her head. Then, still holding his gaze, she reached under the counter and pressed a button. Almost immediately a burly man wearing a black turtleneck and jeans appeared from the room behind her.
“Ja?”
Tom repeated what he had just said to the girl. The man’s face remained impassive as he opened the bag and unzipped it, feeling gingerly around inside. Satisfied that it contained nothing dangerous, he jerked his head toward an opening in the wall.
“Wait in there.”
Tom stepped into what turned out to be the bar. It was empty apart from the barman, who stood in front of a wall of bottles, polishing glasses. The remaining walls were covered with a soft reddish leather to match the stool and bench upholstery and, together with the dimmed lighting, combined to give the room a relaxed, almost soporific feel. No sooner had Tom sat down than two men entered and seated themselves opposite him. Neither said a word as they both fixed him with a disconcertingly steady gaze, as if it were a blinking contest. A few minutes later, the receptionist beckoned him back through to the lobby. The two men followed close behind.
“Herr Lasche will see you now, Mr. Kirk. If you don’t mind, Karl will search you before
you
go
up.”
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Tom nodded, knowing he had little choice.
The first guard approached Tom with a black handheld scanner that he passed over his body, pausing only when it bleeped as it went over his wrist. Tom lifted his sleeve to reveal his watch, a stainless steel Rolex Prince that he wore whenever he traveled abroad. The guard insisted that he hand it over for closer inspection. Tom winced as the man grasped its fragile winder in his thick hands and roughly turned it a few times to check that it worked. Satisfied, he returned it to Tom and escorted him to the elevator. Tom stepped inside but, rather than follow him, the guard simply leaned in, waved a card across a white panel, and then stepped back. Tom’s last sight before the doors closed and the elevator started up, was of the three men standing in the lobby staring at him, arms folded with menacing intent.
The door opened into a large room where the décor left Lasche’s interests in little doubt. Three windows ran along the left-hand wall, but their shutters were closed, narrow fingers of light seeping through the slats. In between, ornate arrangements of antique swords, pistols, and rifles radiated like steel flowers, the polished metal glinting fiercely. Looking up, Tom saw that the ceiling had been removed, allowing the room to extend right up into the attic space. Overhead, naked joists were exposed like the ribs of a wrecked ship. And from each joist a regimental flag had been suspended, the once bright colors now sun-bleached and battle-worn, even bloodstained in a few places. Along the right-hand wall, brass helmets were displayed in glass cases, their polished domes adorned with a mixture of eagle feathers, bear fur, and horsehair. Beneath them, a second tier of cabinets was crammed with artifacts—guns, bullets, medals, cap badges, ceremonial daggers, bayonets. Even the desk had been assembled from an uncompromising slab of black granite supported by four huge brass shell casings. But Tom’s attention was immediately grabbed by a massive bronze cannon that sat parallel to the desk on two thick oak plinths. He stepped closer to study the strange characters that encircled its girth. In the room’s dimmed light, the cannon’s tarnished hulk
glowed
with
a
dark
menace
that
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was at once terrifying and utterly compelling. He found himself unable to resist stroking its smooth flanks, the metal tight and warm like a racehorse who had just come off the track.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
The sound of Lasche’s voice made Tom jump. A door had opened to the right of the desk to admit a man in a wheelchair, closely followed by what appeared to be a male nurse, his white coat worn open over a shiny gray suit, his blond hair clipped short. He was eyeing Tom sourly, gripping the brown bag in one hand.
Lasche himself was almost bald, the few remaining wispy hairs scraped back across his scalp, which was pink and covered with liver spots. The skin hung off his face like an oversized glove and seemed thin and papery, the red capillaries beneath the surface lending a faint thread of color to his unhealthy yellow sheen. His gray, misty eyes peered at Tom through thick steel-framed glasses. Tom thought he detected a few crumbs from an interrupted snack on his lapel.
“It’s a sister to the cannons the British melted down in order to provide the metal for the Victoria Cross,” Lasche continued in a German accent that seemed almost comically thick, although frail and weak compared to the robust whirring of the wheelchair’s electric motor as he drew near. Strapped to the undercarriage and back of the wheelchair were a variety of gas bottles and small black boxes from which ran wires and tubes that disappeared into the front of his pajamas and the sleeves of his brown silk dressing gown.
“I was hoping to sell this one to the British government when they ran out of metal . . .”
He spoke haltingly, drawing breath with a deep, rasping, asthmatic rattle between sentences. “Unfortunately for me, however, their stock at the Central Ordnance Depot in Donnington remains unexhausted. It seems that British heroism has been in short supply recently.”
The wheelchair jerked to a halt a few feet from Tom, and Lasche smiled at his own joke. His lips were blue and veiny, his teeth yellow and worn. An oxygen mask hung limply
around
his
neck
like
a
loose
scarf.
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“So it’s Chinese?” Tom asked.
Lasche nodded laboriously. “You know your history, Mr. Kirk,” he said, obviously impressed. “Most people think the metal used to make the Victoria Cross came from Russian cannons captured at the battle of Sebastopol in the Crimean War. But, yes, in fact it came from Chinese weapons. Apparently, the man sent to retrieve them confused Cyrillic with Mandarin. The sort of clerical error that is all too common in the military. Unusually, though, this one did not cost any lives. Still, I don’t suppose that’s why you’re here . . . ?”
“No, Herr Lasche.”
“I don’t normally receive visitors. But, given your reputation, I thought I would make an exception.”
“My reputation?”
“I know who you are. Difficult to be in my business and not to know of you. Not to have heard of Felix, at least.” Felix was the name that Tom had been given when he first got into the art-theft game. Once a shield to hide behind, it sat uneasily with him now, reminding him of a past life and a past self that he was trying to escape. “I’d heard you’d retired.”
Lasche began to cough, and the nurse, who had been following the exchange with mounting concern, leapt forward and slipped the oxygen mask over his face. Slowly, the coughing subsided and he signaled at Tom to continue.
“
I have retired. But I’m looking into something that I wanted your help with.”
Lasche shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the mask. “You’re referring to the bag you sent up? I haven’t opened it. Like you, I’m also retired.”
“Please, Herr Lasche.”
“Herr Lasche is unable to help,” the nurse intoned protectively.
“Just take a look,” Tom appealed, ignoring the nurse. “It will interest you.”
Lasche’s large gray eyes considered Tom for a few moments, and then he summoned the nurse forward, his raised arm shaking with the effort. The nurse handed the bag to Tom,
fixing
him
with
an
accusing
stare.
Tom
drew
back
the
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zipper and removed the jacket. The jet-black material was rough against his hands and seemed to radiate a sinister, malevolent presence.
Lasche put the wheelchair in reverse and navigated his way to the far side of his desk, then indicated that Tom should hand the jacket to him. He pulled the oxygen mask away from his face and looked up. For a second, Tom saw in his eyes the man he had once been, strong and determined and healthy, not the shriveled shell he had become.
“The light, please, Heinrich,” he muttered to the nurse, who turned on the desk lamp. The lamp shade consisted of six leather panels sewn together with thick black thread and decorated with flowers, small animals, and even a large dragon. It cast a sickly yellow glow across the granite surface. Tom shuddered as it dawned on him that the “leather”
was in fact human skin.
“A lone survivor from the extensive private collection of Ilse Koch, wife of the former camp commandant at Buchenwald,” Lasche said softly, noticing Tom’s reaction. “I’m told she had a handbag made from the same material.”
“But why keep it? It’s . . . grotesque,” said Tom, struggling for a word equal to the horror of the lamp, his eyes transfixed by it as the light revealed a spider’s web of red capillaries still trapped within the skin.
“War produces great beauty and great ugliness.” Lasche pointed first at the cannon, then the lamp shade as he said this. “And people pay handsomely for both. I keep this here to remind me of that.”
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