The Black Sun

by James Twining

boot

  and

  slit

  the

  rope

  that

  secured

  the

  top

  of

  the black sun 163

  the bag. The material concertinaed to the floor like a thick curtain to reveal the concierge, his mouth covered by packing tape, his face addled by fear. Konrad pushed him into a wooden chair, swiftly taping his ankles to the chair legs and his wrists to the wide, flat armrests.

  Hecht approached the man. Without a word, he punched him—a heavy blow across the cheek that jerked his head sideways as if it were on a spring. The concierge slowly turned his head back to face them, his eyes wide, his lip split open, blood pouring from the wound. Hecht punched him again, so hard this time that the chair toppled over and sent the concierge crashing to the cold concrete floor. The sharp tang of urine rose into the air.

  “He’s wet himself,” Karl laughed. “The dirty pig.”

  “Pick him up,” Hecht barked. The smile vanished from Karl’s face and he heaved the chair upright.

  “Now that you’re listening”—Hecht leaned toward the concierge so that their faces were only inches apart—“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the answers. Every time I think you’re lying—if you even hesitate for just one second before answering—Konrad will cut off one of your fingers. When we’ve run out of fingers, we’ll move on to more sensitive organs . . .” He indicated the damp patch between the man’s legs. “Do you understand?”

  The concierge nodded furiously, trying to blink away his tears.

  “Good.” Hecht signaled to Konrad, who ripped the masking tape from one side of the concierge’s mouth. It hung limply off one cheek, fluttering every time he breathed out, like a ribbon tied to a fan.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nikolas,” came the unsteady reply. “Nikolas Ganz.”

  “So tell me, Nikolas Ganz. How did those men find us tonight? Did you call them?”

  The concierge nodded and began to cry. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Hecht said soothingly. “Why did you call them?”

  “Two men came into the hotel a few days ago,” he gasped between sobs. “They showed

  me

  a

  photo

  and

  said

  they

  164 james twining

  would pay me ten thousand euro to call them if I saw the

  person they were looking for.”

  “Who were they? Police, BND, Interpol?”

  Ganz shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know . . .” he said haltingly. “They . . . they didn’t say.”

  Hecht stood up and nodded at Konrad. At the signal, Konrad slapped the masking tape back down across Ganz’s face before grasping his right hand. Shaking his head violently, Ganz tried to clench his fist into a tight ball, but Konrad prized his fingers apart and splayed them against the chair’s flat wooden arm. The concierge began to scream, a muffled noise that in the garage’s echoing silence sounded only vaguely human. Konrad placed the blade of his knife against Ganz’s index finger, just above the knuckle, and cut in. At the first sign of blood, Ganz fainted, his body slumping forward. Konrad continued anyway, resting the flat of his other hand against the top of the blade and rocking it slowly from side to side while pressing down as hard as he could. Ganz regained consciousness five or ten seconds later, just as the knife finally sliced through the bone and severed the finger with a sickening crunch.

  Hecht picked up the bloody mess and held it in front of Ganz’s bloodshot eyes. At the sight of it, Ganz began to retch, his shoulders heaving. Hecht pulled the tape from his mouth and he vomited down his front.

  “Get him some water,” Hecht ordered. A glass appeared and Hecht pressed it to Ganz’s lips.

  “Are you okay, Nikolas?” asked Hecht. Ganz nodded, his bottom lip trembling, his breathing snatched and shallow. “Good. Breathe deeply, that will help. Now, I’ll ask you again. Who were they?”

  “They didn’t say!” Ganz half shouted, half sobbed his response. “They just showed me a photo and told me to call them. I didn’t think to ask. I didn’t care. Oh my God, my finger. My finger!”

  “And who was on the photo? Me?” The concierge shook his head. “Him?” He indicated Konrad, who was still holding his knife, blood dripping from its shiny blade. the black sun 165

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie,” Hecht shouted.

  “I’m not!” the concierge screamed as Konrad grabbed his wrist again. “It was him—”

  The bloody stump of his index finger waggled furiously as he tried to point even though he couldn’t move his wrists. “It was him—Herr Smith.”

  Renwick stood up in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes, yes, for God’s sake, yes,” the concierge moaned.

  Hecht walked over to Renwick. “What does this mean?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I have my own problems,” Renwick said with a shrug. “They are no concern of yours.”

  “They are when they compromise our security,” Hecht countered.

  “Somebody got lucky, that’s all. It just proves that, from now on, we need to stay out of sight.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we agree on.”

  “Hey, boss, what shall we do about him?” Konrad called. Ganz had just been sick again.

  “Kill him,” Renwick said quietly.

  “Kill him?” Hecht’s tone made it clear he didn’t agree. “What for?”

  “He has seen me, he has seen you, he has seen this place. Who knows what he’s overheard. Kill him.”

  “We can do without the police sniffing around . . .”

  “Pah!” Renwick pushed past him, snatched Konrad’s knife, and grabbed a handful of Ganz’s hair, yanking his head back. Then, in one swift movement, he sliced Ganz’s throat open, the blade biting deep into his windpipe and opening a livid red smile across his exposed neck.

  The concierge jerked furiously three or four times, lifting out of the chair as if he were being electrocuted, before collapsing lifelessly, head to one side, blood cascading from his neck.

  Renwick handed the knife to Hecht, his eyes blazing. “From now on we do this my way,

  Johann.

  No

  witnesses.

  No

  risks.

  No

  loose

  ends.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PARC MONCEAU, PARIS

  January 8—7:46 a.m.

  The two men approached the chipped green bench from different directions. The older of the two sat down and took out that day’s edition of L’Équipe—according to the front page, PSG were on the verge of another big-money signing. The other, younger man walked on for twenty or so yards, stopped, looked around, and then retraced his steps, sliding onto the bench next to him.

  They both wore identical gold rings on the little finger of their left hand. Each was engraved with a twelve-box grid, with a small diamond set in one of the boxes. Where they differed was in the position of the diamond, the old man’s being located in the bottom left box, the younger man’s in the top right.

  “Why have you asked me here?” the first man mumbled from behind his paper.

  “The situation has deteriorated,” the second man said, his lips barely moving as he stared across the small ornamental lake encircled by an unconvincing Roman colonnade.

  “I judged that you would want to hear this in person.”

  “You only call me when you have bad news, anyway,” the first man complained. “I don’t

  see

  why—”

  the black sun 167

  “Kirk is making progress.”

  “Tsss,” the older man snorted dismissively. “What sort of progress?”

  “Enough for one of his associates to pay a visit to Lam-mers’s niece yesterday.”

  A pause. In the distance, children’s laughter e
choed to the accompaniment of a musical carousel, brightly painted horses rising and falling as they chased each other tirelessly.

  “She suspects nothing,” the older man replied eventually. “Besides, we turned that place upside down before we set fire to it. It was clean. There was nothing there.”

  “Apart from the stained-glass window in the local church.”

  “What window?” The man put down his paper, all attempt at dissimulation now forgotten.

  “A window that Lammers commissioned.”

  “Why didn’t we know about this?”

  “Because you had him killed before he could tell us.”

  “What does it show?” A hint of concern had crept into the older man’s voice.

  “A castle. A triangular castle.”

  “Merde!”

  “That’s not all. She gave him something. We weren’t able to see what it was, but he arrived empty-handed and left with a bag.”

  Silence as the first man considered what he had just been told. “Where is he now, this associate? Where’s Kirk, for that matter?”

  “In Zurich. He went to see Lasche yesterday.”

  “Lasche!” the man exclaimed in disgust. “That old fool will never—”

  “Sir,” the second man interrupted, “if you’ll forgive me, I think the time has come for more . . . radical measures. It is no longer enough to trust to providence and people’s incompetence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kirk followed the trail from Weissman to Lammers in only forty-eight hours. It took us

  three

  years,

  albeit

  working

  168 james twining

  in the opposite direction. Kirk discovered the window. A window that we didn’t even know existed. He made contact with Lasche, a man who, whatever you may think of him, knows more about that period than anyone else. How long before he starts to make some connections? How long before he gets lucky?”

  “And Cassius?” the man asked sullenly. “Did you get him at least?”

  “No,” replied the other, turning his head away. A dog trotted past them and then relieved itself in the middle of the gravel path. Its owner followed behind, smoking and chatting on his phone, studiously ignoring the polite signs telling him to keep his dog on a leash and to clean up after it. “We had him last night in Munich, but he got away. It seems he isn’t acting alone anymore.”

  “You were right to call me here,” the first man said grudgingly. “If Kirk finds out what’s really down there, it will only make him more determined. We must take steps. Events are getting out of control. If we don’t act now, it may be too late.”

  “What sort of steps?”

  “The window must be destroyed.”

  “Obviously. And Kirk?”

  “They must all be dealt with—Kirk, his colleague, and anyone else they have come into contact with. Find them and kill them. We can’t afford to take any more chances.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WIPKINGEN, ZURICH

  January 8—9:35 a.m.

  Tom had slept badly. Although the two sofas that Dhutta had offered them for the night had been comfortable enough, his overactive mind had kept him awake into the small hours and then woken him again shortly after six. Renwick, Weissman, Lammers, Bellak

  . . . What was it that tied them all together? What did they know of the Order?

  Eventually, unable to bear Archie’s steady snoring any longer, he had got up, showered, and dressed in his usual jeans and a fresh open-necked shirt. He waited until nine thirty before waking Archie with a cup of coffee that Archie accepted grudgingly, protesting about the hour. He was not a morning person, Tom knew, rarely struggling into the office before midday but then working into the small hours. For Tom, it had always been the other way around.

  “What’s the hurry?” Archie said reproachfully, pulling his sheets around him as he nursed the coffee cup in both hands.

  “I got through to Turnbull last night and explained what we’d found out. He agreed to send Weissman’s arm over by medical courier first thing. It should be here any time now.”

  170 james twining

  “You got me out of bed for a courier!” Archie remonstrated.

  “Don’t tell me you were actually comfortable on that thing.” Tom kicked the sofa and a cloud of dust danced above the seat cushion.

  “Fair point,” Archie conceded.

  A bell rang and a few moments later Dhutta appeared, his mustache freshly waxed, his hair still glistening from the shower. In his hand was a small set of amber beads that he was fingering nervously.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he called cheerily. “I hope you both slept well. If you will excuse me, it seems I have a visitor.”

  “Actually, I think it’s for me,” Tom admitted.

  “Oh?” Tom sensed a flicker of concern in Dhutta’s voice.

  “I needed something delivered and gave them the directions to the back door. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing the look on Dhutta’s face. “You can trust them.”

  “You gave a courier company the directions to this place?” Archie laughed. “What did you tell them, second brick on the right and straight on till morning?”

  “Something like that.” Tom smiled. He turned back to Dhutta as the bell rang again.

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you yesterday, but I didn’t want to disturb you any more than we already had.”

  Dhutta waved his apology away, although Tom could tell from the stiffness in his shoulders that he was annoyed. Unfortunate, but, given the circumstances, unavoidable.

  “If you say I can trust them, Mr. Tom, then that’s good enough for me. I will go and let them in.”

  Archie got up and yawned. He was wearing blue boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, the material as crumpled and creased as his face where he’d been sleeping on it. Tom realized that it was probably only the second time he’d ever seen Archie in anything but a suit. He looked strangely out of place without it.

  The sound of voices filtered through the open doorway, one Dhutta’s, the other female. Archie

  looked

  up

  in

  surprise

  as

  the

  voices

  drew

  nearer.

  the black sun 171

  “This way, please,” came Dhutta’s muffled instruction.

  Moments later, Dominique stepped into the room, her blond hair coiled up on her head like a fine silk rope and held in place with a silver grip. Archie snatched up his bedclothes and held them in front of him.

  “Dom?” he said in surprise.

  “Morning, boys!” She grinned. “Here you go, Archie— got you a little present.” She tossed a carton of duty-free cigarettes to him. He instinctively reached out to catch it, letting go of the bedclothes, which fell to the floor. “Gottcha!” she laughed.

  “Very funny,” Archie muttered as he stooped to gather his sheets up around him again.

  “The look on your face!” Tom laughed.

  “You’re like a bloody pair of kids, you two,” Archie said, shaking his head disapprovingly. Grabbing his suit from its hanger, he stumbled to the bathroom, struggling to keep the bedclothes around him.

  “I’ve just made some coffee,” Tom said as Archie disappeared with a final, accusing glare in their direction. “You want some?”

  “Sure,” she said, stripping off her thick ski jacket and tossing it over the back of one of the sofas.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want any, Raj?”

  “No.” Dhutta pulled a disapproving face before disappearing into his workshop.

  “You weren’t followed?”

  “No,” Dominique confirmed. “I doubled back a few times, just to be certain, but there was no one there.”

  “And Turnbull met you at the airport this morning, as agreed?”

  “Yeah, although I think he was a bit surprised that I was a woman.” />
  “That’s because he doesn’t know what sort of woman you really are.” Tom grinned.

  “No problems with Customs or anything?”

  “None.” She smiled her thanks as he handed her a mug. “I never thought it would be so easy

  to

  transport

  a

  human

  body

  part

  across

  Europe.”

  172 james twining

  “Oh yeah.” Tom sat down next to her. “It’s great cover. Archie and I used to do it all the time. As long as the paperwork checks out, they don’t touch the box. Last thing they want is some poor kid in need of an organ transplant dying because they contaminated his new heart or kidney. What about the medals?”

  “He gave me those too. Archie was right. Weissman did have a Knight’s Cross.”

  She pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Tom. He opened it and slid the medal it contained into the palm of his hand, flipping it over so he could see the reverse, before giving her a satisfied nod.

  “It has the same markings as the one we got from Lam-mers’s niece,” Tom confirmed.

  “Raj,” he called. “Come and have a look at this.”

  Dhutta reemerged from his workshop and took the medal from Tom with interest, studying it closely.

  “I brought the Bellak painting, as well,” Dominique added. “Thought it might be useful.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “By the way, did you notice the holes in it?”

  “In the painting? Yes. What about them?”

  “They struck me as odd, that’s all. They’re very neat. All exactly the same size. They don’t look accidental.”

  “Why would someone have made them deliberately?” Tom frowned. “Unless they wanted to deface it.”

  Archie reappeared from the bathroom, his composure seemingly restored now that he had his suit on.

  “I meant to ask, Mr. Tom—what is this?” Dhutta pointed at the design on the lid of the walnut box that the key had been hidden in.

  “A Nazi symbol,” Tom explained. “A type of swastika with twelve arms instead of four, one for each of twelve men. It’s known as the Black Sun. Have you seen it before?”

  “No . . .” Dhutta shook his head, his finger stroking the veneer. “Although the swastika has been a Hindu religious symbol for thousands of years. It can be found in architecture all over the world, from the ruins of ancient Troy to the floor of Amiens Cathedral. Rudyard