coat, his scuffed shoes covered in shit. The blood dripped from his nose through his fingers and onto his front with the steady rhythm of an old clock marking time. Alone,
he
began
to
cry.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CATHERINE PALACE, PUSHKIN
January 9—4:37 p.m.
Dusk fell with a crimson mantle, lengthening shadows slipping furtively between the naked trees. As Tom stepped through the weaving gilt-and-black filigree of the entrance gates to the Catherine Palace, the first streetlights blinked on. In a way, he was glad that Dominique had not made the trip out to the suburbs with him. He needed some time on his own to recharge his batteries and take stock. Although he knew she’d been trying to help by making him talk about his father, the conversation had left him feeling uneasy. The problem was that since her confession about her past, and the part his father had played in it, Tom had found himself wrestling with a gnawing feeling of jealousy. This was not an emotion he’d had to contend with before, and he was still having difficulty coming to terms with it.
What was clear was that, in the five years leading up to his father’s death, Dominique had had the sort of relationship with his father that Tom had only ever dreamed about. And even if she was right about his father taking her in to compensate for the way he’d failed his own son, it still felt like a betrayal. He wondered whether she suspected as 244 james twining
much, and if that had motivated the kiss she’d given him. She wasn’t usually one for such open displays of emotion or affection.
Being in St. Petersburg certainly wasn’t helping matters. Tom remembered the nights his father would tuck him into bed while telling him about this dazzling city, his eyes growing distant and dreamy as he described the glittering prize it had once contained; its star-struck history; its mysterious fate. Tom would listen, awestruck, scarcely daring to breathe in case he broke the spell.
The palace surged out of the gloom, the arched windows of its three stories encrusted with ornate stucco ornamentation, each separated from its neighbors by columns and sculptures that repeated along its one-thousand-foot length with monumental symmetry. Bands of turquoise scrolled down the white and gold façade like thick ribbons, as if the building had been gift-wrapped especially for him.
Tom ascended the main staircase, passed through the main door into the entrance hall, and turned left. He knew the way, having memorized it long ago from a plan in the book his father had given him. His pace quickened as he drew nearer, the White, Crimson, and Green Dining Rooms—sights he would normally have lingered over, absorbing their unrestrained opulence—warranting no more than a cursory glance. Even the masterpieces on display in the Picture Hall couldn’t hold his attention for any longer than it took to traverse the polished parquet floor. Instead he was drawn, as if by magic, to the far doorway, his path lit by the enchanting glow emanating from the room beyond. The Amber Room.
It wasn’t the original room, of course, consisting instead of a modern replica, crafted to celebrate the city’s three hundredth anniversary. Even so, the result was no less stunning. The glittering walls spanned a spectrum of yellow, from smoky topaz to the palest lemon. And while most panels were undecorated, some were adorned with delicately crafted figurines, floral garlands, tulips, roses, and seashells that looked as if they might have been plucked from a distant beach or some exotic garden and then dipped in gold. Only
one
other
visitor
was
present,
examining
one
of
the
the black sun 245
panels on the far wall. A stern-faced attendant occupied a creaking velvet and giltwood chair near the entrance.
As he stood there, the Amber Room’s warmth washing over him, an unexpected thought crept into Tom’s mind. Despite its magnificence, he couldn’t help but feel that he was somehow glad his father had never stood where he was standing now. After a lifetime of anticipation, to actually see it, as Tom was, might have come as something of an anticlimax to him. By foundering on the rocks of war, leaving only its whispered memory and a few faded photographs behind, the Amber Room had given birth to a myth. A myth that had immediately transcended the limitations of human observation and scrutiny, entering instead the world of the imagination, where its magnificence could never disappoint or be questioned. For that reason, if nothing else, this reproduction, while exquisite, could never hope to equal the sublime image people might conjure up in their own minds.
“It took twenty-four years . . .”
The other visitor had crossed the room to join him. Tom said nothing, assuming the man had taken him for a fellow tourist. “Twenty-four years to rebuild it. Amazing, is it not? See how it glows, how the surface both reflects the light and yet at the same time seems so deep you could plunge your hand in it up to the elbow?”
Tom turned to look at the man properly. From the side, he could barely make out the profile of his face, obscured as it was by a black bearskin hat pulled down low so that it skimmed his upturned collar. And yet there was something in the man’s voice that he recognized, a spark of familiarity that danced around the edges of Tom’s memory without his quite being able to place it.
“Hello, Thomas.”
Slowly, the man turned to fix him with a pair of unblinking steely green eyes. Eyes that were at once familiar and yet totally foreign. Eyes that aroused feelings of hatred and of fear. And loneliness.
Harry Renwick’s eyes.
“Harry?” Tom gasped as the spark exploded into a sudden blaze of understanding. “Is that
you?”
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Renwick, perhaps mistaking Tom’s tone, held his gloved hands out, palms upturned, in welcome. “My dear boy!”
But Tom’s surprise instantly evaporated, a cold, biting rage taking its place. His next words left no doubt as to his true feelings. “You fucking—” Tom took a step forward, his fist clenching at his side.
“Careful, Thomas,” Renwick said softly, edging away. “Do not try anything rash. I would not want you to get hurt.”
There was a scrape of wood, and Tom turned in time to see the frightened-looking attendant being bundled from the room by two shaven-headed thugs. Two more marched in after them, their coats open to display the guns casually tucked into their waistbands. The taller of the two made his way to Renwick’s side. Tom recognized his massive shape as the man filmed leaving the hospital after Weissman’s murder. The other, meanwhile, approached Tom and rapidly patted him down, before relieving Renwick of his bearskin hat and retreating across the room.
“I believe you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Hecht?” said Renwick.
“He is a . . . colleague of mine.”
“What do you want?” Tom asked sullenly. Given the odds, he knew had no choice but to hear Renwick out.
“Ah, Thomas.” Renwick sighed heavily. He remained the only person to call Tom by his full name, but then he had always eschewed abbreviation, acronym, or any other form of linguistic shorthand. “It is sad, is it not? After everything that has passed between us, the time we have spent together, that we should not be able to meet and talk as friends.”
“Save it,” Tom spoke through gritted teeth. “Our friendship was built on your lies. The day you betrayed me, we lost anything we ever had. You mean nothing to me now. So if you’ve come to kill me, let’s just get it over with.”
“Kill you?” Renwick laughed and strolled across to the left-hand wall, leaving Hecht staring stonily at Tom. “My dear boy, if I had wanted you dead, you would not be here. Outside the Hotel Drei Könige; at that café in the Hauptbahnhof; as you were walking down
the
Nevsky
Prospekt
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this very morning . . . God knows there have been any number of opportunities over the past few days. No, Thomas, your death, while
satisfying the need to avenge the loss of my hand”—he brought up his gloved prosthetic hand and regarded it dispassionately, as if it wasn’t really his—“would not serve my purposes.”
“Your purposes?” Tom gave a hollow laugh. “You think I’d help you?”
“Oh, but you have done so much already, Thomas. The key you recovered from Lammers, the safety-deposit box, the identification of a possible location for the contents of the missing carriages—”
“How the hell . . . ?” Tom started, before realizing what this meant. “Raj! What have you done to him?”
“Ah, yes.” Renwick sighed. “Mr. Dhutta.” He removed the glove from his left hand and gently placed it against one of the panels. “A very loyal friend, if I may say. Right until the end.”
“You bastard,” Tom swore, his voice cracking at this latest example of Renwick’s mindless cruelty. Raj was a good man. Tom blamed himself for getting him involved. Renwick gave a brief smile but said nothing, gently stroking one of the floral motifs with his ungloved hand.
“So, now you know what I have known for some time,” he said eventually. “The Order was sent to protect a train. When they realized it was not going to get through to Switzerland, they took it upon themselves to remove the most precious part of its cargo and hide it, committing the secret of its location to a painting that now lies in some private collection.”
Tom said nothing, his thoughts alternating between fear, anger, and revulsion at the sight of Renwick lovingly stroking the amber and the thought of Raj’s twisted corpse lying discarded in some alley or hidden room.
“Think about it, Thomas—the original Amber Room.” Renwick’s eyes flashed.
“Finally recovered after all these years. Think of the money. It must be worth two, three hundred million dollars.”
“You
think
I
care
about
the
money?”
Tom
seethed.
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“Your father spent half his life on its trail. Imagine what he would say if he could be where we are now—so close.”
“Don’t bring my father into this,” Tom said icily as he stepped forward, ignoring Hecht’s menacing gaze. “He wanted to find it so he could protect it. All you want to do is destroy it.”
“Your father is already involved, Thomas.” Renwick was smiling now. “How else do you think I found out about this in the first place? He told me. He told me everything.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
“If he did, it’s because he had no idea who you were. That all you wanted to do was break it up.”
“You are so certain of that, aren’t you?” Renwick shook his head, suddenly angry. “So sure that he was in the dark?”
Tom’s heart jumped. “What do you mean?”
“Do not play games with me, Thomas.” Renwick gave a cruel laugh. “It does not suit you. You cannot deny that you have thought it, at least. Asked yourself the question.”
“Thought what?” Tom’s mouth was dry, his voice a whisper.
“How it was that, even though we were colleagues for twenty years, friends for longer, he never knew about me. How there must have been a chance, however slight, that he not only knew but helped me. Worked for me.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know—”
“You have no idea what I know,” Renwick said, cutting him off. “And even if you did, you would never believe it. Just as I know that you will fail to believe this . . .”
He pulled out his pocket watch and dangled it in front of Tom, the gold case winking as it caught the light. Tom recognized it instantly—a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronometer. He even knew its case number: 409792. It was his father’s watch.
“Where did you get that?” Tom asked in a whisper. “You have no right—”
“Where do you think? He gave it to me. Do you not see, Thomas? We were partners. Right
until
the
end.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
PULKOVO 2 AIRPORT, ST. PETERSBURG
January 9—6:47 p.m.
Bailey was waiting under a red neon sign advertising a local strip club, politely fending off a succession of porters eager to scoop his bags into one of the waiting taxis. To his relief, a black shape glided to a halt outside, larger and cleaner than any of the vehicles around it. Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, Bailey stepped outside, the wind stinging his eyes. The trunk popped open as he drew close, and he lifted his bags in and then banged it shut before stepping to the passenger door and climbing inside.
“Man, it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out there!” The man extending a welcoming hand through the gap between the front seats was Laurel to the driver’s Hardy: tall and thin with neatly combed brown hair, while his colleague was stout with a circle of graying blond hair that hugged his shiny pate like a sweatband.
“Hey, sorry we’re late,” he continued. “I’m Bill Strange and this is Cliff Cunningham. Welcome to Russia.” “Traffic was a bitch,” said Cunningham, meeting Bailey’s eye in his mirror. “No problem.” Bailey shook Strange’s hand.
“Special Agent Byron Bailey. You guys Bureau or Agency?”
250 james twining
“Bureau.” Strange smiled. “Carter figured you’d want to see a friendly face.”
“Carter was right,” Bailey said gratefully. Cody had been helpful enough, but he was happy to be back with his own people. “So, any sign of my guy yet?”
“Look familiar?” Strange handed a photo to Bailey.
“That’s him, yeah.” Bailey’s eyes flashed excitedly. “When did he come through?”
“An hour or so ago. Took the flight from Bonn, like you said. He’s just checked in at the Labirint.”
“That’s where Kirk’s staying too,” Cunningham added. “It’s a dump, but the owners never bother registering guest visas, which has its advantages if you don’t want to be found. Checked in with a young female. Separate rooms.”
“Looks like you made a smart call,” said Strange.
“I got lucky,” Bailey corrected him, although he said it with a smile. In a way Strange was right. Once they had lost track of Blondi it had been his idea to switch the focus to Kirk instead, in the hope that, wherever he turned up, Blondi wouldn’t be far behind. As soon as they realized that Kirk had booked a flight to St. Petersburg, it had been a simple matter of circulating a description of Blondi to all major European airports offering flights to Russia. Confirmation of Blondi’s booking had come through from an alert official at Bonn Airport, and Carter had immediately dispatched Bailey after him—albeit on a very tight leash. Not that Bailey was complaining. However tight the rein, it beat carrying Viggiano’s bags.
He settled back into the soft leather seat as Cunningham pulled out into the traffic and headed
for
the
city
center.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
HOTEL LABIRINT, ST. PETERSBURG
January 9—7:22 p.m.
The shower consisted of a yellowing curtain covered in small black spots of mold suspended from a sagging length of string over a chipped bath. The bath itself was surrounded by mismatched tiles and was slick with the dirt and grease of previous occupants. But the water was hot, and Tom soon forgot where he was as he stood under its powerful pulse, his mind flicking back to the Amber Room.
To Renwick.
To what he had said.
He was right, of course. At least, partly right. Since discovering what Renwick was really like, Tom had indeed questioned the nature of his father’s friendship with him, wondered whether he had suspected the truth. But he had never for a moment considered that his father had not merely known about Renwick but had somehow been directly involved in his murderously criminal activities. Tom would be the first one to admit that he hadn’t known his father as well as he would
have liked, certainly as well as he should. But the little he did know had shown him to be honest almost to a fault, a man who never would have 252 james twining
harbored anything but the deepest contempt for Cassius and all he stood for. They were almost genetic opposites.
He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and got dressed. The phone rang but Tom ignored it, guessing that it was one of the local prostitutes tipped off by the receptionist whenever a single man checked in. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Archie’s head appeared. “Anyone home?”
“You made it!” Tom smiled with relief. “Any problems?”
“Long day,” said Archie, collapsing into a severe-looking armchair, yellow foam peeking through the jagged slash in its brown vinyl seat covering. “Where’s Dom?” He looked around as if half expecting her to jump out from behind the curtain.
“Getting changed. She’ll be down in ten.”
Archie stretched out his legs, visibly unwinding. “So, what have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know. Nothing much . . .” Tom shrugged. “Took a stroll down Nevsky Prospekt; went for a look at the new Amber Room; bumped into Renwick.”
Archie nearly choked on his drink. “Cassius? He’s here?”
“Oh, he’s here all right. In fact, he’s been with us ever since London. Watching and waiting.”
“For what?”
“For us to do his legwork for him and locate the last Bellak painting.”
“So he knows?”
“He knows everything he managed to beat out of Raj.”
“What?”
Archie jumped up, concern etched into his face, but Tom held out a reassuring hand. “I tracked him down. Apparently they fished him out of the river last night. Shot twice but still alive. Just about.”
“Wait till I get my hands on that bastard.” Archie glowered. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“You’ll have to get past his newfound friends first. He’s got Hecht with him. Remember? The Kristall Blade guy Turnbull fingered as having murdered Weissman.”
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Archie slumped back into his chair and drained his glass. “So what did dear old Uncle Harry want exactly?”
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