Tom paused as if gathering his thoughts. For the moment, he preferred to keep what Renwick had said about his father to himself. Although he knew it was not in the spirit of openness and trust that he and Archie had tried so hard to bring to their new partnership, he needed time to digest Renwick’s insinuations before sharing them. Besides, it had nothing to do with the Gold Train or the Order.
“He wanted to find out what we know.”
“Meaning he’s no closer to finding the room than we are.”
“I’d say he’s further.” Tom smiled. “He still thinks the Bellak’s in a private collection somewhere.”
“Won’t take him long to figure out why we’re here, though, will it?”
“No,” Tom conceded. “So I hope you’ve got a plan.”
“Don’t worry. It’s sorted.”
Archie went to light a cigarette, but Tom warned him off. “Do you mind? I’ve got to sleep in here.”
“Oh,” said Archie, regretfully replacing the cigarette in its packet.
“So what exactly have you ‘sorted’? ”
“Well, it’s not exactly sorted yet. But it will be. There’s this client, or rather ex-client of mine. Of ours, really. This is his turf.”
“Which ex-client?” Tom asked skeptically.
Archie held his hands out, palms upturned. “Viktor, of course. Who else?”
“Viktor?” Tom arched his eyebrows. “Wasn’t that who you got me to steal those Fabergé eggs for last year? Only it turned out they were really for Cassius. I seem to remember that’s what nearly got us both killed.”
“Yeah, well, let’s not go digging up the past,” Archie said sheepishly. “That’s all ancient history, water under the bridge and all that. I’d never do that to you now. This time
it
really
is
Viktor.
And
no
one
is
going
to
get
killed.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, GERMANY
January 9—9 p.m.
There were twelve men in all. Each wore a gold ring engraved with a twelve-box grid, with a single diamond in one of the boxes. They had dispensed with names. It was safer that way. Nor were they given numbers, for that would have hinted at some hierarchy among them, some sense of numerical precedence that was at odds with their original conception as a brotherhood of equals. Instead, they were known by the names of cities. That way, at least, there could be no confusion.
“There is no cause for panic.” Paris, an elderly man sitting at the head of the table, raised his hand to calm the concerned babble that had followed the latest revelation.
“This means nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing?” Vienna, sitting opposite him, spluttered incredulously. “Did you not hear what I just told you? A crypt’s been found at Wewelsburg Castle. A secret crypt with twelve SS generals in it. Twelve! It’s all over the news. The caretaker went in and there the entrance was, all neatly dug out for him, right in the middle of the floor. A crypt we never even knew existed. It’s Kirk. He’s following the trail. If that’s not a cause for panic,
what
is?”
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A murmur of agreement bubbled up, the candles along the table flickering slightly in their agitated breath.
“He has been far cleverer than we gave him credit for, I’ll give you that. But we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that—”
“What if he found something down there?” Berlin interrupted. “How much closer do you want him to get before you start taking this seriously? What if he finds the Bellak?”
At this, Paris went a deathly white and the room around him exploded into argument as the other eleven tried to shout each other down.
“Brothers, brothers!” Vienna stood up, the room subsiding grudgingly into silence once more. “The time for talking has passed. I say it is time to act.”
“Hear, hear,” Krakow intoned.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Berlin.
“Two things. First, that we eliminate Tom Kirk without further delay. We lost him in Zurich, but I’ve just heard from one of our sources that he took a flight to St. Petersburg. If we can get a fix on him there, we must act.”
“I can take care of that,” said Berlin. “Just let me know where he is.”
“Second, that we move it.”
“Move it?” Paris spluttered. “Is that some sort of a joke?”
“The current location has served its purpose well. But dangerous times call for extreme measures. I say that we break the link. Eliminate all possibility that someone might stumble upon the painting and follow it back. Relocate it in a place where no one will ever find it. A place only we know.”
“But this is preposterous!” Paris pleaded. “We have a code—an oath we all swore to uphold. Our duty is to protect it but never to move it. To do so would risk alerting the whole world to its existence.”
“That code was for a different time,” Vienna insisted. “It is no longer appropriate. Just as your being the only person who knows its precise location is no longer appropriate. We need to adapt to survive.”
“This is madness,” said Paris.
“Is
it?
Or
is
it
madness
to
ignore
what
is
happening?
To
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entrust ourselves to the whims of an old man? We must change before it is too late.”
“There’s only one person here who has consistently warned us against the danger that we are now facing, and that is Vienna,” Krakow urged. “He is the man to hold the secret and take whatever steps are necessary to protect it.”
“Only one man is ever to be entrusted with that secret,” Paris said firmly. “It is a burden that is to last the course of his natural life. Your predecessors decided that that man should be me, and it is not a duty that I am about to step away from.”
“Then I demand a ballot.” Berlin slammed his fist down on the table. “Either we vote for Paris and his ineffectual ways, or for Vienna and action.”
“This is not a democracy—” Paris began, but his protests were drowned out by the clamor in favor of Berlin’s plan.
“I am honored that you deem me worthy of consideration,” said Vienna, getting to his feet. “But the choice must be yours.”
The room echoed to the sound of chair legs screeching across flagstones as the table emptied. One by one, they lined up behind Vienna’s chair. Only three men hesitated, looking at Paris despairingly and then at the eight men on the other side of the table. Paris nodded slowly, and they reluctantly joined the others.
“It is a burden to last for life,” Paris said softly. “It is my burden.”
“No longer,” Vienna replied. “It is the unanimous decision of this group that it is time for another to carry the flame. Alone.”
Paris’s eyes widened in sudden realization.
At a signal from Vienna, Berlin reached into his pocket and drew out a small pad and a white pill. Walking around to Paris, he laid the pad on the table’s polished oak surface and then set the pill next to it, sliding a glass of water within easy reach. This done, he stepped back.
Paris looked down at the items in front of him. When he lifted his gaze to the men across
the
table,
there
were
tears
in
his
eyes.
the black sun 257
“This is wrong. All wrong.”
“You have served the cause well,” Vienna said gently. “Your time here is over.”
Fighting back the tears, Paris took out his pen and wrote on the pad. He then tore out the page, folded it in two,
and handed it to Berlin, who walked it around to Vienna. Solemnly Vienna unfolded the note, read the contents, then touched the paper to a candle flame. The paper flared into life, then died almost as quickly.
Eleven pairs of eyes returned to focus on Paris. Shoulders shaking, he removed his ring and placed it on the table in front of him. Then he reached for the white pill, placed it on his tongue, and washed it down with a mouthful of water.
Two
minutes
later
he
was
dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
TUNNEL NIGHTCLUB, PETROGRAD ISLAND,
ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—1:13 a.m.
Their driver, Igor, confessed to being a schoolteacher by day. At night, however, he moonlighted as a chastnik, cruising through the city’s tattered streets offering unlicensed taxi rides to anyone who didn’t care about insurance, heating, or the windows going up all the way.
Licensed or not, he had not required any directions to the place where Archie had arranged to meet Viktor. Instead he had taken the opportunity to practice his English by complaining about the cold, the soccer results, and the corruption of local government officials as they had crossed the Neva to the Petrograd side.
From the outside, the Tunnel nightclub was an unprepossessing sight, a concrete shed set into a narrow, muddy plot between two cancerous apartment blocks. The entrance was patrolled by three hulking security guards in black berets and paramilitary uniforms, with a wolflike German shepherd in tow. The door, a solid piece of steel almost eight inches thick, had been wedged open with a decommissioned AK–47. Through the gap they could
see
a
steep
concrete
staircase
lit
by
red
emergency
lighting.
the black sun 259
“It’s an old nuclear bunker,” Archie explained as Tom and Dominique looked questioningly at the entrance. “Viktor owns it. Don’t worry, we’ll be looked after.”
The security guards checked their names against the guest list and waved them past a queue of miserable-looking people shivering in the cold.
A blast of warm air, stale with the smell of aftershave and alcohol, hit them as soon as they began to descend the rough stairs, the rhythmic thump-thumping of the music growing stronger with every step, like the muffled beat of a massive heart. At the bottom was another thick steel door, and as it swung open a wall of bass slapped them in the chest like a heavy wave, the noise pressing against their eyes and ears. Two more guards in paramilitary gear and long-out-of-fashion sunglasses, with batons and CS gas canisters dangling from their belts, waved them to an opening in the wall. A beautiful dark-haired woman wearing little more than her underwear took their money and their coats, then tapped the sign behind her with a varnished nail, chewing gum indifferently. It was printed in Russian, but underneath was a handwritten translation:
No guns or knives. Please to leave at entrance.
Pistols and knives of all shapes and sizes filled the metal basket below the sign. Each weapon had been labeled with a bright pink coatroom number.
“How well do you know this Viktor?” Tom asked Archie.
“We’ve done business for years. Big collector. Eclectic, though—Picassos and military memorabilia, mostly.”
“Yeah, well, nice place he’s got here,” he said sarcastically.
“I’d rather they made people leave the weapons out here than let them carry the damn things inside,” Archie retorted.
His voice was drowned out by a loud beeping. Someone had triggered the walkthrough metal detector positioned at the threshold. One of the guards approached the culprit,
260 james twining
who casually opened his jacket to reveal a shiny silver Magnum in his underarm holster. The guard turned uncertainly to the hostess, who looked the man up and down and then gave a nod. The man was ushered in, his gun untouched.
“So much for that theory,” Dominique said with a grin.
They stepped through the metal detector and entered the club. The bunker extended some fifty feet under a barreled roof that amplified the music and the shouted conversations around them into a deafening roar. At the far end was a cage with a DJ
installed at its center and two curvaceous women writhing around brass poles at either side.
Flashing lights and lasers illuminated the dance floor, where bodies writhed to the music’s dull pulse. A few nests of tables and chairs hugged the walls, but most people were loitering near the bar, their faces wreathed in a thick haze of cigarette smoke.
“I’ll get us a drink,” Tom shouted over the noise. He fought his way through the crowd, brushing up against a beautiful woman in a red dress, a huge ruby nestling in her bronzed cleavage. She smiled and seemed about to say something, when she was ushered away by her fearsome-looking escort. A prostitute, Tom assumed; there seemed to be a lot of them pouting invitingly at him as he made his way to the bar.
The bar consisted of two trestle tables staffed by three girls wearing tube tops and miniskirts of camouflage material. One table was stacked with shot glasses and bottles of Stolichnaya, the other with champagne flutes and bottles of Cristal. Payment was strictly in U.S. dollars only.
Tom ordered champagne, secured three glasses, and fought his way back to the others.
“Didn’t they have a beer or something?” Archie complained when he saw the bottle.
“It was this or vodka. I’ve just paid three hundred bucks, so you’d better enjoy it.”
“Three hundred!” Archie exclaimed. “Jesus, they might as well mug you on the way in.”
“That’s loose change to these people,” said Dominique.
Tom had to agree. The women were dripping with gold and expensive jewelery. Most wore
high
stilettos
and
tight
the black sun 261
fitting clothes that exposed their tanned, toned midriffs. They were almost all blond, some more improbably so than others.
The men wore suits, probably Italian, definitely designer; gold jewelery glinted on their fingers and wrists. Every so often, Tom caught sight of a gun handle tucked into a waistband or holster.
“Table, sir?” A waiter had appeared at his elbow and was pointing to a small table in the corner of the room.
“How much is it?” Archie eyed the man with suspicion. The waiter frowned, as if he had misheard the question.
“How much? Nothing. You are Viktor’s guests.”
“Oh, right.” Archie turned to Tom with a smile. “You see, I told you we’d be looked after.”
“What about that one?” Tom pointed to an empty table farther away from the stage.
“Oh, no”—the waiter looked momentarily panicked— “Viktor says that table. Please to sit.”
Tom shrugged. With a look of relief, the waiter showed them over and refreshed their ice bucket as they sat down.
Dominique took a sip from her glass. “So what now?” she asked.
“I
guess
we
wait,”
said
Archie.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
1:51 a.m.
Tom was getting restless. Thirty minutes had gone by, and there was still no sign of Viktor. Even the pole dancers in the cage, who had started out with seemingly limitless energy and the ability to bend their bodies into the most unlikely positions, appeared to be flagging.
He was about to ask one of the waiters where Viktor had got to when a man, no older than twenty, flanked by a blonde who looked even younger, approached their table and shouted something in Russian.
“What?” said Tom.
“He says this is his table,” the blonde translated in a thick accent.
“Like hell it is,” Archie countered. “He wants to sit here,” she insisted. “W
ell, that’s going to be difficult because, as you can see, we’re sitting here. But he’s welcome to try the floor.”
The girl translated and the man’s face broke into an unsmiling grin. He said something and the girl translated again.
“He says he’s happy to sit on floor, if he can rest his feet on your head.” Archie leaped to his feet and the man stepped back. In a
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flash a bodyguard jumped between them, his right hand already reaching inside his jacket, his left hand braced against Archie’s chest.
“Okay, okay . . .” Tom stood up with a conciliatory smile, his palms raised in defeat.
“Our mistake. Here—it’s all yours. Leave it, Archie.”
Muttering angrily, Archie followed Tom and Dominique to the other side of the room.
“It’s the fucking Wild West out here,” he complained, flicking his cigarette butt to the floor.
“You need to stay out of trouble,” Tom reminded him. “It’s not worth getting shot over a table.”
“Okay, okay,” Archie conceded, throwing an angry glance back at their former table. The man and his blond companion were laughing at something as the bodyguard busied himself by pouring champagne.
Tom took a sip of his drink and scanned the room, wishing this Viktor would show up soon. Tom hated waiting at the best of times, and right now the traveling, the cold, and the afternoon’s confrontation with Renwick were catching up with him. Two men near the entrance suddenly caught Tom’s eye. For a moment, he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why they stood out. Then it struck him: despite the heat, they were both still wearing their thick outdoor coats.
The crowd seemed to part in front of them as they strode to the table where the man and the blonde, closely monitored by their bodyguard, were clinking glasses. Then, without warning, they opened their coats and each swung an Uzi from under his arm in one fluid movement. Before any of the table’s occupants could react, they started firing in precise, controlled bursts at point-blank range.
At the first sound of gunfire, people dived to the floor screaming. Those nearest the door scrambled toward it, falling over each other in their desperate struggle to escape. The music stopped, the palpitation of the bass replaced by the mechanical thud of gunshots echoing off the ceiling like a succession of thunderclaps, the spent cartridges plinking off the floor as if someone had dropped a handful of change. 264 james twining
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