“I appreciate you helping us,” he gasped, hoping that conversation would help take his mind off the pain.
“Until I find out exactly what’s going on, you’re worth more to me alive than dead.”
Her voice was hard and unfeeling. “I’m just protecting my interests.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Many times.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“No.” A smile flickered across her face.
Even in his present state, Tom could see that she was a striking woman, her body slim and firm and imbued with the supple athleticism of a dancer. The events at the bridge had left her red dress torn and dirty, her bronzed skin grazed and bruised, and her sleek ebony hair in disarray. And yet, if anything, this seemed to complement the wild, exotic beauty that
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burned within her dark eyes. But he saw a hardness there too, an unspoken hurt, almost as if she was resigned to the burden of her own existence.
“I used to work.” She shrugged. “You know . . .”
“You were a prostitute?” Tom asked uncertainly. Archie had whispered something about this when they arrived at Viktor’s house, an imposing building on the banks of the Fontanka Canal, but Tom had been in too much pain to really take it in.
“Yes.”
“So how . . . ?” Tom winced as she twisted the tongs.
“Did I end up here?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a long silence. As she probed the wound, maneuvering the tongs in an effort to get at the bullet, Tom almost regretted asking the question. It seemed he’d strayed into a no-go area, prying into a part of her life she preferred not to talk about. But then she spoke.
“When I was sixteen my parents sold me to a man called Viktor Chernovsky. He was one of the Mafia bosses here in St. Petersburg. At first I was lucky. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch me, just raped me himself.”
Tom mumbled something about being sorry, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Then, when he got bored, he gave me to his friends to use. They were bad men. And when they came back injured from some robbery or shootout, I was the one who had to patch them up. That’s how I learned how to do this.”
“Where did you learn to speak English so well?”
“One of Viktor’s men was American. He taught me. He was the only one who ever really cared. I think I almost loved him.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
“You don’t leave this life—either you’re in, or you’re dead. Besides,” she continued tonelessly, “I got pregnant. Viktor found out and made me have an abortion. Got one of his men to do it with a coat hanger. There . . .”
She
held
the
tongs
out
so
Tom
could
see
the
bloody
lump
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of metal, no bigger than a pea, before dropping it onto the steel tray next to her.
“Doesn’t look as though it hit anything vital.”
“Good.” The wound had started bleeding again, so she swabbed it with iodine solution that stained Tom’s arm purple. Grimacing at the stinging sensation, Tom asked, “Then what?”
“Then . . . ? Then he punished me.”
Viktor hesitated for a second, looking into his eyes, then lifted her hair away from the left-hand side of her head. Tom saw with horror that, where her ear should have been, there was just a hole surrounded by angry pink scar tissue.
“So I killed him.” She spoke so matter-of-factly that at first Tom wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “One night, when he was on top of me, grunting away like the fat sweaty pig he was, I stabbed him in the back of his neck. Then I dumped him in the river. Like Rasputin.” She gave a short laugh.
“And all this . . . ?” Tom indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.
“Was his. Like I said: I inherited it.”
“Just like that?” Tom’s tone was disbelieving.
“There were some who thought a woman shouldn’t be head of the family. But in Russia people respect strength. They soon learned to take me seriously. I took on Viktor’s name to help ease the blow. A lot of people think he’s still around.”
She signaled for Tom to sit up so she could bandage the top of his arm and shoulder.
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
She paused. “You know, you’re the first person to ask me that in almost ten years.”
“And?”
Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. Viktor hurriedly swept her hair back across her ear as Archie and Dominique walked in.
“How are you doing?” said Dominique, concern etched on her face.
“He’ll
be
fine,”
said
Viktor.
“In
the
morning
I’ll
get
anti
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biotics. Right now, he must rest.”
“Close one.” Archie pulled up a chair and sat down. “Good thing Viktor’s used to patching people up.”
“So I’ve been hearing.” Tom looked at Viktor, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before she turned away.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your way in the morning,” Archie said to Viktor.
“Make yourself comfortable, Archie,” she replied. “No one’s going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Archie shook his head. “It doesn’t involve you. There’s nothing to say.”
“Doesn’t involve me? I lost six of my best men. Believe me, I’m involved.”
“Look, I’m sorry about—”
“You came to me, remember? I’m not interested in apologies. Just tell me what you’re doing here and why someone wants you dead.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“This is not a negotiation. Because of you, my club will be shut for weeks. That’s money. My money. So now you are in my debt. You understand what that means?”
“It means I owe you,” said Archie sullenly.
“No. It means I own you. I own you until I say otherwise. So, whatever you’re planning, I want a piece of the action.”
“Not this action, you don’t.”
“That’s my decision, not yours. Now, I won’t ask you again. What’s going on?”
Archie looked questioningly at Tom, who gave a reluctant nod.
“We’re looking for a painting.”
“A painting? I thought you were out of that business.”
“I am. We both are.”
“Both?” Viktor looked momentarily confused.
“Tom was my partner. The Matisse out there in the hall? He got that for you.”
She stared at Tom, clearly reappraising him in the light of this revelation. “I like that painting.”
“So did the Fine Arts Museum in Buenos Aires,” he replied with a smile. the black sun 279
“So this is just another job?”
“No,” said Archie. “Not a normal sort of job, anyway. We think the painting may tell us where something was hidden.”
“What is this ‘something’?” “We’re not sure yet,” Tom intervened, unwilling to share the secret. “But it’s valuable.” “And we want to stop anyone else getting to it first,” Dom
inique added. “ ‘Anyone else’ being the people responsible for tonight?” “Could be,” said Archie. “We don’t know.” “What do you know?” Viktor sounded exasperated. “We know that someone went to a lot of trouble to hide a
series of clues that lead to a painting we think is hidden in the Hermitage storerooms.” “The Hermitage? Forget it!” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll never get in there.” “Tom can get in anywhere,” Dominique
said confidently. “You think you are the first person to want to rob the
Hermitage?” She smiled. “The authorities are many things, but they are not stupid. They may not have the money to invest in cameras and laser trip wires, but guns are cheap and people even cheaper. The Hermitage is heavily patrolled, especially the storerooms. You’d have to be invisible to get past them.”
“First things first,” said Archie, brushing aside her reservations. “We need to find it. Then we can worry about getting it out. Can you help?”
“Maybe.” Viktor shrugged. “It depends.” “On what?” “On what’s in it for me.” Archie glanced at Tom, who gave a small, almost imper
ceptible shake of his head. He wasn’t looking for a partner. Certainly not one like Viktor.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
U.S. CONSULATE, FURSHTADSKAYA STREET,
ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—3:12 a.m.
It’s a fucking war zone down there.” Special Agent Strange entered the small, windowless meeting room, sank wearily into a chair, and put his feet up. Bailey could see that he wore tan cowboy boots emblazoned with the Stars and Stripes.
“How many dead?” Bailey asked. “Three. Two men and a woman.” “Not—” “Don’t worry. They weren’t your suspects.” “They were ours,” Special Agent Cunningham growled
from the far end of the room. “Local mobster. He was one of the people the DEA has us keeping tabs on out here. Ran with a fast crowd shipping drugs and weapons into the U.S. via the Caribbean.”
“What happened?” Bailey asked.
“Some sort of hit.” Strange sniffed. “Two guys walked up to their table, took ’em out, then walked straight out again. Pretty goddamned cold.”
“Local cops let half the people who were in the club get away. Apparently there was some sort of escape tunnel. The
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rest are probably bribing their way out of trouble as we speak,” Cunningham growled.
“If they’re lucky, the cops will get a few descriptions, but that’s it.”
“What about Blondi and the other two?”
“We saw him and the others go in, but the cops didn’t bring them out.”
“Then, of course, there’s the car bomb.” Strange clasped his hands behind his neck and pulled it to one side, then the other, his vertebrae clicking noisily.
“The car bomb?” Bailey exclaimed. This was going from bad to worse.
“Convoy of three Cadillac Escalades got ambushed about two miles from the club.”
“That’s standard wise-guy issue round these parts,” Cunningham interjected. “Makes
’em think they’re in the Sopranos or something.”
“It was a professional job. A remote-detonated Semtex charge on the road to disable the lead vehicle, gunmen standing by with grenades to take out the rest,” Strange continued. “But the main vehicle shot its way out. It was found abandoned near the Troitsky Bridge. The occupants managed to get over the bridge just as it went up.”
“Any witnesses?”
“From what we’ve picked up off the police scanner, there were four people at the scene. Two men, two women. Three of the descriptions match Kirk, Blondi, and the girl who’s with them.”
“And the cars belonged to Viktor,” Cunningham added. “So it’s short odds that’s who the fourth person was.”
“Viktor?” Bailey shook his head in confusion. “I thought you said the fourth person was a woman?”
“Viktor’s a she. Her real name is Katya Nikolaevna Mostov.” Strange slid a file across the meeting-room table. “A hooker from Minsk who made the big time by killing her mafioso boyfriend and taking over his operation and his name. The Tunnel nightclub belongs to her.”
“If these guys have joined up with her, then they’re mixed up in some serious shit,”
said Cunningham. “And if they want to disappear, she can make it happen.”
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“Maybe we should just go in and get them now,” Bailey said, “before they have a chance to disappear. Haven’t you guys got some sort of arrangement with the local cops?”
“Sure, but they don’t apply to her,” Strange said with a hollow laugh. “Viktor pretty much runs this town. The police, the judges, the politicians—she’s got them all covered. It’s like diplomatic fucking immunity.”
“Plus, her place is a goddamned fortress,” said Cunningham. “She’s probably packing more firepower there than the local army barracks. If she is protecting Blondi, trying to go in there and get him would be a suicide mission.”
“Our best hope is to sidestep the authorities here, wait till he’s out in the open, and send in a snatch team,” Strange said slowly. “We can worry about getting him home later. It’s not ideal, but we’ve done it before.”
“What about Kirk?” asked Bailey. “We should pick him up too. See what he knows.”
“We haven’t got the manpower to go after both of them,” said Cunningham. “Not unless you want to wait a few days. And you’d need an airtight case before Washington would even pick up the phone to you, let alone sanction sending in reinforcements.”
“I’ll talk to Carter, see what he says,” Bailey said, already knowing what the answer would be. So far, aside from his being an associate of Blondi’s, they had nothing on Kirk. Certainly not enough to warrant sending in an extra team. “I guess this is really about Blondi, anyway.” He shrugged. “That’s who they sent me here for.”
“We’ve got eyeballs on Viktor’s place,” Strange reassured him. “If any of them leave, we’ll know about it.”
“That’s right,” Cunningham said eagerly. “First chance we get, we’ll move in. Believe me,
Blondi
won’t
see
us
coming.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
REKI FONTANKI EMBANKMENT, ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—6:18 p.m.
The throbbing in Tom’s shoulder had woken him eventu-ally—a dull, stabbing pain that every movement, every breath, seemed to irritate still further. Checking his watch, he realized that he’d slept through the day, the painkillers and exhaustion finally catching up with him.
He pulled the black satin bedsheets aside and sat up, noticing an untouched tray of food at the foot of the bed. There were no mirrors, no chandeliers, and, thankfully, no leopard skin in this room, although the ceiling had been painted black with the major constellations highlighted in gold leaf. He wondered whether Viktor had taken pity on him and deliberately placed him in a more subdued room. Subdued by her standards, at least.
Giving up on tying his shoelaces, he found his way past several armed guards who were patrolling the wide, par-quet-floored corridors as if it were a government facility, and entered the dining room where Archie and Dominique were sitting at a massive ebony dining table.
“Tom!” Dominique exclaimed as she saw him. “How are you
feeling?” “Fine. What about you two?”
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“Great, except that Viktor won’t let us leave the house,” Archie said with a resigned shrug. “We can’t even use the phone.”
“The good news is, the food’s great.” Dominique grinned. “Want something?”
“Don’t listen to her, she’s actually enjoying this,” said Archie.
“Well, it makes a change,” said Dominique. “Besides—”
Viktor chose that moment to stride into the room wearing beige combat trousers and a tight-fitting black top. A nickel-plated Sig Sauer was tucked into the small of her back.
“You’re better.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Much.”
“Good. Because we found someone . . .”
There was a scuffle in the doorway as two of her men frog-marched a hooded and handcuffed figure into the room at gunpoint.
“He showed up at your hotel, asking questions. Said he knew you. I just wanted to check before I had
him disappear.”
She reached up and snatched the hood off the man’s head. Turnbull stood blinking at them, disoriented, a piece of tape plastered over his mouth.
Archie got up and walked over to him, his eyes narrowed as if scrutinizing Turnbull’s face in minute detail.
“No, never seen him before,” he sniffed eventually, sitting back down. “He must be one of them.”
“Take him down to the cellar,” Viktor ordered.
At this, Turnbull’s eyes widened and he began to struggle frantically, the tape muffling his shouts.
“It’s okay,” Tom said with a smile. “That’s Archie’s idea of a joke. He’s with us.”
“Oh.” Viktor, looking slightly disappointed, indicated with a wave that her men should remove the gag.
“Very funny,” Turnbull said angrily as soon as he could speak. His lank black hair had tumbled down over his flushed and sweating face. He said something in Russian to one of Viktor’s men. Viktor nodded her consent, and the handcuffs were whipped off. the black sun 285
“Serves you right for snooping around,” Archie shot back.
“I wasn’t snooping.” Turnbull rubbed his wrists, his skin pink and sore. “Kirk told me you were staying there. He knew I was coming.”
“Did you?” Archie asked Tom with surprise. “What for?”
“Presumably because, unlike you, he is mindful of the fact that I’m the one who got you involved in this. We’re meant to be working together, remember?”
“Together?” Archie gave a short laugh. “You weren’t the one getting shot at last night.”
“That was you?” Turnbull gasped. “It’s all over the news. What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” said Tom. “Someone latched on to us in Zurich. Next thing we know
. . .”
“You think it’s Renwick?”
“No.” Tom quickly briefed Turnbull on the events of the previous afternoon, including his encounter with Renwick in the Catherine Palace. “If Renwick wanted me dead, he could have done it there and then.”
“So Renwick knows about the Amber Room?”
“The Amber Room?” Viktor stepped forward, her voice eager. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Maybe,” Tom said slowly, silently cursing Turnbull’s indiscretion.
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