“But it’s just a myth.”
“What do you know about it?” Archie challenged her.
“Viktor—the old Viktor—told me all about it.”
“Why, what was his interest?”
“He was obsessed with the war. I’ve got a room downstairs full of his old maps and uniforms and flags. He even had an old Enigma machine restored so that he could use it to send messages to one of his American contacts for fun. But the Amber Room—it’s just a legend.”
“So what do you call this?”
Archie handed her the fragment of amber they had recovered from the satchel in Völz’s vault. She gazed at it suspiciously, but when she next spoke, her voice sounded uncertain for
almost
the
first
time
since
they
had
met.
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“It can’t be . . . it’s impossible.”
“You’re probably right. But, to be sure, we need to find that painting.”
“And judging from the attention we’ve been getting, we must be looking in the right place,” said Archie.
“Then maybe I can help, after all,” Viktor conceded.
“The British government doesn’t work with gangsters.” Turnbull snorted dimissively.
“The British government, like all governments, works with whoever can get the job done,” Tom corrected him. “Unless you just want to call it a day?”
Turnbull was silent, clearly considering his options, before turning to Viktor. “How can you help?” he asked.
“The deputy curator at the Hermitage, Boris Kristenko. He’s into me for a bit of money. A gambling debt that he can’t seem to shake. He’ll play along.”
“Are you sure?”
“We just need to squeeze him.”
“Nobody gets hurt,” Tom warned.
“Do you want the information or not?”
“Not like that.”
“I’m just talking about applying a little pressure.”
“What sort of pressure?” Tom asked warily.
“The sort which is most effective in getting people to cooperate. Fear and greed.”
“The fear being that he has to pay you back or face the consequences?”
“And the greed being that, if he helps us, I’ll pay him for his trouble. Fifty thousand should do the trick.”
Tom nodded his agreement. “How come you didn’t mention this last night?”
“Because last night we’d just met. Now, we’re old friends.” She smiled. “Besides, last night,
you
hadn’t
mentioned
the
Amber
Room.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
GRIBOYEDOVA CANAL, ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—7:05 p.m.
It was a short drive to Greshniki, or Sinners, a four-story gay club on the Griboyedova Canal. According to Viktor’s informants, Kristenko was in the habit of stopping by for a drink here on his way home.
The club opened at six. Though posters at the door promised all-night male striptease, it really got going only after ten. Then the naked dancers would mix with the crowd, handing out paint and brushes, and offering their bodies as a canvas. Telephone numbers were the most commonly drawn items.
The place was still quiet when Tom and Viktor made their way up to the first-floor bar to wait for Kristenko. She ordered a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses, then filled them both to the brim.
“Nazdorovje,” she said, clinking glasses with him. No sooner had she downed the shot than she poured herself another. Tom did the same.
The room was deserted as they sat together in silence, waiting. Looking around, Tom saw that everything from the carpet to the walls, ceiling, and furniture was black. The only
color
came
from
a
UV
light,
hidden
behind
the
shelves
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where the spirits were displayed, so that it shone purple through the different colored liquids each bottle contained.
Viktor’s voice suddenly broke into Tom’s thoughts. “Who’s Harry?”
“What?” Tom’s voice registered his surprise at this unexpected question. Did Viktor know Renwick?
“Harry. When I looked in on you last night, you were talking in your sleep. Something about Harry. You seemed angry.”
“He’s someone I used to know,” Tom said dismissively, not wanting to relive whatever it was he had been dreaming about. “He’s no one.”
There was a long silence.
“You know, I think maybe we’re alike, you and me.”
The memory of how she had executed the waiter surfaced in Tom’s mind, prompting an immediate and forceful response. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said.
A pause.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“You’re angry, like me. I can see it in your eyes. I heard it in your voice when you were dreaming.”
“Am I?” Another pause. “Angry about what?”
She shrugged. “I’d say you’ve been hurt. A betrayal, perhaps. Someone you thought you could trust. Now you’ve lost the ability to care about most things, most people— but yourself, especially. You’re bitter. Every day is a struggle. You hate yourself without knowing why. You live inside yourself.”
“Once maybe,” Tom said slowly, surprised at her intuition. “But less so now. Since I stopped.”
“You can’t suddenly change who you are.”
“Are you talking about me or you?”
“I know why I hate myself.” She seemed not to have heard him. “I’ve become like Viktor. Become the very thing that I once despised. The irony is that I’m trapped. I’m even more of a prisoner now than I was when he was alive. At the first sign of weakness, someone will make a move against me and I’ll be the one they fish out of the Neva. And nobody
will
care.”
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Tom thought back to the leopard skin and the chandeliers and the black ceilings of her house and wondered whether she had thought that, like some sort of primitive headhunting tribe, she would somehow absorb Viktor’s strength and ruthlessness if she kept his name and his home. To some degree the totem had clearly worked, protecting her vulnerability. But for the first time he sensed that this second skin was only an imperfect fit for her slender shoulders.
“What did you expect?” Tom ventured. “That you could run this sort of operation and have a normal life?” She smiled ruefully. “The choices that we make have consequences. I should know—I’ve made some bad decisions, and suffered for them. But you can always get out. I used to think that you couldn’t, but you can. It’s never too late.”
“It’s not that easy,” she said with a shake of her head. “They’d never let me go.”
“Then don’t tell them.”
“I’ve saved enough money to live several lives. I could leave tomorrow. But how do you know when it’s the right time?”
“You just know,” said Tom.
A pause.
“You know, I’m only telling you this because you saved my life yesterday.” There was a shift in her tone, as if she felt the need to justify this rare moment of honesty.
“I was saving myself and my friends too.”
“In the car, maybe. But up there on the bridge? You could have let me fall. No one would have known.”
“I would have known,” Tom said. “That’s not who I am.”
Another pause.
“By the way, it’s Katya.”
“What is?”
“My name. Katya Nikolaevna. That’s who I am.”
She held out her hand. Taking it in his, Tom kissed it theatrically. She laughed and snatched it away from his lips.<
br />
“You should do that more often,” he said.
“What?”
“Laugh.”
Her face fell immediately, and Tom sensed that she was even now wishing she hadn’t let
her
guard
down
quite
so
far.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
7:21 p.m.
Kristenko walked in a few moments later, a slight, wiry man with steel glasses that magnified his large brown eyes, giving them a look of perpetual surprise. He looked to be in his late thirties, and had clearly tried to disguise the thinning of his fine blond hair by brushing it across his head, although here and there his scalp showed through. He wore a ratty old tweed jacket over a creased polyester shirt, and his shoes looked in need of a polish. Tom guessed that he lived alone.
The curator didn’t look the violent type, yet his left eye was yellow and puffy, his top lip split on one side. Tom flashed Viktor a reproachful glance, but she responded with a shrug as if to say she had no idea how he’d received his bruises. Somehow, Tom doubted that.
Kristenko ordered a beer and a vodka, downing the shot immediately and chasing it down with a mouthful of Russian lager. The combination seemed to calm his nerves. He sighed, sat on a bar stool, and nodded slowly to himself before looking along the bar in their direction.
“Zdravstvuite,” he greeted Tom. “Zdravstvuite, Boris Ivanovich,” Viktor replied coldly, stepping between the two men.
the black sun 291
Kristenko’s eyes narrowed with confusion as she said his name, trying to place her face.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked. He shook his head dumbly. “They call me Viktor.”
At the name, Kristenko’s face fell and he glanced desperately around, giving the barman a pleading look. Viktor snapped her fingers and jerked her head toward the door. The barman, who had been slicing lemons, laid down his knife and silently backed out of the room. Kristenko, all color drained from his face, looked as if he was going to be sick.
“Two weeks,” he whispered. “You said I had two more weeks.”
“And you still do,” she said. “Although you and I both know it will make no difference.”
“It will,” he insisted. “I have an uncle in America. He will send me the money.”
“An uncle you haven’t spoken to in ten years? I doubt it.”
“How do you know . . . ?” Kristenko’s mouth flapped open in surprise.
“Because it’s my job to know,” she said coldly. “You can’t pay now, and you won’t be able to pay in two weeks’ time.”
“I’ll win it back. I will, I will.” He began to sob, his shoulders jerking uncontrollably.
“Your mother, though—she has savings.”
“No!” he half screamed. “Please, no. There must be another way. I’ll do anything—
anything you want. But don’t tell her.”
Viktor nodded at Tom and then stepped aside.
“We’re looking for this . . .” Tom slid the photo of the Bellak portrait across the bar to Kristenko, who wiped his eyes on his sleeve and picked it up. “It was last seen in 1945, in Berlin. We think that it was seized by the Russian Trophy Squad, and that they stored it in the Hermitage. It’s by an artist named Karel Bellak.”
“I don’t understand . . . ?”
“Can you find it?”
“It could be anywhere,” Kristenko began uncertainly.
“I’ll pay you,” Tom offered. “Twenty thousand dollars if you find it. Fifty thousand if you
bring
it
to
me.”
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“Fifty thousand?” Kristenko held the photo with both hands and gazed at it. “Fifty thousand dollars,” he repeated, almost whispering it this time.
“Can you find it?” Viktor demanded.
“I’ll try,” said Kristenko.
“You’ll do better than that,” Viktor said menacingly.
“Here”—Tom handed him five thousand dollars in cash— “to show I’m serious.”
Kristenko’s hand curled around the thick wad of notes as he stared at them in disbelief, then his head jerked up and he looked questioningly at Viktor.
“Keep it,” she said. “Pay me out of the fifty thousand when you get it.”
He slipped the money gratefully into his jacket. “How can I find you?” he asked her.
“You don’t. From now on, you deal with him.” She nodded at Tom.
“Take these,” said Tom, handing Kristenko his digital camera and a mobile phone loaned to him by Viktor. “I’ll need proof—photos of the painting—before we line up the cash. When you have it, call me. There’s only one number in the memory.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
VASILIEVSKY ISLAND, ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—7:45 p.m.
Click. Click. Click. One by one the shiny brass bullets slipped into the fifteen-round magazine of Renwick’s Glock 19. When it was full, he banged it twice on the table, once on its base to ensure that the bullets had settled properly against the spring, then on its side so that they would be flush to the front edge and feed properly. Renwick picked it up, savoring its weight in his hand, then examined the scratched and worn surface for the telltale outward bulge that comes with extended use. Whereas a new magazine drops freely from the well when released, this one would need to be removed by hand—not an easy task for a one-handed man. But Renwick was untroubled. If he couldn’t shoot his way out of trouble with fifteen rounds, it was unlikely he would survive long enough to need any more bullets. He slid it into the frame with a firm slap. Renwick liked this gun. The short barrel made it easy to conceal, yet the reduced size in no way compromised its performance. The care and ingenuity that had gone into its design appealed to his love of craftsmanship. Hammerless and striker-fired, the Glock’s trigger
and
firing-pin
mecha
294 james twining
nisms, for example, were almost unique. Equally innovative was the hammer-forged hexagonal rifling of the Glock’s barrels, which provided a far superior gas seal. Most important, he liked the way this gun made him feel. In control. Adjusting his prosthetic hand so that it was more comfortable, he looked up to see Hecht and his men readying themselves and their weapons for the night ahead. He smiled. He was so close now, he could almost reach out and touch it. Tonight,
he’d
know.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
THE HERMITAGE, ST. PETERSBURG
January 10—8:01 p.m.
On the Hermitage’s top floor, lost within the dark labyrinth that makes up the museum’s attic storerooms, a dimly lit corridor ends in a rusty door. Very few people are allowed access to this hidden corner of the museum. Even fewer know it exists. Those that do have learned not to ask what lies inside.
Even Kristenko, whose position allowed him to roam freely across most of the Hermitage complex, had rapidly needed to forge a note from the museum director to gain access. Fortunately, the armed escort detailed to accompany him had been happy enough to wait outside, lighting up with typical Russian disregard for the No Smoking signs. Kristenko decided not to press the point—denied this simple pleasure, they might decide to pay heed to the rule that required them to accompany him inside. The door was stiff from lack of use, and as soon as he was inside he tugged it shut behind him, metal striking metal with a dull, booming crash that echoed off the peeling walls.
Six somber doors led off a corridor lost in shadows, each one opening onto a different spetskhran,
or
special
storage
296 james twining
area. According to the rough plan he held in his trembling hand, it was spetskhran 3
of this, the so-called Trophy Squad Annex, that held the bulk of the paintings seized from Berlin at the end of the war. The other spetskhran were similarly arranged in
to broad categories: sculptures in one, rare books and manuscripts in another, furniture in another, and so on. Beyond that broad classification, records were at best incomplete, at worst utterly unreliable.
Opening the door, his throat dry with anticipation, Kristenko felt for the switch just inside the room. The low-level lighting flickered on. He felt his breathing quicken and, in his excitement, briefly had the sense that the mottled walls and stiflingly low ceiling were closing in on him.
It wasn’t just the prospect of finding the Bellak painting and claiming a fifty-thousanddollar reward that was affecting him. Only once, when he had first been promoted to deputy curator, had he been allowed into this room before. The visit had been supervised, of course, with strict instructions that he wasn’t to touch anything. Now, finally, he was free to see and touch these treasures unhindered. The prospect was almost more than he could bear.
The paintings had been loaded on three wooden racks, each two stories high and twenty feet long. Kristenko doubted that they’d been moved since the day they’d been put there. Like the rest of the Hermitage, the room lacked modern temperature monitoring and climate-control equipment, hardly forming an ideal storage environment. But despite that, it was dry and, most important, stable, the museum’s thick walls preventing sudden changes in temperature.
Not knowing where to start, Kristenko attacked the rack nearest to him, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves to protect the paintings from the acids and oils produced by his skin. An added benefit, he recognized, was that he would leave no fingerprints. The canvases were heavy and it wasn’t long before he had broken into a sweat, the dust clinging to his face and adding a gray tint to his already pale skin. But his tiredness evaporated when, among the second column of paintings, he discovered a large, badly damaged work.
Still
bearing
the
creases
where
it
had
been
folded
by
some
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careless previous owner, its surface was cracked and scarred. Most people would not have given the painting a second glance, but Kristenko immediately recognized it as a Rubens. Not just any Rubens, either, but Tarquin and Lucretia, regarded by many as one of his greatest early works. It had once been the property of Frederick the Great, who hung it in the gallery of Sanssouci, his palace outside Potsdam, until the Nazis had moved it to a castle in Rheinsberg in 1942. Then nothing—it had simply vanished. The label on the reverse told the story of those missing years. It had been sequestered by Joseph Goebbels, who had hung it in a bedroom used by one of his lovers—appropriate, perhaps, given that the painting’s subject is the rape of Lucretia, a chaste Roman wife. In 1945, when Goebbels’s estate in Bogensee was overrun, an officer of the Soviet 61st Army smuggled the painting back to Russia, folded underneath his tunic. It then fell into the hands of the authorities, who had placed it down here along with everything else. Kristenko couldn’t stop himself from smiling, as if seeing the painting had somehow initiated him into a secret club.
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