The Black Sun

‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Turnbull, bracing himself against the window as the car turned a corner. ‘The killers stole the surveillance tapes from the ward, but one of them was caught on CCTV as they left the building.’ He produced another photo and passed it back. Tom and Archie took it in turn to examine the image, but both shook their heads.

‘No idea,’ said Archie.

‘Never seen him before,’ Tom agreed.

‘No, but we have,’ Turnbull continued. ‘Which is how we were able to make the link to Kristall Blade. He’s Dmitri’s number two, Colonel Johann Hecht. Last time we caught up with him was in Vienna about three months ago when one of our agents snapped him in a restaurant.’ He handed Tom a third photograph. ‘He’s about six foot seven and has a scar down his right cheek and across his lip, so you can’t exactly miss him.’

‘I’m still waiting for the punchline here.’ Tom’s frustration was mounting and he passed the photo to Archie without even glancing at it. ‘What’s this man got to do with me?’

‘Christ!’ Archie grabbed Tom’s arm. ‘Look at who he’s sitting opposite.’

The colour drained from Tom’s face as he recognised the man that Archie was pointing at.

‘It’s Harry,’ he stammered, the smiling, carefree face in the photo instantly sweeping away the fragile barricades he had sought to erect around that part of his life over the last six months. ‘It’s Renwick.’

NINE

Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen, Denmark

5th January – 2.03 p.m.

Harry Renwick paid his admission money at the Glyptotek entrance on the corner of Tietgensgade and H.C. Andersens Boulevard and walked inside. It was still quiet at this hour, most people, he knew, preferring to visit after dark when the Tivoli turned into a light-filled oasis of over 115,000 incandescent bulbs amidst the city’s dark winter nights.

Despite the time, though, most of the rides were already open. The oldest, a large wooden roller-coaster known to locals as Bjergrutschebanen, or the Mountain Roller Coaster, roared in the distance, the screams of its few passengers evaporating into the thin winter air in clouds of warm steam.

Renwick was certainly dressed for the weather, a blue velvet trilby pulled down low over his ears, a yellow silk scarf wound several times around his neck before disappearing into the folds of his dark blue overcoat. With his chin buried in the warmth of his upturned collar, only his nose and eyes could be seen, intelligent, alert, and as cold and unfeeling as the snow that coated the trees and rooftops around him.

He paused in front of a souvenir stall, icicles dangling menacingly from the overhanging roof. As he scanned its contents he shifted his right arm in his pocket, wincing slightly. No matter how well he wrapped it up, the cold penetrated the stump where his right hand had once been and made it ache. Eventually he found what he was looking for and pointed it out to the sales assistant, handing over a hundred kroner note. Slipping his purchase into a red bag, she counted out his change and smiled as he tipped his hat in thanks.

He walked on, past the skating rink, and then the lake, the only part of Copenhagen’s original fortifications to have survived the city’s growth as it swallowed up land that, like Tivoli, had once stood outside its moat and ramparts. Reaching the Chinese pagoda, he stepped into the warmth of the Det Kinesiske Tårn restaurant housed within, stamping his feet in the entrance vestibule to shake the snow off his shoes. A welcoming cloakroom attendant relieved him of his hat and coat, revealing a charcoal-grey double-breasted suit.

In his mid-fifties, Renwick was tall and still obviously strong, his shoulders and head held high and stiff as if on parade. He had a full head of white hair, usually immaculately parted down one side, but the removal of his hat had left it sticking up in places. Nestled under a pair of thick craggy eyebrows, his large green eyes looked younger than his face, which was etched with wrinkles and sagged a little across the cheeks.

‘Table for two. In the back,’ he demanded.

‘Of course, sir. This way please.’

The maître d’hôtel steered him to a table. Renwick opted for the seat that left him with a clear view of the entrance and the windows overlooking the lake. He ordered some wine and checked his watch, a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronograph that he kept in his top pocket on a thin gold chain that fixed to his buttonhole. Hecht was late, but then Renwick was early. Experience had taught him to take no chances.

He surveyed the dining room. It was the usual lunchtime crowd. Young couples, hands clasped, gazing into each other’s eyes with looks that spoke volumes. Older couples, having long since run out of words, silently gazed in opposite directions. Parents, struggling to control their children, tried desperately to keep an eye on everything at once. Little people with little lives.

Hecht arrived five minutes later, towering over the waiter who ushered him over. He was wearing lace-up boots, jeans and a cheap brown leather jacket decorated with zips and press-stud pockets that looked stiff and plastic.

‘You are late,’ Renwick admonished him as he sat down, awkwardly folding his long legs under the table. Hecht had a cruel, lumbering face, a white scar down his right cheek pulling his mouth into a permanent grin, his grey eyes bulging and moist from the cold. His dyed black hair had been plastered to his scalp with some sort of oil.

‘We watched you all the way from the main gate,’ Hecht corrected him. ‘I thought I’d give you a few minutes to get settled in. I know you like to choose the wine.’

Renwick smiled and indicated for the waiter to fill Hecht’s glass.

‘So? Did you get it?’

Renwick’s tone had been casual, but Hecht wasn’t fooled.

‘Don’t insult me. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I had.’

‘Where is it then?’

Hecht unzipped his jacket and withdrew a short cardboard tube. Renwick snatched it from him, popped the plastic cover off one end and emptied the canvas scroll into his lap.

‘Is it the one?’

‘Patience, Johann,’ Renwick chided, although he was having difficulty disguising the excitement in his own voice.

Holding the painting out of sight below the table with his left hand, he unscrolled it across his lap and inspected its battered surface. Seeing nothing there, he flipped it over to examine the reverse. His face fell. Nothing.

‘Damn.’

‘I don’t know where else to look.’ Hecht’s voice was laced with disappointment. ‘That’s six we have taken, and none of them the right one – or so you say.’

‘What are you implying?’ Renwick snapped.

‘That perhaps if we knew what you were looking for, it would help us find the right painting.’

‘That is not our arrangement. I am paying you to steal the paintings, nothing more.’

‘Then perhaps it’s time the deal changed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Renwick asked sharply, not liking the mischievous sparkle in Hecht’s eyes.

‘That Jew you asked us to keep an eye on…’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Renwick’s eyes widened. ‘How?’

‘We killed him.’

‘You killed…You idiot,’ Renwick spluttered. ‘You have no idea what you are meddling in. How dare you –’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hecht interrupted him with a wink. ‘We got it.’

Renwick nodded slowly, as if trying to calm himself, although in truth Hecht’s revelation was no surprise – he had known for several days now about Kristall Blade’s thoughtless attack on Weissman. If things had been different, he might even have been in a position to prevent it. No matter. For now, the important thing was for them to think they had the advantage. If they felt they were in control, it would make them complacent. And their complacency would eventually present him with the opportunity to make his move. Until then, he was happy to grant them their small victory and pretend to have been outsmarted.

‘And now I suppose you think that little bit of cleverness entitles you to a seat at the top table?’

‘This is bigger than an old painting. We can sense it. We want a share in whatever it is you are after.’

‘And what do I get in return?’

‘You get the arm and whatever it can tell you.’

There was a pause as Renwick pretended to consider Hecht’s offer. His wine glass sounded like a deadened bell as he rhythmically tapped the squat gold signet ring on his little finger against the rim.

‘Where is the arm now?’

‘Still in London. One phone call from me and it will be flown out here – or destroyed. You choose.’

Renwick shrugged.

‘Very well. Eighty–twenty split.’ He had no intention of splitting anything, but knew it would arouse suspicion if he didn’t try to negotiate.

‘Fifty–fifty.’

‘Do not push your luck, Johann,’ Renwick warned him.

‘Sixty–forty then.’

‘Seventy–thirty. That’s my final offer,’ Renwick said firmly.

‘Done.’ Hecht took out his phone. ‘Where do you want it delivered?’

‘I will go to London,’ Renwick said with a wry smile. ‘Things are already in motion there. Maybe we can use this to our advantage.’

‘You still haven’t told me what this is all about.’

Renwick shook his head.

‘I will talk to Dmitri. What I have to say, he should hear first.’

Hecht leant into the table and raised his voice ever so slightly.

‘He will only speak to you once I have verified your story. If we are to be partners, he needs more than promises.’

‘Very well,’ Renwick sighed. ‘I will tell you what you need to know, but no more. The full story will have to wait for Dmitri. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

Renwick reached into the red bag by his chair. Hecht’s hand flashed across his chest as he felt for his gun.

‘Careful, Renwick. No tricks.’

‘No tricks,’ Renwick agreed.

His hand emerged from the bag clutching a small model steam train. He placed it on the table and pushed it over to Hecht. The miniature pistons pumped merrily as it rolled over the tablecloth until it bumped into Hecht’s plate with a resonant ping and came to a stop.

‘What is this? Some sort of joke?’ Hecht’s tone was suspicious.

‘No joke.’

‘But it’s a train?’ he said dismissively.

‘Not just any train. A gold train.’

TEN

Nr Borough Market, London

5th January – 1.03 p.m.

‘What’s he got to do with this?’

Tom’s voice was at once angry and uncertain. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t even think about Harry without remembering how much of himself he had lost the day he finally uncovered the truth. It was as if half his life had been revealed as one long lie.

‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’

‘What do you know?’

‘Not as much as you,’ Turnbull snorted. ‘Given that you and dear old Uncle Harry were almost family.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Tom said bitterly. ‘The Harry Renwick I knew was intelligent, funny, kind and caring.’ He couldn’t stop his voice from softening at the memory of Renwick in his tatty old white linen suit. Renwick who’d never forgotten his birthday, not once. His own father had never managed that. ‘The Harry Renwick I knew was my friend.’

‘You were taken in then, just like everybody else? You never suspected the truth?’ Turnbull sounded sceptical.

‘Why are you asking me if you already know the answers?’ Tom snapped. ‘I don’t want to talk about Harry Renwick.’

‘Talk to me about Cassius then,’ Turnbull pressed. ‘Tell me what you knew about him.’

Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

‘Everyone in the business knew Cassius. Knew of him, that is, because nobody had ever seen him. Or rather, not seen him and lived.’

‘He was a ruthless, murdering bastard, that’s who he was,’ said Archie. ‘His crew had a crooked finger in every crooked scam going in the art business. Thefts, forgeries, grave-robbing, smuggling – you name it. And if you didn’t play along, well…I heard he once put a man’s eyes out with a fountain pen for not authenticating a forged Pisanello drawing he was trying to shift.’

‘No one realised that all along Cassius was Uncle – was Renwick.’

‘Have you spoken to him since?’

Tom gave a short laugh.

‘Last time I saw him, he was trying to shoot me – until I severed his hand in a vault door. We’re not exactly on speaking terms any more.’

‘Yeah, I’ve read the FBI case file on what happened in Paris.’ Tom met his eye, surprised. ‘Believe it or not, we do occasionally share information with our American colleagues,’ Turnbull explained with a wry smile. ‘Especially now he’s made their Most Wanted list.’

‘And what did the file say?’

‘That, although a known thief, you co-operated with the US Government to help recover five priceless gold coins stolen from Fort Knox. And that during the course of that investigation, you helped unmask Renwick as Cassius and apprehend a rogue FBI agent.’

‘And Renwick? What did it say about him?’

‘Not much more than what you’ve just told us. That’s the problem. We’ve picked up on some rumours, but that’s it. That his syndicate has disintegrated. That he’s lost everything. That he’s on the run.’

‘From you?’

‘Us, Interpol, the Yanks – the usual suspects. But we’re not the only ones.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve intercepted messages from a group of people who seem to be trying to hunt Renwick down.’

‘The coded Personals ads in the Tribune?’

‘You know about those?’ Turnbull’s surprise was evident.

‘Only since yesterday. Any ideas on who’s running them?’

‘They’re sent by post. Typed. Standard HP laser printer. Different country of origin each time. Could be anyone.’

‘Well, I don’t care either way.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Whoever gets him first will be doing us all a favour. Good luck to them.’

‘Except that this isn’t just about Renwick. Despite what the media might say, not all terrorists wave a Kalashnikov in one hand and a Koran in the other. Kristall Blade is a violent, fanatical sect bent on restoring the Third Reich, whatever the cost. Up till now they’ve remained in the shadows, carrying out deadly but mainly small-scale operations within a limited geographical area. Our sources tell us that this is about to change. They are looking to fund a massive expansion of their activities, in terms of personnel, size of target and geographic reach. If Renwick’s helping them to achieve their goal, we’ll all pay the price.’

‘And what do you expect me to do about it?’

‘We’d like your help. You know Renwick better than anyone, understand him and his methods and the world he operates in. We need to find out what he’s working on with Hecht before it’s too late. I suggest you start by looking at these hospital murders.’

Tom laughed and shook his head.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I investigate stolen art, not stolen arms. No one wants to see Renwick stopped more than I do, but I’m not getting involved. That life’s behind me.’

‘Behind us both,’ Archie chimed in, thumping the seat next to him for emphasis.

‘And how long before Renwick decides to come looking for you? How long before he decides it’s time to settle old scores?’

‘That’s my problem, not yours,’ Tom said with finality. ‘And it’s certainly not a good enough reason to do anything other than walk away from your mess without making it any worse. I don’t trust you people. Never have. Never will.’

There was a long pause, during which Turnbull stared at him stonily before turning to face the front again and letting out a long sigh.

‘Take this, then –’ Turnbull held out a piece of paper, his arm bending back over his shoulder. It had a number scrawled on it. ‘In case you change your mind.’

The car slowed to a halt and the door flashed open. Tom and Archie stepped blinking out on to the street. It took them a few seconds to realise that they were back at Archie’s car. The clamp had been removed.

‘So, what do you want to do?’ asked Archie as he beeped the car open and slipped behind the wheel.

‘Nothing, until we’ve checked him out,’ Tom said, settling back into the soft black leather passenger seat just as the engine snarled into life. ‘I want to know what he’s really after.’

ELEVEN

Greenwich, London

5th January – 1.22 p.m.

The room hadn’t changed. It only seemed a little emptier without him, as if all the energy had been sucked out of it. The faded brown curtain that he’d refused to open fully, even in the summer, remained drawn. The dark green carpet still bristled with dog hair and ash. The awful 1950s writing desk had not moved from the bay window, while on the mantelpiece the three volcanic rocks that he’d picked up from the slopes of Mount Etna when on honeymoon with her mother many years before, radiated their usual warm glow.

As she crossed the room, Elena Weissman caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and flinched. Although only forty-five, and a young forty-five at that, she knew the last week had aged her ten years. Her green eyes were puffy and red, her face flushed and tired, the lines across her forehead and around her eyes and mouth had deepened from shallow indentations to small valleys. Her black hair, usually well groomed, was a mess. For the first time since her teens she was wearing no make-up. She hated being this way.

‘Here you go, my love –’ Sarah, her best friend, came back into the room with two mugs of tea.

‘Thanks.’ Elena took a sip.

‘These all need to be boxed up, do they?’ Sarah asked, trying to sound cheerful, though her face betrayed her disgust at the state of the room.

Stacked up against the walls and fireplace and armchairs, and every other surface that would support them, were precarious towers of books and magazines – hardbacks and paperbacks and periodicals and pamphlets of various shapes and sizes and colours, some old with smooth leather spines stamped with faded gold letters, others new and bright with shiny dust jackets.

She remembered with a sad smile how the piles used to topple over, to an accompaniment of florid German curses. How her father would then try to stuff them into the overflowing bookcase that ran the length of the right-hand wall, only to admit defeat and arrange them into a fresh tower in a new location. A tower that would itself, in time, tumble to the ground as surely as if it had been built on sand.

Her grief took hold once again and she felt an arm placed around her shoulders.

‘It’s okay,’ Sarah said gently.

‘I just can’t believe he’s dead. That he’s really gone.’ Elena’s shoulders shook as she sobbed.

‘I know how hard it must be,’ came the comforting reply.

‘No one deserves to die like that. After everything he’d been through, all that suffering.’ She looked into Sarah’s eyes for support and found it.

‘The world’s gone mad,’ Sarah agreed. ‘To kill an innocent man in his bed and then…’

Her voice tailed off and Elena knew that she couldn’t bring herself to repeat what she herself had told Sarah only a few days before, although it seemed a lifetime ago now. That her father, a frail old man, had been murdered. That his body had been butchered like a piece of meat. She still couldn’t quite believe it herself.

‘It’s like a terrible nightmare,’ she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

‘Maybe we should finish this another day,’ Sarah suggested gently.

‘No.’ Elena took a deep breath and fought to bring herself under control. ‘It’s got to be done at some stage. Besides, I need to keep busy. It keeps my mind off…things.’

‘I’ll go and grab some boxes then, shall I? Why don’t you start with the bookcase?’

Sarah went off in search of boxes as Elena, clearing a space in the middle of the room, began to empty the shelves on to the floor, sorting the books as she went along. Her father’s taste had been eclectic, but the bulk of his library seemed to be devoted to his twin hobbies of ornithology and trains. There was a vast array of books on each subject, many of them in French or German, and she found herself wishing that she’d kept her languages up so that she would know what was the French for bird and the German for railway.

Together, they emptied the first set of shelves and were about halfway down the middle set when Elena noticed something strange. One of the books, a leather-bound volume with an indecipherable title in faded black letters, refused to move when she tried to grab it. At first she assumed that it must be glued there, no doubt the result of some careless accident years before. But once she had removed all the other books from the shelf, she could see that there was no sign of anything sticking it down.

She gave it a firm tug with both hands, but still it wouldn’t come free. Exasperated now, she reached round behind the book and, to her surprise, felt a thin metal rod emerging from it and disappearing into the wall. Further inspection revealed that the pages, if any had ever existed, had been replaced by a solid block of what felt like wood.

She stepped back and stared at the book pensively. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she stepped forward and with a deep breath, pressed gently against the book’s spine. The book edged forward easily as if on some sort of track and at the same time there was a click as the right-hand edge of the central bookcase shifted about half an inch. Hearing the scrape of wood, Sarah looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor.

‘Found something, dear?’

Elena didn’t reply. Grasping one of the shelves she pulled the bookcase towards her. It swung open noiselessly, skating just above the carpet, until it had folded back on itself.

‘Oh my!’ Sarah exclaimed breathlessly, struggling to her feet.

The bookcase had revealed a section of wall still covered in what looked like the original Victorian wallpaper, an ornate floral pattern painted over with thick brown varnish. In a few places the paper had fallen off, revealing the cracked and crumbling plaster beneath.

But Elena’s eyes were fixed not on the wall but on the narrow green door set into it. On the hinges glistening with oil. Recently applied oil.

TWELVE

Location unknown

5th January – 4.32 p.m.

Large damp patches had formed around his armpits and across his back as he leant forward on the long table and stared at the jet-black conference phone that lay in the middle of it, a small red light on one side flashing steadily.

‘What is it?’ The voice that floated up from the phone was calm and cold.

‘We’ve found him.’

‘Where? In Denmark, like we thought?’

‘No, not Cassius.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Him. The last one.’

A pause.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where.’

‘London. But we were too late. He’s dead.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve seen the police report.’

‘And the body? Did you see the body?’

‘No. But I’ve seen the photos taken at the autopsy and a copy of the dental records. They match.’

A long silence.

‘So,’ the voice eventually sighed, ‘it is over. He was the last.’

‘No, I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.’ As he spoke, he spun the gold signet ring on his little finger. The ring’s flat upper surface was engraved with a small grid of twelve squares, one of which had been set with a lone diamond.

‘The beginning?’ the voice laughed. ‘What are you talking about? Everything is safe now. He was the only one left who knew.’

‘He was murdered. Killed in his hospital bed.’

‘He deserved a far worse death for what he had done,’ was the unfeeling response.