The Black Sun

‘Your father? But he’s wearing…’ Tom tailed off at the pained expression on her face. ‘When was this taken?’

‘In 1944, I think. There’s something else written on the back, but I can’t read it. I think it’s Cyrillic.’

‘December – that’s Russian for December,’ said Turnbull, peering over Tom’s shoulder.

‘Tom, we should take this –’ Archie’s voice came, slightly muffled, from inside the chamber. He appeared a moment later, carrying the mannequin’s jacket and peaked hat.

‘Why?’ Turnbull asked.

‘You ever seen anything like this before?’ He pointed at the circular cap badge, which appeared to show a swastika with twelve arms rather than the usual four, each shaped like an SS lightning flash. ‘I know I haven’t.’

‘You think Lasche can help?’ Tom asked.

‘If he’ll see us,’ said Archie, sounding unhopeful.

‘Who?’ Turnbull butted in.

‘Wolfgang Lasche,’ Tom explained. ‘He used to be one of the biggest dealers in military memorabilia. Uniforms, guns, swords, flags, medals, planes, even whole ships.’

‘Used to be?’

‘He’s been a semi-recluse for years. Lives on the top floor of the Drei Könige Hotel in Zurich. He trained as a lawyer originally. Eventually made a name for himself pursuing German, Swiss and even American companies for alleged involvement in war crimes.’

‘What sort of war crimes?’

‘The usual – facilitating the Holocaust; helping finance the Nazi war effort; taking advantage of slave labour to turn a profit.’

‘And he was successful?’

‘Very. He won hundreds of millions of dollars in compensation payments for Holocaust survivors. Then, rumour has it, he hit the jackpot. He uncovered a scam by one of the big Swiss banks to slowly appropriate unclaimed funds deposited by Holocaust victims and shred the evidence. It ran to tens of billions of dollars and went all the way to the top. So they bought him off. The Drei Könige Hotel belongs to the bank he investigated. He gets to live on the top floor and they pay him just to keep quiet.’

‘So his antiques dealership…?’

‘Part of the deal was that he got out of the Nazi blame game. With his contacts and backing, it was an easy switch. He’s a major collector in his own right now. Nobody knows that market better than him.’

‘And he never goes out?’

‘He’s sick. Confined to a wheelchair with twenty-four seven nursing care.’

‘And you think he might be able to identify that?’ Turnbull indicated the jacket and cap.

‘If anyone can, he can,’ said Tom.

‘I could have forgiven him, you know…’ While they had been talking, Elena Weissman had disappeared into the chamber. ‘I loved him so much. I could have forgiven him anything if he’d told me…’ she sobbed as she re-emerged.

Tom saw that she was clutching a Luger pistol in her right hand.

‘Even this,’ she continued, her strained voice rising to a hysterical scream as she raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘You could have told me.’

She lifted the gun to her mouth, the black barrel slipping between her lips, bright red lipstick smearing along it.

‘No!’ Tom leapt to knock the gun out of her hand before she could pull the trigger.

But he was too late. The back of her head exploded across the room, a fine mist of blood spraying in short bursts from the severed blood vessels as her body slumped to the floor.

TWENTY

FBI Headquarters, Salt Lake City Division, Utah

6th January – 8.17 a.m.

Paul Viggiano poured himself another cup of filter coffee from the machine. There was a tidemark in the glass jug where the coffee had evaporated since the last fresh pot had been made that morning. The remaining liquid looked dark and thick, like treacle. With scientific precision, he measured out one and a half servings of creamer, added one level teaspoon of sugar, then stirred it three times.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned to face Sheriff Hennessy and his attorney, Jeremiah Walton. A wiry, aggressive man with a thin face, hornbill nose and sunken cheeks, Walton seemed unable to sit still on the moulded plastic seats, forever shifting his weight from one bony buttock to the other. Bailey was sitting on the opposite side of a flimsy-looking table that had been screwed to the floor. A tape recorder was humming gently to his right. He was staring at Hennessy with a hostile intensity, his pen suspended motionlessly over a notepad.

‘Face it, Hennessy, it’s over,’ Viggiano said, trying to sound calm but struggling to contain the excitement in his voice. Less than forty-eight hours ago he’d been wondering what he was doing with his life. Now here he was running a multiple homicide investigation. Funny how someone else’s bad luck could be just the break you’ve been praying for. ‘Whatever little scam you’ve been running up there is finished now. So you might as well tell us what you know and make this a whole lot easier on yourself.’

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