The Black Sun

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Tom and Dominique made their way down the Nevsky Prospekt toward the Admiralty's honeyed bulk, occasional dark veins forming along the pavement where it had emerged from under the snow's white marble. They passed two drunks lying slumped over each other in a doorway, each with one hand lovingly wrapped around a half-empty bottle of vodka. As they watched, a stray dog ambled up to the two men and sniffed gingerly around their feet until a flailing kick sent it yelping down the street. A veil of gray clouds clung stubbornly to the sky, torn by icicles of dirty yellow light.

"So when do you think Archie will get here?" Dominique asked, her eyes focused on where she was treading.

"You missing him already?" Tom laughed, his voice muffled by a thick scarf. Although allegedly a mild winter by Russian standards, it still felt dangerously cold. "Don't worry, he should be here by this evening."

"I'm not sure it was worth him traveling separately. I mean, if someone is looking for him, they're just as likely to spot him on his own as with us, aren't they?"

"True," said Tom. "But he seemed to think he'd have a better chance with only himself to worry about."

"And Turnbull? Did you get through in the end?"

"I updated him on everything we've found so far. Well, everything he needed to know, at least. He's due here tomorrow. I'll have to break it to Archie gently."

Reaching the end of the Nevsky Prospekt, they turned right into Dvortsovaya Ploshchad, or Palace Square. The Admiralty's gilded spike sat atop a white marble colonnaded cube that resembled the top layer of a gaudy wedding cake. To their right was the Alexander Column, while behind them, the curved sweep of the General Staff Building hugged them into its shadow. Here and there, through gaps in the buildings or over their rooftops came the unforgiving glint of concrete; ugly Soviet-era scars that the city was still trying unsuccessfully to heal over.

Dominique slipped her arm through Tom's, feeling strangely warm and content, despite the icy wind whipping against her cheeks. The events of the past few days, while exhausting, had also been exhilarating. She had always been a bit jealous of Tom and Archie, with their crazy stories of places they'd been or jobs they'd pulled. Now, far from sitting on the sidelines, she felt that she was finally part of the team. It gave her a sense of belonging that she had not had for a while. Not since Tom's father died.

"You've been here before, right?" she asked.

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"I guess I just never got round to it."

Something in his tone told her not to probe further. Not now, at least. She decided to change the subject. "That must be it — the Hermitage."

"That's it," Tom confirmed.

"So that one's the Winter Palace." She pointed at the extravagant Baroque building on the left, its white-and-pista-chio-colored facade adorned with gleaming sculptures and covered with an intricate pattern of decorative motifs that flickered with the golden sparkle of a thousand tiny candles.

"I think so."

"It's huge." She shook her head in disbelief.

"I read that if you spent eight hours a day here, it would take seventy years just to glance at every single one of its exhibits."

"That long?"

"Thirteen miles of galleries, three million items… Actually, that sounds pretty quick."

"And you really think the missing Bellak painting is in there?" she asked skeptically. Even now, she wasn't sure that their combined logic had led them to the right place.

They had reached the riverbank and were standing on the Palace Bridge, looking out toward the Peter and Paul Fortress. Tom leaned against the parapet, deep in thought, before answering.

"Have you ever heard of Schliemann's Gold?"

Dominique nodded. From what she could remember, back in the 1870s, Schliemann had been a pioneering archaeologist. Obsessed with The Iliad, he had set about finding the site of Troy, using Homer's text as his map. In 1873 he had finally hit pay dirt, uncovering the remains of the city and a hoard of bronze, silver, and gold objects that he christened Priam's Treasure, after the ancient King of Troy.

"Just before he died," Tom explained, "he gave the treasure he had found in Troy to the National Museum in Berlin, where it stayed until 1945."

"Until 1945? You mean the Russians took it?" Dominique guessed.

"Exactly. The Soviets were almost as obsessed with securing valuables and art as the Nazis. When Berlin fell, Stalin sent in his 'Trophy Squad,' a team specially trained to search out and confiscate as much Nazi loot as possible. They found Priam's Treasure in a bunker beneath the Berlin Zoo, along with thousands of other artifacts. Of course, no one knew all this until recently. The treasure was thought to have been lost or destroyed in the war. Only in 1993 did the Russians finally admit that they had it, only to claim ownership in lieu of reparations. It's on display now in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow."

"And you think something similar must have happened to the painting?"

"That's certainly what the telegram was saying," Tom confirmed with a nod. "It makes sense. Himmler's headquarters would have been one of the Russians' key strategic targets. If Himmler really couldn't bring himself to destroy Bellak's painting of his daughter, I think there's every chance the Russians found it there and carried it back here as a trophy. The problem is going to be finding it."

"Why's that?"

"You know I said there are three million items in there?" She nodded. "Well, only one hundred and fifty thousand are actually on display. The other two million eight hundred and fifty thousand are housed in vast attic storerooms and underground depositories. What's more, most of what they've got down there is so poorly catalogued that they probably don't even know they've got it themselves."

"I still don't understand why Bellak would have cooperated with the Order by hiding messages in his paintings?"

Tom shook his head. "As far as I know, Bellak was already dead by the time the Gold Train set out, so he can't have been involved. Besides, the clue you found wasn't hidden in the painting itself but had been added later by making those holes. I imagine they chose his paintings precisely because of who he was and their subject matter. After all, who would have suspected that a painting of a synagogue by a Jewish artist would have led us to a hidden SS crypt?"

There was a long silence. As she stared pensively out over the water, Dominique was suddenly struck by how, apart from the isolated perpendicular thrust of the Admiralty spires, the Peter and Paul Fortress, and the Mikhailovsky Castle, the city seemed to be dominated by horizontal rather than vertical lines, like layers of rock strata. Partly this was due to the matching rooflines that had largely been kept strictly to that of the Winter Palace or below, but principally it was due to the incredible abundance of water. Everywhere that the flat surfaces of St. Petersburg's forty rivers and twenty canals touched the shore, it created the illusion of a perfectly straight line.

She was about to point this out to Tom when she caught the distant look in his eye and thought better of it.

"Tom, what's really kept you from coming here before?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes firmly fixed on the far shore. "When I was eight, my father bought me a book about St. Petersburg. We used to read it together — well, look at the pictures, mainly. He told me that he'd bring me here one day. That we'd organize a trip, just the two of us. That he'd show me all its secrets. I guess I was waiting for him to ask me. I never thought I'd come here without him."

Dominique was silent. Then, surprising herself more than anyone, she reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Boris Kristenko felt guilty. It wasn't just that he had slipped out of the office and that if his boss found out there would be questions. He was more worried about letting his colleagues down. With only three weeks to go till the grand opening of the new Rembrandt exhibition, they were working flat out. He should have been back at the museum, coordinating the hanging. But he'd made a promise and he liked to keep his promises — especially when they were to his mother.

So he hurried along, head bowed, trying not to make eye contact for fear someone from work might recognize him, although he could just as well have asked them what they were doing out themselves. That realization emboldened him somewhat, and he allowed himself to look up, although he quickened his step to compensate for his bravery as he crossed the Neva and headed along the Leytenanta Schmidta embankment.

His mother wanted three Russian dolls. Apparently she couldn't get such nice pieces out in the suburbs, although Kristenko doubted she'd even looked. He knew his mother; this was her way of getting him to both pay for the items and deliver them.

Not that they were for her, of course. The matryoshka were intended as gifts for her nephews and nieces over in America, her brother having swapped the cold Russian winters for humid Miami summers about fifteen years ago. God, how Kristenko envied him.

It was a small shop, catering mainly for tourists, with a fine selection of Russian souvenirs. He purchased the dolls and emerged back onto the street, checking his watch. He'd been away twenty minutes. Maybe if he ran he'd be back before anyone had noticed he'd even gone.

The first punch, to the side of the head, caught him completely unawares. The second, he saw coming, although it still winded him as it slammed into his stomach. He dropped to the ground, gasping for air, his head ringing.

"Get him over there." He registered a voice, then felt himself being dragged by his arms and hair into an alleyway. He didn't have the strength or the will to fight them. He knew who they were and he knew he couldn't win.

They threw him to the filthy cobblestones, smeared with rotting food and dog excrement. His head bounced off a wall, and he felt a tooth break as his chin connected with the bricks.

"Where's our money, Boris Ivanovich?" came the voice. He looked up and saw three of them, looming over him like upended coffins.

"It's coming," he mumbled, finding it difficult to move his jaw.

"It had better be. Two weeks. You've got two weeks. And next time, just so you know, it won't be you we come for. It'll be your mother."

One of the men kicked him hard in the head, the boot catching his nose. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his face as the shadows faded, their cruel laughter rising through the air like steam.

Lying there, his head supported by the cold brick wall, he looked down at his bruised knees, his ripped and soiled coat, his scuffed shoes covered in shit. The blood dripped from his nose through his fingers and onto his front with the steady rhythm of an old clock marking time. Alone, he began to cry.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Dusk fell with a crimson mantle, lengthening shadows slipping furtively between the naked trees. As Tom stepped through the weaving gilt-and-black filigree of the entrance gates to the Catherine Palace, the first streetlights blinked on.

In a way, he was glad that Dominique had not made the trip out to the suburbs with him. He needed some time on his own to recharge his batteries and take stock. Although he knew she'd been trying to help by making him talk about his father, the conversation had left him feeling uneasy. The problem was that since her confession about her past, and the part his father had played in it, Tom had found himself wrestling with a gnawing feeling of jealousy. This was not an emotion he'd had to contend with before, and he was still having difficulty coming to terms with it.

What was clear was that, in the five years leading up to his father's death, Dominique had had the sort of relationship with his father that Tom had only ever dreamed about. And even if she was right about his father taking her in to compensate for the way he'd failed his own son, it still felt like a betrayal. He wondered whether she suspected as much, and if that had motivated the kiss she'd given him. She wasn't usually one for such open displays of emotion or affection.

Being in St. Petersburg certainly wasn't helping matters. Tom remembered the nights his father would tuck him into bed while telling him about this dazzling city, his eyes growing distant and dreamy as he described the glittering prize it had once contained; its star-struck history; its mysterious fate. Tom would listen, awestruck, scarcely daring to breathe in case he broke the spell.

The palace surged out of the gloom, the arched windows of its three stories encrusted with ornate stucco ornamentation, each separated from its neighbors by columns and sculptures that repeated along its one-thousand-foot length with monumental symmetry. Bands of turquoise scrolled down the white and gold facade like thick ribbons, as if the building had been gift-wrapped especially for him.

Tom ascended the main staircase, passed through the main door into the entrance hall, and turned left. He knew the way, having memorized it long ago from a plan in the book his father had given him. His pace quickened as he drew nearer, the White, Crimson, and Green Dining Rooms — sights he would normally have lingered over, absorbing their unrestrained opulence — warranting no more than a cursory glance. Even the masterpieces on display in the Picture Hall couldn't hold his attention for any longer than it took to traverse the polished parquet floor. Instead he was drawn, as if by magic, to the far doorway, his path lit by the enchanting glow emanating from the room beyond. The Amber Room.

It wasn't the original room, of course, consisting instead of a modern replica, crafted to celebrate the city's three hundredth anniversary. Even so, the result was no less stunning. The glittering walls spanned a spectrum of yellow, from smoky topaz to the palest lemon. And while most panels were undecorated, some were adorned with delicately crafted figurines, floral garlands, tulips, roses, and seashells that looked as if they might have been plucked from a distant beach or some exotic garden and then dipped in gold.

Only one other visitor was present, examining one of the panels on the far wall. A stern-faced attendant occupied a creaking velvet and giltwood chair near the entrance.

As he stood there, the Amber Room's warmth washing over him, an unexpected thought crept into Tom's mind. Despite its magnificence, he couldn't help but feel that he was somehow glad his father had never stood where he was standing now. After a lifetime of anticipation, to actually see it, as Tom was, might have come as something of an anticlimax to him. By foundering on the rocks of war, leaving only its whispered memory and a few faded photographs behind, the Amber Room had given birth to a myth. A myth that had immediately transcended the limitations of human observation and scrutiny, entering instead the world of the imagination, where its magnificence could never disappoint or be questioned. For that reason, if nothing else, this reproduction, while exquisite, could never hope to equal the sublime image people might conjure up in their own minds.

"It took twenty-four years…"

The other visitor had crossed the room to join him. Tom said nothing, assuming the man had taken him for a fellow tourist. "Twenty-four years to rebuild it. Amazing, is it not? See how it glows, how the surface both reflects the light and yet at the same time seems so deep you could plunge your hand in it up to the elbow?"

Tom turned to look at the man properly. From the side, he could barely make out the profile of his face, obscured as it was by a black bearskin hat pulled down low so that it skimmed his upturned collar. And yet there was something in the man's voice that he recognized, a spark of familiarity that danced around the edges of Tom's memory without his quite being able to place it.

"Hello, Thomas."

Slowly, the man turned to fix him with a pair of unblinking steely green eyes. Eyes that were at once familiar and yet totally foreign. Eyes that aroused feelings of hatred and of fear. And loneliness.

Harry Renwick's eyes.

"Harry?" Tom gasped as the spark exploded into a sudden blaze of understanding. "Is that you?"

Renwick, perhaps mistaking Tom's tone, held his gloved hands out, palms upturned, in welcome. "My dear boy!"

But Tom's surprise instantly evaporated, a cold, biting rage taking its place. His next words left no doubt as to his true feelings. "You fucking—" Tom took a step forward, his fist clenching at his side.

"Careful, Thomas," Renwick said softly, edging away. "Do not try anything rash. I would not want you to get hurt."

There was a scrape of wood, and Tom turned in time to see the frightened-looking attendant being bundled from the room by two shaven-headed thugs. Two more marched in after them, their coats open to display the guns casually tucked into their waistbands. The taller of the two made his way to Renwick's side. Tom recognized his massive shape as the man filmed leaving the hospital after Weissman's murder. The other, meanwhile, approached Tom and rapidly patted him down, before relieving Renwick of his bearskin hat and retreating across the room.

"I believe you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Hecht?" said Renwick. "He is a… colleague of mine."

"What do you want?" Tom asked sullenly. Given the odds, he knew had no choice but to hear Renwick out.

"Ah, Thomas." Renwick sighed heavily. He remained the only person to call Tom by his full name, but then he had always eschewed abbreviation, acronym, or any other form of linguistic shorthand. "It is sad, is it not? After everything that has passed between us, the time we have spent together, that we should not be able to meet and talk as friends."

"Save it," Tom spoke through gritted teeth. "Our friendship was built on your lies. The day you betrayed me, we lost anything we ever had. You mean nothing to me now. So if you've come to kill me, let's just get it over with."

"Kill you?" Renwick laughed and strolled across to the left-hand wall, leaving Hecht staring stonily at Tom. "My dear boy, if I had wanted you dead, you would not be here. Outside the Hotel Drei Konige; at that cafe in the Haupt-bahnhof; as you were walking down the Nevsky Prospekt this very morning… God knows there have been any number of opportunities over the past few days. No, Thomas, your death, while satisfying the need to avenge the loss of my hand" — he brought up his gloved prosthetic hand and regarded it dispassionately, as if it wasn't really his—"would not serve my purposes."

"Your purposes?" Tom gave a hollow laugh. "You think I'd help you?"

"Oh, but you have done so much already, Thomas. The key you recovered from Lammers, the safety-deposit box, the identification of a possible location for the contents of the missing carriages—"

"How the hell…?" Tom started, before realizing what this meant. "Raj! What have you done to him?"

"Ah, yes." Renwick sighed. "Mr. Dhutta." He removed the glove from his left hand and gently placed it against one of the panels. "A very loyal friend, if I may say. Right until the end."

"You bastard," Tom swore, his voice cracking at this latest example of Renwick's mindless cruelty. Raj was a good man. Tom blamed himself for getting him involved.

Renwick gave a brief smile but said nothing, gently stroking one of the floral motifs with his ungloved hand.

"So, now you know what I have known for some time," he said eventually. "The Order was sent to protect a train. When they realized it was not going to get through to Switzerland, they took it upon themselves to remove the most precious part of its cargo and hide it, committing the secret of its location to a painting that now lies in some private collection."

Tom said nothing, his thoughts alternating between fear, anger, and revulsion at the sight of Renwick lovingly stroking the amber and the thought of Raj's twisted corpse lying discarded in some alley or hidden room.

"Think about it, Thomas — the original Amber Room." Renwick's eyes flashed. "Finally recovered after all these years. Think of the money. It must be worth two, three hundred million dollars."

"You think I care about the money?" Tom seethed.

"Your father spent half his life on its trail. Imagine what he would say if he could be where we are now — so close."

"Don't bring my father into this," Tom said icily as he stepped forward, ignoring Hecht's menacing gaze. "He wanted to find it so he could protect it. All you want to do is destroy it."

"Your father is already involved, Thomas." Renwick was smiling now. "How else do you think I found out about this in the first place? He told me. He told me everything."

"That's a lie."

"Is it?"

"If he did, it's because he had no idea who you were. That all you wanted to do was break it up."

"You are so certain of that, aren't you?" Renwick shook his head, suddenly angry. "So sure that he was in the dark?"

Tom's heart jumped. "What do you mean?"

"Do not play games with me, Thomas." Renwick gave a cruel laugh. "It does not suit you. You cannot deny that you have thought it, at least. Asked yourself the question."

"Thought what?" Tom's mouth was dry, his voice a whisper.

"How it was that, even though we were colleagues for twenty years, friends for longer, he never knew about me. How there must have been a chance, however slight, that he not only knew but helped me. Worked for me."

"Don't say that. You don't know—"

"You have no idea what I know," Renwick said, cutting him off. "And even if you did, you would never believe it. Just as I know that you will fail to believe this…"

He pulled out his pocket watch and dangled it in front of Tom, the gold case winking as it caught the light. Tom recognized it instantly — a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronometer. He even knew its case number: 409792. It was his father's watch.

"Where did you get that?" Tom asked in a whisper. "You have no right—"

"Where do you think? He gave it to me. Do you not see, Thomas? We were partners. Right until the end."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Bailey was waiting under a red neon sign advertising a local strip club, politely fending off a succession of porters eager to scoop his bags into one of the waiting taxis. To his relief, a black shape glided to a halt outside, larger and cleaner than any of the vehicles around it. Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, Bailey stepped outside, the wind stinging his eyes. The trunk popped open as he drew close, and he lifted his bags in and then banged it shut before stepping to the passenger door and climbing inside.

"Man, it's colder than a well-digger's ass out there!" The man extending a welcoming hand through the gap between the front seats was Laurel to the driver's Hardy: tall and thin with neatly combed brown hair, while his colleague was stout with a circle of graying blond hair that hugged his shiny pate like a sweatband.

"Hey, sorry we're late," he continued. "I'm Bill Strange and this is Cliff Cunningham. Welcome to Russia."

"Traffic was a bitch," said Cunningham, meeting Bailey's eye in his mirror.

"No problem." Bailey shook Strange's hand. "Special Agent Byron Bailey. You guys Bureau or Agency?"

"Bureau." Strange smiled. "Carter figured you'd want to see a friendly face."

"Carter was right," Bailey said gratefully. Cody had been helpful enough, but he was happy to be back with his own people. "So, any sign of my guy yet?"

"Look familiar?" Strange handed a photo to Bailey.

"That's him, yeah." Bailey's eyes flashed excitedly. "When did he come through?"

"An hour or so ago. Took the flight from Bonn, like you said. He's just checked in at the Labirint."

"That's where Kirk's staying too," Cunningham added. "It's a dump, but the owners never bother registering guest visas, which has its advantages if you don't want to be found. Checked in with a young female. Separate rooms."

"Looks like you made a smart call," said Strange.

"I got lucky," Bailey corrected him, although he said it with a smile. In a way Strange was right. Once they had lost track of Blondi it had been his idea to switch the focus to Kirk instead, in the hope that, wherever he turned up, Blondi wouldn't be far behind. As soon as they realized that Kirk had booked a flight to St. Petersburg, it had been a simple matter of circulating a description of Blondi to all major European airports offering flights to Russia. Confirmation of Blondi's booking had come through from an alert official at Bonn Airport, and Carter had immediately dispatched Bailey after him — albeit on a very tight leash. Not that Bailey was complaining. However tight the rein, it beat carrying Viggiano's bags.

He settled back into the soft leather seat as Cunningham pulled out into the traffic and headed for the city center.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

The shower consisted of a yellowing curtain covered in small black spots of mold suspended from a sagging length of string over a chipped bath. The bath itself was surrounded by mismatched tiles and was slick with the dirt and grease of previous occupants. But the water was hot, and Tom soon forgot where he was as he stood under its powerful pulse, his mind flicking back to the Amber Room.

To Renwick.

To what he had said.

He was right, of course. At least, partly right. Since discovering what Renwick was really like, Tom had indeed questioned the nature of his father's friendship with him, wondered whether he had suspected the truth. But he had never for a moment considered that his father had not merely known about Renwick but had somehow been directly involved in his murderously criminal activities.

Tom would be the first one to admit that he hadn't known his father as well as he would have liked, certainly as well as he should. But the little he did know had shown him to be honest almost to a fault, a man who never would have harbored anything but the deepest contempt for Cassius and all he stood for. They were almost genetic opposites.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and got dressed. The phone rang but Tom ignored it, guessing that it was one of the local prostitutes tipped off by the receptionist whenever a single man checked in. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Archie's head appeared. "Anyone home?"

"You made it!" Tom smiled with relief. "Any problems?"

"Long day," said Archie, collapsing into a severe-looking armchair, yellow foam peeking through the jagged slash in its brown vinyl seat covering. "Where's Dom?" He looked around as if half expecting her to jump out from behind the curtain.

"Getting changed. She'll be down in ten."

Archie stretched out his legs, visibly unwinding. "So, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know. Nothing much…" Tom shrugged. "Took a stroll down Nevsky Prospekt; went for a look at the new Amber Room; bumped into Renwick."

Archie nearly choked on his drink. "Cassius? He's here?"

"Oh, he's here all right. In fact, he's been with us ever since London. Watching and waiting."

"For what?"

"For us to do his legwork for him and locate the last Bel-lak painting."

"So he knows?"

"He knows everything he managed to beat out of Raj."

"What?"

Archie jumped up, concern etched into his face, but Tom held out a reassuring hand. "I tracked him down. Apparently they fished him out of the river last night. Shot twice but still alive. Just about."

"Wait till I get my hands on that bastard." Archie glowered. "I'll fucking kill him."

"You'll have to get past his newfound friends first. He's got Hecht with him. Remember? The Kristall Blade guy Turnbull fingered as having murdered Weissman."

Archie slumped back into his chair and drained his glass. "So what did dear old Uncle Harry want exactly?"

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 Faberge 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

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?"

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 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.

"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

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.

"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:

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 walk-through metal detector positioned at the threshold. One of the guards approached the culprit, 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-

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

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.

"Well, 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 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.

Incongruously, the strobe lights continued to flash, the killers' movements intermittently registering on Tom's retina as if caught in slow-motion replay.

His clip empty, one of the men drew a handgun and calmly fired a bullet into the temple of each of his victims' heads. Satisfied with their handiwork, they retreated across the room, nonchalantly stepping over the people cowering there, and disappeared up the staircase.

As soon as they had gone, real panic set in. Women screamed hysterically, men began shouting. There was a stampede for the exit, shards of glass flying across the room as the bar was upended.

"We've got to get out of here," Tom shouted above the noise, hauling Archie and Dominique to their feet, "before they realize they got the wrong people and come back."

"You think —?" Disbelief and shock spread across Dominique's face.

"Yeah," said Tom. "I think that waiter was a bit too insistent we sit at that particular table. Three minutes earlier, we'd have been there instead of them."

CHAPTER SIXTY

People surged toward the stairs, only to be swept back into the club as flashing blue lights heralded the arrival of the police. Women screamed, men shouted, and guns clattered to the floor. Small white envelopes fizzed through the air as people tried to rid themselves of incriminating evidence, some bursting open midflight so that the white powder they contained danced through the still-pulsing disco lights and settled on the floor like a dusting of fresh snow.

"That way," yelled Tom, pointing at a group of people who were heading through a door by the cage. "There must be another exit."

They found themselves in a narrow corridor; a door on the left led to the men's toilets and a door on the right to the women's. At the end was a small janitor's closet with mops, brooms, and industrial-sized bottles of detergent propped up against the concrete walls. Set into the far wall was a ladder formed of narrow iron hoops that led up to ground level. A chaotic, writhing stream of bodies was scrambling up the ladder's rungs.

"Come on," Tom shouted, fighting his way through to the base of the ladder and holding people off so that Dominique and Archie could climb up ahead of him, before clambering up himself. A woman's shoe, presumably dropped by someone above, flashed past his face, and he felt the sickening crunch of someone's fingers underfoot as he stepped on their hand.

After about twenty feet, the ladder emerged through a submarine-type hatch onto a narrow strip of wasteland. People streamed up the ladder behind them, the women flinching as the cold night air bit into their bare flesh. Tom slipped his jacket around Dominique's shoulders.

"Let's go," he called, the growing cacophony of sirens telling him that it would be only a matter of minutes before the police located the rear exit and rounded up everyone in the immediate vicinity.

They set off, Dominique running in long, effortless strides, Archie huffing after only a few hundred yards. A couple of stray dogs ran alongside, barking with curiosity, until a particularly interesting lamppost brought them skidding to a standstill, their tails wagging furiously.

"I thought Viktor was a friend of yours," Tom observed as they ran. "You must have done something to really piss him off."

"I didn't do anything," Archie wheezed. "It's some sort of mistake. It must be."

They reached a junction and Tom slowed down, trying to get his bearings amid the identical rows of decaying Communist-era concrete apartment blocks whose doorways smelled of stale urine. Before he could orient himself, however, three black Cadillac Escalades roared up the street behind them, rounded the corner, and screeched to a halt, surrounding them in a crude semicircle.

The rear passenger door of the middle car flew open, and the waiter who had shown them to their table leaned out, his face pale, eyes wide, body turned so that they couldn't see into the car beyond him.

"What the hell do you want?" Archie challenged him.

There was a loud crack and the front of the waiter's face flew off in a fine red spray, his body crumpling back into his seat. Dominique gasped.

A red stiletto tipped the waiter's body out onto the street with a shove to the small of his back. Then a bronzed leg emerged, followed by a hand clutching the still-smoking gun, long diamante-studded nails wrapped around the handle. Finally, an oval face with wild blue eyes framed by long dark hair appeared, and a tanned, full bosom adorned by a flaming red ruby. Tom recognized her immediately as the woman who had winked at him when he brushed against her on his way to the bar.

"Zdrdstvuti, Archie," she said with a smile.

Tom flashed Archie a questioning look, but he was already climbing into the car.

"Zdrdstvuti, Viktor."

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

As soon as they were all inside, the car accelerated away, its powerful engine growling as the revs climbed. Tom was in the front, Archie and Dominique in the backseat with Viktor, while an unsmiling bearded brute who seemed to respond to the name Max was driving, a Kalashnikov propped against the walnut veneer dash in front of him.

"Stop the car," Tom demanded, as soon as he judged they were far enough from the club. "Enough fucking around — what's going on?"

"Tom!" Archie remonstrated, for once the pacifist. "Easy." Tom could read from Archie's face what he meant. They were on Viktor's turf now and needed to watch their step. But Tom was in no mood for diplomacy.

"We nearly got killed tonight, Archie. I don't know about you, but I've had enough surprises. First she invites us to her club" — he tilted his head in Viktor's direction but spoke as if she wasn't there—"then she makes sure we sit at a particular table so that two gunmen can use us for target practice." He nailed Viktor with a stare. "By the way, who was the poor shit you just redecorated the sidewalk with?"

"An employee of mine. A traitor." She spoke with a gently lilting Russian accent, but her face remained impassive as she continued, "I apologize for his betrayal."

"You're telling us you had nothing to do with all that?" Tom snorted disbelievingly.

"Niet." She shook her head, her hair flicking one way, then the other. "I told him to get you a table, that's all. He must have told them which one it was."

"It explains why he insisted we sit at that table," Archie suggested helpfully.

"And probably why they didn't realize that the three people sitting there were not the ones they'd been sent to kill," Dominique added bitterly.

"Who were they?" Tom asked.

"I have never seen them before," said Viktor. "Chechens, most likely. Professionals. They do one job and then disappear. The money buys them weapons for their war."

"But who were they working for?" Archie this time.

"Whoever could afford them. But not me. I have my own people."

"Well, that's comforting," Dominique muttered darkly.

"How did they know where to find us?" Tom demanded. "They even had time to find and bribe that waiter. You were the only person who knew we'd be at the club."

"It was not me," said Viktor. "I put your names on the list, but they were three among a hundred."

"The phone!" Archie snapped his fingers. "The phone must have been tapped." He turned to Viktor. "We discussed all the arrangements then."

"You think it's Renwick?" Dominique quizzed Tom.

"Why would Renwick make a move on me in a crowded nightclub when only a few hours ago he had me on my own?" Tom shook his head. "No, it must be someone else."

"Well, you can't go back to your hotel," said Viktor. "You will stay with me instead. I'll send some people around to collect your luggage."

"No," Tom insisted. "I think we'll be better on our own."

"That wasn't an offer," Viktor replied unsmilingly. "I've got three dead customers and half of the St. Petersburg police crawling over my club. Until I find out what's going on, you're staying with me."

The car began to lose speed as the lead vehicle in their three-car convoy pulled up at a red light. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, followed by a massive boom. The car in front of them lifted seven feet off the ground and smashed down onto its side. The explosion rocked them all in their seats, their car leaping backward in the shock wave.

Through the smoke a figure materialized at the driver's window, slapped something against the glass, then disappeared. Tom recognized the shape at once, despite the distorting effect of the duct tape that secured it to the glass.

"Grenade!" he shouted, sliding into the footwell for shelter.

The grenade detonated with an ugly bang, shards of glass flying like shrapnel across the car's interior despite the windows clearly being armored, fragments embedding themselves in the dashboard and soft leather seats. The figure appeared again, this time opening fire with an automatic weapon. The driver, still dazed from the explosion, didn't stand a chance as the bullets smashed through the now weakened glass, his body jerking in his seat as he was hit in the head and chest.

Grabbing the wheel, Tom leaned across and pressed the driver's lifeless foot to the accelerator. The car sprang forward, careering violently as they clipped the burning wreck of the vehicle in front of them, bullets thumping into the side and rear windows as they accelerated away. As soon as he judged them to be clear, Tom sat up and opened the driver's door, heaving his body out on the street before slipping behind the wheel and stabbing the accelerator down.

"Take this—" He passed the Kalashnikov back over his shoulder. "We're going to need it."

Viktor grabbed it, checked the magazine, then cocked the weapon with familiar ease. Then, kicking her shoes off, she climbed into the passenger seat next to Tom. He saw that she was bleeding from a deep cut on her arm.

"Are you okay?"

"Forget me. What about the others?" she asked. Tom checked his mirror and saw the second escort car lying in a twisted mangle of burning steel and rubber.

"I don't think they made it. Must have been using a shaped charge or tank mines. We're just lucky we didn't drive over one ourselves."

"When I find out who's done this I will make them pay." Viktor's eyes flashed, her chest heaving. "No one will escape."

"Let's get out of here first," Tom reminded her.

"Head south for the river," she ordered.

Tom nodded, making eye contact in the rearview mirror with a grim-faced Archie, then Dominique, who gave him a nervous smile. She was clutching her jaw as if she'd banged it against something.

Suddenly a car surged out from a street to their left, guns blazing out of both windows.

"Hold my legs," Viktor shouted over the noise of the gunfire.

She pressed her window switch and leaned out, her back resting on the sill so that she was almost lying flat. Steering with his left hand, Tom grabbed her ankles with his right hand to stop her falling as she began to fire three-shot bursts at their pursuers.

"Aim for the tires," Tom shouted. She fired again, and sparks began to fly from the car behind them as the left front tire shredded. As the driver lost control, it veered across the icy road, clipped an oncoming vehicle, and spun into a line of parked cars. Tom watched in the rearview mirror as it flipped spectacularly onto its roof, wheels still spinning.

Viktor snapped off the magazine and looked into it with disgust. "I'm out," she said, tossing it out the window. Dominique grabbed the handgun Viktor had left on the backseat, cocked it, and thrust it toward her. "Use this."

Viktor nodded her thanks, the gun strangely incongruous between her sparkling nails.

"Where to?" asked Tom.

"The bridge," Viktor exclaimed, pointing at the road ahead. "Get to the bridge." She checked her watch, a diamond-studded gold Rolex. "There's still time."

Tom gunned the car in the direction she had indicated, and a minute later they could see the Troitsky Bridge and a long line of traffic leading to it.

"Take the left lane," Viktor instructed.

Tom swung the car into the oncoming traffic, horns blaring and headlights flashing as cars swerved up onto the pavement to avoid them. Ahead, two large barriers had just come down across the road, preventing any more traffic from passing.

"What's happening?" Tom asked.

"They're raising the bridges to let the ships through. They do it every night, except when the river's frozen. Once the bridge is up, it won't go down again until three a.m. If we get across now, they'll be stuck here."

Tom slammed on the brakes as they reached the barrier, the car slewing to a sideways halt.

"We'll have to run for it from here." He hit the ground running and vaulted over the barrier, the others only seconds behind him.

"This way," urged Viktor.

They ran past a gesticulating guard onto the main bridge section. Tom felt it slowly begin to rise under them as they ran.

"We're not going to make it," he panted.

"We have to. Look—" Viktor was pointing at something behind them. Tom turned to see that a second car was accelerating down the road toward them. Two gunmen with semiautomatics were firing at them from the windows, the bullets burrowing into the tarmac around them like pebbles dropping into sand.

He turned and, hauling Archie with him, ran as fast as he could toward the edge, the gradient steepening as the bridge continued its rise. With one final effort they surged toward the edge and jumped the small gap that had opened up between the two halves of the bridge. Only Viktor paused at the top, gripping her gun with both hands and emptying it into the windshield of the pursuing car until it swerved and crashed through the handrail into the river below.

Those few seconds' delay, though, had caused the gap to become a chasm. Arms outstretched, legs pumping, she launched herself across the void, her fingertips somehow making contact with the rim. She hung there, helpless, the freezing waters of the Neva staring hungrily at her. She felt herself slipping. Suddenly a hand closed around her wrist. Tom's face appeared above her, then his other hand reaching down to haul her to safety. Once over the lip, they tumbled headlong down the raised bridge section, landing in a confused heap at the bottom.

"Spasibo" she said, pulling herself to her feet, her legs and arms raw and bruised where she had fallen.

"Don't mention it," said Tom, smiling. He felt a stab of pain in his left shoulder and winced.

"You've been hit," she exclaimed, kneeling down next to him.

"It's nothing," Tom panted, looking down at his fingers, now scarlet where the blood had run down his arm. He realized with alarm that he couldn't feel them.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

It was more bordello than bedroom. A huge chandelier drooped from the mirrored ceiling, giltwood chairs covered in leopard skin pressing up against the pink walls, and a polar bear rug stretched in front of the massive black marble fireplace.

Tom stared up at his reflection in the mirror over the bed, trying to keep his mind off the searing pain in his shoulder. Viktor, perched on the bed next to him, stopped what she was doing and looked intently into his eyes. "You don't like it?" Tom shrugged. "It's not my style."

"Nor mine." She gave a tight smile. "I inherited it. I would have changed things, but in Russia, rooms like this make people respect you. Obey you. Maybe even die for you."

There was no trace of emotion in her voice. Tom knew she was right. He'd seen for himself how the ostentatious display of wealth could both cow enemies and inspire followers.

"This will hurt."

She'd already cleaned the wound with cotton balls and warm water, the dried blood washing away to reveal a small hole in his left shoulder. Tom couldn't remember feeling when he'd been hit. The angle and location of the wound suggested that it had happened early on, when he first grabbed the wheel and accelerated away from the gunman firing through the shattered window.

According to Viktor, who had demonstrated a surprising familiarity with gunshot wounds and how to treat them, the bullet had lodged itself in the muscle around the shoulder blade. A trip to the hospital was clearly out of the question and, although Viktor had access to other, more discreet doctors, she had advised against involving outsiders unless absolutely necessary. The incident with the waiter at the club had proved to them all that, for the right price, even those she trusted could betray her. Tom had agreed, even though he knew it meant allowing Viktor to extract the bullet without anesthetic.

"Ready?" she asked, stainless steel tongs poised over the wound.

"As I'll ever be," said Tom, bracing himself.

She slipped the tongs into the wound, and the burning in Tom's arm burst into a blazing fire. The room seemed to go dark around him as the pain shut out all other senses. His ragged breathing came through clenched teeth in a succession of wet hisses that stuck in his throat.

"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 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 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-

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.

"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," Dominique 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 imperceptible shake of his head. He wasn't looking for a partner. Certainly not one like Viktor.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

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 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."

"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

The throbbing in Tom's shoulder had woken him eventually — 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, parquet-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?"

"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.

"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.

"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 Volz'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.

"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

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 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."

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. "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

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.

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."

"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

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-

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

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. Kris-tenko 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 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 into 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-thousand-dollar 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 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.

Reluctantly, he returned the Rubens to the pile and continued his search. But no sooner had his heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm than he found a Raphael. The label identified it as Portrait of a Young Man, formerly the property of the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow. Then, ten minutes later he stumbled upon a van Gogh. The label named it as Flowers in an Earthenware Jug and recorded that it had been confiscated by the Nazis from a chateau in the Dordo-gne in 1944.

By now Kristenko was flying, but his smile collapsed into an angry frown as he was struck by the injustice of such works of genius being consigned to this forgotten place rather than displayed for all to enjoy. For the next hour, as he continued his search, he fumed over the cavalier treatment of these great treasures, despairing at his powerlessness to do anything about it.

It was hardly surprising, therefore, given his mood, that the Bellak portrait almost passed him by. In fact, he had flipped three or four paintings beyond it before the similarity to the photograph registered and he turned back to find it.

Not the most prepossessing of subjects, he thought. A plain, sad-looking girl in a rather severe green dress sat next to an open window with sky and fields beyond. He couldn't imagine why the Englishman should be prepared to pay fifty thousand dollars for this. There was none of van Gogh's inspired use of color or Raphael's mastery of perspective, and the brushwork was clumsy and heavy-handed compared to the genius that had touched Rubens's work. True, most artists would suffer in comparison to those yardsticks, but this was mediocre at best.

On the other hand, if a lost Rubens or a Raphael were suddenly to surface it would create waves in the art world. The museum director or one of the other curators might even remember having seen it in the storeroom. Questions would be asked. Records checked.

This, however, would never be missed.

Kristenko lifted it clear of the rack. Then, holding it carefully in front of him, he flipped off the light, closed the door behind him, and retraced his steps to where he'd left the guards.

"Found what you were looking for, Boris Ivanovich?" one of them asked good-naturedly, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal-tipped heel of his black boot.

"Yes, thank you," said Kristenko. "You can lock up now."

He cautiously navigated his way down the stairs to the Restoration Department on the second floor. The main atelier was dark and empty, as he had known it would be. Here and there, pieces in different stages of repair nestled under protective white sheets. The more valuable items had been locked away for the night in the large walk-in vault at the end of the room.

Kristenko pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and dialed the number stored in the memory. It was answered on the third ring.

"Yes?"

Kristenko recognized the Englishman's voice. "I've found it."

"Excellent." A flicker of surprise in the man's voice suggested that he'd been quicker than they expected.

"What now?" he asked uncertainly. "How do I get my money?"

"You take some photos, as agreed. When we're sure you've got the right painting, you bring it to us and then we make the exchange."

A pause as Kristenko considered this. "How do I know you've got the money?"

"Don't you trust us, Boris?" the voice asked mockingly.

"As much as you trust me."

"Very well." Slight impatience in the man's voice now. "When we come to check the photos, we'll bring the money along so you can see it. We've got it ready. As soon as you give us the painting, the money's yours."

"Good. Let's say ten o'clock in Decembrist's Square. Near the Bronze Horseman."

Kristenko ended the call and placed the phone on the desk in front of him, unable, almost, to let it go. When he finally snatched his hand away, he realized that he was sweating, his palms slick, his mouth dry.

He was really going to do this.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Even on a cold January evening, the area around the base of the Bronze Horseman was thronged with tourists and locals taking pictures. Peter the Great and his rearing horse seemed frozen in the glare of the sodium lighting, a gleaming shadow thrown up into the clear night sky.

Tom was talking to Archie on the two-way radio, the microphone clipped to his collar, the clear plastic earpiece invisible against his skin. It felt slightly ridiculous, considering that they were only a few hundred feet apart, but Turnbull had insisted. Kristenko, already jittery, might be spooked completely if he thought that Tom had brought company.

"You feeling any better?" Archie asked.

"Yeah," Tom lied. Although the painkillers and the vodka were helping, just buttoning up his coat had made his shoulder throb and his eyes screw up with pain.

"It's brass monkeys out here, isn't it." Tom could hear Archie's teeth chattering with the cold.

"Well, hopefully he'll be here soon. Where is everyone?"

"I'm on the north side of the square. Turnbull and the others are over on the south side."

Tom glanced around and located him, then looked away.

"I see you. What about Viktor's men?"

"Standing by, in case we need them. Which could be very soon — I've just spotted Kristenko."

"Okay, let's switch to the main frequency." Tom pressed one of the preset buttons on the radio in his pocket. "Viktor, Dom — Kristenko's on his way."

"He's just walking past the Admiralty," Archie confirmed. "Should be coming round the corner soon."

"Any sign of the painting?" Tom asked.

"He's not carrying anything. He must have left it inside, like he said he would."

"Turned into quite the operator, has old Kristenko," Tom observed.

"Maybe I'll offer him a job." Viktor chuckled. "Okay, you should see him any second now," whispered Archie.

On cue, Kristenko turned the corner of the Admiralty and began to make his way cautiously across the square. Every few steps he threw a furtive glance over his shoulder.

"Christ, he couldn't look more guilty if he tried," Archie muttered, following behind.

Catching sight of Tom, Kristenko gave a half wave, then snatched his arm back to his side as if he'd realized that he shouldn't be drawing attention to himself. Tom gave a barely noticeable nod.

Under the rearing horse's flashing hooves, the two men shook hands.

"Do you have my money?" Kristenko's eyes were wide and scared.

"Show me the painting first," Tom insisted.

Kristenko fumbled in his pocket and brought out the digital camera Tom had lent him. After rapidly scrolling through the images, Tom looked up with a nod.

"And my money?" said Kristenko eagerly.

Tom held out a frayed shoulder bag he'd borrowed from Viktor. Kristenko unzipped the top and peered inside. "I should count it," he said uncertainly.

"It's all there."

Kristenko's face relaxed into an approximation of a grin. "Okay, okay. So now we make the exchange?"

"Where's the painting?"

"Still inside. I'll go back in and get it, then meet you back—"

With a shout, four men who had been taking pictures of each other suddenly ran toward Kristenko, guns materializing in their hands. Terrified, he raised his hands in immediate surrender, the bag tumbling to the ground and almost spilling open.

But rather than grab him, the men ran straight past as if completely unaware of his presence. Instead, they piled into Archie, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there. With a squeal of tires, a white van swerved into the square and screeched to a halt alongside them.

"What the hell's going on?" Tom screamed into the radio.

The side door of the van slid back and the four men bundled Archie inside, then jumped in after him. Before Tom could react, the van accelerated away, the side door slamming shut. The whole operation had lasted less than ten seconds.

Tom turned to Kristenko. The curator stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the retreating van. Finally, with a despairing glance at Tom, he snatched the camera, turned on his heel, and walked briskly away, never once looking back, not even at the bag of money lying on the ground.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

They looked well trained," Dominique said, still breathless from having run the width of the square to reach him.

"I agree," said Tom. "Military, or some sort of police hostage rescue team."

"Maybe I can help," Turnbull offered. "Use my connections here to make some inquiries."

"No, leave it to me," Viktor said. "If it is the police, we've got some people on the inside. I'll find out what's going on. You two should concentrate on Kristenko."

"You're right," Tom conceded. "We need someone to follow him. See where he's going."

"Already done," said Viktor. "One of my men will call us as soon as he gets to wherever he's headed."

"If he takes the painting back down to wherever he got it from, we're right where we started — worse, even. We've got to get hold of it tonight, before he changes his mind."

There was a crackle of static from Viktor's radio. She turned it up and a disembodied Russian voice rose into the cold night air. "He's arrived back at the museum and gone straight up to the Restoration Department."

"How do you know that?" Turnbull asked.

"Most people end up owing me a favor at some stage. Whether they know it or not."

Tom's phone rang. He checked the caller ID and looked up in surprise. "It's him — Kristenko." He answered the call with a confused look. "Yes?"

"What just happened down there?" Kristenko's voice was a strangled whisper.

"I've no idea," Tom said soothingly.

"I thought… I thought for a moment they had come for me."

"Don't be stupid. How could they even know?"

"This was a bad idea, a very bad idea," Kristenko muttered. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking about fifty thousand dollars," Tom reminded him gently. "You were thinking about paying Viktor off."

"What's the point, if I'm in prison?"

"Don't you want the money?"

"Yes… No… I don't know anymore."

"Fine. I'll tell Viktor that you don't want—"

"No, no. But I'm not taking it outside."

"What?"

"I'll leave it for you. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll leave it for you here in the museum. You can come in and get it yourself."

"That wasn't the deal," said Tom.

"You said fifty thousand if I brought it to you, twenty thousand if I found it. Well, I've found it. Twenty thousand will clear my debts. The rest, well, it's not worth the risk. I'd rather take my chances. I won't survive prison. I'd rather go to the director and tell him—"

"Okay, Boris, calm down. I'll come and get it."

"Good." Kristenko sighed with relief. "I'll leave it in the Restoration Department. There's a vault."

"What's the combination?"

"I'll give you that when you give me the money."

Tom smiled. Kristenko was getting better at this game as time went on. "Fine. I'll call you when I'm in." He punched the Off button and turned to Viktor.

"Kristenko's too scared to bring it out so I'll have to go in. Can you get me some tools and a floor plan?"

"Done," said Viktor.

Tom turned to Turnbull. "How's your Russian?"

"Good enough."

"It'll need to be."

"Why?"

"Because you're coming in with me."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Fuck off," Archie snapped. The short, fat American who'd introduced himself as Cliff Cunningham just smiled. "You'll have to do better than that, Blondi."

"I've nothing to say. Not to you, or any other copper." Cunningham shook his head. "We're FBI."

"What, am I meant to be impressed?" Archie's voice rang out clear and confident, but he had to admit he was confused. One moment he'd been trailing Kristenko, the next he was in the back of a van, surrounded by Yanks. What the hell did they want? Always sticking their bloody noses in where they weren't wanted.

"We've got the big picture," drawled the other Fed — Bailey, he'd said his name was. "We just need the details."

"Details of what?" snapped Archie. "Let's start with Lasche…" Archie's heart skipped a beat. "Lasche?"

"Don't play dumb," said Bailey. "We saw you go in there. We know that's who you work for."

"Wolfgang Lasche?"

"So you admit you know him," Cunningham exclaimed triumphantly.

" 'Course I know him. Everyone in the business knows him. What's he got to do with anything?"

"Why kill all those people?" asked Bailey, suddenly angry. "What did they know that was so dangerous?"

"What the hell are you on about?"

"We have proof that you were in the States, security footage from the airport—"

"So I went to Vegas — big deal. There was a poker thing on. Ask around. There'll be plenty of witnesses."

"And Lasche?" Bailey didn't seem to be listening. "Why kill him? Covering your tracks again?"

"Lasche is dead?"

"Decapitated with a samurai sword," Cunningham said, eyeing Archie coldly. "But I'd say he was lucky compared to what you did to the Lammers woman. The Austrian police just sent us the crime scene photos."

"Lammers? Maria Lammers? She's dead too?" Now Archie was totally lost. How could all these people be dead? "This is some sort of a joke, right?"

"Why did you steal it?" Bailey spoke up again, his voice calm and measured.

"Steal what?"

"The Enigma machine, of course."

"Okay," said Archie, deciding with this last, fanciful revelation that he'd heard quite enough, "if you're going to charge me with something, do it. It doesn't matter, anyway. My lawyer will have me out of here quicker than you can say extradition treaty."

"Lawyer?" Cunningham gave a hollow laugh. "You think a lawyer's going to help explain the twenty-six people you gassed to death in Idaho? You think a lawyer's going to account for where the Enigma machine is? You think a lawyer's going to stop us flying you back to the States in the diplomatic bag? You're going nowhere, Blondi. Not till you tell us exactly what we want to know."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

The queue snaked in front of them, the air thick with cigarette smoke — filterless Russian brands, mainly — and the humid vapor of restless breath. A few consulted their watches; others swapped blue jokes or chatted on their cell phones, final hurried conversations, half an eye on the gate as they waited for their shift to start. At eleven thirty exactly, the guards opened the doors.

Trying to blend in, Tom shuffled forward with the rest, ready to follow Turnbull's cue if anyone spoke to them in Russian. For her part, Viktor had conjured up blue overalls and freshly laminated badges that identified them as working for the company employed to mop the marbled halls and dust the gilded galleries of the Hermitage each night.

The atmosphere was jovial as the guards ushered everyone inside. Somebody made a comment and the line collapsed into fits of giggles, as did the guards. Tom joined in, wondering whether the red-faced youth manning the metal detector had been the butt of their humor.

The first guard gave Tom's badge a cursory glance and waved him in. Turnbull followed. Then Tom walked through the metal detector. It remained silent. Turnbull stepped through after him, the alarm triggering noisily.

"Must be all the iron I've been pumping," Turnbull joked in Russian to the guard who beckoned him over.

"From the size of you, I'd say it's more like all the iron you've been eating," quipped a voice from the crowd. Again, the other cleaners and guards broke into laughter.

"Raise your arms," ordered the guard, a handheld metal detector at his side, the green LED display flickering. He was young, with blond hair shaved close to his head, and a nose that seemed slightly off center, as if it had been broken several times. Turnbull complied, and as the guard moved in with the detector, Tom noticed his thumb slide almost imperceptibly over the On/Off switch. The green LED faded.

"You're clear," said the guard, the LED flashing back on as soon as he had finished.

"Well, that wasn't too bad," Turnbull whispered as they followed the other cleaners along a narrow corridor and down a flight of stairs into the basement.

"Viktor said she could get us in," Tom reminded him, "but from here it's down to us."

The staircase gave onto a large room filled with mismatched chairs and crumbling sofas, the cushions riddled with cigarette burns. Tom and Turnbull took off their coats and hung them on one of the few coat hooks that hadn't snapped off, pictures of topless women smiling down at them from where they'd been ripped out of old calendars and pinned to the walls. A few people had gathered around thermos flasks and were sharing out cups of coffee; others were changing their footwear from heavy boots to more comfortable shoes.

A man entered and, from the way he began calling out names, Tom guessed he was the shift manager. People came up to him in twos, took a piece of paper, disappeared into a small side room, and then reemerged wheeling a small cart bristling with brooms, mops, buckets, bin liners, and bottles of detergent and polish. Thus equipped, they made their way back upstairs via the elevator to wherever their piece of paper had directed them.

Eventually, Turnbull nudged Tom to indicate that their names, or at least the names that corresponded to their badges, had been called.

"You guys new?" the shift manager asked. His name badge identified him as Grigory Mironov.

"That's right," Turnbull replied in perfect Russian.

"No one told me," complained Mironov.

"No one told us until a few hours ago."

He looked at their badges, then at their faces. "You're not on my list."

"That's not our fault."

Mironov sighed. "Don't you talk?" he asked Tom.

"Never shuts up," Turnbull answered for him.

Mironov looked suspiciously at Tom, who returned his stare unblinkingly. Mironov's face broke into a grin. "I can see that," he chuckled. Tom smiled too, still unaware of what was being said.

"Here you go." He handed Turnbull a piece of paper. "You'll find the gear in there. Head for the second floor. You get lost, just ask one of the guards."

They gathered their equipment from the storeroom and rolled the cart to the lift.

"We drew the second floor of the Western Wing," Turn-bull said as soon as the door shut. Tom pulled out the floor plan he had brought with him and ran his finger across the page.

"That puts us on the right floor but the wrong side of the building. We need to get to the northeast corner, where the restoration rooms are."

The door rolled open and an armed guard greeted them with an upturned hand.

"What?" Turnbull asked in Russian.

"The work schedule." The guard clicked his fingers impatiently. "What room are you in?"

"Oh" — Turnbull lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—"no schedule tonight." The guard frowned. "The director's expecting an important guest tomorrow, but his office isn't due for a clean until the day after. Well, you know what the Committee are like when it comes to bending the rules, even for him. So he's paid us cash to do it for him tonight. I gave a third to Mironov and here's a third for you. We don't want any schedules screwing things up for us, do we?"

The guard winked and closed his hand around the crisp fold of notes that Turnbull had just slipped him. "Understood." He stepped back from the lift. "Do you know your way?"

"Just down there, isn't it?"

"That's it. Last door on the right before you turn the corner. Anyone wants to know what you're doing over there, just tell them to speak to Sasha. I'll smooth things over."

They headed off in the direction of the administrative offices and workshops. Even though this area was closed to the public, the corridors were no less richly decorated, with their intricate parquet floors and ornate plasterwork, chandeliers drooping to the floor under their own weight like branches loaded with ripe fruit.

Suddenly Tom felt a tug on his sleeve. Turnbull indicated the door beside them and translated the inscription: "Department of the History and Restoration of the Architectural Objects — looks like this is the one."

It was locked.

Turnbull gave a glance over his shoulder to check that there were no guards in sight, then unzipped the front of his overalls and detached the small pouch that had been strapped to his belt. The same pouch that had set off the metal detectors on the way in. Tom was not surprised to see that its removal had not visibly reduced Turnbull's girth.

Tom pulled on his gloves and took his pick and tension wrench from the pouch. Most thieves use the pick to locate the locking pins and, one by one, push them out of the way; the tension wrench is then inserted underneath the pick and turned, like a key, to open the lock. This was too time-consuming for Tom's liking. His preference instead was for a technique known as scrubbing, which requires split-second timing and a level of dexterity that makes it the preserve of only a select few. By moving the pick rapidly back and forth over the pins once, and applying pressure on the tension wrench between each pass to knock the pins off center, Tom had the door open in seconds. To Turnbull, looking on, it seemed as simple as using a key.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Boris Kristenko was sitting in the dark in his office. Having long since exhausted the meager respite that chewing his fingernails could offer, he was now gnawing anxiously on a ballpoint pen. Every so often he would swap it to the other side of his mouth, his saliva filling the pen's clear plastic case with a cloudy liquid.

A pipe gurgled somewhere and he jumped, convinced for a moment that it heralded the arrival of an angry horde of police officers. He fixed the door with a fearful stare, but it remained shut, his heart hammering inside his chest.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under the strain as he balanced on the rear legs. Try as he might, he simply could not make sense of what had just happened on Decembrist's Square.

The moment when those armed police came bearing down on him played over and over again in his mind. Fortunately he hadn't been their target, and some other poor soul was tonight languishing in the depths of a damp jail. But who was to say that tomorrow, or the day after, it wouldn't be his turn? All it would take was for one of the guards who'd escorted him to the storerooms to mention it to someone, or for

Viktor to betray him to the authorities rather than hand over the twenty thousand.

He remembered running into an old school friend who'd been locked up for three years after stealing a car. On his first night in jail, the other inmates had taken one look at his soft white hands and gang-raped him. By the time he was released, the diet, the cold, and the guards had broken him; only a desiccated shell remained.

But what could he do? Retrieve the painting from the Restoration Department and return it to the storeroom? Not pay Viktor her money and risk her harming his mother? He screwed his eyes shut, pained at the thought.

The phone rang. All four legs of his chair hit the floor with a thud. This was it. "Hello."

"We're here."

"Where?"

"In the Restoration Department."

"How —?"

"Never mind that. Just get here."

He struggled to his feet. "I'm on my way."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Moonlight filtered through the overhead skylights, turning the shroud-covered statues and sculptures undergoing restoration into ghostly apparitions that seemed to float above the ground. The worktops were an undulating mass of tins and jars and bottles and brushes, everything covered in a fine coat of dust, the air pungent with the heady musk of cleaning spirits and paint. And in the far corner, black and forbidding, was the vault door.

Tom examined it curiously as they waited for Kristenko. "Could you get us in?" Turnbull asked. "If I had to," said Tom. "It must be about sixty years old. Not exactly state-of-the-art."

Turnbull's head snapped toward the door. "Someone's coming — quick."

Not wanting to take any chances, they both ran to the far side of the room and crouched behind one of the workbenches. A few moments later they heard a jangling of metal, followed by the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. The door opened. Tom peeked around the edge of the workbench. "It's Kristenko," he whispered with relief.

Kristenko jumped in fright as they both stood up.

"Expecting someone else?" Turnbull asked.

"No," said the curator. "You just surprised me, that's all."

"Right," said Tom, "let's get this over with."

"My money?"

"Here—" Tom tossed the shoulder bag over impatiently. "Open the safe."

"I'll stand sentry outside," Turnbull volunteered. "Pretend to mop the floor or something. I'll whistle if I hear someone coming."

"Good idea," said Tom.

Grabbing a mop and bucket, Turnbull let himself out of the room.

Kristenko approached the safe and, shielding the dial from Tom's eyes with his body, fiddled with the combination until, with a heavy clunk, the door eased open. The vault consisted of a steel-lined room, about six feet square. A set of wooden shelves extended down the left-hand wall, sagging under the weight of assorted paintings and other objects.

Kristenko stepped inside and emerged a few seconds later holding a painting.

"Here it is," he said. "Although God knows what you—"

A low whistle came from outside. Tom's eyes snapped toward the door as Turnbull stepped back into the room.

"Who is it?" Tom whispered urgently.

But Turnbull didn't answer. His eyes locked pleadingly with Tom's as he reached toward him, but as his mouth opened to speak he collapsed to the floor. A knife handle jutted awkwardly from the base of his skull.

Kristenko let out a low, terrified moan.

"Good evening, Thomas," Renwick intoned as he swept into the room, Hecht and his two heavies lining up behind him.

"Renwick," Tom said through clenched teeth.

"My thanks for your efforts in locating the missing Bel-lak. It seems I have been looking in the wrong places." Ren-wick snapped his fingers at Kristenko, who, with a confused, almost apologetic glance at Tom, stumbled over and handed him the painting. Renwick's eyes narrowed as he studied it. He looked up with a smile.

"Well done. You have what you wanted." Tom's voice was glacial. "Not quite."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Stories like ours rarely have happy endings." Renwick sighed. "It is unfortunately the nature of things."

Hecht stepped forward, a silenced gun clutched in his outstretched hand, and leveled it at Tom's head. Tom's jaw tightened, his mind going blank as he braced himself. Hecht took aim and fired.

The bullet caught Kristenko in the throat and he staggered backward, his hands clutching his neck, blood spurting through his fingers, a strangled coughing echoing through the room. A second shot caught him square in the chest and he collapsed to the floor with a gurgled sigh.

"What was the point of that!" Tom shouted.

"Loose ends, Thomas. You know how I hate loose ends."

The two other men stepped forward, picked Kristenko up under the arms, and dragged him into the safe, smearing blood behind them. They dropped him, his head smacking against the floor with a wet thud, then stepped outside and repeated the procedure with Turnbull, albeit with visibly more effort required this time.

"You too, Thomas," Renwick ordered. "Keep them company. That way the authorities will not have to look too far to find someone to blame."

Tom walked into the vault and then turned to face Ren-wick. "This isn't over, Harry."

"It is, for you." Renwick smiled. "Believe me, by the time the Russian police have finished their interrogation, you will wish I had just shot you. They have ways of making themselves very persuasive."

The door slowly edged shut, a final sliver of light framing Renwick's face before it too vanished, accompanied only by a dull clang as the restraining bolts slammed home.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Silence, broken only by the pounding of his heartbeat and the faint whisper of his breathing. Total darkness. A soul-sucking inky nothingness that squeezed and stifled and crushed him like a great weight pressing on his chest.

In a way, Tom knew that Renwick had done him a favor. There wasn't enough oxygen in this airtight space to sustain three people for more than a few hours. By killing Turnbull and Kristenko, Renwick had ensured that Tom, at least, would see through the night. Not that Renwick was acting out of compassion — his only concern had been to provide the Russian police with a convenient fall guy.

Tom pressed a button on his digital watch and a pale neon glow licked around his wrist like a small tongue of gaslight. Squatting next to the two corpses, he ran the cold blue light over their faces. Disgusted at the sight of Renwick's handiwork, he released the button. He was used to working in the dark.

He turned his attention to Kristenko first, patting him down and finding the mobile phone — useless inside the vault — and the digital camera he had given him. He pocketed them both, just in case. Next, he felt his way over to Turnbull, searching the body until he came across his toolkit. He then edged his way gingerly to the door and ran his hands over its smooth, cold surface until he located the square inspection hatch located at about waist height.

Operating solely through touch, Tom located his screwdriver with one hand and the top left-hand screw of the inspection panel with the other. The square blade of the screwdriver slotted into the groove on the screw's head, and he breathed a sigh of relief as it turned easily. He quickly removed the other three screws, then pried away the panel. The gap was just large enough to slide his hand through, his fingers navigating their way between the rods that controlled the locking bolts, to the back plate that concealed the locking mechanism itself.

Again, he had to remove four screws. This time it took him considerably longer, the constrained space making it difficult to maneuver the screwdriver. Eventually the plate came free in his hands and he removed his gloves, probing inside the lock until his fingertips connected with the rear of the combination wheel. The vertical direction of the marker groove indicated that it was set to zero.

Cracking combination locks had been one of the first skills he'd mastered. Although the prevalence of digital security systems had rendered it almost obsolete, Tom put himself through regular training drills to maintain the technique. Less skilled thieves might be content to drill a safe and then use an endoscope to see the mechanism — occasionally a necessary precaution, where an alarmed dial or mercury switch was involved — but Tom preferred to trust his senses. It was just as well, because in this instance, he had no choice.

Tom shut his eyes and began to turn the wheel. His breathing slowed as he concentrated. The noise of the individual tumblers slowly bumping against the wheel's tiny teeth was almost inaudible, but to Tom's highly tuned ear each infinitesimal click was a deafening crash, the minute vibration almost stinging the tips of his trained fingers.

Click, click, click, CLUNK. The change in tone, the slight variation in feel, was minute. But to Tom, it was as clear as if one of the statues in the room outside had just toppled to the floor. He had his first number. He'd counted it as seventeen.

He closed his eyes again and turned the dial the other way. This time the change came quickly. Eight. He moved it back the other way, going past thirty, then forty, then fifty, the lever eventually dropping on fifty-three. Then back again, he assumed for the final time, since this model of safe was usually programmed with four numbers, although it could take up to five. Twenty-seven.

He tugged on the steel rod that controlled the upper set of restraining bolts. Nothing. He frowned and tried it again. Still it wouldn't open. So he placed his finger on the dial, turned it one notch, and smiled as he heard the tumbler fall into place. It was an old trick, placing an additional number just one or two places on from the previous one.

This time when he pulled on the rod it moved down, the upper bolts retracting smoothly. He repeated the procedure on the bottom and side rods, and these too pulled free in his hands. With a firm push, the door swung open.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Grigory Mironov cleared the final flight of stairs and headed for the Western Art gallery. In addition to handing out the night's work rotas, it was his responsibility to check that all the cleaners had followed their instructions and that they were doing a good job. It was a responsibility that he took very seriously.

He entered the Rodin Room and ran a finger along the nearest frame. It came away dusty. Then he made his way to the Gauguin Room, only to discover that it too had yet to be cleaned. They must be in the Monet Room, he muttered to himself, but that too was untouched. He felt the anger building inside him.

The three guards who were supposed to be patrolling that section of the museum were loitering in the Renoir Room, taking a cigarette break. As usual. "You seen the two cleaners for this section?" Mironov demanded. "A big fat guy and his mute friend?"

One of the guards broke away from the other two and hustled Mironov out of the room, draping a protective arm around his shoulder.

"Don't worry. They explained everything. I let them through, no questions asked." He winked.

"What?"

"A third for you, a third for me. The director gets his office cleaned and everyone's happy." The guard patted him warmly on the back. "Good doing business with you." He laughed and went to rejoin his colleagues.

Mironov stood in the middle of the room, seething with rage. So, those two jokers were freelancing, were they? Thought they could get away with cutting him out. Well, he'd have them up in front of the Committee for neglecting their jobs. And he'd report the director, too. He'd never liked him anyway.

Muttering angrily to himself, he set off for the staff offices.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Tom stepped gratefully into the room. But his elation was short-lived. Someone was approaching. He could hear footsteps that paused suddenly, followed by a rattle, then footsteps again. His eyes shot to the door handle. Would Renwick have bothered to lock it?

Unwilling to take the risk, Tom gently pushed the vault door shut behind him and slipped under the sheet covering a tall statue of Mercury near the door. As the footsteps grew louder, he huddled close to the statue, his nose inches away from a vine leaf that had been strategically positioned to preserve its modesty. The winged god's arms were outstretched in flight, creating a tentlike space under the thin white shroud. Even so, Tom hardly dared breathe in case the rise of his chest could be detected through the fabric.

A sharp rattle on the handle was followed by the groan of the hinges as the door creaked open. A squeak of shoe leather on the marble floor, and then nothing. Tom guessed that whoever it was had stopped for a good look around. There was a slight gap between the sheet and the floor, and he could just make out a pair of old but well-polished shoes.

He heard someone muttering in Russian, and the shoes turned back toward the door.

The shoes were almost out of the room when they stopped again. The man crouched down, Tom able to make out an outstretched index finger being run across the floor's surface. As the finger was lifted, Tom could see the dark stain left by Turnbull's blood.

The man sprang up, the shoes swiveling and following the trail of blood to the vault. Tom leapt from his cover as the man ran past, the sheet coming with him as he shoulder-charged him. The impact sent the guard crashing into one of the workbenches, and he let out a grunt as the wind was knocked out of him.

Tom scrambled to his feet, desperately trying to wrestle his way out of the sheet that was still wrapped around his head and arms in case the guard went for his gun. But in that moment a large bottle on the workbench, unbalanced by the impact of the collision, teetered off the edge and dropped onto the Russian's skull.

Brown glass flew everywhere as the bottle exploded with a crash, and the guard's head slumped to his chest.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Grigory Mironov turned the corner just in time to hear the sound of breaking glass, followed almost immediately by the sound of the door to the Restoration Department being locked.

"Who's there?" he shouted, beating on the door with his fist. "Open up."

Mironov had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan back in the eighties. His fitness levels might have dropped, but he reckoned he still knew how to handle himself. Certainly, he had no qualms about confronting whoever was inside.

"I'm coming in," he warned. There was no answer, just the sound of more glass being broken.

Reaching for the massive bunch of keys attached to his leather belt, he frantically rattled through them, identified the one he was looking for, tried it, found it didn't work, tried another.

The door opened.

He leaped into the room, his flashlight raised over his head as a makeshift club. But the room was empty. A sharp bite of cold air on the back of his neck made him look up. One of the skylights had been smashed. The intruder had escaped to the roof.

Glass crunched beneath his feet and he looked down. The floor was wet. His eyes followed the stream of dark liquid to the guard's body, slumped against a workbench. Mironov ran to his side and felt for a pulse. Seeing that he was still alive, he laid him down on the floor and radioed for assistance.

Within forty-five seconds, men were pouring through the door, guns drawn.

"What happened?" demanded the senior officer.

"We had two new men start tonight. I sent them up to clean a few of the Western Art galleries, but they never showed up. I think they bribed one of the guards to allow them down here. I came looking for them. All I heard was a shout and then the sound of breaking glass. I think they must have gone up there." He pointed up at the shattered skylight.

"Could you recognize them if you saw them?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. In that case you're coming with us. I want people up on the roof and all exits sealed. Then I want a room-by-room search until we find these bastards. Alexsei?"

"Yes, sir." A young guard who had until now remained by the door stepped forward.

"Stay here with Ivan. I'll get a medical team up here as soon as I can."

"Yes sir."

Mironov and the guards trooped out of the room, their voices excited and determined. Alexsei crouched next to Ivan and loosened his collar, wiping small pieces of broken glass from his hair.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

As he crouched behind the worktop, Tom's mind was racing. Smashing the skylight had convinced the guards that he must have escaped through it. But it was a trick that would last only as long as it took them to get up there and find the roof deserted. He had to find a way past the guard and out of this room. Fast.

He peeked out from behind the worktop and caught a glimpse of the guard they'd left — Alexsei, the others had called him. Tom's heart leapt. It was the same guard who'd deactivated the metal detector when scanning Turnbull. Clearly, he owed Viktor a favor. Tom hoped the debt would extend to helping him. He was hardly loaded with options.

Tom stood up and the guard's hand shot instinctively to his hip.

"Wait," Tom said urgently.

"You go." The guard looked terrified. His eyes flicked nervously to the door.

"How?" Tom pulled out his map of the museum and pointed at it questioningly. The guard grabbed it and traced a route with a shaking finger. It led down an adjacent stairwell, all the way along the first floor into the Small Hermitage, then into the Great Hermitage until… Tom squinted, uncertain that he was seeing it right.

"The canal?" he asked uncertainly.

"Da," said the guard, then made some hand and leg movements that seemed to imply Tom should make his escape by climbing down into the canal and swimming away.

Now wasn't the time to explain that, with his shoulder in its current state, he wouldn't be able to climb or swim anywhere. He'd have to figure something out when he got there. With a muttered "spasibo" he grabbed the key that the guard was holding out to him.

"Call Viktor. Let her know what's happening," said Tom, acting out making a phone call while thrusting the scrap of paper Viktor had given him with her number written on it into the guard's hand.

The guard nodded dumbly in response, but Tom was already gone, the crunching of feet on the roof overhead as the guards arrived at the shattered skylight echoing in his ears as he sprinted out of the room.

The key the guard had given him unlocked the door at the top of the staircase. Tom flew down it, emerging onto the first floor moments later. The corridor was deserted, the guards having presumably joined the search upstairs and on the roof, and he broke into a run across the polished herringbone parquet floor, his shoulder burning, the pain making him feel faint. He followed the map across the small bridge into the northern pavilion of the Small Hermitage and then used the key to enter the passage gallery that led into the Great Hermitage.

He found himself in the museum's Italian collection, a group of thirty rooms dedicated to the development of Italian art between the thirteenth and nineteenth centuries, and slowed to a cautious walk. The parts of the museum he had just run through were mainly administrative and therefore only sparsely patrolled. The galleries, however, contained two of only twelve paintings in the world known to have been painted by Leonardo da Vinci. Here, security wouldn't be so lax.

His caution was well founded. No sooner had he crossed into the first room than he made out a man's silhouette in the distance. The rooms here were all interconnected, and it was almost possible to see from one end of the building to the other through the open doorways. Tom estimated that the person he had seen was no more than two rooms away.

He quickly decided against taking him on. Even if his shoulder had been up to it, he couldn't risk the guard getting a shot off. Moreover, he didn't know how many other guards there were on that floor. Any disturbance would bring them all rushing in.

The room offered no natural cover apart from the wood-paneled walls, so Tom crouched by the door, his back flat to the wall, hidden in the shadows. A few moments later, the guard entered the room and walked straight past him.

As soon as the guard had moved on, Tom slipped into the adjacent room, then the one after that. Again, though, he saw the looming shadow of an approaching guard. This time, with light pouring through the window from one of the floodlights outside, there were no shadows to hide him. Tom dropped to his belly and crawled under a red velvet chaise longue. Peering through the golden-tasseled brocade, he saw the guard enter the gallery, pause, look around, then move on.

Tom continued on to the next room and ducked behind the base of a large statue. He was almost at the northeastern corner of the building. Ahead of him, he could see the glazed bridge that led over the Winter Canal to the Hermitage Theatre. But first he would have to evade one final guard, who was loitering in the room, muttering to himself. Finally he gave a sigh, turned on his heel, and retreated south. From his movements, it looked as though he was on some sort of set patrol, which meant that the others would soon be retracing their steps toward Tom. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now.

As soon as he was certain that it was safe, he padded over to the far wall and looked expectantly out the window. His heart sank. Not only was the canal's surface frozen, but even if he'd been able to negotiate the thirty-foot drop, his escape route to the river was barred by a thick iron grille that ran between the underside of the bridge's arch and the ice. He was trapped.

He turned, desperately searching for some inspiration, however remote, before the guards returned. Almost unconsciously, he found himself locking eyes with a large white marble bust of Catherine the Great, who leered at him, silently challenging him to escape her palace.

But her unfeeling stare gave him an idea. He examined the windows that gave onto the narrow canal. They were alarmed but, thankfully, not screwed shut. That meant he could open them if he wanted to.

He went back to the bust and, grimacing with the pain, lifted it off its plinth and staggered over to the window, rolling it with relief onto the top of the deep wooden windowsill. He wasn't sure how thick the ice would be, or how heavy the bust was, but he knew that it would fall heavily from that height. If it broke through, he could jump through the hole, swim under the ice and the grille, and come up in the Neva itself, which thankfully had not frozen that year.

Of course, getting out of the river would be another matter. In those temperatures, hypothermia would set in within minutes, so he wouldn't be able to afford to hang around. Whatever the risks, it still beat getting shot in the back by a panicked guard.

He climbed up onto the windowsill, took a deep breath, then lifted the latch and opened the window. Immediately a deafening alarm filled the room and he heard the sound of shouts and running feet.

With a firm kick, he toppled the statue over the edge. Its white bulk sailed gracefully through the air and crashed into the ice, splitting a wide hole in its surface and then sinking out of sight.

The shouts were closer now, the footsteps almost in the same room. Tom stood up and looked over his shoulder. Five guards were bearing down on him, their guns pointing in his general direction. The first shot rang out, the bullet fizzing past his ear and slamming into the plasterwork.

Without hesitating Tom jumped into the dark waters below.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

The cold water bit savagely into him as he arrowed through the hole in the ice. The shock made him inhale sharply, his lungs only half filling with air as the water closed over his head. His momentum carried him down to the canal floor, and he felt its soft, loamy bed grasp his ankles as he touched down, as if trying to hold him there. Immediately Tom kicked off in what he believed to be the direction of the metal grille and the river, hoping that he could hold his breath long enough to get there.

He tried to open his eyes to see where he was going, but the cold clawed against them like a blunt knife, forcing him to screw them tightly shut. Unable to tell where he was going, or even if he was heading up or down, Tom kicked furiously with his legs, his hands scooping the water ahead of him.

A sharp knock on the back of his head told him that he'd hit the ice, a series of high-pitched pings echoing immediately above him confirming it — bullets drilling into the ice as the guards fired down on him from the rooms above. For a moment he was grateful that the ice was as thick as it was, until he remembered that he was trapped beneath it.

He tried to angle himself down a bit but found that his legs were becoming strangely unresponsive, as if the cold had wrapped a thick blanket around them that he was trying to kick free. His damaged shoulder had seized up completely.

With his other hand he reached out and felt a wall to his left — the side of the Hermitage. Using it as a guide, he half dragged himself, half swam toward the river, his chest and throat burning as the muscles constricted, his heart pounding, his stomach feeling bruised.

He swam on, each kick of his legs tightening the metal fist that was closing slowly around his lungs. Every muscle, every organ in his body was crying out for air, and Tom was gripped by the strange sensation that he was falling through the water from a great height. He knew then that he was drowning.

With a last, desperate thrust, he propelled himself forward and felt the grille in front of him, cold and hard as the bars on a prison cell. He pulled himself down its face, kicking and kicking until it felt he must have swum almost to the center of the earth, a sharp, stabbing pain in his eyes and ears.

Finally he found a gap between the canal bed and the bottom of the grille. He squeezed through it, his head exploding, small stars and flashes of light strobing across the inside of his eyelids.

He tried one last kick, but his legs barely moved, the riverbed soft and inviting beneath him, the lights of St. Petersburg glimmering soothingly down through the water like stars on the far side of the universe. Everything was quiet and still.

Two hands suddenly surged out of the darkness and grabbed him roughly. He had the sensation of flying, of soaring toward the stars like a rocket, his body screaming, his brain roaring. And then he was free, coughing and gasping, his lungs hungrily sucking in air, his throat uncoiling itself, the knot of his heart slackening off.

"Get him in the boat." He heard Viktor's voice behind him and realized that it was her hand that was wrapped protectively across his chest as she dragged him backward through the water.

Two pairs of arms reached down and hauled him out of the water, immediately wrapping several towels around him. He caught a glimpse of Viktor, fully clothed, climbing up the ladder behind him.

"Let's go," he heard her say. The engine that had been idling roared into life, the speedboat lifting its nose out of the water as it accelerated. The fiberglass hull skipped and slapped across the river's surface as the Hermitage receded into the distance.

Viktor sat down opposite him, handing him a hot drink that he held between his clenched fists, still unable to move his fingers.

"I guess now we're even," she shouted over the engine. Tom nodded, his whole body shaking with cold. "Did you get it?" she asked. He shook his head. "Where's Archie?" he croaked. "We've found out he's being held at the U.S. Consulate. What happened to Turnbull?"

"He didn't make it."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Dominique heard voices and edged her head around the corner. Viktor, her hair still wet, was talking earnestly in a low voice to three of her men. They were listening intently, nodding every so often as if she was giving them instructions. Dominique wondered what Viktor was up to as she watched her handing them several large bags. One of the men then glanced through the open door into the room beyond it and asked something. Viktor's eyes followed his, then looked around with a smile. "Da."

A board creaked under Dominique's bare feet and she snatched her head back. The voices stopped, then she heard the sound of footsteps fading away.

"You can come out now." Viktor's voice echoed down the corridor.

Dominique stepped sheepishly out of the shadows. "Sorry, I didn't mean to… Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Viktor replied. "We got him just in time. He needs to get some sleep, that's all."

"And Turnbull?"

Viktor shook her head.

"How…?" asked Dominique.

"Tom didn't say. But I told him about Archie. He's going to go there in the morning and find out why they're holding him."

"Can I see him?"

"He's asleep," said Viktor, shutting the door gently. "Leave him now."

"Okay."

There was a long, awkward pause as both women stood in silence, neither wanting to be the first to move.

"You and Tom," Viktor said eventually, "you never…?" She let the question hang there suggestively.

"Tom and me?" Dominique laughed. "Is that what you think?"

"I just wondered. I mean, you're very beautiful and he… he's very…"

"Tom." Dominique finished the sentence for her, smiling to herself at the effect that Tom had on some women, even women like Viktor who appeared to have no soft edges left. His strength seemed to appeal to their need to be protected, his vulnerability to their desire to protect. She had never really felt that way about him herself. There was just too much history there with his father.

"I just wondered…" Viktor shrugged, not sounding as casual as she had probably intended.

"The thing about Tom," said Dominique slowly, "is that he's not very good with people. It's not his fault. It's what he's had to do to survive. Everyone who he has ever relied on has ended up leaving him. It's easier for him just to never get close. That way he's never disappointed and he never lets anyone else down."

"And you? What about you — and Archie? He's close to the two of you?"

"Yes. But only because neither of us really needs him. He knows that we are strong enough to survive on our own. In fact, I think that's the one thing in life he's really scared of."

"What?"

"Someone else depending on him."

"Maybe he just hasn't yet found the person he wants to have depending on him," Viktor speculated.

"Maybe," Dom agreed with a smile. Somehow, she wasn't so sure.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

By the time Tom got to the U.S. Consulate the following morning, a small queue had already formed outside the main door. He patiently took his place in it, mulling over the previous night's events. Images of Turnbull and Kristenko, the lost Bellak, Renwick's sneering face, and his brush with death at the bottom of the Neva kept flashing into his head.

"Yes?" The voice of the suited and spectacled functionary sitting at the front desk interrupted his thoughts.

"I want to see the Consul General," Tom said. The man was waving most people toward the visa section, and he seemed to welcome the change in inquiry, looking up at him with a lazy smile.

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"No."

His smile faded. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you. All appointments have to be arranged in advance with his office and cleared by security. Next." He looked past Tom to the person standing behind him.

"It's about a man you're holding in custody here," Tom insisted. "I need to speak to him."

The functionary nodded to two marines, who peeled themselves away from the wall and approached Tom from either side.

"Please step out of the line, sir," one of them droned ro-botically. Tom ignored him, still fixing the seated man with a firm stare.

"You've arrested a friend of mine. A British citizen. You're holding him here. I demand to be told what he's been charged with and to see him."

"Get him out of here," the functionary instructed the two marines, his nonchalant manner suggesting that he'd handled similar situations many times before. They grabbed Tom, one holding each arm, and marched him toward the door, lifting him clear off the floor so that his feet dangled uselessly beneath him.

"Get your hands off me," Tom shouted, struggling vainly, wincing from the pain in his shoulder.

"Hold it," a voice called out over Tom's shouts and the excited hubbub of the crowd in the reception area. The marines stopped and turned Tom to face the direction the voice had come from. "Are you here about Archie Connolly?"

"Yeah," Tom said with relief. "You know about him?"

"Sure." The man smiled and waved the marines away with an impatient flick of his hand. They released Tom and returned to their posts, their faces never once registering any expression. "I'm Special Agent Cliff Cunningham. Maybe I can help."

"Is he still here?"

"Absolutely. Mr. Connolly is helping us with our inquiries. Voluntarily, of course." Tom didn't comment. The idea of Archie voluntarily helping anyone, especially the Yanks, was ridiculous.

"Look, whatever he's done or you think he's done, it's just a mistake."

"Why don't we talk this over inside," said Cunningham. He turned to the functionary at the desk who had just tried to have Tom thrown out. "It's okay, Roland, he's with me. Sign him in, will you?"

Armed with a visitor's pass, Tom followed Cunningham through a reinforced door that another marine stationed on the other side buzzed open for them, through an anonymous labyrinth of secretarial pens and dingy offices, down a flight of stairs, and then along a narrow corridor that seemed to have six cells along it, three down each side.

"He's in here." Cunningham reached the far left-hand cell and swiped a card through a magnetic reader. The door buzzed open.

"Archie?" Tom stepped inside the cell.

"Tom." Archie's face broke into a smile. "You took your time." He was lying on a narrow bed, thumbing through a two-year-old edition of GQ, a cigarette jammed in his mouth.

"You two must have a lot of catching up to do," Cunningham said coldly. He slammed the cell door shut.

Tom stared at the closed door, then turned to Archie and gave a shrug.

"Nice escape plan, mate," Archie grunted, turning back to the magazine. "What did you do? Smuggle a spoon in so we can dig our way out?"

"He's pleasant, isn't he?" Tom sat down heavily on the bed next to him.

"Tell me about it. I've had to put up with his shit all night long."

"What does he think you've done now?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Archie. "Just the odd murder or thirty. Including Lasche, it seems."

"Lasche? But we saw him only a few days ago."

"Exactly. That's when they think I did it."

"But why?"

"For the same reason they think I killed Lammers's niece."

"She's dead too?" Tom gasped.

"Apparently, poor thing." Archie sighed. "This whole business is getting out of control. They think I was trying to cover my tracks."

"Tracks from what?" Tom said dismissively. "This is total bullshit. You haven't done anything."

"I know that. You know that. But as far as they're concerned, I'm not only involved in a theft that Lasche got me to carry out from some museum in the States, but I then gassed a roomful of neo-Nazis I'd recruited to do the job for me. Their kids too." Archie spoke with his eyes still fixed on the magazine.

"You're joking, right?"

"I wish I was."

"Well, what is it you're meant to have stolen, exactly?"

"An Enigma machine."

"An Enigma machine?" Tom's tone switched from outrage to interest.

"Yeah." Archie looked up, his face lifting with sudden understanding. "Why, you don't think…"

"Why not?" Tom nodded slowly. "A neo-Nazi group. A wartime decoder. Lasche supposedly involved, then turning up dead. There must be a connection."

"Well, the Enigma's a collectible piece, I guess. But I don't see what use it would be to anyone."

"Unless you needed to decode something."

"The final Bellak painting!" Archie exclaimed. "We need to get in touch with Kristenko again and get it out."

"Unfortunately, it's a bit late for that," Tom said bitterly, briefly recounting the previous night's events for Archie's benefit.

"So Renwick's got the painting and the Enigma." Archie sighed. "We've got nothing."

"Maybe we do," said Tom. "Maybe we do what?"

"Have something. My camera. The one I loaned to Kris-tenko. I grabbed it off him when I was in the vault. It'll be ruined, but the memory card should still work."

"I don't see…"

"He took photos of the painting, didn't he? To prove that he had it. If we've got that, we might not need the painting at all."

"Then we just need to get out of here," said Archie, motioning toward the steel door.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Before Tom could answer, the door flew open and Bailey marched into the room. He didn't bother introducing himself, fixing Tom instead with an excited stare. "Tell me about this painting."

"You've been listening?" Tom shot back, furious with himself for not having been more careful. Bailey indicated a small black hole over the bed that he hadn't noticed before.

"I was on the first shift in case you two got careless. Don't worry, it's turned off now."

"Like hell it is." Tom eyed him with distrust. "Why don't you tell me what's really going on."

"We're not telling you nothing," Archie snorted. "Look, you're in deep shit here. Real deep. You want to have a chance of getting out of here, you gotta share. Then maybe I can help."

"Why should you help us?"

"If my boss knew I was in here, he'd kill me," Bailey said earnestly. "But I'm here because, for better or worse, I go with my gut. Always have. And my gut tells me you guys weren't bullshitting just now."

"You first, then," Tom said slowly. "What is it you think we're involved in?"

"Two weeks ago a guard was murdered and an Enigma machine was stolen from the NSA Museum in Maryland. We got a tip-off that a neo-Nazi group in Idaho called the Sons of American Liberty were involved. When we went to check out their HQ, someone had locked them all in a booby-trapped room. Every single person inside died. Gassed."

"But how did that lead you to me?" Archie asked.

"We had an eyewitness. His description was a good match to a man filmed boarding a flight to Zurich. When we checked out the names of Zurich-based major players in the military memorabilia game, Lasche's name came up, so we staked out his hotel. Then you showed up."

"And…?"

"And matched the description."

"That's impossible," Archie said dismissively. "I don't even know where Idaho is. Like I told you, I was in Vegas when this happened."

"Vegas?" said Tom in surprise. "Is that what you were up to?"

"Do we have to go into this now?" Archie said, rolling his eyes, before turning back to Bailey. "Show me the picture."

Bailey reached into his jacket and drew out a sheet of paper. Archie unfolded it, studied the CCTV image, and looked up skeptically. "That's not me," he said with a mixture of relief and indignation.

"That's Lasche's nurse," Tom said grimly, snatching the paper from his hands.

"Lasche's nurse?" Bailey stammered. "Are you sure?"

"I never forget a face. Heinrich, I think he said his name was."

"You're right, now you mention it." Archie nodded his agreement. "He was there when we went to see him the other day."

"What's Lasche's involvement in all this?" Tom asked.

"Well," Bailey began uncertainly, still staring uneasily at the picture, "we guessed that Lasche was the middleman for the Enigma machine. That you'd stolen it and then sold it to him."

"That's about the only thing you've got right so far," Tom said. "Except that it wasn't Archie he sent to steal it but Heinrich. Lasche must have been betrayed by whoever he sold the machine to. That same person murdered the Sons of American Liberty and, in all probability, Lasche as well, to ensure no one could make the link back to him."

" 'Him' being…?" Bailey quizzed.

"In my opinion Harry Renwick, a.k.a. Cassius — or someone acting on his behalf. Check your records. Last time I looked, he was on your top ten most wanted list. He's the one you should be looking for. He's behind this whole thing, I'm sure of it."

"But what's this got to do with a painting? How did you get mixed up in it?"

Tom paused for a second, debating how much he was willing to reveal. His natural instinct was to say nothing, but there was something about Bailey, an honesty allied with an eagerness that inspired a sense of grudging confidence. He took a snap decision to trust him. But only as far as he had to.

"We were approached by a guy called William Turnbull from MI6's counterterrorist team," Tom began slowly. "They were worried about a terrorist group in Germany who had linked up with Renwick. They wanted our help to find out what they were up to."

"Why you? Did you know him or something?"

"He's an old friend of the family," Tom said with a hollow laugh. "Anyway, it turns out they were looking for something. Something that was hidden at the end of the war. We think the painting is the final clue to revealing its location. I only found out about the Enigma machine just now, but I'm guessing that he needed one in order to unlock some sort of coded message written on the painting."

"And how did that lead you to Lasche?"

"It was just dumb coincidence. The painting was hidden by a secret order of high-ranking SS officers. Lasche is the expert on that period, so we wanted his opinion. We had no idea that Renwick had already involved him in the Enigma theft."

"And the girl — Maria Lammers — what was her involvement?"

"Her uncle was a member of the Order," Archie explained. "We were just following the trail to see whether it led anywhere. But why Renwick should want to kill her, I don't know." He shook his head, mystified. "She knew nothing."

"You're right." Tom frowned. "It's like what happened in the nightclub. There's something else going on here that we're missing."

Bailey blew out his cheeks, leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he stared down at the floor, his voice a monotone. "Okay. You two stay here. I'm going to check some of this out."

Tom jerked his head toward the door. "Somehow, I don't think we'll be going anywhere."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Bailey's eyes widened as the search results flashed up in front of him.

He gave a low whistle. Maybe there was more to Kirk's story than he'd thought.

"Find something good?" Cunningham had stepped into the room behind him.

"Not sure yet." Bailey flicked the screen to another program and turned to face Cunningham with a nervous smile.

Carter's instructions had been clear: observe and report. Nothing more. By going into Kirk and Connolly's cell unaccompanied, he had stepped well outside that remit. How could he explain his decision to Cunningham, let alone Carter?

"You come up with anything on Connolly?" Bailey asked casually.

"No. We're still trying to run him down, but it looks like we've never come across him before. I'm going to check with Interpol."

"Makes sense."

"We caught a real break with Kirk, huh?" Cunningham said with a grin. "How's that?"

"Him just walking in here. We didn't need those extra men to go and take him down after all."

"Yeah, but we've still got nothing on him," Bailey pointed out.

"We got time." Cunningham shrugged. "He ain't going nowhere."

Bailey turned back to his computer, hoping that Cunningham would take the hint and leave, but he hovered near the door, finally breaking the silence with a cough.

"Is everything okay?" Cunningham asked.

"Sure."

"You seem kinda tense."

Bailey took a deep breath, realizing he was going to have to come clean. "There's something you should take a look at." He flicked the screen back to the FBI Ten Most Wanted page.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

When Bailey returned about twenty-five minutes later, it was with a pensive expression and Cunningham by his side. The latter took up a position leaning by the door, one leg raised and bent back behind him, so that the sole of his black shoe was flat to the wall.

"Renwick showed up on our system," Bailey began. "He certainly fits the profile."

"No kidding," Tom said drily.

"Lasche's nurse too. Heinrich Henschell. The photo we have on file matches the description. Rough customer. Did time in Spain for murdering a rare book dealer about ten years ago before escaping while being transferred to another prison. The Swiss police think they may have just found him in a ditch twenty miles outside Zurich."

Bailey paused.

"Why do I think there's a but coming up?" Archie asked coldly.

"Because there's no William Turnbull."

"The guy's a spook." Tom shrugged. "I'm not surprised he doesn't show up."

"Since 9/11 we have reciprocal information-sharing agreements with the British on all counterterrorist personnel. Turnbull's not one of them."

"Well maybe he's part—"

"He was one of them. Until he got taken out in Moscow six months ago."

"What?" Archie gasped.

"He was shot dead coming out of a bookshop next to Red Square. Whoever approached you wasn't MI6, and certainly wasn't William Turnbull."

"He was a ringer?" Archie's tone was a mixture of surprise and anger. "He can't be. I checked him out."

"You checked that there was an MI6 agent by that name," Tom corrected him, nodding slowly as the past few days rearranged themselves in his mind. "And there was. Only he was dead."

"But the cars, all those men…?"

"Probably hired for the day. Oh, he played it beautifully. He knew that if he mentioned Renwick's name, I'd listen. That if he just pointed us in the right direction and let us off the leash, we'd do all the running." Tom shook his head, furious with himself.

"You think he was working for Renwick?"

"Well, it would certainly explain how Renwick was able to stick so close to us. How he knew exactly where we'd be last night," said Tom.

"And presumably why he topped Turnbull once he'd served his purpose," Archie added.

"So what now?" Bailey interrupted them.

"We're stuck in here, that's what now," Archie snapped. "How can we do anything, unless we get out."

"I can't let you go," said Bailey. "It's a good story, but I need hard evidence to make something like this stick. Besides, I have no jurisdiction here. I'm sorry."

He walked slowly out of the room, nodding at Agent Cunningham on his way out.

"This is crazy," said Tom. "I can't believe you're keeping us in here. We've done nothing wrong."

Cunningham approached them slowly. "Bailey's right. He doesn't have any jurisdiction here," he said. "But I do." His eyes snapped up to meet theirs. "He told me what you guys discussed. He thinks you're telling the truth, that you're not the people we're looking for. Hell, who knows, he may even be right. But that doesn't mean I can just let you go."

"So what are you saying?" Tom asked uncertainly.

"I'm saying that I came in here with Bailey." Cunningham spoke deliberately, his expression leaving them in no doubt that he was serious. "That after he left the room you overpowered me and handcuffed me to the bed." He produced a pair of steel handcuffs from his pocket and dangled them in front of Archie. "That you took my keys…" He dangled his key ring with his other hand, the metal chinking noisily. "And found your way up the back stairs to the fire exit on the south side of the building."

"And then what?" Archie asked, cautiously accepting the handcuffs and key ring off Cunningham.

"Then you guys have got about twelve minutes before Bailey comes back and finds me. In fact, make that ten," he said, consulting his watch. "After that, we'll be looking for you. The Russkies too. I'd advise you to get out of town."

"What do you want in return?" Tom asked, snapping the cuffs open and fixing them around the painted metal bed frame.

"A phone call when you catch up with these guys." Cunningham pulled a business card from his top pocket, the corners worn and dog-eared. "We'll take it from there."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

It had taken fifteen minutes of fielding questions before Tom was finally able to hold up the memory card retrieved from Kristenko's camera and turn to Viktor. "You got something that can read this?"

"Sure."

She led them down a long dark corridor to her office, an understated room lined with books and framed movie posters. Tom sensed that this was probably the only room she had had a hand in decorating herself, although he noticed that here, as everywhere, there were no photos, as if the past was a place she preferred not to be reminded of.

The computer screen flashed into life as the system began to load, an egg timer rolling over onto its back every few seconds. In a few minutes it was done, and the screen filled with Cyrillic characters.

"You'd better let me drive," Viktor said with a smile, slipping into the chair behind the desk. She slipped the card into a slot on the side of the machine and called up the pictures of the painting.

There were six in all. One of the front and rear of the canvas, and one of each of the edges, normally hidden by the frame, but typically included in the photographic record of any major work of art, owing to the difficulty for the would-be forger of replicating something that could not be seen.

Tom soon found himself thanking Kristenko for his thoroughness, for it was on these edges that a series of meticulously inked black capital letters could be seen. A code.

"This must have been what Renwick was after." Tom pointed at the screen.

Dominique grabbed a pen and began to scribble the letters down on a pad.

"A bunch of letters is no use without the decoding machine," Archie pointed out.

"A decoding machine?" Viktor frowned.

"The Enigma," Tom explained. "Renwick had one stolen, remember? It's a German wartime encoding machine, about the size—"

"Of a small briefcase," Viktor finished his sentence for him. "I know. I told you, Viktor had one restored so he could use it."

"Is it still here?" Tom asked hopefully.

"As far as I know, it's in the library with everything else. I'll go and get it."

She left the room and returned a few moments later with two wooden boxes, one much smaller than the other. She placed them both on the desk. "Viktor bought it from some dealer in Switzerland about five years ago for his collection."

"Lasche," said Archie. "It had to be Lasche — he's the only one who would deal with something like this."

"Do you know how it works?" asked Tom.

"Of course. Viktor showed me," she said.

She unclipped the battered and stained case, the wood thick with cracked varnish, and folded it back, revealing a machine that on first inspection looked like an old-fashioned metal typewriter. It sat snugly in its box, the raised black keys large and round, with the letters of the alphabet clearly marked in white.

But a closer look revealed differences. There were no rollers between which to feed a sheet of paper. Instead, the flat case above the keys was punctured by twenty-six round glass windows with the faint shadow of a letter in each one. And above these were three narrow slots. The front of the box folded down to reveal twenty-six holes, each labeled with the letters of the alphabet, different pairs of which were joined by black cables.

"Viktor, it took a truckload of boffins almost half the war to crack that thing," Archie pointed out. "How the hell are you going to manage on your own?"

"Because she's not trying to crack it, is she?" Dom pointed out. "The hard work's been done. All she's trying to do is operate it."

"Have you ever used one of these?" Tom asked. "No," said Dominique. "But I know the theory of how they work. Well, some of it at least."

"How…?" asked Archie.

"Codes and puzzles are my thing, remember?" Dominique explained. "I've read some books on it. All she needs to operate it are the settings. After that it's easy."

"What settings?" Tom looked at her blankly.

"The settings for the machine," Viktor confirmed. "What are they?"

"Don't we just plug in the numbers?" Archie frowned in confusion.

"This machine uses substitution encryption," said Viktor.

"When one letter is substituted for another?" Archie guessed. "So A becomes F, B becomes G, and so on."

"Exactly. Enigma is just a very complex substitution system."

"Complex in what way?" asked Tom.

"The key to breaking any code is spotting a pattern," Dominique replied, taking over from Viktor. "The beauty of the Enigma was that it changed the pattern after each individual letter."

"Through these?" Tom asked, taking a metal disc with teeth and electrical circuits from the small wooden box that had been brought in with the machine.

"The rotors," Dominique confirmed. "Every time a letter was encoded, the rotors would change position and so would the pattern. And as a further safeguard each original letter was mapped to a totally different starting letter through the wires on the plug board before it even went through the rotors, and then the entire process was repeated in reverse before the encoded letter would light up." Her fingernail tapped against one of the glass windows. "They say there are one hundred and fifty-nine million million million possible combinations in all."

"So, to decode a message, you would need to know exactly how the original machine had been set up," Tom surmised.

"Exactly." Viktor stepped forward. "They used to issue codebooks so that, on any particular day, everyone would know what setting to use. If we don't have the settings, we're going to have to involve some expert help."

"Which will take time. Something we don't have," Tom said.

"Well, Renwick must know, or he wouldn't have gone to all this bother, would he?" Archie observed. "There must be some way to work it out."

"You're right," said Tom. "Maybe we missed something. Let's have another look at those photos." They turned to the screen once again and examined the painting's edges.

"How many of these wires did you say there were?" Archie asked eventually.

"It varied," Viktor replied. "Between ten and thirteen, depending on the setting. Any unwired letters were passed through the rotors without having been substituted first. It was another way of confusing eavesdroppers. Why?"

"It's just that there are twenty-six letters along the top edge of the painting," said Archie. "And they look like they've been written in pairs."

Viktor nodded. "Thirteen pairs of letters. That could easily be the setting for the plug board — U to A. P to F …" She quickly reconfigured the wires to match the pairs of letters along the top of the frame. "There."

"Which leaves us with what?" Tom inquired, his voice animated by their apparent progress.

"The choice of rotors and their settings," Viktor replied. "We need to know which three to select and what ring settings to give them." She took the remaining four rotors out of their greaseproof paper and pointed at a small ring that seemed to have been stuck to the side of each rotor. "These rotate and are then locked into a starting position. Without these, we've got nothing."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

They had taken turns in front of the computer, each trying to make sense of the jumbled mass of letters that decorated the painting's edges like elaborate black lace. But no matter how hard they looked at the photos, whatever clever tricks they came up with to count the letters or divide them by the number on the other side, or subtract one from the other, they were no closer to discovering the rotor settings or which rotors they should use.

They had even, in desperation, brought in the items they had recovered — the photos of the Bellak paintings, the Bel-lak painting of the synagogue itself, the walnut box that had contained Lammers's medal, the medals, the safety-deposit box key, and the leather pouch and map hidden within the box — to see if they could provide some inspiration or reveal some hidden clue or message. But after six hours of fruitless inquiry, the letters had begun to cobweb across their vision.

Archie had long since left the room, complaining of a headache, while Viktor had gone to arrange some food for them. For Dominique, however, solving this puzzle had developed into a personal battle. She knew that Tom and Archie made fun of her for getting like this, often over quite trivial things, but she couldn't help herself, especially when, as in this case, it was almost as if they had been set a formal challenge. It aroused her deepest competitive instincts, which were further fueled by her desire not to let the others down.

She had therefore stayed at the desk, her eyes glued to the screen, pausing every so often only to flex her fingers where they had been gripping the mouse. Tom was sitting behind her, eyes closed, and she couldn't tell if he was sleeping or thinking until he broke the silence with a question.

"Do you think we should call it a day? Maybe we need to take a fresh look in the morning?"

"The morning will be too late," she replied matter-of-factly, without even looking around. She was getting frustrated at herself and was having difficulty masking it.

She sensed Tom was about to say something, but he must have thought better of it because no words came. An awkward silence settled until Dominique looked around with a frown.

"You know, the camera wasn't empty."

"Hmm?" Tom's eyes were shut again in thought. "Your camera — it had other photos on it when you gave it to Kristenko."

"Oh yeah," said Tom. "I guess I forgot to wipe it. Nothing there that shouldn't have been, was there?"

"Don't think so, no," she said, scrolling through the images on the disk.

First the shots of the synagogue in Prague, the walls scrawled with hate-filled graffiti, the floor carpeted with children's drawings, the painting's empty frame. Then shots of the stained-glass window from the church in Kitzbiihel that Lammers had had installed. A castle. A circle of trees. Some birds taking wing through an azure sky. Finally the shots of the Bellak portrait.

Dominique paused, frowning. She scrolled back through to the pictures of the stained-glass window, then picked up the faded black-and-white photo of the same scene that Archie had found in Weissman's secret room. She looked up at the window, then down at the photo.

"Tom?" she called in an uncertain voice.

"Mmmm?" he answered, keeping his eyes shut. "I think I've found something."

"Really?"

"They're not the same."

"What's not the same?" His eyes snapped open.

"The painting and the window. The photos of each one. They're not the same. Look."

She pointed at the photo of the window on the screen as he sprang to her side, then passed the photo of the painting into his eager hands.

"Let me see." Tom held the photo up to the screen. "Christ, you're right!" He breathed excitedly. "The window's different. He must have changed it."

"It's quite subtle. Here the castle has two turrets, but in the window it has three. Here there are seven trees in the foreground, in the window five."

"And look, four birds in the painting, two in the window. That means we've got two sets of three numbers."

"But which ones should we use?"

"The ones in the window," Tom said confidently. "Don't forget, Bellak didn't know anything about the Order or their plans; he finished that painting years before the Gold Train set out on its journey. But the window was produced after the war and could easily have been designed to include the Enigma settings. The painting is only useful insofar as the discrepancies with the window tell people where to look for the numbers. Reading left to right there are three turrets, five trees, and two birds in the window. That's three, five, two."

"It could be the rotors!" Dominique exclaimed, her earlier frustration evaporating in the excitement of the moment. "There are only five of those. This could be telling us which rotors to use."

"Which means that the rotor settings might be on here too," Tom added. "It would make sense for them to keep everything all in one place."

They analyzed the photos again, looking for further discrepancies that might provide some sort of clue. But, disappointingly after their breakthrough, there were none. In every other detail the painting had been faithfully reproduced, even down to Bellak's signature and the date, just about visible in the bottom left corner.

"I just don't get it." Tom shook his head in frustration. "They must have left some way of breaking the code, otherwise why bother going to all this trouble to hide it?"

"Maybe one of the other stolen Bellak paintings had the last piece of the code?" Dominique suggested.

"Maybe," said Tom. "Hang on, what's that?" He pointed at a small section of wall below the stained-glass window that Archie had caught on the edge of one photo. "Can you enlarge it?"

She clicked a few buttons and zoomed in on the area Tom was pointing at.

"It's the dedication plaque. 'In loving memory of Eva Maria Lammers,' ' ' she translated. " 'Taken from us on 13 November 1926.' "

"Nineteen twenty-six?" Tom frowned. "That can't be right. I'm sure Archie told me she'd died in the nineteen fifties."

"What if it's a deliberate mistake?"

"How would that work?"

"Well, the date could be the ring settings — thirteen, eleven, twenty-six," said Dominique, trying not to allow herself to get too carried away.

She selected rotors three, five, and two from the tin and then set the first one to thirteen, the second to eleven, and the third to twenty-six. Then she lifted the machine's lid, inserted them, and closed it again so that only the top part of the rotors poked through the narrow slit. At that moment Archie and Viktor walked in carrying food and drinks.

"Any progress?" asked Archie in a mournful tone.

"Maybe," said Dominique.

"We're just about to try something," Tom explained. "Dom noticed that there were differences between the painting and the window that might suggest the rotor selection."

"And the date on the dedication plaque underneath doesn't tally with when you said Lammers's wife died." She pointed at the magnified image of the plaque that was still on the screen. "So we used the dates to set the ring positions."

"Well done," Viktor said, squeezing Dominique's shoulder. "So now all we need is the starting position of the rotors."

"What?" Dominique asked in dismay. "I thought we had everything we needed."

"You see those little windows on the top of the machine?" Viktor indicated three small holes next to the rotors. "The rotors have to be moved until you can see the relevant starting letter through the window."

"How about EML?" Tom suggested.

"EML? Why those?" Archie asked with a frown.

"They were her initials." Tom pointed at the plaque that was still on screen. "Eva Marie Lammers. Or at least, that's the name he put on there. He could have made it up to suit the code."

"Worth a go," Dominique agreed, moving the rotors so that the letters could be seen through the openings. "So is that it?" asked Archie.

"I guess there's only one way to find out," said Viktor, with a nod at Dominique to continue.

She pressed the first letter — A. Z flashed up on the light board. Then L. W appeared. Then X: O was illuminated.

"ZWOLF." Archie's voice cracked with disappointment once they had deciphered the whole word. "That's not a word. That's not even the beginning of a word. We must have got it wrong."

"It's not a word in English," Tom reminded him. "But this message would have been encoded in German, remember? Zwolf is German for twelve."

Soon a second word emerged: funf — five. Then sieben — seven.

"Twelve, five, seven," Archie murmured, as if saying them again would help reveal the hidden meaning.

Dominique continued, Tom translating each number as it emerged, although with no punctuation it was sometimes difficult to make out where one number ended and the next began. It ended, however, with two familiar words. Archie read Tom's scribbled translation back out loud.

"Twelve, five, seven, three, six, nine… Heil Hitler…" He paused. "What do you think it means?"

"Aren't map references given with six numbers?" Dominique asked no one in particular.

"It would certainly be the logical way to pinpoint a specific location," Tom agreed.

"And we already have a map," Archie reminded them, pulling the railway map out of the leather pouch and unfolding it on the floor.

Tom followed the grid reference with his finger, first locating the correct horizontal position, then the vertical one. His finger came to rest at a point on the outskirts of a small Austrian village. A village whose name they all recognized as being the final place the Gold Train had passed through before having to turn back.

A village called Brixlegg.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

Tom knew this part of Austria well, although the snow and ice that blanketed the pastures and weighed down tree branches like a heavy blossom made it almost unrecognizable. His previous visits to the Tyrol had been in the spring, climbing holidays with friends, or more often on his own, when bright green mountains had plunged dizzily from snow-capped peaks to the frenzied tumult of rivers half drunk on meltwater.

Brixlegg itself was a fairly ordinary little town just off the A12 motorway that Tom had not been to before. Huddled in the shadow of muscular tree-lined mountains on the banks of the river Inn, it was a hodgepodge of traditional Tyrolean buildings and more modern concrete construction, built to accommodate the ever-growing demand for living space. There was a church, of course, its steeple clawing above the surrounding rooftops like a hand reaching desperately for the sky.

The spot indicated by the coded grid reference on the painting lay a short distance off a distinctive kink in the railway line that snaked along the valley floor, roughly following the path of the river. It was reached by turning into a narrow road before the village itself, and then following it up a shallow incline, past several chalets that appeared to be on the cusp of being swallowed up by the encroaching forest.

The track ended in a gate, the steadily falling snow having already hidden its top edge under what looked like a thick layer of cream. Tom stopped the car and killed the engine. In the rearview mirror he saw Viktor do the same behind him and turn off her headlights.

For a few seconds they sat there in muffled silence, the car suddenly deathly still.

"Are you worried about her?" Dominique asked.

"Should I be?" said Tom.

"I told you what I saw the other night. She was giving instructions to those three men. It looked like they were planning something. Maybe it was a mistake bringing her along."

"It's not like we had much choice, is it?" Archie reminded them. "How else were we going to get out here without being seen?"

Tom nodded. Archie was right. Viktor's offer to smuggle them on her private jet to Salzburg and to provide two cars at the other end had been their only option. The price had been bringing her and her three men with them to, as she put it, protect her investment. And even though they'd flown out on the first takeoff slot Viktor's bribes could secure, they'd still had to delay their departure until that morning.

"I think I trust her," said Tom. "But we should keep our eyes open. Maybe try and split them up."

"Well, we're going to struggle to find anything under that lot anyway." Archie nodded disdainfully at the snow-covered mountains that towered above them. He lit a cigarette and cracked the window open an inch to blow the smoke out.

"That's if Renwick hasn't already beaten us to it," said Tom. "He's had almost two days' head start, minus however long it took him to decode the painting."

"Well, we're here now," Dominique chimed, ever enthusiastic. "I say we go and take a look, at least."

Tom zipped his coat up and opened the door, the snow billowing in through the crack like a fine spray. The air was crisp and cold, especially compared to the soporific blast of the car's heating. He stepped out of the car and walked toward Viktor, who was at the back of her car, leaning over the open trunk with her three men — Grigory, Piotr, and Yuri — clustered around her. "Viktor?" Tom called.

She turned, a snub-nosed Beretta pointing straight at him. Tom froze.

"Here—" She threw it toward him. Tom snatched it out of the air. "You might need that," she explained. "I don't like guns. Never have."

"I don't like them either," she said. "But I'd prefer to have one and not need to use it, than not have one and need it."

As if to emphasize her point, she reached into the trunk again and took out an AK-47 rifle, its polished wooden stock and under-barrel grip dark and shiny. She held it with an immediate familiarity that suggested a long and intimate relationship, the feel of it seeming to ease the tension in her shoulders.

Tom knew she was right. From what Turnbull had told him about Kristall Blade, he knew that Hecht and his men, assuming they were still with Renwick, would be armed and would have no qualms about opening fire on whoever got in their way.

"Argento!" An unfamiliar voice echoed through the air. Viktor dropped the rifle back into the trunk and slammed it shut. Tom stuffed the Beretta into his pocket before turning to see who was there.

An old man, a dog leash looped in one hand like a lasso, had appeared at the doorway of one of the chalets and was calling to a large German shepherd who was studiously ignoring him, alternating instead between chasing his tail and trying to bite the snowflakes as they drifted past his nose, both activities accompanied by a series of excited barks and yelps.

"Argento!" the man called again, before shutting the door behind him and trying to grab the dog's collar as it pranced around his feet. The dog, however, caught sight of Tom and the others and broke free, sprinting out onto the track. Tom knelt, grasped the dog's thick leather collar as it came toward him, and held on as the dog licked his face furiously.

"Danke," the old man said gratefully as he walked up to Tom and clipped the leash to the collar. "Argento always gets very excited when we go for a walk."

"You're welcome," replied Tom in German. "He seems quite a handful."

"Oh, he is. Keeps me young." The man looked down and patted the dog's head lovingly as it lunged at the snow, then peered at Tom quizzically, his eyes almost lost under the brim of his hat. "Are you with the others?"

"The others?" Tom frowned.

"The men who came a couple of days ago. They said some others might come, so I assumed…"

"Oh right, yes." Tom nodded. "We're with them. I wonder, can you show us where they've gone? My phone doesn't seem to work out here and I can't get in touch."

He unfolded the map from his pocket and opened it for the man. After a few seconds of trying to find their current location with his gloved index finger, the old man pointed to a spot on the map.

"That's it."

Tom frowned. It wasn't the spot indicated by the coordinates decoded from the painting. "What's there?"

"The old copper mine, of course. I told your colleague that he was wasting his time, but he had the right paperwork so I had to let him through."

"Paperwork?"

"To open the mine up. Diggers too. Big yellow things. He's been at it nonstop. In this weather — can you believe it? But he's wasting his time. There's nothing there."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I used to play in it," the man said simply. "Of course that was a long time ago now, before the war, but it had long since dried up, even then. We used to play hide and seek. I remember my mother was always terrified it would collapse and kill us all." He gave a wistful smile.

"And it got blocked up?"

"There was an explosion one night toward the end of the war. A stray bomb or something. The whole thing just collapsed."

"So what's here?" Tom pointed at the spot indicated by the painting.

The man squinted closely at the map, then looked up with a shrug. "Nothing, as far as I know. Unless…" He looked at the map again. "Unless… yes, it must be…"

"Must be what?"

"The other entrance."

"There are two entrances?"

"Oh yes. You see, there used to be two mines until they were joined up. That one was the smaller of the two, slightly lower down and around the side of the mountain a bit from the main one. It's right next to a ruined cottage. But the entrance has been filled in too."

"Okay, thanks." Tom shook his hand. "By the way," he asked as he turned away, "when did the others get here exactly?"

"Hmmm. Let me see. About three days ago."

"Three days ago?" Tom frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes… Yes, I'm sure." The man nodded solemnly. "Because it was a Wednesday, and I always take Argento to town on a Wednesday." The dog's ears pricked up at the sound of his name.

"Okay." Tom smiled gratefully. "Thanks for your help. Enjoy your walk."

"We will. Come on, Argento." The man clicked his tongue and they both set off, the leash snapping taut as the dog strained to run ahead.

Tom turned to face Archie, Dominique, and Viktor's expectant eyes.

"There's an old copper mine here," he explained. "Apparently the main entrance was sealed toward the end of the war. Three days ago some men turned up here with mechanical diggers and made their way up there. The painting, though, points to another, smaller entrance to the mine."

"Three days ago?" Dominique frowned. "That's not possible. Renwick only got hold of the painting two days ago. He couldn't have known about this place until then."

"Exactly," said Tom. "Put that together with the hit men in St. Petersburg that we know Renwick didn't send, and the murder of Maria Lammers, and it all starts to add up."

"It does?" Viktor asked.

"What to?" Archie added.

"It tells us Renwick isn't the only one who's been trying to stop us finding this. Whoever these people are, they got here three days ago. And they didn't need the painting to find it."

"Who?" asked Viktor.

"If I had to guess…" said Tom, "the same people who hid it here in the first place."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

Tom was armed with a compass, but it soon proved superfluous. The route up to the mine was easily identifiable even in the fading light, a narrow path that hugged the side of the mountain on a shallow rise, the ground plunging away sharply to their left. Even so, Tom checked their progress every so often, his CIA field training from what seemed like two lifetimes ago filtering back into his memory.

Although not steep, the path was hard going, the snow icy in some places where it had been melted by the sun and then frozen by the moon. Elsewhere it was soft and deep, and their ankles disappeared into the powder that had long since swallowed up any tracks that might have been made by the diggers that had preceded them up the mountain.

They walked on in silence, the only sound the crunch of their feet and the wind whistling past their ears, its pitch growing in intensity as the altitude increased. Occasionally, a particularly vicious gust would spray loose snow up into the air, and then it would ghost around them, spiraling and skipping along the path, until the wind dropped and it would faint gracefully back to the ground.

Eventually the path began to level out. At that moment they heard voices, faint echoes carried to them on the wind, and then the sound of a powerful engine and the dull throb of steel striking stone.

"Quick!" Tom shepherded them off the path, and they half fell, half slid into the trees that lined the steep incline that lay beneath it.

"According to the old man, that's the main entrance up ahead," Tom whispered to the others as they crouched around him in the trees' shadows, their trunks thrusting above them like black marble columns. "From the sound of it, that's where they're trying to get in."

"How are we going to get past them?" Viktor asked.

"You're not," Tom said firmly, sensing that his opportunity to split Viktor from her men had arrived. "Archie and I will go round to the other entrance and see what we can find there. You and Dom stay out of sight and keep an eye on these guys, in case they decide to try the other entrance too."

"Niet." Viktor flashed him an indignant look. "If you're going over there, then so am I."

"Me too," said Dominique, flashing Viktor a supportive glance.

"This is our mess, not yours," Tom insisted. The last thing he needed right now was Dominique being difficult.

"It became my mess when my club got shot up and six of my men killed. We're partners in this, remember? Either we all go or we all stay."

"Look, I'm not trying anything on, okay?" Tom pleaded. "Someone needs to watch our backs. I'd rather it was you two, who I know I can trust."

Viktor and Dominique exchanged a glance.

"Okay," Dominique conceded.

"Fine." Viktor gave a grudging shrug. "But you'll take Grigory and the others with you. That's the deal."

Squatting on their haunches, their eyes expectant and alert, AKs at the ready, Viktor's men exuded a menacing but at the same time reassuring presence.

"Done," said Tom, grateful, in a way, to have them along.

"Let's make sure we stay in contact." He patted the radio in his pocket. "First sign of trouble, you let us know."

"The same goes for you." Dominique's voice was stern. "I know what you two are like. No heroics. Go and see what you can find, and then we meet back here to decide what to do."

"Okay. And take this." He handed over a business card. "It's the number for the FBI agent who helped us out in St. Petersburg. If anything happens, call him. He'll be able to get some people up here."

After a final weapons check, Tom, Archie, and Viktor's three men headed off, the sharp hiss of the wind slithering through the trees alongside them and occasionally coiling around their ankles. Above them the slanted curtain of snow ripped itself on the sharp branches overhead, dropping to the ground in narrow ribbons.

About half a mile on, Archie gave a low whistle and pointed ahead of him. As the old man had predicted, the ruins of a cottage lay in a small clearing, its brick foundations grimy with age, poking through the snow like tree stumps blackened by fire. And next to them, disappearing into the side of the mountain, was an opening just large enough to stand up in. An opening that, judging from the large pile of earth and rubble below it, staining the snow like a pool of spilled black ink, had only recently been excavated.

"Someone's already here," Archie whispered, scanning the trees that encircled them.

Tom edged warily across the clearing and knelt to examine the footprints leading to the entrance.

"I'd say there's six or seven of them. No more." With Archie at his side, he padded silently to the side of the entrance and peered in. "It's Renwick, it must be. He's the only other person who could have got this location from the painting. But if he's had to dig out this lot by hand, I doubt he's been inside very long."

"We should radio the others," said Archie. "Tell them what we've found."

"I suppose so." Tom didn't sound convinced.

"Or…?"

"Or what?"

"Or, we could have a quick look inside ourselves. See if he's still down there."

"If we told them, they'd only want to come in with us," said Tom, nodding. "You know what Dom's like. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

"Besides, if it is Renwick down there, I'd rather we had the bastard to ourselves."

"I agree." Tom clenched his jaw. "There's five of us, seven of them. That's not bad odds."

"Plus, they won't be expecting us," Archie added.

"You're right. Let's end this now."

CHAPTER NINETY

Where are you going?" Dominique asked Viktor, the expression on her face mirroring her surprise. "To take a look at what is happening up there."

"But Tom said to wait here."

"Do you always do what Tom tells you?" asked Viktor with a smile. "It depends."

"You don't trust me, do you?"

"I don't know you."

There was a pause. Viktor appeared to be considering what to say. "Here," she said eventually, reaching into the leather holster strapped under her arm, "know how to use one of these?" She held out a .38.

"Yeah." Back when she'd been living rough, a boyfriend had taught her how to handle a gun. Luckily it was a skill she'd never had to use. Until now, at least.

"It's loaded," Viktor said as she handed it to her. "Maybe that'll help you trust me a bit more."

Dominique snapped the gun open, checked the barrels, then flipped it shut again. It was loaded as Viktor had promised.

"It takes more than a loaded gun to make me trust someone," Dominique observed wryly.

"Not in Russia." Viktor smiled. "Now, if we stay out of sight down here in the trees and follow the side of the path, we might be able to find a place where we can take a look over the edge."

Despite Dominique's reservations, there was something about Viktor's reckless energy that Dominique could not help but like. Perhaps she recognized similar traits in herself.

"Okay." She slipped the gun into her jacket. "Let's take a look."

They set off, the snow thick where it had drifted, the steep embankment that led up to the path above them marked by occasional animal tracks.

The sounds of machinery grew ever louder, accompanied now by the throaty roar of at least one engine, maybe two, and the occasional shout or burst of laughter from the crew excavating the mine entrance.

"Get back," Dominique hissed, pulling Viktor farther back into the trees as she heard someone approaching.

A man appeared above them. Visible only from the knees up, his ghostly silhouette seemed to hover in the air. He was wearing a white alpine-commando-style ski outfit, with a submachine gun slung casually over his shoulder.

Peering up at him through the branches, Dominique could just about make out the glowing ember of a cigarette in his mouth. He took a final draw on it, the tip flaring and momentarily staining his cheeks red, before plucking it from his mouth and flicking it away. The butt sailed through the air and struck the branches above where they were crouched, exploding in a firework of orange sparkles that melted into the air. A name was called and, grumbling, the man turned and floated out of sight.

They continued around the side of the mountain, keeping the edge of the path above them in sight at all times, until, the noise fading slightly, they felt that they had moved a safe distance beyond the main center of activity.

"I'll go first," Viktor volunteered. Digging the points of her boots into the snow and using the branches of the surrounding trees to pull herself up, she quickly scrambled her way to a position from which she was able to get her head just above the edge of the path for a clear view of what was happening.

"What can you see?" Dominique called in a low voice. Viktor reached for her binoculars.

"I count… twenty people. About half are armed like that man we just saw. The others must be operating the machinery, judging from the way they're dressed."

"I'm coming up," Dominique replied.

A few moments later, Dominique pulled herself into position at Viktor's side. Viktor handed her the binoculars.

Some of the men were standing around in small groups, talking and smoking. Others, dressed in hard hats and thick blue jackets with reflective strips sewn onto them, seemed to be overseeing the excavation efforts, as Viktor had suggested. A large digger and a bulldozer were attacking the side of the mountain. Already they had exposed a wide tunnel, the spoil having been dumped on either side of the entrance in hulking ramparts of soil and rock. Two generators powered several lights that washed the whole scene in a yellowish sodium hue.

Suddenly a shout went up. A man raced toward the entrance and then signaled to the armed men. Though they couldn't make out what had been said, from the way the men began to check their weapons, Viktor and Dominique had no difficulty in interpreting the signal.

"They're nearly through," Viktor whispered. "Get on the radio to Tom. Let him know."

"Okay," said Dominique, reaching into her pocket. She depressed the call button and whispered softly, "Tom, are you there? Come in, Tom."

There was nothing but the muffled hiss of static.

"Come in, Tom," she called again.

Still nothing.

"He's not answering," she said. "They must be out of range."

"Not likely," Dominique said bitterly. "These things go for miles, and we're still all on the same side of the mountain. No, if I know Tom and Archie, they've probably found a way inside and used it."

"In that case, we've got to get down there and warn them."

"Agreed," said Dominique. "Hold up. Who's that?"

"Which one?"

"The man on the left. Fur hat. Next to the light. He seems to be in charge."

Viktor took the binoculars from her and adjusted the focus. "I don't know. I don't recognize him."

"What's he doing?" Dominique squinted.

"I'm not sure," said Viktor. The man had removed his coat and was now unfolding a white sheet that he had taken from a bag at his feet. "It looks like he's getting changed or something."

"Changed? Into what?"

The sheet, once unfolded, turned out to be a white coverall. The man pulled it on over his clothes, boots included, then fixed a mask and respirator over his face. Finally he pulled the hood over his head and tightened the drawstrings to form an airtight seal against his skull.

"They're all putting them on. Look." All the armed men were getting changed into similar outfits.

"It looks like some sort of NBC suit."

"NBC?" Viktor frowned.

"Nuclear, Biological, Chemical — standard military issue to avoid contamination in the field."

"Contamination!" Viktor dropped the binoculars from her face and locked eyes with Dominique. "Contamination from what? I thought we were here for the Amber Room."

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

From the symmetrical tool marks that inscribed the walls, the mine looked as though it had been dug out the old-fashioned way, with picks and shovels. Large wooden frames had been positioned every fifteen feet or so to buttress the roof, age having buckled and colored them until they seemed almost to have petrified and become part of the mountain itself, gray and heavy.

Tom paused and aimed his flashlight at the ceiling where blast marks had scorched the stone. "Do you see that?"

Archie nodded. "Looks like some sort of explosive was sunk in there — dynamite, probably — to collapse the roof."

"Yeah," Tom agreed. "They certainly didn't want anyone wandering in here by mistake."

They carried on, the mine shaft rising at a slight angle, Tom and Archie leading, Piotr and Grigory bringing up the rear; Yuri had been posted at the tunnel entrance as a precaution. Their flashlights sliced the air jaggedly as they walked, the beams fading as they disappeared into the distance until eventually the darkness swallowed them whole. Occasionally the light would catch their breath as they exhaled, and the air would momentarily flare like car headlights burning through mist.

Their breathing, even the rustle of their clothes, was amplified and bounced back at them off the tunnel walls, as if they were walking down the nave of some huge, silent church. Every so often their feet would crunch on frozen animal droppings or the occasional rabbit or bird carcass, presumably brought in there by a fox or some other enterprising creature.

Then, unexpectedly, a thin strip of light appeared in front of them. A strip of light that grew taller and taller as the shaft leveled out, until they could see what looked like a large rectangular yellow window set against the blackness of the tunnel.

"That must be it," Tom whispered excitedly, flicking his light off.

They edged carefully toward the light, covering the remaining fifty or so feet silently until they could see that the tunnel emerged into a large, naturally formed chamber. Tom heard Archie gasp behind him as he stepped gingerly inside.

The chamber had been lit with four battery-powered spotlights. A massive Nazi flag hung down from the roof, perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet across. A Nazi flag with one crucial difference: the usual swastika had been replaced with the now familiar symbol of the Black Sun, its twelve jagged rays extending into the room like skeletal fingers clawing their way out of a grave.

"Christ," Archie whispered as his eyes settled on the two objects positioned directly beneath the flag. "They're here. They're still bloody here."

Tom shook his head, hardly believing what he was seeing. It was an incredible sight. Two missing freight cars from a mysterious train, hauled up an Austrian mountain and hidden deep inside it. Two hulking shapes, squat and solid and functional, like silent extras from a wartime newsreel — except this time rendered in color, rather than black and white.

"They don't look like they've been opened yet," whispered Tom, pointing excitedly at the thick iron bars that had been rammed through the hasp of each door.

"Renwick must be down here somewhere," Archie warned. "Let's deal with him first."

They slowly made their way around the two cars, pausing on the other side where another, much bigger tunnel — the one the cars had presumably come down — disappeared off into the darkness.

"That must lead to the main entrance," Tom said. The muffled drone of an engine confirmed his suspicion.

"Look." Archie's gaze had settled on a tight bundle of slender tree trunks positioned against the wall by the tunnel entrance. He walked up to them and kicked the nearest one. It made a dull clang.

"Railway tracks," Tom said, kneeling for a closer look. "And sleepers. See, they're piled all the way down the tunnel."

"Presumably, when the mine was active, there was some sort of spur off the main line that ran beside that path we've just walked up," Archie said.

"They must have moved the cars up here, lifted the track behind them, and then collapsed the roof."

"We should check out that tunnel," Archie suggested. "See how long we've got before they break through. Make sure Renwick isn't hiding from us down there."

They set off down the tunnel, treading warily, guns leveled at the darkness ahead of them, the glow of the chamber receding behind them until it was a tiny window of light in the distance. But as the light receded, so the noise of the digging at the main entrance grew, until they could feel the earth shaking beneath their feet to the muffled beat of the machinery on the other side of the sheer wall of stone and earth that confronted them once they reached the end of the tunnel.

"They'll be through any time now," Tom called over the noise.

"Maybe that's what scared Renwick off," said Archie.

"Possibly," Tom said skeptically. "Doesn't seem like him, though — to come so close and then give up. Maybe he's gone to get reinforcements."

"Well, he's not here now. And I don't know about you, but I'd like to take a look inside those carriages."

Tom smiled. "We both would. But I'm not sure there's much point if we can't get it out."

"I thought you said you were going to call that FBI guy, Bailey, once we knew what was going on?"

"That was the deal, but—"

"Before you call in the cavalry, don't you want to check there's something here?"

"What about the people on the other side of that?" Tom nodded toward the collapsed mine entrance. "We don't want to get caught in here when they break through."

"Why don't we leave Piotr down this end? As soon as they look like coming in, he can run back and tell us. We can send Grigory up the other end to keep Yuri company and make sure Renwick doesn't sneak in behind us."

"That should work," Tom agreed. "But we'd better be quick."

After some rapid instructions, mainly communicated through hand signals, Piotr and Grigory left to take up their sentry positions. As soon as both men were out of sight, Tom and Archie turned their attention to the two freight cars.

They were of standard construction, wooden panels slatted horizontally into a rectangular frame, with angled cross-pieces at regular intervals for extra reinforcement. Apart from the obvious effects of age, both cars looked remarkably intact, although the left-hand one seemed to be on the losing end of a long fight against rot and woodworm, and a thick beard of rust coated both undercarriages. Against the flaking orange-red paint on the sides, two sets of faded white letters and serial numbers were just about legible.

They both stepped forward to the side door of the first car, a large panel almost a third of the length, that slid back along a set of metal runners.

But just as he was about to pull back on the door, Tom noticed that the holes in the woodwork that he had previously assumed to have been caused by woodworm and rot were far too symmetrical to be the product of any natural process.

They were bullet holes.

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

Asudden chill ran through the pit of Tom's stomach and he knew it wasn't the cold. Archie, too, from the look he flashed him, had registered the locked door and the bullet holes and was asking himself the same question. Were the carriages empty when those holes had been made, or had the doors been locked for a more sinister reason than simply to ensure they didn't fly open in transit?

Tom grasped the top of the iron bar that had been jammed into the hasp but, corroded by years of disuse, it wouldn't budge. He tugged it from side to side, slowly gaining a bit of play, until it eventually slid free with a shriek that set his teeth on edge. He threw the bar to the ground with a clang and then folded the clasp back, the hinge stiff and cold. It required the combined efforts of both of them to tug the door open. Finally, with Tom pulling and Archie pushing on the massive iron handle, the door scraped back one foot, then two, protesting furiously all the way.

"That'll do," said Tom, panting. "You should be able to fit through there."

"You mean you should be able to fit through there," Archie said, smiling. "Here, I'll give you a leg up." He clasped his hands together to form a cradle, and Tom stepped onto it and pulled himself through the gap. Crouching in the doorway, he reached for his flashlight but realized that it was very nearly redundant. The lights outside were being funneled through the bullet holes to form hundreds of narrow splinters of light, all of different heights and angles, crisscrossing the interior of the wagon like swords thrust through the sides of a wooden box. It was strangely beautiful. "You all right?" Archie called.

"Yeah." Tom looked back over his shoulder and gave him a nod. He turned back and this time switched the flashlight on, running it over the ceiling and the walls.

Nothing.

He stood up and took a couple of steps, then stepped on something hard that snapped under his feet. He flicked the light down to see what he had trodden on. Recoiling, he saw that it was a leg bone. A human leg bone.

"Archie, you'd better get up here," Tom called out.

"Why, what's up?" Archie jumped up to the open door, his legs dangling free and his shoulders only just inside the car. Tom hauled him inside.

"Look…"

Tom let his flashlight play across the floor. There must have been, he estimated, about thirty bodies there, all lying across each other, awkward and sunken, as if they were slowly being sucked into the floor. Only their skeletons were left, the bones, where they emerged from frayed sleeves and trouser legs or peered out from under rotting caps, glowing white.

"Who were they?" Archie breathed. "POWs? Civilians?"

"I don't think so…" Tom stepped forward, picking his way carefully through the twisted remains and picked up a cap that had rolled free. He pointed at its badge, a swastika, each of its arms ending in an arrow point. "The Arrow Cross — it was worn by Nazi troops from Hungary."

"Which is where Lasche said the Gold Train originally set out from."

"Yeah," said Tom. "From what I remember, he said it was guarded by Hungarian troops. This must be what's left of them."

A quick search revealed nothing apart from the bodies they could already see. Nothing, that is, except, frozen in the beam of Tom's light, a single name scratched on one wall, close to the floor. Josef Kohl. Someone who, Tom surmised, had survived the slaughter only to die of starvation, surrounded by the rank stench of his decaying comrades.

The discovery silenced them both.

"How do you suppose this played out?" Archie asked eventually.

Tom shrugged. "We know that the train was on its way to Switzerland. When the bridge at Brixlegg was bombed, it must have turned back and hid in a tunnel in the hope that the bridge would be repaired. That's where the Americans found it. Clearly, somewhere between Brixlegg and the tunnel, a decision was taken to uncouple these two carriages and haul them up here with the help of some of the Hungarian guards. Once they'd got it in here, the guards were disarmed, locked inside the carriage, and executed. Finally the tracks leading up here were lifted and the mine entrance was collapsed to ensure that the secret was kept safe."

"So whatever they were protecting must be in the other carriage?"

"There's only one way to find out," Tom said with a tight smile.

But as they turned, the door rolled shut and they heard the unmistakable rasp of the metal pin being slid back into the hasp.

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

What do you think we should do?" Dominique threw a questioning glance at Viktor who, grim-faced, was studying the armed men as they checked each other to make sure the suits were correctly fitted. "Get down there and tell them."

"We'll never make it in time," Dominique pointed out. "We haven't got the map, and I've no idea where the entrance is. By the time we find it, it'll be too late."

Viktor was silent as she tried to think of a way of getting word to Tom. How could they warn him, not only that he was about to have company, but that the newcomers' expectation of what lay at the bottom of this mine was clearly very different from anything they had envisaged. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp tug on her arm.

"Someone's coming," Dominique hissed.

One of the machine operators had detached himself from the crew and was hurrying in their direction. Viktor ducked down out of sight, but the steady crunch of the snow indicated that the man was still approaching. In fact, he seemed to be heading straight for them.

Pressing herself into the face of the slope, her right leg wedged in the cleft of a low branch, Viktor swung her AK-47 out from behind her back and gently cocked it.

Still the footsteps came. She readied herself to fire, determined to take out whoever had seen them rather than let him raise the alarm.

The footsteps stopped just above her head. Barely daring to breathe, she looked up and could just about make out the man's shape. Standing on the edge of the path, legs slightly parted, he loomed above them like some huge colossus, his face framed against the clear evening sky. Looking back nervously over his shoulder, the man reached down.

A pale gold stream of urine sliced through the darkness and arced gracefully over their heads, melting a jagged yellow zigzag in the snow below, the ground hissing and steaming.

Viktor looked up at Dominique with a grin and saw her stifle a laugh. But then a thought occurred to her. A way of getting word to Tom and Archie. The only problem was, it would require her to act fast.

To act now.

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

Tom pressed his face against the wall and peered through one of the bullet holes. "Renwick," he whispered when he saw the figure standing in the middle of the chamber, a triumphant smile carved across his face. Next to him was Johann Hecht. Five other thuggish-looking men, presumably other members of Kristall Blade, were making their way across the chamber to join them.

"How did they get past Viktor's men?" Archie said in a choked voice, selecting another bullet hole and looking for himself. "I thought they were meant to be guarding the entrance?"

"They were," Tom said grimly, recognizing the two bloody and lifeless bodies lying in a crumpled heap at Ren-wick's feet.

"As soon as I heard that you were coming through the forest, I knew you would not be able to resist going into the mine, Thomas," Renwick bellowed. "It was very kind of you to climb inside one of the carriages, though. It certainly made the job of rounding you up a lot easier."

"Save it, Harry," Tom shouted. "The gloating doesn't suit you."

"Surely you would not deny me my small moment of triumph?" Tom didn't answer, but then Renwick didn't seem to be expecting a reply. "In any case, I have to applaud you, Thomas, for finding this place so quickly." Renwick raised his eyebrows in what Tom took to be some form of grudging admiration. "Johann, however, is rather irked by your persistence." Standing next to him, Hecht menacingly fingered the trigger of his Heckler & Koch MP5, his jaw sliding gently from side to side as he chewed a piece of gum.

"I'm sorry if I've disappointed him," Tom said in mock contrition, turning his attention as he spoke to examining the inside of the car again in the hope of identifying an escape route.

"Getting out of the vault was one thing," Renwick continued. "Escaping the museum — well, if anyone could have achieved that, it had to be you. But decoding a painting you did not even have? That was impressive. Especially when I had gone to the trouble of making sure there was no chance of Turnbull giving anything away."

"When did you get here?" Tom asked, trying to buy time as he tested the strength of the walls and the floorboards, trying to detect any that were loose.

"Late last night. It has taken us quite some time to dig out the entrance. As a matter of fact, we had been inside only a few minutes when you appeared. By the way, Thomas, if you are thinking of trying to get out of there, you are wasting your time," Renwick boomed. "Those carriages are quite secure. The Nazis had them reinforced to the highest specifications in order to ensure the security of their most precious cargo."

"Like a platoon of murdered Hungarian soldiers?" Tom called back, giving up on his search with an angry shrug.

"Like whatever is in the second carriage. In fact, we were just about to open it when we got word you were on your way. Now you can have ringside seats for the grand unveiling — the first glimpse of the Amber Room in over fifty years!"

Two men armed with bolt cutters advanced toward the rusting padlock that secured the door. A few moments later, there was the sound of a door being rolled back.

"I can't see anything," Archie whispered. "Can you?"

Tom shook his head. His field of vision was restricted, the bullet holes allowing him only to see to the front and rear of the car. The side where the door was located was hidden from view. But then the two men emerged, stumbling under the weight of a large crate, which they half placed, half dropped on the floor.

"Careful, you idiots," Tom heard Renwick shout.

Soon, five or six crates had been carried out to the center of the room.

"How the hell do you expect to get them out of here?" Tom called. "You know who's digging out the main entrance, don't you? They can't be far off now."

"No more than a few feet, I would say. Would you not agree, Johann?" Renwick turned toward Hecht, who gave a curt nod. "As to who they are, I can only assume — as I am sure you have — that it is some last remnant of the Order. Who else could have located this site without the aid of the code on the portrait? They have been at it for quite a few days now, but then, they had a hundred and fifty feet of solid rock to get through. Our entrance, thankfully, was a somewhat easier one to excavate."

"They've been protecting this place for fifty years," yelled Tom. "You think they're just going to let you walk away?"

"I doubt they will have much choice." Renwick smiled. "You see, among his many talents, Johann is an expert in explosives. He has mined both tunnels. One of his men has replaced the unfortunate chap you left near the entrance, and he will alert us the instant they break through. As soon as they do, we will let them into the tunnel a little way and then set off the charges."

"You'll kill them all," Tom exclaimed.

"That is the general idea, yes."

A sudden roar echoed up the larger tunnel, then the sound of an engine changing gear. Renwick flicked his head toward where the noise had come from, his smile vanishing.

"They're inside," Hecht shouted. "They're inside."

"How can they be?" Renwick seemed shaken. "We have received no word." He grabbed his radio. "This is Renwick, come in," he barked. "Are you there? We heard an engine, it sounds as if it is inside the mine. Come in, damn you!"

He spun to face Hecht, his eyes wide, agitation turning to alarm. "Your sentry must be dead. Set off the charges."

"But we don't know how far into the mine they've come."

"It does not matter. Either we will kill them or block their way. One is as good as the other. We cannot afford to take risks. Not now we are so close."

Hecht gave a nod and picked up a small black box, about the size of a cigarette packet, with four red buttons set into it. Gripping the end of the silver aerial between his teeth, he tugged until it was fully extended, then turned to face the tunnel. The noise was growing ever louder, and in the distance two faint yellow specks glowed like cat's eyes. Eyes that seemed to be growing.

"Do it, Johann," Renwick urged, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Now."

Hecht depressed the top button.

Nothing happened.

"What the devil is going on?" Renwick spluttered. "Do it now or it will be too late."

"I'm sorry, Cassius," Hecht said, exchanging the remote detonator for a gun that he leveled squarely at Renwick's chest. "For you, it already is too late."

"What's going on?" Archie whispered.

"Renwick's being turned over," Tom said excitedly. "Hecht's betrayed him."

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

The bulldozer juddered to a halt at the entrance to the chamber, its headlights forcing everyone except Tom and Archie, who could barely see it, to hold their hands in front of their faces, shielding their eyes from the glare. Abruptly, first the engine, then the lights were killed.

Ten heavily armed men emerged from behind the bulldozer, like infantrymen following a tank. To Tom's surprise, they were all wearing white chemical-warfare suits. They looked strangely robotic as they fanned out through the chamber, their faces masked and inscrutable.

Two of them approached Renwick and frisked him. Hecht, meanwhile, jerked his head in the direction of the car that Tom and Archie were in. Immediately, two of the armed men ran to the door and opened it, indicating with a wave of their guns that Tom and Archie should jump down. Once outside, they were frisked at gunpoint, then shoved toward Renwick, who stood silently glaring at Hecht, his eyes brimming with rage.

One of the men in white now made his way to the middle of the chamber. He was carrying a briefcase, which he placed flat on the ground. Flicking the catches open, he re-

moved what looked like a large microphone and held it in the air above his head while consulting the screen of a small computer inside the case.

Moments later, he called out in German and, with a relieved sigh, the men pulled off their hoods and discarded their respirators.

One man, however, remained hooded, his face still concealed by a mask. Unarmed, he walked slowly up to Hecht. Suddenly, the two men threw their arms around each other and embraced warmly, patting each other on the back. Tom could just about make out the hooded man's muffled words and Hecht's reply.

"Well done, Colonel."

"Thank you, sir."

The two men broke off and saluted each other smartly.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Archie exploded. "Who are you people?"

The masked man turned to them and pulled back his hood before sliding his mask off his face.

Tom spoke first, his voice strangled and disbelieving. "Volz?"

"Who?" Renwick spoke for the first time, his eyes flicking from Hecht to Volz's stout frame.

"He runs the private bank in Zurich where Weissman and Lammers had hidden the map," Tom explained.

Volz ignored Tom, however, and approached Renwick.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Herr Renwick — or do you prefer Cassius? Colonel Hecht here has spoken very highly of your efforts over the past few months."

"Is this some sort of joke?" Renwick hissed through clenched teeth.

Tom couldn't help but give a rueful smile. Despite their desperate situation, surrounded by armed men in an abandoned mine deep under an Austrian mountain, it was good to see Renwick finally on the receiving end of the sort of duplicity that he so regularly served up to others.

"No joke, Cassius," said Volz.

"Then what is the meaning of this?"

"You don't recognize my voice?" There was a pause, then Renwick's eyes narrowed. "Dmitri?"

"As I said, it's a pleasure to meet you finally."

"What is this circus?" Renwick snapped. "We had a deal. We agreed, no tricks."

"We agreed to lots of things," Volz replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But that was when you thought you had something to bargain with. The situation has, I'm sure you'll agree, changed somewhat."

"Why are you dressed up in that gear?" Tom interrupted their exchange. "What exactly were you expecting to find down here?"

"At last, an intelligent question," Volz said with a clap. "And one that you can help me answer. Would you be so kind as to open that crate." He pointed at one of the crates Hecht's men had unloaded earlier.

"What?" Tom's voice was uncertain.

"You heard me. Open the crate," Volz insisted, grabbing a crowbar off one of his men and tossing it to Tom. "Open it now."

Tom approached the crate indicated by Volz. Like all the others, it had some sort of identification code and a swastika stamped on one side. He slipped the crowbar under the lid and levered it up. It rose a few inches, the nails shrieking as they were pulled free. Tom repeated the procedure on the other side, and the lid came off and flopped to the floor.

The crate was packed with straw, which Tom removed in big handfuls until he was finally able to make out a dark shape. He reached in. It felt soft and silky. He pulled it out.

"A fur coat?" Archie said disbelievingly as Tom held it up. "Is that it?"

He leaped to Tom's side and leaned into the crate, pulling out first one coat, then another and another, flinging them over his shoulder.

"This can't be right," he said when he had reached the bottom of the crate and stood up to survey the mound of black and brown and golden furs. "There must be a mistake."

Renwick was staring at the pile disbelievingly, his eyes bulging.

"Open another one," Volz said gleefully. "Any one. It won't make a difference."

Archie grabbed the crowbar off Tom and opened another crate.

"Alarm clocks," he said, holding one up for everyone to see before dropping it back inside with a crash.

He opened another. "Typewriters."

Then another. "Silk underwear." He held up a bra and camisole before throwing them at Volz. They fell well short.

"Okay, Volz, you made your point," Tom said slowly.

"Surely Lasche told you these were some of the items that were loaded on the train?" Volz asked with a shrug. "I don't see why you're so surprised."

"Don't play dumb. Where is it?" Renwick demanded.

"Where is what?" Volz said, in mock confusion.

"You know damn well what," Renwick snapped. "The Amber Room. Why else do you think we are all here?"

Volz laughed. "Ah yes, the Amber Room. Amazing how that myth refuses to die."

"It's not a myth." Renwick fired back.

"No need to feel foolish. Thousands have fallen for the same deluded fantasy. And I'm certain thousands more will follow."

"You're saying it doesn't exist?" Tom asked. "I'm saying it was destroyed in the war."

"Rubbish," said Renwick.

"Is it?" Volz sniffed.

"It was moved to Konigsberg Castle. Everyone knows that. Then it vanished. It was hidden."

"It didn't vanish and no one hid it. If you must know, it was burned. Burned by the very Russian troops who'd been sent to recover it. They overran Konigsberg Castle in April 1945 and, in their haste, set fire to the Knight's Hall. They didn't know that the Amber Room was being stored there. Just as they probably didn't know that, being a resin, amber is highly flammable. By the time they realized what they had done, it was too late."

"If that story were true, it would have come out before now," Renwick said dismissively.

"Really? You think the Soviets would freely admit that their own troops destroyed one of Russia's most precious treasures? I don't think so. Far easier for them to accuse the Nazis of having hidden this irreplaceable gem than face that particular embarrassment. You may not believe me, but I've seen the Kremlin documents in the Central State Archive of Literature and Art that confirm it. Not only did the Russians know that the Amber Room had been destroyed, they used it as a pawn in their negotiations for the return of valuable works of art from Germany."

Volz's eyes shone brightly, and Tom could see that, on this point, at least, he was telling the truth. Or at least he believed he was.

"Then what are you here for?" Tom asked slowly.

"For that," said Volz, pointing at the second car. "Show them, Colonel."

Hecht grabbed the crowbar from Archie and approached the side of the car. He forced the end in between two of the wide wooden planks and levered it sideways. The wood splintered noisily. Then Hecht snapped off more planks, creating a large jagged hole in the side of the car. But instead of being able to see through into the car, as Tom had expected, they were confronted by an expanse of dull gray metal. Something had been built into the walls.

"Is that lead?" Tom asked.

"It is," said Volz. "Merely a protective layer, of course, to reduce the contamination risk.

"Contamination from what?" said Tom, already guessing and dreading the answer.

"U-235," replied Volz. "Four tons of it."

"U-what?" Archie, looking confused, turned to Tom.

"U-235," Tom explained, his voice disbelieving. "An isotope of uranium. It's the basic component of a nuclear bomb."

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

Anuclear bomb? You intend to build a nuclear bomb?" Tom couldn't tell whether Renwick was appalled or impressed.

"U-235 has a half-life of seven hundred million years. Even a minute amount, attached to a conventional explosive and detonated in an urban area, will create widespread radioactive fallout, triggering mass panic and economic collapse. Can you imagine the price this material would fetch from armed Middle Eastern groups, or even foreign governments? For years we have been building our organization in the shadows, almost unnoticed. Now, finally, we have the means not just to fight but to win our war. Now we are ready to reveal ourselves."

"But where has this come from?" Tom asked. "How did it get here?"

"Do you know what the markings on the side of this carriage denote?" Volz pointed at the series of flaking letters and numbers on the side of the second.

"Some sort of serial number?"

"Exactly. It identifies the contents as having come from Berlin. From the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physics in

Dahlem, to be precise. The headquarters of the Nazis' effort to produce a nuclear bomb."

"Rubbish!" Renwick said dismissively. "The Nazis never had a nuclear program."

"They all did," Volz snapped. "The Soviets called theirs Operation Borodino, the Americans the Manhattan Project. And Hitler was in the hunt too. In 1940 German troops in Norway seized control of the world's only heavy-water production facility and stepped up production of enriched uranium to supply the German fission program. There were stories after the war that German scientists had deliberately sabotaged Hitler's attempts to build an atomic bomb, but the truth was that they were trying as hard as they could. Some even say they detonated a few devices in Thuringia. But the Americans had thrown a hundred and twenty-five thousand people into their program. In the end, Hitler simply couldn't compete."

"So how far did they get?" Tom asked.

"Far enough to accumulate a considerable amount of fissile material. Material that Stalin was determined to get his hands on before the Americans could grab it. That's why he ordered Marshals Zhukov and Konev to race each other to Berlin: to be certain that the Red Army got there first. They say the effort cost the Russians seventy thousand men. Once there, special NKVD troops were dispatched to secure the institute. They arrived in April 1945 and discovered three tons of uranium oxide, two hundred and fifty kilograms of metallic uranium and twenty liters of heavy water. Enough to kick-start Operation Borodino and allow Stalin to start working on Russia's first atomic bomb."

"So you're saying they didn't find all the uranium?"

"They found what was there. But Himmler, ever resourceful, had already moved several tons by placing it in lead boxes built into the walls of a specially modified carriage. The Order personally supervised the shipment, meeting up with the Gold Train in Budapest in December 1944 and attaching their two carriages to it. As soon as they realized they wouldn't make it to Switzerland, they unhitched the carriages and brought them up here, to be recovered at a later date."

"And now the Order of the Death's Head lives on, is that it?" Tom asked. "Only this time armed with a weapon to destroy anyone who doesn't share your lunacy."

"The Order has nothing to do with me or my men," Volz retorted. "We wouldn't have stood idly by playing at knights while Germany was bleeding."

"Then how do you know all this? How did you find this place without access to the painting? Only the Order would have known this location."

Volz hesitated, as if deciding whether to answer. Then he reached inside his coat and produced a large black wallet. Opening it carefully, he withdrew a tattered black-and-white photograph, which he handed to Tom. The same photograph they had found in Weissman's house.

"Weissman and Lammers," Tom said, looking up. Ren-wick held his hand out for the photo and studied it closely.

"And the third man?" Volz asked. "Do you recognize him?"

Tom glanced at the photo again, then gave Volz a long, searching look. There was a definite family resemblance in the high forehead, straight, almost sculpted nose, and small round eyes that Tom had also noted in the portraits lining the Volz et Cie offices in Zurich.

"Your father?" Tom ventured.

"Uncle. The other two men were called Becker and All-brecht. Weissman and Lammers were names they hid behind after the war like the cowards they were."

"So you learned all this from him?" Archie asked.

"Some I know from him; some you have helped me discover. My uncle and his two comrades were plucked from the ranks because of their scientific knowledge and initiated into the Order as retainers."

Tom nodded, remembering that Weissman was a chemist and Lammers a physics professor.

"Three retainers for twelve knights," Tom said slowly. "In the same way that the Black Sun has three circles and twelve runes." He looked up at the huge flag above them.

"Exactly!" Volz smiled at Tom's perceptiveness. "Just as there were three medals and three paintings. My uncle accompanied the Order on the Gold Train's ill-fated escape across Europe while Lammers and Weissman prepared the crypt at Wewelsburg Castle. Then, as ordered, all three of them made their way back to Berlin, hiding what they knew even from each other. Then, just before the end, all three were entrusted with one final instruction."

"Which was?" Renwick asked, a blood vessel pulsing in his neck.

"To protect an encrypted message. A message that could be deciphered only with an Enigma machine configured with the right settings. A message that they hastily scrawled on a painting in a place that couldn't be seen once the frame was on. A painting that they found hanging in Himmler's office because he couldn't bring himself to destroy it."

"A painting that they then lost to the Soviets," Tom guessed.

"The Russians made it to Berlin far faster than anyone expected. Lammers and Weissman risked everything by returning to the SS building to recover the painting but soon realized that the Trophy Squad had beaten them to it. The only two Bellaks they could find were the ones of Wewels-burg Castle and the Pinkas Synagogue in Prague.

"So, Lammers and Weissman knew where the painting was headed, and they had the settings for the Enigma machine to decode the message, but the one thing they didn't know was the actual location of the Gold Train," said Tom.

"Only my uncle knew that," Volz confirmed. "Realizing this, they drew together a series of clues using the two Bel-laks they had managed to save, the specially engraved medals, and the map of the railway system so that others might follow — those of pure Aryan blood, true believers, who could use the riches of the Gold Train to found a new Reich."

"But if you knew all this," asked Archie, "why have you waited until now to come here and find the train?"

"Because I didn't know where the train was either."

"I thought you said your uncle had helped put it here? Surely he told you?"

Volz gave an exasperated laugh. "Unlike his two com-

rades, my uncle ended the war disgusted at what he had seen and what he had done. He realized how potent a weapon had been stored in this mountain and was determined that no one should ever be able to exploit it. So he set up his own council of twelve. But unlike the Order, his council's mission was to protect life, not destroy it. They did this by guarding the location of the site, whatever the cost. When he died five years ago, I was asked to take his seat on the council."

"Didn't they tell you the train's location?"

"My uncle, in his wisdom, had decreed that only one man — the leader of the council — should be entrusted with the location of the Gold Train. Only if the train was in imminent danger of being uncovered was the secret to be disclosed."

"So you used me to make them think their precious secret was in danger," Renwick said through gritted teeth.

"Johann and I had been fueling rumors about the Gold Train, the missing Bellaks, and the need for an Enigma machine to decode a secret message for years in the hope that it might help bring the portrait to light. When we discovered that you had taken the bait, I suggested that we flush you out by putting a price on your head through ads in the Herald Tribune. The council agreed, of course."

"So the raid in Munich…"

"…Was not real. Those were my men in the lobby. You were never in any danger. We wanted to make you think you were getting close, and to show the council that their methods were failing. That they needed a change of leader."

"Is that why you involved me?" Tom asked. "To make them sweat?"

"I didn't involve you," Volz said. "Turnbull was working for Cassius." Tom shot Renwick a look, but it went unseen. Renwick's hate-filled eyes were locked on Volz. "I took my inspiration from Stalin's strategy of pitting Zhukov and Konev against each other, and kept you both in the hunt. The irony, of course, was that the key to all this had been lying in my vault all the time. Until you showed up, I had no idea who that safety-deposit box belonged to. Had I known, all this might have been avoided."

"But you knew that Weissman and Lammers had left a map."

"The council tracked Lammers down a few years ago and made him talk. Unfortunately, his heart gave out before he could disclose the location of the crypt or the final painting. But he did reveal the settings for the Enigma machine, and the fact that Weissman was living in the UK. And of course we found the number tattooed on his arm, though we didn't know its significance at the time."

"Why did you excavate the main entrance when you could have come in the back like us in half the time?" asked Archie.

"Apart from the fact I need to get trucks down here if I am to move everything out? Simple. Three days ago, when we first got here, I didn't know about the smaller entrance. My uncle had passed on only the location of the larger entrance, through which he'd helped bring the carriages. It was the painting that divulged the existence of the smaller entrance. Perhaps the Order felt that route would be easier to ac-cess — who knows? When Johann told me how you'd got here and what you'd found, I decided to leave you to it. It was a way of keeping you busy and out of our way."

"The council will never let you get away with this," said Tom. "When they find out what you're up to, they'll do everything in their power to stop you."

"Which council? This one?" Volz reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of identical gold rings with a single diamond set into an engraved twelve-box grid, which he threw disdainfully to the floor. "It's a shame, really. I would have liked to see their faces when they realized that, indirectly, they had provided us with the means to shatter everything they have fought against all these years."

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

Hecht marched them up the smaller tunnel at gunpoint, roughly cuffed them with plastic tags, and then pushed them to the ground. Renwick resisted and got a rifle butt jabbed in his stomach for his trouble.

"I will not forget your betrayal, Hecht," Renwick said through gritted teeth. "I will make you pay."

"I doubt it, Cassius." Hecht sneered. "The next time I press this button, the explosives will work." He held up the remote detonator and waved it tauntingly in front of Ren-wick's face, before aiming a punch at the side of his head, his ring leaving a deep gouge mark just above Renwick's ear.

"How does it feel, Renwick?" Archie grinned as Hecht tramped off down the tunnel, leaving two men to stand guard over them. "Outwitted. Betrayed. Imprisoned."

"Rather than gloat, Connolly, try to think of a way to get us out of here," Renwick snapped, blood running down his face and dripping onto his shoulder.

"Getting us out of here." Archie gave a laugh. "Believe me, if I can find a way out, you won't be taking it."

They fell silent and the two guards lit up. The sounds of men working echoed up the tunnel from the chamber.

Hammering, drilling, sawing. Tom guessed that Volz's men were even now dismantling the carriage and preparing to transport its lethal cargo to… where? Wherever they wanted — that was the terrifying thing. Once unleashed, Volz would be unstoppable. Archie seemed to be reading his thoughts.

"Can he really make an atomic bomb out of that lot?"

"I doubt it," said Tom. "At least not without buying a lot of extra equipment and expertise. But he doesn't have to. He could make enough money auctioning the uranium off to finance a small army. Besides, there's always the prospect of the dirty bomb he described. Can you imagine the chaos if one of those went off in Berlin or London or New York?"

"So much for the Amber Room," Archie noted gloomily.

"I can't believe that, for all these years, everyone's been looking for something that didn't even exist," Tom remarked.

"Your father thought it existed," Renwick said. "Do you think he was wrong too?"

"Don't even mention his name," Tom snapped.

"You are forgetting that it was to me he turned, not you, when he heard rumors linking the Amber Room to a Nazi Gold Train and an Enigma-encoded message." Renwick gave a faint smile. "I thought nothing more of it until a few years ago when I came across an original Bellak in an auction in Vienna. I knew then that, if one had survived Him-mler's cull, perhaps others had too, including the portrait — and with them the chance of finding this place."

"Except you couldn't find any other Bellaks, could you?"

"Unfortunately, your father was in the mistaken belief that the painting had ended up in a private collection, which is where I focused my efforts. Fruitlessly, as it transpired. I enlisted your help because I thought a fresh pair of eyes might be of use. I was right."

"Yeah, well, it didn't do you much good, did it?" Archie pointed out tartly. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're about to get buried under a mountain, same as us."

"There's one thing I want to know." Tom locked eyes with Renwick. "Back in St. Petersburg, you said my father had known all along who you were. That he had worked with you. Was that another one of your lies?"

Renwick returned Tom's stare, but just as he seemed about to speak, Hecht returned from the end of the tunnel. At the sight of him, the two guards threw their cigarettes aside and stood up straight, one of them giving Archie a kick in the ribs for good measure, as if to show Hecht what a good job they were doing. He gave them an approving grunt.

"One of you go and fetch me a drink. Oh, and if you see Dmitri, tell him the charges are armed."

The guard nodded and trotted obediently off toward the chamber, passing a man in hard hat and reflective jacket who was heading toward them.

"What are you doing up here?" Hecht growled as the man approached. "You're meant to be in the chamber with the others helping unload that train."

The man shrugged and then, noticing that one of his laces was undone, stooped to tie it. As he did so, he raised his eyes toward Tom's and winked.

It was Viktor.

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

Tom glanced at Archie, who gave a slight nod. He had seen who it was too. "I asked you a question," Hecht challenged the still crouching Viktor. "Get back to your work."

"You bastard," Tom shouted, rolling onto Archie and kneeing him in the stomach. "This is your fault. Your greed's going to get us both killed."

Archie kicked out as he tried to roll out from under him, flexing his back like a wrestler trying to break a hold. "If it's anyone's fault, it's yours," he shouted back. "I told you to drop it."

Hecht stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Tom's shoulder to yank him free. Tom, however, reached around and sank his teeth into the flesh between forefinger and thumb. Hecht cried out in pain.

Viktor, meanwhile, stood up behind the other guard, whose attention had been drawn to the fight. Taking careful aim, she landed a heavy blow on the back of his head, dashing his skull. He fell to the floor, unconscious.

Hecht spun around, his bleeding hand clasped to his chest, the other reaching for his gun. Lying beneath him, Archie kicked out and caught his arm, sending his gun clattering to the ground. With a furious roar, Hecht launched himself at Viktor, his huge frame covering the distance between them in no time and sending her sprawling with a punch to the side of the head.

Viktor lashed out from where she had fallen, catching Hecht in the groin with her knee and bringing him down to the ground crying in pain. He immediately spotted his gun lying on the mine floor, and scrambled toward it on his hands and knees.

Seeing this, Tom struggled to his feet, using the mine wall to help push himself upright. He threw himself at Hecht, stars exploding in front of his eyes as he landed heavily on his injured shoulder. Hecht shrugged him off, but the delay was just long enough for Viktor to struggle to her feet and scoop the gun up as Hecht's massive hands were about to close on it.

She stepped toward him, his eyes still flashing with defiance, the muzzle hovering only inches from his nose. Then, in one swift movement, she brought the butt of the gun down hard on Hecht's temple. His face slammed into the dirt floor.

"God, am I glad to see you!" Tom wheezed between pained breaths.

"We told you not to go inside." She smiled as she pulled a knife from her boot and sliced Tom's hands free.

"Where did you get the outfit?" Archie asked as she crouched down next to him and cut his cuffs off too.

"One of Volz's men decided to take a leak a little too close for comfort." She grinned. "Luckily, he fitted."

"How did you know we were in here?" asked Tom.

"I didn't, but Dominique guessed you would be. Said you wouldn't be able to help yourselves. Good thing for you she knows you both so well."

"Where is she?" Tom looked around in concern, as if half expecting her to leap out from the shadows. "She's okay, isn't she?"

"She's gone back down to phone that FBI number you gave her. She seemed to remember seeing a phone line running into that old man's house. Come on, let's get out of here."

"Hold on," said Tom. "We can't just leave them to it. Once Volz makes it out of here with that uranium, no one will ever hear from him again until it's too late."

"You're right," said Archie. "But there's only three of us and over twenty of them. What do you have in mind?"

"Four if you untie me," Renwick observed.

Tom ignored him, considering his options. In the end, it was the sight of Hecht's sprawled bulk that gave him an idea.

"The detonator," Tom exclaimed. "We can use Hecht's charges to collapse the mine and trap them until the police arrive. Search him. He must still have it on him."

Archie turned Hecht over and patted him down, recovering the detonator in one pocket and a folded piece of paper in the other. He smoothed the piece of paper out on the floor and held his flashlight over it.

"It's a schematic of where the charges are. They're numbered one to four. There seem to be two sets in each tunnel, one at the entrance and one near the chamber."

"So if we let off charges two and three, we'll seal off the chamber at both ends."

"I'm not an explosives expert," Archie said with a frown, "but that's what it seems to be saying."

"Well, that's good enough for me," said Tom. "Let's get clear and then we'll set them off. We can't let Volz unload that train."

"You know, there may well be some people in the tunnel when you let those charges off," Archie pointed out. "They probably won't make it."

"I know." Tom compressed his lips. "But a lot more people may not make it if we don't stop Volz now."

They turned to leave, but Renwick, called out and stopped them in their tracks. "Thomas, dear boy. Surely you are not just going to leave me here?"

"Aren't I?" said Tom drily. "Just watch me."

"They will shoot me, you know that."

"Good. Then it will save me the trouble," Archie said.

Renwick ignored him, his eyes boring instead into Tom's. "You cannot do this, Thomas. Think about the times we had together. Think about the way things used to be between us. Unless you help me now, it will be as if you pulled the trigger."

"Don't listen to him, Tom," Archie warned.

"Answer my question." Tom walked over to where Ren-wick was still propped up against the mine wall. "Did my father know who you were? Did he work with you?"

"Let me go, then I will tell you."

Tom shook his head. "No. I'm fed up with negotiating with your lies." He reached into Renwick's jacket pocket and pulled out the gold Patek Philippe pocket watch that had once belonged to his father. "I'll take this," he said, taking a quick look at it and then slipping it into his coat. "You won't be needing it anymore."

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

They sprinted down the tunnel until the rectangle of blackness and the luminescent glow of the snow in the pale moonlight told them they were near the exit. Seconds later they spilled out into the fresh air, the relief of emerging from under the mountain's oppressive weight making them momentarily dizzy.

"Are you ready?" Tom asked when he had located a suitably broad tree to shelter behind, grasping the remote detonator in his right hand. They nodded, the mood suddenly somber. He flicked the unit on and extended the aerial. Four small lights glowed red, one next to each button.

"Two and three," Archie reminded him. "That'll seal either side of the chamber. Just two and three."

"Okay." Tom pressed the button marked 2. Far below them they heard a deep boom and then felt the ground shake. The snow that had accumulated on the upper branches of the fir trees above them fell to the ground with a thump. A stiff breeze blew up the mine shaft toward them, strong enough to ruffle Viktor's dark hair.

"Now three," she prompted him gently. Tom pressed button number 3. This time the sound was much closer, a throaty roar that seemed to grow louder and louder until it was chased out of the mine entrance in a cloud of smoke and dust that cloaked everything it came into contact with in a white shroud. Eventually, the smoke settled and they stepped toward the mine entrance, the air thick with dust.

"You still got your radio, Viktor?" Tom asked. "Let's call Dom and see whether she's managed to get down to that chalet yet."

Viktor located her radio and swapped it for the detonator. He turned it on and entered the encryption code that would allow him to tune it to the agreed frequency. But before he could speak into it, Viktor's voice rang out.

"Tom, look out."

She threw herself across him, shoving him to the ground as the crack of a gunshot split the night. He landed heavily on his back, Viktor on top of him, her body suddenly limp and heavy. She'd been hit.

Tom scrambled backward, dragging Viktor with him, until he reached a large snow-covered boulder, instinctively guessing which direction the shot had come from. A few moments later, Archie slid next to him as two further shots landed harmlessly in the snow.

"How is she?" Archie asked.

"Not good," Tom said grimly, cradling her head in his lap, her face pale. A bullet slammed into the rock above Tom's head, and he pulled back just in time to avoid a second shot, a firework of snow exploding overhead. "Who the hell is it? Where did they come from?"

Archie snatched a quick look around the other side of the rock. "It's Hecht."

"Hecht! Shit." Tom kicked himself for not having tied him up. He rolled Viktor over onto her side and saw the snow sticky and dark where the bullet had penetrated her lower back. "She needs help fast. We've got to do something before he works out that we don't have a gun. We're sitting ducks out here."

"Any ideas?"

"What about the fourth charge?"

"What?"

"The fourth explosive charge. Didn't you say it was near the entrance? If we set that off, we'll bury him."

"Where's the detonator?"

"Viktor had it," Tom said, feeling inside her pockets. "She took it off me when she gave me the radio. Shit, it's not here. She must have dropped it."

He peeked around the side of the rock and saw the detonator's sleek black shape lying in the snow.

"Can you see it?" asked Archie.

"Yeah," said Tom. "About ten feet away."

"Then this is the plan. I'll draw his fire while you run and get the detonator."

"No way." Tom shook his head. "It's too dangerous."

"It's not much more dangerous than waiting here for Hecht to come and find us, is it? And meanwhile, Viktor's bleeding to death."

"Okay," Tom conceded. "But keep your head down."

"Don't worry, I will." Archie grinned. "See you back here in five."

Archie jumped up and burst over to the right, heading for the nearest tree. A barrage of gunfire immediately erupted from the mine entrance, bullets fizzing through the air and embedding themselves in the trees with a thud or landing in the snow with a hiss. At the same time, Tom rolled out from the other side of the boulder and sprinted toward the detonator. The few seconds it took him to reach it seemed to last forever.

He grabbed it and turned to make his way back. The shooting stopped. Tom looked up fearfully and saw Hecht standing in the mine entrance, staring straight at him, a vicious leer etched across his scarred face, the gun raised and poised to fire. Tom froze, momentarily transfixed by Hecht's glittering eyes. But then he noticed a shadow peel away from the mine wall behind Hecht. A shadow with a knife glinting in its hand. A shadow with one hand.

Renwick.

With a frenzied cry, Renwick jumped on Hecht, plunging the knife into the small of his back. Hecht roared in pain, the gun dropping from his grasp as he reached around and clutched his wound, before bringing his blood-soaked hands back to his face. With an angry shout he spun to face Ren-wick, advancing slowly upon him like a bear walking on its hind legs. Renwick lunged at him again, catching him first across his forearm, then at the top of his thigh, but Hecht didn't seem to notice, advancing irresistibly until he fell on Renwick with a series of heavy punches. Both men tumbled to the ground and rolled out of sight down into the mine.

Tom ran back behind the boulder. Viktor had regained consciousness, and she smiled at him weakly.

"Hang in there," he said with a worried look. "Dom will have some people up here in no time. We'll soon have you back home."

"I'm not going back home," she said simply.

"Of course you are," Tom protested. "We'll patch you up. You'll be fine."

"I'm never going back. I've got it all planned. That's why I came here with you. So they couldn't stop me."

"What do you mean?"

"I've got money saved. I'm getting out. While I still can. Like you."

"Good for you," Tom said, tears filling his eyes as he saw the bloodstain swelling underneath her.

"Like you said, it's never too late," she said with a smile.

Tom said nothing, his throat swollen as he felt the life ebb out of her until, with a final burst of energy, Viktor suddenly reached up and pulled Tom's lips down to hers.

"Thank you." She exhaled, her hand slipping down Tom's neck, along his arm, to where his hand was holding the detonator. Her eyes flickering shut, she pressed the fourth button.

This time the explosion was ferocious and immediate as the mine entrance collapsed, bits of stone and debris flying through the air. Tom threw himself to the ground, his body arched over Viktor's to shield her. The heat of the blast seared into his cheeks, the ground twisting and groaning and moaning beneath him, the trees creaking and whining dangerously.

As the echo faded, a thick cloud of dust and smoke remained, hanging in the air like a heavy fog, making him cough and his eyes stream. He heard a shout and saw Dominique emerging into the clearing, accompanied by about ten armed Austrian policemen.

Tom looked down at Viktor's pale face. A smile was frozen on her lips. He carefully rearranged her hair to cover her scarred ear.

In the moonlight, the large pool of blood that had soaked into the snow around her looked quite black, like a dark mirror.