The Black Sun. James Twining

oasis of over 115,000 incandescent bulbs amidst the city’s dark winter nights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘Of course, sir. This way please.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘So? Did you get it?’

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

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

      ‘Where is it then?’

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

      ‘Is it the one?’

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

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

      ‘Damn.’

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

      ‘What are you implying?’ Renwick snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘What about him?’

      ‘He’s dead.’

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

      ‘We killed him.’

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘And what do I get in return?’

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

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

      ‘Where is the arm now?’

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

      Renwick shrugged.

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

      ‘Fifty–fifty.’

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

      ‘Sixty–forty then.’

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

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

      ‘I will go to London,’