The Black Sun. James Twining

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

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

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

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

      ‘Agreed.’

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

      ‘Careful, Renwick. No tricks.’

      ‘No tricks,’ Renwick agreed.

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

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

      ‘No joke.’

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

      ‘Not just any train. A gold train.’

       TEN

       Nr Borough Market, London

       5th January – 1.03 p.m.

      ‘What’s he got to do with this?’

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

      ‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’

      ‘What do you know?’

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

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

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

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

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

      Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

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

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

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

      ‘Have you spoken to him since?’

      Tom gave a short laugh.

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

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

      ‘And what did the file say?’

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

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

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

      ‘From you?’

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

      ‘What do you mean?’

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

      ‘The coded Personals ads in the Tribune?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Tom laughed and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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