The Black Sun. James Twining

said to keep it low-key, Vasquez, you macho idiot,’ Viggiano muttered under his breath.

      Silence from the farmstead. Again the amplified voice blared out.

      ‘I repeat, this is the FBI. You have ten seconds to show yourselves.’

      Still nothing. Viggiano’s radio crackled.

      ‘Nothing doing, sir. It’s your call.’

      ‘Make the breach,’ Viggiano ordered. ‘Now.’

      At each entrance the man with the battering ram stepped forward and slammed it into the lock. Both doors splintered on impact and flew open. A second man then lobbed a tear-gas canister through each open doorway. A few seconds later, the canisters exploded, sending dense, choking clouds of gas billowing out of the front and rear of the building.

      ‘GO, GO, GO!’ yelled Vasquez as the men disappeared into the house.

      From their vantage point, Bailey could hear muffled shouting and the regular pop and fizz of further tear-gas grenades being let off, but nothing else. No screams. No crying children. Certainly not a gun shot. The seconds ticked by, then turned into minutes. This was going better than any of them had expected.

      The radio crackled into life.

      ‘Sir, this is Vasquez…There’s nobody here.’

      Viggiano pulled himself up into a crouching position and grabbed the radio.

      ‘Say again?’

      ‘I said there’s nobody here. The place is empty. We searched every room, including the attic. It’s deserted and it looks like they left in a hurry. There’s half-eaten food on the table. The whole fucking place stinks.’

      Bailey swapped a confused look with Viggiano and then with Hennessy, who looked genuinely concerned.

      ‘There must be someone there, Vasquez. I’m coming down,’ Viggiano said.

      ‘Negative, sir. Not until we’ve secured the whole area.’

      ‘I said, I’m coming down. You and your men stay put till I arrive. I want to see this for myself.’

       FIFTEEN

       Bloomsbury, London

       5th January – 9.29 p.m.

      ‘Coffee?’

      ‘I need a drink.’ Tom went to the decanter on the side table and poured himself a large glass of cognac. He took a mouthful, swilling it around before swallowing it, and then sat down heavily in one of the armchairs and glanced around him.

      This was only the second time he’d been to Archie’s place. It was a realisation that brought home to Tom how little he knew about his partner – who he was; what his passions were; where his secrets lay – although he now saw that, based on the evening’s revelations, he could say the same of Dominique. Perhaps that said more about him than either of them.

      Despite this, he was able to detect in the room itself some hints of Archie’s character. Immediately apparent, for example, was his love of Art Deco, as evidenced by the Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann furniture and the selection of Marinot glassware that adorned the mantelpiece. And a collection of Edwardian gaming chips displayed in two framed cases on either side of the door betrayed his fascination with gambling.

      More intriguing was the teak coffee table, which Tom immediately identified as a late nineteenth-century Chinese opium bed. The brass fittings around its edge would once have housed bamboo poles to support a silk canopy, shielding the occupant’s anonymity.

      ‘Sorry about your game,’ Tom said, his gaze returning to Archie as he settled into the chair opposite him.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Archie dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘I was losing anyway. Is she all right?’ He tilted his head in the direction of the closed bathroom door in the hallway.

      ‘She’ll be fine,’ Tom said. If what he had learnt about Dominique’s past had confirmed anything, it was her ability to tough it out.

      ‘What the hell happened?’

      Tom simply handed him the rolled-up canvas by way of reply.

      ‘What’s this?’

      ‘Take a look.’

      Archie unscrolled the painting on the coffee table. He looked up in surprise.

      ‘It’s the Bellak from Prague.’ Tom nodded. ‘Where did you find it?’ Archie ran his hands gently over the painting’s cracked surface, his fingers brushing against the ridges in the oil paint, pausing over a series of small holes that punctured its surface.

      ‘It was a gift. Somebody kindly left it in my freezer.’

      ‘In your what?’ Archie wrinkled his forehead as if he hadn’t heard properly.

      ‘In my freezer. And it wasn’t the only thing they left.’

      Archie shook his head.

      ‘I’m not sure I even want to know.’

      ‘There was a human arm in there, too. In fact, come to think of it, it’s still in there.’

      For once, Archie was speechless, his eyes bulging in disbelief. When he did manage to get a word out, it was in a strangled, almost angry voice.

      ‘Turnbull.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s that two-faced bastard Turnbull.’

      Tom laughed.

      ‘Come on, Archie. You said he checked out.’

      ‘He did. At least according to my contact. MI6, originally on the Russian desk at GCHQ. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. Think about it. He shows up wanting our help. We refuse, and a few hours later the missing forearm miraculously shows up amongst your frozen peas. It’s a bloody set-up. I expect he’s round there now, waiting for you to get home so he can nick you.’

      ‘You’re assuming the arm belongs to Turnbull’s Auschwitz survivor.’

      ‘Too right. How many severed arms do you think there are floating around London?’

      ‘Not many,’ Tom conceded.

      ‘Well, there you are then.’

      Tom stood up and moved over to the window. Below, a couple of taxis rattled past, their gleaming black roofs flickering with pale orange flames each time they passed under a streetlight. On the other side of the street, sheltering behind thick iron railings, the sombre façade of the British Museum peered through the night with patrician indifference, the granite lions flanking the main entrance standing permanent guard.

      ‘I’m just saying that you shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ Tom continued. ‘Besides, there is another option…’

      ‘Here we go,’ Archie muttered.

      ‘…whoever is behind the murder of that old man is also behind the theft of the painting.’

      ‘You think it’s Renwick, don’t you?’

      ‘Why not? We know he’s working with Kristall Blade, and we know they killed that man. Given that, thanks to me, he only has one hand, he of all people probably appreciated the irony of dropping off someone else’s limb as his calling card.’

      ‘And the Bellak paintings?’

      ‘Stolen by them at his request,’ Tom said with a shrug.

      ‘Bellak?’ Unnoticed by either of them, Dominique had emerged from the bathroom and slipped into the room. Her earlier shock had been replaced by a calm resolve and there was