"You were taken in then, just like everybody else? You never suspected the truth?" Turnbull sounded skeptical.
"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. 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 realized 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 — right up until I severed his hand in a vault door. We're not exactly on speaking terms anymore."
"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 cooperated with the U.S. 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 rumors, 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 favor. 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 onto the street. It took them a few seconds to realize that they were back at Archie's car. The clamp had been removed.
"So, what do you want to do?" asked Archie as he beeped the car open and slipped behind the wheel.
"Nothing, until we've checked him out," Tom said, settling back into the soft black leather passenger seat just as the engine snarled into life. "I want to know what he's really after."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The room hadn't changed. It only seemed a little emptier without him, as if all the energy had been sucked out of it. The faded brown curtain that he'd refused to open fully, even in the summer, remained drawn. The dark green carpet still bristled with dog hair and ash. The awful 1950s writing desk had not moved from the bay window, while on the mantelpiece the three volcanic rocks that he'd picked up from the slopes of Mount Etna when on honeymoon with her mother many years before, radiated their usual warm glow.
As she crossed the room, Elena Weissman caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and flinched. Although only forty-five, and a young forty-five at that, she knew the last week had aged her ten years. Her green eyes were puffy and red, her face flushed and tired; the lines across her forehead and around her eyes and mouth had deepened from shallow indentations to small valleys. Her black hair, usually well groomed, was a mess. For the first time since her teens she was wearing no makeup. She hated being this way.
"Here you go, my love." Sarah, her best friend, came back into the room with two mugs of tea. "Thanks." Elena took a sip.
"These all need to be boxed up, do they?" Sarah asked, trying to sound cheerful, though her face betrayed her disgust at the state of the room.
Stacked up against the walls and fireplace and armchairs, and every other surface that would support them, were precarious towers of books and magazines — hardbacks and paperbacks and periodicals and pamphlets of various shapes and sizes and colors, some old with smooth leather spines stamped with faded gold letters, others new and bright with shiny dust jackets.
She remembered with a sad smile how the piles used to topple over, to an accompaniment of florid German curses. How her father would then try to stuff them into the overflowing bookcase that ran the length of the right-hand wall, only to admit defeat and arrange them into a fresh tower in a new location. A tower that would itself, in time, tumble to the floor as surely as if it had been built on sand.
Her grief took hold once again and she felt an arm placed around her shoulders.
"It's okay," Sarah said gently.
"I just can't believe he's dead. That he's really gone." Elena's shoulders shook as she sobbed.
"I know how hard it must be," came the comforting reply.
"No one deserves to die like that. After everything he'd been through, all that suffering." She looked into Sarah's eyes for support and found it.