"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 setup. 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 somber facade 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 Her earlier shock had been replaced by a calm resolve, and there was something almost ethereal about her as she stood there, a slim silhouette framed by the open doorway. "The painter?"
Tom and Archie exchanged uncertain glances.
"You've heard of him?" Even Tom was impressed by this latest example of Dominique's ever-expanding mental database of the art market.
"Only by name."
"How come?"
"Because your father spent the last three years of his life looking for Bellak paintings."
"What?" Tom said disbelievingly.
"Don't you remember? It became quite a big thing for him. He had me scanning databases and newspaper files and auction listings to see if I could find anything. I never did. By the end, I think he had almost given up."
"That's where I'd heard the name before," Tom said, snapping his fingers in frustration at not having remembered this. "Now you mention it, I think he even asked me to see if I could come up with anything."
"But why on earth would he want to collect them?" Archie asked, disdainfully holding up the painting of the synagogue to prove his point.
"He wasn't collecting them," Dominique corrected him, sitting down cross-legged on the hearth rug. "He was looking for one in particular — a portrait of a girl. He said it was probably in a private collection somewhere. He said that it was the key."
"The key to what?" Archie asked.
"He never told me." Dominique sighed. "Remember what he was like with his secrets."
"Well, whatever it is, clearly Renwick knows," Tom said bitterly. "That's why he's put this here — to show me how close he is to finding it."
"Which is precisely why you shouldn't let him get to you," Archie said firmly. "He wants to get a reaction. We'll just dump the arm and pretend none of this ever happened."
"Never happened?" Dominique countered, her eyes shining defiantly. "You can't just ignore something like this, Archie. They killed someone — I heard you say so. They killed someone and we might be able to do something about it."
"That's not what I mean," Archie protested. "Look, I know Cassius. This is just another one of his sick games. It's too late to help the old man that arm belonged to, but we can still help ourselves. Tom? What are you doing?"
"Calling Turnbull," answered Tom, picking up the phone and extracting the slip of paper with Turnbull's number from his wallet.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" pleaded Archie.
"I heard what you both said, and Dominique's right — we can't ignore this."
"He's playing with you. Let it go."
"I can't let it go, Archie," Tom snapped, before taking a deep breath and continuing in a gentler tone. "If you want to stay out of this, fine. But I can't. This involves my father. And if Renwick's after something my father spent years looking for, then I'm not just going to stand by and watch him get it first. I'm not having him make a fool of me. Not again."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Viggiano and Bailey set off downhill through the trees as fast as they could, stumbling awkwardly as their legs disappeared into snowdrifts or their feet snagged on camouflaged undergrowth. Eventually they emerged, breathless, on the far right-hand side of the compound. Leaving fresh tracks in the snow, they both clambered over the wooden fence and made their way to the front entrance, where they were met by one of Vasquez's men, his mask and helmet discarded, his face blank. "This way, sir."
He led them through an entrance hall piled high with sneakers and boots and old newspapers. Several pairs of antlers had been nailed to the wall, grimy baseball caps and odd socks hanging off them like makeshift Christmas decorations. Vasquez was waiting for them in the large kitchen. The long oak table was set for dinner, roaches scuttling across the worktops and over a joint of beef that had been left out, its sides bristling with fungus. The air was thick with flies and a heady smell that Bailey recognized only too well. The smell of rotting flesh.
Vasquez nodded toward a door. "We haven't checked the basement yet."
"The basement?" Viggiano frowned as he scrabbled to retrieve the plan of the compound from his jacket. He smoothed it out, borrowing tacks from an out-of-date NRA calendar to pin it to the wall. "Look — there is no basement."
"Then what do you call that?" Vasquez threw open the door to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness below, a blast of warm, noxious air rushing up to meet them.
Guided by Vasquez's flashlight, they negotiated the stairs. At the bottom was a narrow, unlit corridor. Vasquez lit their way with a series of green chemical flares that he cracked into life and threw to the ground at regular intervals.
Bailey felt himself beginning to sweat as they approached the end of the passage. The temperature was noticeably higher here than upstairs, the smell making his stomach turn. Vasquez signaled for them to wait as he entered a doorway. He reemerged, grim-faced, a few seconds later.
"I hope you guys skipped lunch."
Viggiano and Bailey stepped inside. A massive oil-fired boiler hugged the far wall, the heat radiating off its sides. The stench was unbearable, the buzzing of the flies so loud it sounded like the revving of a small engine. The center of the room was taken up by a large German shepherd, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, its brown fur matted with blood and rippling with maggots. Next to it were two blood-soaked pit bulls and a scraggy-looking mongrel whose head had been almost blown off.
"Guess now we know why no one had seen the dogs," commented Vasquez drily.
He pointed his flashlight down at the floor near where they were standing. The gray concrete was peppered with brass shell casings, their shiny hides glinting like small eyes.
"M16 casings. Couple of mags' worth. They weren't taking any chances."
"But where is everyone?" Bailey asked. "Where have they gone?"
"Sir?" Another of Vasquez's men appeared in the door-