"Yeah, let's talk about that for a second."
"Talk about what?"
"Talk about how come he managed to get everyone else into that room apart from you. Did you know what he was planning? Is that why you weren't there? Did you cut a deal to help lure them there? Did you help kill them?"
"Back off, Agent Viggiano." Walton sprang to Hennessy's defense, his long, bony finger wagging at him angrily. "There is no way that my client knew—"
"No," Hennessy's vehement denial interrupted him. "I was meant to be there, but there was a snowstorm that night and I couldn't get through." Viggiano glanced at Bailey, who confirmed this piece of information with a reluctant nod. Three inches of snow had fallen in town, so it would easily have been double that up in the mountains. "All I knew was that it was meant to be a straight swap. The cash for the machine. The first I heard about there being a problem was when you guys showed up saying that you were going to raid the place."
"So you're saying it's just dumb luck you're the only person who's met him who's still alive?" Bailey's tone was disbelieving.
"Hey, I never said I met him."
"But you said—"
"We never met. I only ever saw him twice, and each time I was on the other side of the compound. The boys were careful to keep me away from outsiders in case word got out that I was part of the group."
"You're lying," Bailey snapped.
"I'm not. These people were my friends. Some of them were just kids, for Chrissake. If I knew the son-of-a-bitch who'd done this, I'd tell you. I want you to find him."
"And how do you suggest we do that if everyone who has met him is dead?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tom gazed through the window, his finger tapping ab-sentmindedly against the table's pitted and cigarette-charred surface. Outside, the Thames slid past, slate gray and viscous from the cold.
"How are you feeling?" Archie sat down opposite him and handed him a pint of Guinness. Tom went to take a mouthful but pushed it away, untouched.
"That poor woman," he said, shaking his head. "I know," Archie agreed. "Jesus, I can still see—"
"It was our fault, Archie. We should have broken it to her more gently. We should have known she might do something like that."
"No, it wasn't," Archie reassured him. "We didn't tell her anything she hadn't guessed already from seeing that photo. We had no way of knowing she'd do that."
"At least Turnbull dealt with the cops." Turnbull had told them both to leave him to handle the police, perhaps not wanting to field too many awkward questions about why he'd brought two ex-criminals to a murder victim's house. To be honest, they'd been more than happy to accept his of-fer — anything to escape the Met's suspicious embrace.
"What do you make of him — Turnbull?" Tom shrugged.
"Well, he clearly knows more than he's telling us. No surprise there. Spooks love their secrets. But, given that he's in their antiterrorist unit, it's clearly these Kristall Blade people he's really after. Renwick… that was just the bait to get us on board."
"Do you buy his story?" Archie reached for his cigarettes and lit one.
"About Weissman?" Tom pushed the ashtray across the table as a signal to Archie to keep the smoke away from him. "I guess so. A lot of people had secrets to hide at the end of the war. About things they'd done. About things they'd seen or heard. Posing as a concentration camp survivor would have been one way to escape and start a new life."
"Bit extreme, isn't it?"
"Depends what or whom he was escaping from. I'd say it was even more extreme to have to live the rest of your life as a lie. To fabricate an entire family history to back up your story. And all the while concealing the truth in that little room."
"And the tattoo?"
"Who knows? Maybe it's just a botched attempt to fake a concentration camp serial code. Maybe there's more to it than that. Somebody obviously thinks it was worth having. Hopefully Lasche will be able to explain some of this."
"Oh yeah, that reminds me," Archie said with a smile. "Hand me the uniform, will you?"
"What for?" asked Tom, reaching down and opening the bag at his side, hoping that no one would notice.
"I found something else in that room. Something I thought you'd want to keep Turnbull well away from." Archie took the jacket from Tom and reached into the inside pocket. His hand emerged clutching a faded brown envelope, from which he removed a dog-eared photograph. "Recognize this?"
He handed the photograph to Tom, who looked up, eyes wide with surprise.
"It's the Bellak from Prague — the synagogue. How…?"
"That's not all," Archie continued triumphantly. "There are two more." He flicked the faded black-and-white photographs down on the table one on top of the other, as if he was dealing a hand of poker. "A castle somewhere… and look at this one—"
"It's the portrait." Tom breathed heavily, taking it from him. "The one my father was looking for. It must be."
"No oil painting, was she?" Archie grinned at his own joke.
"Is anything written on the back of them?" Tom asked, turning over the photograph he was holding.
"No, I already looked. But there is this…" On the reverse side of the envelope someone had written a return name and address in cramped italic script, the black ink now a dark brown, the white paper yellowed and frail. "Kitz-biihel, Austria."
"Until we know exactly what Renwick wants with these paintings, let's keep this to ourselves. It's got nothing to do with Turnbull."
"Too bloody right," Archie agreed, then paused as if he had been on the point of saying something else and had thought better of it.
"What is it?" Tom inquired.
"It's just that, the more we find out, the uglier this gets. We should leave the whole mess for Turnbull to sort out. Stay out of it."
There was a long pause as Tom returned the items to the bag. Then he took his key ring from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked.
"Looks like a chess piece," Archie said with a shrug. "A rook. Made from ivory."
"It was a gift from my father, a few weeks before he died. It's one of the only things he ever gave me. I know it sounds strange, but I think of him every time my fingers rub against it in my pocket. It's like it's a tiny piece of him." He looked up and locked eyes with Archie. "Whatever Renwick's doing, it involves something my father was working on. Something that mattered to him. Another small piece of him. So I'm not going to just stand by and watch Renwick steal it like he's taken everything else from me. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already involved. I've always been involved."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Harry Renwick walked into the hotel and up to the main reception desk. The concierge, steel-rimmed pince-nez teetering on his nose, looked up with tired eyes. Renwick noticed that the golden crossed keys he wore pinned to the lapel of his black suit coat had twisted around, suggesting he was approaching the end of a long shift. "Guten Abend, mein herr."
"Guten Abend. I am here for Herr Hecht."
"Ah, yes." He switched seamlessly to English. "I believe he is expecting you, Herr…?"
"Smith."
"Smith, yes." He gave a distracted smile as he searched through the entries on the screen in front of him. "He is in the Bellevue Suite on the seventh floor. You'll find the lifts on the other side of the lounge. I'll ring ahead and let Herr Hecht know you are here."