"It is as I thought," he exclaimed after a few seconds. "A three-dimensional laser-tooled varying matrix." He sounded impressed.
"Which means what, exactly?" Archie asked.
Dhutta turned to him with a smile. "The key has no teeth, Mr. Archie, as you can see. Instead, when you insert it into a lock, four separate electronic eyes examine these laser-burned markings to ensure that they are correctly sized and positioned. It's almost impossible to duplicate."
Tom's eyes met Archie's.
"And if I'm not mistaken…" Dhutta pointed the key at a black box screwed to the wall and pressed the small button in the key's rubber grip. Almost immediately a long series of numbers flashed on the screen beside him.
"What's that?" Tom asked.
"When the key has been inserted into the lock and successfully read by the laser, you press this button to trigger an infrared data exchange with the locking mechanism. Based on this" — he indicated the display on the screen—"it seems to be an algorithm, probably a 128-bit key. Very hard to break. A complex mathematical formula changes the code at regular intervals — once a day, once a week, depending on how it has been programmed. Unless the codes match, the lock won't open."
"You ever see anything like this before?"
"Only once, on a system developed for the Israeli military for access to their missile silos. Except that they insisted on one extra level of security."
"Which was?"
"A key can be lost, stolen even." He flashed his teeth at Tom and gave him a knowing wink. "Biometric analysis was therefore deemed a necessary additional precaution to ensure that the person inserting the key was indeed meant to have it."
"Analysis of what?"
"In the Israeli case, palm prints."
"So we've no way of getting in without—"
"Raj," Archie interrupted, "how many numbers are there in a typical Swiss bank account?"
"Between eight and sixteen. It depends on how many accounts they have and the security setup."
"So ten digits, for example, could make up an account number?"
"Oh, certainly," said Dhutta.
"What are you thinking?" Tom took a step toward Archie, curiosity in his voice.
"I'm just wondering whether that's why Cassius wanted Weissman's arm. Maybe the tattoo was an account number, not a camp number."
"But why would Weissman have had the account number and not the key?" asked Tom.
"Just because we didn't find a key, doesn't mean he didn't have one."
"And we don't know for sure that Lammers had the key but no account number," Tom said, picking up on Archie's logic. "They probably both had access."
"It would make sense," Archie agreed. "Especially if what they were hiding was valuable. The only problem is, they're both dead. Even if we're right about the key and the account number, there's no way we can get into that box."
Tom smiled. "Isn't there?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The garage was small but well equipped, with tools hanging neatly along the far wall and oil sumps and inspection hatches set into the concrete floor. Toward the rear stood two large hydraulic car lifts, squat as tanks, their stainless-steel pistons gleaming in the muted light.
"Could we not have met here rather than the hotel?" Ren-wick asked angrily. "Then we could have avoided tonight's little circus."
Although, in the end, their escape from the hotel had gone well enough, he had since had time to reflect on the evening's events. It had been a mistake, he realized now, to place himself in the hands of people he did not know or trust. He had made himself vulnerable.
"Because the staff would still have been here then," Hecht explained patiently. "The owner is a sympathizer. He lets us use his premises after hours if we need to, but that's it." There was a pause. "Besides, Dmitri is cautious…" Hecht spoke with an apologetic tone now. "He prefers not to let outsiders get too close to our operation."
"His caution very nearly got us all caught," Renwick snapped, gingerly rubbing the place where the prosthetic hand joined his arm. "Next time, I will choose the venue and you can leave the fancy dress at home." He flipped a hand at the fireman's uniform he had just discarded.
"Next time, there will be no need," Hecht reassured him. "You're with us, now."
"I am with nobody," Renwick corrected him. "We have an arrangement. Nothing more."
"As you wish," Hecht conceded. "And your plan… You're still confident?"
"If I'm right that the painting's sitting in some private collection somewhere, then he's the one to find it."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because he is the best. And because he has every incentive to succeed."
"What incentive is that?"
"Stopping me. All we need to do is watch him and make our move at the right time." Renwick pulled his gold watch from his top pocket and glanced at it. "Talking of which, what is keeping them?"
"I don't know." Hecht frowned. "They should have been back… Ah."
A car had pulled up outside, its yellow headlights flooding in through the cracks around the sides of the steel roller shutter, before being extinguished. The sound of doors opening and closing was followed by the murmur of voices, then footsteps and something heavy being dragged. A minute or two later the shutter rattled as someone knocked heavily on the narrow door cut into it.
Hecht opened the door. Konrad stepped in first, followed by the two men from the hotel, Karl and Florian, heaving a large sack, which left a smeared trail of oil and dust in its wake. All three were still wearing their fireman's trousers but had stripped down to T-shirts, the tapestry of angry, twisting tattoos that adorned their arms and torsos slick with sweat.
"Any problems?" Hecht asked.
"Nein," Konrad answered. "Except he cries like a girl." Karl and Florian both laughed as they heaved the sack upright. Konrad produced a heavy-duty hunting knife from inside his left boot and slit the rope that secured the top of the bag. The material concertinaed to the floor like a thick curtain to reveal the concierge, his mouth covered by packing tape, his face addled by fear. Konrad pushed him into a wooden chair, swiftly taping his ankles to the chair legs and his wrists to the wide, flat armrests.
Hecht approached the man. Without a word, he punched him — a heavy blow across the cheek that jerked his head sideways as if it were on a spring. The concierge slowly turned his head back to face them, his eyes wide, his lip split open, blood pouring from the wound. Hecht punched him again, so hard this time that the chair toppled over and sent the concierge crashing to the cold concrete floor. The sharp tang of urine rose into the air.
"He's wet himself," Karl laughed. "The dirty pig."
"Pick him up," Hecht barked. The smile vanished from Karl's face and he heaved the chair upright.
"Now that you're listening" — Hecht leaned toward the concierge so that their faces were only inches apart—"I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the answers. Every time I think you're lying — if you even hesitate for just one second before answering — Konrad will cut off one of your fingers. When we've run out of fingers, we'll move on to more sensitive organs…" He indicated the damp patch between the man's legs. "Do you understand?"
The concierge nodded furiously, trying to blink away his tears.
"Good." Hecht signaled to Konrad, who ripped the masking tape from one side of the concierge's mouth. It hung limply off one cheek, fluttering every time he breathed out, like a ribbon tied to a fan.
"What's your name?"
"Nikolas," came the unsteady reply. "Nikolas Ganz."