"Kill you?" Renwick laughed and strolled across to the left-hand wall, leaving Hecht staring stonily at Tom. "My dear boy, if I had wanted you dead, you would not be here. Outside the Hotel Drei Konige; at that cafe in the Haupt-bahnhof; as you were walking down the Nevsky Prospekt this very morning… God knows there have been any number of opportunities over the past few days. No, Thomas, your death, while satisfying the need to avenge the loss of my hand" — he brought up his gloved prosthetic hand and regarded it dispassionately, as if it wasn't really his—"would not serve my purposes."
"Your purposes?" Tom gave a hollow laugh. "You think I'd help you?"
"Oh, but you have done so much already, Thomas. The key you recovered from Lammers, the safety-deposit box, the identification of a possible location for the contents of the missing carriages—"
"How the hell…?" Tom started, before realizing what this meant. "Raj! What have you done to him?"
"Ah, yes." Renwick sighed. "Mr. Dhutta." He removed the glove from his left hand and gently placed it against one of the panels. "A very loyal friend, if I may say. Right until the end."
"You bastard," Tom swore, his voice cracking at this latest example of Renwick's mindless cruelty. Raj was a good man. Tom blamed himself for getting him involved.
Renwick gave a brief smile but said nothing, gently stroking one of the floral motifs with his ungloved hand.
"So, now you know what I have known for some time," he said eventually. "The Order was sent to protect a train. When they realized it was not going to get through to Switzerland, they took it upon themselves to remove the most precious part of its cargo and hide it, committing the secret of its location to a painting that now lies in some private collection."
Tom said nothing, his thoughts alternating between fear, anger, and revulsion at the sight of Renwick lovingly stroking the amber and the thought of Raj's twisted corpse lying discarded in some alley or hidden room.
"Think about it, Thomas — the original Amber Room." Renwick's eyes flashed. "Finally recovered after all these years. Think of the money. It must be worth two, three hundred million dollars."
"You think I care about the money?" Tom seethed.
"Your father spent half his life on its trail. Imagine what he would say if he could be where we are now — so close."
"Don't bring my father into this," Tom said icily as he stepped forward, ignoring Hecht's menacing gaze. "He wanted to find it so he could protect it. All you want to do is destroy it."
"Your father is already involved, Thomas." Renwick was smiling now. "How else do you think I found out about this in the first place? He told me. He told me everything."
"That's a lie."
"Is it?"
"If he did, it's because he had no idea who you were. That all you wanted to do was break it up."
"You are so certain of that, aren't you?" Renwick shook his head, suddenly angry. "So sure that he was in the dark?"
Tom's heart jumped. "What do you mean?"
"Do not play games with me, Thomas." Renwick gave a cruel laugh. "It does not suit you. You cannot deny that you have thought it, at least. Asked yourself the question."
"Thought what?" Tom's mouth was dry, his voice a whisper.
"How it was that, even though we were colleagues for twenty years, friends for longer, he never knew about me. How there must have been a chance, however slight, that he not only knew but helped me. Worked for me."
"Don't say that. You don't know—"
"You have no idea what I know," Renwick said, cutting him off. "And even if you did, you would never believe it. Just as I know that you will fail to believe this…"
He pulled out his pocket watch and dangled it in front of Tom, the gold case winking as it caught the light. Tom recognized it instantly — a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronometer. He even knew its case number: 409792. It was his father's watch.
"Where did you get that?" Tom asked in a whisper. "You have no right—"
"Where do you think? He gave it to me. Do you not see, Thomas? We were partners. Right until the end."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Bailey was waiting under a red neon sign advertising a local strip club, politely fending off a succession of porters eager to scoop his bags into one of the waiting taxis. To his relief, a black shape glided to a halt outside, larger and cleaner than any of the vehicles around it. Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, Bailey stepped outside, the wind stinging his eyes. The trunk popped open as he drew close, and he lifted his bags in and then banged it shut before stepping to the passenger door and climbing inside.
"Man, it's colder than a well-digger's ass out there!" The man extending a welcoming hand through the gap between the front seats was Laurel to the driver's Hardy: tall and thin with neatly combed brown hair, while his colleague was stout with a circle of graying blond hair that hugged his shiny pate like a sweatband.
"Hey, sorry we're late," he continued. "I'm Bill Strange and this is Cliff Cunningham. Welcome to Russia."
"Traffic was a bitch," said Cunningham, meeting Bailey's eye in his mirror.
"No problem." Bailey shook Strange's hand. "Special Agent Byron Bailey. You guys Bureau or Agency?"
"Bureau." Strange smiled. "Carter figured you'd want to see a friendly face."
"Carter was right," Bailey said gratefully. Cody had been helpful enough, but he was happy to be back with his own people. "So, any sign of my guy yet?"
"Look familiar?" Strange handed a photo to Bailey.
"That's him, yeah." Bailey's eyes flashed excitedly. "When did he come through?"
"An hour or so ago. Took the flight from Bonn, like you said. He's just checked in at the Labirint."
"That's where Kirk's staying too," Cunningham added. "It's a dump, but the owners never bother registering guest visas, which has its advantages if you don't want to be found. Checked in with a young female. Separate rooms."
"Looks like you made a smart call," said Strange.
"I got lucky," Bailey corrected him, although he said it with a smile. In a way Strange was right. Once they had lost track of Blondi it had been his idea to switch the focus to Kirk instead, in the hope that, wherever he turned up, Blondi wouldn't be far behind. As soon as they realized that Kirk had booked a flight to St. Petersburg, it had been a simple matter of circulating a description of Blondi to all major European airports offering flights to Russia. Confirmation of Blondi's booking had come through from an alert official at Bonn Airport, and Carter had immediately dispatched Bailey after him — albeit on a very tight leash. Not that Bailey was complaining. However tight the rein, it beat carrying Viggiano's bags.
He settled back into the soft leather seat as Cunningham pulled out into the traffic and headed for the city center.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The shower consisted of a yellowing curtain covered in small black spots of mold suspended from a sagging length of string over a chipped bath. The bath itself was surrounded by mismatched tiles and was slick with the dirt and grease of previous occupants. But the water was hot, and Tom soon forgot where he was as he stood under its powerful pulse, his mind flicking back to the Amber Room.
To Renwick.
To what he had said.
He was right, of course. At least, partly right. Since discovering what Renwick was really like, Tom had indeed questioned the nature of his father's friendship with him, wondered whether he had suspected the truth. But he had never for a moment considered that his father had not merely known about Renwick but had somehow been directly involved in his murderously criminal activities.