The moment when those armed police came bearing down on him played over and over again in his mind. Fortunately he hadn't been their target, and some other poor soul was tonight languishing in the depths of a damp jail. But who was to say that tomorrow, or the day after, it wouldn't be his turn? All it would take was for one of the guards who'd escorted him to the storerooms to mention it to someone, or for
Viktor to betray him to the authorities rather than hand over the twenty thousand.
He remembered running into an old school friend who'd been locked up for three years after stealing a car. On his first night in jail, the other inmates had taken one look at his soft white hands and gang-raped him. By the time he was released, the diet, the cold, and the guards had broken him; only a desiccated shell remained.
But what could he do? Retrieve the painting from the Restoration Department and return it to the storeroom? Not pay Viktor her money and risk her harming his mother? He screwed his eyes shut, pained at the thought.
The phone rang. All four legs of his chair hit the floor with a thud. This was it. "Hello."
"We're here."
"Where?"
"In the Restoration Department."
"How —?"
"Never mind that. Just get here."
He struggled to his feet. "I'm on my way."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Moonlight filtered through the overhead skylights, turning the shroud-covered statues and sculptures undergoing restoration into ghostly apparitions that seemed to float above the ground. The worktops were an undulating mass of tins and jars and bottles and brushes, everything covered in a fine coat of dust, the air pungent with the heady musk of cleaning spirits and paint. And in the far corner, black and forbidding, was the vault door.
Tom examined it curiously as they waited for Kristenko. "Could you get us in?" Turnbull asked. "If I had to," said Tom. "It must be about sixty years old. Not exactly state-of-the-art."
Turnbull's head snapped toward the door. "Someone's coming — quick."
Not wanting to take any chances, they both ran to the far side of the room and crouched behind one of the workbenches. A few moments later they heard a jangling of metal, followed by the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. The door opened. Tom peeked around the edge of the workbench. "It's Kristenko," he whispered with relief.
Kristenko jumped in fright as they both stood up.
"Expecting someone else?" Turnbull asked.
"No," said the curator. "You just surprised me, that's all."
"Right," said Tom, "let's get this over with."
"My money?"
"Here—" Tom tossed the shoulder bag over impatiently. "Open the safe."
"I'll stand sentry outside," Turnbull volunteered. "Pretend to mop the floor or something. I'll whistle if I hear someone coming."
"Good idea," said Tom.
Grabbing a mop and bucket, Turnbull let himself out of the room.
Kristenko approached the safe and, shielding the dial from Tom's eyes with his body, fiddled with the combination until, with a heavy clunk, the door eased open. The vault consisted of a steel-lined room, about six feet square. A set of wooden shelves extended down the left-hand wall, sagging under the weight of assorted paintings and other objects.
Kristenko stepped inside and emerged a few seconds later holding a painting.
"Here it is," he said. "Although God knows what you—"
A low whistle came from outside. Tom's eyes snapped toward the door as Turnbull stepped back into the room.
"Who is it?" Tom whispered urgently.
But Turnbull didn't answer. His eyes locked pleadingly with Tom's as he reached toward him, but as his mouth opened to speak he collapsed to the floor. A knife handle jutted awkwardly from the base of his skull.
Kristenko let out a low, terrified moan.
"Good evening, Thomas," Renwick intoned as he swept into the room, Hecht and his two heavies lining up behind him.
"Renwick," Tom said through clenched teeth.
"My thanks for your efforts in locating the missing Bel-lak. It seems I have been looking in the wrong places." Ren-wick snapped his fingers at Kristenko, who, with a confused, almost apologetic glance at Tom, stumbled over and handed him the painting. Renwick's eyes narrowed as he studied it. He looked up with a smile.
"Well done. You have what you wanted." Tom's voice was glacial. "Not quite."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Stories like ours rarely have happy endings." Renwick sighed. "It is unfortunately the nature of things."
Hecht stepped forward, a silenced gun clutched in his outstretched hand, and leveled it at Tom's head. Tom's jaw tightened, his mind going blank as he braced himself. Hecht took aim and fired.
The bullet caught Kristenko in the throat and he staggered backward, his hands clutching his neck, blood spurting through his fingers, a strangled coughing echoing through the room. A second shot caught him square in the chest and he collapsed to the floor with a gurgled sigh.
"What was the point of that!" Tom shouted.
"Loose ends, Thomas. You know how I hate loose ends."
The two other men stepped forward, picked Kristenko up under the arms, and dragged him into the safe, smearing blood behind them. They dropped him, his head smacking against the floor with a wet thud, then stepped outside and repeated the procedure with Turnbull, albeit with visibly more effort required this time.
"You too, Thomas," Renwick ordered. "Keep them company. That way the authorities will not have to look too far to find someone to blame."
Tom walked into the vault and then turned to face Ren-wick. "This isn't over, Harry."
"It is, for you." Renwick smiled. "Believe me, by the time the Russian police have finished their interrogation, you will wish I had just shot you. They have ways of making themselves very persuasive."
The door slowly edged shut, a final sliver of light framing Renwick's face before it too vanished, accompanied only by a dull clang as the restraining bolts slammed home.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Silence, broken only by the pounding of his heartbeat and the faint whisper of his breathing. Total darkness. A soul-sucking inky nothingness that squeezed and stifled and crushed him like a great weight pressing on his chest.
In a way, Tom knew that Renwick had done him a favor. There wasn't enough oxygen in this airtight space to sustain three people for more than a few hours. By killing Turnbull and Kristenko, Renwick had ensured that Tom, at least, would see through the night. Not that Renwick was acting out of compassion — his only concern had been to provide the Russian police with a convenient fall guy.
Tom pressed a button on his digital watch and a pale neon glow licked around his wrist like a small tongue of gaslight. Squatting next to the two corpses, he ran the cold blue light over their faces. Disgusted at the sight of Renwick's handiwork, he released the button. He was used to working in the dark.
He turned his attention to Kristenko first, patting him down and finding the mobile phone — useless inside the vault — and the digital camera he had given him. He pocketed them both, just in case. Next, he felt his way over to Turnbull, searching the body until he came across his toolkit. He then edged his way gingerly to the door and ran his hands over its smooth, cold surface until he located the square inspection hatch located at about waist height.