Operating solely through touch, Tom located his screwdriver with one hand and the top left-hand screw of the inspection panel with the other. The square blade of the screwdriver slotted into the groove on the screw's head, and he breathed a sigh of relief as it turned easily. He quickly removed the other three screws, then pried away the panel. The gap was just large enough to slide his hand through, his fingers navigating their way between the rods that controlled the locking bolts, to the back plate that concealed the locking mechanism itself.
Again, he had to remove four screws. This time it took him considerably longer, the constrained space making it difficult to maneuver the screwdriver. Eventually the plate came free in his hands and he removed his gloves, probing inside the lock until his fingertips connected with the rear of the combination wheel. The vertical direction of the marker groove indicated that it was set to zero.
Cracking combination locks had been one of the first skills he'd mastered. Although the prevalence of digital security systems had rendered it almost obsolete, Tom put himself through regular training drills to maintain the technique. Less skilled thieves might be content to drill a safe and then use an endoscope to see the mechanism — occasionally a necessary precaution, where an alarmed dial or mercury switch was involved — but Tom preferred to trust his senses. It was just as well, because in this instance, he had no choice.
Tom shut his eyes and began to turn the wheel. His breathing slowed as he concentrated. The noise of the individual tumblers slowly bumping against the wheel's tiny teeth was almost inaudible, but to Tom's highly tuned ear each infinitesimal click was a deafening crash, the minute vibration almost stinging the tips of his trained fingers.
Click, click, click, CLUNK. The change in tone, the slight variation in feel, was minute. But to Tom, it was as clear as if one of the statues in the room outside had just toppled to the floor. He had his first number. He'd counted it as seventeen.
He closed his eyes again and turned the dial the other way. This time the change came quickly. Eight. He moved it back the other way, going past thirty, then forty, then fifty, the lever eventually dropping on fifty-three. Then back again, he assumed for the final time, since this model of safe was usually programmed with four numbers, although it could take up to five. Twenty-seven.
He tugged on the steel rod that controlled the upper set of restraining bolts. Nothing. He frowned and tried it again. Still it wouldn't open. So he placed his finger on the dial, turned it one notch, and smiled as he heard the tumbler fall into place. It was an old trick, placing an additional number just one or two places on from the previous one.
This time when he pulled on the rod it moved down, the upper bolts retracting smoothly. He repeated the procedure on the bottom and side rods, and these too pulled free in his hands. With a firm push, the door swung open.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Grigory Mironov cleared the final flight of stairs and headed for the Western Art gallery. In addition to handing out the night's work rotas, it was his responsibility to check that all the cleaners had followed their instructions and that they were doing a good job. It was a responsibility that he took very seriously.
He entered the Rodin Room and ran a finger along the nearest frame. It came away dusty. Then he made his way to the Gauguin Room, only to discover that it too had yet to be cleaned. They must be in the Monet Room, he muttered to himself, but that too was untouched. He felt the anger building inside him.
The three guards who were supposed to be patrolling that section of the museum were loitering in the Renoir Room, taking a cigarette break. As usual. "You seen the two cleaners for this section?" Mironov demanded. "A big fat guy and his mute friend?"
One of the guards broke away from the other two and hustled Mironov out of the room, draping a protective arm around his shoulder.
"Don't worry. They explained everything. I let them through, no questions asked." He winked.
"What?"
"A third for you, a third for me. The director gets his office cleaned and everyone's happy." The guard patted him warmly on the back. "Good doing business with you." He laughed and went to rejoin his colleagues.
Mironov stood in the middle of the room, seething with rage. So, those two jokers were freelancing, were they? Thought they could get away with cutting him out. Well, he'd have them up in front of the Committee for neglecting their jobs. And he'd report the director, too. He'd never liked him anyway.
Muttering angrily to himself, he set off for the staff offices.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Tom stepped gratefully into the room. But his elation was short-lived. Someone was approaching. He could hear footsteps that paused suddenly, followed by a rattle, then footsteps again. His eyes shot to the door handle. Would Renwick have bothered to lock it?
Unwilling to take the risk, Tom gently pushed the vault door shut behind him and slipped under the sheet covering a tall statue of Mercury near the door. As the footsteps grew louder, he huddled close to the statue, his nose inches away from a vine leaf that had been strategically positioned to preserve its modesty. The winged god's arms were outstretched in flight, creating a tentlike space under the thin white shroud. Even so, Tom hardly dared breathe in case the rise of his chest could be detected through the fabric.
A sharp rattle on the handle was followed by the groan of the hinges as the door creaked open. A squeak of shoe leather on the marble floor, and then nothing. Tom guessed that whoever it was had stopped for a good look around. There was a slight gap between the sheet and the floor, and he could just make out a pair of old but well-polished shoes.
He heard someone muttering in Russian, and the shoes turned back toward the door.
The shoes were almost out of the room when they stopped again. The man crouched down, Tom able to make out an outstretched index finger being run across the floor's surface. As the finger was lifted, Tom could see the dark stain left by Turnbull's blood.
The man sprang up, the shoes swiveling and following the trail of blood to the vault. Tom leapt from his cover as the man ran past, the sheet coming with him as he shoulder-charged him. The impact sent the guard crashing into one of the workbenches, and he let out a grunt as the wind was knocked out of him.
Tom scrambled to his feet, desperately trying to wrestle his way out of the sheet that was still wrapped around his head and arms in case the guard went for his gun. But in that moment a large bottle on the workbench, unbalanced by the impact of the collision, teetered off the edge and dropped onto the Russian's skull.
Brown glass flew everywhere as the bottle exploded with a crash, and the guard's head slumped to his chest.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Grigory Mironov turned the corner just in time to hear the sound of breaking glass, followed almost immediately by the sound of the door to the Restoration Department being locked.
"Who's there?" he shouted, beating on the door with his fist. "Open up."
Mironov had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan back in the eighties. His fitness levels might have dropped, but he reckoned he still knew how to handle himself. Certainly, he had no qualms about confronting whoever was inside.
"I'm coming in," he warned. There was no answer, just the sound of more glass being broken.