"And you? What about you — and Archie? He's close to the two of you?"
"Yes. But only because neither of us really needs him. He knows that we are strong enough to survive on our own. In fact, I think that's the one thing in life he's really scared of."
"What?"
"Someone else depending on him."
"Maybe he just hasn't yet found the person he wants to have depending on him," Viktor speculated.
"Maybe," Dom agreed with a smile. Somehow, she wasn't so sure.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
By the time Tom got to the U.S. Consulate the following morning, a small queue had already formed outside the main door. He patiently took his place in it, mulling over the previous night's events. Images of Turnbull and Kristenko, the lost Bellak, Renwick's sneering face, and his brush with death at the bottom of the Neva kept flashing into his head.
"Yes?" The voice of the suited and spectacled functionary sitting at the front desk interrupted his thoughts.
"I want to see the Consul General," Tom said. The man was waving most people toward the visa section, and he seemed to welcome the change in inquiry, looking up at him with a lazy smile.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"No."
His smile faded. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you. All appointments have to be arranged in advance with his office and cleared by security. Next." He looked past Tom to the person standing behind him.
"It's about a man you're holding in custody here," Tom insisted. "I need to speak to him."
The functionary nodded to two marines, who peeled themselves away from the wall and approached Tom from either side.
"Please step out of the line, sir," one of them droned ro-botically. Tom ignored him, still fixing the seated man with a firm stare.
"You've arrested a friend of mine. A British citizen. You're holding him here. I demand to be told what he's been charged with and to see him."
"Get him out of here," the functionary instructed the two marines, his nonchalant manner suggesting that he'd handled similar situations many times before. They grabbed Tom, one holding each arm, and marched him toward the door, lifting him clear off the floor so that his feet dangled uselessly beneath him.
"Get your hands off me," Tom shouted, struggling vainly, wincing from the pain in his shoulder.
"Hold it," a voice called out over Tom's shouts and the excited hubbub of the crowd in the reception area. The marines stopped and turned Tom to face the direction the voice had come from. "Are you here about Archie Connolly?"
"Yeah," Tom said with relief. "You know about him?"
"Sure." The man smiled and waved the marines away with an impatient flick of his hand. They released Tom and returned to their posts, their faces never once registering any expression. "I'm Special Agent Cliff Cunningham. Maybe I can help."
"Is he still here?"
"Absolutely. Mr. Connolly is helping us with our inquiries. Voluntarily, of course." Tom didn't comment. The idea of Archie voluntarily helping anyone, especially the Yanks, was ridiculous.
"Look, whatever he's done or you think he's done, it's just a mistake."
"Why don't we talk this over inside," said Cunningham. He turned to the functionary at the desk who had just tried to have Tom thrown out. "It's okay, Roland, he's with me. Sign him in, will you?"
Armed with a visitor's pass, Tom followed Cunningham through a reinforced door that another marine stationed on the other side buzzed open for them, through an anonymous labyrinth of secretarial pens and dingy offices, down a flight of stairs, and then along a narrow corridor that seemed to have six cells along it, three down each side.
"He's in here." Cunningham reached the far left-hand cell and swiped a card through a magnetic reader. The door buzzed open.
"Archie?" Tom stepped inside the cell.
"Tom." Archie's face broke into a smile. "You took your time." He was lying on a narrow bed, thumbing through a two-year-old edition of GQ, a cigarette jammed in his mouth.
"You two must have a lot of catching up to do," Cunningham said coldly. He slammed the cell door shut.
Tom stared at the closed door, then turned to Archie and gave a shrug.
"Nice escape plan, mate," Archie grunted, turning back to the magazine. "What did you do? Smuggle a spoon in so we can dig our way out?"
"He's pleasant, isn't he?" Tom sat down heavily on the bed next to him.
"Tell me about it. I've had to put up with his shit all night long."
"What does he think you've done now?"
"Oh, nothing much," said Archie. "Just the odd murder or thirty. Including Lasche, it seems."
"Lasche? But we saw him only a few days ago."
"Exactly. That's when they think I did it."
"But why?"
"For the same reason they think I killed Lammers's niece."
"She's dead too?" Tom gasped.
"Apparently, poor thing." Archie sighed. "This whole business is getting out of control. They think I was trying to cover my tracks."
"Tracks from what?" Tom said dismissively. "This is total bullshit. You haven't done anything."
"I know that. You know that. But as far as they're concerned, I'm not only involved in a theft that Lasche got me to carry out from some museum in the States, but I then gassed a roomful of neo-Nazis I'd recruited to do the job for me. Their kids too." Archie spoke with his eyes still fixed on the magazine.
"You're joking, right?"
"I wish I was."
"Well, what is it you're meant to have stolen, exactly?"
"An Enigma machine."
"An Enigma machine?" Tom's tone switched from outrage to interest.
"Yeah." Archie looked up, his face lifting with sudden understanding. "Why, you don't think…"
"Why not?" Tom nodded slowly. "A neo-Nazi group. A wartime decoder. Lasche supposedly involved, then turning up dead. There must be a connection."
"Well, the Enigma's a collectible piece, I guess. But I don't see what use it would be to anyone."
"Unless you needed to decode something."
"The final Bellak painting!" Archie exclaimed. "We need to get in touch with Kristenko again and get it out."
"Unfortunately, it's a bit late for that," Tom said bitterly, briefly recounting the previous night's events for Archie's benefit.
"So Renwick's got the painting and the Enigma." Archie sighed. "We've got nothing."
"Maybe we do," said Tom. "Maybe we do what?"
"Have something. My camera. The one I loaned to Kris-tenko. I grabbed it off him when I was in the vault. It'll be ruined, but the memory card should still work."
"I don't see…"
"He took photos of the painting, didn't he? To prove that he had it. If we've got that, we might not need the painting at all."
"Then we just need to get out of here," said Archie, motioning toward the steel door.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Before Tom could answer, the door flew open and Bailey marched into the room. He didn't bother introducing himself, fixing Tom instead with an excited stare. "Tell me about this painting."
"You've been listening?" Tom shot back, furious with himself for not having been more careful. Bailey indicated a small black hole over the bed that he hadn't noticed before.
"I was on the first shift in case you two got careless. Don't worry, it's turned off now."
"Like hell it is." Tom eyed him with distrust. "Why don't you tell me what's really going on."
"We're not telling you nothing," Archie snorted. "Look, you're in deep shit here. Real deep. You want to have a chance of getting out of here, you gotta share. Then maybe I can help."