Kitabı oxu: «The Double Eagle»
The Double Eagle
JAMES TWINING
DEDICATION
To Victoria, always
Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,Luxe, calme et volupté
Charles Baudelaire, L’Invitation au Voyage
EPIGRAPH
Executive Order No. 6102
By virtue of the authority vested in me by Section 5(b) of the Act of October 6, 1917, as amended by Section 2 of the Act of March 9, 1933, entitled ‘An Act to provide relief in the existing national emergency in banking, and for other purposes,’ in which amendatory Act Congress declared that a serious emergency exists,
I, Franklin D. Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, do declare that said national emergency still continues to exist and pursuant to said section do hereby prohibit the hoarding of gold coin, gold bullion, and gold certificates within the continental United States by individuals, partnerships, associations and corporations and hereby prescribe the following regulations for carrying out the purposes of this order.
All persons are hereby required to deliver on or before May 1, 1933, to a Federal Reserve bank or a branch or agency thereof or to any member bank of the Federal Reserve System all gold coin, gold bullion and gold certificates now owned by them or coming into their ownership on or before April 28, 1933.
Upon receipt of gold coin, gold bullion or gold certificates delivered to it, the Federal Reserve Bank or member bank will pay thereof an equivalent amount of any other form of coin or currency coined or issued under the laws of the United States.
Whoever wilfully violates any provision of this Executive Order or of these regulations or of any rule, regulation or license issued thereunder may be fined not more than $10,000, or, if a natural person, may be imprisoned for not more than ten years, or both; and any officer, director, or agent of any corporation who knowingly participates in any such violation may be punished by a like fine, imprisonment, or both.
This order and these regulations may be modified or revoked at any time.
Franklin D. Roosevelt
President of the United States of America
April 5, 1933
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Part II
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Part III
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Eighty-Nine
Ninety
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
What do you not drive human hearts into, cursed Craving for gold!
Virgil – The Aeneid (iii.56)
Pont de Grenelle, 16th Arrondissement, Paris 16th July – 9:05pm
They were late.
They’d said quarter to and it was already five past. It made him uneasy to be standing out in the open for this long. If they weren’t there in the next five minutes he was leaving, a million dollars or not.
He patted his pocket nervously. It was still there; he could feel it through the black woollen material, its warm weight pressing against his thigh. It was still safe.
A teenage couple, arms interlinked, strolled towards him, snatching kisses every few steps in the dying light. Mid-embrace, the girl caught sight of him and broke away with an embarrassed shrug. Her fingers flew unconsciously to the small silver crucifix that hung around her neck.
‘Bonsoir, mon père.’
‘Bonsoir, mon enfant.’
He smiled and nodded at them both as they walked past him to the other side of the Pont de Grenelle, noting that it was only then they allowed their guilty laughter to echo up through the fading heat. Against a crimson sky, the lights on the Eiffel Tower sparkled as if it was on fire.
He rested his arms on the parapet and looked out at the Statue of Liberty. Identical to her much larger sister across the Atlantic, she dominated the Allée des Cygnes, the narrow island in the middle of the River Seine upon which she had been erected in 1889, according to the inscription on her base. She had her back to him, smooth bronze muscles of crumpled fabric and taut skin, eternally youthful despite the green patina of old age.
As a child, his grandmother had once told him that many members of their family had made the long and difficult journey from Naples to America in the 1920s. When he looked at the statue, he felt somehow connected to those faceless relatives, understood something of their sense of wonder at their first sight of the New World, their unshakeable faith in a new beginning. So he always chose this place. It felt familiar. Safe. Protected. Caso mai. Just in case.
Two men appeared out of the shadows of the bridge below and looked up at him. He sketched a wave, crossed to the other side of the road and made his way down the shallow concrete steps towards them, walking under the bridge’s low steel arch. He stopped at the edge of the wide area encircling the statue’s massive stone pedestal, careful as always to keep about twenty feet between himself and them.
They must have been there all the time, he thought to himself; watching him, checking that he was alone, hiding in the lengthening shadows like lions in long grass. That figured. These were not people to take chances. But then neither was he.
‘Bonsoir,’ the large man on the left called clearly through the night air, his long blond hair melting into a thick beard. An American, he guessed.
‘Bonsoir,’ he called back warily.
A large Bateau Mouche swept down the river past them, its blinding lights reaching into the darkness, probing, feeling. The heavy folds of the statue’s robe seemed to ripple and lift gently under their touch as if caught in some unseen draught. As if she was teasing them.
‘You got it?’ The bearded man called out in English when the throb of the ship’s engines had faded and the burning lights had shifted their relentless glare further along the bank.
‘You got the money?’ His voice was firm. It was the usual game, played out more times than he cared to remember. He looked down, feigning indifference and noticed that his polished black shoes were already dusty from the dry gravel.
‘Let’s see it first,’ the man called back.
He paused. There seemed to be something strange about the bearded man’s voice. A slight tension. He looked up and checked over his shoulder but his escape route was clear. He blinked his concern away and gave them the standard response.
‘Show me the money and I’ll take you to it.’
There. He saw it this time. Most wouldn’t have noticed but he had been around long enough to read the signs. The stiffening of the shoulders, the narrowing of the eyes as the lone antelope strayed just that little too far from the rest of the herd.
They were preparing themselves.
He looked around again. It was still clear, although it was difficult to see beyond the trees as night closed in. Then he realized. That’s why they’d been late.
So it would be dark.
Without saying a word he spun on the gravel, running, running as fast as he could, his slick leather soles spraying stones behind him like tyres accelerating on a dirt track. He couldn’t let them get it. He couldn’t let them find it. He snatched a glance over his shoulder and saw the two men bearing down on him, a gun barrel glimmering in the orange glow of the lights that lined the bridge overhead like a sharp claw.
Instinctively, he snapped his head back round just as he ran onto the point of the knife. Now he understood. The dark shape that had appeared in front of him, arm outstretched, face masked by the night, had been hiding in the shadows until he had come within striking distance. He’d been herded into the arms of death like an animal.
With a short, sharp punch, the six-inch serrated blade carved up into his chest and the shock of the impact made him swallow hard. He felt its coldness slicing through the soft cartilage at the base of his sternum, cutting into his heart.
It was the last thing he felt.
In the orange light, the blood that had leaked over the starched whiteness of his dog collar glowed green as Lady Liberty’s weathered skin. But unknowing, unseeing, unfeeling, her steady gaze was fixed instead towards America.
Towards New York.
PART I
Gold conjures up a mist about a man, more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes of charcoal
Charles Dickens – Nicholas Nickleby
ONE
Fifth Avenue, New York City16th July – 11:30pm
Gracefully he fell, his body arcing in one smooth movement out from the side of the building and then back in, like a spider caught in a sudden gust of wind as it dropped on its thread, until with a final fizz of the rope through his gloved hand he landed on the balcony of the 17th floor.
Crouching, he unclipped the rope from his harness and flattened his back to the wall, his dark, lithe shape blending into the stained stone. He didn’t move, his chest barely rising, the thin material of his black ski mask slick against his lips.
He had to be sure. He had to be certain that no one had seen him on the way down. So he waited, listening to the shallow breaths of the city slumbering fitfully below him, watching the Met’s familiar bulk retreat into shadow as its floodlights were extinguished.
And all the while Central Park’s dark lung, studded with the occasional lights of taxis making their way between East and West 86th Street, breathed a chilled, oxygenated air up the side of the building that made him shiver despite the heat. Air heavy with New York’s distinctive scent, an intoxicating cocktail of fear, sweat and greed that bubbled up from subway tunnels and steam vents.
And although a lone NYPD chopper, spotlight primed, circled ever closer and the muffled scream of sirens echoed up from distant streets through the warm air, he could tell they were not for him. They never were. Tom Kirk had never been caught.
Keeping below the level of the carved stone balustrade, he padded over to the large semicircular window that opened onto the balcony, its armoured panes glinting like sheet steel. Inside, he could see that the room was dark and empty, as he knew it would be. As it was every weekend during the Summer.
A few taps on each of the hinges that ran down the side of the right-hand window and the bolts popped out into his hand. Then carefully, so as not to break the alarmed central magnetic contact, he levered the edge of the window away from the frame until there was a gap big enough for him to slip through.
Once inside, Tom swung his pack down off his shoulder. From the main compartment he took out what looked like a metal detector – a thin black plate attached to an aluminium rod. He flicked a switch on the top of the plate and a small green light on its smooth surface glowed into life. Keeping completely still, he gripped the rod in his right hand and began to sweep the plate over the arid emptiness of the floor in front of him. Almost immediately the light on the back of the plate flashed red and he paused.
Pressure pads. As predicted.
Moving the plate slowly over the spot where the light had changed colour, he quickly identified an area that he circled with white chalk. Repeating this procedure, he worked his way methodically across the room, moving in controlled, precise movements. Five minutes later and he had reached the far wall, a trail of small white circles in his wake.
The room was exactly as the photos had shown it and had the distinctive smell of new money and old furniture. A large Victorian partners’ desk dominated, a masculine marriage of polished English oak and Italian leather that reminded him of the interior of a 1920s Rolls Royce. Behind the desk, the wall was lined with what looked like the remnants of a once substantial private library, now presumably scattered across the world according to auction lots.
The two sidewalls that ran up to the window were painted a sandy grey and symmetrically hung with a series of drawings and paintings, four down each wall. He did not have to look closely to recognise them – Picasso, Kandinsky, Mondrian, Klimt. But Tom was not there for the paintings, nor for the decoy safe he knew lay behind the third picture on the left. He had learned not to be greedy.
Instead, he picked his way back through the chalk circles to the edge of the silk rug that filled the floor between the desk and the window, its colours shimmering in the pale moonlight. With his back to the window, he gripped one corner of the rug and threw it back. Underneath, the wood was slightly darker where it had been shielded from the bleaching sun.
Kneeling, he placed his gloved hands flat on the floor and slid them slowly across the dry wooden surface. About three feet in front of him, the tips of his fingers sensed a slight ridge in the wood. He moved his hands apart along the ridge, until he reached what felt like a corner on both sides. Placing his knuckles on these corners, he leant forward with all his weight. With a faint click, a two-foot square panel sank down and then sprang up about half an inch proud of the rest of the floor. It was hinged at the far end and he folded the panel back on itself so that it lay flat, revealing a gleaming floor safe.
The safe manufacturing and insurance industries cooperate on the security ratings of safes. Manufacturers regularly submit their products to independent testing by the Underwriters Laboratory, or UL, who in return issue the safe with a Residential Security Container Label that allows the insurers to accurately determine the relevant insurance premium.
The safe that Tom had revealed had, according to its freshly affixed label, been rated TXTL – 60. In other words, it had been found to successfully resist entry for a net assault time of 60 minutes. It was one of the highest ratings that UL could give.
Even so, it took Tom just eight and a half seconds to open it.
Inside there was some cash, around fifty thousand dollars he guessed, jewellery and a 1920s Reverso wristwatch. But he ignored all these, turning his attention instead to a large wooden box, its dark mahogany lid inlaid with a golden double-headed eagle, an orb and sceptre firmly gripped in each of its talons. The Romanov Imperial crest.
He eased the box open, carefully lifting the precious object it contained out from the luxuriant embrace of its white silk lining.
He felt his pulse quicken. Even to him, who had seen myriad objects of breathtaking beauty, this was an exceptional piece. So much so that he took the unprecedented step – for him at least – of sliding his mask up off his face so he could see it properly. His uncharacteristic imprudence was almost immediately rewarded. As the moonlight caught its jewelled surface, the delicate object came alive in his hands, glowing like firelight through the hoarfrosted window of a remote wooden cabin.
The words on the roughly torn page from the Christie’s catalogue that had been included with his briefing notes immediately came tumbling back into his head.
‘The Winter Egg was made by Carl Fabergé for Tsar Nicholas II to give to his mother, the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, for Easter 1913. The Egg, cut from Siberian rock crystal, is encrusted with more than three thousand diamonds, with another one thousand three hundred diamonds adorning the base.
As with all Fabergé’s Eggs it contains an Easter ‘surprise’, in this case a platinum Easter basket decorated with flowers made from gold, garnets and crystals. The basket symbolises the transition from winter to spring.’
Alone, he gazed at the Egg. Soon, he could hear nothing except the steady rise and fall of his own chest and the ticking of an unseen clock. And still he stared, the room melting away from the edge of his vision, the diamonds sparkling like icicles in a midday sun, until he was certain he could see right through the Egg, through his gloves and his fingers to the bones themselves.
Suddenly he was back in Geneva, standing at the foot of his father’s coffin, candles sputtering on the altar, the priest’s voice droning in the background. Some water had dropped off the circular wreath onto the coffin lid and was trickling off the side and onto the floor. He had stood there, fascinated, watching the red carpet change colour as the crystal drops shattered again and again on its soft pile.
Unexpected and unwanted, a thought had occurred to him then – or rather, a question. It had slipped into his head and tiptoed around the edges of his consciousness, taunting him.
‘Is it time?’
Afterwards, he had dismissed it. Not given it much thought. Not wanted to, perhaps. But in the two months since the funeral, the question had returned again and again, each time with more urgency. It had haunted him, undermining his every action, investing his every word with doubt and uncertainty. Demanding to be answered.
And now he knew. It was so clear to him. Like winter turning to spring, it was inevitable. It was time. After this, he was going to walk away.
He slid his mask back on, packed the Egg up, shut the safe door and closed the wooden panel. Stealthily retreating across the room, he made his way back out through the window onto the balcony.
The sirens far below him seemed louder now, and he found that his heart was beating in time with the thumping blades of the police helicopter that was almost overhead, its spotlight raking over the trees and street below, clearly looking for someone or something. Crouching, he attached the rope to his harness and timed his jump for when the helicopter had made its next pass. In an instant he was gone.
Only an eyelash remained where it had fluttered down from his briefly unmasked face to the floor. It glinted black in the moonlight.
TWO
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC18th July – 7:00am
She knew what would happen as the door opened and the dark shape came through it. She fought to stop herself, but it was no use. It never was. She raised the gun in front of her in a classic Weaver stance. Her stronger left arm was slightly flexed, pushing the gun away from her. Her supporting arm was bent and pulling the weapon in to create a properly braced grip, her feet apart with her weak-sided right foot slightly forward.
She fired three shots right in the kill zone – a perfect equilateral triangle. He was dead before he hit the floor, his white shirt billowing red like a bottle of ink spilt onto blotting paper. It was then, as the light hit his face – only then, that she saw what she had done.
Jennifer Browne woke with a jump, peeled her cheek, sticky with sweat, off the desk’s laminate surface and fumbled for the clock. Blinking hard, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the overhead neon, she checked the time. Seven am. Shit. Another all-nighter.
She stretched and flexed her neck, her back clicking into place. Yawning, she reached down and pulled out the bottom desk drawer, felt inside and took out a cellophane-wrapped white blouse identical to the one she was wearing. It was resting on two others. Placing it on her desk, she began to unbutton the one she had on, her fingers stiff as she worked the buttons. Eventually, when it was undone, she stood up and slipped it off, dropping it into the open drawer which she then nudged shut with her foot.
She was strikingly beautiful in that effortless, double-take way that some women are. Five feet nine, smooth brown skin, slender yet curving where it counted, rounded cheeks and curly black hair that just kissed her bare shoulders. She wore no jewellery – never had – apart from the Tiffany’s twisted heart necklace that her sister had given her on her 18th birthday that nestled in the smooth curve of her breasts.
As she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into the waistband of her black trouser suit, she looked around at the windowless painted breeze block walls that encircled her and smiled, the dimples creasing into her soft brown cheeks. Even though it was small, she had still not quite got used to having her own office. Her own space. Her own air. After only three months back in DC, the novelty had certainly not worn off yet. Not by a long way. Not after three years down in the Atlanta field office, afraid to breathe out too far in case the cubicle walls collapsed. She was glad to be back; this time she was planning on staying.
There was a knock at the open door and Jennifer’s thoughts were interrupted. She looked up reproachfully but relaxed her frown when she saw that it was Phil Tucker, her Section Chief, right on time. He’d told her yesterday that he wanted her in early, that he needed to talk to her. Wouldn’t say why though.
‘Hey there,’ she called.
‘You okay?’ He walked up to the desk and squinted down at her through frameless glasses in concern, his double chin flattening over the top of his tie. ‘Another late night?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Jennifer self-consciously smoothed down her hair and rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes.
‘Nope.’ He smiled. ‘Security told me you hadn’t gone home… Just so you know, I appreciate it.’
That was Tucker all over. He wasn’t one of these bosses who just expected people to stay late and then never noticed when they did. He kept track of his team and made sure they knew it. She liked that. It made her feel like she was part of something again, not just an embarrassment that had to be explained away.
‘No problem.’
He scratched his copper-coloured beard, then the top of his head, his scalp pink and raw where the hair was thinning.
‘By the way, I spoke to Flynt, and the Treasury boys are going to handle everything from here on in on the Hammon case. They were very grateful for your help. He says he owes you one. Good job.’
‘Thanks.’ She gave an awkward shrug, never having been good at accepting compliments and changed the subject. ‘So what’s all this about? Why the early start? Some Congressman lose his dog?’
Tucker levered himself into a chair, his hips grazing its moulded plastic arms.
‘Something came up yesterday. I volunteered you.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
She laughed.
‘Would it make a difference if I did?’
‘Nope! Anyway, you won’t want to. It’s a good opportunity. Chance to get back on the inside track.’ He paused and looked suddenly serious. ‘A second chance, maybe.’ His eyes dipped to the floor.
‘You still trying to earn me my redemption?’ With her dream still fresh in her thoughts, something bitter rose to the back of her mouth and made her swallow hard.
‘No. You’re doing that all on your own. But you and I both know that it’s hard to change people’s minds.’
‘I’m not looking for any hand-outs, Phil. I can make my own way back.’ Her eyes shone with a fierce pride. Tucker nodded slowly.
‘I know. But everyone needs a break once in a while, even you. And I wouldn’t have suggested you if I didn’t think you’d earned it. Anyway, I told him to swing by here about now, so it’s too late to back out.’
He checked his watch, shook his wrist, held it to his ear and then checked it again.
‘Is that the right time?’ he asked, pointing at Jennifer’s desk clock. She ignored the question.
‘Told who to swing by here?’
There was a knock at the open door before he could answer and a man walked in. Tucker leapt up.
‘Jennifer – meet Bob Corbett; Bob – meet Jennifer Browne.’ All three of them stood motionless for a few seconds and Tucker’s eyes flicked anxiously to Jennifer’s, as if he was worried she might do or say the wrong thing.
They shook hands. Tucker breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Here, take my seat.’ Tucker pointed eagerly at his chair before perching unsteadily on the edge of Jennifer’s desk. Corbett sat down. ‘Bob heads up the Major Theft and Transportation Crimes Unit here.’
‘We were introduced in the elevator once,’ Jennifer nodded with a curious smile. From the times she’d seen him around the building, she knew that Corbett always looked immaculate, from his smoothly shaved chin to his polished black shoes, thin laces neatly tied in a double knot. But now she immediately noticed that something was different. The knot on his woven silk tie was much smaller than usual, as if he had loosened it and then re-tightened it several times. As if he was worried.
Corbett frowned and looked at her quizzically before nodding slowly in sudden recollection.
‘Sure. I remember. Hi.’ He spoke in short, sharp bursts and there was something in the precise urgency of his machine-gunned words that suggested a military background. They shook hands again.
Corbett often passed for a man ten years younger than his forty-five years, although the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth suggested that time was at last beginning to catch up with him. Next to Tucker certainly, he looked fit and healthy although that was possibly an unfair comparison. There was something streamlined about him, from his slicked back steel-grey hair to the rounded contours of his chin and cheekbones that gave him the chromed elegance of one of those 1930s Art-Deco locomotives that look like they are powering along at two hundred miles an hour even when they are standing still. Above the sharp angle of his nose, the cold light of his close-set grey eyes suggested a very clever and very determined man. He reminded her, in a strange way, of her father. Hard but fair.
‘You know, Bob’s got the best clean-up rate in the Bureau?’ Tucker continued. ‘What is it now? Only five unsolved cases in twenty-five years? That’s outstanding work.’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite come to terms with it.
‘Actually, Phil, it’s two. And I haven’t given up on them yet.’ Corbett smiled, but Jennifer could tell he wasn’t joking. He didn’t look like the sort of man who did.
‘Bob needs someone to work on a new case for him. I suggested you.’
Jennifer shrugged awkwardly, her face suddenly hot as two pairs of eyes focused in on her.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best. What’s the case?’
Corbett slid a large manila envelope towards her and motioned with a wave that she should open it. Warily, Jennifer lifted the tab and pulled out a series of black-and-white photos.
‘The man in that photo is Father Gianluca Ranieri.’
She studied the picture carefully, taking in the man’s contorted face and the large gash in his chest.
‘They found him in Paris yesterday. River cops fished him out the Seine. As you can see, he didn’t drown.’
Jennifer flicked through the rest of the photos, her mind focused. Close-ups of Ranieri’s face and the knife wound flashed past her large hazel eyes. A quick scan through the translated autopsy report at the back confirmed what Corbett had just told her – stabbed and then presumably thrown in the river. A single blow through the xiphisternum, aimed up towards the left shoulder blade, had caused a massive, almost instant heart attack.
As she read, she flashed a quick look at Corbett. He was studying her office with a faint smile. She knew that some of her colleagues found it strange that she kept the stark green concrete walls bare. Truth was, she found the lack of clutter helped her keep her mind clear.
‘Any thoughts?’ Corbett asked, his eyes snapping back round to meet hers.
‘Judging from the injury, it looks like a professional job. Some sort of hit.’
‘Agreed.’ Corbett nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was re-appraising Jennifer in the light of her quick diagnosis.
‘And it was public. The body dumped where they knew it would be quickly found.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That they’re not worried about getting caught. Or that maybe they wanted to send someone a message.’
Corbett nodded his agreement.
‘Perhaps both. Best guess is that he was killed round about midnight on the sixteenth of July, give or take three or four hours either way.’ He got up and padded noiselessly over to the filing cabinet, Jennifer noticing now that he seemingly kept his pockets empty of change and keys or anything else that might give away his position, like a cat who had had the bell on its collar removed so that it might be better able to stalk its unsuspecting prey. She continued to leaf through the file.
‘From what we know, Ranieri trained as a Catholic priest and then worked at the Vatican Institute for Religious Works.’
Jennifer looked up in surprise.
‘The Vatican Bank?’
‘As it’s also known, yes.’ Corbett raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed now. ‘He was there for about ten years before going missing about three years ago, along with a couple of million dollars from one of their Cayman Island accounts.’
Jennifer swivelled her chair round towards him, her forehead wrinkled in anticipation. She sensed that he was building up to something. Tucker, meanwhile, sat enthralled with his arms crossed and resting on his belly, his mouth slack and half open. Corbett ran his finger along the top of the filing cabinet as if checking for dust. She knew there wouldn’t be any. Not in her office.
‘He must have spent all the cash though, because he turned up in Paris last year. The French say he set himself up as a low-level fence. Nothing big. A painting here, a necklace there, but he was making a living; a good living, judging from the size of him.’
All three of them laughed and the tingle that Jennifer had felt slowly building inside her chest vanished like steam rising into warm air. Corbett moved back round to the chair and sat down again, Jennifer just getting a glimpse of the top of his shoes where over the years the constant rubbing of his suit trousers had buffed the leather to a slightly deeper shade of black than the rest of them.
‘I don’t get it.’ Jennifer replaced the file on the desk and sat back in her chair, confused. ‘Sounds to me like he got whacked by someone he ripped off. Or maybe he had some sort of deal go sour. Either way, it’s got nothing to do with us.’
Corbett locked eyes with her and the tingle reappeared and instantly sublimated into a cold, hard knot in the pit of her stomach.
‘Our angle, Agent Browne – and you won’t find this in the autopsy report – is that when they opened him up, they found something in his stomach. Something he’d swallowed just before he died. Something he clearly didn’t want his killers to find.’
Corbett reached into his pocket and, leaning forward, slid something sealed inside a small clear plastic bag across the desk towards her. Against the desk’s veneered expanse an eagle soared proudly, its majestic flight etched in solid gold.
It was a coin.
THREE
Clerkenwell, London18th July – 4:30pm
Outside, the afternoon rush hour traffic rumbled past, a never-ending river of rubber and steel that surged and stalled in tidy blocks to the beat of the traffic lights.
Inside, the shop windows glowed yellow as the sunlight fought to shine though their white-washed panes. In a few places, the paint had been scratched off and here narrow shafts of light pierced the gloom, the dust dancing through their pale beams like raindrops falling across car headlights.
The room itself was a mess – the orange walls blistered, the rough wooden floor suffocating in a thick down of old newspapers and junk food wrappers, while bare wires hung down menacingly from the cracked ceiling like tentacles.
At the back of the room, almost lost in the shadows, two tea chests rested on the uneven floor. Hunched forward on one of them, Tom Kirk was lost deep in thought, his chin in his hands.
Although he was just thirty-five years old, a few grey hairs flecked the sides of his head, becoming more noticeable in the several days of rough stubble that covered his face, the hair slightly darker in the shallow cleft of his square chin.
He reminded everyone of his father, or so everyone told him, much to his annoyance. Certainly he shared his delicately angular face, messy brown hair and deep-set blue eyes that nestled under thick brown eyebrows.
He was more athletic than his father though; a lithe, sinewy five foot eleven physique that suggested someone both quick enough to steal second base and strong enough to crack a shot into the bleachers if he had to. The irony, of course, was that he’d never been much of a big-hitter in high school, his signature play instead being a split-fingered fastball that had batters swinging at thin air as it broke violently downward. It fooled them every time.
Perched on the chest opposite him, a large backgammon board threatened to slide onto the floor at any moment. It was an intricately inlaid set that he’d picked up for next to nothing in some dusty side street off the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul years ago. It still smelled of glue and grease and spices. When he couldn’t sleep, he would sometimes play against himself for hours; checking the probabilities, shifting the pieces around the board, studying how different moves and strategies evolved. The half-empty bottle of Grey Goose on the floor next to him suggested that it had been a long night.
But Tom wasn’t even looking at the board. Instead he was considering the black ski mask that lay in his lap, carefully cradled as if made from the finest Limoges porcelain. With a half smile, he slipped his right hand into the neck opening and then stuck a finger out of each of the eye holes, wiggling them playfully up and down like fish chasing each other in and out of a skull’s eye sockets.
He had long, elegant fingers that made graceful, precise movements, each joint flexing like individual links in a chain, large white half moons at the bottom of each neatly clipped nail. And yet the back of his knuckles were covered in small white scars and his palms were rough and worn. It was almost as if he was a concert pianist who moonlighted as a bare knuckle fighter.
Tom knew that he couldn’t avoid making the call any longer. He’d been out of contact for three weeks now and didn’t have a choice. But would Archie understand? Would he even believe him? Abruptly his smile vanished and he flung the mask as far as he could across the room, willing it to shatter into a thousand pieces against the opposite wall.
He took his phone out of his back pocket and dialled, the high-pitched tones echoing back over the traffic’s low rumble. It was answered almost immediately, but there was silence from the other end. Tom coughed and then spoke, his voice smooth and soothing, his slight American accent more pronounced than usual as it often was when he was nervous.
‘Archie, it’s Felix.’
‘Jesus Christ, Felix!’
Felix. A name that he’d been christened with years ago when he had first got going in the game and one that he was stuck with now.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I got … held up,’ Tom answered.
‘Held up? I thought you’d been nicked.’
Archie. The best fence in the business. Tom had often wondered whether his was an invented name too, a shield to hide behind. On balance, he thought that it probably wasn’t. Somehow it seemed to fit.
‘No. Just held up.’
‘Spot of aggro?’
For once Archie sounded genuinely concerned.
‘No, but I’m not doing the States again. I’ve told you, it’s too risky doing jobs back there. I know I’m the last person they expect to see but one day they might get lucky.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Pretty much like we planned. Except they were having some construction work done and I was worried about extra security until it was finished. So I staked it out for about three weeks in the end before I went in – you know, just to be sure. I dealt with the pressure pads and the combination hadn’t been reset, so it was all pretty simple.’
‘Nice one. Usual place, then?’
‘My stuff already there?’
‘What do you think?’ Archie almost sounded offended.
‘Fine. I’ll drop it off in a few days.’
‘You’re going to have to get your skates on for the second one, though. You’ve not left yourself much time.’
There was a pause and the line crackled with static as Tom sat down on the tea chest, massaging his temple with his left hand. As he’d thought, Archie wasn’t going to make this any easier for him. But he’d made his decision and he was going to stick to it.
‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Archie’s tone was immediately suspicious.
‘Thing is, I’m not going to do the other job.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard me. I’m calling it off.’
‘You having me on?’
‘The truth is Archie, I’m done with this shit. I just don’t want to do it any more. I can’t do it any more. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ The word was hammered back into Tom’s ear. ‘Sorry? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You do me over and then you apologise? You must be having a laugh. Well, I’m sorry too, sunshine, but sorry just doesn’t bloody cut it. You’re sorry and I’m buggered because I’ve got to deliver two Fabergé Eggs to Cassius in twelve days time or I’m a dead man. Capeesh?’
‘Cassius?’ Tom’s lips formed around the word. He stood up again, his feet sinking into the trash-strewn floor like it was quicksand, his voice a whisper. ‘That was never the deal. You said it was for some guy called Viktor. A Russian client. You never mentioned Cassius. You know I don’t work for people like that. For him especially. What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Listen, when I took the job I didn’t know it was for him either.’ Archie’s voice was calm, soothing even. But to Tom it sounded as if he’d practised this speech many times, knowing how he would react. ‘And by the time I found out, it was too bloody late. We were already on the hook. You know as well as I do that you don’t muck Cassius about. Not now, not ever.’
‘Especially if the money’s good, right?’ said Tom bitterly. ‘Has a way of making you forgetful, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, do me a favour!’
‘What’s your take, Archie? Did he promise you a few extra points for keeping quiet?’
‘The money don’t come into it. It’s a sweet deal for both of us and you know it. Straight in, straight out with a buyer lined up. You never even needed to know it was for Cassius.’ Tom stood with one hand against the wall, his head bowed, the phone pressed to the side of his head. ‘Felix, I know it’s bang out of order but maybe we should meet.’ Archie’s voice was gentle, almost pleading. ‘You know, go for a pint or something. We can plan the second job, deliver both Eggs to Cassius and then move on. If you want to call it a day after that, fine, but we got to do this one thing and we got to do it right.’
What surprised Tom most was how quickly his answer came. He would have expected perhaps some silent deliberation, some internal dialogue as he considered Archie’s position and the implications of Cassius’s involvement on them both, weighed up the pros and cons of doing nothing or agreeing to follow through on this last job. But his answer was instinctive and immediate and had required no debate.
‘I’m sorry, Archie,’ Tom stood up straight, his voice hard. ‘You should have told me the truth. This is your problem now, not mine. You can have the Egg I’ve got as agreed but then that’s it. I’m out.’ He snapped the phone shut and breathed out. There, it was done.
He looked up and flinched. When he had thrown it earlier, the ski mask had snagged on a nail. Now, as it hung there, the empty eye sockets seemed to be mocking him.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
