The Black Sun - James Twining

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of him?’ Even Tom was impressed by this latest example of Dominique’s ever-expanding mental database of the art market.

      ‘Only by name.’

      ‘How come?’

      ‘Because your father spent the last three years of his life looking for Bellak paintings.’

      ‘Really?’ Tom said disbelievingly.

      ‘It became quite a big thing for him. He had me scanning databases and newspaper files and auction listings to see if I could find anything. I never did. By the end, I think he had almost given up.’

      ‘That’s where I’d heard the name before,’ Tom said, clicking his fingers in frustration at not having remembered this before. ‘Now you mention it, I think he even asked me to see if I could come up with anything.’

      ‘But why on earth would he want to collect them?’ Archie asked, disdainfully holding up the painting of the synagogue to prove his point.

      ‘He wasn’t collecting them,’ Dominique corrected him, sitting down crossed-legged on the hearth rug. ‘He was looking for one in particular – a portrait of a girl. He said it was probably in a private collection somewhere. He said that it was the key.’

      ‘The key to what?’ Archie asked.

      ‘I don’t know,’ Dominique sighed. ‘Remember what he was like with his secrets.’

      ‘Well, Renwick clearly does,’ Tom said bitterly. ‘That’s why he’s put this here – to show me how close he is to finding it.’

      ‘Which is precisely why you shouldn’t let him get to you,’ Archie said firmly. ‘He wants to get a reaction. We’ll just dump the arm and pretend none of this ever happened.’

      ‘Never happened?’ Dominique countered, her eyes shining defiantly. ‘You can’t just ignore something like this, Archie. They killed someone – I heard you say so. They killed someone and we might be able to do something about it.’

      ‘That’s not what I mean,’ Archie protested. ‘Look, I know Cassius. This is just another one of his sick games. It’s too late to help the old man that arm belonged to, but we can still help ourselves. Tom? What are you doing?’

      ‘Calling Turnbull,’ answered Tom, picking up the phone and extracting the slip of paper with Turnbull’s number from his wallet.

      ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said?’ pleaded Archie.

      ‘I heard what you both said, and Dominique’s right – we can’t ignore this.’

      ‘He’s playing with you. Let it go.’

      ‘I can’t let it go, Archie,’ Tom snapped, before taking a deep breath and continuing in a gentler tone. ‘If you want to stay out of this, fine. But I can’t. This involves my father. And if Renwick’s after something my father spent years looking for, then I’m not just going to stand by and watch him get it first. I’m not having him make a fool of me. Not again.’

       SIXTEEN

       Black Pine Mountains, nr Malta, Idaho

       5th January – 2.19 p.m.

      Viggiano and Bailey set off downhill through the trees as fast as they could, stumbling awkwardly as their legs disappeared into snow drifts or their feet snagged on camouflaged undergrowth. Eventually they emerged, breathless, on the far right-hand side of the compound. Leaving fresh tracks in the snow, they both clambered over the wooden fence and made their way to the front entrance, where they were met by one of Vasquez’s men, his mask and helmet discarded, his face blank.

      ‘This way, sir.’

      He led them through an entrance hall piled high with sneakers and boots and old newspapers. Several pairs of antlers had been nailed to the wall, grimy baseball caps and odd socks hanging off them like makeshift Christmas decorations. Vasquez was waiting for them in the large kitchen. The long oak table was set for dinner, roaches scuttling across the worktops and over a joint of beef that had been left out, its sides bristling with fungus. The air was thick with flies and a heady smell that Bailey recognised only too well. The smell of rotting flesh.

      Vasquez nodded towards a door.

      ‘We haven’t checked the basement yet.’

      ‘The basement?’ Viggiano frowned as he scrabbled to retrieve the plan of the compound from his jacket. He smoothed it out, borrowing tacks from an out-of-date NRA calendar to pin it to the wall. ‘Look – there is no basement.’

      ‘Then what do you call that?’ Vasquez threw open the door to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness below, a blast of warm, noxious air rushing up to meet them.

      Guided by Vasquez’s flashlight, they negotiated the stairs. At the bottom was a narrow, unlit corridor. Vasquez lit their way with a series of green chemical flares that he cracked into life and threw to the ground at regular intervals.

      Bailey felt himself beginning to sweat as they approached the end of the passage. The temperature was noticeably higher here than upstairs, the smell making his stomach turn. Vasquez signalled for them to wait as he entered a doorway. He re-emerged, grim-faced, a few seconds later.

      ‘I hope you guys skipped lunch.’

      Viggiano and Bailey stepped inside. A massive oil-fired boiler hugged the far wall, the heat radiating off its sides. The stench was unbearable, the buzzing of the flies so loud it sounded like the revving of a small engine. The centre of the room was taken up by a large German Shepherd, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, its brown fur matted with blood and rippling with maggots. Next to it were two blood-soaked pit bulls and a scraggy-looking mongrel whose head had been almost blown off.

      ‘Guess now we know why no one had seen the dogs,’ commented Vasquez drily.

      He pointed his flashlight down at the floor near where they were standing. The grey concrete was peppered with brass shell casings, their shiny hides glinting like small eyes.

      ‘M16 casings. Couple of mags’ worth. They weren’t taking any chances.’

      ‘But where is everyone?’ Bailey asked. ‘Where have they gone?’

      ‘Sir?’ Another of Vasquez’s men appeared in the doorway behind them. ‘We got something else.’

      They followed him back along the green flare-lit corridor into another, smaller room that was empty apart from a desk pushed up against one wall. Here the floor was covered not with dog carcases and shell casings but with small heaps of discarded paper. Bailey knelt to pick up a printout. It was a list of flight times to Washington DC.

      He stood and made his way over to the far side of the room. Here, a large architectural drawing had been pinned to the wall, with various parts of the building circled in red. In the bottom left-hand corner was an inscription: National Cryptologic Museum – Plans; Structural Drawings; Heating/Ventilation System – 1993. He pointed it out to the others.

      ‘Looks like these were our guys.’

      ‘What’s through there?’ Viggiano pointed to a rusty metal door set into the facing wall.

      Vasquez approached and shone his torch through a small glass inspection panel set into the door.

      ‘We got ‘em!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re in here. This opens on to a second door which opens into another room. Jesus, they’re squashed in tight.’

      ‘Let me see.’ Viggiano peered in.

      ‘Are they still alive?’ Bailey asked.

      ‘Yeah. One of them has just seen me.’

      He stepped back and Bailey took

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