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‘A black cat. Dead. Nailed to the wall. The chip was in its mouth.’ He shook his head, as if to shake the grotesque image from his mind, but found that every time he blinked its ghostly outline reappeared in front of him, as if it had somehow been seared on to the back of his eyelids.
Archie sat down slowly on the opposite other side of the card table. He picked the chip up and considered it for a few seconds, then locked eyes with Tom.
‘And you think it was meant for you, don’t you?’
‘I think it was meant for Felix, yes.’ Tom was surprised at the instinctive anger in his voice. That name sat uncomfortably with him now, reminding him of a past life and a past self that he was trying to forget, to leave behind. Only Milo was trying to drag him back.
‘It’s a bit bloody crude, isn’t it, even for him?’
‘He’s a showman. He likes to shock people.’
‘What do you think he wants?’
‘To let me know he’s back?’ Tom speculated irritably. ‘To show me that he’s not lost his touch? That he’s still number one? Take your pick.’
‘You don’t think it’s a threat?’
‘No.’ Tom gave a confident shake of his head. ‘We have an understanding. More of a debt, really. Milo operates by this old-fashioned code of honour, a hangover from his days in the Legion. According to his code he owes me a life, because I helped save his once. Until he repays it, he won’t touch me.’
‘But now you’ve swapped sides,’ Archie reminded him. ‘Whatever debt you two had don’t count for nothing no more.’
‘You mean we’ve swapped sides,’ Tom corrected him, with a nudge.
Archie mumbled something under his breath and fumbled for his cigarettes.
‘Do you have to?’ Tom frowned as he lit up.
‘I’ve been gagging for one all afternoon.’ He took a deep drag and sighed contentedly.
‘Why, where have you been?’
‘Over at Apsley House, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘You should have seen the bird that runs the place.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Fit as a butcher’s dog.’
‘So you’re glad you went?’ Tom laughed.
‘I was till she gave me this,’ Archie sighed, handing over the CCTV still. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
Tom studied the picture for a few seconds, attempting to extrapolate the man’s face from the narrow sliver of his features that hadn’t been obscured. He suddenly fixed Archie with an incredulous look.
‘Is that Rafael?’
‘That’s what I thought too. It’s the only shot they got of him. He dodged the other cameras.’
‘It can’t be him.’ Tom shook his head in disbelief. ‘He’d have let me know if he was over here.’
‘You were away when this happened.’
‘What was he after?’
‘Part of a dinner service. They rumbled him before he could get to it. He’s a better art forger than he is a thief.’
‘A dinner service?’ Tom looked up with a frown. ‘The Egyptian dinner service?’
‘You know it?’
‘It’s one of a pair. I saw the other one once at the Kuskovo Estate near Moscow.’
‘Well, next time maybe he should try his luck there instead,’ Archie laughed. ‘He certainly ballsed this one up.’
Tom silently considered the grainy image, his brain furiously calculating all the possible reasons Rafael might have had to try and pull off a job like this. The problem was, none of them made sense. Just like this picture didn’t make sense. If Rafael had managed to avoid all the other cameras, why allow himself to be seen in this one, even if he was only barely recognisable? He would have known it was there, same as the others.
Unless that was the whole point. Unless he wanted to be seen. The question was, by who?
SEVEN (#ulink_8734d214-991a-56e0-8cbc-cb3a1b0f07a2)
Ginza District, Tokyo
19th April – 6.02 a.m.
This was a sanctuary. A refuge. A place to escape the sensory assault of the outside world. The choking fumes from the long ribbons of traffic, cut into neat strips where the streets crossed. The deafening floods of people, the roar of their heavy footsteps as they funnelled obediently along the sidewalks in different directions, depending on the time of day. The blinding strum of the persuasive neon, the advertising signs preaching their different religions high above the heads of those passing below, heads bowed as if in prayer.
Here there were no windows, and no way in, apart from a solitary, soundproofed door that could only be opened from the inside. The air was filtered and chilled, the walls covered in the same black Poltrona Frau leather used by Ferrari, the recessed lights waxing to nothing more than a lunar glow before waning back into darkness at the press of a switch.
There was a single chair positioned in front of a blank screen that took up almost an entire wall. A man was sitting in it, naked. To his left was a glass of iced water. His head, face, chest, arms, legs and groin were totally bald, giving him the appearance of a grotesque oversized baby. From the way he was sitting, it was also impossible to see his penis, giving him a strange, androgynous quality that his distended stomach, swollen breasts and delicate bone structure did nothing to dispel.
He pressed the small remote balancing on his lap. The screen flickered on, a searing rectangle of white light that made the colourful brocade of tattoos that snaked over his entire upper body ripple as if alive. From all around him came the low hum and hiss of the concealed surround speakers.
Now an image appeared. A man. Terrified. His arms pressed flat against a doorframe. Then someone else stepped into the picture, a hammer in one hand and two nails in the other. The first man’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. The nail went through his wrist, the metal stretching his median nerve across its blunt tip like the strings over the bridge of a violin, his thumbnail drawing blood where the reflex had caused it to embed itself into his palm. He screamed, the saliva dribbling down his chin, then fainted. Reaching for the remote, the viewer turned the volume up.
They waited until he regained consciousness and then hammered in the second nail. He shrieked again, his body momentarily rigid with pain, hands clenched into white talons, before sagging forward as the men released him and let his wrists take the strain. The camera never left his face, silent tears running down his cheek, a sudden nosebleed drawing a vivid line across his upper lip and chin before dripping on to his chest.
His tortured breathing echoed through the room, a steady metronome that marked every few passing seconds with unfeeling regularity until slowly, inevitably, the gap between each rasping breath grew. For a few minutes it seemed as if time itself was slowing, his lungs clawing for air, his lips thin and blue, each breath shallower than the last until little more than a whisper remained.
Then he was still.
Taking a sip of water and freeing his penis so it lay across his stomach where he could touch it, the man settled down to watch the film again.
EIGHT (#ulink_cd83ddcb-2db5-56ce-a891-a0360edafccf)
Clerkenwell, London
19th April – 1.16 a.m.
With a sigh, Tom threw the bedclothes off and swung his feet down to the floor. He’d never been a good sleeper, and experience had taught him there was no point trying to wrestle his mind into submission when it had decided it had better things to do.
He pulled on the jeans and shirt he’d thrown over the back of a chair and negotiated his way across the open expanse of the living room, the orange glow of the slumbering city seeping in through the partially glazed roof overhead. Unbolting his front door, he made his way down the staircase to his office, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking noisily on the concrete steps.
The desk light snapped on, a brilliant wash of bleached halogen sweeping across the worn leather surface. He prodded the mouse and his computer blinked reluctantly into life, the screen staining his face blue.
He scanned through his emails – junk mail mostly, offering to improve his sex life or his bank balance. For a moment his cursor hovered over the three unopened messages from Jennifer Browne that lurked at the foot of his inbox. Two from the year before, one sent this January. Then nothing.
Not that that was surprising. Jennifer had better things to do than waste time writing to him if he couldn’t be bothered to reply. But then it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to read them. It was just simpler that way. His was a life that could only be lived alone and there was no point in pretending otherwise. And although he would never admit it, he drew a perverse satisfaction in his asceticism; in proving that civilian life had not blunted his self-discipline. Even so, he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to delete her emails yet. That would have been a little too final. Perhaps, deep down, he liked to believe that there might be another way.
A noise made Tom look up. The roller-shutter over the entrance had been activated and was retracting itself with a loud clanking. He crossed over to the window that looked on to the warehouse below, just in time to see a powerful motorbike pull in, the dazzling beam of its headlamp picking out a series of packing crates and cardboard boxes before both it and the engine were extinguished. Almost immediately, the shutter unfurled behind it.
Dominique jumped to the ground and removed her helmet, blonde hair spilling out on to her shoulders. Looking up, she waved at Tom with a smile, before turning and making her way up the spiral staircase towards him.
‘Welcome home.’ She kissed him on both cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling under a silvery eye shadow.
‘Thanks. You’re late back.’
‘You checking up on me too?’ She grinned, unzipping her leather jacket to reveal a strapless black cocktail dress. ‘I’ve already had two missed calls from Archie tonight.’
‘I just didn’t know where you were,’ said Tom.
Although it was against his natural instincts to worry about anyone other than himself, Tom felt strangely responsible for Dominique. Responsible because, as she had revealed to him a few months before, it was his father who had offered her a way out of Geneva’s callous streets and a spiralling cycle of soft drugs, casual scams and brutal young-offender institutions. Responsible because, after his father’s death, she was the one who had picked up the reins of his business, first transferring it to London and then agreeing to stay and help run it. Protecting her was, therefore, a way of preserving the delicate thread of shared memories that led back to his father. Not that she wanted or needed much protection.
‘I can look after myself,’ she said, arching her eyebrows knowingly. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘Can’t sleep.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’ She laid a concerned hand on his arm. ‘You were only meant to be gone a few days. It’s been three weeks.’
‘I got a lead on the Ghent altarpiece,’ he said defensively. ‘I followed it up.’
‘You look tired.’
‘I’ve got a lot going on.’
‘You need to slow down,’ she cautioned.
‘I like to keep busy.’
‘Keeping busy won’t bring any of them back, you know. Your father, Harry –’
‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ Tom felt his teeth clenching at the mention of Harry Renwick. A family friend and surrogate father to Tom, Renwick had revealed himself to be the murderer and criminal mastermind known as Cassius. The shock of his betrayal the previous summer still hadn’t left Tom; nor had the guilt he now felt at his role in Harry’s death, or his anger that Renwick had taken the truth about Tom’s father’s true involvement in his murderous schemes to his grave. There were still so many questions about the sort of man his father had been, about the people he’d known and the things he’d done. Questions, always questions, but never any way of answering them.
‘You never want to…’ She broke off suddenly, reached behind him and snatched the CCTV still off the desk where Tom had left it. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Archie. It’s from that break-in at Apsley House.’
‘I know that man.’ She pointed at the blurred image.
‘Rafael?’ Tom gave a disbelieving frown. ‘I doubt it.’
‘He was here,’ she insisted. ‘The morning you flew off to Italy. He left you something.’
‘What?’
She pointed at the bookcase under the window. A long, narrow object had been placed there, wrapped in what appeared to be a white linen napkin.
Tom picked it up and carried it over to the desk. As he stood it up and undid the knot, the material fell away, revealing a porcelain obelisk, just over two feet long, inscribed with hieroglyphs.
‘What is it?’ asked Dominique, frowning.
‘It’s part of the Egyptian dinner service from Apsley House,’ Tom answered, grim-faced.
‘But they told us nothing was taken.’
‘That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.’
‘You mean he swapped this for a replica?’
‘I should have known better than to think he’d have run away empty handed. He’s too good.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A crook and a friend.’ Tom gave a wry smile.
‘In that order?’
‘He never saw the difference. Was there anything else?’
‘A letter.’ She handed him an envelope. It was made from thick, good quality ivory paper and a single word had been written across the front in a swirling copperplate script. Felix.
Tom snatched a knife out of the desk drawer and sliced it open.
‘It’s empty,’ said Dominique, looking up at him questioningly. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Tom said as he reached into the desk for his address book.
‘Have you seen the time?’ she warned him.
‘He’s up to something,’ he muttered, nodding at the stolen obelisk and the empty envelope. ‘What if he’s in some sort of trouble? What if he needs my help?’
He found Rafael’s number and dialled it. A few seconds later a voice answered.
‘Digame.’
‘Rafael?’ he asked in a tentative tone, not recognising the man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialled.
There was a pause.
‘Who is this?’ There was a suspicious edge to the man’s voice.
