"It's all there."
Kristenko's face relaxed into an approximation of a grin. "Okay, okay. So now we make the exchange?"
"Where's the painting?"
"Still inside. I'll go back in and get it, then meet you back—"
With a shout, four men who had been taking pictures of each other suddenly ran toward Kristenko, guns materializing in their hands. Terrified, he raised his hands in immediate surrender, the bag tumbling to the ground and almost spilling open.
But rather than grab him, the men ran straight past as if completely unaware of his presence. Instead, they piled into Archie, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there. With a squeal of tires, a white van swerved into the square and screeched to a halt alongside them.
"What the hell's going on?" Tom screamed into the radio.
The side door of the van slid back and the four men bundled Archie inside, then jumped in after him. Before Tom could react, the van accelerated away, the side door slamming shut. The whole operation had lasted less than ten seconds.
Tom turned to Kristenko. The curator stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the retreating van. Finally, with a despairing glance at Tom, he snatched the camera, turned on his heel, and walked briskly away, never once looking back, not even at the bag of money lying on the ground.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
They looked well trained," Dominique said, still breathless from having run the width of the square to reach him.
"I agree," said Tom. "Military, or some sort of police hostage rescue team."
"Maybe I can help," Turnbull offered. "Use my connections here to make some inquiries."
"No, leave it to me," Viktor said. "If it is the police, we've got some people on the inside. I'll find out what's going on. You two should concentrate on Kristenko."
"You're right," Tom conceded. "We need someone to follow him. See where he's going."
"Already done," said Viktor. "One of my men will call us as soon as he gets to wherever he's headed."
"If he takes the painting back down to wherever he got it from, we're right where we started — worse, even. We've got to get hold of it tonight, before he changes his mind."
There was a crackle of static from Viktor's radio. She turned it up and a disembodied Russian voice rose into the cold night air. "He's arrived back at the museum and gone straight up to the Restoration Department."
"How do you know that?" Turnbull asked.
"Most people end up owing me a favor at some stage. Whether they know it or not."
Tom's phone rang. He checked the caller ID and looked up in surprise. "It's him — Kristenko." He answered the call with a confused look. "Yes?"
"What just happened down there?" Kristenko's voice was a strangled whisper.
"I've no idea," Tom said soothingly.
"I thought… I thought for a moment they had come for me."
"Don't be stupid. How could they even know?"
"This was a bad idea, a very bad idea," Kristenko muttered. "I don't know what I was thinking."
"You were thinking about fifty thousand dollars," Tom reminded him gently. "You were thinking about paying Viktor off."
"What's the point, if I'm in prison?"
"Don't you want the money?"
"Yes… No… I don't know anymore."
"Fine. I'll tell Viktor that you don't want—"
"No, no. But I'm not taking it outside."
"What?"
"I'll leave it for you. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll leave it for you here in the museum. You can come in and get it yourself."
"That wasn't the deal," said Tom.
"You said fifty thousand if I brought it to you, twenty thousand if I found it. Well, I've found it. Twenty thousand will clear my debts. The rest, well, it's not worth the risk. I'd rather take my chances. I won't survive prison. I'd rather go to the director and tell him—"
"Okay, Boris, calm down. I'll come and get it."
"Good." Kristenko sighed with relief. "I'll leave it in the Restoration Department. There's a vault."
"What's the combination?"
"I'll give you that when you give me the money."
Tom smiled. Kristenko was getting better at this game as time went on. "Fine. I'll call you when I'm in." He punched the Off button and turned to Viktor.
"Kristenko's too scared to bring it out so I'll have to go in. Can you get me some tools and a floor plan?"
"Done," said Viktor.
Tom turned to Turnbull. "How's your Russian?"
"Good enough."
"It'll need to be."
"Why?"
"Because you're coming in with me."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Fuck off," Archie snapped. The short, fat American who'd introduced himself as Cliff Cunningham just smiled. "You'll have to do better than that, Blondi."
"I've nothing to say. Not to you, or any other copper." Cunningham shook his head. "We're FBI."
"What, am I meant to be impressed?" Archie's voice rang out clear and confident, but he had to admit he was confused. One moment he'd been trailing Kristenko, the next he was in the back of a van, surrounded by Yanks. What the hell did they want? Always sticking their bloody noses in where they weren't wanted.
"We've got the big picture," drawled the other Fed — Bailey, he'd said his name was. "We just need the details."
"Details of what?" snapped Archie. "Let's start with Lasche…" Archie's heart skipped a beat. "Lasche?"
"Don't play dumb," said Bailey. "We saw you go in there. We know that's who you work for."
"Wolfgang Lasche?"
"So you admit you know him," Cunningham exclaimed triumphantly.
" 'Course I know him. Everyone in the business knows him. What's he got to do with anything?"
"Why kill all those people?" asked Bailey, suddenly angry. "What did they know that was so dangerous?"
"What the hell are you on about?"
"We have proof that you were in the States, security footage from the airport—"
"So I went to Vegas — big deal. There was a poker thing on. Ask around. There'll be plenty of witnesses."
"And Lasche?" Bailey didn't seem to be listening. "Why kill him? Covering your tracks again?"
"Lasche is dead?"
"Decapitated with a samurai sword," Cunningham said, eyeing Archie coldly. "But I'd say he was lucky compared to what you did to the Lammers woman. The Austrian police just sent us the crime scene photos."
"Lammers? Maria Lammers? She's dead too?" Now Archie was totally lost. How could all these people be dead? "This is some sort of a joke, right?"
"Why did you steal it?" Bailey spoke up again, his voice calm and measured.
"Steal what?"
"The Enigma machine, of course."
"Okay," said Archie, deciding with this last, fanciful revelation that he'd heard quite enough, "if you're going to charge me with something, do it. It doesn't matter, anyway. My lawyer will have me out of here quicker than you can say extradition treaty."
"Lawyer?" Cunningham gave a hollow laugh. "You think a lawyer's going to help explain the twenty-six people you gassed to death in Idaho? You think a lawyer's going to account for where the Enigma machine is? You think a lawyer's going to stop us flying you back to the States in the diplomatic bag? You're going nowhere, Blondi. Not till you tell us exactly what we want to know."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The queue snaked in front of them, the air thick with cigarette smoke — filterless Russian brands, mainly — and the humid vapor of restless breath. A few consulted their watches; others swapped blue jokes or chatted on their cell phones, final hurried conversations, half an eye on the gate as they waited for their shift to start. At eleven thirty exactly, the guards opened the doors.