The Black Sun (27 page)

“They must mean or do something,” Tom said. “They must go together somehow.”

“Maybe it’s a picture,” Dominique suggested. “Maybe the lines meet up to show you something that you can’t see when they’re apart . . .”

She grabbed the medals and began to slide them around, placing them against each other in a variety of positions to see if any of the lines matched up. It was a fruitless exercise. And after ten minutes exhausting every positional combination they could think of, Tom was on the verge of suggesting they try something else when Dominique suddenly clicked her fingers.

“Of course! It must be three-dimensional.”

“What?”

“The medals. They don’t go next to each other, like a normal flat puzzle. They go on top of each other.”

She grabbed one medal and placed it on top of another, sliding it this way and that to see if a pattern emerged. Then she tried changing one of the medals, and then changing the other to make a third combination, until finally she looked up with a smile. “Here you go.”

By sliding the second medal over to the left and up from the center of the bottom one, she’d managed to align several of the marks. Then she took the final medal, placed it on top

of

the

others,

slid

it

to

the

right

and

then

up

from

the

230 james twining

second medal. As she moved it into place, the lines suddenly came together to form an image that could only be seen by looking down from above. Two elaborate crossed keys.

“The keys of Saint Peter,” Tom said in a hushed voice.

“Saint Peter? As in Rome?” asked Archie. “Well, it can’t be there.”

“It’s unlikely, I agree,” Tom said pensively. “Crossed keys. What else could that mean?”

“Your father said the portrait was the key. Maybe this relates to that particular painting,” suggested Dominique.

“Or maybe it refers to the key on a map? Like our railway map?” Tom ventured.

“Well, while you two think that one through,” Archie said, stooping to pick up the lantern where he had placed it on the ground, “I’ll see whether our friends here have got anything else interesting on them. You never know—hang on,” he interrupted himself as he raised his head level with the table. “What’s that?”

He pointed at the side of the table where a small shape had been cut into the wood. A very distinctive shape.

“I wonder . . . Here, give me one of those . . .”

Dominique handed him one of the medals and he lined it up with the hole. It was a perfect fit. He slipped the medal inside.

“I’ll bet you any money you like there are two more holes just like this one,” Archie said excitedly.

“Here’s one!” said Dominique, pointing at a section of the table’s edge to Archie’s right.

“And here,” Tom confirmed, having moved around to the other side of the table so that they were now standing at three points of a large triangle.

“Put them in,” Archie said, sliding the remaining two medals across the table. Both Tom and Dominique did as he suggested and then straightened up, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

“Well,

they

must

do

something,”

Archie

insisted.

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“What about if we press them in?” said Dominique. “They might release something.”

They duly pressed, but still nothing happened.

“Let’s try pressing at the same time,” said Tom. “On three. One, two, three—”

Again they all pressed on the medals, and a firm click echoed around the chamber.

“Where did that come from?” asked Archie.

“The table,” said Tom. “Look at the middle of the table.”

He shone his light at a roundel in the center of the table that had popped a few millimeters higher than the surrounding surface. Kneeling on the table, Tom pulled out his knife and levered the roundel free, revealing a small but deep recess. He reached inside with the tips of his fingers and removed a dagger that the table had apparently been designed to house. From the way the blade had been elaborately engraved with a series of runic symbols, Tom guessed that it must once have fulfilled some long-forgotten ceremonial function. A piece of paper had been carefully wrapped around its ivory hilt. The others crowded around him as he hopped to the floor.

“What does it say?” demanded Archie.

Tom unscrolled it gently, not wanting to rip it.

“It’s a telegram,” he said. “Here, Dom, you read it. Your German’s better than mine.”

He handed the piece of paper to her and shone his flashlight on it so she could read.

“ ‘All is lost. Stop. Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse overrun. Stop. Gudrun kidnapped. Stop.’ ”

She looked up questioningly. “Gudrun? Wasn’t that Himmler’s daughter’s name? The one in the portrait?”

“Yes,” Tom confirmed with a nod. “And Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse was Himmler’s HQ. What else does it say?”

“ ‘Hermitage most likely destination. Stop. Heil Hitler.’” She looked up. “It’s dated April 1945. It’s addressed to Himmler.”

“The Hermitage,” Tom said, shaking his head in frustration. “That’s what the keys of Saint

Peter

meant.

It’s

got

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nothing to do with maps or Rome—we’re meant to be looking in St. Petersburg.” He looked up excitedly and locked eyes with first Archie and then Dominique. “My father was wrong. The missing Bellak isn’t in a private collection. It’s in the Hermitage Museum.”

I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. inside an enigma.
PART III
It is a
riddle wrapped in a mystery
Winston Churchill, 1 October 1939

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

NEVSKY PROSPEKT, ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

January 9—3:21 p.m.

Tom and Dominique made their way down the Nevsky Prospekt toward the Admiralty’s honeyed bulk, occasional dark veins forming along the pavement where it had emerged from under the snow’s white marble. They passed two drunks lying slumped over each other in a doorway, each with one hand lovingly wrapped around a half-empty bottle of vodka. As they watched, a stray dog ambled up to the two men and sniffed gingerly around their feet until a flailing kick sent it yelping down the street. A veil of gray clouds clung stubbornly to the sky, torn by icicles of dirty yellow light.

“So when do you think Archie will get here?” Dominique asked, her eyes focused on where she was treading.

“You missing him already?” Tom laughed, his voice muffled by a thick scarf. Although allegedly a mild winter by Russian standards, it still felt dangerously cold. “Don’t worry, he should be here by this evening.”

“I’m not sure it was worth him traveling separately. I mean, if someone
is
looking for him, they’re just as likely to spot him on his own as with us, aren’t they?”

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“True,” said Tom. “But he seemed to think he’d have a better chance with only himself to worry about.”

“And Turnbull? Did you get through in the end?”

“I updated him on everything we’ve found so far. Well, everything he needed to know, at least. He’s due here tomorrow. I’ll have to break it to Archie gently.”

Reaching the end of the Nevsky Prospekt, they turned right into Dvortsovaya Ploshchad, or Palace Square. The Admiralty’s gilded spike sat atop a white marble colonnaded cube that resembled the top layer of a gaudy wedding cake. To their right was the Alexander Column, while behind them, the curved sweep of the General Staff Building hugged them into its shadow. Here and there, through gaps in the buildings or over their rooftops came the unforgiving glint of concrete; ugly Soviet-era scars that the city was still trying unsuccessfully to heal over.

Dominique slipped her arm through Tom’s, feeling strangely warm and content, despite the icy wind whipping against her cheeks. The events of the past few days, while exhausting, had also been exhilarating. She had always been a bit jealous of Tom and Archie, with their crazy stories of places they’d been or jobs they’d pulled. Now, far from sitting on the sidelines, she felt that she was finally part of the team. It gave her a sense of belonging that she had not had for a while. Not since Tom’s father died.

“You’ve been here before, right?” she asked.

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I guess I just never got round to it.”

Something in his tone told her not to probe further. Not now, at least. She decided to change the subject. “That must be it—the Hermitage.”

“That’s it,” Tom confirmed.

“So that one’s the Winter Palace.” She pointed at the extravagant Baroque building on the left, its white-and-pista-chio-colored façade adorned with gleaming sculptures and covered with an intricate pattern of decorative motifs that flickered with the golden sparkle

of

a

thousand

tiny

candles.

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“I think so.”

“It’s huge.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“I read that if you spent eight hours a day here, it would take seventy years just to glance at every single one of its exhibits.”

“That long?”

“Thirteen miles of galleries, three million items . . . Actually, that sounds pretty quick.”

“And you really think the missing Bellak painting is in there?” she asked skeptically. Even now, she wasn’t sure that their combined logic had led them to the right place. They had reached the riverbank and were standing on the Palace Bridge, looking out toward the Peter and Paul Fortress. Tom leaned against the parapet, deep in thought, before answering.

“Have you ever heard of Schliemann’s Gold?”

Dominique nodded. From what she could remember, back in the 1870s, Schliemann had been a pioneering archaeologist. Obsessed with
The Iliad
, he had set about finding the site of Troy, using Homer’s text as his map. In 1873 he had finally hit pay dirt, uncovering the remains of the city and a hoard of bronze, silver, and gold objects that he christened Priam’s Treasure, after the ancient King of Troy.

“Just before he died,” Tom explained, “he gave the treasure he had found in Troy to the National Museum in Berlin, where it stayed until 1945.”

“
Until
1945? You mean the Russians took it?” Dominique guessed.

“Exactly. The Soviets were almost as obsessed with securing valuables and art as the Nazis. When Berlin fell, Stalin sent in his ‘Trophy Squad,’ a team specially trained to search out and confiscate as much Nazi loot as possible. They found Priam’s Treasure in a bunker beneath the Berlin Zoo, along with thousands of other artifacts. Of course, no one knew all this until recently. The treasure was thought to have been lost or destroyed in the war. Only in 1993 did the Russians finally admit that they had it, only to claim ownership in lieu of reparations. It’s on display now in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.”

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“And you think something similar must have happened to the painting?”

“That’s certainly what the telegram was saying,” Tom confirmed with a nod. “It makes sense. Himmler’s headquarters would have been one of the Russians’ key strategic targets. If Himmler really couldn’t bring himself to destroy Bellak’s painting of his daughter, I think there’s every chance the Russians found it there and carried it back here as a trophy. The problem is going to be finding it.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know I said there are three million items in there?” She nodded. “Well, only one hundred and fifty thousand are actually on display. The other two million eight hundred and fifty thousand are housed in vast attic storerooms and underground depositories. What’s more, most of what they’ve got down there is so poorly catalogued that they probably don’t even know they’ve got it themselves.”

“I still don’t understand why Bellak would have cooperated with the Order by hiding messages in his paintings?”

Tom shook his head. “As far as I know, Bellak was already dead by the time the Gold Train set out, so he can’t have been involved. Besides, the clue you found wasn’t hidden in the painting itself but had been added later by making those holes. I imagine they chose his paintings precisely because of who he was and their subject matter. After all, who would have suspected that a painting of a synagogue by a Jewish artist would have led us to a hidden SS crypt?”

There was a long silence. As she stared pensively out over the water, Dominique was suddenly struck by how, apart from the isolated perpendicular thrust of the Admiralty spires, the Peter and Paul Fortress, and the Mikhailovsky Castle, the city seemed to be dominated by horizontal rather than vertical lines, like layers of rock strata. Partly this was due to the matching rooflines that had largely been kept strictly to that of the Winter Palace or below, but principally it was due to the incredible abundance of water. Everywhere that the flat surfaces of St. Petersburg’s forty rivers and twenty canals touched the shore, it created the illusion of a perfectly straight line. the black sun 239

She was about to point this out to Tom when she caught the distant look in his eye and thought better of it.

“Tom, what’s really kept you from coming here before?”

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes firmly fixed on the far shore. “When I was eight, my father bought me a book about St. Petersburg. We used to read it together—well, look at the pictures, mainly. He told me that he’d bring me here one day. That we’d organize a trip, just the two of us. That he’d show me all its secrets. I guess I was waiting for him to ask me. I never thought I’d come here without him.”