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the body?”
    “No. But I’ve seen the photos taken at the autopsy and a copy of the dental records. They
    match.”
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    A long silence. “So,” the voice eventually sighed, “it is over. He was the last.”
    “No, I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.” As he spoke, he spun the gold signet ring on his little finger. The ring’s flat upper surface was engraved with a small grid of twelve squares, one of which had been set with a lone diamond.
    “The beginning?” the voice laughed. “What are you talking about? Everything is safe now. He was the only one left who knew.”
    “He was murdered. Killed in his hospital bed.” “He deserved a far worse death for what he had done”
    was the unfeeling response. “His arm was cut off.” “Cut off?” The question was spat into the room. “Who
    by?” “Someone who knows.” “Impossible.” “Why else would they have taken it?”
    Silence. “I will have to call the others together.” “That’s not all. British Intelligence is involved.” “I’ll call the others. We must meet and discuss this.” “They’re working with someone.” “Who? Cassius? We’ll have caught up with him before he gets any further. He’s been sniffing around this for years. He knows nothing. The same goes for all the others who’ve tried.”
    “No, not Cassius. Tom Kirk.” “Charles Kirk’s son? The art thief?” “Yes.” “Following in his father’s footsteps? How touching.” “What do you want me to do?” “Watch him. See where he goes, who he talks to.” “Do you think he could—” “Never!” the voice cut him off. “Too much time has gone
    by. The trail is too cold. Even for him.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    CLERKENWELL, LONDON
    January 5—8:35 p.m.
    Tom had never really been one for possessions before now. There had been no need, no point even, in owning anything: until recently he had rarely spent more than two weeks in the same place. He had accepted that this was the price for always having to stay one step ahead of the law.
    It was not, in truth, a price that had cost him too dear, for he had never been a natural hoarder or acquirer of belongings. He had gotten into the game because he loved the thrill and because he was good at it, not so he could one day enjoy a comfortable retirement sipping cocktails in the Cayman Islands. He’d have done the job for free if money hadn’t been the only way of keeping score.
    He was, therefore, well aware of the significance of the few pieces he’d recently bought at auction and scattered throughout his apartment. He recognized them as a tangible sign that he had changed. That he was no longer just a packed suitcase away from skipping town at the slightest sign of trouble, a mercenary wandering wherever the winds of fortune blew him. He had a home now. Roots. Responsibilities even. To him, at least, the accumulation of “stuff ” was a proxy for the first stirrings of the normality he had craved for
    so
    long.
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    The sitting room—a huge open-plan space with cast-iron struts holding up the partially glazed roof—had been simply furnished with sleek modern furniture crafted from brushed aluminum. The polished concrete floor was covered in a vibrant patchwork of multicolored nineteenth-century Turkish kilims, while the walls were sparsely hung with late Renaissance paintings, most of them Italian, each individually lit. Most striking was the gleaming steel thirteenth-century Mongol helmet that stood on a chest in the middle of the room, leering menacingly at anyone who stepped into its line of sight.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Dominique panted as she came through the door, hitching her embroidered skirt up with one hand and clutching her shoes in the other. “Went for a run and sort of forgot the time.”
    “Well, at least you’re here,” Tom said, turning away from the stove to face her, his face glowing from the heat.
    “Oh no, Tom, he hasn’t canceled again, has he?” she