The Black Sun Read Online Free PDF Page A

American Liberty.”
    “Nope.”
    “They’re a fringe group of white supremacists. Our mystery caller fingered them as the people behind the theft.”
    “Did you get a trace?”
    “No. The call was made right here in Salt Lake, but that’s all we know. Whoever he was, he had the sense to hang up before we could get a fix on his location.”
    “Any intel on the caller’s ID from the tape?”
    “Forensics are still working on it. They don’t think they’ll get much. Only thing they’re saying at the moment is that he doesn’t sound like he’s from these parts.”
    29 the black sun
    “That’s it?” Viggiano sighed heavily. “Jesus, it hardly narrows it down.”
    “No, sir,” Bailey agreed.
    “Where are these jokers based?”
    “Malta, Idaho.”
    “Malta, Idaho!” Viggiano exclaimed in mock celebration. “Just when I think I’ve run out of two-bit shithole towns to visit, another one shoves its head right up my ass.”
    “If it’s any consolation, sir, Carter said that he wanted you to head up the investigation at our end.”
    “Regional Director Carter?” A flicker of interest in Vig-giano’s voice now.
    “That’s right. Apparently you dealt with a similar situation a couple of years back. He said that you were the only one available with the right level of experience for this. He suggested I help you out too, if that’s okay, sir.”
    Viggiano clipped his gun back into its holster. “Well, for once Carter’s right,” he said, running a hand through his hair to check that the part was still right. “Saddle up, Bailey. You’re coming along for the ride. Paul Viggiano’s gonna show you a shortcut to the big time.”

CHAPTER SIX
    BOROUGH MARKET, SOUTHWARK, LONDON
    January 5—12:34 p.m.
    The market stalls were tightly packed under the rusting cast-iron railway arches, their shelves groaning with freshly imported produce: Camemberts from Normandy as big as cartwheels, pink Guijelo hams, and bottles of olive oil from Apuglia that glowed like small suns.
    Shoals of eager shoppers, wrapped up against the cold, battled their way along the aisles, their movements seemingly governed by whatever enticing smell, be it fried ostrich burger or warm bread, the wind happened to bring their way. Overhead, trains screeched and scraped their way along the elevated track, an intermittent rolling thunder that grew and faded as quickly as a summer storm.
    “What are we doing here?” Archie snapped irritably as he dodged between two strollers and then squeezed past a long queue in front of one of the many flower stalls. In his midforties and only of average height, Archie had the stocky no-nonsense build of a bare-knuckle boxing champion, his cauliflower ears and slightly crumpled unshaven face reinforcing the image. So there was a certain incongruity about his choice of a tailored beige overcoat over an elegant dark blue pinstripe suit, and his neatly clipped hair.
    31 the black sun
    It was a contradiction reinforced by an accent that Tom had never quite been able to place, although he was the first to admit that his own—a transatlantic hodgepodge of American and British pronunciation and idioms—was hardly easy to nail down. In Archie’s case, the street-speak of the market stall where he had first learned his trade mingled with the rounded vowels and clipped T s of a more middle-class background. Tom suspected that Archie, ever the opportunist, had developed his own unique patois to enable him to move unchallenged between two worlds. It was a neat trick, but one that left him, like Tom, fully accepted by neither.
    “You’re meant to be coming to dinner tonight, remember? I thought I’d splash out.”
    “Oh shit.” Archie slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, mate, but I’d completely forgotten.”
    “Archie!” Tom remonstrated. What made Archie’s unreliability especially annoying was its very predictability. “We spoke about it last week. You promised.”
    “I know,