James Twining graduated from Oxford University with a degree in French literature. His first Tom Kirk adventure, The Double Eagle, was published with great success on both sides of the Atlantic. He lives in London with his wife and their two children.

The Black Sun

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

St. Thomas' Hospital, London
December 27—2:59 a.m.

Ash cash.

That's what medical students call it. Every cremation or burial release form requires a doctor's signature, and every signature earns its donor a small fee. Death could be good business for a doctor who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.

To Dr. John Bennett, however, shouldering the icy rain as he walked briskly over to the main hospital building from the ugly hulk of the accommodation block, the prospect of a few extra quid was small compensation for being paged at three a.m. Very small. As if to emphasize the hour, Big Ben, its face suspended in the air like a small moon on the other side of the river, chose that moment to chime, each heavy, deadened strike shaking Bennett a little further awake.

He stepped out of the cold into the warm blast of the heaters positioned in the entrance vestibule, the sudden change in temperature making his glasses fog. He took them off and wiped them clean on his shirt, the moisture streaking across the lens.

A red LED display glowed into life overhead as the elevator made its way down to him, the declining numbers scrolling rhythmically across the panel. Eventually, there was a muffled sound of machinery as it slowed and the door opened. He stepped inside, noting as the elevator lurched upward that the bronzed mirrors made him look healthier than he felt.

A few moments later, he walked out onto the ward, the wet soles of his shoes faintly marking the scarlet linoleum. The corridor ahead of him was dark, the lights dimmed apart from the emergency exit signs that glared green above the doors at either end.

"Doctor?" A woman's voice rang out through the gloom. He slipped his glasses back on to identify the approaching figure.

"Morning, Laura," Bennett greeted her with a warm smile. "Don't tell me you've killed another one of my patients?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I've had a bad week."

"Who was it this time?"

"Mr. Hammon."

"Hammon? Well, I can't say I'm surprised. He was in a pretty bad way."

"He was fine when I came on duty. But when I looked in . . ."

"People get old," Bennett said gently, sensing she was upset. "There's nothing you could have done." She smiled at him gratefully. "Anyway, I'd better take a look. Have you got the paperwork ready?"

"It's in the office."

The windowless room was positioned about halfway down the ward, the only light coming from the glow of two surveillance monitors and the LED display of the video recorder beneath them. One monitor showed the corridor where they had just been standing; the other flicked between the patients' rooms, pausing a few seconds in each. The rooms were identical, a single narrow bed dominating the space with a few chairs drawn up under the window and a TV set fixed high up on the facing wall. The only variation was in the quantity of flowers and get-well cards on one side of the bed and monitoring and resuscitation equipment on the other. Unsurprisingly, there seemed to be a direct correlation between the two.

Laura rummaged around on the desk for the file, the blue glow from the monitors staining her red nails purple.

"Do you want the light on?"

"Please," she replied, without looking up.

Bennett reached for the switch, when suddenly something caught his eye. The roving camera had settled momentarily in one of the patient's rooms. Two dark figures were silhouetted against the open doorway, one slight, the other improbably tall.

"Who's that?" Bennett said with a frown. The picture jumped to the next room. "Quick, get it back."

Laura switched the system to manual and scanned the rooms one by one until she found the men.

"It's Mr. Weissman's room," she said in a low, uncertain voice.

The two figures were now standing on either side of the bed looking down at the sleeping patient. Even on the monitor he looked thin and frail, his skin pinched, his cheeks hollowed by age. Various wires and tubes emerged from under the bedclothes and led to a heart-rate monitor and some sort of drip.

"What the hell are they playing at?" Bennett's surprise had given way to irritation. "You can't just come in here whenever you feel like it. What do people think we have visiting hours for? I'm calling security."

As Bennett reached for the phone, the tall man on the left snatched a pillow out from under the sleeping man's head. He awoke immediately, his eyes wide with surprise and then, as he blinked at the two men looming above him, fear. His mouth moved to speak, but whatever sound he might have been trying to make was smothered as the pillow was roughly pushed down onto his face. Helplessly, his arms and legs flapped, like a goldfish that had leapt out if its bowl.

"Jesus Christ!" Bennett gasped, his voice now a whisper. He jammed the phone to his ear, the white plastic slippery against his sweaty skin. Hearing nothing, he tapped the hook switch a few times before locking eyes with Laura. "It's dead."

On-screen, the tall man nodded to his companion, who lifted a black bag onto the bed and reached in. The teeth of what Bennett instantly recognized as a surgical bone-saw sparkled in the light. Deftly, the figure slid back the man's left pajama sleeve and placed the blade on his arm, just below the elbow. The man jerked his arm but to no avail, what little strength he had left clearly ebbing away in his attacker's strong grasp.

Bennett glanced at Laura. She was standing with her back to the door, her hand over her mouth, her eyes glued to the monitor.

"Don't make a sound." His voice was thin and choked. "We'll be fine as long as they don't know we're here. Just stay calm."