The English Assassin (37 page)

“Both.”

“Oh, really. Which principle compels you to work for Otto Gessler?”

“I work for Otto Gessler because I’m sick of watching my country being dragged through the mud by a bunch of damned foreigners over something that happened before I was born.”

“Your country turned looted Nazi gold into hard currency. It turned the dental gold and wedding rings of the Jewish people into hard currency. Thousands of terrified Jews placed their life savings in your banks on the way to the death chambers of
Auschwitz and Sobibor, and then those same banks kept the money instead of handing it over to their rightful heirs.”

“What does this have to do with me? Sixty years! This happened sixty years ago! Why can’t we move on from this? Why must you turn my country into an international pariah over the actions of a few greedy bankers six decades ago?”

“Because you have to admit wrongdoing. And then you have to make amends.”

“Money? Yes? You want money? You criticize the Swiss for our supposed greed, but all you want from us is money, as if a few dollars will help right all the wrongs of the past.”

“It’s not
your
money. It helped to turn this landlocked little amusement park of a country into one of the richest in the world, but it’s not
your
money.”

In the heat of the argument, Gabriel had been driving too fast, and Lavon had fallen several hundred yards behind. Gabriel slowed down so Lavon could close the gap. He was angry with himself. The last thing he wanted now was to debate the morality of Swiss history with Gerhardt Peterson.

“There’s one more thing I need to know before we talk to Gessler.”

“You want to know how I knew about your connection to the Hamidi assassination.”

“Yes.”

“A few years ago—eight or nine, I can’t remember exactly—a Palestinian with a questionable past wished to acquire a residence visa that would allow him to live temporarily in Geneva. In exchange for the visa, and a guarantee from us that his presence in Switzerland would not be revealed to the State of Israel, this
Palestinian offered to tell us the name of the Israeli who killed Hamidi.”

“What was the Palestinian’s name?” Gabriel asked, though he didn’t need to wait for Peterson’s answer. He knew. He supposed he’d known it all along.

“His name was Tariq al-Hourani. He’s the one who placed the bomb under your wife’s car in Vienna, yes? He’s the one who destroyed your family.”

F
IVE
miles from Otto Gessler’s villa, at the edge of a dense pine forest, Gabriel pulled to the side of the road and got out. It was late afternoon, light fading fast, temperature somewhere around twenty degrees. A mountain peak loomed above them, wearing a beard of cloud. Which was it? The Eiger? The Jungfrau? The Mönch? He didn’t really care. He simply wanted to get this over with and get out of this country and never set foot in it again. As he stalked around the car, through six inches of wet snow, an image appeared in his mind: Tariq telling Peterson about the bombing in Vienna. It was all he could do not to pull Peterson from the car and beat him senseless. At that moment, he wasn’t sure who he hated more—Tariq or Peterson.

Gabriel unlocked the handcuffs and made Peterson crawl over the shifter to get behind the wheel. Oded got out and joined Eli Lavon in the van. Gabriel took Peterson’s spot in the front passenger seat and, with a jab of the Beretta to the ribs, spurred him into motion.

Darkness descended over the valley. Peterson drove with both hands on the wheel, and Gabriel kept the Beretta in plain sight. Two miles from Gessler’s villa, Lavon slowed and pulled to the side of the road. Gabriel twisted round and looked through the rear window as the headlights died. They were alone now.

“Tell me one more time,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence.

“We’ve gone over this a dozen times,” Peterson objected.

“I don’t care. I want to hear you say it one more time.”

“Your name is Herr Meyer.”

“What do I do?”

“You work with me—in the Division of Analysis and Protection.”

“Why are you bringing me to the villa?”

“Because you have important information about the activities of the meddlesome Jew named Gabriel Allon. I wanted Herr Gessler to hear this news directly from the source.”

“And what am I going to do if you deviate from the script in any way?”

“I’m not going to say it again.”

“Say it!”

“Fuck you.”

Gabriel wagged the Beretta at him before slipping it into the waistband of his trousers. “I’ll put a bullet in your brain. And the guard’s. That’s what I’ll do.”

“I’m sure you will,” Peterson said. “It’s the one thing I know you’re good at.”

A mile farther on was an unmarked private road. Peterson downshifted and took the turn expertly at considerable speed, the centrifugal force pressing Gabriel against the door. For an instant he feared Peterson was up to something, but then they slowed and glided along the narrow road, trees sweeping past Gabriel’s window.

At the end of the road was a gate of iron and stone that looked as though it could withstand an assault by
an armored personnel carrier. As they approached, a security man stepped into the lights and waved his arms for them to stop. He wore a bulky blue coat that failed to conceal the fact that he was well armed. There was snow in his cap.

Peterson lowered his window. “My name is Gerhardt Peterson. I’m here to see Herr Gessler. I’m afraid it’s an emergency.”

“Gerhardt Peterson?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And who is that man?”

“He’s a colleague of mine. His name is Herr Meyer. I can vouch for him.”

The guard murmured a few inaudible words into the mouthpiece. A moment later the gate opened, and he stepped out of their path and waved them through.

Peterson drove at a jogging pace. Gabriel looked out his window: arc lights in the trees, another blue-coated guard, this one being yanked through the forest by an Alsatian on a lead.
My God,
he thought.
The place looks like the
Führerbunker.
Add some razor wire and a minefield, and the picture would be complete.

Ahead of them, the trees broke and the lights of the villa appeared, softened by a bridal veil of the drifting snow. Another guard stepped into their path. This one made no attempt to hide the compact submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Once again Peterson lowered the window, and the guard put his big face inside the car.

“Good evening, Herr Peterson. Herr Gessler is making his way to the pool house now. He’ll see you there.”

“Fine.”

“Are you armed, Herr Peterson?”

Peterson shook his head. The guard looked at Gabriel. “And what about you, Herr Meyer. Are you carrying a gun this evening?”

“Nein.”

“Come with me.”

A
STRING
of tiny lamps, mounted on posts no higher than a man’s knee, marked the course of the footpath. The snow was deeper here than on the valley floor—a foot or more had fallen—and every fourth lamp or so was buried beneath a tiny drift.

Peterson walked at Gabriel’s side. The guard who had met them at the top of the drive now led the way. At some point another had come up behind them. Gabriel could feel the warm breath of an Alsatian on the back of his knee. When the dog nuzzled his hand, the guard jerked the lead. The animal growled in response; a low, deep-throated growl that made the air around it vibrate.
Nice dog,
thought Gabriel.
Let’s not do anything to upset the fucking dog.

The pool house appeared before them, long and low, ornate globe lamps glowing through the rising mist. There were guards inside; Gabriel could just make them out through the fogged windows. One of them appeared to be leading a tiny robed figure.

And then Gabriel felt a searing pain in his right kidney. His back arched, his face tilted upward, and for an instant he saw the stiletto tips of the pine trees stretching toward the heavens, and in his agony the heavens were a van Gogh riot of color and motion and light. Then the second blow fell, this one at the back of his head. The heavens turned to black, and he collapsed, facedown, in the snow.

NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND

G
ABRIEL OPENED ONE EYE
, then, slowly, the other. He might as well have kept them closed, because the darkness was perfect.
Absolute black,
he thought.
Theoretical black.

It was bitterly cold, the floor rough concrete, the air heavy with sulphur and damp. His hands were cuffed behind him with his palms pointed out, so that the muscles of his shoulders burned with lactic acid. He tried to imagine the contorted position of his body and limbs: right cheek and right shoulder pressed against the concrete; left shoulder in the air; pelvis twisted; legs knotted. He thought of art school—the way the teachers used to twist the limbs of the models to expose muscle and sinew and form. Perhaps he was just a model for some Swiss Expressionist painting.
Man in a Torture Chamber
—artist unknown.

He closed his eyes and tried to right himself, but the slightest contraction of his back muscles set his right
kidney on fire. Grunting, he fought through the pain, and managed to set himself upright. He leaned his head against the wall and winced. The second blow had left a knot the size of an egg at the back of his head.

He dragged his fingertips over the wall: bare rock; granite, he supposed. Wet and slick with moss. A cave? A grotto of some sort? Or just another vault? The Swiss and their damned vaults. He wondered if they would leave him here forever, like a gold bar or a Burgundian armchair.

The silence, like the darkness, was complete. Nothing from above or below. No voices, no barking dogs, no wind or weather; just a silence which sang in his ear like a tuning fork.

He wondered how Peterson had done it. How had he signaled the guard that Gabriel was an intruder? A code word at the gate? A missing password? And what of Oded and Eli Lavon? Were they still sitting in the front seat of the Volkswagen van, or were they in the same position as Gabriel—or worse? He thought of Lavon’s warning in the garden of the villa in Italy:
People like Otto Gessler always win.

Somewhere the seal of a tightly closed door was broken, and Gabriel could hear the footsteps of several people. A pair of flashlights burst on, and the beams played about until they found his face. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to turn his head from the light, but the twisting of his neck caused his head wound to pound.

“Put him on his feet.”

Peterson’s voice: firm, authoritative, Peterson in his element.

Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms and pulled. The pain was intense—Gabriel feared his shoulder
joints were about to pop out of their sockets. Peterson drew back his fist and buried it in Gabriel’s abdomen. His knees buckled, and he doubled over. Then Peterson’s knee rose into his face. The guards released him, and he collapsed into the same contorted position in which he’d awakened.

Man in a Torture Chamber
by Otto Gessler.

T
HEY
worked as a team, one to hold him, the other to hit him. They worked efficiently and steadily but without joy and without enthusiasm. They had been given a job—to leave every muscle in his body bruised and every spot on his face bleeding—and they carried out their assignment in a thoroughly professional and bureaucratic manner. Every few minutes they would leave to smoke. Gabriel knew this because he could smell the fresh tobacco on them when they came back. He tried to hate them, these blue-coated warriors for the Bank of Gessler, but could not. It was Peterson whom he hated.

After an hour or so Peterson returned.

“Where are the paintings you took from Rolfe’s safe-deposit box in Zurich?”

“What paintings?”

“Where is Anna Rolfe?”

“Who?”

“Hit him some more. See if that helps his memory.”

And on it went, for how long Gabriel did not know. He didn’t know whether it was night or day—whether he had been here an hour or a week. He kept time by the rhythm of their punches and the clocklike regularity of Peterson’s appearances.

“Where are the paintings you took from Rolfe’s safe-deposit box in Zurich?”

“What paintings?”

“Where is Anna Rolfe?”

“Who?”

“All right, see if he can handle a little more. Don’t kill him.”

Another beating. It seemed shorter in duration, though Gabriel could not be sure, because he was in and out of consciousness.

“Where are the paintings?”

“What . . . paintings?”

“Where is Anna Rolfe?”

“Who?”

“Keep going.”

Another knifelike blow to his right kidney. Another iron fist to his face. Another boot to his groin.

“Where are the paintings?”

Silence . . .