Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  “And what do you want from me, Mr. Allon?” she asked when Gabriel had finished.

  “I want to know whether you have any idea why your father would want to meet with us.”

  “My father was a banker, Mr. Allon. A Swiss banker. There were many things about his life, personal and professional, that he did not share with me. If you’ve read that newspaper account, then you know we were not particularly close, and that he never spoke to me about his work.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  She ignored this and asked: “Who’s us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said my father wanted to meet with ‘us.’ Who’s us? Who do you work for?”

  “I work for a small agency connected to the Ministry of Defense.”

  “The Ministry of Defense?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re a spy?”

  “No, I’m not a spy.”

  “Did you murder my father?”

  “Miss Rolfe, please. I came here looking for your help, not to play games.”

  “Let the record show that the defendant failed to answer the question.”

  “I didn’t murder your father, but I’d like to know who did. And if I knew why he wanted to meet with us in the first place, it might provide some answers.”

  She turned her face toward the sea. “So you think he was killed because of what he might have said to you?”

  “That would seem to be the case.” Gabriel allowed a silence to settle between them. Then he asked: “Do you know why your father wished to speak with us?”

  “I think I can guess.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether I decide to involve you and the government of Israel in the private affairs of my family.”

  “I can assure you that we will handle the matter with utmost discretion.”

  “You sound very much like a Swiss banker, Mr. Allon—but then I suppose you’re not so very different.” Her green eyes settled on him but betrayed nothing of her intentions. “I need some time to think about your offer.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s a café in the village square. It’s owned by a man named Manuel. He has a guest room upstairs. It’s not much, but you’ll be comfortable there for a night. I’ll give you my decision in the morning.”

  10

  STUTTGART ZURICH

  THEY DROVE to Lisbon airport early the following afternoon. Anna Rolfe insisted on first class. Gabriel, traveling on Shamron’s parsimonious account, was relegated to economy. He trailed her through the Lisbon airport to make certain no one was following. As she neared the gate, a woman breathlessly thrust out a scrap of paper for an autograph. Anna obliged, smiled, and boarded the flight. Five minutes later, Gabriel followed. As he passed her seat she was sipping champagne. Gabriel trudged back to a middle seat in the twenty-third row. His back still ached from a sleepless night on Senhor Manuel’s beastly bed.

  Gerhardt Peterson’s warning about not setting foot on Swiss soil still echoed in Gabriel’s ears, so instead of going directly to Zurich they went first to Stuttgart. There they engaged in a similar routine: Anna leaving the plane first, Gabriel following her through the terminal to a rental-car counter. She collected the keys and the paperwork for a small Mercedes sedan and rode a shuttle bus to the parking lot. Gabriel took a taxi to a nearby hotel and waited in the lobby bar. Twenty minutes later, he went outside and found Anna parked in the drive. She drove a short distance through the darkened streets, then pulled over and traded places with him. Gabriel turned onto the expressway and headed south. One hundred miles to Zurich. Anna reclined the front passenger seat, rolled her coat into the shape of a pillow, and tucked it beneath her head.

  Gabriel said, “I enjoyed the piece that you were practicing yesterday.”

  “It’s called ‘The Devil’s Trill.’ It was composed by Giuseppe Tartini. He said it was inspired by a dream. In the dream, he handed his violin to the Devil, and the Devil played a sonata that was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard. Tartini claimed to have awoken in a feverish state. He had to possess the sonata, so he wrote down as much as he could remember.”

  “Do you believe the story?”

  “I don’t believe in the Devil, but I certainly understand the need to possess the piece. I spent three years learning how to play it properly. It was the piece that I played when I won the Sibelius competition. After that it became my signature piece. But technically, it’s very demanding. I’ve just started to play it again.”

  “It sounded beautiful.”

  “Not to me. I hear only the mistakes and the imperfections.”

  “Is that why you canceled the two concert dates?”

  “I didn’t cancel them—I postponed them.” Gabriel could feel her eyes on him. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “Are you planning to play any time soon?”

  “I am, actually. A recital in Venice ten days from now. The Venetians have always been very kind to me. I feel comfortable there. Do you know Venice?”

  “I lived in Venice for two years.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s where I learned how to restore paintings. I served an apprenticeship with an Italian restorer named Umberto Conti. It’s still one of my favorite cities in the world.”

  “Ah, mine too. Once Venice is in your blood, it’s hard to live without her. I’m hoping Venice will work its magic for me.”

  “Why did you postpone the other recitals?”

  “Because my ability to play my instrument was still diminished by the injury to my hand. Because I didn’t want to become something of a freak show. I didn’t want to hear people say, ‘There’s Anna Rolfe. She plays the violin quite well for someone who nearly lost her hand.’ I want to stand on the stage as a musician and nothing more.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “We’ll find out in ten days. I only know one thing for certain: this time I’m not backing down.” She lit a cigarette. “So why did you try to leave Zurich without telling the police about my father’s murder?”

  “Because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe that I had nothing to do with it,” Gabriel said.

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “I told you that I was there in an official capacity.”

  “What sort of official capacity? What’s the name of this obscure agency that you work for? This agency connected to the Ministry of Defense.”

  “I don’t work for them. I’m just performing a service for them.”

  “Do they have a name?”

  “It’s called the Institute for Coordination, but most of the people who work there call it the Office.”

  “You’re a spy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “Why do I know that you’re lying to me?”

  “I’m an art restorer.”

  “So why did we travel separately to Zurich? Why did we go to so much trouble at the airport in Stuttgart to avoid being seen together?”

  “It was a precautionary measure. The Swiss police made it clear to me I’m no longer welcome.”

  “Why would they take a step like that?”

  “Because they were a little miffed that I’d fled the scene of a crime.”

  “Why did you flee my father’s house?”

  “I’ve told you that already.”

  “You fled my father’s house because you’re a spy, and you were afraid of going to the police. I was watching you at the airport. You’re very good.”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “Then what are you? And don’t tell me you’re just an art restorer who’s doing a favor for someone in some obscure agency called the Office, because I don’t believe you. And if you don’t tell me the truth right now, you might as well turn around and drive back to Stuttgart, because I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing.”

  She tossed her cigarette out t
he window and waited for his answer. The legendary temper of Anna Rolfe.

  IT was after midnight when they arrived in Zurich. An air of abandonment hung over the city center: the Bahnhofstrasse dark and still, pavements deserted, ice falling through the lights. They crossed the river; Gabriel drove carefully up the slick roads of the Zürichberg. The last thing he wanted was to get stopped for a traffic violation.

  They parked on the street outside the villa. Anna dealt with the keyless locks at the gate and the front entrance. Gabriel saw enough to tell him that the codes had been changed since the murder.

  The foyer was in darkness. Anna closed the door before switching on the lights. Without speaking she led him inside, passing the entrance to the large drawing room where Gabriel had discovered the body of her father. He glanced inside. The air was drenched with the scent of cleaning fluid. The Oriental carpet was gone, but the Raphael still hung on the wall.

  The deep silence of the house was emphasized by the clatter of Anna’s heels over the bare floor. They passed through a large, formal dining room with an imposing table of polished dark wood and high-backed chairs; then a pantry; then a large kitchen.

  Finally, they came to a flight of stairs. This time Anna turned on no lights. Gabriel followed her downward into the gloom. At the bottom was a wine cellar, alcoves filled with dusty bottles. Next to the wine cellar was a cutting room with a stone sink. Rusted gardening tools hung from hooks on the walls.

  They passed through another doorway and followed a dark corridor. It ended at a door, which Anna pulled aside, revealing a small lift. It was barely big enough for one person, but they crowded in together. As the lift slowly descended, Gabriel could feel the heat of her body pressing against his, smell the scent of her shampoo, the French tobacco on her breath. She seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. Gabriel tried to look away, but Anna gazed directly into his eyes with an unnerving animal intensity.

  The lift came to a stop. Anna opened the door and they stepped into a small foyer of black and white marble. A heavy steel door stood opposite the lift. On the wall next to the door was a keypad, and next to the keypad was a device that looked something like the magnifying visors in his studio. Gabriel had seen a device like this before; it was a biometric security mechanism used to scan the retina of anyone trying to enter the room. If the retina matched any of those recorded in the database, the person would be permitted to enter. If not, all hell would break loose.

  Anna punched in the security code and placed her eyes against the scanning device. A few seconds later, a bolt snapped back and the great door slowly fell open. As they entered the room, lights automatically flickered to life.

  A LARGE space, about fifty feet by thirty, polished wood floor, cream-colored walls. In the center were two ornate swivel chairs. Anna stood next to one and folded her arms. Gabriel scanned the blank walls.

  “What is this?”

  “My father had two collections. One that he allowed the world to see and one that used to hang here. It was for private viewing only.”

  “What kind of paintings were they?”

  “Nineteenth-and twentieth-century French—Impressionist, mainly.”

  “Do you have a list of them?”

  She nodded.

  “Who else knew about this?”

  “My mother and my brother, of course, but they’re both dead.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No, there was Werner Müller.”

  “Who’s Werner Müller?”

  “He’s an art dealer and my father’s chief adviser. He oversaw the design and construction of this place.”

  “Is he Swiss?”

  She nodded. “He has two galleries. One in Lucerne and the other in Paris near the rue de Rivoli. He spends most of his time there. Seen enough?”

  “For now.”

  “There’s something else I want to show you.”

  Back up the elevator, another walk through the darkened villa to a windowless chamber of winking electronics and video monitors. Gabriel could see the villa from every angle: the street, the entrance, the gardens front and back.

  “In addition to the security cameras, every inch of the property is covered by motion detectors,” Anna said. “The windows and doors all have trip wires and alarms. My father didn’t employ a full-time security guard, but the house was impenetrable and he could summon the police in a matter of seconds in the event of an intruder.”

  “So what happened on the night of the murder?”

  “The system failed inexplicably.”

  “How convenient.”

  She sat down in front of a computer terminal. “There’s a separate system for the room downstairs. It’s activated when the outer door opens. The time of entry is automatically logged, and inside the room two digital cameras begin recording still images every three seconds.”

  She typed in a few characters on the keyboard, moved the mouse, clicked. “This is when we entered the room, twelve forty-nine a.m., and here we are inside.”

  Gabriel leaned over her shoulder and peered into the computer monitor. A grainy color image of their visit appeared on the screen and then dissolved, only to be replaced by another. Anna worked the mouse again. A directory appeared.

  “This is the master list of visits to that room for the past three months. As you can see, my father spent a great deal of time with the collection. He came down at least once a day, sometimes twice.” She touched the screen with her forefinger. “Here’s his last visit, shortly after midnight, the morning he was murdered. The security system shows no other entries after that.”

  “Did the police give you an estimate of when they thought he was killed?”

  “They said around three a.m.”

  “So it stands to reason that the same people who killed your father also took the paintings and that it probably happened around three o’clock in the morning, six hours before I arrived at the villa.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Gabriel pointed to the last entry on the screen. “Let me see that one.”

  A MOMENT later, the images flickered onto the monitor. The camera angles did not reveal all the paintings, but Gabriel could see enough to realize that it was a remarkable collection. Manet, Bonnard, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne, Pissarro, Degas, a nude by Renoir, a canal landscape by van Gogh, two street scenes by Monet, a large portrait of a woman painted by Picasso during his blue period. And seated in the center of the room, in a straight-backed wing chair, was an old man, gazing at his collection one last time before his death.

  11

  ZURICH

  FOUR HOURS LATER, Gerhardt Peterson was sitting alone in his office, a grotto of pale Scandinavian wood overlooking the grimy inner courtyard of blackened brick. His computer screen was blank, his morning correspondence unopened, his morning coffee untouched, his outer door uncustomarily locked. A cigarette slowly turned to dust in his ashtray. Peterson did not notice. His gaze was downward, toward the three photographs that lay side by side on his leather blotter. Allon and Anna Rolfe, leaving the villa. Allon and Anna Rolfe, getting into a Mercedes sedan. Allon and Anna Rolfe, driving away. Finally he stirred, as if awakened from an unpleasant daydream, and fed the photographs into his shredder, one by one, watching with particular satisfaction as they turned to confetti. Then he picked up the telephone, dialed a number from memory, and waited for an answer. Twenty minutes later, his appointments for the rest of the day canceled, he climbed into his Mercedes sedan and raced down the shore of the Zürichsee toward Herr Gessler’s mountain chalet.

  12

  CORSICA

  THE OLDsignadora lived in a crooked house in the village, not far from the church. She greeted the Englishman as always, with a worried smile and a hand on his cheek. She wore a heavy black dress with an embroidered neck. Her skin was the color of flour, her white hair was pulled back and held in place by metal pins. Funny how the marks of ethnicity and national origin are diminished by time, thought the Englishman. If it was
n’t for her Corsican language and mystical Catholic ways she might have been his old Auntie Beatrice from Ipswich. “The evil has returned, my son,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “I can see it in your eyes. Sit down. Let me help you.”

  The old woman lit a candle as the Englishman sat down at the small, wooden table. In front of him she placed a china plate filled with water and a small bowl of oil. “Three drops,” she said. “Then we will see if my fears are correct.”

  The Englishman dipped his forefinger in the oil; then he held it over the plate and allowed three drops to fall onto the water. By the laws of physics the oil should have gathered into a single globule, but instead it shattered into a thousand droplets, and soon there was no trace of it. The old woman sighed heavily and made the sign of the cross. There it was, undeniable proof that the occhju, the Evil Eye, had invaded the Englishman’s soul.

  She took hold of the Englishman’s hand and prayed. After a moment she began to cry, a sign the occhju had passed from his body into hers. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to be sleeping. She opened her eyes a moment later and instructed him to repeat the trial of the oil and the water. This time, the oil coalesced into a single drop. The evil had been exorcised.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the old woman’s hand. She held it for a moment, then drew away, as if he had fever. The Englishman asked: “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you going to remain in the valley for a time, or are you going away again?”

  “I’m afraid I have to go away.”

  “In the service of Don Orsati?”

  The Englishman nodded. He kept no secrets from the old signadora.

  “Do you have your charm?”

  He opened his shirt. A piece of coral, shaped like a hand, hung by a leather cord from his neck. She took it in her fingers and stroked it, as if to ascertain whether it still contained the mystical power to ward off the occhju. She seemed satisfied but still concerned.