The English Assassin

Together, Gerhardt, we can move mountains.”
    “And if I refuse?”
    “You can go back downstairs with my friend and think about it for a while. Then we’ll talk again.”
    “Take those damned pictures away!”
    “Give me an answer and I’ll take them away.”
    “What you don’t understand is that either way I’ll be destroyed. It’s just a question of which poison I choose to drink.” Peterson’s chin fell to his chest, his eyes closed. “I’m thirsty.”
    “Answer my questions, and I’ll get you something to drink.”
     
    INthe corridor outside the room, Eli Lavon sat on the cold floor, his back to the wall, his eyes closed. Only his right hand betrayed his emotions. It was squeezing his cigarette lighter. Though he lived in Vienna, the sound of German shouted in anger still made the back of his neck burn.
    The fissures had appeared, but Peterson had not yet cracked. Lavon could tell he was close. The drugs, the water, the pictures with the girl. The fear of what waited around the next bend in the road. It was building in him. Eli Lavon hoped it happened soon.
    He had never seen Gabriel like this. Never seen him angry. Never heard him raise his voice. Something about the affair had torn open all the old wounds. Leah. Tariq. Shamron. Even his parents. Gabriel was a man on a very short fuse.
    Let it go, Herr Peterson, thought Lavon. Tell him everything he wants to know. Do exactly what he says. Because if you don’t, I fear my good friend Gabriel is going to take you into the mountains and start shooting. And that’s not going to be good for anybody. Not you. And especially not Gabriel. Lavon didn’t care about Peterson. It was Gabriel he loved. He didn’t want more blood on the hands of Gabriel Allon.
    So no one was more relieved than Lavon when the shouting finally stopped. Then came the thumping—Gabriel pounding on the wall with one of his wounded hands. Still seated on the floor, Lavon reached up and opened the door a few inches. Gabriel spoke to him in Hebrew. The language had never sounded so sweet to Lavon, though he was quite sure it had the opposite effect on Gerhardt Peterson. “Bring him some clothes, Eli. And some food. Herr Peterson is cold and hungry. Herr Peterson would like to tell us a few things.”
     
    THEblue track suit was a fashion tragedy, intentionally so. The top was too large, the legs of the trousers too short. Gerhardt Peterson looked like a man in the clutches of a midlife crisis who digs out a pair of ancient togs for a life-threatening jog in the park. The food was not much better: a lump of coarse bread, a bowl of clear soup. Oded brought a pitcher of ice water. He made a point of spilling a few drops on Peterson’s hand, a reminder of what lay ahead if Peterson didn’t start talking. Gabriel ate nothing. He had no intention of sharing a meal with Gerhardt Peterson. The Swiss ate steadily but slowly, as though he wished to postpone the inevitable. Gabriel let him take his time. Peterson finished the soup and polished the bowl with the heel of his bread.
    “Where are we, by the way?”
    “Tibet.”
    “This is my first trip to Tibet.” Peterson managed a wounded smile. When Gabriel refused to play along, the smile quickly faded. “I’d like a cigarette.”
    “You can’t have one.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t like smoke.”
    Peterson pushed away his empty soup bowl.
     
    HADGabriel Allon not become an assassin, he would have made a perfect interrogator. He was a natural listener: a man who spoke only when necessary; who had no need to hear the sound of his own voice. Like a deerstalker, he was also graced with an unnatural stillness. He never touched his hair or his face, never gestured with his hands or shifted in his chair. It was this very stillness, coupled with his silence and immutable patience, which made him such a frightening opponent over a bare table. Though even Gabriel was surprised at Gerhardt Peterson’s sudden willingness to talk.
    “How did I know about Rolfe’s collection?” Peterson asked, repeating Gabriel’s first question. “There is precious little that takes place in Zurich that I don’t know about. Zurich is the largest city in Switzerland, but it is still a small place. We have our hooks in deep: banking, business, the foreign workers, the media.”
    Gabriel didn’t want Peterson to build confidence by rambling on about his professional achievements, so he quickly cut him off. “That’s all very interesting, but