The English Assassin

cypress trees bordering the garden, Lavon unearthed one redeeming trait about Otto Gessler. It was suspected that each year Gessler gave millions of dollars to fund medical research.
    “Which disease?” asked Gabriel.
    “Greed?” suggested Oded, but Lavon shook his head in wonder. “It doesn’t say. The old bastard gives away millions of dollars a year, and he conceals even that. Otto Gessler is a secret. Otto Gessler is Switzerland incarnate.”
     
    GERHARDTPeterson slept until ten o’clock. Gabriel permitted him to bathe and groom at his leisure and to dress in the clothes he had been wearing at the time of his disappearance, now cleaned and pressed by Eli Lavon. Gabriel thought the cold mountain air would be good for Peterson’s appearance, so after breakfast they walked the grounds. The Swiss was a head taller and better dressed than his companions, which made him appear as though he was a landowner issuing instructions to a group of day laborers.
    Peterson tried to fill in some of the bare canvas of their portrait of Otto Gessler, though it quickly became clear he knew little more than they did. He gave them the precise location of his mountain villa, the details of the security, and the circumstances of their conversations.
    “So you’ve never actually seen his face?” asked Oded.
    Peterson shook his head and looked away. He had never forgiven Oded for the ice-water showers in the cellar and refused to look at him now.
    “You’re going to take me to him,” Gabriel said. “You’re going to help me get the paintings back.”
    Peterson smiled; the cold, bloodless smile Gabriel had seen in the holding cell in Zurich after his arrest. “Otto Gessler’s villa is like a fortress. You can’t walk in there and threaten him.”
    “I’m not planning to threaten.”
    “What do you have in mind?”
    “I want to offer him a business deal. It’s the only language he speaks. Gessler will return the paintings in exchange for a substantial finder’s fee and an assurance from me that his role in this affair will never come to light.”
    “Otto Gessler makes a habit of only dealing from a position of strength. He can’t be bullied, and the last thing he needs is more money. If you try this, you’ll walk out of there empty-handed, if you walk out at all.”
    “Either way, I’ll walk out.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
    “I’ll walk out because it’s your responsibility to make sure nothing happens to me. We know where you live, we know where your children go to school, and we always know where to find you.”
    Again, Peterson’s arrogant smile flashed across his lips.
    “I wouldn’t think a man with your past would threaten another man’s family. But I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Let’s get this over with, shall we? I want to get out of this fucking place.”
    Peterson turned and started up the hill toward the villa, Oded silently at his heels. Eli Lavon laid a small hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe you shouldn’t go in.”
    “He’ll get me out. Besides, at this point, Gessler gains nothing from killing me.”
    “Like the man says: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Let’s go home.”

    “I don’t want them to win, Eli.”
    “People like Otto Gessler always win. Besides, where the hell are you planning on getting the money to buy back the paintings from him? Shamron? I can’t wait to see the look on the old man’s face when you file your expense report for this one!”
    “I’m not getting the money from Shamron. I’m getting it from the man who stole the paintings in the first place.”
    “Augustus Rolfe?”
    “Of course.”
    “Atonement, yes?”
    “Sometimes, Eli, forgiveness comes at a heavy price.”
     
    ITwas midday before they left. Peterson seemed annoyed to find his Mercedes parked in the gravel forecourt next to the Volkswagen van they’d thrown him into after his kidnapping. He climbed into the front passenger seat and reluctantly allowed Oded to cuff his wrist to the armrest on the door. Gabriel got behind the wheel and gunned the engine a little too aggressively for Peterson’s taste. Oded sprawled in the backseat, his feet on the tan leather and a Beretta on his lap.
    The Swiss border lay only fifteen miles from the villa. Gabriel led the way in the Mercedes, followed by Eli Lavon in the van. It was a quiet crossing; the wearied border guard waved them