The English Assassin

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.”
     
    ASTRING 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