The English Assassin

enemies.”
    “What else?”
    “The family suffers from a legendary curse. Twenty-five years ago, Rolfe’s wife committed suicide. She dug her own grave in the garden of Rolfe’s country chalet, climbed in, and shot herself. A few years after that, Rolfe’s only son, Maximilian, died in a cycling accident in the Alps.”
    “Is there any family that’s alive ?”
    “His daughter, at least she was the last time anyone heard from her. Her name is Anna.”
    “His daughter is Anna Rolfe ?”
    “So you know her? I’m impressed.”
    “She’s only one of the most famous musicians in the world.”
    “Do you still want to get out of the car?”
     

    GABRIELhad been given two gifts that made him a great art restorer: a meticulous attention to detail and an unflagging desire to see every task, no matter how mundane, through to its conclusion. He never left his studio until his work space and supplies were spotless, never went to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. And he never left a painting unfinished, even when it was a cover job for Shamron. To Gabriel, a half-restored painting was no longer a work of art, just a bit of oil and pigment smeared on a canvas or a wood panel. The dead body of Augustus Rolfe, lying at the foot of the Raphael, was like a painting that had only been half-restored. It would not be whole again until Gabriel knew who had killed him and why.
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Talk to her.”
    “Why me?”
    “Apparently, she has something of an artistic temperament.”
    “From what I’ve read, that’s an understatement.”
    “You’re an artist. You speak her language. Perhaps she’ll trust you enough to tell you what she knows about her father’s affairs. If you come up empty, you can go back to your studio, and I’ll never darken your door again.”
    “Promises, promises.”
    “There’s no need to be hurtful, Gabriel.”
    “Last time you came into my life, I nearly got myself killed.”
    “True, but at least it wasn’t boring.”
    “Peterson says I can’t come back to Switzerland. How am I supposed to talk to Anna Rolfe?”
    “Apparently she refuses to live in Switzerland.” Shamron handed him a slip of paper. “This is her management company in London. Give her a few days to bury her father. So you’ll do it?”
    “Not for you. I want to know who tried to pin Rolfe’s murder on me. Who shall I be when I talk to Anna Rolfe?”
    “I always prefer the subtle approach, but I’ll leave it to your discretion. Play it as you see fit.”
    Gabriel slipped the address into his pocket. A thin smile appeared briefly on Shamron’s face. He had learned long ago that professional victories, even small ones, were to be savored.
    The car pulled to the curb beneath a British Airways sign. Gabriel climbed out, collected his things from the trunk, then looked into Shamron’s window.
    Shamron said, “We didn’t discuss your fee.”
    “Don’t worry. It will be substantial.”
    “You’re on expense account as of now, but remember, throwing money around never solved a case.”
    “I’ll consider that pearl of wisdom while I’m flying first class back to London tonight.”
    Shamron grimaced. “Stay in touch. Usual channels and methods. Do you remember?”
    “How could I ever forget?”
    “It was quite an accomplishment, don’t you think?”
    “What was that?”
    “Finding a man thirty minutes after he leaves the scene of a murder. I wonder how Herr Peterson managed to do that. He must be very good.”

6
    NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND
     
    W ITHIN THE DIVISIONof Analysis and Protection, Gerhardt Peterson was regarded as a man on the rise. Superiors handled him with care. Subordinates withered under his cold stare. His colleagues looked on in wonder and jealousy. How had the schoolteacher’s boy from Erstfeld risen to such heights? Look at him! Never a hair out of place! Never a loose tie! He wears power and success like his expensive aftershave. Peterson never made a move that wasn’t calculated to advance his career. His family life was as neat and orderly as his office. His sexual affairs were discreet and appropriate. Anyone foolish enough to stand in his way quickly discovered that Gerhardt Peterson was a man with powerful friends. Friends in Bern. Friends in the banks. He would be the chief soon—everyone agreed on that. Then a senior posting in the Federal Office for Police. Someday, perhaps, control of the entire Department of Justice and Police. Peterson did have