The English Assassin

bother to ask Gabriel whether he wanted anything for the pain. He simply prepared a syringe and injected an anesthetic into Gabriel’s hand. He worked slowly and steadily for almost a half-hour. Then he looked up. “I did the best I could, under the circumstances.” A hostile glance toward Navot— I do this for free, boy. Shamron is going to hear about this. “You need proper surgery on that wound. The muscles, the tendons—” A pause, a shake of the head. “Not good. You’re likely to experience some stiffness, and your range of motion will never be quite the same.”
    “Leave us,” Navot said. “Go to the other car and wait there.” Navot dismissed the driver too. When they were alone, he looked at Gabriel. “What the hell happened?”
    “How many dead?” Gabriel asked, ignoring Navot’s question.
    “Three, so far. Four more in bad shape.”
    “Have you heard from the rest of the team?”
    “They’ve left Paris. Shamron is bringing everyone home. This could get ugly.”

    “The car?”
    “We’ve got a man watching it. So far, the police haven’t made a move on it.”
    “Eventually, they will.”
    “What are they going to find when they do?”
    Gabriel told him. Navot closed his eyes and swayed a bit, as though he had just been told of a death. “What about Müller’s apartment?”
    “There’s a glass on his telephone.”
    “Shit.”
    “Any chance of getting inside and cleaning things up?”
    Navot shook his head. “The police are already there. If they find your car and establish that Müller was under surveillance of some sort they’ll tear apart his flat. It won’t take them long to find the bug.”
    “Any friends on the force that might be able to help us?”
    “Not for something like this.”
    “That bug is like a calling card.”
    “I know, Gabriel, but I wasn’t the one who put it there.”
    Gabriel fished the roll of film from his pocket and handed it to Navot. “I got a picture of the man who left the bomb at the gallery. Get it to King Saul Boulevard tonight. Tell the troglodytes in Research to run it through the database. Maybe they can put a name to his face.”
    The film disappeared into Navot’s big paw.
    “Contact Shamron and tell him to get a security detail up to Anna Rolfe’s villa right away.” Gabriel opened the car door and put his foot on the ground. “Which car is mine?”
    “Shamron wants you to come home.”

    “I can’t find the man who planted that bomb if I’m sitting in Tel Aviv.”
    “You won’t be able to find him if you’re sitting in a French jail cell, either.”
    “Which car is mine, Uzi?”
    “All right! Take this one. But you’re on your own.”
    “Someday, I’ll try to repay the favor.”
    “Have a good time, Gabriel. I’ll stay here and clean up your fucking mess.”
    “Just get the film to Tel Aviv. Good dog.”
     
    ONthe Costa de Prata, Anna Rolfe lowered her violin and switched off the metronome. Her practice room was in shadow, the breeze from the open window cool and moist with the Atlantic. A professional-quality microphone hung over her stool from a chrome-colored stand. It was connected to a German-made tape deck. Today she had recorded much of her practice session. She played back the tape while she packed the Guarneri into its case and straightened her sheet music.
    As always, she found it uncomfortable to listen to herself play, but she did it now for a very specific reason. She wanted to know exactly how she sounded; which passages of the piece were acceptable and which needed additional attention. She liked much of what she heard but picked out three or four sections in the second and third movements where the effects of her long layoff were apparent to her highly critical ear. Tonight, in her second practice session, she would focus exclusively on those passages. For now, she needed to clear her mind.
    She went to her bedroom, removed a pale yellow sweater from her dresser drawer, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she went downstairs. A moment later, she slipped through the gate of her villa and set out along the winding track down toward the village. At the halfway point, she spotted a tiny Fiat station wagon coming up the track through the trees. Inside were four men. They were not Portuguese. Anna stepped to the side to allow the car to pass, but it stopped instead, and the man seated in the front passenger seat got out.
    “Miss Rolfe?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “You are Miss Anna