The English Assassin

esteem.”
    “Someone who could be trusted to look after their money?”
    “Their money. Their stolen treasures. All of it.”
    “What about the list of names and the account numbers?”

    “I think it’s safe to assume that those are German clients. I’ll run them through our database and see if they correspond with known members of the SS and the Nazi Party, but I suspect they’re pseudonyms.”
    “Would there be any other record of the accounts in the bank’s files?”
    Lavon shook his head. “Typically, the real identities of holders of numbered accounts are known by only the top officers of a bank. The more notorious the customer, the fewer people who know the name attached to the account number. If these accounts belonged to Nazis, I doubt whether anyone knew about them but Rolfe.”
    “If he kept the list after all these years, does it mean the accounts still exist?”
    “I suppose it’s possible. It depends a great deal on who owned them. If the holder was able to get out of Germany at the end of the war, then I would doubt the account is still active. But if the holder was arrested by the Allies—”
    “—then it’s possible his money and valuables are still in the vault of the Rolfe bank.”
    “Possible, but unlikely.”
    Lavon gathered up the documents and photographs and slipped them back into the envelope. Then he looked up at Gabriel and said, “I’ve answered all your questions. Now, it’s time for you to answer some of mine.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Just one thing, actually,” Lavon said, holding the envelope aloft. “I’d like to know what the hell are you doing with the secret files of Augustus Rolfe.”
     
    LAVONliked nothing better than a good story. It had always been that way. During the Black September operation, he and Gabriel had shared a kinship of the sleepless: Lavon because of his stomach, Gabriel because of his conscience. Gabriel thought of him now, an emaciated figure sitting cross-legged on the floor, asking Gabriel what it felt like to kill. And Gabriel had told him—because he had needed to tell someone. “There is no God,” Lavon had said. “There is only Shamron. Shamron decides who shall live and who shall die. And he sends boys like you to wreak his terrible vengeance.”
    Now, as then, Lavon did not look at Gabriel as he told his story. He stared down at his hands and turned over his cigarette lighter between his nimble little fingers until Gabriel had finished.
    “Do you have a list of the paintings that were taken from the secret vault?”
    “I do, but I’m not sure how accurate it is.”
    “There’s a man in New York. He’s dedicated his life to the subject of Nazi art-looting. He knows the contents of every stolen collection, every transaction, every piece that’s been recovered, every piece that’s still missing. If anyone knows anything about the collecting habits of Augustus Rolfe, it’s him.”
    “Quietly, Eli. Very quietly.”
    “My dear Gabriel, I know of no other way.”
    They pulled on their coats, and Lavon walked him across the Judenplatz.
    “Does the daughter know any of this?”
    “Not yet.”
    “I don’t envy you. I’ll call you when I hear something from my friend in New York. In the meantime, go to your hotel and get some rest. You don’t look well.”
    “I can’t remember the last time I slept.”

    Lavon shook his head and laid his small hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You’ve killed again, Gabriel. I can see it in your face. It’s the stain of death. Go to your room and wash your face.”
    “You be a good boy and watch your back.”
    “I used to watch yours.”
    “You were the best.”
    “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. I still am.”
    And with that Lavon turned and vanished into the crowd on the Judenplatz.
     
    GABRIELwalked to the little trattoria where he had eaten his last meal with his Leah and Dani. For the first time in ten years, he stood on the spot where the car had exploded. He looked up and saw the spire of Saint Stephen’s, floating above the rooftops. A wind rose suddenly; Gabriel turned up the collar of his coat. What had he expected? Grief? Rage? Hatred? Much to his surprise, he felt nothing much at all. He turned and walked back to the hotel in the rain.
     
    ACOPY of Die Presse had been slipped under the door and lay on the floor in the alcove. Gabriel scooped it up and entered the bedroom. Anna was still asleep. At some point, she had removed her