The English Assassin

cosmetic lenses. The transformation was truly remarkable. It was as though she were another woman.
    “Do you approve?” Hannah Landau asked.
    “Take the picture.”
    The Israeli girl snapped a half-dozen photographs of Anna with a Polaroid camera and laid the prints on the bed for Gabriel to see. When they had finished developing, Gabriel said, “That one.”
    Hannah shook her head. “No, I think that one.”
    She snatched up the picture without waiting for Gabriel’s approval and returned to the bathroom. Anna sat down at the vanity and spent a long time examining her appearance in the mirror.
    Twenty minutes later, Hannah came out. She showed her work to Gabriel, then walked across the room and dropped it on the vanity in front of Anna. “Congratulations, Miss Rolfe. You are now a citizen of Austria.”

29
    ZURICH
     
    H ALFWAY BETWEENthe Hauptbahnhof and Zürichsee is the epicenter of Swiss banking, the Paradeplatz. The twin headquarters of Credit Suisse and the Union Bank of Switzerland glare at each other like prizefighters over the broad expanse of gray brick. They are the two giants of Swiss banking and among the most powerful in the world. In their shadow, up and down the length of the Bahnhofstrasse, are other big banks and influential financial institutions, their locations clearly marked by bright signs and polished glass doors. But scattered in the quiet side streets and alleys between the Bahnhofstrasse and Sihl River are the banks few people notice. They are the private chapels of Swiss banking, places where men can worship or confess their sins in absolute secrecy. Swiss law forbids these banks from soliciting for deposits. They are free to call themselves banks if they wish, but they are not required to do so. Difficult to locate, easy to miss, they are tucked inside modern office blocks or in the rooms of centuries-old town houses. Some employ several dozen workers; some only a handful. They are private banks in every sense of the word. This is where, the following morning, Gabriel and Anna Rolfe began their search.
    She threaded her arm through Gabriel’s and pulled him along the Bahnhofstrasse. This was her town; she was in charge now. Gabriel watched the passing faces for signs of recognition. If Anna was going to be noticed anywhere in the world, it would be here. No one gave her a second look. Hannah Landau’s rapid makeover seemed to be working.
    “Where do we start?” Gabriel asked.
    “Like most Swiss bankers, my father maintained professional accounts in other Swiss banks.”
    “Correspondent accounts?”
    “Exactly. We’ll start with the ones where I know he’d done business in the past.”
    “What if the account isn’t in Zurich? What if it’s in Geneva?”
    “My father was a Zuricher through and through. He’d never even consider handing over his money or his possessions to a Frenchman in Geneva.”
    “Even if we find the account, there’s no guarantee we’re going to have access to it.”
    “That’s true. The bankers make the accounts only as secret as the account-holder wants. We may be allowed access with just a number. We may need a password. We might be shown the door. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it? Let’s start over there.”
    Without warning she changed direction, darting across the Bahnhofstrasse in front of a speeding tram, pulling Gabriel by the hand. Then she led him into a smaller street, the Bärengasse, and stopped before a simple doorway. Above the doorway was a security camera, and mounted on the stone wall next to it was a brass plaque, so small it was nearly unnoticeable:HOFFMAN&WECK ,BÄRENGASSE 43.
    She pressed the bell and waited to be admitted. Five minutes later, they were back on the street again, walking to the next bank on Anna’s list. There the performance took slightly longer—seven minutes by Gabriel’s estimate—but the result was the same: back on the street, empty-handed.
    And on it went. Each performance was a slight variation of the same theme. After enduring a moment of scrutiny through the security camera, they would be admitted into a vestibule, where an officer of the bank would greet them cautiously. Anna did all the talking, conducting each encounter in brisk but polite Züridütsch. Finally, they would be escorted to the sacristy, the hallowed inner office where the secret records were kept, and seated in chairs before the banker’s desk. After a few meaningless pleasantries, there would be a discreet clearing