The English Assassin

of the throat, a polite reminder that time was being wasted, and on the Bahnhofstrasse time was certainly money.
    Then Anna would say: “I’d like access to the account of Herr Alois Ritter.” A pause, a few taps on a computer keyboard, a long gaze into a glowing monitor. “I’m sorry, but it appears we have no account in the name of Alois Ritter.”
    “Are you certain?”
    “Yes, quite certain.”
    “Thank you. I apologize for wasting your valuable time.”

    “Not at all. Take our card. Perhaps you’ll require our services in the future.”
    “You’re very kind.”
    After visiting eleven banks, they had coffee in a small restaurant called Café Brioche. Gabriel was getting nervous. They had been traipsing around the Bahnhofstrasse for nearly two hours. They could not go unnoticed for long.
    The next stop was Becker & Puhl, where they were greeted by Herr Becker himself. He was starched and fussy and very bald. His office was drab and as sterile as an operating room. As he stared into his computer monitor, Gabriel could see the ghostly reflections of names and numbers scrolling across the polished lenses of his rimless spectacles.
    After a moment of quiet contemplation, he looked up and said, “Account number, please.”
    Anna recited it from memory: 251233126.
    Becker tapped the keyboard. “Password?”
    Gabriel felt his chest tighten. He looked up and noticed Herr Becker eyeing him over the computer terminal.
    Anna cleared her throat gently and said: “Adagio.”
    “Follow me, please.”
     
    THElittle banker escorted them from his office to a high-ceilinged conference room with paneled walls and a rectangular smoked-glass table. “Your privacy can be better assured this way,” he said. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you the contents of the account in a few moments.”
    When Becker returned, he was carrying a metal safe-deposit box. “According to the covenant on the account, anyone who presents the proper account number and password is permitted access to the deposit boxes,” Becker said as he slid the box onto the tabletop. “I possess all the keys.”
    “I understand,” said Anna.
    Becker whistled tunelessly as he removed a heavy ring of keys from his pocket and selected the appropriate one. When he found it, he held it aloft to check the engraving, then inserted it into the lock and lifted the lid. Instantly, the air smelled of decaying paper.
    Becker stepped back to a respectful distance. “There is a second safe-deposit box. I’m afraid it’s rather large. Do you wish to see that one as well?”
    Gabriel and Anna looked at each other across the table and at the same time said: “Yes.”
     
    GABRIELwaited for Becker to leave the room before lifting the lid. There were sixteen in all, neatly rolled, shrouded in protective coverings: Monet, Picasso, Degas, van Gogh, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Bonnard, Cézanne, a stunning nude in repose by Vuillard. Even Gabriel, a man used to working with priceless art, was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it. How many people had searched for these very pieces? How many years? How many tears had been shed over their loss? And here they were, locked in a safe-deposit box, in a vault beneath the Bahnhofstrasse. How fitting. How perfectly logical.
    Anna resumed her search of the smaller box. She lifted the lid and began removing the contents. First came the cash—Swiss francs, French francs, dollars, pounds, marks—which she handled with the ease of someone used to money. Next came an accordion file folder filled with documents, and finally a stack of letters, bound by a pale-blue elastic band.

    She loosened the band, laid it on the table, and began flipping through the stack of envelopes with her long, agile fingers. Forefinger, middle finger, forefinger, middle finger, pause. . . . Forefinger, middle finger, forefinger, middle finger, pause. . . . She pulled one envelope from the stack, turned it over in her hand, tested the flap to make certain it was still sealed, then held it up for Gabriel to see.
    “You might be interested in this.”
    “What is it?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s addressed to you.”
     
    ITwas the personal stationery of a man from another time: pale gray in color, A4 in size,AUGUSTUS ROLFE centered at the top, no other superfluous information such as a fax number or an e-mail address. Only a date: one day before Gabriel arrived in Zurich. The note was rendered in