The English Assassin

vapor that reeked of chlorine. Ornate lamps glowed through the mist like storm lanterns, and turquoise water made wavelike patterns on the soaring open-beamed ceiling. The room was quiet except for the ripple of Otto Gessler’s laborious crawl. Peterson removed his overcoat and scarf and waited for Gessler to complete his lap. The snow that had collected on his leather city loafers quickly melted, soaking his socks.
    “Gerhardt?” A pause for air, another stroke. “Is that you?”
    “Yes, Herr Gessler.”

    “I hope—the snow—didn’t make—your drive—too difficult.”
    “Not at all, Herr Gessler.”
    Peterson hoped the old man would take a break; otherwise they were going to be at it all night. A bodyguard appeared at the edge of the pool, then receded behind a veil of mist.
    “You wished to speak to me about the Rolfe case, Gerhardt?”
    “Yes, Herr Gessler. I’m afraid we may have a problem.”
    “I’m listening.”
    For the next ten minutes, Peterson brought Gessler up to date on the case. Gessler swam while Peterson spoke. Splash, silence, splash, silence . . .
    “What conclusion do you draw from these developments?”
    “That they know more about what happened to Augustus Rolfe and the collection than we would wish.”
    “An obstinate people, don’t you agree, Gerhardt?”
    “The Jews?”
    “Never can seem to leave well enough alone. Always looking for trouble. I won’t be beaten by them, Gerhardt.”
    “No, of course not, Herr Gessler.”
    Through the curtain of mist, Peterson glimpsed Gessler rising slowly up the steps of the shallow end of the pool; a pale figure, shockingly frail. A bodyguard covered his shoulders in a toweling robe. Then the curtain of mist closed once more, and Gessler was gone.
    “She needs to be eliminated,” came the dry, disembodied voice. “So does the Israeli.”
    Peterson frowned. “There will be consequences. Anna Rolfe is a national treasure. If she is murdered so soon after her father, there are bound to be uncomfortable questions, especially in the press.”
    “You may rest assured that there will be no outpouring of national grief if Anna Rolfe is killed. She refuses even to live in Switzerland, and she’s almost done herself in any number of times. And as for the press, they can ask all the questions they want. Without facts, their stories will read like conspiratorial gossip. I only care whether the authorities ask questions. And that’s what we pay you for, Gerhardt—to make certain the authorities don’t ask questions.”
    “I should also warn you that the Israeli secret service does not play by the usual rules. If we target one of their agents for assassination, they’ll come after us.”
    “I’m not afraid of the Jews, Gerhardt, and you shouldn’t be, either. Contact Anton Orsati right away. I’ll move some additional funds into your operational account, as well as something extra into your personal account. Consider it an incentive to make certain that this affair is resolved quickly and quietly.”
    “That’s not necessary, Herr Gessler.”
    “I know it’s not necessary, but you’ve earned it.”
    Peterson hastily changed the subject. He didn’t like to think about the money too much. It made him feel like a whore. “I really should be getting back to Zurich, Herr Gessler. The weather.”
    “You’re welcome to spend the night here.”
    “No, I really should be getting back.”
    “Suit yourself, Gerhardt.”
    “May I ask you a question, Herr Gessler?”
    “Certainly.”
    “Did you know Herr Rolfe?”
    “Yes, I knew him well. He and I were quite close once. In fact, I was there the morning his wife committed suicide. She dug her own grave and shot herself. It was young Anna who discovered the body. A terrible thing. Herr Rolfe’s death was unfortunate but necessary. It wasn’t personal, it was business. You do understand the difference, don’t you, Gerhardt?”

33
    LONDON
     
    J ULIANISHERWOODwas seated at his desk, leafing through a stack of paperwork, when he heard the sound of a delivery truck rumbling across the bricks of Mason’s Yard. He walked to his window and peered out. A man in blue coveralls was climbing out the front passenger side and making his way to the door. A moment later came the howl of the buzzer.
    “Irina? Did you schedule any deliveries for today?”
    “No, Mr. Isherwood.”
    Oh, Christ, thought Isherwood. Not again.
    “Irina?”
    “Yes, Mr. Isherwood?”
    “I’m feeling a bit