The English Assassin

answer him. But even then Gerhardt Peterson knew the answer. He was not to discuss the matter further because in Switzerland, one doesn’t discuss unpleasant matters from the past.
     
    PETERSONawoke to another pail of icy water. He opened his eyes and was immediately blinded by a searing white light. Squinting, he saw two figures standing over him, the little troll-like man with the bucket, and the kinder-looking soul who had carried him to the van in Zurich after he had been drugged by the woman.
    “Wake up!”
    The troll threw more freezing water onto Peterson. His neck jerked violently, and he cracked his head against the wall. He lay on the floor, drenched, shivering.
    The troll tromped up the stairs. The meeker one squatted on his haunches and looked at him sadly. Peterson, slipping back into unconsciousness, confused reality with his dreams. To Peterson the little man was the Jew from his village whose family had been expelled to France.
    “I’m sorry,” groaned Peterson, his jaw trembling with cold.
    “Yes, I know,” said the man. “I know you’re sorry.”
    Peterson began to cough, a retching cough that filled his mouth with phlegm and fluid.
    “You’re going to see the big man now, Gerhardt. This will only hurt a little, but it will clear your head.” Another injection; this time in the arm, delivered with clinical precision. “You mustn’t have a foggy head when you talk to the big man, Gerhardt. Are you feeling better? Are the cobwebs beginning to clear?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “That’s good. You mustn’t have cobwebs in your head when you talk to the big man. He wants to know everything that you know. He needs you sharp as a tack.”
    “I’m thirsty.”
    “I don’t doubt it. You’ve been a very busy boy the past few days. A very naughty boy too. I’m sure the big man will give you something to drink if you cooperate with him. If you don’t”—he shrugged his shoulder and stuck out his lower lip—“then it’s back down here, and this time my friend will use more than a little bit of water.”
    “I’m cold.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yes, I know you’re sorry. If you apologize to the big man and tell him everything you know, then he’ll get you something to drink and some warm clothes.”
    “I want to talk to him.”
    “Who do you want to talk to?”
    “I want to talk to the big man.”
    “Should we go upstairs and find him?”
    “I’m sorry. I want to talk to the big man.”
    “Let’s go, Gerhardt. Come, take my hand. Let me help you.”

42
    MALLES VENOSTA, ITALY
     
    G ABRIEL WORE NEATLY PRESSEDkhaki trousers and a soft beige sweater that fit him smartly through the waist and shoulders. Everything about his appearance said comfort and satisfaction, the precise image he wished to convey. Eli Lavon shepherded Peterson into the room and pushed him into a hard, straight-backed chair. Peterson sat like a man before a firing squad, his gaze fixed on the wall.
    Lavon showed himself out. Gabriel remained seated, eyes down. He was never one to celebrate victories. He knew better than most that in the business of intelligence, victories are often transitory. Occasionally, with time, they didn’t seem like victories at all. Still, he took a moment to relish the fine circular quality of the affair. Not long ago, Gabriel had been the one in custody and Peterson had been asking the questions—Peterson of the fitted gray suit and polished Swiss arrogance. Now he sat before Gabriel shivering in his underwear.

    A white Formica table separated them, bare except for a manila file folder and Gabriel’s mug of steaming coffee. Like Peterson’s cell in the basement, the room had terra-cotta floors and stucco walls. The blinds were drawn. Windblown rain beat a meddlesome rhythm against the glass. Gabriel regarded Peterson with an expression of distaste and fell into a speculative silence.
    “You won’t get away with this.”
    It was Peterson who broke the silence. He had spoken in English but Gabriel immediately switched to German; the carefully pronounced and grammatically correct High German of his mother. He wished to point out the laxity of Peterson’s Schwyzerdütch. To emphasize Peterson’s Swissness. To isolate him.
    “Get away with what, Gerhardt?”
    “Kidnapping me, you fucking bastard!”
    “But we already did get away with it.”
    “There were security cameras in the garage of my apartment house. That trick with your whore was