The English Assassin

cross-cultural phenomenon. Her photograph appeared on the covers of European fashion magazines. In America she performed on a holiday television special.

Then, after twenty years of relentless touring and recording, Anna Rolfe had suffered the accident that nearly destroyed her hand. Gabriel tried to imagine how he would feel if his ability to restore paintings was suddenly taken from him. He did not expect to find her in a good mood.

One hour after Gabriel arrived, she stopped playing. All that remained was the steady beat of a metronome. Then it too fell silent. Five minutes later she appeared on the terrace, dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a pearl-gray cotton pullover. Her hair was damp.

She held out her hand. “I’m Anna Rolfe.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Rolfe.”

“Please, sit down.”

IF Gabriel had been a portrait painter, he might have enjoyed a subject like Anna Rolfe. Her face displayed a technical brilliance: the wide even cheekbones, the catlike green eyes, the ample mouth and teardrop chin. But it was also a face of many layers. Sensuous and vulnerable, contemptuous and iron-willed. Somewhere a trace of sadness. But it was her energy-her restless, reckless energy-that intrigued him the most and would have been most difficult to capture on canvas. Her eyes flashed about him. Even after the long rehearsal session, her hands could not remain quiet. They set out on private journeys: toyed with a cigarette lighter, drummed on the glass tabletop, made repeated trips to her face to chase away the stray lock of hair which fell across her cheek. She wore no jewelry; no bracelets on her wrist or rings on her fingers, nothing around her neck.

“I hope you didn’t have to wait long. I’m afraid I’ve left strict instructions with Carlos and Maria not to interrupt me during my practice sessions.”

“It was my pleasure. Your playing was extraordinary.”

“Actually, it wasn’t, but that’s very kind of you to say.”

“I saw you perform once. It was in Brussels a few years ago. An evening of Tchaikovsky, if I’m not mistaken. You were amazing that night.”

“I couldn’t touch those pieces now.” She rubbed at the scars on her left hand. It seemed an involuntary gesture. She placed the hand in her lap and looked at the newspaper. “I see you’ve been reading about my father. The Zurich police don’t seem to know much about his murder, do they?”

“That’s hard to say.”

“Do you know something the Zurich police don’t know?”

“That’s also hard to say.”

“Before you tell me what it is you do know, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a question first.”

“No, of course not.”

“Just who are you?”

“In this matter, I’m a representative of the government of Israel.”

“And which matter is that?”

“The death of your father.”

“And why is the death of my father of interest to the government of Israel?”

“Because I was the one to discover your father’s body.”

“The detectives in Zurich said my father’s body was discovered by the art restorer who came to clean the Raphael.”

“That’s true.”

“You’re the art restorer?”

“Yes.”

“And you work for the government of Israel?”

“In this matter.”

He could see her mind struggling to make the connections.

“Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but I’ve just finished an eight-hour practice session. Maybe my mind isn’t what it should be. Perhaps you should start from the beginning.”

GABRIEL told her the story Shamron had relayed to him in Zurich. That her father had contacted the Israeli government and requested a secret meeting. That he had given no details of why he wanted to meet. That Gabriel had been sent to Zurich to see him and that her father was dead by the time he arrived. Anna Rolfe listened to this account impassively, her hands toying with her hair.

“And what do you want from me, Mr. Allon?” she asked when Gabriel had finished.

“I want to know whether you have any idea why your father would want to meet with us.”

“My father was a banker, Mr. Allon. A Swiss banker. There were many things about his life, personal and professional, that he did not share with me. If you’ve read that newspaper account, then you know we were not particularly close, and that he never spoke to me about his work.”

“Nothing at all?”

She ignored this and asked: “Who’s us? ”

“What do you mean?”

“You said my father wanted to meet with ‘us.’ Who’s us? Who do you work for?”

“I work for a small agency connected to the Ministry of Defense.”

“The Ministry of Defense?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re a spy?”

“No, I’m not a spy.”

“Did you murder my father?”

“Miss Rolfe, please. I came here looking for your help, not to play games.”

“Let the record show that the defendant failed to answer the question.”

“I didn’t murder your father, but I’d like to know who did. And if I knew why he wanted to meet with us in the first place, it might provide some answers.”

She turned her face toward the sea. “So you think he was killed because of what he might have said to you?”

“That would seem to be the case.” Gabriel allowed a silence to settle between them. Then he asked: “Do you know why your father wished to speak with us?” “I think I can guess.”

“Will you tell me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I decide to involve you and the government of Israel in the private affairs of my family.”

“I can assure you that we will handle the matter with utmost discretion.”

“You sound very much like a Swiss banker, Mr. Allon-but then I suppose you’re not so very different.” Her green eyes settled on him but betrayed nothing of her intentions. “I need some time to think about your offer.”