The English Assassin

THIS time it was Anna’s turn to retreat into the bathroom. When she returned she was calm, but her eyes were raw, and her skin was without color. She sat at the end of the bed with the photographs and documents in her hand. “What’s this?”

“It looks like a list of numbered accounts.”

“Whose numbered accounts?”

“The names are German. We can only guess at who they really are.”

She studied the list carefully, brow furrowed.

“My mother was born on Christmas Day, 1933. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Your mother’s birth date has never come up between us, Anna. Why is it relevant now?”

She handed him the list. “Look at the last name on the list.”

Gabriel took it from her. His eyes settled on the final name and number: Alois Ritter 251233126.

He looked up. “So?”

“Isn’t it interesting that a man with the same initials as my father has an account number in which the first six digits match my mother’s birthday?”

Gabriel looked at the list again: Alois Ritter… AR… 251233… Christmas Day, 1933…

He lowered the paper and looked at Anna. “What about the last three numbers? Do they mean anything to you?”

“I’m afraid they don’t.”

Gabriel looked at the numbers and closed his eyes. 126… Somewhere, at some point, he was certain he had seen them in connection with this case. He had been cursed with a flawless memory. He never forgot anything. The brushstrokes he had used to heal the painting of Saint Stephen in the cathedral. The tune that had been playing on the radio the night he had fled the Niederdorf after killing Ali Hamidi. The smell of olives on Leah’s breath when he had kissed her good-bye for the last time.

Then, after a moment, the place where he had seen the number 126.

ANNA carried a picture of her brother always. It was the last photo ever taken of him-leading a stage of the Tour of Switzerland the afternoon of his death. Gabriel had seen the same photograph in the desk of Augustus Rolfe. He looked at the number attached to the frame of the bicycle and the back of his jersey: 126.

Anna said, “It looks like we’re going back to Zurich.”

“We have to do something about your passport. And your appearance.”

“What’s wrong with my passport?”

“It has your name in it.”

“And my appearance?”

“Absolutely nothing. That’s the problem.”

He picked up the telephone and dialed.

THE girl called Hannah Landau came to the hotel room at ten o’clock that night. She wore bangles on her wrists and smelled of jasmine. The case hanging from her arm was not unlike the one Gabriel used for his paintbrushes and pigments. She spoke to Gabriel for a moment, then drew Anna into the bathroom by the hand and closed the door.

One hour later, Anna emerged. Her shoulder-length blond hair had been cropped short and dyed black; her green eyes had been turned blue by 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

HALFWAY BETWEEN the Hauptbahnhof and Zurichsee 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.”