Rolfe?”
“That’s right. And the Council told me the kinds of things he was hiding.”
“A collection of paintings that he’d been given by the Nazis for banking services rendered during the war.”
Peterson inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “Herr Rolfe was concealing valuable objects and a controversial story, a terrible set of circumstances from the Council’s point of view.”
“So what does the Council instruct you to do?”
“To tighten the watch around him. To make certain Herr Rolfe doesn’t do anything rash in his final days. But there are disturbing signs. A visitor to Rolfe’s bank-a man from an international Jewish agency who is active in the question of the dormant Holocaust accounts.”
The casualness with which Peterson made this reference set Gabriel’s teeth on edge.
“Then we intercept a series of faxes. It seems that Rolfe is making arrangements to hire an art restorer. I ask myself a simple question: Why is a dying man wasting time restoring his paintings? It’s been my experience that the dying usually leave details like that to their survivors.”
“You suspect Rolfe is planning to hand over the paintings?”
“Or worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“A public confession of his dealings with high-ranking Nazis and officers of German intelligence. Can you imagine the spectacle such an admission would create? It would sweep the country like a storm. It would make the controversy of the dormant accounts look like a mild dustup.”
“Is that all the Council was afraid of?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
But Gabriel was listening not to Gerhardt Peterson but to Augustus Rolfe:
“They were afraid that Augustus Rolfe was going to reveal the existence of the Council. He knew about the Council, because he was a member, wasn’t he?”
“Rolfe? He wasn’t just a member of the Council. He was a charter member.”
“So you went to see him?”
“I tell him that I’ve heard things-nothing specific, mind you, very subtle. Rolfe is old, but he still has an agile mind, and he knows exactly what I’m trying to tell him. He’s a Swiss banker, for Christ’s sake. He knows how to have two conversations at the same time. When I leave, I’m convinced the Council has big problems.”
“So what do you do?”
“Resort to Plan B.”
“And that is?”
“Steal the fucking paintings. No paintings, no story.”
PETERSON refused to continue without a cigarette, and reluctantly Gabriel agreed. Once more he beat his palm against the wall, and once more Oded jutted his head through the open door. He gave Peterson a cigarette from his own pack. When he struck the hammer of his lighter, Peterson flinched so violently he nearly fell from his chair. Oded laughed helplessly all the way to the door. Peterson drew at the cigarette gingerly, as though he feared it might explode, and every few seconds Gabriel lifted his arm to bat away the smoke.
“Tell me about Werner Muller,” Gabriel said.
“He was the key to everything. If we were going to get at Rolfe’s secret collection, we needed Muller’s help. Muller was the one who designed the security system. So I had my men dig up as much dirt on Muller as we could find. Muller didn’t have clean hands, either. None of us really does, do we?” When Gabriel said nothing, Peterson continued. “I went to Paris to have a chat with Muller. Needless to say, he agreed to work for our cause.”
Peterson smoked the cigarette nearly to the filter, then morosely crushed it out in his empty soup bowl.
“The job was set for the next night. Rolfe was planning to go to Geneva and spend the night at his apartment there. The art restorer was scheduled to arrive the next morning. The team broke into the villa, and Muller guided them down to the viewing chamber.”
“Were you part of the team?”
“No, my job was to make sure the Zurich police didn’t show up in the middle of it, nothing more.”
“Go on.”
“Muller disarms the security system and shuts down the cameras. Then they go inside the vault, and guess what they find?”
“Augustus Rolfe.”
“In the flesh. Three o’clock in the morning, and the old man is sitting there with his fucking paintings. Muller panics. The burglars are strangers to Rolfe, but the old man and Muller are in business together. If the old man goes to the police, it’s Muller who’ll take the fall. He grabs a gun from one of the Council’s men, marches the old man upstairs to the drawing room, and puts a bullet in his brain.”
“Six hours later, I show up.”
Peterson nodded. “Rolfe’s body gave us an opportunity to test the veracity of the art restorer. If the art restorer discovers the body and telephones the police, chances are he’s just an art restorer. If he finds the body and tries to leave town-”
Peterson held up his hands as if to say no other explanation was necessary.
“So you arrange to have me arrested.”
“That’s right.”
“What about the first detective who interrogated me?”
“Baer? Baer knew nothing. To Baer you were just a suspect in the murder of a Swiss banker.”
“Why bother to arrest me? Why not just let me go?”
“I wanted to scare the shit out of you and make you think twice about ever coming back.”
“But it didn’t stop there.”
Peterson shook his head. “No, unfortunately, it was just the beginning.”
GABRIEL knew most of the rest, because he had lived through it. Peterson’s rapid-fire account served only to reinforce his existing beliefs or to fill in gaps.
Just as Peterson suspected, Anna Rolfe does not report the theft of her father’s secret collection. Peterson immediately places her under surveillance. The job is handled by assets connected to the Council of Rutli and Swiss security-service officers loyal to Peterson. Peterson knew that Gabriel went to Portugal a week after Rolfe’s funeral to see Anna Rolfe, and he knew that they traveled to Zurich together and visited the Rolfe villa.
From that moment on, Gabriel is under surveillance: Rome, Paris, London, Lyons. The Council retains the services of a professional assassin. In Paris, he kills Muller and destroys his gallery. In Lyons, he kills Emil Jacobi.
“Who were the men waiting for me that night at Rolfe’s villa?” Gabriel asked.
