“If that was their intention, they did a damned lousy job of it. I was on the train from Paris at the time Rolfe was killed.” Gabriel was calmer now. He was furious with Shamron for deceiving him, but at the same time he was intrigued. “What do you know about Augustus Rolfe?”
“The Rolfe family has been stashing money beneath the Bahnhofstrasse for a couple of hundred years. They’re one of the most prominent banking families in Switzerland.”
“Who would want him dead?”
“A lot of dirty money has flowed through the numbered accounts of Rolfe’s bank. It’s safe to assume he’d made his fair share of enemies.”
“What else?”
“The family suffers from a legendary curse. Twenty-five years ago, Rolfe’s wife committed suicide. She dug her own grave in the garden of Rolfe ’s country chalet, climbed in, and shot herself. A few years after that, Rolfe’s only son, Maximilian, died in a cycling accident in the Alps.”
“Is there any family that’s alive?”
“His daughter, at least she was the last time anyone heard from her. Her name is Anna.”
“His daughter is Anna Rolfe?”
“So you know her? I’m impressed.”
“She’s only one of the most famous musicians in the world.”
“Do you still want to get out of the car?”
GABRIEL had been given two gifts that made him a great art restorer: a meticulous attention to detail and an unflagging desire to see every task, no matter how mundane, through to its conclusion. He never left his studio until his work space and supplies were spotless, never went to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. And he never left a painting unfinished, even when it was a cover job for Shamron. To Gabriel, a half-restored painting was no longer a work of art, just a bit of oil and pigment smeared on a canvas or a wood panel. The dead body of Augustus Rolfe, lying at the foot of the Raphael, was like a painting that had only been half-restored. It would not be whole again until Gabriel knew who had killed him and why.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to her.”
“Why me?”
“Apparently, she has something of an artistic temperament.”
“From what I’ve read, that’s an understatement.”
“You’re an artist. You speak her language. Perhaps she’ll trust you enough to tell you what she knows about her father’s affairs. If you come up empty, you can go back to your studio, and I’ll never darken your door again.”
“Promises, promises.”
“There’s no need to be hurtful, Gabriel.”
“Last time you came into my life, I nearly got myself killed.”
“True, but at least it wasn’t boring.”
“Peterson says I can’t come back to Switzerland. How am I supposed to talk to Anna Rolfe?”
“Apparently she refuses to live in Switzerland.” Shamron handed him a slip of paper. “This is her management company in London. Give her a few days to bury her father. So you’ll do it?”
“Not for you. I want to know who tried to pin Rolfe’s murder on me. Who shall I be when I talk to Anna Rolfe?”
“I always prefer the subtle approach, but I’ll leave it to your discretion. Play it as you see fit.”
Gabriel slipped the address into his pocket. A thin smile appeared briefly on Shamron’s face. He had learned long ago that professional victories, even small ones, were to be savored.
The car pulled to the curb beneath a British Airways sign. Gabriel climbed out, collected his things from the trunk, then looked into Shamron’s window.
Shamron said, “We didn’t discuss your fee.”
“Don’t worry. It will be substantial.”
“You’re on expense account as of now, but remember, throwing money around never solved a case.”
“I’ll consider that pearl of wisdom while I’m flying first class back to London tonight.”
Shamron grimaced. “Stay in touch. Usual channels and methods. Do you remember?”
“How could I ever forget?”
“It was quite an accomplishment, don’t you think?”
“What was that?”
“Finding a man thirty minutes after he leaves the scene of a murder. I wonder how Herr Peterson managed to do that. He must be very good.”
6
WITHIN THE DIVISION of Analysis and Protection, Gerhardt Peterson was regarded as a man on the rise. Superiors handled him with care. Subordinates withered under his cold stare. His colleagues looked on in wonder and jealousy. How had the schoolteacher’s boy from Erstfeld risen to such heights? Look at him! Never a hair out of place! Never a loose tie! He wears power and success like his expensive aftershave. Peterson never made a move that wasn’t calculated to advance his career. His family life was as neat and orderly as his office. His sexual affairs were discreet and appropriate. Anyone foolish enough to stand in his way quickly discovered that Gerhardt Peterson was a man with powerful friends. Friends in Bern. Friends in the banks. He would be the chief soon-everyone agreed on that. Then a senior posting in the Federal Office for Police. Someday, perhaps, control of the entire Department of Justice and Police. Peterson did have friends in the banks. And they did do favors for him. The Swiss financial oligarchy had been like an invisible hand on his back, nudging him up each rung of the ladder of power. But it was not a one-way street. Peterson did favors for them, too, which is why he was behind the wheel of his Mercedes sedan, racing through the gloomy forest of the Kernwald.
At the base of the mountains, he came to a road marked PRIVATE. He followed the road until he came to an imposing black iron gate. Peterson knew the routine. As he slipped the Mercedes into park and lowered his window, a guard stepped out of a small hut. He had the smooth, precise walk of a man with a military background. Peterson could see the bulge of a weapon beneath his blue ski jacket.
Peterson poked his head out the window. “My name is Herr Köhler.”
“Are you here for the conference, Herr Köhler?”
“Actually, I’m the entertainment.”
“Follow the road to the house. Another man will meet you there.”
IT was a traditional Swiss chalet in conception but grotesque in its massive scale. Anchored to the side of the mountain, it stared out across the valley below with a look of deep satisfaction. Peterson was the last to arrive. The others were already there. They had come from Zurich and Zug, from Lucerne and Bern, and from Geneva and Basel. As was their custom, they had traveled separately and arrived at unevenly spaced intervals so as not to attract attention. They were all Swiss. Foreigners were not permitted. Foreigners were the reason the group existed.
As usual, the meeting would take place in the sprawling, glass-walled living room on the second level of the house. Had any of them bothered to stand in the windows, they would have been treated to a truly remarkable view: a carpet of wet lights on the valley floor, shrouded by a bridal veil of drifting snow. Instead, they huddled together in small groups, smoking, chatting quietly, sipping coffee or tea. Alcoholic beverages were never served at the house. The host, Herr Gessler, drank only tea and mineral water and was a vegetarian. He credited his strict diet for his remarkable longevity.
Despite the informal surroundings, Herr Gessler insisted on a boardroom approach to the meetings. The guests did not sit on the comfortable sofas and armchairs but at a long conference table. At precisely 6P.M., each man went to his assigned chair and stood behind it.