THEY DROVE to Lisbon airport early the following afternoon. Anna Rolfe insisted on first class. Gabriel, traveling on Shamron’s parsimonious account, was relegated to economy. He trailed her through the Lisbon airport to make certain no one was following. As she neared the gate, a woman breathlessly thrust out a scrap of paper for an autograph. Anna obliged, smiled, and boarded the flight. Five minutes later, Gabriel followed. As he passed her seat she was sipping champagne. Gabriel trudged back to a middle seat in the twenty-third row. His back still ached from a sleepless night on Senhor Manuel’s beastly bed.
Gerhardt Peterson’s warning about not setting foot on Swiss soil still echoed in Gabriel’s ears, so instead of going directly to Zurich they went first to Stuttgart. There they engaged in a similar routine: Anna leaving the plane first, Gabriel following her through the terminal to a rental-car counter. She collected the keys and the paperwork for a small Mercedes sedan and rode a shuttle bus to the parking lot. Gabriel took a taxi to a nearby hotel and waited in the lobby bar. Twenty minutes later, he went outside and found Anna parked in the drive. She drove a short distance through the darkened streets, then pulled over and traded places with him. Gabriel turned onto the expressway and headed south. One hundred miles to Zurich. Anna reclined the front passenger seat, rolled her coat into the shape of a pillow, and tucked it beneath her head.
Gabriel said, “I enjoyed the piece that you were practicing yesterday.”
“It’s called ‘The Devil’s Trill.’ It was composed by Giuseppe Tartini. He said it was inspired by a dream. In the dream, he handed his violin to the Devil, and the Devil played a sonata that was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard. Tartini claimed to have awoken in a feverish state. He had to possess the sonata, so he wrote down as much as he could remember.”
“Do you believe the story?”
“I don’t believe in the Devil, but I certainly understand the need to possess the piece. I spent three years learning how to play it properly. It was the piece that I played when I won the Sibelius competition. After that it became my signature piece. But technically, it’s very demanding. I’ve just started to play it again.”
“It sounded beautiful.”
“Not to me. I hear only the mistakes and the imperfections.”
“Is that why you canceled the two concert dates?”
“I didn’t cancel them-I postponed them.” Gabriel could feel her eyes on him. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
“Are you planning to play any time soon?”
“I am, actually. A recital in Venice ten days from now. The Venetians have always been very kind to me. I feel comfortable there. Do you know Venice?”
“I lived in Venice for two years.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s where I learned how to restore paintings. I served an apprenticeship with an Italian restorer named Umberto Conti. It’s still one of my favorite cities in the world.”
“Ah, mine too. Once Venice is in your blood, it’s hard to live without her. I’m hoping Venice will work its magic for me.”
“Why did you postpone the other recitals?”
“Because my ability to play my instrument was still diminished by the injury to my hand. Because I didn’t want to become something of a freak show. I didn’t want to hear people say, ‘There’s Anna Rolfe. She plays the violin quite well for someone who nearly lost her hand.’ I want to stand on the stage as a musician and nothing more.”
“Are you ready?”
“We’ll find out in ten days. I only know one thing for certain: this time I’m not backing down.” She lit a cigarette. “So why did you try to leave Zurich without telling the police about my father’s murder?”
“Because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe that I had nothing to do with it,” Gabriel said.
“Is that the only reason?”
“I told you that I was there in an official capacity.”
“What sort of official capacity? What’s the name of this obscure agency that you work for? This agency connected to the Ministry of Defense.”
“I don’t work for them. I’m just performing a service for them.”
“Do they have a name?”
“It’s called the Institute for Coordination, but most of the people who work there call it the Office.”
“You’re a spy, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Why do I know that you’re lying to me?”
“I’m an art restorer.”
“So why did we travel separately to Zurich? Why did we go to so much trouble at the airport in Stuttgart to avoid being seen together?”
“It was a precautionary measure. The Swiss police made it clear to me I’m no longer welcome.”
“Why would they take a step like that?”
“Because they were a little miffed that I’d fled the scene of a crime.”
“Why did you flee my father’s house?”
“I’ve told you that already.”
“You fled my father’s house because you’re a spy, and you were afraid of going to the police. I was watching you at the airport. You’re very good.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Then what are you? And don’t tell me you’re just an art restorer who’s doing a favor for someone in some obscure agency called the Office, because I don’t believe you. And if you don’t tell me the truth right now, you might as well turn around and drive back to Stuttgart, because I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing.”
She tossed her cigarette out the window and waited for his answer. The legendary temper of Anna Rolfe.
IT was after midnight when they arrived in Zurich. An air of abandonment hung over the city center: the Bahnhofstrasse dark and still, pavements deserted, ice falling through the lights. They crossed the river; Gabriel drove carefully up the slick roads of the Zürichberg. The last thing he wanted was to get stopped for a traffic violation.
They parked on the street outside the villa. Anna dealt with the keyless locks at the gate and the front entrance. Gabriel saw enough to tell him that the codes had been changed since the murder.
The foyer was in darkness. Anna closed the door before switching on the lights. Without speaking she led him inside, passing the entrance to the large drawing room where Gabriel had discovered the body of her father. He glanced inside. The air was drenched with the scent of cleaning fluid. The Oriental carpet was gone, but the Raphael still hung on the wall.
The deep silence of the house was emphasized by the clatter of Anna’s heels over the bare floor. They passed through a large, formal dining room with an imposing table of polished dark wood and high-backed chairs; then a pantry; then a large kitchen.
Finally, they came to a flight of stairs. This time Anna turned on no lights. Gabriel followed her downward into the gloom. At the bottom was a wine cellar, alcoves filled with dusty bottles. Next to the wine cellar was a cutting room with a stone sink. Rusted gardening tools hung from hooks on the walls.
They passed through another doorway and followed a dark corridor. It ended at a door, which Anna pulled aside, revealing a small lift. It was barely big enough for one person, but they crowded in together. As the lift slowly descended, Gabriel could feel the heat of her body pressing against his, smell the scent of her shampoo, the French tobacco on her breath. She seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. Gabriel tried to look away, but Anna gazed directly into his eyes with an unnerving animal intensity.
The lift came to a stop. Anna opened the door and they stepped into a small foyer of black and white marble. A heavy steel door stood opposite the lift. On the wall next to the door was a keypad, and next to the keypad was a device that looked something like the magnifying visors in his studio. Gabriel had seen a device like this before; it was a biometric security mechanism used to scan the retina of anyone trying to enter the room. If the retina matched any of those recorded in the database, the person would be permitted to enter. If not, all hell would break loose.