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“You’re certain?” Anna asked.

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“Then please accept it, along with the deepest apologies of the Rolfe family.” Then she kissed his cheek and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Isherwood.”

Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Why don’t you walk me through it one more time.”

THEY went downstairs to Isherwood’s office. Gabriel sat behind Isherwood’s desk, but Shamron prowled the room as he listened to Gabriel’s plan again.

“And what shall I tell the prime minister?”

“Listen to Anna. Tell him nothing.”

“And if it blows up in my face?”

“It won’t.”

“Things like this always blow up in my face, Gabriel, and I have the scars to prove it. So do you. Tell me something. Is it my imagination, or is there a little more spring in your step tonight?”

“You want to ask me a question?”

“I don’t wish to sound indelicate.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Are you and this woman more than just accomplices in the search for her father’s killer?” When silence greeted his question, Shamron smiled and shook his head. “Do you remember what you said to me about Anna Rolfe on the Piazza Navona?”

“I told you that, given a choice, we would never use a woman like her.”

“And now you want to involve her more deeply?”

“She can handle it.”

“I have no doubts about her, but can you handle it, Gabriel?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I felt otherwise.”

“Two weeks ago, I had to beg you to look into Rolfe’s death. Now you want to wage war against Switzerland.”

“Rolfe wanted those paintings to come to us. Someone took them, and now I want them back.”

“But your motivation goes beyond the paintings, Gabriel. I turned you into a killer, but in your heart, you’re the restorer. I think you’re doing this because you want to restore Anna Rolfe. If that’s the case, then the next logical question is this: Why does he want to restore Anna Rolfe? And there’s only one logical answer. He has feelings for the woman.” Shamron hesitated. “And that’s the best news I’ve heard in a very long time.”

“I care for her.”

“If you care for her, you’ll convince her to cancel her appearance in Venice.”

“She won’t cancel.”

“If that’s the case, then perhaps we can use it to our advantage.”

“How so?”

“I’ve always found deception and misdirection to be useful tactics in a situation like this. Let her give her concert. Just make certain your friend Keller doesn’t make the recital a truly unforgettable experience.”

“Now, that’s the Ari Shamron I know and love. Use one of the world’s finest musicians as a diversion.”

“We play the cards we’re dealt.”

“I’m going to be with her in Venice. I want someone I can trust to handle the Zurich end of things.”

“Who?”

“Eli Lavon.”

“My God, a reunion of the Class of ’72! If I were a few years younger, I’d join you.”

“Let’s not get carried away. Oded and Mordecai did well in Paris. I want them too.”

“I see something of myself in Oded.” Shamron held up his stubby bricklayer’s hands. “He has a very powerful grip. If he gets hold of this man, he won’t get away.”

34

ZURICH

EVA HAD INSISTED on the expensive flat overlooking the Zürichsee, despite the fact that it was beyond the reach of Gerhardt Peterson’s government salary. For the first ten years of their marriage, they’d made up the shortfall by dipping into her inheritance. Now that money was gone, and it had fallen upon Gerhardt to keep her in the style to which she felt entitled.

The flat was dark when he finally arrived home. As Peterson stepped through the doorway, Eva’s amiable Rottweiler charged him in the pitch dark and drove his rocklike head into Peterson’s kneecap.

“Down, Schultzie! That’s enough, boy. Down! Damn you, Schultzie!”

He fumbled along the wall and switched on the light. The dog was licking his suede shoe.

“All right, Schultzie. Go away, please. That’s quite enough.”

The dog trotted off, claws clicking on the marble.

Peterson limped into the bedroom, rubbing his knee. Eva was sitting up in bed with a hardcover novel open on her lap. An American police drama played silently on the television. She wore a chiffon-colored dressing gown. Her hair was freshly coiffed, and there was a gold bracelet on her left wrist that Peterson didn’t recognize. The money Eva spent on the surface of the Bahnhofstrasse rivaled the funds buried beneath it.

“What’s wrong with your knee?”

“Your dog attacked me.”

“He didn’t attack you. He adores you.”

“He’s too affectionate.”

“He’s a man, like you. He wants your approval. If you’d just give him a little attention now and again, he wouldn’t be so exuberant when you come home.”

“Is that what his therapist told you?”

“It’s common sense, darling.”

“I never wanted the damned dog. He’s too big for this flat.”

“He makes me feel safe when you’re away.”

“This place is like a fortress. No one can get in here. And the only person Schultzie ever attacks is me.”

Eva licked the tip of her forefinger and turned the page of her novel, ending the discussion. On the television, the American detectives were breaking down the door of a flat in a poor tenement. As they burst into the room, a pair of suspects opened fire with automatic weapons. The policemen fired back, killing the suspects. Such violence, thought Peterson. He rarely carried a gun and had never fired one in the line of duty.

“How was Bern?”

Peterson had lied to her to cover up his visit to see Otto Gessler. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes.

“ Bern was Bern.”

“That’s nice.”

“What are you reading?”

“I don’t know. A story about a man and a woman.”

He wondered why she bothered. “How are the girls?”

“They’re fine.”

“And Stefan?”

“He made me promise that you would come into his room and kiss him good night.”

“I don’t want to wake him.”

“You won’t wake him. Just go in and kiss his head.”

“If I don’t wake him, what difference will it make? In the morning, I’ll tell him that I kissed him while he was asleep, and he’ll be none the wiser.”

Eva closed her book and looked at him for the first time since he had entered the room. “You look terrible, Gerhardt. You must be famished. Go make yourself something to eat.”

He padded into the kitchen. Go make yourself something to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time Eva had offered to fix him a meal. He had expected that once the sexual intimacy was gone between them, other things would rise in its place, like the pleasure of sharing a home-cooked meal. But not with Eva. First she’d chained the door to her body; then to her affections. Peterson was an island in his own home.

He opened the refrigerator and picked through a desert of half-empty takeaway containers for something that hadn’t spoiled or grown a beard of mold. In one grease-spotted carton, he struck gold: a little mound of noodle and bacon raclette. On the bottom shelf, hidden behind a container of green ricotta cheese, lay two eggs. He scrambled them and heated the raclette in the microwave. Then he poured himself a very large glass of red wine and walked back into the bedroom. Eva was buffing her toenails.