by Daniel Silva
The pool house appeared before them, long and low, ornate globe lamps glowing through the rising mist. There were guards inside; Gabriel could just make them out through the fogged windows. One of them appeared to be leading a tiny robed figure.
And then Gabriel felt a searing pain in his right kidney. His back arched, his face tilted upward, and for an instant he saw the stiletto tips of the pine trees stretching toward the heavens, and in his agony the heavens were a van Gogh riot of color and motion and light. Then the second blow fell, this one at the back of his head. The heavens turned to black, and he collapsed, facedown, in the snow.
44
NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND
GABRIEL OPENED ONE EYE, then, slowly, the other. He might as well have kept them closed, because the darkness was perfect.Absolute black, he thought.Theoretical black.
It was bitterly cold, the floor rough concrete, the air heavy with sulphur and damp. His hands were cuffed behind him with his palms pointed out, so that the muscles of his shoulders burned with lactic acid. He tried to imagine the contorted position of his body and limbs: right cheek and right shoulder pressed against the concrete; left shoulder in the air; pelvis twisted; legs knotted. He thought of art school—the way the teachers used to twist the limbs of the models to expose muscle and sinew and form. Perhaps he was just a model for some Swiss Expressionist painting.Man in a Torture Chamber —artist unknown.
He closed his eyes and tried to right himself, but the slightest contraction of his back muscles set his right kidney on fire. Grunting, he fought through the pain, and managed to set himself upright. He leaned his head against the wall and winced. The second blow had left a knot the size of an egg at the back of his head.
He dragged his fingertips over the wall: bare rock; granite, he supposed. Wet and slick with moss. A cave? A grotto of some sort? Or just another vault? The Swiss and their damned vaults. He wondered if they would leave him here forever, like a gold bar or a Burgundian armchair.
The silence, like the darkness, was complete. Nothing from above or below. No voices, no barking dogs, no wind or weather; just a silence which sang in his ear like a tuning fork.
He wondered how Peterson had done it. How had he signaled the guard that Gabriel was an intruder? A code word at the gate? A missing password? And what of Oded and Eli Lavon? Were they still sitting in the front seat of the Volkswagen van, or were they in the same position as Gabriel—or worse? He thought of Lavon’s warning in the garden of the villa in Italy:People like Otto Gessler always win.
Somewhere the seal of a tightly closed door was broken, and Gabriel could hear the footsteps of several people. A pair of flashlights burst on, and the beams played about until they found his face. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to turn his head from the light, but the twisting of his neck caused his head wound to pound.
“Put him on his feet.”
Peterson’s voice: firm, authoritative, Peterson in his element.
Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms and pulled. The pain was intense—Gabriel feared his shoulder joints were about to pop out of their sockets. Peterson drew back his fist and buried it in Gabriel’s abdomen. His knees buckled, and he doubled over. Then Peterson’s knee rose into his face. The guards released him, and he collapsed into the same contorted position in which he’d awakened.
Man in a Torture Chamberby Otto Gessler.
THEYworked as a team, one to hold him, the other to hit him. They worked efficiently and steadily but without joy and without enthusiasm. They had been given a job—to leave every muscle in his body bruised and every spot on his face bleeding—and they carried out their assignment in a thoroughly professional and bureaucratic manner. Every few minutes they would leave to smoke. Gabriel knew this because he could smell the fresh tobacco on them when they came back. He tried to hate them, these blue-coated warriors for the Bank of Gessler, but could not. It was Peterson whom he hated.
After an hour or so Peterson returned.
“Where are the paintings you took from Rolfe’s safe-deposit box in Zurich?”
“What paintings?”
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
“Who?”
“Hit him some more. See if that helps his memory.”
And on it went, for how long Gabriel did not know. He didn’t know whether it was night or day—whether he had been here an hour or a week. He kept time by the rhythm of their punches and the clocklike regularity of Peterson’s appearances.
“Where are the paintings you took from Rolfe’s safe-deposit box in Zurich?”
“What paintings?”
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
“Who?”
“All right, see if he can handle a little more. Don’t kill him.”
Another beating. It seemed shorter in duration, though Gabriel could not be sure, because he was in and out of consciousness.
“Where are the paintings?”
“What . . . paintings?”
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
“Who?”
“Keep going.”
Another knifelike blow to his right kidney. Another iron fist to his face. Another boot to his groin.
“Where are the paintings?”
Silence . . .
“Where is Anna Rolfe?”
Silence . . .
“He’s done for now. Let him lie there.”
HEsearched the rooms of his memory for a quiet place to rest. Behind too many doors he discovered blood and fire and could find no peace. He held his son, he made love to his wife. The room where he found her nude body was their bedroom in Vienna, and the encounter he relived was their last. He wandered through paintings he had restored—through oil and pigment and deserts of bare canvas—until he arrived on a terrace, a terrace above a sea of gold leaf and apricot, bathed in the sienna light of sunset and the liquid music of a violin.
TWOguards came in. Gabriel assumed it was time for another beating. Instead, they carefully unlocked the handcuffs and spent the next ten minutes cleaning and bandaging his wounds. They worked with the tenderness of morticians dressing a dead man. Through swollen eyes, Gabriel watched the water in the basin turn pink, then crimson, with his blood.
“Swallow these pills.”
“Cyanide?”
“For the pain. You’ll feel a little better. Trust us.”
Gabriel did as he was told, swallowing the tablets with some difficulty. They allowed him to sit for a few minutes. Before long the throbbing in his head and limbs began to subside. He knew it was not gone—only a short postponement.
“Ready to get on your feet?”
“That depends on where you’re taking me.”
“Come on, let us help you.”
They each grasped him gingerly by an arm and lifted.
“Can you stand up? Can you walk?”
He put his right foot forward, but the deep contusions in his thigh muscles made his leg collapse. They managed to catch him before he could hit the floor again and for some reason found great humor in this.
“Take it slowly. Little steps for a little man.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. It won’t hurt, though. We promise.”
They led him through the door. Outside, a corridor stretched before him like a tunnel, long and white, with a marble floor and an arched ceiling. The air smelled of chlorine. They must have been close to Gessler’s swimming pool.
They started walking. For the first few yards Gabriel needed every bit of their support, but gradually, as the drugs circulated through his body and he became used to being vertical, he was able to move at a laborious shuffle without aid—a patient taking a first postoperative stroll through a hospital ward.
At the end of the corridor was a double door, and beyond the doorway a circular room, about twenty feet across, with a high-domed ceiling. Standing in the center of the room was a small, elderly man dressed in a white robe, his face concealed by a pair of very large sunglasses. He held out a
spindly, purple-veined hand as Gabriel approached. Gabriel left it hovering there.
“Hello, Mr. Allon. I’m so glad we could finally meet. I’m Otto Gessler. Come with me, please. There are a few things that I think you might enjoy seeing.”
Behind him, another double doorway opened, slowly and silently, as though on well-oiled automatic hinges. As Gabriel started forward, Gessler reached out and laid his bony hand on Gabriel’s forearm.
It was then that Gabriel realized Otto Gessler was blind.
45
NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND
BEFORE THEM LAYa cavernous statuary hall with an arched ceiling reminiscent of the Musée d’Orsay. The light streaming through the overhead glass was man-made. On each side of the hall were a dozen passageways leading to rooms hung with countless paintings. There were no labels, but Gabriel’s trained eye discerned that each had its own mission: fifteenth-century Italian; seventeenth-century Dutch and Flemish; nineteenth-century French. And on it went, gallery after gallery, a private museum filled with Europe’s lost masters. The effect was overwhelming, though obviously not to Gessler—Gessler could see none of it.
“I’m sorry about the treatment you had to endure at the hands of my men, but I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame. You were very foolish to come here.”
He had a reedy voice, dry and thin as parchment. The hand on Gabriel’s forearm was weightless, like a breath of warm air.
“Now I know why you were so anxious to silence Augustus Rolfe. How many do you have?”
“To be honest, even I don’t know anymore.”
They passed the door to another room: fifteenth-century Spanish. A blue-coated security man paced lazily back and forth, like a museum guard.
“And you can’t see any of it?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why keep them?”
“I think of myself rather like an impotent man. Just because I am unable to lie with my wife does not mean that I am willing to give her body to others.”
“So you’re married?”
“An admirable attempt, Mr. Allon, but in Switzerland the right to privacy is very sacred. You might say that I’ve taken it somewhat to the extreme, but it’s how I’ve chosen to live my life.”
“Have you always been blind?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I came to offer you a proposition for ending this affair, but I can see now that you would never agree to it. You are the Hermann Göring of the twenty-first century. Your greed knows no bounds.”
“Yes, but unlike Herr Göring, whom I knew well, I am not guilty of looting.”
“What would you call this?”
“I’m a collector. It’s a very special collection, a very private one, but a collection nonetheless.”
“I’m not the only one who knows about this. Anna Rolfe knows, and so does my service. You can kill me, but eventually, someone is going to find out what you have buried up here.”
Gessler laughed, a dry, humorless laugh.
“Mr. Allon, no one is ever going to find out what’s in this room. We Swiss take our privacy rights very seriously. No one will ever be able to open these doors without my consent. But just to make certain of that fact, I’ve taken an additional step. Using a little-known loophole in Swiss law, I declared this entire property a private bank. These rooms are part of that bank—vaults, if you will. The property contained in them is therefore covered by the banking secrecy laws of Switzerland, and under no circumstance can I ever be forced to open them or reveal their contents.”
“And this pleases you?”
“Indeed,” he said without reservation. “Even if I was forced to open these rooms, I could be prosecuted for no wrongdoing. You see, each of these objects was acquired legally under Swiss law, and morally under the laws of God and nature. Even if someone could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that a work in my collection had been stolen from their ancestor by the Germans, they would have to reimburse me at fair market value. Obviously, the cost of repatriation would be astonishing. You and your friends in Tel Aviv can screech as much as you like, but I will never be forced to open the steel doors that lead to these rooms.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Gessler.”
“Ah, now you resort to curses and foul language. You blame the Swiss for this situation, but we are not to blame. The Germans started the war. We had the good sense to stay on the sidelines, and for this you wish to punish us.”
“You didn’t sit on the sidelines. You collaborated with Adolf Hitler! You gave him guns and you gave him money. You were his servants. You’re all just servants.”
“Yes, we did reap a financial reward for our neutrality, but why do you raise this now? After the war, we settled with the Allies and all was forgiven, because the West needed our money to help rebuild Europe. Then came the Cold War, and the West needed us again. Now, the Cold War is over, and everyone from both sides of the Iron Curtain is beating down the Swiss door with their cap in hand. Everyone wants an apology. Everyone wants money. But someday, you’re going to need us again. It’s always been that way. The German princes and the French kings, the Arab sheiks and the American tax evaders, the drug lords and the arms merchants. My God, even your intelligence agency utilizes our services when it needs them. You yourself have been a frequent client of Credit Suisse over the years. So please, Mr. Allon—please climb down off your moral high horse for a moment and be reasonable.”
“You’re a thief, Gessler. A common criminal.”
“Athief? No, Mr. Allon, I’ve stolen nothing. I’ve acquired, through smart business tactics, a magnificent private collection of art along with staggering personal wealth. But I am not a thief. And what about you and your people? You bleat about the supposed crimes of the Swiss, but you founded your state on land stolen from others. Paintings, furniture, jewelry—these are just objects, which are easily replaced. Land, however, is an entirely different matter. Land is forever. No, Mr. Allon, I’m not a thief. I’m a winner, just like you and your people.”
“Go to hell, Gessler.”
“I am a Calvinist, Mr. Allon. We Calvinists believe that wealth on earth is granted to those who will be admitted to the Kingdom of Heaven. If the wealth in these rooms is any clue, I will be going in the opposite direction of Hell. The nature of your next life, I’m afraid, is somewhat less certain. You can make your remaining time on earth less unpleasant if you answer one simple question. Where are the paintings you removed from Augustus Rolfe’s safe-deposit box?”
“What paintings?”
“Those paintings belong to me. I can produce a document that declares Rolfe turned them over to me shortly before his death. I am the rightful owner of those paintings, and I want them back.”
“May I see the document, please?”
“Where are those paintings!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gessler released Gabriel’s arm. “Someone take him, please.”
46
NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND
THE DRUGS WORE OFF, as Gabriel knew they would, and the pain returned stronger than before, as if it had used the respite to gather itself for a final assault. Every nerve in his body seemed to be transmitting charges of pain simultaneously. It overwhelmed his brain and he began to shiver—a violent, uncontrollable shiver that made his body hurt even more. He needed to be sick but prayed he wouldn’t. He knew the contraction of vomiting would inflict a new round of exquisite suffering.
Once again he searched for a safe place for his thoughts to alight, but now the memory of Otto Gessler and his collection kept intruding. Gessler in his robe and sunglasses; room after room filled with pillaged Nazi art. He wondered whether it had really been true or just a side effect of the drugs they had made him take.No, he thought.It is true. It was all there, gathered in one place, just beyond his reach. Just beyond the world’s reach.
The door opened and his body tensed. Who was it? Gessler’s henchmen come
to kill him? Gessler himself, come to show him another room filled with lost masters? But as his chamber filled with light, he realized it was neither Gessler or his thugs.
It was Gerhardt Peterson.
“CANyou stand up?”
“No.”
Peterson crouched before him. He lit a cigarette, took a long time looking at Gabriel’s face. He seemed saddened by what he saw there.
“It’s important that you try to stand up.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re coming to kill you soon.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“Darkness.”
“Why do they need darkness?”
“They’re going to take your body up to the glacier field and drop it down a crevasse.”
“That’s comforting. I thought they’d just stuff me into a strongbox and deposit me in one of Gessler’s numbered accounts.”
“They considered that.” A mirthless chuckle. “I told you not to come here. You can’t beat him, I told you. You should’ve listened to me.”
“You’re always right, Gerhardt. You were right about everything.”
“No, not everything.”
He reached into his coat pocket and produced Gabriel’s Beretta. He placed it in the palm of his hand and held it toward Gabriel like an offertory.
“What’s that for?”
“Take it.” He wagged the gun a little. “Go on, take it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to need it. Without it you have absolutely no chance of getting out of this place alive. With it, given your condition, I rate your chances at only one in three. Worth a try, though, don’t you agree? Take the gun, Gabriel.”
The gun was warm from Peterson’s hand. The walnut grip, the trigger, the barrel—it was the first comforting object he had touched since he’d come to this place.
“I’m sorry you were beaten. It wasn’t my choice. Sometimes, an agent in place must do regrettable things to prove hisbona fides to the people he’s deceiving.”
