Daniel Silva - The English Assassin

ALSO BY DANIEL SILVA

The Kill Artist

The Marching Season

The Mark of the Assassin

The Unlikely Spy

To Phyllis Grann, finally,
and as always, for my wife, Jamie,
and my children, Lily and Nicholas.

gnome 1(nm)n.Folklore any of a race of small, misshapen, dwarflike beings, supposed to dwell in the earth and guard its treasures

W EBSTER S N EW W ORLD D ICTIONARY

Suppressing the past is a tradition in Switzerland.

J EAN Z IEGLER

T HE S WISS , T HE G OLD , AND THE D EAD

M ARGUERITE R OLFE was digging in her garden because of the secrets shed found hidden in her husbands study. It was late to be working in the garden, well past midnight by now. The spring thaw had left the earth soft and moist, and her spade split the soil with little effort, allowing her to progress with minimal noise. For this she was grateful. Her husband and daughter were asleep in the villa, and she didnt want to wake them.

Why couldnt it have been something simple, like love letters from another woman? There would have been a good row, Marguerite would have confessed her own affair. Lovers would have been relinquished, and soon their home would return to normal. But she hadnt found love lettersshed found something much worse.

For a moment she blamed herself. If she hadnt been searching his study, she never would have found the photographs. She could have spent the rest of her life in blissful oblivion, believing her husband was the man he appeared to be. But now she knew. Her husband was a monster, his lifea liea complete and meticulously maintained lie. Therefore she too was a lie.

Marguerite Rolfe concentrated on her work, making slow and steady progress. After an hour it was done. A good hole, she decided: about six feet in length and two feet across. Six inches below the surface she had encountered a dense layer of clay. As a result it was a bit shallower than she would have preferred. It didnt matter. She knew it wasnt permanent.

She picked up the gun. It was her husbands favorite weapon, a beautiful shotgun, handcrafted for him by a master gunsmith in Milan. He would never be able to use it again. This pleased her. She thought of Anna.Please dont wake up, Anna. Sleep, my love.

Then she stepped into the ditch, lay down on her back, placed the end of the barrel in her mouth, pulled the trigger.

THE girl was awakened by music. She did not recognize the piece and wondered how it had found its way into her head. It lingered a moment, a descending series of notes, a serene diminishment. She reached out, eyes still closed, and searched the folds of the bedding until her palm found the body which lay a few inches away. Her fingers slipped over the narrow waist, up the slender, elegant neck, toward the graceful curved features of the scroll. Last night they had quarreled. Now it was time to set aside their differences and make peace.

She eased from the bed, pulled on a dressing gown. Five hours of practice stretched before her. Thirteen years old, a sun-drenched June morning, and this was how she would spend her dayand every other day that summer.

Stretching the muscles of her neck, she gazed out the window at the flowering garden. It was a melee of spring color. Beyond the garden rose the steep slope of the valley wall. High above it all loomed the snowcapped mountain peaks,glittering in the bright summer sun. She pressed her violin to her neck and prepared to play the first tude.

Then she noticed something in the garden: a mound of dirt, a long shallow hole. From her vantage point in the window she could see a swath of white fabric stretched across the bottom and pale hands wrapped around the barrel of a gun.

Mama! she screamed, and the violin crashed to the floor.

SHE threw open the door to her fathers study without knocking. She had expected to find him at his desk, hunched over his ledgers, but instead he was perched on the edge of a high-backed wing chair, next to the fireplace. A tiny, elfin figure, he wore his habitual blue blazer and striped tie. He was not alone. The second man wore sunglasses in spite of the masculine gloom of the study.

What on earth do you think youre doing? snapped her father. How many times have I asked you to respect my closed door? Cant you see Im in the middle of an important discussion?

But Papa

And put on some proper clothing! Ten oclock in the morning and youre still wearing only a housecoat.

Papa, I must

It can wait until Ive finished.

No, it cant, Papa!

She screamed this so loudly the man in sunglasses flinched.

I apologize, Otto, but Im afraid my daughters manners have suffered from spending too many hours alone with her instrument. Will you excuse me? I wont be but a moment.

ANNA Rolfes father handled important documents with care, and the note he removed from the grave was noexception. When he finished reading it, he looked up sharply, his gaze flickering from side to side, as if he feared someone was reading over his shoulder. This Anna saw from her bedroom window.

As he turned and started back toward the villa, he glanced up at the window and his eyes met Annas. He paused, holding her gaze for a moment. It was not a gaze of sympathy. Or remorse. It was a gaze of suspicion.

She turned from the window. The Stradivarius lay where she had dropped it. She picked it up. Downstairs she heard her father calmly telling his guest of his wifes suicide. She lifted the violin to her neck, laid the bow upon the strings, closed her eyes. G minor. Various patterns of ascent and descent. Arpeggios. Broken thirds.

HOW can she play at a time like this?

Im afraid she knows little else.

Late afternoon. The two men alone in the study again. The police had completed their initial investigation, and the body had been removed. The note lay on the drop-leaf table between them.

A doctor could give her a sedative.

She doesnt want a doctor. Im afraid she has her mothers temper and her mothers stubborn nature.

Did the police ask whether there was a note?

I see no need to involve the police in the personal matters of this family, especially when it concerns the suicide of my wife.

And your daughter?

What about my daughter?

She was watching you from the window.

My daughter is my business. Ill deal with her as I see fit.

I certainly hope so. But do me one small favor.

Whats that, Otto?

His pale hand patted the top of the table until it came to rest on the note.

Burn this damned thing, along with everything else. Make sure no one else stumbles on any unpleasant reminders of the past. This is Switzerland. There is no past.

LONDON
ZURICH

T HE SOMETIMES - SOLVENT firm of Isherwood Fine Arts had once occupied a piece of fine commercial property on stylish New Bond Street in Mayfair. Then came Londons retail renaissance, and New Bond Streetor New Bondstrasse, as it was derisively known in the tradewas overrun by the likes of Tiffany and Gucci and Versace and Mikimoto. Julian Isherwood and other dealers specializing in museum-quality Old Masters were driven into St. Jamesian exilethe Bond Street Diaspora, as Isherwood was fond of calling it. He eventually settled in a sagging Victorian warehouse in a quiet quadrangle known as Masons Yard, next to the London offices of a minor Greek shipping company and a pub that catered to pretty office girls who rode motor scooters.