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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 174 из 209If you don’t”-he shrugged his shoulder and stuck out his lower lip-“then it’s back down here, and this time my friend will use more than a little bit of water.”
“I’m cold.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I know you’re sorry. If you apologize to the big man and tell him everything you know, then he’ll get you something to drink and some warm clothes.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Who do you want to talk to?”
“I want to talk to the big man.”
“Should we go upstairs and find him?”
“I’m sorry. I want to talk to the big man.”
“Let’s go, Gerhardt. Come, take my hand. Let me help you.”
42
MALLES VENOSTA, ITALY
GABRIEL WORE NEATLY PRESSED khaki trousers and a soft beige sweater that fit him smartly through the waist and shoulders. Everything about his appearance said comfort and satisfaction, the precise image he wished to convey. Eli Lavon shepherded Peterson into the room and pushed him into a hard, straight-backed chair. Peterson sat like a man before a firing squad, his gaze fixed on the wall.
Lavon showed himself out. Gabriel remained seated, eyes down. He was never one to celebrate victories. He knew better than most that in the business of intelligence, victories are often transitory. Occasionally, with time, they didn’t seem like victories at all. Still, he took a moment to relish the fine circular quality of the affair. Not long ago, Gabriel had been the one in custody and Peterson had been asking the questions-Peterson of the fitted gray suit and polished Swiss arrogance. Now he sat before Gabriel shivering in his underwear.
A white Formica table separated them, bare except for a manila file folder and Gabriel’s mug of steaming coffee. Like Peterson’s cell in the basement, the room had terra-cotta floors and stucco walls. The blinds were drawn. Windblown rain beat a meddlesome rhythm against the glass. Gabriel regarded Peterson with an expression of distaste and fell into a speculative silence.
“You won’t get away with this.”
It was Peterson who broke the silence. He had spoken in English but Gabriel immediately switched to German; the carefully pronounced and grammatically correct High German of his mother. He wished to point out the laxity of Peterson’s Schwyzerdütch. To emphasize Peterson’s Swissness. To isolate him.
“Get away with what, Gerhardt?”
“Kidnapping me, you fucking bastard!”
“But we already did get away with it.”
“There were security cameras in the garage of my apartment house. That trick with your whore was recorded on videotape.
“I’m cold.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I know you’re sorry. If you apologize to the big man and tell him everything you know, then he’ll get you something to drink and some warm clothes.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Who do you want to talk to?”
“I want to talk to the big man.”
“Should we go upstairs and find him?”
“I’m sorry. I want to talk to the big man.”
“Let’s go, Gerhardt. Come, take my hand. Let me help you.”
42
MALLES VENOSTA, ITALY
GABRIEL WORE NEATLY PRESSED khaki trousers and a soft beige sweater that fit him smartly through the waist and shoulders. Everything about his appearance said comfort and satisfaction, the precise image he wished to convey. Eli Lavon shepherded Peterson into the room and pushed him into a hard, straight-backed chair. Peterson sat like a man before a firing squad, his gaze fixed on the wall.
Lavon showed himself out. Gabriel remained seated, eyes down. He was never one to celebrate victories. He knew better than most that in the business of intelligence, victories are often transitory. Occasionally, with time, they didn’t seem like victories at all. Still, he took a moment to relish the fine circular quality of the affair. Not long ago, Gabriel had been the one in custody and Peterson had been asking the questions-Peterson of the fitted gray suit and polished Swiss arrogance. Now he sat before Gabriel shivering in his underwear.
A white Formica table separated them, bare except for a manila file folder and Gabriel’s mug of steaming coffee. Like Peterson’s cell in the basement, the room had terra-cotta floors and stucco walls. The blinds were drawn. Windblown rain beat a meddlesome rhythm against the glass. Gabriel regarded Peterson with an expression of distaste and fell into a speculative silence.
“You won’t get away with this.”
It was Peterson who broke the silence. He had spoken in English but Gabriel immediately switched to German; the carefully pronounced and grammatically correct High German of his mother. He wished to point out the laxity of Peterson’s Schwyzerdütch. To emphasize Peterson’s Swissness. To isolate him.
“Get away with what, Gerhardt?”
“Kidnapping me, you fucking bastard!”
“But we already did get away with it.”
“There were security cameras in the garage of my apartment house. That trick with your whore was recorded on videotape.