JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 177 из 209Only hisright hand betrayed his emotions. It was squeezing his cigarette lighter. Though he lived in Vienna, the sound of German shouted in anger still made the back of his neck burn.
The fissures had appeared, but Peterson had not yet cracked. Lavon could tell he was close. The drugs, the water, the pictures with the girl. The fear of what waited around the next bend in the road. It was building in him. Eli Lavon hoped it happened soon.
He had never seen Gabriel like this. Never seen him angry. Never heard him raise his voice. Something about the affair had torn open all the old wounds. Leah. Tariq. Shamron. Even his parents. Gabriel was a man on a very short fuse.
Let it go, Herr Peterson, thought Lavon. Tell him everything he wants to know. Do exactly what he says. Because if you don’t, I fear my good friend Gabriel is going to take you into the mountains and start shooting. And that’s not going to be good for anybody. Not you. And especially not Gabriel. Lavon didn’t care about Peterson. It was Gabriel he loved. He didn’t want more blood on the hands of Gabriel Allon.
So no one was more relieved than Lavon when the shouting finally stopped. Then came the thumping-Gabriel pounding on the wall with one of his wounded hands. Still seated on the floor, Lavon reached up and opened the door a few inches. Gabriel spoke to him in Hebrew. The language had never sounded so sweet to Lavon, though he was quite sure it had the opposite effect on Gerhardt Peterson. “Bring him some clothes, Eli. And some food. Herr Peterson is cold and hungry. Herr Peterson would like to tell us a few things.”
THE blue track suit was a fashion tragedy, intentionally so. The top was too large, the legs of the trousers too short. Gerhardt Peterson looked like a man in the clutches of a midlife crisis who digs out a pair of ancient togs for a life-threatening jog in the park. The food was not much better: a lump of coarse bread, a bowl of clear soup. Oded brought a pitcher of ice water. He made a point of spilling a few drops on Peterson’s hand, a reminder of what lay ahead if Peterson didn’t start talking. Gabriel ate nothing. He had no intention of sharing a meal with Gerhardt Peterson. The Swiss ate steadily but slowly, as though he wished to postpone the inevitable. Gabriel let him take his time. Peterson finished the soup and polished the bowl with the heel of his bread.
“Where are we, by the way?”
“ Tibet.”
“This is my first trip to Tibet.” Peterson managed a wounded smile. When Gabriel refused to play along, the smile quickly faded. “I’d like a cigarette.
The fissures had appeared, but Peterson had not yet cracked. Lavon could tell he was close. The drugs, the water, the pictures with the girl. The fear of what waited around the next bend in the road. It was building in him. Eli Lavon hoped it happened soon.
He had never seen Gabriel like this. Never seen him angry. Never heard him raise his voice. Something about the affair had torn open all the old wounds. Leah. Tariq. Shamron. Even his parents. Gabriel was a man on a very short fuse.
Let it go, Herr Peterson, thought Lavon. Tell him everything he wants to know. Do exactly what he says. Because if you don’t, I fear my good friend Gabriel is going to take you into the mountains and start shooting. And that’s not going to be good for anybody. Not you. And especially not Gabriel. Lavon didn’t care about Peterson. It was Gabriel he loved. He didn’t want more blood on the hands of Gabriel Allon.
So no one was more relieved than Lavon when the shouting finally stopped. Then came the thumping-Gabriel pounding on the wall with one of his wounded hands. Still seated on the floor, Lavon reached up and opened the door a few inches. Gabriel spoke to him in Hebrew. The language had never sounded so sweet to Lavon, though he was quite sure it had the opposite effect on Gerhardt Peterson. “Bring him some clothes, Eli. And some food. Herr Peterson is cold and hungry. Herr Peterson would like to tell us a few things.”
THE blue track suit was a fashion tragedy, intentionally so. The top was too large, the legs of the trousers too short. Gerhardt Peterson looked like a man in the clutches of a midlife crisis who digs out a pair of ancient togs for a life-threatening jog in the park. The food was not much better: a lump of coarse bread, a bowl of clear soup. Oded brought a pitcher of ice water. He made a point of spilling a few drops on Peterson’s hand, a reminder of what lay ahead if Peterson didn’t start talking. Gabriel ate nothing. He had no intention of sharing a meal with Gerhardt Peterson. The Swiss ate steadily but slowly, as though he wished to postpone the inevitable. Gabriel let him take his time. Peterson finished the soup and polished the bowl with the heel of his bread.
“Where are we, by the way?”
“ Tibet.”
“This is my first trip to Tibet.” Peterson managed a wounded smile. When Gabriel refused to play along, the smile quickly faded. “I’d like a cigarette.