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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 180 из 209A visitor to Rolfe’s bank-a man from an international Jewish agency who is active in the question of the dormant Holocaust accounts.”
The casualness with which Peterson made this reference set Gabriel’s teeth on edge.
“Then we intercept a series of faxes. It seems that Rolfe is making arrangements to hire an art restorer. I ask myself a simple question: Why is a dying man wasting time restoring his paintings? It’s been my experience that the dying usually leave details like that to their survivors.”
“You suspect Rolfe is planning to hand over the paintings?”
“Or worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“A public confession of his dealings with high-ranking Nazis and officers of German intelligence. Can you imagine the spectacle such an admission would create? It would sweep the country like a storm. It would make the controversy of the dormant accounts look like a mild dustup.”
“Is that all the Council was afraid of?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
But Gabriel was listening not to Gerhardt Peterson but to Augustus Rolfe: Once, I considered these men my friends-another of my many mistakes.
“They were afraid that Augustus Rolfe was going to reveal the existence of the Council. He knew about the Council, because he was a member, wasn’t he?”
“Rolfe? He wasn’t just a member of the Council. He was a charter member.”
“So you went to see him?”
“I tell him that I’ve heard things-nothing specific, mind you, very subtle. Rolfe is old, but he still has an agile mind, and he knows exactly what I’m trying to tell him. He’s a Swiss banker, for Christ’s sake. He knows how to have two conversations at the same time. When I leave, I’m convinced the Council has big problems.”
“So what do you do?”
“Resort to Plan B.”
“And that is?”
“Steal the fucking paintings. No paintings, no story.”
PETERSON refused to continue without a cigarette, and reluctantly Gabriel agreed. Once more he beat his palm against the wall, and once more Oded jutted his head through the open door. He gave Peterson a cigarette from his own pack. When he struck the hammer of his lighter, Peterson flinched so violently he nearly fell from his chair. Oded laughed helplessly all the way to the door. Peterson drew at the cigarette gingerly, as though he feared it might explode, and every few seconds Gabriel lifted his arm to bat away the smoke.
“Tell me about Werner Müller,” Gabriel said.
“He was the key to everything. If we were going to get at Rolfe’s secret collection, we needed Müller’s help.
The casualness with which Peterson made this reference set Gabriel’s teeth on edge.
“Then we intercept a series of faxes. It seems that Rolfe is making arrangements to hire an art restorer. I ask myself a simple question: Why is a dying man wasting time restoring his paintings? It’s been my experience that the dying usually leave details like that to their survivors.”
“You suspect Rolfe is planning to hand over the paintings?”
“Or worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“A public confession of his dealings with high-ranking Nazis and officers of German intelligence. Can you imagine the spectacle such an admission would create? It would sweep the country like a storm. It would make the controversy of the dormant accounts look like a mild dustup.”
“Is that all the Council was afraid of?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
But Gabriel was listening not to Gerhardt Peterson but to Augustus Rolfe: Once, I considered these men my friends-another of my many mistakes.
“They were afraid that Augustus Rolfe was going to reveal the existence of the Council. He knew about the Council, because he was a member, wasn’t he?”
“Rolfe? He wasn’t just a member of the Council. He was a charter member.”
“So you went to see him?”
“I tell him that I’ve heard things-nothing specific, mind you, very subtle. Rolfe is old, but he still has an agile mind, and he knows exactly what I’m trying to tell him. He’s a Swiss banker, for Christ’s sake. He knows how to have two conversations at the same time. When I leave, I’m convinced the Council has big problems.”
“So what do you do?”
“Resort to Plan B.”
“And that is?”
“Steal the fucking paintings. No paintings, no story.”
PETERSON refused to continue without a cigarette, and reluctantly Gabriel agreed. Once more he beat his palm against the wall, and once more Oded jutted his head through the open door. He gave Peterson a cigarette from his own pack. When he struck the hammer of his lighter, Peterson flinched so violently he nearly fell from his chair. Oded laughed helplessly all the way to the door. Peterson drew at the cigarette gingerly, as though he feared it might explode, and every few seconds Gabriel lifted his arm to bat away the smoke.
“Tell me about Werner Müller,” Gabriel said.
“He was the key to everything. If we were going to get at Rolfe’s secret collection, we needed Müller’s help.