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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 190 из 209How 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 Chamber by Otto Gessler.
THEY worked 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.
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 Chamber by Otto Gessler.
THEY worked 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.