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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 192 из 209They must have been close to Gessler’s swimming pool.
They started walking. For the first few yards Gabriel needed every bit of their support, but gradually, as the drugs circulated through his body and he became used to being vertical, he was able to move at a laborious shuffle without aid-a patient taking a first postoperative stroll through a hospital ward.
At the end of the corridor was a double door, and beyond the doorway a circular room, about twenty feet across, with a high-domed ceiling. Standing in the center of the room was a small, elderly man dressed in a white robe, his face concealed by a pair of very large sunglasses. He held out a spindly, purple-veined hand as Gabriel approached. Gabriel left it hovering there.
“Hello, Mr. Allon. I’m so glad we could finally meet. I’m Otto Gessler. Come with me, please. There are a few things that I think you might enjoy seeing.”
Behind him, another double doorway opened, slowly and silently, as though on well-oiled automatic hinges. As Gabriel started forward, Gessler reached out and laid his bony hand on Gabriel’s forearm.
It was then that Gabriel realized Otto Gessler was blind.
45
NIDWALDEN , SWITZERLAND
BEFORE THEM LAY a cavernous statuary hall with an arched ceiling reminiscent of the Musée d’Orsay. The light streaming through the overhead glass was man-made. On each side of the hall were a dozen passageways leading to rooms hung with countless paintings. There were no labels, but Gabriel’s trained eye discerned that each had its own mission: fifteenth-century Italian; seventeenth-century Dutch and Flemish; nineteenth-century French. And on it went, gallery after gallery, a private museum filled with Europe ’s lost masters. The effect was overwhelming, though obviously not to Gessler-Gessler could see none of it.
“I’m sorry about the treatment you had to endure at the hands of my men, but I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame. You were very foolish to come here.”
He had a reedy voice, dry and thin as parchment. The hand on Gabriel’s forearm was weightless, like a breath of warm air.
“Now I know why you were so anxious to silence Augustus Rolfe. How many do you have?”
“To be honest, even I don’t know anymore.”
They passed the door to another room: fifteenth-century Spanish. A blue-coated security man paced lazily back and forth, like a museum guard.
“And you can’t see any of it?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.
They started walking. For the first few yards Gabriel needed every bit of their support, but gradually, as the drugs circulated through his body and he became used to being vertical, he was able to move at a laborious shuffle without aid-a patient taking a first postoperative stroll through a hospital ward.
At the end of the corridor was a double door, and beyond the doorway a circular room, about twenty feet across, with a high-domed ceiling. Standing in the center of the room was a small, elderly man dressed in a white robe, his face concealed by a pair of very large sunglasses. He held out a spindly, purple-veined hand as Gabriel approached. Gabriel left it hovering there.
“Hello, Mr. Allon. I’m so glad we could finally meet. I’m Otto Gessler. Come with me, please. There are a few things that I think you might enjoy seeing.”
Behind him, another double doorway opened, slowly and silently, as though on well-oiled automatic hinges. As Gabriel started forward, Gessler reached out and laid his bony hand on Gabriel’s forearm.
It was then that Gabriel realized Otto Gessler was blind.
45
NIDWALDEN , SWITZERLAND
BEFORE THEM LAY a cavernous statuary hall with an arched ceiling reminiscent of the Musée d’Orsay. The light streaming through the overhead glass was man-made. On each side of the hall were a dozen passageways leading to rooms hung with countless paintings. There were no labels, but Gabriel’s trained eye discerned that each had its own mission: fifteenth-century Italian; seventeenth-century Dutch and Flemish; nineteenth-century French. And on it went, gallery after gallery, a private museum filled with Europe ’s lost masters. The effect was overwhelming, though obviously not to Gessler-Gessler could see none of it.
“I’m sorry about the treatment you had to endure at the hands of my men, but I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame. You were very foolish to come here.”
He had a reedy voice, dry and thin as parchment. The hand on Gabriel’s forearm was weightless, like a breath of warm air.
“Now I know why you were so anxious to silence Augustus Rolfe. How many do you have?”
“To be honest, even I don’t know anymore.”
They passed the door to another room: fifteenth-century Spanish. A blue-coated security man paced lazily back and forth, like a museum guard.
“And you can’t see any of it?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.