JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
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“What will happen to you?”
“I’ll tell them that I came to see you one last time to try to convince you to tell me where the paintings were hidden. I’ll tell them that you overpowered me and escaped.”
“Will they believe you?”
“They might, or then again they may drop me into that crevasse that they’d reserved for you.”
“Come with me.”
“My wife, my children.” Then he added: “My country.”
“Why are you doing this? Why not let them kill me and be done with it?”
And then Peterson told him the story of what had happened in his village during the war-the story of the Jews who had crossed into Switzerland from France in search of refuge only to be expelled across the border into the arms of the Gestapo.
“After my father’s death, I was going through some of the papers in his study, trying to put his affairs in order. I found a letter. It was from the federal police. A commendation. Do you know what the commendation was for? It was my father who had reported the presence of the Jews in our village. It was because of my father that they were sent back to the Germans and murdered. I don’t want any more Jewish blood on the hands of this family. I want you to leave this place alive.”
“When the storm hits, it might be unpleasant for you.”
“Storms have a way of punching themselves out against the mountain ranges of this country. They say that up on the Jungfrau the wind blows two hundred miles per hour. But the storms never seem to have much strength left when they reach Bern and Zurich. Here, let me help you up.”
Peterson pulled him to his feet.
“One in three?”
“If you’re lucky.”
Gabriel stood just inside the door. Peterson beat his fist on it twice. A moment later the bolts slid away, the door opened, and the guard entered the room. Gabriel stepped in front of him and, using every last bit of strength he could summon, rammed the barrel of the Beretta through the guard’s left temple.
PETERSON felt the neck for a pulse. “Very impressive, Gabriel. Take his coat.”
“It has blood on it.”
“Do as I say. It will make them hesitate before shooting you, and you’ll need it for protection against the cold. Take his submachine gun too-just in case you need something more powerful than your Beretta.”
Peterson helped Gabriel remove the dead man’s jacket. He wiped the excess blood onto the floor and pulled it on. He hung the machine gun over his shoulder. The Beretta he kept in his right hand.
“Now me,” said Peterson.
“What will happen to you?”
“I’ll tell them that I came to see you one last time to try to convince you to tell me where the paintings were hidden. I’ll tell them that you overpowered me and escaped.”
“Will they believe you?”
“They might, or then again they may drop me into that crevasse that they’d reserved for you.”
“Come with me.”
“My wife, my children.” Then he added: “My country.”
“Why are you doing this? Why not let them kill me and be done with it?”
And then Peterson told him the story of what had happened in his village during the war-the story of the Jews who had crossed into Switzerland from France in search of refuge only to be expelled across the border into the arms of the Gestapo.
“After my father’s death, I was going through some of the papers in his study, trying to put his affairs in order. I found a letter. It was from the federal police. A commendation. Do you know what the commendation was for? It was my father who had reported the presence of the Jews in our village. It was because of my father that they were sent back to the Germans and murdered. I don’t want any more Jewish blood on the hands of this family. I want you to leave this place alive.”
“When the storm hits, it might be unpleasant for you.”
“Storms have a way of punching themselves out against the mountain ranges of this country. They say that up on the Jungfrau the wind blows two hundred miles per hour. But the storms never seem to have much strength left when they reach Bern and Zurich. Here, let me help you up.”
Peterson pulled him to his feet.
“One in three?”
“If you’re lucky.”
Gabriel stood just inside the door. Peterson beat his fist on it twice. A moment later the bolts slid away, the door opened, and the guard entered the room. Gabriel stepped in front of him and, using every last bit of strength he could summon, rammed the barrel of the Beretta through the guard’s left temple.
PETERSON felt the neck for a pulse. “Very impressive, Gabriel. Take his coat.”
“It has blood on it.”
“Do as I say. It will make them hesitate before shooting you, and you’ll need it for protection against the cold. Take his submachine gun too-just in case you need something more powerful than your Beretta.”
Peterson helped Gabriel remove the dead man’s jacket. He wiped the excess blood onto the floor and pulled it on. He hung the machine gun over his shoulder. The Beretta he kept in his right hand.
“Now me,” said Peterson.