JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 64 из 209”
“Meaning?”
“The bank vaults and cellars of Switzerland are filled with history’s booty, including art. It’s possible those paintings didn’t even belong to Rolfe. We can assume one thing: Whoever took them did it for a specific reason. They left behind a Raphael worth several million dollars.”
“Can they be recovered?”
“I suppose it’s possible. It depends on whether they’ve been sold yet.”
“Can works like those be sold quickly on the black market?”
“Not without raising quite a racket. But then again, it might have been a commissioned theft.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone paid someone else to pull off the job.”
“Was the murder of Rolfe included in the fee?”
“Good question.”
Shamron seemed suddenly tired. He sat on the edge of a fountain. “I don’t travel as well as I used to,” he said. “Tell me about Anna Rolfe.”
“If we had a choice, we’d never be involved with her. She’s unpredictable, volatile, and she smokes more than you do. But she plays the violin like no one else I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re good with people like that. Restore her.” Shamron began to cough, a violent cough that shook his entire body. After a moment he said, “Does she have any idea why her father made contact with us?”
“She says she doesn’t. They weren’t exactly close.”
This seemed to cause Shamron a moment of physical pain. His own daughter had moved to New Zealand. He telephoned her once a month, but she never returned his calls. His greatest fear was that she would not come home for his funeral or say kaddish for him. He took a long time lighting his next cigarette. “Do you have anything to go on?”
“One lead, yes.”
“Worth pursuing?”
“I think so.”
“What do you need?”
“The resources to mount a surveillance operation.”
“Where?”
“In Paris.”
“And the subject?”
14
ROME
THE MINIATURE supercardioid microphone held by the man dressed as a priest was no longer than an average fountain pen. Manufactured by an electronics firm in the Swiss industrial city of Zug, it allowed him to monitor the conversation conducted by the two men slowly circling the Piazza Navona. A second man sitting in the café on the opposite side of the square was armed with an identical piece of equipment. The man dressed as a priest was confident that between them they had recorded most of what was being said.
“Meaning?”
“The bank vaults and cellars of Switzerland are filled with history’s booty, including art. It’s possible those paintings didn’t even belong to Rolfe. We can assume one thing: Whoever took them did it for a specific reason. They left behind a Raphael worth several million dollars.”
“Can they be recovered?”
“I suppose it’s possible. It depends on whether they’ve been sold yet.”
“Can works like those be sold quickly on the black market?”
“Not without raising quite a racket. But then again, it might have been a commissioned theft.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone paid someone else to pull off the job.”
“Was the murder of Rolfe included in the fee?”
“Good question.”
Shamron seemed suddenly tired. He sat on the edge of a fountain. “I don’t travel as well as I used to,” he said. “Tell me about Anna Rolfe.”
“If we had a choice, we’d never be involved with her. She’s unpredictable, volatile, and she smokes more than you do. But she plays the violin like no one else I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re good with people like that. Restore her.” Shamron began to cough, a violent cough that shook his entire body. After a moment he said, “Does she have any idea why her father made contact with us?”
“She says she doesn’t. They weren’t exactly close.”
This seemed to cause Shamron a moment of physical pain. His own daughter had moved to New Zealand. He telephoned her once a month, but she never returned his calls. His greatest fear was that she would not come home for his funeral or say kaddish for him. He took a long time lighting his next cigarette. “Do you have anything to go on?”
“One lead, yes.”
“Worth pursuing?”
“I think so.”
“What do you need?”
“The resources to mount a surveillance operation.”
“Where?”
“In Paris.”
“And the subject?”
14
ROME
THE MINIATURE supercardioid microphone held by the man dressed as a priest was no longer than an average fountain pen. Manufactured by an electronics firm in the Swiss industrial city of Zug, it allowed him to monitor the conversation conducted by the two men slowly circling the Piazza Navona. A second man sitting in the café on the opposite side of the square was armed with an identical piece of equipment. The man dressed as a priest was confident that between them they had recorded most of what was being said.