JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 92 из 209”
“Why would he do that?”
“Would you like my theory?”
“Sure.”
“Because he knew that the money deposited by a few Jews was nothing compared to the riches that awaited him if he cooperated with Nazi Germany.”
“Is there evidence to suggest that he did?”
“Indeed,” Jacobi said, his eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s a fact that Augustus Rolfe made frequent trips to Nazi Germany throughout the war.”
“Who did he see there?”
“It’s not known, but his travels raised enough eyebrows that Rolfe came under investigation after the war.”
“What came of it?”
“Absolutely nothing. Rolfe melted back into the world of Zurich banking, never to be heard from again-until a week ago, of course, when someone walked into his villa on the Zürichberg and put a bullet in his head.”
Jacobi closed the file and looked at Gabriel.
“Would you care to pick up the story, Mr. Allon?”
WHEN Gabriel was finished, Professor Jacobi spent a long time polishing his spectacles on the fat end of his tie. Then he shoved them back onto his forehead and poured himself another cup of coffee. “It sounds as though you’ve run up against the great conspiracy of silence.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When you’re dealing with Switzerland, Mr. Allon, it’s best to keep one thing in mind. Switzerland is not a real country. It’s a business, and it’s run like a business. It’s a business that is constantly in a defensive posture. It’s been that way for seven hundred years.”
“What does that have to do with Rolfe’s murder?”
“There are people in Switzerland who stand to lose a great deal if the sins of the past are exposed and the sewers of the Bahnhofstrasse are given the thorough flushing they so desperately need. These people are an invisible government, and are not to be taken lightly, which is why I live here instead of Lausanne. If you choose to pursue this matter, I suggest you watch your back.”
Ten minutes later Gabriel was walking down the stairs with his copy of The Myth tucked beneath his arm. He paused in the foyer for a moment to open the cover and read the words the professor had scrawled on the title page.
Beware the gnomes of Zurich -Emil Jacobi.
THAT image of Gabriel was captured by the man with a long-range digital camera standing in the window of the apartment house on the opposite side of the street. One hour earlier he had also snapped a photograph of Gabriel’s arrival. The pictures were not necessary, just a professional touch.
“Why would he do that?”
“Would you like my theory?”
“Sure.”
“Because he knew that the money deposited by a few Jews was nothing compared to the riches that awaited him if he cooperated with Nazi Germany.”
“Is there evidence to suggest that he did?”
“Indeed,” Jacobi said, his eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s a fact that Augustus Rolfe made frequent trips to Nazi Germany throughout the war.”
“Who did he see there?”
“It’s not known, but his travels raised enough eyebrows that Rolfe came under investigation after the war.”
“What came of it?”
“Absolutely nothing. Rolfe melted back into the world of Zurich banking, never to be heard from again-until a week ago, of course, when someone walked into his villa on the Zürichberg and put a bullet in his head.”
Jacobi closed the file and looked at Gabriel.
“Would you care to pick up the story, Mr. Allon?”
WHEN Gabriel was finished, Professor Jacobi spent a long time polishing his spectacles on the fat end of his tie. Then he shoved them back onto his forehead and poured himself another cup of coffee. “It sounds as though you’ve run up against the great conspiracy of silence.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When you’re dealing with Switzerland, Mr. Allon, it’s best to keep one thing in mind. Switzerland is not a real country. It’s a business, and it’s run like a business. It’s a business that is constantly in a defensive posture. It’s been that way for seven hundred years.”
“What does that have to do with Rolfe’s murder?”
“There are people in Switzerland who stand to lose a great deal if the sins of the past are exposed and the sewers of the Bahnhofstrasse are given the thorough flushing they so desperately need. These people are an invisible government, and are not to be taken lightly, which is why I live here instead of Lausanne. If you choose to pursue this matter, I suggest you watch your back.”
Ten minutes later Gabriel was walking down the stairs with his copy of The Myth tucked beneath his arm. He paused in the foyer for a moment to open the cover and read the words the professor had scrawled on the title page.
Beware the gnomes of Zurich -Emil Jacobi.
THAT image of Gabriel was captured by the man with a long-range digital camera standing in the window of the apartment house on the opposite side of the street. One hour earlier he had also snapped a photograph of Gabriel’s arrival. The pictures were not necessary, just a professional touch.