Daniel Silva - The English Assassin

“Let’s not get carried away. Oded and Mordecai did well in Paris. I want them too.”

“I see something of myself in Oded.” Shamron held up his stubby bricklayer’s hands. “He has a very powerful grip. If he gets hold of this man, he won’t get away.”

EVA HAD INSISTED on the expensive flat overlooking the Zürichsee, despite the fact that it was beyond the reach of Gerhardt Peterson’s government salary. For the first ten years of their marriage, they’d made up the shortfall by dipping into her inheritance. Now that money was gone, and it had fallen upon Gerhardt to keep her in the style to which she felt entitled.

The flat was dark when he finally arrived home. As Peterson stepped through the doorway, Eva’s amiable Rottweiler charged him in the pitch dark and drove his rocklike head into Peterson’s kneecap.

“Down, Schultzie! That’s enough, boy. Down! Damn you, Schultzie!”

He fumbled along the wall and switched on the light. The dog was licking his suede shoe.

“All right, Schultzie. Go away, please. That’s quite enough.”

The dog trotted off, claws clicking on the marble.

Peterson limped into the bedroom, rubbing his knee. Eva was sitting up in bed with a hardcover novel open on her lap. An American police drama played silently on the television. She wore a chiffon-colored dressing gown. Her hair was freshly coiffed, and there was a gold bracelet on her left wrist that Peterson didn’t recognize. The money Eva spent on the surface of the Bahnhofstrasse rivaled the funds buried beneath it.

“What’s wrong with your knee?”

“Your dog attacked me.”

“He didn’t attack you. He adores you.”

“He’s too affectionate.”

“He’s a man, like you. He wants your approval. If you’d just give him a little attention now and again, he wouldn’t be so exuberant when you come home.”

“Is that what his therapist told you?”

“It’s common sense, darling.”

“I never wanted the damned dog. He’s too big for this flat.”

“He makes me feel safe when you’re away.”

“This place is like a fortress. No one can get in here. And the only person Schultzie ever attacks is me.”

Eva licked the tip of her forefinger and turned the page of her novel, ending the discussion. On the television, the American detectives were breaking down the door of a flat in a poor tenement. As they burst into the room, a pair of suspects opened fire with automatic weapons. The policemen fired back, killing the suspects. Such violence, thought Peterson. He rarely carried a gun and had never fired one in the line of duty.

“How was Bern?”

Peterson had lied to her to cover up his visit to see Otto Gessler. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes.

“ Bern was Bern.”

“That’s nice.”

“What are you reading?”

“I don’t know. A story about a man and a woman.”

He wondered why she bothered. “How are the girls?”

“They’re fine.”

“And Stefan?”

“He made me promise that you would come into his room and kiss him good night.”

“I don’t want to wake him.”

“You won’t wake him. Just go in and kiss his head.”

“If I don’t wake him, what difference will it make? In the morning, I’ll tell him that I kissed him while he was asleep, and he’ll be none the wiser.”

Eva closed her book and looked at him for the first time since he had entered the room. “You look terrible, Gerhardt. You must be famished. Go make yourself something to eat.”

He padded into the kitchen. Go make yourself something to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time Eva had offered to fix him a meal. He had expected that once the sexual intimacy was gone between them, other things would rise in its place, like the pleasure of sharing a home-cooked meal. But not with Eva. First she’d chained the door to her body; then to her affections. Peterson was an island in his own home.

He opened the refrigerator and picked through a desert of half-empty takeaway containers for something that hadn’t spoiled or grown a beard of mold. In one grease-spotted carton, he struck gold: a little mound of noodle and bacon raclette. On the bottom shelf, hidden behind a container of green ricotta cheese, lay two eggs. He scrambled them and heated the raclette in the microwave. Then he poured himself a very large glass of red wine and walked back into the bedroom. Eva was buffing her toenails.

He divided his food carefully, so that with each bite of egg he would have an accompanying scoop of raclette. Eva found this habit annoying, which partially explained why he did it. On the television there was more mayhem. Friends of the slain criminals had now avenged their comrades’ death by killing the police detectives. More evidence of Herr Gessler’s theory of life’s circular quality.

“Stefan has a soccer match tomorrow.” She blew on her toes. “He’d like you to come.”

“I can’t. Something’s come up at the office.”

“He’s going to be disappointed.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

“What’s so important at the office that you can’t go see your son’s soccer game? Besides, nothing important ever happens in this country.”

I have to arrange the murder of Anna Rolfe, he thought. He wondered how she would react if he said it aloud. He considered saying it, just to test her-to see whether she ever listened to a word he said.

Eva finished her toes and returned to her novel. Peterson placed his empty plate and cutlery on the night table and switched off the light. A moment later, Schultzie smashed head-first through the door and began lapping the bits of egg and grease from Eva’s precious hand-painted china. Peterson closed his eyes. Eva licked the tip of her index finger and turned another page.

“How was Bern?” she asked.

NEWS OF THE ENGLISHMAN’S dark mood spread rapidly round the little valley. On market day he moved through the village square in silence, joylessly selecting his olives and his cheeses. Evenings he sat with the old ones, but he avoided conversation and refused to be baited into a game of boule, even when his honor was called into question. So preoccupied was the Englishman that he seemed not to notice the boys on their skateboards.

His driving was dramatically worse. He was seen tearing along the valley road in his battered jeep at unprecedented speeds. Once, he was forced to swerve to avoid the wretched goat of Don Casabianca and ended up in a ditch at the side of the road. At that point Anton Orsati intervened. He told the Englishman about an infamous feud that had taken place between two rival clans over the accidental death of a hunting dog. Four people died before peace was finally made-two at the hands of Orsati taddunaghiu. It had happened a hundred years ago, but Orsati stressed that the lessons were still relevant today. His skilled use of Corsican history worked to perfection, as he knew it would. The next morning, the Englishman presented Casabianca with a large ham and apologized for frightening his goat. After that his driving was noticeably slower.

Still, something was clearly wrong. A few of the men from the square were so concerned that they paid a visit to the signadora. “He hasn’t been here in some time. But when he does come, you can be sure I won’t reveal his secrets to you jackasses. This house is like a confessional. Go, now!” And she chased them away with the business end of a stick broom.

Only Don Orsati knew the source of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl-a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo -but the Englishman refused.