Daniel Silva - The English Assassin

He watched as Gabriel crossed the drive and disappeared into the villa. Our Lady was upstairs in her room, practicing. Surely the restorer did not intend to interrupt her. For a moment Carlos considered running up the terrace to intervene, but then he thought better of it. The restorer needed to learn a lesson, and some lessons are best learned the hard way.

So he laid down his pruning shears and found the flask of bagaço in his pocket. Then he crouched amid his vines and lit a cigarette, watching the sun diving toward the sea, waiting for the show to begin.

THE sound of her violin filled the villa as Gabriel climbed the stairs to her room. He entered without knocking. She played a few more notes, then stopped suddenly. Without turning around she shouted: “God damn you, Rami! How many fucking times have I told you-”

And then she turned and saw him. Her mouth fell open, and for an instant she released her grip on the Guarneri. Gabriel lunged forward and snatched it out of the air before it could hit the floor. Anna seized him in her arms.

“I never thought I’d see you again, Gabriel. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been assigned to your security detail.”

“Thank God! Rami and I are going to kill each other.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How many people on the new team?”

“I thought I’d leave that decision in your hands.”

“I think one man would be enough, if that’s all right with you.”

“That would be fine,” he said. “That would be perfect.”

OTTO GESSLER PROPELLED himself through silken water, gliding forward in perpetual darkness. He had swum well that day, two lengths more than usual-one hundred and fifty meters in all, quite an accomplishment for a man of his age. Blindness required him to carefully count each stroke, so that he did not crash headlong into the side of the pool. Not long ago he could devour each length with twenty-two powerful strokes. Now it required forty.

He was nearing the end of the last length: thirty-seven… thirty-eight… thirty-nine… He stretched out his hand, expecting the glasslike smoothness of Italian marble. Instead, something seized his arm and lifted him out of the water. He hung there for a moment, helplessly, like a fish on a line, his abdomen exposed, his rib cage splayed.

And then the knife plunged into his heart. He felt a searing pain. Then, for the briefest instant, he could see. It was a flash of brilliant white light, somewhere in the distance. Then the hand released him, and back into his silken water he fell. Back into the perpetual darkness.

During the Occupation of France, the forces of Nazi Germany seized hundreds of thousands of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and other objets d’art. Tens of thousands of pieces remain unaccounted for to this day. In 1996, the Swiss federal assembly created the so-called Independent Commission of Experts and ordered it to investigate the actions of Switzerland during the Second World War. In its final report, released in August 2001, the commission acknowledged that Switzerland was a “trade center” for looted art, and that substantial numbers of paintings had entered the country during the war. How many of those works remain hidden in the vaults of Switzerland ’s banks and in the homes of its citizens no one knows.

This is the second novel featuring the character Gabriel Allon and, like its predecessor, it could not have been written without the help and support of David Bull. Unlike the fictitious Gabriel, David Bull truly is one of the world’s greatest art restorers, and I am privileged to call him a friend. His knowledge of the restoration process, the history of Nazi art-looting, and the pleasures of Venice were both invaluable and inspirational.

I am indebted to Sadie deWall, the assistant principal violist of the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, who introduced me to Tartini’s wondrous sonata and helped me better understand the soul of a truly gifted musician. She answered all my questions, no matter how silly, and gave generously of her time.

Dr. Benjamin Shaffer, one of Washington ’s top orthopedists, described for me the intricate problem of treating crush injuries to the hand. A special thanks to the Swiss officials who helped demystify the country’s police and security services and who, for obvious reasons, cannot be named. Thanks also to the officers of the Central Intelligence Agency who offered me guidance. It goes without saying that the expertise is theirs, the mistakes and dramatic license all mine.

Of the dozens of nonfiction works I consulted while writing this book, several proved invaluable, including Lynn Nicholas’s seminal work on Nazi art-looting, The Rape of Europa; Hector Feliciano’s The Lost Museum; and The Lost Masters by Peter Harclerode and Brendan Pittaway. Nicholas Faith’s telling history of Swiss banking, Safety in Numbers, was a valuable resource. Jean Ziegler’s courageous work, The Swiss, the Gold, and the Dead, inspired me.

The staffs of the Dolder Grand Hotel in Zurich and the Luna Hotel Baglioni in Venice made our research trips seem more like pleasure and less like work. My dear friend Louis Toscano twice read my manuscript, and it was made better by his sure hand. Greg Craig gave me the shirt off his back, literally. The friendship and support of my literary agent, Esther Newberg of International Creative Management, never meant more to me than during the writing of this book.

All writers should be so lucky as to have editors like Neil Nyren and Stacy Creamer. They gave me brilliant notes and strong shoulders to lean on. Indeed, sometimes it seemed they understood the characters and the story better than I did. A very heartfelt thanks to Stuart Calderwood, whose meticulous copyediting saved me much embarrassment.

Finally, I wish to express my profound gratitude to Phyllis Grann. There is, quite simply, none better.