The English Assassin

high horse for a moment and be reasonable.”
    “You’re a thief, Gessler. A common criminal.”
    “A thief? No, Mr. Allon, I’ve stolen nothing. I’ve acquired, through smart business tactics, a magnificent private collection of art along with staggering personal wealth. But I am not a thief. And what about you and your people? You bleat about the supposed crimes of the Swiss, but you founded your state on land stolen from others. Paintings, furniture, jewelry—these are just objects, which are easily replaced. Land, however, is an entirely different matter. Land is forever. No, Mr. Allon, I’m not a thief. I’m a winner, just like you and your people.”
    “Go to hell, Gessler.”
    “I am a Calvinist, Mr. Allon. We Calvinists believe that wealth on earth is granted to those who will be admitted to the Kingdom of Heaven. If the wealth in these rooms is any clue, I will be going in the opposite direction of Hell. The nature of your next life, I’m afraid, is somewhat less certain. You can make your remaining time on earth less unpleasant if you answer one simple question. Where are the paintings you removed from Augustus Rolfe’s safe-deposit box?”
    “What paintings?”
    “Those paintings belong to me. I can produce a document that declares Rolfe turned them over to me shortly before his death. I am the rightful owner of those paintings, and I want them back.”
    “May I see the document, please?”
    “Where are those paintings!”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Gessler released Gabriel’s arm. “Someone take him, please.”

46
    NIDWALDEN, SWITZERLAND
     
    T HE DRUGS WORE OFF, as Gabriel knew they would, and the pain returned stronger than before, as if it had used the respite to gather itself for a final assault. Every nerve in his body seemed to be transmitting charges of pain simultaneously. It overwhelmed his brain and he began to shiver—a violent, uncontrollable shiver that made his body hurt even more. He needed to be sick but prayed he wouldn’t. He knew the contraction of vomiting would inflict a new round of exquisite suffering.
    Once again he searched for a safe place for his thoughts to alight, but now the memory of Otto Gessler and his collection kept intruding. Gessler in his robe and sunglasses; room after room filled with pillaged Nazi art. He wondered whether it had really been true or just a side effect of the drugs they had made him take. No, he thought. It is true. It was all there, gathered in one place, just beyond his reach. Just beyond the world’s reach.

    The door opened and his body tensed. Who was it? Gessler’s henchmen come to kill him? Gessler himself, come to show him another room filled with lost masters? But as his chamber filled with light, he realized it was neither Gessler or his thugs.
    It was Gerhardt Peterson.
     
    “CANyou stand up?”
    “No.”
    Peterson crouched before him. He lit a cigarette, took a long time looking at Gabriel’s face. He seemed saddened by what he saw there.
    “It’s important that you try to stand up.”
    “Why?”
    “Because they’re coming to kill you soon.”
    “What are they waiting for?”
    “Darkness.”
    “Why do they need darkness?”
    “They’re going to take your body up to the glacier field and drop it down a crevasse.”
    “That’s comforting. I thought they’d just stuff me into a strongbox and deposit me in one of Gessler’s numbered accounts.”
    “They considered that.” A mirthless chuckle. “I told you not to come here. You can’t beat him, I told you. You should’ve listened to me.”
    “You’re always right, Gerhardt. You were right about everything.”
    “No, not everything.”
    He reached into his coat pocket and produced Gabriel’s Beretta. He placed it in the palm of his hand and held it toward Gabriel like an offertory.
    “What’s that for?”
    “Take it.” He wagged the gun a little. “Go on, take it.”

    “Why?”
    “Because you’re going to need it. Without it you have absolutely no chance of getting out of this place alive. With it, given your condition, I rate your chances at only one in three. Worth a try, though, don’t you agree? Take the gun, Gabriel.”
    The gun was warm from Peterson’s hand. The walnut grip, the trigger, the barrel—it was the first comforting object he had touched since he’d come to this place.
    “I’m sorry you were beaten. It wasn’t my choice. Sometimes, an agent in place must do regrettable things to prove