The English Assassin

“So why did we travel separately to Zurich? Why did we go to so much trouble at the airport in Stuttgart to avoid being seen together?”

“It was a precautionary measure. The Swiss police made it clear to me I’m no longer welcome.”

“Why would they take a step like that?”

“Because they were a little miffed that I’d fled the scene of a crime.”

“Why did you flee my father’s house?”

“I’ve told you that already.”

“You fled my father’s house because you’re a spy, and you were afraid of going to the police. I was watching you at the airport. You’re very good.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“Then what are you? And don’t tell me you’re just an art restorer who’s doing a favor for someone in some obscure agency called the Office, because I don’t believe you. And if you don’t tell me the truth right now, you might as well turn around and drive back to Stuttgart, because I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing.”

She tossed her cigarette out the window and waited for his answer. The legendary temper of A

IT was after midnight when they arrived in Zurich. An air of abandonment hung over the city center: the Bahnhofstrasse dark and still, pavements deserted, ice falling through the lights. They crossed the river; Gabriel drove carefully up the slick roads of the Zürichberg. The last thing he wanted was to get stopped for a traffic violation.

They parked on the street outside the villa. A

The foyer was in darkness. A

The deep silence of the house was emphasized by the clatter of A

Finally, they came to a flight of stairs. This time A

They passed through another doorway and followed a dark corridor. It ended at a door, which A

The lift came to a stop. A

A

A LARGE space, about fifty feet by thirty, polished wood floor, cream-colored walls. In the center were two ornate swivel chairs. A

“What is this?”

“My father had two collections. One that he allowed the world to see and one that used to hang here. It was for private viewing only.”

“What kind of paintings were they?”

“Nineteenth- and twentieth-century French-Impressionist, mainly.”

“Do you have a list of them?”

She nodded.

“Who else knew about this?”

“My mother and my brother, of course, but they’re both dead.”

“That’s all?”

“No, there was Werner Müller.”

“Who’s Werner Müller?”

“He’s an art dealer and my father’s chief adviser. He oversaw the design and construction of this place.”

“Is he Swiss?”

She nodded. “He has two galleries. One in Lucerne and the other in Paris near the rue de Rivoli. He spends most of his time there. Seen enough?”

“For now.”

“There’s something else I want to show you.”

Back up the elevator, another walk through the darkened villa to a windowless chamber of winking electronics and video monitors. Gabriel could see the villa from every angle: the street, the entrance, the gardens front and back.

“In addition to the security cameras, every inch of the property is covered by motion detectors,” A

“So what happened on the night of the murder?”

“The system failed inexplicably.”

“How convenient.”

She sat down in front of a computer terminal. “There’s a separate system for the room downstairs. It’s activated when the outer door opens. The time of entry is automatically logged, and inside the room two digital cameras begin recording still images every three seconds.”

She typed in a few characters on the keyboard, moved the mouse, clicked. “This is when we entered the room, twelve forty-nine a.m., and here we are inside.”

Gabriel leaned over her shoulder and peered into the computer monitor. A grainy color image of their visit appeared on the screen and then dissolved, only to be replaced by another. A

“This is the master list of visits to that room for the past three months. As you can see, my father spent a great deal of time with the collection. He came down at least once a day, sometimes twice.” She touched the screen with her forefinger. “Here’s his last visit, shortly after midnight, the morning he was murdered. The security system shows no other entries after that.”

“Did the police give you an estimate of when they thought he was killed?”

“They said around three A.M.”

“So it stands to reason that the same people who killed your father also took the paintings and that it probably happened around three o’clock in the morning, six hours before I arrived at the villa.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Gabriel pointed to the last entry on the screen. “Let me see that one.”

A MOMENT later, the images flickered onto the monitor. The camera angles did not reveal all the paintings, but Gabriel could see enough to realize that it was a remarkable collection. Manet, Bo