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“Does your friend in New York have an answer to that question?”
“No, but you do.”
“What are you talking about, Eli?”
“The photographs and the bank documents you found in his desk. His relationship with Walter Schellenberg. The Rolfe family collected for generations. Rolfe was well co
“And Walter Schellenberg needed some way to compensate his private banker in Zurich.”
“Indeed,” Lavon said. “Payment for services rendered.”
Gabriel sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“What next, Gabriel?”
“It’s time to have a conversation I’ve been dreading.”
WHEN Gabriel went back upstairs to the room, A
When she was fully conscious, he pulled a chair to the end of the bed and sat down. He left the lights off; he had no wish to see her face. She sat upright, her legs crossed, her shoulders wrapped in bedding. She was staring at him-even in the darkness, Gabriel could see her eyes locked on him.
He told her about the origins of her father’s secret collection. He told her the things he had learned from Emil Jacobi and that the professor had been killed the previous night in his apartment in Lyons. Finally, he told her about the documents he had found in her father’s desk-the documents linking him to Hitler’s spymaster, Walter Schellenberg.
When he was finished, he laid the photographs on the bed and went into the bathroom to give her a moment of privacy. He heard the click of the bedside lamp and saw light seeping beneath the bathroom door. He ran water in the sink and counted slowly in his head. When an appropriate amount of time had passed, he went back into the bedroom. He found her coiled into a ball, her body silently convulsing, her hand clutching the photograph of her father, admiring the view at Berchtesgaden with Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler.
Gabriel pulled it from her grasp before she could destroy it. Then he placed his hand on her head and stroked her hair. A
Finally, she looked up at Gabriel. “If my mother ever saw thatpicture -” She hesitated, her mouth open, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She would have-”
But Gabriel pressed the palm of his hand against her lips before she could utter the words. He didn’t want her to say the rest. There was no need. If her mother had seen that picture, she would have killed herself, he thought. She would have dug her own grave, put a gun into her mouth, and killed herself.
THIS time it was A
“It looks like a list of numbered accounts.”
“Whose numbered accounts?”
“The names are German. We can only guess at who they really are.”
She studied the list carefully, brow furrowed.
“My mother was born on Christmas Day, 1933. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Your mother’s birth date has never come up between us, A
She handed him the list. “Look at the last name on the list.”
Gabriel took it from her. His eyes settled on the final name and number: Alois Ritter 251233126.
He looked up. “So?”
“Isn’t it interesting that a man with the same initials as my father has an account number in which the first six digits match my mother’s birthday?”
Gabriel looked at the list again: Alois Ritter… AR… 251233… Christmas Day, 1933…
He lowered the paper and looked at A
“I’m afraid they don’t.”
Gabriel looked at the numbers and closed his eyes. 126… Somewhere, at some point, he was certain he had seen them in co
Then, after a moment, the place where he had seen the number 126.
ANNA carried a picture of her brother always. It was the last photo ever taken of him-leading a stage of the Tour of Switzerland the afternoon of his death. Gabriel had seen the same photograph in the desk of Augustus Rolfe. He looked at the number attached to the frame of the bicycle and the back of his jersey: 126.
A
“We have to do something about your passport. And your appearance.”
“What’s wrong with my passport?”
“It has your name in it.”
“And my appearance?”
“Absolutely nothing. That’s the problem.”
He picked up the telephone and dialed.
THE girl called Ha
One hour later, A
“Do you approve?” Ha
“Take the picture.”
The Israeli girl snapped a half-dozen photographs of A
Ha
She snatched up the picture without waiting for Gabriel’s approval and returned to the bathroom. A
Twenty minutes later, Ha
29
HALFWAY BETWEEN the Hauptbahnhof and Zürichsee is the epicenter of Swiss banking, the Paradeplatz. The twin headquarters of Credit Suisse and the Union Bank of Switzerland glare at each other like prizefighters over the broad expanse of gray brick. They are the two giants of Swiss banking and among the most powerful in the world. In their shadow, up and down the length of the Bahnhofstrasse, are other big banks and influential financial institutions, their locations clearly marked by bright signs and polished glass doors. But scattered in the quiet side streets and alleys between the Bahnhofstrasse and Sihl River are the banks few people notice. They are the private chapels of Swiss banking, places where men can worship or confess their sins in absolute secrecy. Swiss law forbids these banks from soliciting for deposits. They are free to call themselves banks if they wish, but they are not required to do so. Difficult to locate, easy to miss, they are tucked inside modern office blocks or in the rooms of centuries-old town houses. Some employ several dozen workers; some only a handful. They are private banks in every sense of the word. This is where, the following morning, Gabriel and A