Gabriel paused in order to lift the cover on the file folder and remove a half-dozen more photographs: surveillance shots of Peterson’s wife and children. Deliberately he placed them next to the pictures of Peterson and the girl.

“Who will take care of your wife? Who will take care of your children? Who will pay the rent on that nice flat of yours on the Zürichsee? Who will make the payments on that big Mercedes? It’s not a very pleasant picture, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t like murderers, Gerhardt, especially when they kill for a bank, but I’m offering you a way out. I suggest that you take it before it’s too late.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You’re going to work for me now.”

“That’s impossible!”

“You’re going to help me get Rolfe’s paintings back.” Gabriel hesitated, waiting for Peterson to deny knowledge of any paintings, but this time he said nothing. “We’ll handle it quietly, the Swiss way. Then you’re going to help me get back other things. You’re going to help me clean up the mess of Swiss history. Together, Gerhardt, we can move mountains.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You can go back downstairs with my friend and think about it for a while. Then we’ll talk again.”

“Take those damned pictures away!”

“Give me an answer and I’ll take them away.”

“What you don’t understand is that either way I’ll be destroyed. It’s just a question of which poison I choose to drink.” Peterson’s chin fell to his chest, his eyes closed. “I’m thirsty.”

“Answer my questions, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

IN the corridor outside the room, Eli Lavon sat on the cold floor, his back to the wall, his eyes closed. Only his right hand betrayed his emotions. It was squeezing his cigarette lighter. Though he lived in Vienna, the sound of German shouted in anger still made the back of his neck burn.

The fissures had appeared, but Peterson had not yet cracked. Lavon could tell he was close. The drugs, the water, the pictures with the girl. The fear of what waited around the next bend in the road. It was building in him. Eli Lavon hoped it happened soon.

He had never seen Gabriel like this. Never seen him angry. Never heard him raise his voice. Something about the affair had torn open all the old wounds. Leah. Tariq. Shamron. Even his parents. Gabriel was a man on a very short fuse.

Let it go, Herr Peterson, thought Lavon. Tell him everything he wants to know. Do exactly what he says. Because if you don’t, I fear my good friend Gabriel is going to take you into the mountains and start shooting. And that’s not going to be good for anybody. Not you. And especially not Gabriel. Lavon didn’t care about Peterson. It was Gabriel he loved. He didn’t want more blood on the hands of Gabriel Allon.

So no one was more relieved than Lavon when the shouting finally stopped. Then came the thumping-Gabriel pounding on the wall with one of his wounded hands. Still seated on the floor, Lavon reached up and opened the door a few inches. Gabriel spoke to him in Hebrew. The language had never sounded so sweet to Lavon, though he was quite sure it had the opposite effect on Gerhardt Peterson. “Bring him some clothes, Eli. And some food. Herr Peterson is cold and hungry. Herr Peterson would like to tell us a few things.”

THE blue track suit was a fashion tragedy, intentionally so. The top was too large, the legs of the trousers too short. Gerhardt Peterson looked like a man in the clutches of a midlife crisis who digs out a pair of ancient togs for a life-threatening jog in the park. The food was not much better: a lump of coarse bread, a bowl of clear soup. Oded brought a pitcher of ice water. He made a point of spilling a few drops on Peterson’s hand, a reminder of what lay ahead if Peterson didn’t start talking. Gabriel ate nothing. He had no intention of sharing a meal with Gerhardt Peterson. The Swiss ate steadily but slowly, as though he wished to postpone the inevitable. Gabriel let him take his time. Peterson finished the soup and polished the bowl with the heel of his bread.

“Where are we, by the way?”

“ Tibet.”

“This is my first trip to Tibet.” Peterson managed a wounded smile. When Gabriel refused to play along, the smile quickly faded. “I’d like a cigarette.”

“You can’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like smoke.”

Peterson pushed away his empty soup bowl.

HAD Gabriel Allon not become an assassin, he would have made a perfect interrogator. He was a natural listener: a man who spoke only when necessary; who had no need to hear the sound of his own voice. Like a deerstalker, he was also graced with an unnatural stillness. He never touched his hair or his face, never gestured with his hands or shifted in his chair. It was this very stillness, coupled with his silence and immutable patience, which made him such a frightening opponent over a bare table. Though even Gabriel was surprised at Gerhardt Peterson’s sudden willingness to talk.

“How did I know about Rolfe’s collection?” Peterson asked, repeating Gabriel’s first question. “There is precious little that takes place in Zurich that I don’t know about. Zurich is the largest city in Switzerland, but it is still a small place. We have our hooks in deep: banking, business, the foreign workers, the media.”

Gabriel didn’t want Peterson to build confidence by rambling on about his professional achievements, so he quickly cut him off. “That’s all very interesting, but how did you find out about Rolfe?”

“Rolfe was a sick old man-everybody on the Bahnhofstrasse and the Paradeplatz knew that. Everyone knew he didn’t have long to live. Then the rumors start to fly. Rolfe is losing his mind. Rolfe wants to set things right before he meets the big banker in the sky. Rolfe wants to talk. Augustus Rolfe was a banker in Zurich for a very long time. When a man like him wants to talk, it can only come to no good.”

“So you put him under surveillance.”

Peterson nodded.

“Since when is it a crime in Switzerland to talk?”

“It’s not a crime, but it’s definitely frowned upon-especially if it exposes less-than-flattering elements of our past to the rest of the world. We Swiss don’t like to discuss unpleasant family matters in front of foreigners.”

“Did your superiors know you’d placed Rolfe under watch? Did your minister in Bern?”

“The Rolfe affair really wasn’t an official matter.”

And then Gabriel remembered Rolfe’s letter: There are people in Switzerland who want the past to remain exactly where it is-entombed in the bank vaults of the Bahnhofstrasse-and they will stop at nothing to achieve that end.

“If it wasn’t an official matter, then on whose behalf were you following Rolfe?”

Peterson hesitated for a moment; Gabriel feared he might stop talking. Then he said: “They call themselves the Council of Rütli.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Get me more of that vile soup, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Gabriel decided to allow him this one victory. He raised his hand and beat his palm on the wall three times. Oded poked his head in the door as if he smelled smoke. Gabriel murmured a few words to him in Hebrew. Oded reacted by pulling his lips into a remorseful frown.

“And bread,” said Peterson as Oded was leaving. “I’d like some more of that bread with my soup.”

Oded looked to Gabriel for instruction.

“Bring him some fucking bread.”

THIS time they took no break for food, so Peterson was forced to deliver his lecture on the Council of Rütli with a spoon in one hand and a lump of bread in the other. He spoke for ten minutes without interruption, pausing only to slurp his soup or tear off another mouthful of bread. The history of the Council, its goals and objectives, the power of its membership-all of these topics he covered in substantial detail. When he had finished, Gabriel asked: “Are you a member?”