detail.
For the second time in two days, he was being followed.
He turned a corner and walked past a row of shuttered shops. Glancing once over his shoulder, he spotted a man rounding the corner after him. He performed the same maneuver, and once again spotted his pursuer, a mere shadow in the darkened streets, thin and stooped, agile as an alley cat.
Gabriel slipped into the darkened foyer of a small apartment house and listened as the footfalls grew fainter, then ceased altogether. A moment later, he stepped back into the street and started back toward the hotel. His shadow was gone.
WHEN GABRIEL returned to the hotel, the concierge named Giancomo was still on duty behind his dais. He slid the key across the counter as though it were a priceless relic and asked about Gabriel’s meal.
“It was wonderful, thank you.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night you’ll try our own dining room.”
“Perhaps,” said Gabriel noncommittally, pocketing the key. “I’d like to see Benjamin’s bill from his stay here—especially the record of his telephone calls. It might be helpful.”
“Yes, I see your point, Signor Landau, but I’m afraid that would be a violation of the hotel’s strict privacy policy. I’m sure a man like you can understand that.”
Gabriel pointed out that since Benjamin was no longer living, concerns about his privacy were surely misplaced.
“I’m sorry, but the rules apply to the dead as well,” the concierge said. “Now, if the police requested such information, we would be obliged to hand it over.”
“The information is important to me,” Gabriel said. “I’d be willing to pay a surcharge in order to obtain it.”
“A surcharge? I see.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I believe the charge would be five hundred euros.” A pause to allow Gabriel to digest the sum. “A processing fee. In advance, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
Gabriel counted out the euro notes and laid them on the counter. Giancomo’s hand passed over the surface and the money disappeared.
“Go to your room, Signor Landau. I’ll print out the bill and bring it to you.”
Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He locked and chained the door, then walked to the window and peered out. The lake was shimmering in the moonlight. There was no one outside—at least no one he could see. He sat on the bed and began to undress.
An envelope appeared beneath the door and slid across the terra-cotta floor. Gabriel picked it up, lifted the flap, and removed the contents. He switched on the bedside lamp and examined the bill. During his two-day stay at the hotel, Benjamin had made only three telephone calls. Two were placed to his own apartment in Munich—to check messages on his answering machine, Gabriel reckoned—and the third to a number in London.
Gabriel lifted the receiver and dialed the number.
An answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the office of Peter Malone. I’m sorry, but I’m not available to take your call. If you’d like to leave a—”
Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Peter Malone? The British investigative reporter? Why would Benjamin be calling a man like him? Gabriel folded the bill and slipped it back into the envelope. He was about to drop it into Ehud Landau’s briefcase when the telephone rang.
He reached out, but hesitated. No one knew he was here—no one but the concierge and the man who’d followed Gabriel after dinner. Perhaps Malone had captured his number and was calling back. Better to know than remain ignorant, he thought. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear for a moment without speaking.
Finally: “Yes?”
“Mother Vincenza is lying to you, the same way she lied to your friend. Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you’ll know the truth about what happened at the convent.”
“Who is this?”
“Don’t come back. It’s not safe for you here.”
C LICK .
9
GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND
T HE MAN WHO LIVED in
For the second time in two days, he was being followed.
He turned a corner and walked past a row of shuttered shops. Glancing once over his shoulder, he spotted a man rounding the corner after him. He performed the same maneuver, and once again spotted his pursuer, a mere shadow in the darkened streets, thin and stooped, agile as an alley cat.
Gabriel slipped into the darkened foyer of a small apartment house and listened as the footfalls grew fainter, then ceased altogether. A moment later, he stepped back into the street and started back toward the hotel. His shadow was gone.
WHEN GABRIEL returned to the hotel, the concierge named Giancomo was still on duty behind his dais. He slid the key across the counter as though it were a priceless relic and asked about Gabriel’s meal.
“It was wonderful, thank you.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night you’ll try our own dining room.”
“Perhaps,” said Gabriel noncommittally, pocketing the key. “I’d like to see Benjamin’s bill from his stay here—especially the record of his telephone calls. It might be helpful.”
“Yes, I see your point, Signor Landau, but I’m afraid that would be a violation of the hotel’s strict privacy policy. I’m sure a man like you can understand that.”
Gabriel pointed out that since Benjamin was no longer living, concerns about his privacy were surely misplaced.
“I’m sorry, but the rules apply to the dead as well,” the concierge said. “Now, if the police requested such information, we would be obliged to hand it over.”
“The information is important to me,” Gabriel said. “I’d be willing to pay a surcharge in order to obtain it.”
“A surcharge? I see.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I believe the charge would be five hundred euros.” A pause to allow Gabriel to digest the sum. “A processing fee. In advance, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
Gabriel counted out the euro notes and laid them on the counter. Giancomo’s hand passed over the surface and the money disappeared.
“Go to your room, Signor Landau. I’ll print out the bill and bring it to you.”
Gabriel climbed the stairs to his room. He locked and chained the door, then walked to the window and peered out. The lake was shimmering in the moonlight. There was no one outside—at least no one he could see. He sat on the bed and began to undress.
An envelope appeared beneath the door and slid across the terra-cotta floor. Gabriel picked it up, lifted the flap, and removed the contents. He switched on the bedside lamp and examined the bill. During his two-day stay at the hotel, Benjamin had made only three telephone calls. Two were placed to his own apartment in Munich—to check messages on his answering machine, Gabriel reckoned—and the third to a number in London.
Gabriel lifted the receiver and dialed the number.
An answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the office of Peter Malone. I’m sorry, but I’m not available to take your call. If you’d like to leave a—”
Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Peter Malone? The British investigative reporter? Why would Benjamin be calling a man like him? Gabriel folded the bill and slipped it back into the envelope. He was about to drop it into Ehud Landau’s briefcase when the telephone rang.
He reached out, but hesitated. No one knew he was here—no one but the concierge and the man who’d followed Gabriel after dinner. Perhaps Malone had captured his number and was calling back. Better to know than remain ignorant, he thought. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear for a moment without speaking.
Finally: “Yes?”
“Mother Vincenza is lying to you, the same way she lied to your friend. Find Sister Regina and Martin Luther. Then you’ll know the truth about what happened at the convent.”
“Who is this?”
“Don’t come back. It’s not safe for you here.”
C LICK .
9
GRINDELWALD, SWITZERLAND
T HE MAN WHO LIVED in
Similar Books
