The English Assassin by Daniel Silva Page B

looked at the number one last time, committed it to memory, and dropped the paper onto the fire.
    Then she looked at the scars on her hand. There is no Rolfe family curse, she thought. Things happen for a reason. Her mother killed herself. Twenty-five years later, her father was murdered. Why? Who could she trust?

    He seemed perfectly harmless. You might want to hear what he has to say.
    She lay there for a few minutes, thinking it through. Then she walked into the kitchen, picked up the receiver of the telephone, and dialed the number.

9
    COSTA DE PRATA, PORTUGAL
     
    T HE ROADto Anna Rolfe’s villa wound along the shoulder of a hill overlooking the Atlantic. Sometimes the view was hidden: now by a stand of fir trees; now by an outcropping of smoke-colored granite. It was late afternoon, the sun was nearly touching the horizon, the water was the color of apricot and gold leaf. Giant rollers pummeled a narrow sand beach. When Gabriel lowered his window, cold air filled the car, heavy with the scent of the sea.
    He turned toward the village, following the instructions she had given him. Left after the Moorish ruins, down the hill past the old winery, follow the track along the edge of the vineyard into the wood. The road turned to gravel, then to dirt and matted pine needles.
    The track ended at a wooden gate. Gabriel got out and pulled it open wide enough to allow the car to pass, then drove onto the grounds. The villa rose before him, shaped like anL , with a terra-cotta roof and pale stone walls. When Gabriel killed the engine, he could hear the sound of Anna Rolfe practicing. He listened for a moment, trying to place the piece, but could not.
    As he climbed out of the car, a man ambled up the hillside: broad-brimmed hat, leather work gloves, the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He patted the dirt from his gloves, then removed them as he inspected the visitor.
    “You are the man from Israel, yes?”
    Gabriel gave a small, reluctant nod.
    The vineyard keeper smiled. “Come with me.”
     
    THEview from the terrace was remarkable: the hillside and the vineyard, the sea beyond. From an open window above Gabriel’s head came the sound of Anna Rolfe’s playing. A housekeeper materialized; she left coffee and a stack of week-old German-language newspapers, then silently disappeared into the villa. In the Neue Züricher Zeitung he found an article on the investigation into Rolfe’s murder. Next to it was a long feature piece on the career of Anna Rolfe. He read it quickly, then set it aside. It told him nothing he did not already know.
    Before Gabriel touched a painting, he first read everything he could about the artist. He had used the same approach for Anna Rolfe. She had begun playing the violin at the age of four and immediately showed uncommon promise. The Swiss master Karl Wehrli agreed to take her on as a pupil, and the two began a relationship that remained intact until his death. When Anna was ten, Wehrli requested that she be removed from school so she would have more time to devote to her music. Anna’s father reluctantly agreed. A private tutor came to the villa in Zurich two hours each day, and the rest of the time Anna played the violin.
    At fifteen she made an appearance at the Lucerne International Music Festival that electrified the European music scene, and she was then invited to give a series of recitals in Germany and the Netherlands. The following year, she won the prestigious Jean Sibelius Violin Competition in Helsinki. She was awarded a large cash prize, along with a Guarneri violin, a string of concert appearances, and a recording contract.
    Soon after the Sibelius competition, Anna Rolfe’s career took flight. She embarked on a grinding schedule of concert dates and recording sessions. Her physical beauty made her a cross-cultural phenomenon. Her photograph appeared on the covers of European fashion magazines. In America she performed on a holiday television