"Verbrennen Sie dieses Dokument, stellen Sie sicher, dass niemand dieses Zeugnis der Vergangenheit in die Finger bekommt. Wir sind hier in der Schweiz. Es gibt keine Vergangenheit."
Auguste Rolfe ist ein angesehener Schweizer Bankier und Kunstsammler. Aber es gibt etwas in seiner Vergangenheit, das ihn zutiefst belastet. Eines Tages liegt er tot in seiner Wohnung. Als Ex-Geheimagent Gabriel Allon ihn findet, weiß er, dass er nicht der einzige ist, der Rolfes Tarnung gelüftet hat, und dass nun sein eigenes Leben auf dem Spiel steht ...

Zusatztext Praise for Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Novels An exceptionally readable! sophisticated thriller...Silva ranks...among the best of the younger American spy novelists. The Washington Post A cloak-and-dagger tale [that] moves at a brisk clip! with clean! lucid exposition and characters who are thoughtfully drawn. The New York Times The plot is rich! multilayered and compelling with issues as timely as the daily headlines and problems as old as humankind...Silva maintains tension and suspense. The Denver Post Enthralling...a thriller that entertains as well as enlightens. The Orlando Sentinel Smooth and compelling. Detroit Free Press Silva's sophisticated treatment! polished prose! an edgy mood! and convincing research give his plot a crisp! almost urgent quality. Publishers Weekly (starred review) Silva knows how to plot...[he] will draw you inand you'll learn something at the same time. Rocky Mountain News Thrilling...a good! cinematic story. St. Louis Post-Dispatch Informationen zum Autor Daniel Silva Klappentext Spy turned art restorer Gabriel Allon finds himself accused of murder in this New York Times bestseller from Daniel Silva. An Israeli spy by trade and art restorer by preference, Gabriel Allon arrives in Zurich to restore the work of an Old Master for a millionaire banker-and finds himself standing in blood and framed for the man's murder. While trying to clear his name, Allon is swept into a spiraling chain of events involving Nazi art theft, a decades-old suicide, and a dark and bloody trail of killings-some of them his own. The spy world Allon thought he had left behind has come back to haunt him. And he will have to fight for his life-against an assassin he himself helped train. Switzerland 1975 Marguerite Rolfe was digging in her garden because of the secrets she'd found hidden in her husband's study. It was late to be working in the garden, well past midnight by now. The spring thaw had left the earth soft and moist, and her spade split the soil with little effort, allowing her to progress with minimal noise. For this she was grateful. Her husband and daughter were asleep in the villa, and she didn't want to wake them. Why couldn't it have been something simple, like love letters from another woman? There would have been a good row, Marguerite would have confessed her own affair. Lovers would have been relinquished, and soon their home would return to normal. But she hadn't found love lettersshe'd found something much worse. For a moment she blamed herself. If she hadn't been searching his study, she never would have found the photographs. She could have spent the rest of her life in blissful oblivion, believing her husband was the man he appeared to be. But now she knew. Her husband was a monster, his life a liea complete and meticulously maintained lie. Therefore she too was a lie. Marguerite Rolfe concentrated on her work, making slow and steady progress. After an hour it was done. A good hole, she decided: about six feet in length and two feet across. Six inches below the surface she had encountered a dense layer of clay. As a result it was a bit shallower than she would have preferred. It didn't matter. She knew it wasn't permanent. She picked up the gun. It was her husband's favorite weapon, a beautiful shotgun, hand-crafted for him by a master gunsmith in Milan. He would never be able to use it again. This pleased her. She thought of Anna. Please don't wake up, Anna. Sleep, my love. Then she stepped into the ditch, lay down on her back, placed the end of the barrel in her mouth, pulled the trigger. *** The girl was awakened by music. She did not recognize the piece and wondered how it ha...

Praise for Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon Novels

“An exceptionally readable, sophisticated thriller...Silva ranks...among the best of the younger American spy novelists.”—The Washington Post
**
“A cloak-and-dagger tale [that] moves at a brisk clip, with clean, lucid exposition and characters who are thoughtfully drawn.”—The New York Times

**“The plot is rich, multilayered and compelling with issues as timely as the daily headlines and problems as old as humankind...Silva maintains tension and suspense.”—The Denver Post
**
“Enthralling...a thriller that entertains as well as enlightens.”—The Orlando Sentinel

“Smooth and compelling.”—Detroit Free Press

“Silva’s sophisticated treatment, polished prose, an edgy mood, and convincing research give his plot a crisp, almost urgent quality.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Silva knows how to plot...[he] will draw you in—and you’ll learn something at the same time.”—Rocky Mountain News

**“Thrilling...a good, cinematic story.”—St. Louis Post-Dispatch

Autorentext

Daniel Silva

Klappentext

Spy turned art restorer Gabriel Allon finds himself accused of murder in this New York Times bestseller from Daniel Silva.

An Israeli spy by trade and art restorer by preference, Gabriel Allon arrives in Zurich to restore the work of an Old Master for a millionaire banker-and finds himself standing in blood and framed for the man's murder.

While trying to clear his name, Allon is swept into a spiraling chain of events involving Nazi art theft, a decades-old suicide, and a dark and bloody trail of killings-some of them his own. The spy world Allon thought he had left behind has come back to haunt him. And he will have to fight for his life-against an assassin he himself helped train.

Leseprobe
** Switzerland 1975 ** Marguerite Rolfe was digging in her garden because of the secrets she’d found hidden in her husband’s study. It was late to be working in the garden, well past midnight by now. The spring thaw had left the earth soft and moist, and her spade split the soil with little effort, allowing her to progress with minimal noise. For this she was grateful. Her husband and daughter were asleep in the villa, and she didn’t want to wake them.

Why couldn’t it have been something simple, like love letters from another woman? There would have been a good row, Marguerite would have confessed her own affair. Lovers would have been relinquished, and soon their home would return to normal. But she hadn’t found love letters—she’d found something much worse.

For a moment she blamed herself. If she hadn’t been searching his study, she never would have found the photographs. She could have spent the rest of her life in blissful oblivion, believing her husband was the man he appeared to be. But now she knew. Her husband was a monster, his life a lie—a complete and meticulously maintained lie. Therefore she too was a lie.

Marguerite Rolfe concentrated on her work, making slow and steady progress. After an hour it was done. A good hole, she decided: about six feet in length and two feet across. Six inches below the surface she had encountered a dense layer of clay. As a result it was a bit shallower than she would have preferred. It didn’t matter. She knew it wasn’t permanent.

She picked up the gun. It was her husband’s favorite weapon, a beautiful shotgun, hand-crafted for him by a master gunsmith in…