The Kill Artist (34 page)

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Authors: Daniel Silva

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Adventure, #Politics

BOOK: The Kill Artist
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“Actually, you’re mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome.”
Perhaps he was testing her, even then.
Shamron continued, “I could tell you many things. I could tell you that Tariq is an animal with the blood of hundreds of Jews on his hands. I could remind you that he killed our ambassador and his wife in cold blood in Paris. I could remind you that he murdered a great friend of Israel and his wife in Amsterdam. I could tell you that he’s planning to strike again. That you will be doing a great service to the State of Israel and the Jewish people. I could tell you all these things, but I can’t tell you to do this.”
Jacqueline looked at Gabriel, but he was standing in front of the del Vaga, craning his neck sideways, as if he was looking for flaws in the last restoration. Don’t look at me, he was saying. This is your decision, yours alone.
 
Shamron left them alone. Gabriel crossed the room and stood where Shamron had been. Jacqueline wanted him closer, but Gabriel seemed to require a buffer zone. His face had already changed. It was the same change that had come over him in Tunis. There had been two Gabriels in Tunis. The Gabriel of the surveillance phase, when they had been lovers, and Gabriel the night of the assassination. She remembered the way he had looked during the drive from the beach to the villa: part grim determination, part dread. He looked the same way now. It was his killing face. When he spoke, he resumed where Shamron had left off. Only the quality of his voice was different. When Shamron spoke Jacqueline could almost hear drums beating. Gabriel spoke softly and quietly, as if he were telling a story to a child at bedtime.
“Your link to the Office will be the telephone in your flat here in London. The line will be routed through to headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. When you arrive at your destination, tell Tariq you need to check your messages. When you call, the people in the Office will see the number you’re dialing from and locate it. If you’re alone you can even talk to them and pass along messages to us. It will be very secure.”
“And what if he refuses to let me use the telephone?”
“Then you throw a fit. You tell him that Yusef never said you wouldn’t be allowed to use the telephone. You tell him Yusef never said you were going to become a prisoner. Tell him that unless you’re allowed to check your messages you’re leaving. Remember, as far as you know, this man is a Palestinian dignitary of some sort. He’s on a diplomatic mission. He’s not someone you’re supposed to fear. If he senses you’re afraid of him, he’ll suspect you know more than you should know.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t be surprised if you hear messages on your machine. We’ll place a few there. Remember, according to the rules laid down by Yusef, no one but Julian Isherwood is allowed to know that you’ve gone away. Perhaps Isherwood will call and ask when you’re planning to return. Perhaps he’ll have some sort of emergency at the gallery that will require your attention. Perhaps a family member or a friend will call from Paris to see how things are going for you in London. Maybe a man will call and ask you to dinner. You’re an attractive woman. It would be suspicious if there weren’t other men pursuing you.”
She thought:
So why not you, Gabriel?
“Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you’ll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?”
Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel’s voice.
“Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don’t be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don’t be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it—she may want to make idle threats about walking out—but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we’ll be close by. We’ll be watching. I’ll be watching.”
He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. “I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it’s going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I’m trying to make is that you’ll never know when it’s going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “He won’t die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn’t that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I’ll have to finish the job. There’s only one way to do that.”
He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.
“I don’t want you to watch me when I do this. It’s not who I am.”
She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.
 
“How is she?” asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.
“She’s resolute.”
“And you?”
“My feelings are immaterial at this point.”
“You’re not excited in any way? You’re not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?”
“I lost those feelings a long time ago.”
“You and I are different, Gabriel. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him.”
“You’re right. You and I
are
very different.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for her.”
“I’ve always liked her.”
“You’ve never
liked
anyone or anything in your life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There’s no middle ground for you.”
“Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?”
“I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious.”
“Can we please change the subject?”
“All right, we’ll change the subject. How do you feel about
me,
Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?”
“Some things are better left unsaid.”
Gabriel crossed Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. “This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren’t many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man.”
“Like Lillehammer,” Gabriel said.
Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of
kidons
from Shamron’s team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September’s chief of operations and the master-mind of the Munich massacre. It turned out to be a tragic case of mistaken identity—the man was not Salameh but a Moroccan waiter who was married to a Norwegian woman. After the murder Gabriel and Shamron escaped, but several members of the hit team fell into the hands of the Norwegian police. Shamron barely managed to salvage his career. At King Saul Boulevard the Lillehammer disaster became known as Leyl-ha-Mar, Hebrew for “the night of bitterness.”
Shamron said, “Please, do you really think now is a good time to mention Leyl-ha-Mar?” He paused, then smiled with surprising warmth. “I know you think I’m a monster. I know you think I’m a man completely without morals. Perhaps you’re right. But I always loved you, Gabriel. You were always my favorite. You were my prince of fire. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.”
“Where are you going, by the way?”
“We’re going to need an airplane tomorrow. I thought I’d book a reservation on Air Stone.”
 
“Ari, you’re not drinking! Unfair!”
“Sorry, Benjamin, but I have a long night ahead of me.”
“Work?”
Shamron inclined his head slightly to indicate the affirmative.
“So what brings you here?”
“I need a favor.”
“Course you need a favor. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Hope you haven’t come looking for money, because the Bank of Stone is temporarily closed, and your account is badly overdrawn. Besides, money’s gone. Creditors are singing a bloody aria. They want what’s rightfully theirs. Funny how creditors can be. And as for my lenders, well, let’s just say they’re heading for calmer waters. What I’m trying to say to you, Ari, my old stick, is that I am in
serious
fucking financial trouble.”
“It’s not about money.”
“So what is it? Speak, Ari!”
“I need to borrow your jet. Actually, I need to borrow you
and
your jet.”
“I’m listening. You have my attention now.”
“Tomorrow an enemy of the State of Israel is going to board a flight at Charles de Gaulle. Unfortunately we don’t know what flight or what his destination is. And we won’t know until he gets on the plane. It’s imperative that we follow rapidly and that we arrive with some degree of secrecy. An unscheduled El Al charter, for example, might raise eyebrows. You, however, have a reputation for impetuous travel and last-minute changes in your schedule and itinerary.”
“Damn right, Ari. Come and go like the wind. Keeps people on their fucking toes. It’s that business in Paris, isn’t it? That’s why you took my money before. I must say I’m intrigued. It sounds as though I’m going to be involved in a
real
operation. Front lines, heavy stuff. How can I possibly say no?”
Stone snatched up the telephone. “Get the plane ready. Paris, one hour, usual suite at the Ritz, usual girl. One with the diamond stud in her tongue. A dream, that one. Have her waiting in the room.
Ciao.
”
He rang off, refilled his glass of champagne, and raised it in Shamron’s direction.
“I can’t thank you enough, Benjamin.”
“You owe me, Ari. Someday
I’m
going to need a favor. Someday, all debts come due.”
33
 
ST. JAMES’S, LONDON
 
Jacqueline had hoped a brief walk alone would settle her nerves. It was a mistake. She should have taken a taxi straight to Yusef’s door, because now she felt like turning around and telling Shamron and Gabriel to go to hell. She had just a few seconds to pull herself together. She realized she was not used to fear, at least not the kind of fear that made it nearly impossible to breathe. She had felt fear like this only once in her life—the night of the raid in Tunis—but that night Gabriel had been at her side. Now she was alone. She thought of her grandparents and the fear they must have felt while they were waiting to die at Sobibor.
If they could face death at the hands of the Nazis, I can face this,
she thought.
But there was something else she was feeling: love. Intense, unbearable, intolerable love. Perfect love. Love that had survived twelve years, meaningless relationships with other men. It was the promise of Gabriel that finally pushed her forward toward Yusef’s door. She thought of something Shamron had said to her the night he recruited her: “You must believe in what you are doing.”
Oh, yes, Ari,
she thought.
I definitely believe in what I’m doing now.
She pressed the buzzer for Yusef’s flat. A moment. Nothing. Pressed it again, waited, looked at her watch. He had told her to come at nine. She was so nervous about arriving late that she had managed to come five minutes early.
So what should I do, Gabriel? Stay? Walk around the block?
If she left she might never come back. She lit a cigarette, stamped her feet against the cold, waited.
A moment later a Ford van braked to a halt in the street in front of her. The side door slid open, and Yusef leaped onto the wet asphalt. He walked toward her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, head swiveling from side to side. “How long have you been standing here?”
“I don’t know. Three minutes, five minutes. Where the hell have you been?”
“I told you to come at nine. I didn’t say five minutes before nine. I said nine.”

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