The Kill Artist (6 page)

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Authors: Daniel Silva

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

BOOK: The Kill Artist
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“I was thinking about Allon.”
“
Gabriel
Allon? I thought he left the Office after Vienna.”
Shamron shrugged; such things did not matter when it came to a man like Gabriel Allon. “It’s been a long time since anyone at the Office has handled a case like this. And they’ve generally fucked them up. But there’s one other reason why I want Allon. Tariq operates mainly in Europe. Allon is very experienced on the Continent. He knows how to get things done without making a racket.”
“Where is he now?”
“Living somewhere in England last time I heard.”
The prime minister smirked. “It’ll be easier for you to find Tariq than Gabriel Allon.”
“I’ll find Allon, and Allon will find Tariq.” Shamron pulled his lips into a fatalistic frown. “And then it will be done.”
4
 
SAMOS, GREECE
 
The ferry from Turkey arrived twelve hours late because of heavy seas in the Straits of Mycale. Tariq had never cared for boats—he hated the feeling of being surrounded by water with no route of escape. He stood at the bow, collar up against the night wind, watching the approach to Samos. In the moonlight he could see the peaks of the island’s two distinctive mountains: Mount Ampelos in the foreground and Mount Kerkis in the distance.
In the five days since the Paris assassination, he had worked his way southeast across Europe, changing identities and passports, subtly altering his appearance. Six times he changed automobiles. The last, a dark green Volvo station wagon, he left near the terminal in Kusadasi on the Turkish side of the strait. It had been collected by an agent from his organization.
He had seduced three women during his odyssey: a waitress in Munich, a hairdresser in Bucharest, and a hotel hostess in Sofia. He told each of them a different story. To the German girl he was an Italian fabric salesman on his way to Paris. To the Romanian girl he was an Egyptian trader hoping to do some business in Ukraine. To the Bulgarian hostess he was a Frenchman with rich parents who traveled and read books about philosophy. He made love to each of them differently. He slapped the German girl and was unconcerned about her satisfaction. He gave the Romanian many orgasms and a gold bracelet. The Bulgarian was a dark-haired girl with olive skin. She reminded him of girls from Palestine. They made love all night, until it was time for her to go back on duty. He was sad when she was gone.
The ferry slipped into the sheltered water of the harbor and tied up. Tariq disembarked and walked to a brightly lit taverna. Parked outside was a dark blue motor scooter with a smashed rearview mirror, just as he had been promised. Inside his coat pocket was the key. He strapped his overnight bag onto the back of the bike and started the engine. A moment later he was speeding along a narrow track toward the mountains.
He was not dressed for a night ride; his thin leather gloves, low-cut loafers, and black jeans were no match for the cold. Still, he opened the throttle and pushed the little bike as hard as it would go up a long hill at the base of Mount Kerkis. He slowed for a switchback, then opened the throttle again and raced through a vineyard spilling down the side of the hill into a little valley. Above the vineyard lay an olive grove and above the olive grove a line of towering cypress trees, silhouettes against a carpet of wet stars. The tang of cypress was heavy on the air. Somewhere, meat was cooking over a wood fire. The scent reminded him of Lebanon. Good to be out of Paris, he thought. Dull gray Paris of late autumn. Good to be back in the eastern Mediterranean.
The road turned to a pitted track. Tariq eased off the throttle. It was a stupid thing to do, driving so fast on an unfamiliar road, but he had taken to doing needlessly risky things lately. For the first time since leaving Paris, he thought of the American girl. He felt no remorse or guilt. Her death, while unfortunate, was completely necessary.
He opened the throttle again and raced down a gentle slope into a tiny valley. He thought about this need of his, this compulsion to be in the company of a woman during an operation. He supposed it came from growing up in the camps of Sidon. His father had died when Tariq was young, and his older brother, Mahmoud, was murdered by the Jews. Tariq was raised by his mother and his older sister. There was only one room in their hut at the camp, so Tariq and his mother and sister all slept in the same bed—Tariq in the middle, head resting against his mother’s bosom, his sister’s bony body pressed against his back. Sometimes he would lie awake and listen to the shelling or the rhythmic thump of the Israeli helicopters hovering over the camp. He would think of his father—how he had died of a broken heart with the keys to the family home in the Upper Galilee still in his pocket—and he would think of poor Mahmoud. He hated the Jews with an intensity that made his chest ache. But he never felt fear. Not when he was in his bed, protected by his women.
The whitewashed villa stood atop a rock outcropping on a craggy hillside between the villages of Mesogion and Pirgos. To reach it Tariq had to negotiate a steep path through an old vineyard. The smell of the last harvest hung in the air. He shut down the motor, and the silence rang in his ears. He put the bike on its kickstand, drew his Makarov pistol, and walked through a small garden to the entrance of the villa.
He slid the key into the lock, turned it slowly, testing the chamber for unnatural resistance. Then he opened the door and stepped inside, Makarov drawn. As he closed the door a light came on in the living room, illuminating a slender young man with long hair seated on a rustic couch. Tariq nearly shot him before he saw that the other man’s gun was lying on a table in front of him and his hands were raised in a gesture of surrender.
Tariq pointed the Makarov at the young man’s face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Achmed. Kemel sent me.”
“I nearly killed you. Then I’d never have known why Kemel sent you here.”
“You were supposed to come this morning. I had nowhere else to wait.”
“The ferry was delayed. You would have known that if you’d bothered to pick up the telephone and place a single call. What does he want?”
“He wants to meet. He says he needs to discuss something with you, and it’s too important to do it through the usual methods of communication.”
“Kemel knows I don’t like face-to-face meetings.”
“He’s made special arrangements.”
“Tell me.”
“Would you mind pointing that gun somewhere else?”
“I would, actually. How do I know you were really sent here by Kemel? Maybe your real name is Yitzhak or Jonathan. Maybe you’re an Israeli. Maybe you work for the CIA. Maybe Kemel has been compromised, and you’ve come here to kill me.”
The young man sighed heavily and began to speak. “Kemel wants to meet with you three days from now in a first-class compartment of a train between Zürich and Prague. You’re to join him there at any point during the journey when you feel it’s safe.”
“You have a ticket?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
Achmed reached into the pocket of his blazer.
Tariq lifted the Makarov. “Slowly.”
Achmed removed the ticket, held it up for Tariq to see, and dropped it onto the table. Tariq looked at the ticket briefly, then turned his gaze back on the boy seated in front of him. “How long have you been waiting at the villa?”
“Most of the day.”
“
Most
of the day?”
“I went into the village in the afternoon.”
“Whatever for?”
“I was hungry and I wanted to have a look around.”
“Do you speak Greek?”
“A little.”
How perfect, thought Tariq derisively. A young man who speaks a few words of Greek with an Arabic accent had been hanging around the port all afternoon. Tariq imagined a scenario: a busybody Greek shopkeeper gets suspicious about an Arab loitering in the village and calls the police. A policeman comes down to have a look for himself. Maybe he has a friend or a cousin who works in the Greek security service.
Damn!
It was a miracle he hadn’t been picked up the moment he stepped off the ferry. He asked, “Where are you planning to spend the night?”
“I thought I might stay here.”
“Out of the question. Go to the Taverna Petrino. It’s near the harbor. You can get a room there at a reasonable price. In the morning take the first ferry to Turkey.”
“Fine.”
Achmed leaned forward to pick up the gun. Tariq shot him twice in the top of the head.
Blood spread over the stone floor. Tariq looked at the body and felt nothing more than a vague sense of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a few days of recuperation on the island before the next operation. He was tired, his nerves were frayed, and the headaches were getting worse. Now he would have to be on the move again, all because the goddamned ferry had been held up by high seas and Kemel had sent a bumbling idiot to deliver an important message.
He slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers, picked up the train ticket, and went out.
5
 
TEL AVIV
 
Uzi Navot traveled to Tel Aviv the following morning. He came to Shamron’s office “black,” which meant that neither Lev nor any other member of the senior staff witnessed his arrival. Hanging from the end of his brick-layer’s arm was a sleek metal attaché case, the kind carried by businessmen the world over who believe their papers are too valuable to be entrusted to mere leather. Unlike the other passengers aboard the El Al flight from Paris that morning, Navot had not been asked to open the case for inspection. Nor had he been forced to endure the maddening ritualistic interrogation by the suntanned boys and girls from El Al security. Once he was safely inside Shamron’s office, he worked the combination on the attaché case and opened it for the first time since leaving the embassy in Paris. He reached inside and produced a single item: a videotape.
 
Navot lost count of how many times the old man watched the tape. Twenty times, thirty, maybe even fifty. He smoked so many of his vile Turkish cigarettes that Navot could barely see the screen through the fog. Shamron was entranced. He sat in his chair, arms folded, head tilted back so he could peer through the black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of his daggerlike nose. Navot offered the occasional piece of narrative background, but Shamron was listening to his own voices.
“According to museum security, Eliyahu and his party got into the car at ten twenty-seven,” Navot said. “As you can see from the time code on the screen, the Arab makes his telephone call at exactly ten twenty-six.”
Shamron said nothing, just jabbed at his remote control, rewound the tape, and watched it yet again.
“Look at his hand,” Navot said breathlessly. “The number has been stored into the mobile phone. He just hits the keypad a couple of times with his thumb and starts talking.”
If Shamron found this scrap of insight interesting or even remotely relevant he gave no sign of it.
“Maybe we could get the records from the telephone company,” Navot said, pressing on. “Maybe we could find out the number he dialed. That phone might lead us to Tariq.”
Shamron, had he chosen to speak, would have informed young Navot that there were probably a half-dozen operatives between Tariq and the French cellular telephone company. Such an inquiry, while admirable, would surely lead to a dead end.
“Tell me something, Uzi,” Shamron said at last. “What kind of food did that boy have on his silver platter?”
“What, boss?”
“The food, the hors d’oeuvres, on his platter. What were they?”
“Chicken, boss.”
“What kind of chicken, Uzi?”
“I don’t know, boss. Just chicken.”
Shamron shook his head in disappointment. “It was tandoori chicken, Uzi. Tandoori chicken, from India.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Tandoori chicken,” Shamron repeated. “That’s interesting. You should have known that, Uzi.”
 
Navot signed out an Office car and drove dangerously fast up the coast road to Caesarea. He had just pulled off a very nice piece of work—he had stolen a copy of the videotape from the Musée d’Orsay—but the only thing the old man cared about was the chicken. What difference did it make if it was tandoori chicken or Kentucky Fried Chicken? Maybe Lev was right. Maybe Shamron was past his prime.
To hell with the old man.
There was a saying inside the Office these days: the further we are from our last disaster, the closer we are to our next. Shamron would step into the shit too. Then they’d shove him out again, this time for good.
But Navot realized he
did
care what the old man thought about him. In fact he cared too much. Like most officers his age, he revered the great Shamron. He’d done a lot of jobs for the old man over the years—dirty jobs no one else wanted. Things that had to be kept secret from Lev and the others. He’d do almost anything to get back in his good graces.

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