Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“What does this have to do with me?”

Shamron closed his eyes and recited a verse from Scripture: “And the enemy shall know I am Lord when I can lay down my vengeance upon them.”

“Ezekiel,” said Gabriel.

“I believe that if someone kills one of my people, I should kill him in return. Do you believe that, Gabriel?”

“I used to believe it.”

“Better yet, I believe that if a boy picks up a stone to throw at me, I should shoot him before it ever leaves his hand.” Shamron’s lighter flared in the dark, making shadows in the fissures of his face. “Maybe I’m just a relic. I remember huddling against my mother’s breast while the Arabs burned and looted our settlement. The Arabs killed my father during the general strike in ‘thirty-seven. Did I ever tell you that?”

Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the winding Cornish road and said nothing.

“They killed your father, too. In the Sinai. And your mother, Gabriel? How long did she live after your father’s death? Two years? Three?”

Actually it was a little more than a year, thought Gabriel, remembering the day they laid her cancer-ridden body into a hillside overlooking the Jezreel Valley. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that revenge is good. Revenge is healthy. Revenge is purifying.”

“Revenge only leads to more killing and more revenge. For every terrorist we kill, there’s another boy waiting to step forward and pick up the stone or the gun. They’re like sharks’ teeth: break one and another will rise in its place.”

“So we should do nothing? Is that what you mean to say, Gabriel? We should stand aside and wring our hands while these bastards kill our people?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

Shamron fell silent as the Mercedes flashed through a darkened village.

“It’s not my idea, you know. It’s the prime minister’s. He wants his peace with the Palestinians, but he can’t make peace if the extremists are throwing tomatoes onto the stage from the balcony.”

“Since when did you become such a peacenik, Ari?”

“My own opinions are irrelevant. I am merely a secret servant who does what he is told.”

“Bullshit.”

“All right, if you want my opinion, I believe we will be no more secure after a peace deal than before it. If you want my opinion, I believe the fire in the Palestinian heart will never be extinguished until the Jews are driven into the sea. And I’ll tell you one other thing, Gabriel. I would much rather do battle with a sworn enemy than with an enemy who finds expediency in posing as a friend.”

Shamron rubbed the spot on the bridge of his nose where his elegant tortoiseshell glasses were pinching him. He had aged; Gabriel could see it at the edges of his eyes when he removed the little spectacles. Even the great Shamron was not immune to the ravages of time.

“You know what happened in Amman?” Shamron asked.

“I read about it in the newspapers. I also know what happened in Switzerland.”

“Ah, Switzerland,” Shamron said mildly, as if Switzerland were an unfortunate romance he would rather forget. “A simple operation, right? Bug the flat of a high-level Islamic extremist. Nothing to it. In the old days we could do something like this with our eyes closed. Place the device and get out before anyone realizes we’ve been there. But these idiots forget that the Swiss are the most vigilant people on earth. One old lady makes a telephone call, and the entire team is in the hands of the Swiss police.”

“How unfortunate.”

“And I’m on the next plane to Zürich begging our Swiss brethren not to make it public.”

“I would have enjoyed watching that.”

Shamron emitted a few grunts of laughter. Gabriel realized that in an odd way he had missed the old man. How long had it been since they had seen each other? Eight years? No, nearly nine. Shamron had come to Vienna after the bombing to help clean up the mess and make certain the real reason for Gabriel’s presence in the city remained secret. Gabriel saw Shamron once more after that: when he returned to Tel Aviv to tell him he wanted out.

“I’m not sure where it went wrong,” Shamron said. “Everyone thinks now that peace is at hand there are no more threats to our survival. They don’t understand that peace will only make the fanatics more desperate. They don’t understand that we will need to spy on our new Arab friends just as hard as when they were openly committed to our destruction.”

“A spy’s work is never done.”

“But these days all the smart boys do their compulsory service in the IDF and then run like hell. They want to make money and talk on their cell phones from the cafés of Ben Yehuda Street. We used to get only the best. Like you, Gabriel. Now we get the ones who are too stupid or lazy to make it in the real world.”

“Change your recruiting tactics.”

“I have, but I need someone now. Someone who can run an operation in Europe without permission from the host government and without it ending up on the front page of The Sunday Times. I need you, Gabriel. I need a prince. I need you to do for the Office what you are doing to that Vecellio. Our service has been damaged. I need you to help me restore it.”

“Five hundred years of dirt and neglect I can fix. Ten years of institutional incompetence is another matter entirely. Find someone else to find your terrorists and fix your Office. I’m already under contract.”

Shamron removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, polished them with his scarf. “It was Tariq, by the way,” he said, inspecting the glasses in the weak dashboard light. “Did I mention that, Gabriel? It was Tariq who killed the ambassador and his wife in Paris. It was Tariq who made the Seine run red with the blood of my people. Tariq-your old friend.”

Gabriel slammed on the brakes, and Shamron’s spectacles careened against the windshield.

Gabriel drove through Lizard Town, then raced across a stark plain of windblown grass down to the sea. He pulled into a car park near the lighthouse and killed the engine. The car shuddered in the wind. He led Shamron along a darkened footpath down to the cliffs. The crashing of the waves filled the air. A seabird screamed at them. When the foghorn in the lighthouse groaned, Shamron spun around and braced himself as if he were preparing for a silent kill.

Lights burned in the little café on the edge of the cliffs. The staff was trying to close up, but Gabriel charmed them out of a couple of omelets and a pot of tea. Shamron, acting the role of Herr Heller, used a damp paper napkin to dab the dust of the footpath from his costly suede loafers. The girl who served them wore so many earrings and bracelets she sounded like a wind chime when she moved. There was something of Leah in her-Gabriel could see it; Shamron could see it too.

“Why do you think it was Tariq?”

“Did you hear about the girl? The American girl? The one he used for cover and then murdered in cold blood? Tariq always liked women. Too bad they all ended up the same way.”

“That’s all you have? A dead American girl?”

Shamron told him about the videotape, about the waiter who made a mysterious telephone call a minute before the ambassador and his wife stepped into the car. “His name is Mohammed Azziz. He told the catering company he was an Algerian. He’s not a waiter, and he’s not Algerian. He’s been a member of Tariq’s organization for ten years. He’s played a supporting role in several of Tariq’s operations.”

Shamron fell silent as the girl with the bracelets came to their table and added hot water to their teapot.

When she was gone he asked, “Do you have a girl?” He knew no boundaries when it came to asking personal questions. No corner of a man’s life, friend or enemy, was off limits.