Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

He thought about what Kemel had told him during their meeting on the train. Tariq’s old nemesis, Gabriel Allon, had been brought back to help Ari Shamron find him. The news did not concern him. Indeed, he welcomed it. It would make the next few weeks even sweeter. Imagine, destroying their so-called peace process and settling his score with Gabriel Allon all at the same time…

Killing Allon would not be easy, but as Tariq drifted along the banks of the Herengracht he knew he already held a distinct advantage over his opponent. The simple fact that he knew Allon was out there searching for him gave Tariq the upper hand. The hunter must come to the prey to make the kill. If Tariq played the game well, he could draw Allon into a trap. And then I’ll kill him, the way he killed Mahmoud.

Intelligence services have two basic ways of trying to catch a terrorist. They can use their superior technology to intercept the terrorist’s communications, or they can penetrate his organization by inserting a spy or convincing an existing operative to switch sides. Tariq and Kemel were careful about the way they communicated. They avoided telephones and the Internet whenever possible and used couriers instead. Like the idiot Kemel sent to Samos! No, they would not be able to track him by intercepting his communications, so they would have to try to penetrate his group. It was difficult for an intelligence agency to penetrate any terrorist group, but it would be even harder to get inside Tariq’s. His organization was small, tightly knit, and highly mobile. They were committed to the struggle, highly trained, and intensely loyal. None of his agents would ever betray him to the Jews.

Tariq could use this to his advantage. He had instructed Kemel to contact every agent and give a simple instruction. If any of them noticed anything out of the ordinary-such as surveillance or an approach by a stranger-they were to report it immediately. If Tariq could determine that Israeli intelligence was involved, he would immediately be transformed from the hunted to the hunter.

He thought of an operation he had conducted while he was still with Jihaz el-Razd, the PLO intelligence arm. He had identified an Office agent working with diplomatic cover from the Israeli embassy in Madrid. The officer had managed to recruit several spies within the PLO, and Tariq decided it was time to pay him back. He sent a Palestinian to Madrid posing as a defector. The Palestinian met with the Israeli officer inside the embassy and promised to turn over sensitive intelligence about PLO leaders and their personal habits. At first the Israeli balked. Tariq had anticipated this, so he had given his agent several pieces of true, relatively harmless intelligence-all things the Israelis already knew. The Israeli believed he was now dealing with a genuine defector and agreed to meet with the Palestinian a second time, at a café a week later. But this time Tariq went to Madrid. He walked into the café at the appointed time, shot the officer twice in the face, and calmly walked out.

He came to the river and walked along the embank-ment a short distance until he arrived at the girl’s houseboat. It was a depressing place-dirty, filled with drug and sexual paraphernalia-but a perfect spot to hide while he planned the attack. He crossed the deck and entered the cabin. The skylights were covered with the new snow, the salon very cold. Tariq switched on a lamp, then turned on the little electric space heater. In the bedroom he could hear the girl stirring beneath her blankets. She was a pathetic wretch, not like the girl he had stayed with in Paris. No one would miss this one when she was gone.

She rolled over and gazed at him through the strands of her stringy blond hair. “Where have you been? I was worried about you.”

“I was just out walking. I love walking in this city, especially when it’s snowing.”

“What time is it?”

“Four-thirty. Shouldn’t you be getting out of bed?”

“I don’t have to leave for another hour.”

Tariq made her a mug of Nescafé and carried it into the bedroom. Inge rolled over and leaned on her elbow. The blanket slipped down her body, exposing her breasts. Tariq handed her the coffee and looked away. The girl drank the coffee, her eyes looking at him over the rim of the mug. She asked, “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing.”

“Why did you look away from me?”

She sat up and pushed away the blankets. He wanted to say no, but he feared she might be suspicious of a Frenchman who resisted the advances of an attractive young woman. So he stood at the edge of the bed and allowed her to undress him. And few moments later, as he exploded inside her, he was thinking not of the girl but of how he was going to finally kill Gabriel Allon.

He lay in bed for a long time after she had left, listening to the sounds of the boats moving on the river. The headache came an hour later. They were coming more frequently now-three, sometimes four a week. The doctor had warned it would happen that way. The pain slowly intensified until he was nearly blinded by it. He placed a cool, damp towel on his face. No painkillers. They dulled his senses, made him sleep too heavily, and gave him the sensation of tumbling backward through an abyss. So he lay alone in the Dutch girl’s bed, on a houseboat in the Amstel River, feeling as though someone were pouring molten lead into his skull through his eye sockets.

Valbonne, Provence

The morning was clear and chilly, sunlight streaming over the hillsides. Jacqueline pulled on a pair of full-length riding chamois and a woolen jersey and tucked her long hair beneath a dark blue helmet. She slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses and studied her appearance in the mirror. She looked like a very handsome man, which was her intention. She stretched on the floor of her bedroom, then walked downstairs to the entrance hall, where her Bianchi racing bike leaned against the wall. She pushed the bike out the front door and wheeled it across the gravel drive. A moment later she was gliding through the cold shadows down the long gentle hill toward the village.

She slipped through Valbonne and made the long, steady climb toward Opio, cold air burning her cheeks. She pedaled slowly and evenly for the first few miles while her muscles warmed. Then she switched gears and increased the cadence of her pedaling. Soon she was flying along the narrow road, head down, legs pumping like pistons. The smell of lavender hung on the air. Beside her a grove of olive trees spilled down a terraced hillside. She emerged from the shadows of the olive trees onto a flat plain of warm sunlight. After a moment she could feel the first sweat beneath her jersey.

At the halfway point she checked her split: only thirty seconds off her best time. Not bad for a chilly December morning. She circled a traffic roundabout, switched gears, and started up a long, steep hill. After a few moments her breath was hoarse and ragged and her legs burning-too many goddamned cigarettes!-but she forced herself to remain seated and pound up the long hill. She thought of Michel Duval: Pig! One hundred yards from the crest she rose from the saddle, angrily driving her feet down into the toe straps, shouting at herself to keep going and not give in to the pain. She was rewarded with a long descent. She could have coasted but took a quick drink and sprinted down the hill instead. As she entered Valbonne again, she looked at her watch. A new personal best by fifteen seconds. Thank you, Michel Duval.

She climbed out of the saddle and pushed her bike through the quiet streets of the ancient town. At the central square she propped the bike against a pillar, purchased a newspaper, and treated herself to a warm croissant and a large bowl of steaming café au lait. When she finished she collected her bike and pushed it along a shadowed street.