Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“Fifty thousand.”

“Francs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel. Dollars.”

He pulled his face into a frown. Jacqueline crossed her arms defiantly. “Fifty thousand, or you can call Shamron and ask him for a new girl.”

“Fifty thousand,” he said.

Jacqueline smiled.

Jacqueline telephoned Marcel Lambert in Paris and told him to cancel all her shoots for the next two weeks.

“Jacqueline, have you lost your mind? You can’t be serious. A woman in your tenuous position does not go around making matters worse by canceling shoots. That’s how one earns a reputation in this business.”

“Marcel, I’ve been in this business for seventeen years, and I’ve never had a reputation for blowing off shoots. Something’s come up, and I need to go away for a few days.”

“That’s what you expect me to tell the people who’ve been good enough to hire you? ”Something’s come up.“ Come on, darling. You’ll have to do much better than that.”

“Tell them I’ve come down with something.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Leprosy,” she said.

“Oh, yes, marvelous.” His voice turned suddenly serious. “Tell me something, Jacqueline. You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you? You know you can trust me. I’ve been there from the beginning, remember. I know all your secrets.”

“And don’t forget that I know all yours, Marcel Lambert. And no, I’m not in any sort of trouble. There’s just something I need to take care of, and it won’t wait.”

“You’re not sick, are you, Jacqueline?”

“I’m in perfect health.”

“It’s not the coke again, is it?” Marcel whispered.

“Marcel!”

“Surgery? An eye job?”

“Fuck you.”

“A man. Is it a man? Has someone finally managed to put a dent in that iron heart of yours?”

“I’m hanging up now, Marcel. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“So I’m right! It is a man!”

“You’re the only man for me, Marcel.”

“I wish it were so.”

“À tout à l’heure.”

“Ciao.”

They set out in the late afternoon and followed the winding highway north into the mountains. Breakaway clouds hovered over the ravines. As they rose higher into the hills, fat balls of rain pounded the windshield of Gabriel’s rented Peugeot. Jacqueline reclined her seat and watched tributaries of rainwater racing over the moon roof, but already her mind was focused on London and the target. She lit a cigarette and said, “Tell me about him.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want anything in your head that might place you in a compromising situation.”

“You came for me because I know what I’m doing, Gabriel. Tell me something about him.”

“His name is Yusef. He grew up in Beirut.”

“Where in Beirut?”

“Shatila.”

“Jesus,” she said, closing her eyes.

“His parents were refugees in ‘forty-eight. They used to live in the Arab village of Lydda, but during the war they fled across the border to Lebanon. They stayed in the south for a while, then moved to Beirut in search of work and settled in the Shatila camp.”

“How did he end up in London?”

“An uncle brought him to England. He made sure Yusef was educated and learned to speak perfect English and French. He became a political radical. He felt Arafat and the PLO had surrendered. He supported the Palestinian leaders who wanted to continue the war until Israel was erased from the map. He came to the attention of Tariq’s organization. He’s been an active member for several years.”

“Sounds charming.”

“He is, actually.”

“Any hobbies?”

“He likes Palestinian poetry and European women. And he helps Tariq kill Israelis.”

Gabriel turned off the motorway and followed a small road east into the mountains. They passed through a sleeping village and turned onto a rutted mud track lined with bare, dripping plane trees. He followed the track until he spotted a broken wooden gate leading to a patch of cleared land. He stopped the car, climbed out, pushed the gate open wide enough to accommodate the Peugeot. He drove into the clearing and shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on. He reached into Jacqueline’s handbag and took out her Beretta and spare clip. Then he grabbed one of her glossy fashion magazines and ripped off the front and back covers.

“Get out.”

“It’s raining.”

“Too bad.”

Gabriel climbed out and walked a few yards across the sodden earth toward a tree where the tattered remains of a No Trespassing sign hung from a bent, rusting nail. He shoved the magazine cover over the head of the nail and walked back toward the car. Jacqueline was silhouetted against the yellow headlights, hood up against the rain, arms folded. It was quiet except for the ticking of the Peugeot’s radiator and the distant barking of a farm dog. Gabriel removed the clip from the Beretta, checked to make certain the chamber was empty, then handed the gun and ammunition to Jacqueline.

“I want to know if you can still handle one of these.”

“But I know the girl on that cover.”

“Shoot her in the face.”

Jacqueline shoved the clip into the butt of the Beretta, tapped the base of the grip against the heel of her palm to make certain it was firmly in place. She stepped forward, raised the gun, bent her knees slightly, turned her body a few degrees to reduce her target profile for the imaginary enemy. She fired without hesitation, rhythmically and steadily, until the clip was empty.

Gabriel, listening to the popping of the little hand-gun, was suddenly back in the stairwell of the apartment house in Rome. Jacqueline lowered the Beretta, removed the clip, and inspected the chamber to make certain it was empty. She tossed the gun to Gabriel and said, “Let’s see you try it now.”

Gabriel just slipped the Beretta into his coat pocket and walked over to the tree to examine her results. Only one shot had missed; the hits were grouped tightly in the upper right. He ripped down the front cover, hung the back cover in its place, gave the Beretta back to Jacqueline. “Do it again, but this time, move forward while you’re firing.”

She rammed the second clip into the Beretta, pulled the slide, and advanced on the target, firing as she went. The last shot was from almost point-blank range. She pulled down the target, turned, and held it up so that the headlamps shone through the bullet holes in the paper. Each shot had found the mark. She walked back to Gabriel and gave him the Beretta and the magazine cover.

He said, “Pick up your brass.”

While Jacqueline gathered the spent cartridges, he quickly disassembled the Beretta. He removed the tire iron from the trunk and pounded the gun components until they were inoperable. They got back into the Peugeot, and Gabriel left the way he had come. Along the way he hurled the magazine covers and the broken bits of the Beretta into the darkness. After they had passed through the village, he opened the window once more and scattered the cartridges.

Jacqueline lit another cigarette. “How did I do?”

“You passed.”

Amsterdam

Tariq spent the afternoon running errands. He walked from the houseboat to Centraalstation, where he purchased a first-class ticket for the evening train to Antwerp. From the train station he walked to the red-light district, wandering the labyrinth of narrow alleys, past the sex shops and brothels and dreary bars, until a drug dealer pulled him aside and offered him heroin. Tariq haggled over the price, then asked for enough for three people to trip. Tariq gave him the money, slipped the drugs into his pocket, walked away.

In Dam Square, he hopped onto a streetcar and rode south through the city to the Bloemenmarkt, a floating outdoor flower market on the Singel canal. He went to the largest stall and asked the florist for an elaborate bouquet of traditional Dutch flowers. When the florist asked how much he was willing to spend, Tariq assured him money was no object. The florist smiled and told him to come back in twenty minutes.