Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

She managed to smile, even though her heart was pounding against the inside of her ribs. She had no idea what to do. She had the imprints, but there was a chance that he had seen her making them-or at least that he suspected she had done something. If she were guilty, the natural impulse would be to reject his invitation. She decided to accept his offer. If Gabriel believed it was a mistake, she could make up an excuse to cancel it.

She said, “You may take me out for a proper dinner.”

“What time?”

“Meet me at the gallery at six-thirty.”

“Perfect.”

“And don’t be late. I can’t stand men who are late.”

Then she kissed him and went out.

Maida Vale, London

When Jacqueline arrived back at her flat, Gabriel was seated on the couch drinking coffee. “How did it go?”

“It was lovely. Bring me some of that coffee, will you?”

She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and began filling the tub. Then she stripped off her clothing and slipped beneath the warm water. A moment later Gabriel knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

He came into the room. He seemed surprised that she was already in the bath. He looked away, searching for a spot to place the coffee. “How do you feel?” he said, eyes averted.

“How do you feel after you kill someone?”

“I always feel dirty.”

Jacqueline scooped up a handful of water and let it run over her face.

Gabriel said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

“It can wait until you’re dressed.”

“We’ve lived together as man and wife, Gabriel. We’ve even behaved like man and wife.”

“That was different.”

“Why was it different?”

“Because it was a necessary part of the operation.”

“Sleeping in the same bed, or making love to each other?”

“Jacqueline, please.”

“Maybe you won’t look at me because I just slept with Yusef.”

Gabriel glared at her and went out. Jacqueline permitted herself a brief smile, then slipped below the water.

“The phone is made by British Telecom.”

She was sitting in the cracked club chair, her body covered in a thick white robe. She rattled off the name and model number as she worked a towel through her damp hair.

“There’s no telephone in the bedroom, but he does have a clock radio.”

“What kind?”

“A Sony.” She gave him the model number.

“Let’s go back to the telephone for a moment,” Gabriel said. “Any distinguishing marks? Any price tags or stickers with telephone numbers on them? Anything that would give us a problem?”

“He fancies himself a poet and a historian. He writes all the time. It looks as though he dials the telephone with the tip of a pen. The keypad is covered with marks.”

“What color ink?”

“Blue and red.”

“What kind of pen?”

“What do you mean? The kind of pen you write with.”

Gabriel sighed and looked wearily at the ceiling. “Is it a ballpoint pen? Is it a fountain pen? Perhaps a felt-tipped pen?”

“Felt-tipped, I believe.”

“You believe?”

“Felt-tipped. I’m sure of it.”

“Very good,” he said as though he were speaking to a child. “Now, is it fine point, medium, or bold?”

She slowly raised the long, slender middle finger of her right hand and waved it at Gabriel.

“I’ll take that to mean bold point. What about the keys?”

She hunted through her handbag, tossed him the silver mascara case. Gabriel thumbed the release, lifted the lid, looked at the imprints.

She said, “We may have a problem.”

Gabriel closed the lid and looked up.

Jacqueline said, “I think he may have seen me with his keys.”

“Tell me about it.”

She recounted the entire chain of events for him, then added cautiously, “He wants to see me again.”

“When?”

“Tonight at six-thirty. He’s meeting me at the gallery.”

“Did you accept?”

“Yes, but I can-”

“No,” Gabriel said, interrupting her. “That’s perfect. I want you to meet him and keep him entertained long enough for me to get inside his flat and plant the bugs.”

“Then what?”

“Then it will be done.”

Gabriel left the building through a back service door. He slipped across the courtyard, scaled a cinder-block wall, and leaped into an alleyway strewn with beer cans and bits of broken glass. Then he walked to the Maida Vale Underground station. He felt unsettled. He didn’t like the fact that Yusef had asked to see Jacqueline a second time.

He rode the Underground to Covent Garden. The bodel was waiting in line for coffee at the market. It was the same boy who had taken Gabriel’s field report at Waterloo Station. A black, soft-sided leather briefcase hung on his back from a shoulder strap, a side pocket facing out. Gabriel had placed the silver case containing the imprints of Yusef’s keys in a brown envelope-standard size, plain, no markings. He sat at a table drinking tea, eyes working methodically over the crowd.

The bodel bought coffee, started to walk away. Gabriel got up and followed him, slicing through the crowded market, until he was directly behind him. Gabriel bumped the bodel as he was taking the first sip of coffee, spilling some of it down the front of his jacket. He apologized and walked away, the plain brown envelope now residing safely in the outside pocket of the bodel‘s briefcase.

Gabriel wound his way through St. Giles, across New Oxford Street, then up the Tottenham Court Road, where there were several shops specializing in electronic goods. Ten minutes later, after visiting two of the shops, he was back in a taxi heading across London to the listening post in Sussex Gardens. On the seat next to him was a bag containing four items: a Sony clock radio, a British Telecom phone, and two felt-tipped pens, one red, one blue, both bold.

Karp sat at the dining room table, studying the exposed internal components of the clock radio and telephone through a lighted magnifying glass. As Gabriel watched Karp work, he thought about his studio in Cornwall and imagined he was peering through his Wild microscope at the surface of the Vecellio.

Karp said, “We call it a hot mike. Your outfit calls it a glass if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re correct as usual.”

“It’s a wonderful little piece of equipment, coverage of his flat and his telephone with the same device. Two for the price of one, you might say. And you never have to worry about replacing the battery because the transmitter draws its power from the telephone.”

Karp paused for a moment to concentrate on his work. “Once these go in, the monitoring operation is basically on autopilot. The tape decks are voice-activated. They’ll roll only if there’s something coming from the source. If you need to leave the flat for any reason, you can check the tapes when you come back. My work is basically finished.”

“I’ll miss you, Randy.”

“Gabe, I’m touched.”

“I know.”

“That was a nice piece of work, sending in the girl like that. Break-ins can get messy. Always better to get the keys and phone before you go in for the plant.”

Karp placed the cover back on the telephone, handed it to Gabriel. “Your turn.”

Gabriel the restorer picked up his pens and began making marks on the keypad.

Kemel Azouri had been at Schloss headquarters in Zürich earlier that morning, meeting with his sales staff, when he received a text message over his pager: Mr. Taylor wished to speak to him about a problem with last Thursday’s shipment. Kemel cut short his meeting, took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and boarded the next Eurostar train to London. The timing of the message intrigued him. Mr. Taylor was the code name for an agent in London. “A problem with the shipment” was a code phrase for urgent. Use of the word Thursday meant the agent wished to meet on Cheyne Walk at four-fifteen. Kemel strode through the arrival hall at Waterloo and climbed into a taxi at the stand. A moment later he was speeding across the Westminster Bridge.