Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“And then?”

“When the moment presents itself, you’ll take Tariq down, and it will be over.”

“Let’s arrest him at Charles de Gaulle.”

Shamron pursed his lips and shook his head.

Gabriel said, “Why not?”

Shamron held up a thick forefinger. “Number one, because it would require involving the French, something I’m not prepared to do. Number two, no one has managed to build a case against Tariq that’s going to stand up in a courtroom. Number three, if we tell the French and our friends in Langley that we know where Tariq is going to be on a certain day, they’re going to want to know how we came by this information. It would also mean confessing to our brethren in London that we’ve been running an operation on their soil and neglected to tell them about it. They’re not going to be pleased about that. Finally, the last thing we need is Tariq behind bars, a symbol for all those who would like to see the peace process destroyed. I would rather he disappear quietly.”

“How about a snatch job?”

“Do you really think we could take Tariq from the middle of a crowded terminal at Charles de Gaulle? Of course not. If we want Tariq, we’re going to have to play by his rules for a few hours.”

Shamron lit a cigarette and violently waved out the match. “It’s up to you, Gabriel. An operation like this requires the direct approval of the prime minister. He’s in his office right now, waiting to hear whether you’re prepared to go through with it. What should I tell him?”

St. James’s, London

The middle afternoon, Julian Isherwood had decided, was the cruelest part of the day. What was it exactly? The fatigue of a good lunch? The early dark of London in winter? The sleepy rhythm of the rain rattling against his windows? This nether region of the day had become Isherwood’s personal purgatory, a heartless space of time wedged between the sentimental hope he felt each morning when he arrived at the gallery and the cold reality of decline he felt each evening as he made his way back home to South Kensington. Three o’clock, the hour of death: too early to close up-that would feel like complete capitulation-too many hours to fill with too little meaningful work.

So he was seated at his desk, his left hand wrapped around the comforting shape of a warm mug of tea, his right flipping morosely through a stack of papers: bills he could not pay, notices of good pictures coming onto the market he could not afford to buy.

He lifted his head and peered through the doorway separating his office from the anteroom, toward the creature seated behind the headmasterly little desk. A striking figure, this girl who called herself Dominique: a real work of art, that one. At least she had made things at the gallery more interesting, whoever she was.

In the past he had insisted on keeping the doorway separating the two offices tightly closed. He was an important man, he liked to believe-a man who had important discussions with important people-and he had wanted a rampart between himself and his secretary. Now he found he preferred to keep it open. Oh, that he were twenty years younger, at the height of his powers. He could have had her back then. He’d had a good many back then, girls just like her. It wasn’t just the money, or the villa in St.-Tropez, or the yacht. It was the art. The paintings were a better aphrodisiac than cocaine.

In his copious spare time, Isherwood had concocted all sorts of fantasies about her. He wondered whether she was French at all or just one of those Israelis who could pass herself off as almost anything. He had also discovered that he found her vaguely intimidating, which made it quite impossible to even contemplate the physical act of love with her. Or is it just me? he thought. Is this how we cope with the decay of aging? With the dwindling of our power? The deterioration of our skills? Does the mind mercifully release us from desire so we can step aside gracefully for the younger generation and not make complete jackasses of ourselves over women like Dominique Bonard?

But as he watched her now he knew there was something wrong. She had been on edge all day. She had refused to leave the gallery. He had invited her to lunch at Wilton ’s-nothing suspicious, mind you: no ulterior motives-but she had declined and ordered a sandwich delivered from the café instead. Perhaps it had something to do with that Arab boy who’d come to the gallery the other night-Yusef, she had called him. Or perhaps it was Gabriel. Isherwood was certain of one thing. If Gabriel ever hurt her, the way he hurt that little boy in Cornwall -God, what was his name? Pearl? Puck? No, Peel it was-well… Unfortunately, there was not much he could do to Gabriel except never forgive him.

Outside, he heard two short bursts of an automotive horn. He stood and walked to the window. Below him, on the bricks of Mason’s Yard, was a delivery van standing just outside the sealed doors of the loading bay.

Funny, there were no deliveries scheduled for today. The driver honked again, long and loud this time. For Christ’s sake, Isherwood thought. Who the hell are you? What do you want?

Then he peered down through the front windshield. Because of the angle he could not see the driver’s face, he could only see a pair of hands, wrapped around the steering wheel. He would have recognized those hands anywhere. Best hands in the business.

They rode the lift to the upper gallery, Jacqueline between them like a prisoner, Gabriel to her left, Shamron to her right. She tried to catch Gabriel’s eye, but he was looking straight ahead. When the door opened, Shamron guided her to the viewing bench as though he were placing a witness in the dock. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting on her hands. Gabriel stood behind her. Shamron paced the length of the gallery like a prospective buyer unimpressed with the merchandise.

He spoke for twenty minutes without pausing. As Jacqueline watched him, she thought about the night he asked her to join the Office. She felt the same sense of purpose and duty she had felt that night. Shamron’s taut little body portrayed so much strength that her fears seemed to melt away. On its face what he was asking of her was outrageous-accompany the world’s most dangerous terrorist on a mission-but she was able to evaluate his words without the cumbersome emotion of fear. She thought: Shamron is not afraid; therefore I am not afraid. She had to admit that she was enthralled by the mere idea of it. Imagine, the girl from Marseilles whose grandparents were murdered in the Holocaust, helping to destroy Tariq al-Hourani and preserve the security of Israel. It would be the perfect end to her career with the Office, the fulfillment of every desire that made her join in the first place. It would also prove to Gabriel that she could be brave too.

“You have every right to tell us no,” Shamron said. “You signed up for a very different operation than this-one much shorter in duration and with considerably less physical risk. But the situation has changed. Sometimes operations are like that.”

He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of her. “But I can assure you of one thing, Jacqueline. Your safety will be our first priority. You’ll never be alone. We’ll walk you to the airplane and be waiting at the other end when you come off. We’ll go wherever you go. And the first time an opportunity presents itself, we’ll move in and end things. You also have my word that if your life is in danger, we will move in at that moment, regardless of the consequences. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

She nodded. Shamron reached into his briefcase, withdrew a small gift box, about two inches by two inches, and handed it to Jacqueline. She opened it. A gold lighter, nestled in white cotton filler.