Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

A few moments after takeoff Shamron hung up the secure telephone in the office of Benjamin Stone’s private jet and joined Gabriel in the luxuriously appointed salon. “I just notified Ottawa station.”

“Who’s in Ottawa these days?”

“Your old friend Zvi Yadin. He’s on his way to Montreal now with a small team. They’ll meet the plane and put Jacqueline and her new friend under watch.”

“Why Montreal?”

“Haven’t you read the papers?”

“I’m sorry, Ari, but I’ve been a bit busy.”

On the table next to Shamron’s chair was a stack of newspapers, neatly arranged so the mastheads were visible. He snatched the top paper and flipped it into Gabriel’s lap. “There’s going to be a signing ceremony at the UN in three days. Everyone’s going to be there. The American president, the prime minister, Arafat and all his deputies. It looks as though Tariq’s going to try to spoil the party.”

Gabriel glanced at the newspaper and tossed it back onto the table.

“ Montreal is a natural staging point for a man like Tariq. He speaks fluent French and has the capability to secure false passports. He flies to Montreal as a Frenchman and enters Quebec without a visa. Once he’s in Canada he’s almost home. There are tens of thousands of Arabs living in Montreal. He’ll have plenty of places to hide. Security along the U.S.-Canadian border is lax or nonexistent. On some roads there are no border posts at all. In Montreal he can switch passports-American or Canadian-and simply drive into the States. Or, if he’s feeling adventurous, he can walk across the border.”

“Tariq never struck me as an outdoorsman.”

“He’ll do whatever is necessary to get his target. And if that means walking ten miles through the snow, he’ll walk through the snow.”

“I don’t like the fact that they changed the rules in Paris,” Gabriel said. “I don’t like the fact that Yusef lied to Jacqueline about how this was going to work.”

“All it means is that for reasons of security Tariq finds it necessary to deceive his own people. That’s standard procedure for a man like him. Arafat did it for years. That’s the reason he’s alive today. His enemies within the Palestinian movement couldn’t get to him.”

“And neither could you.”

“Point well taken.”

The door connecting the salon to the office opened, and Stone entered the room.

Shamron said, “There’s a stateroom in the back of the plane. Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

Gabriel stood up without a word and left the salon. Stone lowered his mammoth body into a chair and scooped up a handful of Brazil nuts. “He has passion,” he said, popping a pair of nuts into his mouth. “An assassin with a conscience. I like that. The rest of the world is going to like him even better.”

“Benjamin, what on earth are you talking about?”

“He’s the meal ticket. Don’t you understand, Ari? He’s the way you repay your debts to me. All of them, wiped out in a single neat payment.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping a ledger. I thought you helped us because you believed in us. I thought you helped us because you wanted to help protect the State.”

“Let me finish, Ari. Hear me out. I don’t want your money. I want him. I want you to let me tell his story. I’ll assign it to my best reporter. Let me publish the story of the Israeli who restores old master paintings by day and kills Palestinian terrorists by night.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“On the contrary, Ari. I’m quite serious. I’ll serialize it. I’ll sell the film rights to Hollywood. Give me an exclusive on this manhunt. The view from the inside. It will send a message to my troops that we still have what it takes to shake up Fleet Street. And-this is the best part, Ari-and it will send a strong signal to my backers in the City that I’m still a force to be reckoned with.”

Shamron made an elaborate show of lighting his next cigarette. He studied Stone through a cloud of smoke, nodding slowly while he considered the gravity of his proposition. Stone was a drowning man, and unless Shamron did something to cut him away, he would take them both straight to the bottom.

Gabriel tried to sleep, but it was no use. Each time he closed his eyes, images of the case appeared in his mind. Instinctively he saw them rendered as motionless reproductions captured in oil on canvas. Shamron on the Lizard, calling him back to service. Jacqueline making love to Yusef. Leah in her greenhouse prison in Surrey. Yusef meeting his contact in Hyde Park… “Don’t worry, Yusef. Your girlfriend won’t say no to you.”

Then he thought of the scene he had just witnessed at Charles de Gaulle. Restoration had taught Gabriel a valuable lesson. Sometimes what appears on the surface is quite different from what is taking place just below. Three years earlier he had been hired to restore a Van Dyck, a piece the artist had painted for a private chapel in Genoa depicting the Assumption of Mary. When Gabriel performed his initial analysis of the painting’s surface, he thought he saw something beneath the Virgin’s face. Over time the light-toned paints Van Dyck had used to render her skin had faded, and it seemed an image below was beginning to rise. Gabriel performed an extensive X-ray examination of the picture to view what was taking place beneath the surface. He discovered a completely finished work, a portrait of a rather fleshy woman clad in a white gown. The black-and-white film of the X ray made her appear specterlike. Even so Gabriel recognized the shimmering quality of Van Dyck’s silks and the expressive hands that characterized the paintings he produced while living in Italy. He later learned that the work had been commissioned by a Genoese aristocrat whose wife had hated it so much that she refused to accept it. When Van Dyck was commissioned to paint the chapel piece, he simply covered up the old portrait in white paint and reused the canvas. By the time the canvas reached Gabriel’s hands, more than three and a half centuries later, the wife of the Genoese aristocrat had taken her revenge on the artist by rising to the surface of his painting.

He closed his eyes again and this time drifted into a restless sleep. The last image he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was Jacqueline and the woman seated in the airport café, rendered as an Impressionist street scene, and standing in the background was the ghostly, translucent figure of Tariq, beckoning Gabriel forward with an exquisite Van Dyck hand.

Paris

Yusef took a taxi from the airport to the center of the city. For two hours he moved steadily about Paris -by Métro, by taxi, and on foot. When he was confident he was alone, he walked to an apartment house in the Sixteenth Arrondissement not far from the Bois de Boulogne. On the wall in the entranceway was a house phone and next to the phone a list of occupants. Yusef pressed the button for 4B, which bore the name Guzman in faded blue script. When the door opened he stepped quickly inside, crossed the foyer, and rode the lift up to the fourth floor. He knocked on the door. It was opened instantly by a stout man with steel-blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. He pulled Yusef inside and quietly closed the door.

It was early evening in Tel Aviv when Mordecai stepped out of his office in the top-floor executive suite and made his way down the corridor toward Operations. As he entered the room a pair of Lev’s black-eyed desk officers stared at him contemptuously over their computer terminals.

“Is he still in?”

One of the officers pointed toward Lev’s office with the tip of a chewed pencil. Mordecai turned and walked down the corridor. He felt like a stranger in a besieged village. Outsiders were not welcome in Lev’s realm, even if the outsider happened to be the second-most-senior officer in the service.