Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“What was Lev told?” Shamron said wearily.

“I left a cover story in place with our secretary. She told Lev that we received a tip from a friend in the Canadian service that a member of Islamic Jihad might be living in Quebec City and that we had run up to QC to have a look at him. Lev sends another rocket: On whose authority? Please supply the name of IJ Activist. So on and so forth. You get the picture, boss.”

Shamron swore softly. “Send him a message when you get home. Tell him it was a false alarm.”

“Listen, boss, we go back a long way. But you’re going to retire again soon, and Lev may be running this place. He could make my life miserable. He enjoys that sort of thing. He’s a bastard.”

“Let me worry about Lev. You were just doing what I told you to do.”

“Just following orders-right, boss?”

Yadin’s cell phone chirped softly. He flipped open the mouthpiece and brought it to his ear. “Yes?”

A pause.

“When?”

Another pause.

“Where?”

Another pause, slightly longer.

“Stay with them. But remember who you’re dealing with. Keep a safe distance.”

He severed the connection and tossed the phone onto the dash.

“What is it?” asked Shamron.

“He’s on the move.”

“What about Jacqueline?”

“They’re together.”

“Where?”

“Look’s like they’ve gone shopping.”

“Get me a picture, Zvi. I need to make sure it’s him.”

There are two Montreals. There is the Montreal of the surface. In winter it becomes a snowbound tundra. Icy Arctic winds roar between the skyscrapers and prowl the winding alleyways of the Old City down by the river. Then there is underground Montreal: a labyrinth of gleaming shops, cafés, bars, markets, and designer clothing stores that snakes its way beneath much of downtown, making it possible to travel for blocks without ever setting foot outside.

A fitting spot for it to end, thought Jacqueline; two worlds, two layers, two realities. I’m Jacqueline Delacroix, the model. I’m Dominique Bonard, the secretary from Isherwood Fine Arts in London. I’m Sarah Halévy, the Jewish girl from Marseilles, the agent from the Office. She had more layers than Montreal.

She was walking at his side. His hand was resting lightly on her shoulder, and he was using it to guide her through the crowds of evening shoppers. Jacqueline studied the kaleidoscope of faces streaming past her: pretty French boys and girls, Arabs, Africans, Jews-the ethnic patchwork quilt that is Montreal. She might have forgotten she had ever left Paris except for the blunt edge of their French accents.

He was checking to see if they were being followed-Jacqueline could see that. Pausing in storefronts, making abrupt changes in direction, inventing excuses to double back. She hoped Shamron’s team was good. If they weren’t, Tariq was going to spot them.

They walked through the exclusive shops beneath the rue St-Catherine. In one she picked out a full-length down-lined coat. In another a fur hat. In a third two pairs of jeans and several pairs of long underwear. Finally, in a shop specializing in outdoor goods, she picked out a pair of insulated boots. He hung at her side the entire time. When she went into a changing room to try on the jeans he waited just outside the door and smiled pleasantly at the salesgirls. He paid for everything with a credit card in the name of Lucien Daveau.

When they were finished they walked back toward the hotel. She thought: What are you waiting for? Do it now. Take him down. But they couldn’t do it here-not in underground Montreal. The entire network of shopping malls could be sealed off in a matter of minutes. Gabriel and the rest of the team would be trapped inside. They would be arrested and questioned. The police would establish a link to the Office, and the whole thing would blow up in Shamron’s face.

He suggested a coffee before dinner, so they stopped in an espresso bar a short distance from the hotel. Jacqueline flipped idly through a tourist guide while he sipped his drink. At one point he removed a prescription bottle from his pocket and swallowed two tablets. Five minutes later-she knew the exact time because she had been playing Shamron’s awareness games throughout the excursion-a man in a gray business suit sat down at the next table. He placed his briefcase on the ground: black leather, soft sides, gold combination latches. The man stayed for a few minutes, then stood and walked away, leaving the bag behind. When Tariq had finished his coffee, he nonchalantly picked up the bag along with Jacqueline’s parcels.

Two Montreals, two realities, thought Jacqueline as they walked back to the hotel. In one reality they had just gone shopping. In the other Tariq had spent an hour checking to see if he was being followed, and Tariq had taken possession of his gun.

Gabriel appeared at the concierge desk and asked directions to a good restaurant. The concierge was called Jean-small and neat, with the thin mustache and frozen smile of an accomplished hotelier. Gabriel spoke rapid French. The concierge answered him in the same language. He told Gabriel about an excellent Parisian-style bistro called the Alexandre; then he handed him a folded tourist map and told him the address. Gabriel tucked the map into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, thanked the concierge, and walked away. But instead of heading toward the street entrance, he strode across the lobby, boarded an elevator, and rode it to the fourteenth floor.

He walked quickly along the corridor. In his right hand was a plastic shopping bag from one of the boutiques in the lobby, and inside the bag was a hotel telephone, wrapped in tissue paper. As he approached the door he removed the map from his breast pocket and unfolded it. Inside was the credit card-style key to Tariq’s room. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the latch. Gabriel slipped the card key in and out of the door slot, then stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.

For their command post Yadin had taken a suite at the Sheraton, a few blocks up the boulevard René Lévesque from the Queen Elizabeth. When Gabriel entered the suite, Shamron was there, along with Yadin and a black-haired girl whom Yadin introduced as Deborah. She reminded Gabriel a great deal of Leah, more than he might have wished at that moment. A large-scale street map of Montreal was spread over the bed. Shamron had shoved his glasses onto his forehead and was rubbing the bridge of his nose as he paced. Gabriel poured himself a cup of coffee and held it tightly to warm his hands.

Yadin said, “They’re back in the room. The glass is picking up their conversation perfectly. Nice work, Gabriel.”

“What are they saying?”

“Small talk mostly. I’ll send a man over to collect the tapes. If there’s anything urgent the boy in the room will call.”

“Where’d they go while they were out?”

“Shopping mainly, but we think Tariq may have a gun.”

Gabriel lowered his coffee cup and looked up sharply.

“Deborah was following them at the time,” Yadin said. “She saw the whole thing.”

She quickly described the scene at the coffee bar. She spoke English with an American accent.

“How’s Jacqueline holding up?”

“She looked good. A little tired but fine.”

The telephone rang. Yadin picked it up before it could ring a second time. He listened for a moment without speaking, then set down the receiver and looked up at Shamron. “He just booked a table at a restaurant on the rue St. Denis.”

“What’s the area like?”

“Cafés, shops, bars, discos, that sort of thing,” said Yadin. “Very busy, very Bohemian.”

“The kind of place we could mount a surveillance operation?”

“Absolutely.”