Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

Tariq mounted the stairs, still clutching her hand; his skin was hot and damp. The stairwell smelled of curry and turpentine. A door opened, and a face briefly appeared in the darkness, a bearded man wearing a white gown. He glanced at Tariq, then slipped back into his apartment and softly closed the door.

They came to a doorway marked 2A. Tariq knocked softly twice.

Leila opened the door and pulled Jacqueline inside.

New York City

One hour later Ari Shamron arrived at the Israeli diplomatic mission to the United Nations on Second Avenue and Forty-third Street. He slipped through a knot of protesters, head bowed slightly, and stepped inside. A member of the mission security staff was waiting for him in the lobby and escorted him upstairs to the secure room. The prime minister was there, surrounded by a trio of nervous-looking aides, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Shamron sat down and looked at the prime minister’s chief of staff. “Give me a copy of his schedule and leave the room.”

As the aides filed out of the room, the prime minister said, “What happened in Montreal?”

Shamron gave him a detailed account. When he finished, the prime minister closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I brought you out of retirement to restore the reputation of the Office, Ari-not to create yet another disaster! Do we have any reason to believe the Canadians were aware of our presence in Montreal?”

“No, Prime Minister.”

“Do you think your agent is still alive?”

“It’s hard to say, but the situation appears to be rather bleak. The women who have encountered Tariq in the past have not fared terribly well.”

“The press is going to have a field day with this one. I can see the headlines now: Beautiful French Fashion Model Secret Agent for Israel! Fuck, Ari!”

“There’s no way she can be formally linked to the Office.”

“Someone’s going to get the story, Ari. Someone always does.”

“If they do, we’ll use our friends like Benjamin Stone to knock it down. I can assure you complete deniability of all aspects of this affair.”

“I don’t want deniability! You promised me Tariq’s head on a platter with no fuckups and no fingerprints! I still want Tariq’s head on a platter, and I want Jacqueline Delacroix alive.”

“We want the same things, Prime Minister. But at this moment your security is our first priority.” Shamron picked up the schedule and began to read.

“After the ceremony at the United Nations, it’s down to the financial district for a meeting with investors, followed by an appearance at the New York Stock Exchange. After that you go to the Waldorf for a luncheon hosted by the Friends of Zion.” Shamron looked up briefly. “And that’s the first half of the day. After lunch you go to Brooklyn to visit a Jewish community center and discuss the peace process. Then it’s back to Manhattan for a round of cocktail parties and receptions.”

Shamron lowered the paper and looked at the prime minister. “This is a security nightmare. I want Allon assigned to your personal detail for the day.”

“Why Allon?”

“Because he got a good look at Tariq in Montreal. If Tariq’s out there, Gabriel will see him.”

“Tell him he has to wear a suit.”

“I don’t think he owns one.”

“Get one.”

It was a tiny apartment: a sparsely furnished living room, a kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked porcelain sink, a single bedroom, a bathroom that smelled of damp. The windows were hung with thick woolen blankets, which blocked out all light. Tariq opened the closet door. Inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. He carried the suitcase into the living room, placed it on the floor, opened it. Black gabardine trousers, neatly pressed and folded, white dinner jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. In the zippered compartment, a wallet. Tariq opened it and studied the contents: a New York driver’s license in the name of Emilio Gonzales, a Visa credit card, a video store rental card, an assortment of receipts, a clip-on identification badge. Kemel had done his work well.

Tariq looked at the photograph. Emilio Gonzales was a balding man with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. His cheeks were fuller than Tariq’s; nothing a few balls of cotton wouldn’t take care of. He removed the clothing from the suitcase and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he removed the final item from the suitcase-a small leather toiletry kit, and went into the bathroom.

He placed the toiletry kit on the basin and propped the photograph of Emilio Gonzales on the shelf below the mirror. Tariq looked at his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized his own face: deep black circles beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin, bloodless lips. Part of it was lack of sleep-he couldn’t remember when he had slept last-but the illness was to blame for most of it. The tumor was stalking him now: numbness in his extremities, ringing in his ears, unbearable headaches, fatigue. He did not have much longer to live. He had arrived at this place, this moment in history, with little time to spare.

He opened the toiletry kit, removed a pair of scissors and a razor, and began cutting his hair. It took nearly an hour to complete the job.

The transformation was remarkable. With the silver hair coloring, mustache, and thicker cheeks, he bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph. But Tariq understood that the subtleties of his performance were just as important as the actual likeness. If he behaved like Emilio Gonzales, no security guard or policeman would question him. If he acted like a terrorist on a suicide mission, he would die in an American prison.

He went into the living room, removed his clothing, changed into the waiter’s uniform. Then he walked back to the bathroom for one final look in the mirror. He combed his thinned-out hair over his new bald spot and felt vaguely depressed. To die in a strange land, with another man’s name and another man’s face. He supposed it was the logical conclusion of the life he had led. Only one thing to do now: make certain his life had not been wasted on a lost cause.

He walked into the bedroom.

As he entered Leila stood, face alarmed, and raised her gun.

“It’s only me,” he said softly in Arabic. “Put the gun down before it goes off and you hurt somebody.”

She did as he said, then shook her head in wonderment. “It’s remarkable. I would never have recognized you.”

“That’s the point.”

“You obviously missed your true calling. You should have been an actor.”

“So, everything is in place. All we need now is Gabriel Allon.”

Tariq looked at Jacqueline. She lay spread-eagled on the small bed, wrists and ankles secured by four sets of handcuffs, mouth gagged by heavy electrical tape.

“I found it interesting that within minutes of arriving at the hotel room in Montreal you checked your telephone messages at your flat in London. When I was working for the PLO, we discovered that the Israelis had the ability to take virtually any telephone in the world and route it directly to their headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. Obviously that was done to your telephone in London. When you called that number, it must have alerted headquarters that you were in the Hotel Queen Elizabeth in Montreal.”

Tariq sat down on the edge of the bed, gently pushed Jacqueline’s hair out of her face. She closed her eyes and tried to draw away from his touch.

“I’m going to use that device one more time to deceive Ari Shamron and Gabriel Allon. Leila is not a bad actress herself. When I’m ready to move against the target, Leila will telephone your number in London and impersonate you. She will tell headquarters where I am and what I’m about to do. Headquarters will tell Shamron, and Shamron will quickly dispatch Gabriel Allon to the scene. Obviously, I will know that Allon is coming. Therefore, I will hold a significant advantage.”