Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“Please,” said Jacqueline.

Leila looked around. The bathroom was windowless, no way out except the door. “Knock on the door when you’re finished, Dominique. Stay inside until I tell you to come out.”

Jacqueline lowered her jeans and sat down on the toilet. Now what? To have any chance of getting away she needed a weapon of some sort. Maybe she could hit her with the lid to the toilet tank. No, too big, too heavy. She looked around the bathroom: a shampoo bottle, a bar of soap, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, a nail file.

A nail file.

It was resting on the shelf above the sink, below the mirror: a metal nail file, rounded at one end, sharp at the other. Jacqueline remembered her self-defense course at the Academy. The simplest device could be turned into a lethal weapon if the attacker struck in the right place: the eyes, the ears, the throat. Carefully, she picked up the nail file and gripped it across her palm, so that about an inch of the blade protruded from the heel of her hand.

But can I really do this?

Jacqueline thought of what Tariq was going to do to Gabriel. She thought about what Leila was going to do to her. She raised her blouse and looked at the burned skin of her abdomen.

She stood up and knocked on the door.

“Open the door slowly and step out with your hands behind your head.”

Jacqueline concealed the nail file in the palm of her right hand, opened the door, and placed her hands behind her head. Then she walked out into the living room. Leila was there, pointing the gun at Jacqueline’s chest. “Back to the bedroom,” she said, motioning with the gun.

Jacqueline turned and walked to the bedroom, Leila trailing a pace behind her, the gun in her outstretched hands. Jacqueline stopped at the edge of the bed.

Leila said, “Lie down and attach the handcuff to your right wrist.”

Jacqueline hesitated.

Leila shouted, “Do it!”

Jacqueline whirled around. As she turned she used her thumb to press the blade of the nail file into view. Leila was caught completely off guard. Instead of shooting she instinctively raised her hands. Jacqueline was aiming for her ear canal, but Leila moved just enough so that the tip of the file tore into the flesh of her cheekbone.

It was a deep wound, and blood immediately began to spout from it. Leila howled in pain, the gun tumbled from her grasp.

Jacqueline resisted the natural impulse to grab for the gun and forced herself to stab the girl again. She drew back her arm and swung it in a wide arc. This time the blade struck Leila in the side of the neck.

Warm blood spurted onto Jacqueline’s hand.

She let go of the file. It was protruding from the side of Leila’s neck. Leila looked at Jacqueline, her gaze a peculiar mixture of pain, horror, and utter surprise, her hands clutching at the metal object in her neck.

Jacqueline reached down and picked up the fallen gun.

Leila pulled the nail file from the side of her neck and lunged toward Jacqueline with a killing rage in her eyes.

Jacqueline raised the gun and shot her through the heart.

New York City

Tariq stood up and crossed Fifth Avenue. He walked to the service entrance of the apartment house and picked up a case of champagne that was standing just inside the doorway. A man with an apron and heavily oiled black hair looked up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Tariq shrugged, still holding the case of champagne. “My name is Emilio Gonzales.”

“So?”

“I was told to come here. I work for Elite Catering.”

“So how come I don’t know you?”

“This is my first job for them. I got a call this morning. Guy told me to get my ass over here right away-big party, needed some extra help. So here I am.”

“Well, it is a big party, and I could use a pair of extra hands. Someone important too. Helluva lot of security up there.”

“So?”

“So what the fuck are you standing there for? Take that upstairs and get your ass back down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the small apartment the gunshot sounded like a cannon blast. Surely someone had heard it. Jacqueline had to get away quickly. But she had to do one thing first. She had to warn Gabriel about Tariq’s plan.

She stepped over Leila’s dead body, snatched up the receiver, dialed the number in London. When she heard the recording of her own voice, she pressed three more numbers. There was a series of clicks, followed by a humming tone, then the voice of a young woman.

“Yes.”

“I need Ari Shamron, priority one. It’s an emergency.”

“Security word.”

“ Jericho. Please, hurry!”

“Stand by, please.”

The calmness in the woman’s voice was maddening. There was another series of clicks and buzzes, but this time it was the voice of Shamron on the line.

“Jacqueline? Is that really you? Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in Brooklyn, I think.”

“Hold on. I’ll get your exact address from headquarters.”

“Don’t leave me alone!”

“I’m not. I’m right here.”

She began to cry.

“What happened?”

“Tariq’s out there somewhere! He’s disguised as a waiter. He looks totally different from Montreal. He was going to use the secure link to lure Gabriel into a trap, but I killed Leila with a nail file and her gun.”

She realized she probably sounded like a hysteric.

“Is the girl there now?”

“Yes, right next to me, on the floor. Oh, Ari, it’s horrible.”

“You have to get out of there. Just tell me one thing: Do you know where Tariq is going?”

“No.”

Just then she heard heavy footfalls in the stairwell.

Shit!

She whispered, “Someone’s coming!”

“Get out of there!”

“There’s only one way out.”

She heard knocking at the door: two crisp blows that seemed to shake the entire apartment.

“Ari, I don’t know what to do.”

“Be quiet and wait.”

Three more knocks, harder still. No more footsteps. Whoever was out there hadn’t left yet.

She was unprepared for the next sound: a violent thud, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. The noise was so loud that Jacqueline expected to see several people charge into the room, but it was only one man-the man who had appeared in the doorway that morning when Tariq brought her into the building.

He held a baseball bat in his clenched fists.

Jacqueline dropped the receiver. The man looked down at Leila’s body, then at Jacqueline. Then he raised the bat and started running toward her. Jacqueline leveled the gun and squeezed off two shots. The first struck him high in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second tore into the center of his back, severing his spinal cord. She moved forward and fired two more shots.

The room was filled with gun smoke and the smell of powder, the walls and floor spattered with blood. Jacqueline bent down and picked up the telephone.

“Ari?”

“Thank God it’s you. Listen carefully, Jacqueline. You have to get out of there now.”

“No shit, Ari! Where do I go?”

“Apparently, you’re at the corner of Parkville Avenue and East Eighth Street in Brooklyn.”

“That doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“Leave the building and walk to Parkville Avenue. Make a left turn onto Parkville and walk to Coney Island Avenue. At Coney Island Avenue make a right turn. Do not cross Coney Island. Stay on that side of the street. Keep walking. Someone will pick you up.”

“Who?”

“Just do as I say, and get out of there now!”

The line went dead.

She dropped the receiver onto the floor and picked up her coat, which was lying on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on the coat, slipped the gun into the front pocket, and walked quickly out. She followed Shamron’s instructions and a moment later was walking past the storefronts of Coney Island Avenue.