Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

One mile away, in the auditorium of a Jewish community center on Ocean Avenue, Gabriel stood a few feet from the prime minister as he read the story of Masada to a group of schoolchildren. Another member of the prime minister’s security detail tapped Gabriel on the shoulder lightly and whispered, “You have a phone call. Sounds urgent.”

Gabriel stepped into the lobby. Another bodyguard handed him a cell phone.

“Yes?”

Shamron said, “She’s alive.”

“What! Where is she?”

“Heading your way on Coney Island Avenue. She’s walking on the west side of the street. She’s alone. Go get her. I’ll let her tell you the rest.”

Gabriel severed the connection and looked up. “I need a car. Now!”

Two minutes later Gabriel was speeding north along Coney Island Avenue, his eyes scanning the pedestrians on the sidewalks for any sign of Jacqueline. Shamron had said she would be on the west side of the street, but Gabriel looked on both sides in case she had become confused or frightened by something else. He read the passing street signs: Avenue L, Avenue K, Avenue J…

Damn! Where the hell is she?

He spotted her at the intersection of Coney Island and Avenue H. Her hair was mussed, her face swollen. She had the air of the hunted about her. Still, she was composed and cool. Gabriel could see her eyes scanning slowly back and forth.

He quickly made a U-turn, pulled to the curb, and reached across the front seat to open the passenger-side door. Reflexively, she backed away a few steps and reached into her pocket. Then she saw it was him, and her composure dissolved. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

“Get in,” he said calmly.

She climbed in and closed the door.

Gabriel pulled into traffic, accelerating rapidly.

After a few blocks she said, “Pull over.”

Gabriel turned into a side street and parked, engine running. “Are you all right, Jacqueline? What happened? Tell me everything.”

She started to weep, softly at first; then her entire body began to convulse with wrenching sobs. Gabriel pulled her to him and held her tightly. “It’s over,” he said softly. “It’s all over.”

“Please don’t ever leave me again, Gabriel. Be with me, Gabriel. Please, be with me.”

New York City

Tariq circulated through the magnificent rooms overlooking Central Park while the guests carelessly dropped items on his oval-shaped tray: empty glasses, half-eaten plates of food, crumpled napkins, cigarette butts. He glanced at his watch. Leila would have made the call by now. Allon was probably on his way. It would be over soon.

He walked through the library. A pair of French doors led onto the terrace. In spite of the cold, a handful of guests stood outside admiring the view. As Tariq stepped onto the balcony, the wail of distant sirens filled the air. He walked to the balustrade and looked up Fifth Avenue: a motorcade, complete with police escort and motorcycle outriders.

The guest of honor was about to arrive.

But where the hell is Allon?

“Excuse me? Hello?”

Tariq looked up. A woman with a fur coat was waving at him. He had been so absorbed by the sight of the approaching motorcade that he had forgotten he was posing as a busboy.

The woman held up a half-empty glass of red wine. “Can you take this please?”

“Certainly, madam.”

Tariq walked across the terrace and stood next to the woman, who was now talking to a friend. Without looking she reached out and tried to place the glass on Tariq’s tray, but it teetered on its small base and tipped over, splashing red wine over Tariq’s white jacket.

“Oh heavens,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry.” Then she turned away as if nothing had happened and resumed her conversation.

Tariq carried his tray back to the kitchen.

“What the fuck happened to you?” It was the man with the apron and the oiled black hair: Rodney, the boss.

“A woman spilled wine on me.”

Tariq placed his full tray on the counter next to the sink. Just then he heard a round of applause sweep through the apartment. The guest of honor had entered the room. Tariq picked up an empty tray and started to leave the kitchen.

Rodney said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back out to do my job.”

“Not looking like that, you’re not. You’re on kitchen duty now. Get over there and help with the dishes.”

“I can clean the jacket.”

“It’s red wine, pal. The jacket’s ruined.”

“But-”

“Just get over there and start on those dishes.”

Douglas Cannon said, “President Arafat, so good to see you again.”

Arafat smiled. “Same to you, Senator. Or should I say Ambassador Cannon now?”

“ Douglas will do you just fine.”

Cannon took Arafat’s small hand in his own bearish paws and shook it vigorously. Cannon was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a mane of unruly gray hair. His middle had thickened with age, though his paunch was concealed nicely by an impeccably tailored blue blazer. The New Yorker magazine had once called him “a modern-day Pericles”-a brilliant scholar and philanthropist who rose from the world of academia to become one of the most powerful Democrats in the Senate. Two years earlier he had been called out of retirement to serve as the American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s in London. His ambassador-ship had been cut short, however, when he was gravely wounded in a terrorist attack. He showed no sign of it now as he took Arafat by the hand and propelled him into the party.

“I was so saddened by the attempt on your life, Douglas. It’s good to see you looking so fit again. Did you receive the flowers that Suhla and I sent for you?”

“Yes, indeed. They were the most beautiful in the hospital room. Thank you so much. But enough about me. Come, this way. There are a lot of people here who are interested in meeting you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Arafat, smiling. “Lead on.”

Gabriel sped over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. Jacqueline had regained her composure and was giving him a thorough account of the last forty-eight hours, beginning with the night in the council flat near Heathrow, ending with the gruesome sequence of events in Brooklyn. Gabriel forced himself to listen dispassionately, to set aside momentarily his rage over what Tariq had done to her so he could search for clues to his intentions.

One detail caught his attention. Why did Tariq feel it was necessary to bring Gabriel to him by having Leila impersonate Jacqueline over the secure phone link?

The answer was probably quite simple: because he did not believe Gabriel would be at the place where he intended to strike. But why not? If he had come to New York to assassinate the prime minister of Israel, the great peacemaker, then surely he would assume that Gabriel would be at the prime minister’s side. After all, Gabriel had just seen Tariq in Montreal.

Gabriel thought of the painting by Van Dyck: a religious scene on the surface, a rather ugly woman beneath. One painting, two realities. The entire operation had been like that painting, and Tariq had beaten him at every turn.

Damn it, Gabriel. Don’t be afraid to trust your instincts!

He picked up the cell phone and dialed the number for Shamron at the diplomatic mission. When Shamron came on the line, Gabriel said tersely, “Where’s Arafat?”

He listened for a moment, then said: “Shit! I think Tariq is there disguised as a waiter. Tell his people I’m coming.”

He severed the connection and looked at Jacqueline. “You still have the girl’s gun?”

She nodded.

“Anything left?”

Jacqueline released the magazine and counted the remaining rounds. “Five,” she said.