Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

The ferry slipped into the sheltered water of the harbor and tied up. Tariq disembarked and walked to a brightly lit taverna. Parked outside was a dark blue motor scooter with a smashed rearview mirror, just as he had been promised. Inside his coat pocket was the key. He strapped his overnight bag onto the back of the bike and started the engine. A moment later he was speeding along a narrow track toward the mountains.

He was not dressed for a night ride; his thin leather gloves, low-cut loafers, and black jeans were no match for the cold. Still, he opened the throttle and pushed the little bike as hard as it would go up a long hill at the base of Mount Kerkis. He slowed for a switchback, then opened the throttle again and raced through a vineyard spilling down the side of the hill into a little valley. Above the vineyard lay an olive grove and above the olive grove a line of towering cypress trees, silhouettes against a carpet of wet stars. The tang of cypress was heavy on the air. Somewhere, meat was cooking over a wood fire. The scent reminded him of Lebanon. Good to be out of Paris, he thought. Dull gray Paris of late autumn. Good to be back in the eastern Mediterranean.

The road turned to a pitted track. Tariq eased off the throttle. It was a stupid thing to do, driving so fast on an unfamiliar road, but he had taken to doing needlessly risky things lately. For the first time since leaving Paris, he thought of the American girl. He felt no remorse or guilt. Her death, while unfortunate, was completely necessary.

He opened the throttle again and raced down a gentle slope into a tiny valley. He thought about this need of his, this compulsion to be in the company of a woman during an operation. He supposed it came from growing up in the camps of Sidon. His father had died when Tariq was young, and his older brother, Mahmoud, was murdered by the Jews. Tariq was raised by his mother and his older sister. There was only one room in their hut at the camp, so Tariq and his mother and sister all slept in the same bed-Tariq in the middle, head resting against his mother’s bosom, his sister’s bony body pressed against his back. Sometimes he would lie awake and listen to the shelling or the rhythmic thump of the Israeli helicopters hovering over the camp. He would think of his father-how he had died of a broken heart with the keys to the family home in the Upper Galilee still in his pocket-and he would think of poor Mahmoud. He hated the Jews with an intensity that made his chest ache. But he never felt fear. Not when he was in his bed, protected by his women.

The whitewashed villa stood atop a rock outcropping on a craggy hillside between the villages of Mesogion and Pirgos. To reach it Tariq had to negotiate a steep path through an old vineyard. The smell of the last harvest hung in the air. He shut down the motor, and the silence rang in his ears. He put the bike on its kickstand, drew his Makarov pistol, and walked through a small garden to the entrance of the villa.

He slid the key into the lock, turned it slowly, testing the chamber for unnatural resistance. Then he opened the door and stepped inside, Makarov drawn. As he closed the door a light came on in the living room, illuminating a slender young man with long hair seated on a rustic couch. Tariq nearly shot him before he saw that the other man’s gun was lying on a table in front of him and his hands were raised in a gesture of surrender.

Tariq pointed the Makarov at the young man’s face. “Who are you?”

“My name is Achmed. Kemel sent me.”

“I nearly killed you. Then I’d never have known why Kemel sent you here.”

“You were supposed to come this morning. I had nowhere else to wait.”

“The ferry was delayed. You would have known that if you’d bothered to pick up the telephone and place a single call. What does he want?”

“He wants to meet. He says he needs to discuss something with you, and it’s too important to do it through the usual methods of communication.”

“Kemel knows I don’t like face-to-face meetings.”

“He’s made special arrangements.”

“Tell me.”

“Would you mind pointing that gun somewhere else?”

“I would, actually. How do I know you were really sent here by Kemel? Maybe your real name is Yitzhak or Jonathan. Maybe you’re an Israeli. Maybe you work for the CIA. Maybe Kemel has been compromised, and you’ve come here to kill me.”

The young man sighed heavily and began to speak. “Kemel wants to meet with you three days from now in a first-class compartment of a train between Zürich and Prague. You’re to join him there at any point during the journey when you feel it’s safe.”

“You have a ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Give it to me.”

Achmed reached into the pocket of his blazer.

Tariq lifted the Makarov. “Slowly.”

Achmed removed the ticket, held it up for Tariq to see, and dropped it onto the table. Tariq looked at the ticket briefly, then turned his gaze back on the boy seated in front of him. “How long have you been waiting at the villa?”

“Most of the day.”

“Most of the day?”

“I went into the village in the afternoon.”

“Whatever for?”

“I was hungry and I wanted to have a look around.”

“Do you speak Greek?”

“A little.”

How perfect, thought Tariq derisively. A young man who speaks a few words of Greek with an Arabic accent had been hanging around the port all afternoon. Tariq imagined a scenario: a busybody Greek shopkeeper gets suspicious about an Arab loitering in the village and calls the police. A policeman comes down to have a look for himself. Maybe he has a friend or a cousin who works in the Greek security service. Damn! It was a miracle he hadn’t been picked up the moment he stepped off the ferry. He asked, “Where are you planning to spend the night?”

“I thought I might stay here.”

“Out of the question. Go to the Taverna Petrino. It’s near the harbor. You can get a room there at a reasonable price. In the morning take the first ferry to Turkey.”

“Fine.”

Achmed leaned forward to pick up the gun. Tariq shot him twice in the top of the head.

Blood spread over the stone floor. Tariq looked at the body and felt nothing more than a vague sense of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a few days of recuperation on the island before the next operation. He was tired, his nerves were frayed, and the headaches were getting worse. Now he would have to be on the move again, all because the goddamned ferry had been held up by high seas and Kemel had sent a bumbling idiot to deliver an important message.

He slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers, picked up the train ticket, and went out.

Tel Aviv

Uzi Navot traveled to Tel Aviv the following morning. He came to Shamron’s office “black,” which meant that neither Lev nor any other member of the senior staff witnessed his arrival. Hanging from the end of his bricklayer’s arm was a sleek metal attaché case, the kind carried by businessmen the world over who believe their papers are too valuable to be entrusted to mere leather. Unlike the other passengers aboard the El Al flight from Paris that morning, Navot had not been asked to open the case for inspection. Nor had he been forced to endure the maddening ritualistic interrogation by the suntanned boys and girls from El Al security. Once he was safely inside Shamron’s office, he worked the combination on the attaché case and opened it for the first time since leaving the embassy in Paris. He reached inside and produced a single item: a videotape.

Navot lost count of how many times the old man watched the tape. Twenty times, thirty, maybe even fifty. He smoked so many of his vile Turkish cigarettes that Navot could barely see the screen through the fog. Shamron was entranced. He sat in his chair, arms folded, head tilted back so he could peer through the black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of his daggerlike nose. Navot offered the occasional piece of narrative background, but Shamron was listening to his own voices.