The Kill Artist

by Daniel Silva

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t be surprised if you hear messages on your machine. We’ll place a few there. Remember, according to the rules laid down by Yusef, no one but Julian Isherwood is allowed to know that you’ve gone away. Perhaps Isherwood will call and ask when you’re planning to return. Perhaps he’ll have some sort of emergency at the gallery that will require your attention. Perhaps a family member or a friend will call from Paris to see how things are going for you in London. Maybe a man will call and ask you to dinner. You’re an attractive woman. It would be suspicious if there weren’t other men pursuing you.”

  She thought: So why not you, Gabriel?

  “Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you’ll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?”

  Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel’s voice.

  “Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don’t be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don’t be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it—she may want to make idle threats about walking out—but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we’ll be close by. We’ll be watching. I’ll be watching.”

  He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. “I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it’s going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I’m trying to make is that you’ll never know when it’s going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead.”

  He paused for a moment, then added, “He won’t die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn’t that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I’ll have to finish the job. There’s only one way to do that.”

  He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.

  “I don’t want you to watch me when I do this. It’s not who I am.”

  She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.

  “How is she?” asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.

  “She’s resolute.”

  “And you?”

  “My feelings are immaterial at this point.”

  “You’re not excited in any way? You’re not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?”

  “I lost those feelings a long time ago.”

  “You and I are different, Gabriel. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him.”

  “You’re right. You and I are very different.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for her.”

  “I’ve always liked her.”

  “You’ve never liked anyone or anything in your life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There’s no middle ground for you.”

  “Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?”

  “I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious.”

  “Can we please change the subject?”

  “All right, we’ll change the subject. How do you feel about me, Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?”

  “Some things are better left unsaid.”

  Gabriel crossed the Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. “This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren’t many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man.”

  “Like Lillehammer,” Gabriel said.

  Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of kidons from Shamron’s team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September’s chief of operations and the mastermind of the Munich massacre. It turned out to be a tragic case of mistaken identity—the man was not Salameh but a Moroccan waiter who was married to a Norwegian woman. After the murder Gabriel and Shamron escaped, but several members of the hit team fell into the hands of the Norwegian police. Shamron barely managed to salvage his career. At King Saul Boulevard the Lillehammer disaster became known as Leyl-ha-Mar, Hebrew for “the night of bitterness.”

  Shamron said, “Please, do you really think now is a good time to mention Leyl-ha-Mar?” He paused, then smiled with surprising warmth. “I know you think I’m a monster. I know you think I’m a man completely without morals. Perhaps you’re right. But I always loved you, Gabriel. You were always my favorite. You were my prince of fire. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.”

  “Where are you going, by the way?”

  “We’re going to need an airplane tomorrow. I thought I’d book a reservation on Air Stone.”

  “Ari, you’re not drinking! Unfair!”

  “Sorry, Benjamin, but I have a long night ahead of me.”

  “Work?”

  Shamron inclined his head slightly to indicate the affirmative.

  “So what brings you here?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Course you need a favor. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Hope you haven’t come looking for money, because the Bank of Stone is temporarily closed, and your account is badly overdrawn. Besides, money’s gone. Creditors are singing a bloody aria. They want what’s rightfully theirs. Funny how creditors can be. And as for my lenders, well, let’s just say they’re heading for calmer waters. What I’m trying to say to you, Ari, my old stick, is that I am in serious fucking financial trouble.”

  “It’s not about money.”

  “So what is it? Speak, Ari!”

  “I need to borrow your jet. Actually, I need to borrow you and your jet.”

  “I’m listening. You have my attention now.”

  “Tomorrow an enemy of the State of Israel is going to board a flight at Charles de Gaulle. Unfortunately we don’t know what flight or what his destination is. And we won’t know until he gets on the plane. It’s imperative that we follow rapidly and that we arrive with some degree of secrecy. An unscheduled El Al charter, for example, might raise eyebrows. You, however, have a reputation for impetuous travel and last-minute changes in your schedule and itinerary.”

  “Damn right, Ari. Come and go like the wind. Keeps people on their fucking toes. It’s that business in Paris, isn’t it? That’s why you took my money before. I must say I’m intrigued. It sounds as though I’m going to be involved in a real operation. Front lines, heavy stuff. How can I possibly say no?”

  Stone snatched up the telephone. “Get the plane ready. Paris, one hour, usual s
uite at the Ritz, usual girl. One with the diamond stud in her tongue. A dream, that one. Have her waiting in the room. Ciao.”

  He rang off, refilled his glass of champagne, and raised it in Shamron’s direction.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Benjamin.”

  “You owe me, Ari. Someday I’m going to need a favor. Someday, all debts come due.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  St. James’s, London

  Jacqueline had hoped a brief walk alone would settle her nerves. It was a mistake. She should have taken a taxi straight to Yusef’s door, because now she felt like turning around and telling Shamron and Gabriel to go to hell. She had just a few seconds to pull herself together. She realized she was not used to fear, at least not the kind of fear that made it nearly impossible to breathe. She had felt fear like this only once in her life—the night of the raid in Tunis—but that night Gabriel had been at her side. Now she was alone. She thought of her grandparents and the fear they must have felt while they were waiting to die at Sobibor. If they could face death at the hands of the Nazis, I can face this, she thought.

  But there was something else she was feeling: love. Intense, unbearable, intolerable love. Perfect love. Love that had survived twelve years, meaningless relationships with other men. It was the promise of Gabriel that finally pushed her forward toward Yusef’s door. She thought of something Shamron had said to her the night he recruited her: “You must believe in what you are doing.” Oh, yes, Ari, she thought. I definitely believe in what I’m doing now.

  She pressed the buzzer for Yusef’s flat. A moment. Nothing. Pressed it again, waited, looked at her watch. He had told her to come at nine. She was so nervous about arriving late that she had managed to come five minutes early. So what should I do, Gabriel? Stay? Walk around the block? If she left she might never come back. She lit a cigarette, stamped her feet against the cold, waited.

  A moment later a Ford van braked to a halt in the street in front of her. The side door slid open, and Yusef leapt onto the wet asphalt. He walked toward her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, head swiveling from side to side. “How long have you been standing here?”

  “I don’t know. Three minutes, five minutes. Where the hell have you been?”

  “I told you to come at nine. I didn’t say five minutes before nine. I said nine.”

  “So I was a few minutes early. What’s the big deal?”

  “Because the rules have changed.”

  She remembered what Gabriel had said to her: You have no reason to be afraid. If they push you, push back.

  “Listen, the rules haven’t changed until I say they’ve changed. I haven’t decided whether I’m going. This is crazy, Yusef. You won’t tell me where I’m going. You won’t tell me when I’ll be back. I love you, Yusef. I want to help you. But you have to put yourself in my shoes.”

  His demeanor softened immediately. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I’m just a little tense. Everything has to go right. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Come inside. We’ll talk. But we don’t have much time.”

  Gabriel had never seen the Ford van till now. He wrote down the registration number as it vanished into the darkness. Shamron joined him in the window. Together they watched Yusef and Jacqueline disappear into the lobby. A moment later lights burned in Yusef’s flat. Gabriel could hear two voices. Yusef, calm and reassuring; Jacqueline, edgy, stressed. Shamron made a base camp at the end of the couch and watched the scene across the street as though it were being played out on a movie screen. Gabriel closed his eyes and listened. They were stalking each other, circling the room like prizefighters. Gabriel didn’t have to watch it. He could hear it in the way the audio level rose each time one of them passed by the telephone.

  “What is it, Yusef? Drugs? A bomb? Tell me, you bastard!”

  So convincing was her performance that Gabriel feared Yusef would change his mind. Shamron seemed to be enjoying the show. When Jacqueline finally agreed to go, he looked up at Gabriel. “That was marvelous. A nice touch. Well done. Bravo.”

  Five minutes later Gabriel watched them climb into the back of a dark blue Vauxhall. A few seconds after the Vauxhall drove away, a car passed beneath Gabriel’s window: Shamron’s watchers. There was nothing to do now but wait. To fill the time he rewound the tape and listened to their conversation again. “Tell me something,” Jacqueline had said. “When this is over will I ever see you again?” Gabriel stopped the tape and wondered whether she was speaking to Yusef or to him.

  * * *

  The Cromwell Road at midnight: the dreary corridor connecting Central London to the western suburbs had never looked so beautiful to Jacqueline. The bleak Edwardian hotels with their flickering neon vacancy signs seemed enchanting to her. She watched the changing patterns of traffic lights reflected in the wet pavement and saw an urban masterpiece. She lowered her window a few inches and smelled the air: diesel fumes, damp, cheap fried food cooking somewhere. London at night. Spectacular.

  They had switched cars, the blue Vauxhall for a gray Toyota with a cracked windshield. The Vauxhall had been driven by a good-looking boy with his hair drawn back into a ponytail. Sitting behind the wheel now was an older man—at least forty, she guessed—with a narrow face and nervous black eyes. He drove slowly.

  Yusef murmured a few words to him in Arabic.

  Jacqueline said, “Speak French or English or nothing at all.”

  “We are Palestinians,” Yusef said. “Arabic is our language.”

  “I don’t give a shit! I don’t speak Arabic. I can’t understand what you’re saying, and it’s making me uncomfortable, so please speak fucking English, or you can find someone else.”

  “I was only telling him to slow down a little.”

  Actually, Yusef, you were telling him to make certain we aren’t being followed, but let’s not get hung up on the details.

  On the seat between them lay a small suitcase. Yusef had taken her to her flat and helped her pack. “There won’t be time to go to baggage claim,” he had said. “If you need more clothing you’ll be given money to buy more clothing.” He had watched her pack carefully, inspecting each item she placed in the bag. “How should I dress?” she had asked sarcastically. “Warm climate or cold? Are we going to Norway or New Zealand? Sweden or Swaziland? What’s the dress code? Formal or casual?”

  She lit a cigarette. Yusef took one out too and held out his hand for Jacqueline’s lighter. She gave it to him and watched him light his cigarette. He was about to hand it back when something made him stop and inspect the lighter more carefully.

  Jacqueline felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

  “This is very nice.” He turned it over and read the inscription. “ ”To Dominique, with affection and fond memories.‘ Where did you get this cigarette lighter?“

  “I’ve had it for about a hundred years.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “It was a gift from a man. A man who didn’t send me off with a complete stranger.”

  “He must have been very kind, this man. Why have I never seen this?”

  “You haven’t seen a lot of things. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Look at the date, you idiot.”

  “ ”June nineteen ninety-five,“ ” he recited. “Is this man still in the picture?”

  “If he was, I wouldn’t be with you.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “June nineteen ninety-five, with affection and fond memories.”

  “He must have been very important to you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept his lighter.”

  “It’s not his lighter, it’s my lighter. And I kept it because it’s a good lighter.”

  She thought: Gabriel was right. He suspects something. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me tonight. She looked out her window and wondered whether the Cromwell Road on a wet winter’s night was going to be her last snapshot of the world. She should have written a le
tter to her mother and locked it in a safety deposit box. She wondered how Shamron would break it to her. Would he explain that she had been working for the Office? Or would they cover up her death in some other way? Would she have to read about it in the newspapers? Jacqueline Delacroix, the Marseilles schoolgirl who rose to the peak of European modeling before a precipitous decline, died under mysterious circumstances… She wondered if the journalists she had treated with such contempt while she was alive would rise up en masse and savage her in death. At least Rémy would write well of her. They had always been cordial. Maybe she could get something nice out of Jacques. Perhaps even Gilles—No, wait. Remember the party in Milan, the argument over the coke. Christ, Gilles was going to rip her to shreds.

  Yusef handed her the lighter. She dropped it back into her purse. The silence was appalling. She wanted to keep him talking; somehow talking made her feel safe, even if it was lies. “You never answered my question,” she said.

  “Which question is that? You’ve had so many tonight.”

  “When this is all over, am I going to see you again?”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  “And you’re still not answering my question.”

  “I always answer your questions.”

  “Do you? If you’d told me the truth in the beginning, I doubt I’d be flying off with a complete stranger in the morning.”

  “I had to keep some things from you. And what about you, Dominique? Have you been completely honest with me? Have you told me everything about yourself?”

  “Everything of consequence.”

  “That’s a very convenient answer. You use it very effectively when you want to avoid talking anymore.”

  “It also happens to be the truth. Answer my question. Am I ever going to see you again?”

  “I certainly hope so.”