Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  “You don’t want to say my name, Dominique? Why won’t you call me Lucien?”

  “Because I know it isn’t your real name.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Yusef told me.”

  “Do you know my real name?”

  “No, Yusef wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Yusef is a good man.”

  “I’m very fond of him.”

  “Is Dominique really your name?”

  She was caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a simple question, really. I want to know if your name is really Dominique.”

  “You’ve seen my passport.”

  “Passports can easily be forged.”

  “Maybe for people like you!” she snapped. “Listen, Lucien, or whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t like your question. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

  He sat down and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Please accept my apology. The politics of the Middle East tend to make one paranoid after a while. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I need to check my machine in London.”

  “Of course.” He reached out and pressed the speaker button on the telephone. “Tell me the number, and I’ll dial it for you.”

  She recited the number, and his fingers worked over the keypad. A few seconds later she heard the phone ringing—the two-beat moan of a British phone—followed by the sound of her own voice on the message tape. She pictured a technician, seated behind a computer console in Tel Aviv, reading the words Hotel Queen Elizabeth, Montreal, Room 1417. She reached out for the receiver, but he covered it with his hand and looked up at her. “I’d like to listen, if you don’t mind. Paranoia is creeping up on me again.”

  She had three messages. The first was from a woman who identified herself as Dominique’s mother. The second was from Julian Isherwood—he had misplaced a file and was wondering if she could give him a ring at some point to help him locate it. The third was from a man who didn’t identify himself. She instantly recognized the sound of Gabriel’s voice. “I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you. If you need anything I’m here for you. See you soon, I hope. Cheers.”

  “You can hang up now.”

  He punched the speaker button and severed the connection. “That didn’t sound much like Yusef.”

  “It wasn’t Yusef. It was a man I knew before Yusef.”

  “It sounds to me as though this man still cares for you.”

  “No, he never really cared for me.”

  “But it’s obvious to me you cared for him. Perhaps you still do.”

  “I’m in love with Yusef.”

  “Ah, yes, I forgot.” He stood abruptly. “Let’s go shopping.”

  38

  MONTREAL

  Zvi Yadin met Gabriel and Shamron at the airport and drove them into Montreal. He had thick, curly hair, a rather shaggy full beard, and the body of a rugby player. Because he was large, people tended to think he was stupid, which he was not. Gabriel had spent time at the Academy with him. They had been paired for the physical combat course, despite the vast difference in their size. On the final day Yadin had broken two of Gabriel’s ribs. Gabriel had retaliated with an elbow to Yadin’s chin that dislocated his jaw. Later, when they were being patched up in the infirmary, Yadin had admitted that Shamron had put him up to it—that he had wanted to test Gabriel’s capacity for pain. Gabriel wished he had broken Shamron’s jaw instead.

  “They say it’s going to be thirty below tonight,” Yadin said as he sped along the motorway toward downtown. “I brought you some parkas and gloves. And I brought this for you, Gabriel.”

  He handed Gabriel a stainless steel combat case. Inside was a .22 Beretta target pistol. Gabriel stroked the barrel and the walnut grip. The gun felt cold. He closed the lid and placed the case beneath the seat.

  Shamron said, “Thanks for the weather update, Zvi, but where the hell is Jacqueline?”

  Yadin brought them quickly up-to-date. The flight from Paris had arrived twenty minutes late. Yadin’s team had picked them up after they cleared immigration and customs. The girl had rented a car from Hertz and driven downtown to the Hotel Queen Elizabeth. She’d handed Jacqueline to a man: forties, well dressed, decent-looking. They went upstairs to a room. Yadin had a sayan on the hotel staff: a senior concierge. He said the fellow in question had checked into the hotel earlier that day under the name Lucien Daveau. Room 1417.

  “Pictures?” Shamron asked hopefully.

  “No way, boss. Not possible under the circumstances.”

  “Was it Tariq?”

  “Could have been. Hard to say.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “After the handoff she left the hotel. She was picked up by another car outside on the boulevard René Lévesque. I didn’t try to follow her. I didn’t think we could spare the personnel.”

  “How many people do you have?”

  “Three experienced men and that new girl you sent me from the Academy.”

  “How are they deployed?”

  “Two members of the team are in the hotel lobby pretending to be shopping. The other two are outside in the car.”

  Gabriel said, “Can our friend on the concierge desk get us inside the room?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want to put a glass on his telephone.”

  “No problem. I brought a kit from Ottawa. We can get another room at the hotel to set up a listening post. It will tie down one member of the team, though.”

  “Getting his phone is well worth one member of your team.”

  “I’ll use the new girl.”

  “No, I may need the girl for street work.”

  Yadin glanced at Shamron. “Now for the problems, boss.”

  “What problems?”

  “Lev.”

  “What about Lev?”

  “While I was waiting for you to arrive, I checked in with the station.”

  “And?”

  “Mordecai called on a routine housekeeping matter after we’d left. Obviously he told Lev the entire station was missing, because Lev fired off a cable from the operations center about a half hour later, wondering what the fuck was going on.”

  “What was Lev told?” Shamron said wearily.

  “I left a cover story in place with our secretary. She told Lev that we received a tip from a friend in the Canadian service that a member of Islamic Jihad might be living in Quebec City and that we had run up to QC to have a look at him. Lev sends another rocket: On whose authority? Please supply the name of IJ Activist. So on and so forth. You get the picture, boss.”

  Shamron swore softly. “Send him a message when you get home. Tell him it was a false alarm.”

  “Listen, boss, we go back a long way. But you’re going to retire again soon, and Lev may be running this place. He could make my life miserable. He enjoys that sort of thing. He’s a bastard.”

  “Let me worry about Lev. You were just doing what I told you to do.”

  “Just following orders—right, boss?”

  Yadin’s cell phone chirped softly. He flipped open the mouthpiece and brought it to his ear. “Yes?”

  A pause.

  “When?”

  Another pause.

  “Where?”

  Another pause, slightly longer.

  “Stay with them. But remember who you’re dealing with. Keep a safe distance.”

  He severed the connection and tossed the phone onto the dash.

  “What is it?” asked Shamron.

  “He’s on the move.”

  “What about Jacqueline?”

  “They’re together.”

  “Where?”

  “Look’s like they’ve gone shopping.”

  “Get me a picture, Zvi. I need to make sure it’s him.”

  There are two Montreals. There is the Montreal of the surface. In winter it becomes a snowbound tundra. Icy Arctic winds roar between the skyscrapers and prowl the windi
ng alleyways of the Old City down by the river. Then there is underground Montreal: a labyrinth of gleaming shops, cafés, bars, markets, and designer clothing stores that snakes its way beneath much of downtown, making it possible to travel for blocks without ever setting foot outside.

  A fitting spot for it to end, thought Jacqueline; two worlds, two layers, two realities. I’m Jacqueline Delacroix, the model. I’m Dominique Bonard, the secretary from Isherwood Fine Arts in London. I’m Sarah Halévy, the Jewish girl from Marseilles, the agent from the Office. She had more layers than Montreal.

  She was walking at his side. His hand was resting lightly on her shoulder, and he was using it to guide her through the crowds of evening shoppers. Jacqueline studied the kaleidoscope of faces streaming past her: pretty French boys and girls, Arabs, Africans, Jews—the ethnic patchwork quilt that is Montreal. She might have forgotten she had ever left Paris except for the blunt edge of their French accents.

  He was checking to see if they were being followed— Jacqueline could see that. Pausing in storefronts, making abrupt changes in direction, inventing excuses to double back. She hoped Shamron’s team was good. If they weren’t, Tariq was going to spot them.

  They walked through the exclusive shops beneath the rue St-Catherine. In one she picked out a full-length down-lined coat. In another a fur hat. In a third two pairs of jeans and several pairs of long underwear. Finally, in a shop specializing in outdoor goods, she picked out a pair of insulated boots. He hung at her side the entire time. When she went into a changing room to try on the jeans he waited just outside the door and smiled pleasantly at the salesgirls. He paid for everything with a credit card in the name of Lucien Daveau.

  When they were finished they walked back toward the hotel. She thought: What are you waiting for? Do it now. Take him down. But they couldn’t do it here—not in underground Montreal. The entire network of shopping malls could be sealed off in a matter of minutes. Gabriel and the rest of the team would be trapped inside. They would be arrested and questioned. The police would establish a link to the Office, and the whole thing would blow up in Shamron’s face.

  He suggested a coffee before dinner, so they stopped in an espresso bar a short distance from the hotel. Jacqueline flipped idly through a tourist guide while he sipped his drink. At one point he removed a prescription bottle from his pocket and swallowed two tablets. Five minutes later—she knew the exact time because she had been playing Shamron’s awareness games throughout the excursion—a man in a gray business suit sat down at the next table. He placed his briefcase on the ground: black leather, soft sides, gold combination latches. The man stayed for a few minutes, then stood and walked away, leaving the bag behind. When Tariq had finished his coffee, he nonchalantly picked up the bag along with Jacqueline’s parcels.

  Two Montreals, two realities, thought Jacqueline as they walked back to the hotel. In one reality they had just gone shopping. In the other Tariq had spent an hour checking to see if he was being followed, and Tariq had taken possession of his gun.

  Gabriel appeared at the concierge desk and asked directions to a good restaurant. The concierge was called Jean—small and neat, with the thin mustache and frozen smile of an accomplished hotelier. Gabriel spoke rapid French. The concierge answered him in the same language. He told Gabriel about an excellent Parisian-style bistro called the Alexandre; then he handed him a folded tourist map and told him the address. Gabriel tucked the map into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, thanked the concierge, and walked away. But instead of heading toward the street entrance, he strode across the lobby, boarded an elevator, and rode it to the fourteenth floor.

  He walked quickly along the corridor. In his right hand was a plastic shopping bag from one of the boutiques in the lobby, and inside the bag was a hotel telephone, wrapped in tissue paper. As he approached the door he removed the map from his breast pocket and unfolded it. Inside was the credit card-style key to Tariq’s room. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the latch. Gabriel slipped the card key in and out of the door slot, then stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.

  For their command post Yadin had taken a suite at the Sheraton, a few blocks up the boulevard René Lévesque from the Queen Elizabeth. When Gabriel entered the suite, Shamron was there, along with Yadin and a black-haired girl whom Yadin introduced as Deborah. She reminded Gabriel a great deal of Leah, more than he might have wished at that moment. A large-scale street map of Montreal was spread over the bed. Shamron had shoved his glasses onto his forehead and was rubbing the bridge of his nose as he paced. Gabriel poured himself a cup of coffee and held it tightly to warm his hands.

  Yadin said, “They’re back in the room. The glass is picking up their conversation perfectly. Nice work, Gabriel.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Small talk, mostly. I’ll send a man over to collect the tapes. If there’s anything urgent, the boy in the room will call.”

  “Where’d they go while they were out?”

  “Shopping, mainly, but we think Tariq may have a gun.”

  Gabriel lowered his coffee cup and looked up sharply.

  “Deborah was following them at the time,” Yadin said. “She saw the whole thing.”

  She quickly described the scene at the coffee bar. She spoke English with an American accent.

  “How’s Jacqueline holding up?”

  “She looked good. A little tired but fine.”

  The telephone rang. Yadin picked it up before it could ring a second time. He listened for a moment without speaking, then set down the receiver and looked up at Shamron. “He just booked a table at a restaurant on the rue St-Denis.”

  “What’s the area like?”

  “Cafés, shops, bars, discos, that sort of thing,” said Yadin. “Very busy, very bohemian.”

  “The kind of place we could mount a surveillance operation?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The kind of place where a kidon might be able to get close to a target?”

  “No problem.”

  Gabriel said, “What about escape routes?”

  “We’d have several,” Yadin said. “You could head north into Outremont or Mont-Royal or go south, straight to the expressway. The rest of the team could melt into the Old City.”

  There was a soft knock outside. Yadin murmured a few words through the closed door, then opened it. A boyish-looking man with fair hair and blue eyes entered the room.

  “I’ve got them on videotape.”

  Shamron said, “Let’s see it.”

  The young man connected the handheld recorder to the television set and played the tape: Jacqueline and the man called Lucien Daveau, moving through the underground mall. It had been shot from a balustrade one level up.

  Shamron smiled. “It’s him. No question.”

  Gabriel said, “How can you tell from that angle?”

  “Look at him. Look at the photographs. It’s the same man.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain!” Shamron shut off the television. “What’s wrong with you, Gabriel?”

  “I just don’t want to kill the wrong man.”

  “It’s Tariq. Trust me.” Shamron looked down at the street map of Montreal. “Zvi, show me the rue St-Denis. I want to end this thing tonight and go home.”

  39

  MONTREAL

  They left the hotel room at eight o’clock, rode the elevator down to the lobby. The evening check-in rush had ended. A Japanese couple was having their picture taken by a stranger. Tariq paused, turned around, and theatrically beat his pockets as if he were missing something important. When the photo session ended he resumed walking. A roar rose from the hotel bar: Americans watching a football game on television. They rode an escalator down to underground Montreal, then walked a short distance to a Metro station. He made a point of keeping her to his right. She remembered he was left-handed—obviously he didn’t want her in a position to grab his arm if he had to go for his gun. She tried
to remember what kind of gun he preferred. A Makarov; that was it. Tariq liked the Makarov.

  He moved through the station as if he knew the way. They boarded a train and rode east to the rue St-Denis. When they stepped outside on the crowded boulevard, the bitter cold nearly took her breath away.

  It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. . . .

  She kept her eyes down and resisted the impulse to look for him.

  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. . . .

  “Is something wrong?” He spoke without looking at her.

  “I’m just freezing to death.”

  “The restaurant isn’t far.”

  They walked past a row of bars. The ragged sound of a blues band spilled from a cellar tavern. A used-record store. A vegetarian restaurant. A tattoo parlor. A gang of skinhead boys walked past them. One of them said something crude to Jacqueline. Tariq eyed him coldly; the boy shut his mouth and walked away.

  They arrived at the restaurant. It was in an old Victorian house, set slightly back from the street. He guided her up the steps. The maître d’ helped them off with their coats and showed them upstairs to a table by the window. Tariq sat facing out. She could see his eyes scanning the street below. When the waiter appeared, Jacqueline ordered a glass of Bordeaux.

  “Monsieur Daveau?”

  “Just some sparkling water, please,” he said. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache tonight.”

  The Italian restaurant was a half block to the north, on the opposite side of the rue St-Denis. To reach it Gabriel and Deborah had to descend a short flight of icy steps. The tables next to the window were all filled, but they were seated close enough so that Gabriel could see Jacqueline’s long black hair in the window across the street. Shamron and Zvi Yadin were outside in a rented van. At the southern end of the block, closer to the edge of the Old City, one of Yadin’s men sat behind the wheel of the getaway car. Another man waited in a car one block to the west on the rue Sanguinet. Tariq was in a box.