Gabriel Allon 01 - The Kill Artist

by Daniel Silva

  “He and I are friends as well. He saw the justness of the Palestinian cause long before most American politicians. It took a great amount of courage, considering the fact that he was a senator from New York, where the Jewish lobby is so powerful.”

  “Douglas always stood his ground and let the political chips fall where they might. That’s what set him apart from most of the politicians in this damned town. Please give him my warmest regards when you see him.”

  “I will indeed.”

  They shook hands formally beneath the North Portico; then Arafat turned and walked toward his limousine.

  “And do me one other favor, Mr. Arafat.”

  The Palestinian turned around and raised one eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “Watch your back.”

  “Always,” said Arafat. Then he climbed into the back of his car and disappeared from sight.

  42

  BURLINGTON, VERMONT

  “Your name is not Dominique Bonard, and you don’t work for an art gallery in London. You work for Israeli intelligence. And we left Montreal the way we did because your friend Gabriel Allon was coming to kill me.”

  Jacqueline’s mouth went dry. She felt as though her throat might close up. She remembered what Gabriel had told her in London: Dominique Bonard has nothing to fear from this man. If he pushes, push back.

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know anyone named Gabriel Allon! Stop this fucking car! Where the fuck do you think you’re taking me! What’s wrong with you?”

  He hit her in the side of the head with the gun: a short, brutal blow that instantly brought tears to her eyes. She reached up, touched her scalp, found blood. “You bastard!”

  He ignored her. “Your name is not Dominique Bonard, and you don’t work for an art gallery in London. You work for Ari Shamron. You’re an Israeli agent. You’re working with Gabriel Allon. That was Gabriel Allon who was crossing the street toward us in Montreal. He was coming to kill me.”

  “I wish you would just shut up about all this shit! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anyone named Gabriel, and I don’t know anyone named Ari Shamron.”

  He hit her again, another blow that seemed to come out of nowhere. It landed in precisely the same spot. The pain was so intense that in spite of every effort she began to cry. “I’m telling you the truth!”

  Another blow: harder.

  “My name is Dominique Bonard! I work for—”

  Another blow: harder still. She felt as though she was going to lose consciousness.

  “You bastard,” she said, weeping. She pressed her fingers against the wound. “Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?”

  Once again he ignored her. If he was trying to drive her mad, it was working. When he spoke there was an edge of pity to his voice, as if he felt sorry for her. She knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tear down the last of her resistance, to make her believe she had been betrayed and was completely alone.

  “You went to Tunis with Gabriel Allon and posed as his lover while he planned the murder of Abu Jihad.”

  “I’ve never been to Tunis in my life, let alone with someone named Gabriel Allon!”

  He lifted the gun to hit her again, but this time she saw the blow coming and raised her hands in defense. “Please,” she cried. “Don’t hit me again.”

  He lowered the gun. Even he seemed to have no stomach for it.

  “He’s aged a bit since I saw him last. I suppose he has a right, considering everything he’s been through.”

  Jacqueline felt her will to resist crumble. The reality of intelligence work set in. Before, it had been an adventure, something she did to make herself feel that she was more than just a face and a body. But this was the true nature of Ari Shamron’s secret war. It was dirty and violent, and now she was caught in the middle of it. She had to think of some way to gain control of the situation. Perhaps she could discover his plans. Maybe she could find some way to warn Gabriel and Shamron. Maybe I can find some way to survive.

  “They’ll come for you,” she said. “Half the police in Canada and America are probably looking for us right now. You’ll never get to New York.”

  “Actually, I doubt anyone’s looking for us but your friends Gabriel Allon and Shamron. I suspect they can’t ask the Canadians for help, because the Canadians and Americans probably don’t know they’re here. If they found out now, it could prove very embarrassing to your service.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief for her head. “By the way, we knew you were working for the Office the moment you walked into Yusef’s life.”

  “How?”

  “Do you really want to know this?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, but first you have to answer a few questions for me. Are you really French?”

  So, she thought, he doesn’t know everything. She said, “Yes, I’m French.”

  “Are you also Jewish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Dominique Bonard your true name?”

  “No.”

  “What is your real name?”

  She thought: What is my real name? Am I really Jacqueline Delacroix? No, that was just the name Marcel Lambert gave to a pretty young girl from Marseilles. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die with the name I was born with.

  “My name is Sarah,” she said. “Sarah Halévy.”

  “Such a beautiful name. Well, Sarah Halévy, I suppose you’re entitled to know how you ended up in a mess like this.” He looked at her to see her reaction, but she stared back at him with icy hostility. “By the way, if you wish, you may call me Tariq.”

  He spoke for nearly an hour without stopping. He was clearly enjoying himself. After all, he had outmaneuvered one of the most feared intelligence services in the world. He told her how they had learned Gabriel had been brought back to the Office to find him. He told her about the security alert they had issued to all their operatives in the field. He told her how Yusef had immediately informed his control officer about the contact with the attractive French woman.

  “We told Yusef to continue seeing you while we checked out your cover story in Paris. We discovered a flaw; a minor flaw, but a flaw nonetheless. We made photographs of you in London and compared them with photographs of a woman who worked with Gabriel Allon in Tunis. We told Yusef to deepen his relationship with this Dominique Bonard. We told him to develop an emotional bond with her: a bond of trust.”

  She thought of their long conversations. His lectures about the suffering of the Palestinian people. His confession about the scars on his back and the horrible night in Shatila. All the while she had believed that she was controlling the game—that she was the deceiver and the manipulator—when in reality it was Yusef.

  “When we felt your relationship had progressed to that point, we told Yusef to ask a very special favor of you: Would you be willing to accompany a Palestinian dignitary on an important secret mission? You put up a very convincing argument, but in the end you said yes, of course, because you’re not Dominique Bonard, a secretary from a London art gallery, but Sarah Halévy, an agent of Israeli intelligence. Ari Shamron and Gabriel Allon assumed correctly that this Palestinian dignitary was in reality me, since I have a history of using unsuspecting women in my operations. They placed you in this extremely dangerous situation because they wanted me. But now I’m going to turn the game against them. I’m going to use you to bring Allon to me.”

  “Leave him,” she said. “He’s suffered enough because of you.”

  “Allon has suffered? Gabriel Allon murdered my brother. His suffering is nothing compared to the suffering he inflicted on my family.”

  “Your brother was a terrorist! Your brother deserved to die!”

  “My brother fought for his people. He didn’t deserve to be shot like a dog as he lay in bed.”

  “It was a long time ago. It’s over now. Take me instead of Gabriel.”

  “That�
�s very noble of you, Sarah, but your friend Gabriel is not going to lose another woman to me without a fight. Close your eyes and get some rest. We have a long way to go tonight.”

  It was nearly dawn as Tariq sped across the Whitestone Bridge and entered Queens. The traffic began to thicken as he passed La Guardia Airport. To the east the sky had turned light gray with the coming dawn. He switched on the radio, listened to a traffic report, then turned down the volume and concentrated on his driving. After a few minutes the East River appeared. Jacqueline could see the first rays of sunlight reflected on the skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan.

  He exited the expressway and drove along the surface streets of Brooklyn. Now that it was light she could see him clearly for the first time since the previous afternoon. The long night of driving had taken its toll. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot and strained. He drove with his right hand. His left hand lay in his lap, clutching the Makarov.

  She looked at the street signs: Coney Island Avenue. The neighborhood had turned markedly Middle Eastern and Asian. Colorful Pakistani markets with fruit stands spilling onto the sidewalk. Lebanese and Afghan restaurants. Middle East travel companies. A carpet and tile store. A mosque with a false green-and-white marble facade mounted on the brick exterior of an old commercial property.

  He turned into a quiet residential street called Parkville Avenue and drove slowly for one block, stopping outside a square three-story brick building on the corner of East Eighth Street. On the ground floor was a boarded-up delicatessen. He shut off the engine, gave two short beeps of the horn. A light flared briefly in the second-floor apartment.

  “Wait for me to walk around the car,” he said calmly. “Don’t open the door. If you open the door, I’ll kill you. When we get out of the car, walk straight inside and up the stairs. If you make a sound, if you try to run, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. He slipped the Makarov into the front of his coat and climbed out. Then he walked around the back of the car, opened her door, and pulled her out by the hand. He closed the door, and together they walked quickly across the street. The ground-floor door was slightly ajar. They stepped inside and crossed a small foyer littered with flyers. The frame of a rusting bicycle with no tires leaned against the flaking woodwork.

  Tariq mounted the stairs, still clutching her hand; his skin was hot and damp. The stairwell smelled of curry and turpentine. A door opened, and a face briefly appeared in the darkness, a bearded man wearing a white gown. He glanced at Tariq, then slipped back into his apartment and softly closed the door.

  They came to a doorway marked 2A. Tariq knocked softly twice.

  Leila opened the door and pulled Jacqueline inside.

  43

  NEW YORK CITY

  One hour later Ari Shamron arrived at the Israeli diplomatic mission to the United Nations on Second Avenue and Forty-third Street. He slipped through a knot of protesters, head bowed slightly, and stepped inside. A member of the mission security staff was waiting for him in the lobby and escorted him upstairs to the secure room. The prime minister was there, surrounded by a trio of nervous-looking aides, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Shamron sat down and looked at the prime minister’s chief of staff. “Give me a copy of his schedule and leave the room.”

  As the aides filed out of the room, the prime minister said, “What happened in Montreal?”

  Shamron gave him a detailed account. When he finished, the prime minister closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I brought you out of retirement to restore the reputation of the Office, Ari—not to create yet another disaster! Do we have any reason to believe the Canadians were aware of our presence in Montreal?”

  “No, Prime Minister.”

  “Do you think your agent is still alive?”

  “It’s hard to say, but the situation appears to be rather bleak. The women who have encountered Tariq in the past have not fared terribly well.”

  “The press is going to have a field day with this one. I can see the headlines now: Beautiful French Fashion Model Secret Agent for Israel! Fuck, Ari!”

  “There’s no way she can be formally linked to the Office.”

  “Someone’s going to get the story, Ari. Someone always does.”

  “If they do, we’ll use our friends like Benjamin Stone to knock it down. I can assure you complete deniability of all aspects of this affair.”

  “I don’t want deniability! You promised me Tariq’s head on a platter with no fuckups and no fingerprints! I still want Tariq’s head on a platter, and I want Jacqueline Delacroix alive.”

  “We want the same things, Prime Minister. But at this moment your security is our first priority.” Shamron picked up the schedule and began to read.

  “After the ceremony at the United Nations, it’s down to the financial district for a meeting with investors, followed by an appearance at the New York Stock Exchange. After that you go to the Waldorf for a luncheon hosted by the Friends of Zion.” Shamron looked up briefly. “And that’s the first half of the day. After lunch you go to Brooklyn to visit a Jewish community center and discuss the peace process. Then it’s back to Manhattan for a round of cocktail parties and receptions.”

  Shamron lowered the paper and looked at the prime minister. “This is a security nightmare. I want Allon assigned to your personal detail for the day.”

  “Why Allon?”

  “Because he got a good look at Tariq in Montreal. If Tariq’s out there, Gabriel will see him.”

  “Tell him he has to wear a suit.”

  “I don’t think he owns one.”

  “Get one.”

  It was a tiny apartment: a sparsely furnished living room, a kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked porcelain sink, a single bedroom, a bathroom that smelled of damp. The windows were hung with thick woolen blankets, which blocked out all light. Tariq opened the closet door. Inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. He carried the suitcase into the living room, placed it on the floor, opened it. Black gabardine trousers, neatly pressed and folded, white dinner jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. In the zippered compartment, a wallet. Tariq opened it and studied the contents: a New York driver’s license in the name of Emilio Gonzales, a Visa credit card, a video store rental card, an assortment of receipts, a clip-on identification badge. Kemel had done his work well.

  Tariq looked at the photograph. Emilio Gonzales was a balding man with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. His cheeks were fuller than Tariq’s; nothing a few balls of cotton wouldn’t take care of. He removed the clothing from the suitcase and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he removed the final item from the suitcase—a small leather toiletry kit—and went into the bathroom.

  He placed the toiletry kit on the basin and propped the photograph of Emilio Gonzales on the shelf below the mirror, Tariq looked at his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized his own face: deep black circles beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin, bloodless lips. Part of it was lack of sleep—he couldn’t remember when he had slept last—but the illness was to blame for most of it. The tumor was stalking him now: numbness in his extremities, ringing in his ears, unbearable headaches, fatigue. He did not have much longer to live. He had arrived at this place, this moment in history, with little time to spare.

  He opened the toiletry kit, removed a pair of scissors and a razor, and began cutting his hair. It took nearly an hour to complete the job.

  The transformation was remarkable. With the silver hair coloring, mustache, and thicker cheeks, he bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph. But Tariq understood that the subtleties of his performance were just as important as the actual likeness. If he behaved like Emilio Gonzales, no security guard or policeman would question him. If he acted like a terrorist on a suicide mission, he would die in an American prison.

  He went into the living room, removed his clothing, changed into the waiter’s uniform. Then he walked back to the bathroom for one final look
in the mirror. He combed his thinned-out hair over his new bald spot and felt vaguely depressed. To die in a strange land, with another man’s name and another man’s face. He supposed it was the logical conclusion to the life he had led. Only one thing to do now: make certain his life had not been wasted on a lost cause.

  He walked into the bedroom.

  As he entered, Leila stood, face alarmed, and raised her gun.

  “It’s only me,” he said softly in Arabic. “Put the gun down before it goes off and you hurt somebody.”

  She did as he said, then shook her head in wonderment. “It’s remarkable. I would never have recognized you.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “You obviously missed your true calling. You should have been an actor.”

  “So, everything is in place. All we need now is Gabriel Allon.”

  Tariq looked at Jacqueline. She lay spread-eagled on the small bed, wrists and ankles secured by four sets of handcuffs, mouth gagged by heavy electrical tape.

  “I found it interesting that within minutes of arriving at the hotel room in Montreal you checked your telephone messages at your flat in London. When I was working for the PLO, we discovered that the Israelis had the ability to take virtually any telephone in the world and route it directly to their headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. Obviously that was done to your telephone in London. When you called that number, it must have alerted headquarters that you were in the Hotel Queen Elizabeth in Montreal.”

  Tariq sat down on the edge of the bed, gently pushed Jacqueline’s hair out of her face. She closed her eyes and tried to draw away from his touch.

  “I’m going to use that device one more time to deceive Ari Shamron and Gabriel Allon. Leila is not a bad actress herself. When I’m ready to move against the target, Leila will telephone your number in London and impersonate you. She will tell headquarters where I am and what I’m about to do. Headquarters will tell Shamron, and Shamron will quickly dispatch Gabriel Allon to the scene. Obviously, I will know that Allon is coming. Therefore, I will hold a significant advantage.”