Gabriel Allon 01 - The Kill Artist

by Daniel Silva

  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 ambassadorship 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.

  Gabriel turned north onto the FDR Drive and put the accelerator to the floor.

  Tariq walked to the entrance of the kitchen and peered through the passageway into the party. Flashbulbs popped as guests posed for photographs with Arafat. Tariq shook his head. Ten years ago these same people had written Arafat off as a ruthless terrorist. Now they were treating him like a rock star in a kaffiyeh.

  Tariq looked around the room for Allon. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Leila had been unable to get through on the telephone. Perhaps Allon was playing some sort of game. Whatever the case, Tariq knew he could not wait long to act. He knew Arafat better than anyone. The old man was prone to last-minute changes in plans. That’s how he had survived all these years. He could walk out of the party at any time, and Tariq would lose his opportunity to kill him.

  He had wanted to kill them both at the same time—Allon and Arafat, one final act of vengeance—but it looked as though that was not to be. Once he killed Arafat, the bodyguards would swarm him. He would fight back and leave them no choice but to kill him. Anything is better than letting the tumor kill me. Allon would miss everything, and therefore his life would be spared. Arafat the traitorous coward would not be so lucky.

  Rodney tapped Tariq on the shoulder. “Start washing dishes, my friend, or this will be the last party you ever work.”

  Rodney walked away. Tariq went into the pantry and switched on the light. He reached up to the top shelf and removed the bag of Tunisian dates he had hidden there an hour earlier. He carried the dates into the kitchen, arranged them on a white china plate. Then he started picking his way through the crowd.

  Arafat was standing in the center of the main drawing room, surrounded by a half-dozen aides and security men and a crowd of well-wishers. Ambassador Cannon stood at his side. Tariq moved forward, the butt of the Makarov pressing into the flesh of his abdomen. Arafat was now ten feet away, but there were five people between him and Tariq, including a bodyguard. Arafat was so short that Tariq could barely see him through the crowd—only the black-and-white of his checkered kaffiyeh. If he drew the Makarov now, surely one of the bodyguards would spot it and open fire. Tariq had to get closer before he drew the gun. He had to play out the ruse with the dates.

  But now Tariq had another problem. The crowd around Arafat was so tightly packed that he could move no closer. Standing directly in front of him was a tall man in a charcoal-gray suit. When Tariq tapped him on the shoulder, the man turned briefly and, spotting the tray
and Tariq’s white jacket, said, “No thank you.”

  “They’re for President Arafat,” Tariq said, and the man reluctantly stepped aside.

  Next Tariq was confronted with a woman. Once again, he tapped the woman on the shoulder, waited for her to step aside, and moved another three feet closer to the target. But now he was standing beside one of Arafat’s aides. He was about to tap the man on the shoulder when he heard a cell phone chirp. The aide reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and brought the telephone quickly to his ear. He listened intently for a moment, then slipped the phone into his pocket, leaned forward, and whispered into Arafat’s ear. Arafat then turned to Cannon and said, “I’m afraid I have an urgent matter to attend to.”

  Tariq thought: Damn it, but the man has the luck of the devil!

  Arafat said, “I need to conduct a telephone conversation in private.”

  “I think you’ll find my study to your liking. Please, come right this way.”

  Arafat disengaged himself from the crowd and, together with Cannon and his bevy of aides, moved along a corridor toward the back of the apartment. A moment later they disappeared into a room. One of Arafat’s bodyguards immediately took up a post outside the door. Cannon and the aides emerged a moment later and rejoined the party.

  Tariq knew he had to strike now or he would lose his chance. He sliced his way through the crowded living room, and walked down the hallway, stopping in front of the bodyguard. Tariq could see he was a member of Arafat’s personal security unit, a man who would know that the Palestinian leader loved nothing more than a good Tunisian date.

  “One of Mr. Arafat’s assistants asked me to bring these to him.”

  The guard looked at the plate of dates, then at Tariq.

  Tariq thought: We can do this one of two ways. You can let me pass peacefully, or I can take out my gun and shoot you in the face and then go inside.

  The guard snatched one of the dates and popped it in his mouth. Then he opened the door and said, “Leave the plate and come right out again.”

  Tariq nodded and stepped into the room.

  Gabriel double-parked the minivan on Eighty-eighth Street. He climbed out, ignoring the shouts of a foot patrolman, and ran to the entrance of the building on Fifth Avenue, Jacqueline a few strides behind him. When they entered the lobby, three people were waiting for them: a member of Arafat’s personal security unit, an American Diplomatic Security Service agent, and a New York City policeman.

  A doorman was holding one of the elevators. He pressed the button for the seventeenth floor as the five people piled into the car.

  The DSS agent said, “I hope to hell you’re sure about this, my friend.”

  Gabriel removed his Beretta, chambered the first round, and slipped it back beneath his coat.

  The doorman said, “Jesus Christ.”

  It was a small study: a carved antique desk with leather inlay, recessed lighting high in the molded ceiling, bookshelves filled with volumes of history and biography, a wood fire burning slowly in a marble fireplace. Arafat was on the telephone, listening intently. Then he murmured a few words in Arabic, replaced the receiver, and looked at Tariq. When he saw the plate of dates, his face broke into a warm, childlike smile.

  Tariq said in Arabic: “Peace be with you, President Arafat. One of your aides asked me to bring these to you.”

  “Dates! How marvelous.” He took one, inspected it briefly, and bit into it. “This date is from Tunisia, I’m sure of it.”

  “I believe you’re right, President Arafat.”

  “You speak Arabic with the accent of a Palestinian.”

  “That’s because I am from Palestine.”

  “What part of Palestine?”

  “My family lived in the Upper Galilee before al-Nakba. I grew up in the camps of Lebanon.”

  Tariq placed the plate of dates on the desk and unbuttoned his jacket so that he could get at his Makarov. Arafat cocked his head slightly and touched his lower lip. “You are not well, my brother?”

  “I’m just a bit tired. I’ve been working very hard lately.”

  “I know what fatigue looks like, my brother. I’ve seen what lack of sleep has done to me over the years. I’ve seen what it’s done to the men around me. But you are not suffering only from fatigue. You’re sick, my brother. I can see it. I have a very powerful instinct for these things.”

  “You’re correct, President Arafat. I am not well these days.”

  “What is the nature of your illness, my brother?”

  “Please, President Arafat—you are far too busy, and too important, to worry about the problems of a common man like me.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, my brother. I’ve always thought of myself as the father of all the Palestinian people. When one of my people suffers, I suffer.”

  “Your concern means the world to me, President Arafat.”

  “It is a tumor, isn’t it, my brother? You are sick from a cancer of some sort?”

  Tariq said nothing. Arafat abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “Tell me something, my friend. Which one of my aides asked you to bring me those dates?”

  Tariq thought, So, his survival instincts are still as strong as ever. He thought of a night in Tunis a long time ago. An interminable meeting, a typical Arafat session, beginning at midnight and stretching till dawn. At some point a package arrived, addressed to Arafat himself, from an Iraqi diplomat in Amman. It sat on his desk for some time, unopened, until finally Arafat stood up and said, “There is a bomb in that package, Tariq! I can smell it! Take it away!” Tariq removed the package and gave it to a Fatah engineer to inspect. The old man had been right. The Israelis had managed to place a bomb in a senior PLO staff meeting. If Arafat had opened the package, all the top leadership would have been liquidated.

  Tariq said, “He didn’t tell me his name. He just told me to bring the dates.”

  Arafat reached out and took another date from Tariq’s tray. “It’s strange, but you seem very familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Are you sure about that? You see, I never forget a face.”

  “I’m certain, President Arafat.”

  “You remind me of an old comrade—a man who served at my side during the good times and the bad.”

  “I’m afraid I’m just a laborer.”

  “I owe my life to this man. He protected me from my enemies. He saved my life more times than I care to remember.” Arafat lifted his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes for a moment. “I remember one night in particular. I had been summoned to Damascus for a meeting with the brother of President Assad. This friend of mine begged me not to go. It was in the old days, when Assad and his secret police wanted me dead. The meeting went off fine, but as we were about to board our motorcade for the drive back to Beirut, this friend of mine tells me it is not safe. You see, he had learned that the Syrians intended to ambush the motorcade and assassinate me. We sent the motorcade on its way as a decoy, and this man managed to hide me in Damascus, right under the noses of the Syrians. Late that night we received word that Syrian special forces had attacked the motorcade outside Damascus and that several of my men were killed. It was a very sad night, but I was still alive, thanks to this man.”

  “A very interesting story, President Arafat.”

  “Will you allow me to indulge in another?”

  “I should probably be going,” Tariq said, reaching for the Makarov.

  “Please, it will only take a moment.”

  Tariq hesitated and said, “Of course, President Arafat. I’d love to hear the story.”

  “Sit down, my friend. You must be tired.”

  “It would not be appropriate.”

  “As you wish,” Arafat replied. “It was during the siege of Beirut. The Israelis were trying to finish off the PLO once and for all. They wanted me dead, too. Everywhere I went Israeli bombs and rockets fell. It was as if they knew where I was all the time. So this frien
d of mine starts investigating. He discovers that Israeli intelligence has recruited several spies among my staff. He discovers that the Israelis have given the spies radio beacons, so they know where I am all the time. He detains the spies and convinces them to confess their crimes. He wants to send a message to other potential spies that this sort of betrayal will not be tolerated. He asks me to sign death warrants so the spies can be executed.”

  “And did you?”

  “I did not. I told this man that if I executed the traitors, I would be making enemies of their brothers and cousins. I told this man that they would be punished in a different way—that they would be cut off from the revolution. Banished. Exiled. For me, this would be a punishment worse than death. But I told him one other thing. I told him that no matter how serious their crimes, we Palestinians cannot be killing each other. We have too many enemies as it is.”

  “And how did this man react?”

  “He was angry with me. He told me I was a fool. He was the only one of my senior staff who had the courage to speak to me that way. He had the heart of a lion, this man.” Arafat paused, then said, “I have not seen him in many years. I hear he’s very sick. I hear he does not have long to live.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “When we have our own state, I will repay him for all the great things he did for the movement. When we have our own state, and our own schools, the children of Palestine will learn about all his heroic deeds. In the villages they will tell stories about this man around the fires at night. He will be a great hero of the Palestinian people.” Arafat lowered his voice. “But not if he does something foolish now. Then he will be remembered as just another fanatic.”

  Arafat looked into Tariq’s eyes and said calmly, “If you must do this thing, my brother, then do it and get it over with. If you have no stomach for it, then I suggest you leave here, and quickly, and find some way to end your life with dignity.”

  Arafat lifted his chin slightly. Tariq lowered his gaze, smiled slightly, and slowly buttoned his coat. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for another man. Peace be with you, my brother.”