Gabriel Allon 01 - The Kill Artist by Daniel Silva
Gabriel pressed the FAST-FORWARD button, then STOP, then PLAY.
“Don’t worry, Yusef. Your girlfriend won’t say no to you.”
STOP. REWIND. PLAY.
“Don’t worry, Yusef. Your girlfriend won’t say no to you.”
Gabriel caught a taxi at the train station and gave the driver an address on the avenue Foch. Five minutes later he announced he had changed his mind, handed the driver some francs, and got out. He found another taxi. In the accent of an Italian, he asked to be taken to Notre-Dame. From there he walked across the river to the St-Michel Métro station. When he was confident he was not being followed, he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, near the Bois de Boulogne. Then he walked fifteen minutes to an apartment house on a leafy street not far from the place de Colombie.
On the wall in the entranceway was a house phone and next to the phone a list of occupants. Gabriel pressed the button for 4B, which bore the name Guzman in faded blue script. When the phone rattled on the other end, he murmured a few words, replaced the receiver, waited for the door to open. He crossed the foyer, rode the lift to the fourth floor, and knocked softly on the door of the flat. He heard a chain sliding away, followed by a dead bolt snapping back. To Gabriel’s ears it sounded like a gunman ejecting a spent cartridge and forcing a new round into the chamber.
The door drew back. Standing in the threshold was a man of Gabriel’s height, square of head and shoulders, with steel blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself—like a man who had had too much success with women. He didn’t shake Gabriel’s hand, just drew him inside by the elbow and closed the door as if he were trying to keep out the cold.
A large flat, dark, the smell of burning coffee and Shamron’s cigarettes hanging on the air. Big couches, reclining leather chairs, fat throw pillows—a place for agents to wait. On the wall opposite an entertainment center filled with Japanese components and American films. No pornography in safe flats: Shamron’s rule.
Shamron came into the room. He made a vast show of looking at his watch. “Ninety minutes,” he said. “Your train arrived ninety minutes ago. Where the hell have you been? I was about to send out a search party.”
And I never told you how I was getting to Paris or what time I would be arriving. . . .
“A proper surveillance detection run takes time. You remember how to do one of those, Ari, or have you stopped teaching that course at the Academy?”
Shamron held out his parched hand. “You have the tapes?”
But Gabriel looked at the other man. “Who’s this?”
“This is Uzi Navot. Uzi’s our katsa in Paris now, one of my best men. He’s been working with me on this case. Meet the great Gabriel, Uzi. Shake the hand of the great Gabriel Allon.”
Gabriel could see that Navot was one of Shamron’s acolytes. The Office was full of them: men who would do anything—betray, cheat, steal, even kill—in order to win Shamron’s approval. Navot was young and he was brash, and there was a smugness about him that made Gabriel dislike him instantly. He shone like a newly minted coin. The instructors at the Academy had told him he was a member of the elite—a prince—and Navot had believed them.
As Gabriel handed Shamron the tapes and sank into the leather reclining chair, he could think of only one thing: Shamron, on the Lizard in Cornwall, promising him that the operation would be a closely held secret within the halls of King Saul Boulevard. If that was the case, who the hell was Uzi Navot and what was he doing here?>
Shamron crossed the room, inserted a tape into the stereo system, and pressed PLAY. Then he sat opposite Gabriel and folded his arms. As Yusef began to speak, he closed his eyes and cocked his head slightly to one side. To Gabriel he looked as though he were listening to the strains of distant music.
“A friend of mine, a very important Palestinian, needs to make a trip abroad for a crucial meeting. Unfortunately, the Zionists and their friends would rather this man not attend this important meeting, and if they spot him during his journey they’ll probably seize him and send him back home.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because he has dared to question the fairness of the so-called peace process. Because he has dared to challenge the Palestinian leadership. Because he believes the only just solution to the Palestinian problem is to allow us to go back to our homes, wherever they might be, and to establish a truly binational state in the land of Palestine. Needless to say these views have made him very unpopular—not only among the Zionists and their friends but also among some Palestinians. As a result he is an exile and lives in hiding.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Because this man is under constant threat, he finds it necessary to take certain precautions. When he travels he does so under an assumed name. He’s very educated, and he speaks many languages. He can pass for several different nationalities.”
“I still don’t know what you want from me, Yusef.”
“The passport control officers of all Western countries use what’s known as profiling to single out travelers for closer scrutiny. Unfortunately, because of ‘Arab terrorism,’ Arab men traveling alone are subject to the harshest scrutiny of all. Therefore, this man prefers to travel under a Western passport and with another person—a woman.”
“Why a woman?”
“Because a man and woman traveling together are less suspicious than two men. This man needs a traveling companion, a partner, if you will. I’d like you to go with him on this trip.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I wouldn’t joke about something like this. The meeting this man needs to attend could change the course of history in the Middle East and for the Palestinian people. It is vital that he arrive at his destination and be allowed to attend this meeting and represent the views of a great number of Palestinians.”
“Why me?”
“For one reason, your appearance. You are a very attractive, very distracting woman. But also because of your passport. This man—and I’m sorry, Dominique, but I’m not allowed to tell you his name—prefers to travel on a French passport. You will be posing as lovers, a successful businessman and his younger girlfriend.”
“Posing as lovers?”
“Yes, just posing as lovers. Nothing more, I assure you. This Palestinian leader has nothing on his mind except the welfare and the future of the Palestinian people.”
“I’m a secretary in an art gallery, Yusef. I don’t do things like this. Besides, why should I stick my neck out for you and the Palestinian people? Find a Palestinian woman to do it.”
“We would use a Palestinian woman if we could. Unfortunately, a European woman is required.”
“ We, Yusef ? What do you mean by we? I thought you were a student. I thought you were a waiter, for God’s sake. When did we become involved with a man who has to travel under an assumed name to a meeting that will change the course of history in the Middle East? So much for complete honesty, eh, Yusef ?”
“I’ve made no secret of my political beliefs. I’ve made no secret of my opposition to the peace process.”
“Yes, but you did make a secret of the fact you were involved with people like this. What is he, Yusef ? Is he some kind of terrorist?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dominique! The people I’m involved with would never commit an act of violence, and they condemn any group that does. Besides, do I really strike you as some sort of terrorist?”
“So where is he going? How would it work?”
“Are you saying you’ll do it?”
“I’m asking you where your friend is going and how it would work—nothing more.”
“I can’t tell you where he’s going.”
“Oh, Yusef, please. This is—”
“I can’t tell you where he’s going because even I don’t know. But I can tell you how it would work.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’ll fly to Paris—to
“And what if he’s arrested? What happens to me?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll be traveling on your own passport. You’ll say that this man invited you to come on a trip with him and that you accepted. Very simple, no problems.”
“How long?”
“You should plan for a week but expect less.”
“I can’t just leave the gallery for a week. I’m not due any time off, and Isherwood will fall to pieces.”
“Tell Mr. Isherwood that you have a family emergency in Paris. Tell him it’s unavoidable.”
“What if he decides to fire me?”
“He won’t fire you. And if it’s money you’re concerned about, we can arrange something for you.”
“I don’t want money, Yusef. If I do it, it will be because you asked me to do it. I’ll do it because I’m in love with you, even though I don’t quite believe you’re really the person you appear to be.”
“I’m just a man who loves his country and his people, Dominique.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Of course you need to think about it. But while you’re making your decision it is critical that you not discuss this with anyone.”
“I understand, I suppose. When do you need an answer?”
“Tomorrow night.”
When the tape ended, Shamron looked up.
“Why so glum, Gabriel? Why aren’t you jumping for joy?”
“Because it sounds too good to be true.”
“You’re not going to start this again, are you, Gabriel? If they thought she was working for us she’d already be dead, and Yusef would be going to ground.”
“That’s not the way Tariq plays the game.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe he wants more than a low-level agent like Jacqueline. You remember the way he killed Ben-Eliezer in Madrid. He set a trap, baited it, lured him there. He left nothing to chance. Then he shot him in the face and walked out as if nothing had happened. He beat us at our own game, and Ben-Eliezer paid the price.”
“He beat me. That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it, Gabriel? If I had been more cautious, I would never have let Ben-Eliezer walk into that café in the first place.”
“I wasn’t blaming you.”
“If not me, then who, Gabriel? I was the head of operations. It happened on my watch. Ultimately, his death is my responsibility. But what would you have me do now? Run and hide, because Tariq has beaten me before? Fold up my tent and go home? No, Gabriel.”
“Take Yusef. Walk away.”
“I don’t want Yusef ! I want Tariq!” Shamron slammed his thick fist against the arm of the chair. “It makes perfect sense. Tariq likes to use legitimate women for cover. He always has. In Paris it was the young American girl. In Amsterdam it was the whore who liked heroin. He even used one—”
Shamron stopped himself, but Gabriel knew what he was thinking. Tariq had used a woman in Vienna, a pretty Austrian shopgirl who was found in the Danube the night of the bombing with half her throat missing.
“Let’s assume you’re right, Gabriel. Let’s assume Tariq suspects Jacqueline is working for the Office. Let’s assume he’s setting a trap for us to walk into. Even if that is the case, we’ll still have the upper hand. We decide when to force the action. We pick the time and place, not Tariq.”
“With Jacqueline’s life hanging in the balance. I’m not prepared to take that chance. I don’t want her to end up like all the others.”
“She won’t. She’s a professional, and we’ll be with her every step of the way.”
“Two weeks ago she was working as a model. She hasn’t been in the field in years. She may be a professional, but she’s not prepared for something like this.”
“Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. No one is ever completely prepared for something like this. But Jacqueline can look after herself.”
“I don’t like their ground rules either. We’re supposed to let her go to Charles de Gaulle and get on a plane, but we don’t know where the plane is going. We’ll be playing catch-up from the moment the game begins.”
“We’ll know where they’re going the moment they go to the gate, and we’ll be watching them the moment they step off the plane at the other end. She won’t be out of our sight for a minute.”
“And then?”
“When the moment presents itself, you’ll take Tariq down, and it will be over.”
“Let’s arrest him at Charles de Gaulle.”
Shamron pursed his lips and shook his head.
Gabriel said, “Why not?”
Shamron held up a thick forefinger. “Number one, because it would require involving the French, something I’m not prepared to do. Number two, no one has managed to build a case against Tariq that’s going to stand up in a courtroom. Number three, if we tell the French and our friends in Langley that we know where Tariq is going to be on a certain day, they’re going to want to know how we came by this information. It would also mean confessing to our brethren in London that we’ve been running an operation on their soil and neglected to tell them about it. They’re not going to be pleased about that. Finally, the last thing we need is Tariq behind bars, a symbol for all those who would like to see the peace process destroyed. I would rather he disappear quietly.”
“How about a snatch job?”
“Do you really think we could take Tariq from the middle of a crowded terminal at Charles de Gaulle? Of course not. If we want Tariq, we’re going to have to play by his rules for a few hours.”
Shamron lit a cigarette and violently waved out the match. “It’s up to you, Gabriel. An operation like this requires the direct approval of the prime minister. He’s in his office right now, waiting to hear whether you’re prepared to go through with it. What should I tell him?”
32
ST. JAMES’S, LONDON
The middle afternoon, Julian Isherwood had decided, was the cruelest part of the day. What was it exactly? The fatigue of a good lunch? The early dark of London in winter? The sleepy rhythm of the rain rattling against his windows? This nether region of the day had become Isherwood’s personal purgatory, a heartless space of time wedged between the sentimental hope he felt each morning when he arrived at the gallery and the cold reality of decline he felt each evening as he made his way back home to South Kensington. Three o’clock, the hour of death: too early to close up—that would feel like complete capitulation—too many hours to fill with too little meaningful work.
So he was seated at his desk, his left hand wrapped around the comforting shape of a warm mug of tea, his right flipping morosely through a stack of papers: bills he could not pay, notices of good pictures coming onto the market he could not afford to buy.
He lifted his head and peered through the doorway separating his office from the anteroom, toward the creature seated behind the headmasterly little desk. A striking figure, this girl who called herself Dominique: a real work of art, that one. At least she had made things at the gallery more interesting, whoever she was.
In the past he had insisted on keeping the doorway separating the two offices tightly closed. He was an important man, he liked to believe—a man who had important discussions with important people—and he had wanted a rampart between himself and his secretary. Now he found he preferred to keep it open. Oh, that he were twenty years younger, at the height of his powers. He could have had her back then. He’d had a good many back then, girls just like her. It wasn’t just the money, or the villa in St-Tropez,
In his copious spare time, Isherwood had concocted all sorts of fantasies about her. He wondered whether she was French at all or just one of those Israelis who could pass herself off as almost anything. He had also discovered that he found her vaguely intimidating, which made it quite impossible to even contemplate the physical act of love with her. Or is it just me? he thought. Is this how we cope with the decay of aging? With the dwindling of our power? The deterioration of our skills? Does the mind mercifully release us from desire so we can step aside gracefully for the younger generation and not make complete jackasses of ourselves over women like Dominique Bonard?
But as he watched her now he knew there was something wrong. She had been on edge all day. She had refused to leave the gallery. He had invited her to lunch at Wilton’s—nothing suspicious, mind you: no ulterior motives—but she had declined and ordered a sandwich delivered from the café instead. Perhaps it had something to do with that Arab boy who’d come to the gallery the other night—Yusef, she had called him. Or perhaps it was Gabriel. Isherwood was certain of one thing. If Gabriel ever hurt her, the way he hurt that little boy in Cornwall—God, what was his name? Pearl? Puck? No, Peel it was—well. . . . Unfortunately, there was not much he could do to Gabriel except never forgive him.
Outside, he heard two short bursts of an automotive horn. He stood and walked to the window. Below him, on the bricks of Mason’s Yard, was a delivery van standing just outside the sealed doors of the loading bay.
Funny, there were no deliveries scheduled for today. The driver honked again, long and loud this time. For Christ’s sake, Isherwood thought. Who the hell are you? What do you want?
Then he peered down through the front windshield. Because of the angle he could not see the driver’s face, he could only see a pair of hands, wrapped around the steering wheel. He would have recognized those hands anywhere. Best hands in the business.
They rode the lift to the upper gallery, Jacqueline between them like a prisoner, Gabriel to her left, Shamron to her right. She tried to catch Gabriel’s eye, but he was looking straight ahead. When the door opened, Shamron guided her to the viewing bench as though he were placing a witness in the dock. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting on her hands. Gabriel stood behind her. Shamron paced the length of the gallery like a prospective buyer unimpressed with the merchandise.