The Kill Artist Read online

  “So I’ve read. I’d rather not end up in jail, Gabe, if you get my drift.”

  “No one’s going to jail, Randy.”

  Karp turned and gazed out the window. “What about the boy across the street? Is he going to jail, or do you have other plans for him?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “I’m asking if this one’s going to end up in an alley filled with twenty-two-caliber bullet holes. People have a funny way of ending up dead whenever you come around.”

  “It’s a straight surveillance job. I want to know who he’s talking to, what he’s saying. The usual.”

  Karp folded his arms and studied the angles. “Is he a pro?”

  “He seems to be good. Very disciplined on the street.”

  “I could try a windowpane pickoff, but if he’s a pro he’ll take countermeasures and make life miserable for us. Besides, the laser is not very discriminating. It reads the vibrations of the glass and converts them into sound. Traffic makes the glass vibrate, the wind, the neighbors, his CD player. It’s not the best way to do it.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I could get his telephone from the subscriber interface box.”

  “The subscriber interface?”

  Karp raised his hand and pointed toward the block of flats. “That metal box on the wall just to the left of the entrance. That’s where the British Telecom lines enter the building. From there, the lines branch out to the individual subscribers. I can put a rather simple r/f bug on his line right there. It would transmit an analog signal, and we could listen to his phone conversations from here with an ordinary FM radio.”

  “I need room coverage, too.”

  “If you want good room coverage, you’re going to have to get inside his flat.”

  “So we’ll get inside his flat.”

  “That’s how people end up in jail, Gabe.”

  “No one’s going to jail.”

  “Does our boy have a computer?”

  “I assume so. He’s a part-time student.”

  “I could Tempest him.”

  “Forgive me, Randy, but I’ve been out of the game for a few years.”

  “It’s a system that was developed by a Dutch scientist called Van Eyck. The computer communicates with the monitor by transmitting signals over the cable. Those signals have frequency and can be captured by a properly tuned receiver. If he’s doing business on the computer, we can watch him from here. It will be like standing over his shoulder while he works.”

  “Do it,” Gabriel said. “I want his work phone too.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “A restaurant on the Edgware Road.”

  “An r/f bug will never be able to transmit from the Edgware Road to here. The path loss is too great. I’ll need to set up a repeater—a relay point between the restaurant and here to boost the signal.”

  “What do you need?”

  “A vehicle of some sort.”

  “Will a car do?”

  “A car will be fine.”

  “I’ll get you one today.”

  “Clean?”

  “Clean.”

  “Are you going to get it from one of your little helpers?”

  “Don’t worry about how I get it.”

  “Just don’t steal it, please. I don’t want to be driving hot wheels.”

  At that moment Yusef appeared in the window and engaged in his morning inspection of the street below.

  “So that’s our boy?” Karp asked.

  “That’s him.”

  “Tell me something, Gabe. Exactly how are you planning on getting inside his flat?”

  Gabriel looked at Karp and smiled. “He likes girls.”

  At two o’clock the following morning Gabriel and Karp slipped into the alley behind the Kebab Factory. To reach the subscriber interface box, Karp had to balance himself atop a large rolling rubbish bin filled with rotting garbage. He picked the lock, pulled open the little door, and for two minutes worked silently by the thin beam of a penlight held between his front teeth.

  Gabriel stood guard below, his attention focused on the entrance of the alley. “How much longer?” he murmured.

  “One minute if you shut up. Two if you insist on talking to me.”

  Gabriel looked down again and spotted two men in leather jackets walking toward him. One picked up a bottle and shattered it against a wall. His friend nearly fell over with laughter.

  Gabriel moved a few feet away from Karp, leaned against a wall, and pretended to be sick. The two men approached him. The larger of the two grabbed his shoulder. He had a raised white scar along his right cheek and stank of beer and whiskey. The other grinned stupidly. He was thin and had shaved his head. His pale skin glowed in the dim light of the alley.

  “Please, I don’t want any trouble,” Gabriel said in French-accented English. “I’m just sick. Too much to drink, you know?”

  “A bloody Frog,” sang the bald one. “And he looks queer too.”

  “Please, I don’t want trouble,” Gabriel repeated.

  He reached into his pocket, removed several crumpled twenty-pound notes, and held them out. “Here, take my money. Just leave me alone.”

  But the big man with the scar slapped the money from Gabriel’s hand. Then he drew back his fist and threw a wild roundhouse punch toward Gabriel’s head.

  Ten minutes later they were back in the flat. Karp was seated in front of his equipment at the dining room table. He picked up a cell phone and dialed the restaurant. While the line was ringing he set down the phone and turned up the volume on his receiver. He could hear a recorded message saying the Kebab Factory was closed and would not reopen until eleven-thirty the following day. He dialed the number a second time, and once again he could hear the message over the receiver. The bug and the repeater were working perfectly.

  As he put away his tools, he thought about Gabriel’s contribution to that evening’s work. It had lasted precisely three seconds by Karp’s calculation. He saw none of it—his attention had remained fixed on his work—but he had heard the whole thing. There had been four sharp blows. The last was the most vicious. Karp had definitely heard bone shattering. He had looked down only after he finished the installation and closed the box. He would never forget the sight: Gabriel Allon, bending over each of his victims, tenderly checking each throat for a pulse, making certain he hadn’t killed them.

  Next morning Gabriel went out to buy the paper. He walked through a light drizzle to the Edgware Road and purchased a copy of The Times from a newsstand. He tucked the paper into his jacket and walked across the street to a small market. There he bought glue, scissors, and a second copy of The Times.

  Karp was still sleeping when Gabriel returned to the flat. He sat at the table with two sheets of plain paper in front of him. At the top of one page he wrote the security clearance—top secret—and the recipient—Rom, the code name for the chief.

  For fifteen minutes Gabriel wrote, right hand scratching rhythmically across the page, left pressed to his temple. His prose was terse and economical, the way Shamron liked it.

  When he was finished he took one copy of The Times, turned it to page 8, and carefully cut out a large advertisement for a chain of men’s clothing stores. He threw away the remainder of the paper, then took the second copy and opened it to the same page. He placed his report over the advertisement, then glued the cutout over the report. He folded the newspaper and slipped it into the side flap of a black overnight travel bag. Then he pulled on a coat, shouldered the bag, and went out.

  He walked to Marble Arch and entered the Underground. He purchased a ticket from the automated machine and before passing through the turnstiles made a brief telephone call. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at Waterloo.

  Shamron’s bodel was waiting in a café in the Eurostar ticket terminal, holding a plastic shopping bag bearing the name of an American cigarette. Gabriel sat at the next table, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. When he finished his
tea he stood and walked away, leaving the newspaper behind. The bodel slipped it into the shopping bag and headed in the opposite direction.

  Gabriel waited in the terminal for his train to be called. Ten minutes later he boarded the Eurostar for Paris.

  FIFTEEN

  Amsterdam

  The elegant canal house stood on the Herengracht in the Golden Curve of Amsterdam’s Central Canal Ring. It was tall and wide, with large windows overlooking the canal and a soaring gable. The owner, David Morgenthau, was the multimillionaire chairman of Optique, one of the world’s largest makers of designer eyeglasses. He was also a passionate Zionist. Over the years he had given millions of dollars to Israeli charities and invested millions more in Israeli businesses. An American of Dutch Jewish descent, Morgenthau had served on the boards of several New York Jewish organizations and was regarded as a hawk when it came to matters of Israeli security. He and his wife, Cynthia, a renowned New York interior designer, visited their home in Amsterdam like clock-work twice each year—once in the summer, on the way to their villa outside Cannes, and once again in the winter for the holidays.

  Tariq sat in a café on the opposite side of the canal, drinking warm sweet tea. He knew other things about David Morgenthau—things that did not appear in the society pages or the world’s business journals. He knew that Morgenthau was a personal friend of the Israeli prime minister, that he had performed certain favors for Ari Shamron, and that he had once served as a secret conduit between the Israeli government and the PLO. For all those reasons, Tariq was going to kill him.

  Leila had prepared a detailed surveillance report during her stay in Amsterdam. David and Cynthia Morgenthau left the house each morning to visit museums or go ice-skating in the countryside. During the day the only person who remained in the house was a maid, a young Dutch girl.

  This is going to be too easy.

  A chauffeured Mercedes braked to a halt outside the house. Tariq looked at his watch: 4:00 P.M., right on schedule. A tall, gray-haired man climbed out. He wore a thick sweater and heavy corduroy trousers and was carrying two pairs of ice skates. A moment later an attractive woman emerged, dressed in black stretch leggings and a pullover. As they entered the house the Mercedes drove off.

  Tariq left a few guilders on the table and went out.

  Snow drifted over the Herengracht as he made his way slowly toward the houseboat on the Amstel. A pair of cyclists glided silently past, leaving ribbons of black in the fresh snow. Evening in a foreign city always made him melancholy. Lights coming on, offices letting out, bars and cafés slowly filling. Through the broad windows of the canal houses he could see parents coming home to children, husbands coming home to wives, lovers reuniting, warm lights burning. Life, he thought. Someone else’s life, someone else’s homeland.

  He thought about what Kemel had told him during their meeting on the train. Tariq’s old nemesis, Gabriel Allon, had been brought back to help Ari Shamron find him. The news did not concern him. Indeed, he welcomed it. It would make the next few weeks even sweeter. Imagine, destroying their so-called peace process and settling his score with Gabriel Allon all at the same time…

  Killing Allon would not be easy, but as Tariq drifted along the banks of the Herengracht he knew he already held a distinct advantage over his opponent. The simple fact that he knew Allon was out there searching for him gave Tariq the upper hand. The hunter must come to the prey to make the kill. If Tariq played the game well, he could draw Allon into a trap. And then I’ll kill him, the way he killed Mahmoud.

  Intelligence services have two basic ways of trying to catch a terrorist. They can use their superior technology to intercept the terrorist’s communications, or they can penetrate his organization by inserting a spy or convincing an existing operative to switch sides. Tariq and Kemel were careful about the way they communicated. They avoided telephones and the Internet whenever possible and used couriers instead. Like the idiot Kemel sent to Samos! No, they would not be able to track him by intercepting his communications, so they would have to try to penetrate his group. It was difficult for an intelligence agency to penetrate any terrorist group, but it would be even harder to get inside Tariq’s. His organization was small, tightly knit, and highly mobile. They were committed to the struggle, highly trained, and intensely loyal. None of his agents would ever betray him to the Jews.

  Tariq could use this to his advantage. He had instructed Kemel to contact every agent and give a simple instruction. If any of them noticed anything out of the ordinary—such as surveillance or an approach by a stranger—they were to report it immediately. If Tariq could determine that Israeli intelligence was involved, he would immediately be transformed from the hunted to the hunter.

  He thought of an operation he had conducted while he was still with Jihaz el-Razd, the PLO intelligence arm. He had identified an Office agent working with diplomatic cover from the Israeli embassy in Madrid. The officer had managed to recruit several spies within the PLO, and Tariq decided it was time to pay him back. He sent a Palestinian to Madrid posing as a defector. The Palestinian met with the Israeli officer inside the embassy and promised to turn over sensitive intelligence about PLO leaders and their personal habits. At first the Israeli balked. Tariq had anticipated this, so he had given his agent several pieces of true, relatively harmless intelligence—all things the Israelis already knew. The Israeli believed he was now dealing with a genuine defector and agreed to meet with the Palestinian a second time, at a café a week later. But this time Tariq went to Madrid. He walked into the café at the appointed time, shot the officer twice in the face, and calmly walked out.

  He came to the river and walked along the embank-ment a short distance until he arrived at the girl’s houseboat. It was a depressing place—dirty, filled with drug and sexual paraphernalia—but a perfect spot to hide while he planned the attack. He crossed the deck and entered the cabin. The skylights were covered with the new snow, the salon very cold. Tariq switched on a lamp, then turned on the little electric space heater. In the bedroom he could hear the girl stirring beneath her blankets. She was a pathetic wretch, not like the girl he had stayed with in Paris. No one would miss this one when she was gone.

  She rolled over and gazed at him through the strands of her stringy blond hair. “Where have you been? I was worried about you.”

  “I was just out walking. I love walking in this city, especially when it’s snowing.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Four-thirty. Shouldn’t you be getting out of bed?”

  “I don’t have to leave for another hour.”

  Tariq made her a mug of Nescafé and carried it into the bedroom. Inge rolled over and leaned on her elbow. The blanket slipped down her body, exposing her breasts. Tariq handed her the coffee and looked away. The girl drank the coffee, her eyes looking at him over the rim of the mug. She asked, “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Why did you look away from me?”

  She sat up and pushed away the blankets. He wanted to say no, but he feared she might be suspicious of a Frenchman who resisted the advances of an attractive young woman. So he stood at the edge of the bed and allowed her to undress him. And few moments later, as he exploded inside her, he was thinking not of the girl but of how he was going to finally kill Gabriel Allon.

  He lay in bed for a long time after she had left, listening to the sounds of the boats moving on the river. The headache came an hour later. They were coming more frequently now—three, sometimes four a week. The doctor had warned it would happen that way. The pain slowly intensified until he was nearly blinded by it. He placed a cool, damp towel on his face. No painkillers. They dulled his senses, made him sleep too heavily, and gave him the sensation of tumbling backward through an abyss. So he lay alone in the Dutch girl’s bed, on a houseboat in the Amstel River, feeling as though someone were pouring molten lead into his skull through his eye sockets.

  SIXTEEN

  Valbonne, Provence


  The morning was clear and chilly, sunlight streaming over the hillsides. Jacqueline pulled on a pair of full-length riding chamois and a woolen jersey and tucked her long hair beneath a dark blue helmet. She slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses and studied her appearance in the mirror. She looked like a very handsome man, which was her intention. She stretched on the floor of her bedroom, then walked downstairs to the entrance hall, where her Bianchi racing bike leaned against the wall. She pushed the bike out the front door and wheeled it across the gravel drive. A moment later she was gliding through the cold shadows down the long gentle hill toward the village.

  She slipped through Valbonne and made the long, steady climb toward Opio, cold air burning her cheeks. She pedaled slowly and evenly for the first few miles while her muscles warmed. Then she switched gears and increased the cadence of her pedaling. Soon she was flying along the narrow road, head down, legs pumping like pistons. The smell of lavender hung on the air. Beside her a grove of olive trees spilled down a terraced hillside. She emerged from the shadows of the olive trees onto a flat plain of warm sunlight. After a moment she could feel the first sweat beneath her jersey.

  At the halfway point she checked her split: only thirty seconds off her best time. Not bad for a chilly December morning. She circled a traffic roundabout, switched gears, and started up a long, steep hill. After a few moments her breath was hoarse and ragged and her legs burning—too many goddamned cigarettes!—but she forced herself to remain seated and pound up the long hill. She thought of Michel Duval: Pig! One hundred yards from the crest she rose from the saddle, angrily driving her feet down into the toe straps, shouting at herself to keep going and not give in to the pain. She was rewarded with a long descent. She could have coasted but took a quick drink and sprinted down the hill instead. As she entered Valbonne again, she looked at her watch. A new personal best by fifteen seconds. Thank you, Michel Duval.

  She climbed out of the saddle and pushed her bike through the quiet streets of the ancient town. At the central square she propped the bike against a pillar, purchased a newspaper, and treated herself to a warm croissant and a large bowl of steaming café au lait. When she finished she collected her bike and pushed it along a shadowed street.