The Kill Artist Read online

  “It’s not true?”

  “Does it sound as though it could be true?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then trust your instincts, Dominique. If it doesn’t sound plausible, it probably isn’t. Do you want to know the truth about what the Jews did to my people? Do you want to know why my family ended up in a refugee camp in Beirut?”

  “I want to know about you.”

  “I’m a Palestinian. It’s impossible to separate me from the history of my people.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “By the way, which nightclub in Paris?”

  “What?”

  “The nightclub where you met the Israelis. Which one was it?”

  “I can’t remember. It was so long ago.”

  “Try to remember, please. It’s important.”

  “We call it al-Nakba. The Catastrophe.”

  He had pulled on a pair of loose-fitting cotton pajama bottoms and a London University sweatshirt, as if suddenly self-conscious about his nakedness. He gave Jacqueline a blue dress shirt. It was unspoken, but the implication was clear: one mustn’t discuss something as sacred as al-Nakba in a state of postcoital undress. Jacqueline sat in the middle of the bed, her long legs crossed before her, while Yusef paced.

  “When the United Nations presented the plan to partition Palestine into two states, the Jews realized they had a serious problem. The Zionists had come to Palestine to build a Jewish state, but nearly half of the people in the new partition state were to be Arabs. The Jews accepted the partition plan, knowing full well that it would be unacceptable to the Arabs. And why should the Arabs accept it? The Jews owned seven percent of Palestine, but they were being handed fifty percent of the country, including the most fertile land along the coastal plain and the Upper Galilee. Are you listening, Dominique?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Jews devised a plan to remove the Arabs from the land designated for the Jewish state. They even had a name for it: Plan Dalet. And they put it into effect the moment the Arabs attacked. Their plan was to expel the Arabs, to drive them out, as Ben-Gurion put it. To cleanse Jewish Palestine of Arabs. Yes, cleanse. I don’t use that word lightly, Dominique. It’s not my word. It’s the very word the Zionists used to describe their plan to expel my people from Palestine.”

  “It sounds as though they behaved like the Serbs.”

  “They did. Have you ever heard of a place called Deir Yassin?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Your view of the conflict in the Middle East has been shaped by the Zionists, so it’s hardly surprising to me that you have never heard of Deir Yassin.”

  “Tell me about Deir Yassin.”

  “It was an Arab village outside Jerusalem on the road to the coast and Tel Aviv. It isn’t there anymore. There’s a Jewish town where Deir Yassin used to be. It’s called Kfar Sha’ul.”

  Yusef closed his eyes for a moment, as if the next part was too painful even to speak about. When he resumed he spoke with the flat calm of a survivor recounting the last mundane events of a loved one’s life.

  “The village elders had reached an accommodation with the Zionists, so the four hundred Arabs who lived in Deir Yassin felt they were safe. They had been promised by the Zionists that the village would not be attacked. But at four o’clock one April morning, the members of the Irgun and the Stern Gang came to Deir Yassin. By noon, two thirds of the villagers had been slaughtered. The Jews rounded up the men and the boys, stood them against a wall, and started shooting. They went house to house and murdered the women and the children. They dynamited the homes. They shot a woman who was nine months pregnant, then they cut open her womb and ripped out the child. A woman rushed forward to try to save the baby’s life. A Jew shot the woman and killed her.”

  “I don’t believe things like that happened in Palestine.”

  “Of course they did, Dominique. After the massacre word spread through the Arab villages like wildfire. The Jews took full advantage of the situation. They mounted loud-speakers on trucks and broadcast warnings. They told the Arabs to get out, or there would be another Deir Yassin. They concocted stories about outbreaks of typhus and cholera. They made clandestine radio broadcasts in Arabic, masquerading as Arab leaders, and urged the Palestinians to take flight to avoid a bloodbath. This is the real reason the Palestinians left.”

  “I had no idea,” she said.

  “My own family came from the village of Lydda. Lydda, like Deir Yassin, no longer exists. It is now Lod. It’s where the Zionists put their fucking airport. After a battle with the Arab defenders, the Jews entered Lydda. There was complete panic. Two hundred fifty Arab villagers were killed in the crossfire. After the town was captured, the commanders asked Ben-Gurion what should be done with the Arabs. He said, ”Drive them out!“ The actual expulsion orders were signed by Yitzhak Rabin. My family was given ten minutes to pack a few belongings, as much as they could carry in a single bag, and told to get out. They started walking. The Jews laughed at them. Spat at them. That’s the truth about what happened in Palestine. That’s who I am. That’s why I hate them.”

  Jacqueline, however, was thinking not of the Arabs of Lydda but of the Jews of Marseilles—of Maurice and Rachel Halévy and the night the Vichy gendarmes came for them.

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “Your story upset me. Come back to bed. I want to hold you.”

  He crawled back into bed, spread his body gently over hers, and kissed her mouth. “End of lecture,” he said. “We’ll resume tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested—very interested, in fact.”

  “Do you believe the things I’ve told you, or do you think I’m just another fanatical Arab who wants to see the Jews driven into the sea?”

  “I believe you, Yusef.”

  “Do you like poetry?”

  “I love poetry.”

  “Poetry is very important to the Palestinian people. Our poetry allows us to express our suffering. It gives us the courage to face our past. A poet named Mu’in Basisu is one of my favorites.”

  He kissed her again and began to recite:

  And after the flood none was left of this people

  This land, but a rope and a pole

  None but bare bodies floating on mires

  Leavings of kin and child

  None but swelled bodies

  Their numbers unknown

  Here wreckage, here death, here drowned in deep waters

  Scraps of bread loaf still clasped in my hand.

  She said, “It’s beautiful.”

  “It sounds better in Arabic.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Do you speak any Arabic, Dominique?”

  “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  In the morning Yusef brought her coffee in bed. Jacqueline sat up and drank it very quickly. She needed the jolt of caffeine to help her think. She hadn’t slept. Several times she had considered slipping out of bed, but Yusef was a restless sleeper and she feared he might awaken. If he discovered her making imprints of his keys with a special device disguised as a mascara case, there would be no way to explain. He would assume she was an Israeli agent. He might very well kill her. It would be better to leave his flat without the imprints than to be caught. She wanted to do it right—for Gabriel’s sake and her own.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  “I’m sorry I let you sleep so long,” Yusef said.

  “That’s all right. I was tired.”

  “It was a good tired, yes?”

  She kissed him and said, “It was a very good tired.”

  “Call your boss and tell him you’re going to take the day off and make love to a Palestinian named Yusef al-Tawfiki.”

  “I don’t think he’ll see the humor in that.”

  “This man has never wanted to spend the day making love to a woman?”

  “I’m not sure, actually.”

>   “I’m going to take a shower. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “I’ll never get to work that way.”

  “That was my intention.”

  “Get in the shower. Is there any more coffee?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Yusef stepped into the bathroom and closed the door halfway. Jacqueline lay in bed until she heard him step into the shower; then she slipped from beneath the blankets and padded into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and walked into the sitting room. She placed the coffee on the table next to Yusef’s keys and sat down. The shower was still running.

  She reached into her bag and withdrew her mascara case. She popped it open and glanced inside. It was filled with a soft ceramic material. All she had to do was place a key against the material and squeeze the lid closed. The ersatz case would produce a perfect imprint.

  Her hands were trembling. She picked up the keys carefully, to prevent them from making any sound, and singled out the first: the Yale model he had used for the street entrance. She placed it inside the case, closed the lid, and squeezed. She opened the case and removed the key. The imprint was flawless. She repeated the process two more times, once with the second Yale key, then with the skeleton. She had three perfect imprints.

  She closed the lid, placed the keys exactly where Yusef had left them, then returned the mascara case to her purse.

  “What are you doing there?”

  She looked up, startled, and quickly regained her composure. Yusef was standing in the center of the floor, his wet body wrapped in a beige bath towel. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen? Damn it, Jacqueline! Why weren’t you watching the door!

  She said, “I’m looking for my cigarettes. Have you seen them?”

  He pointed toward the bedroom. “You left them in there.”

  “Oh, yes. God, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “That’s all you were doing? Just looking for cigarettes?”

  “What else would I be doing?” She spread her arms to indicate the spartan squalor of his sitting room. “You think I’m trying to make off with your valuables?”

  She stood and picked up her handbag. “Are you finished in the bathroom?”

  “Yes, but why are you bringing your purse to the bathroom?”

  She thought: He suspects something. Suddenly she wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as possible. Then she thought: I should be offended by questions like that.

  “I think I may be getting my period,” she said icily. “I don’t think I like the way you’re acting. Is this the way all Arab men treat their lovers the morning after?”

  She brushed past him and entered the bedroom. She was surprised at how convincing she had managed to sound. Her hands were shaking as she collected her clothing and entered the bathroom. She ran water in the sink while she dressed. Then she opened the door and went out. Yusef was in the sitting room. He wore faded jeans, a sweater, loafers with no socks.

  He said, “I’ll call you a cab.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way home.”

  “Let me walk you down.”

  “I’ll see myself out, thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?”

  “Because I don’t like the way you were talking to me. I had a nice time, until now. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Yusef followed her. She walked quickly down the stairs, then across the lobby.

  At the front entrance he grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I’m just a little paranoid sometimes. You’d be paranoid too if you’d lived my life. I didn’t mean anything by it. How can I make it up to you?”

  She managed to smile, even though her heart was pounding against the inside of her ribs. She had no idea what to do. She had the imprints, but there was a chance that he had seen her making them—or at least that he suspected she had done something. If she were guilty, the natural impulse would be to reject his invitation. She decided to accept his offer. If Gabriel believed it was a mistake, she could make up an excuse to cancel it.

  She said, “You may take me out for a proper dinner.”

  “What time?”

  “Meet me at the gallery at six-thirty.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And don’t be late. I can’t stand men who are late.”

  Then she kissed him and went out.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Maida Vale, London

  When Jacqueline arrived back at her flat, Gabriel was seated on the couch drinking coffee. “How did it go?”

  “It was lovely. Bring me some of that coffee, will you?”

  She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and began filling the tub. Then she stripped off her clothing and slipped beneath the warm water. A moment later Gabriel knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  He came into the room. He seemed surprised that she was already in the bath. He looked away, searching for a spot to place the coffee. “How do you feel?” he said, eyes averted.

  “How do you feel after you kill someone?”

  “I always feel dirty.”

  Jacqueline scooped up a handful of water and let it run over her face.

  Gabriel said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “It can wait until you’re dressed.”

  “We’ve lived together as man and wife, Gabriel. We’ve even behaved like man and wife.”

  “That was different.”

  “Why was it different?”

  “Because it was a necessary part of the operation.”

  “Sleeping in the same bed, or making love to each other?”

  “Jacqueline, please.”

  “Maybe you won’t look at me because I just slept with Yusef.”

  Gabriel glared at her and went out. Jacqueline permitted herself a brief smile, then slipped below the water.

  “The phone is made by British Telecom.”

  She was sitting in the cracked club chair, her body covered in a thick white robe. She rattled off the name and model number as she worked a towel through her damp hair.

  “There’s no telephone in the bedroom, but he does have a clock radio.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Sony.” She gave him the model number.

  “Let’s go back to the telephone for a moment,” Gabriel said. “Any distinguishing marks? Any price tags or stickers with telephone numbers on them? Anything that would give us a problem?”

  “He fancies himself a poet and a historian. He writes all the time. It looks as though he dials the telephone with the tip of a pen. The keypad is covered with marks.”

  “What color ink?”

  “Blue and red.”

  “What kind of pen?”

  “What do you mean? The kind of pen you write with.”

  Gabriel sighed and looked wearily at the ceiling. “Is it a ballpoint pen? Is it a fountain pen? Perhaps a felt-tipped pen?”

  “Felt-tipped, I believe.”

  “You believe?”

  “Felt-tipped. I’m sure of it.”

  “Very good,” he said as though he were speaking to a child. “Now, is it fine point, medium, or bold?”

  She slowly raised the long, slender middle finger of her right hand and waved it at Gabriel.

  “I’ll take that to mean bold point. What about the keys?”

  She hunted through her handbag, tossed him the silver mascara case. Gabriel thumbed the release, lifted the lid, looked at the imprints.

  She said, “We may have a problem.”

  Gabriel closed the lid and looked up.

  Jacqueline said, “I think he may have seen me with his keys.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She recounted the entire chain of events for him, then added cautiously, “He wants to see me again.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight at six-thirty. He
’s meeting me at the gallery.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “Yes, but I can—”

  “No,” Gabriel said, interrupting her. “That’s perfect. I want you to meet him and keep him entertained long enough for me to get inside his flat and plant the bugs.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it will be done.”

  Gabriel left the building through a back service door. He slipped across the courtyard, scaled a cinder-block wall, and leaped into an alleyway strewn with beer cans and bits of broken glass. Then he walked to the Maida Vale Underground station. He felt unsettled. He didn’t like the fact that Yusef had asked to see Jacqueline a second time.

  He rode the Underground to Covent Garden. The bodel was waiting in line for coffee at the market. It was the same boy who had taken Gabriel’s field report at Waterloo Station. A black, soft-sided leather briefcase hung on his back from a shoulder strap, a side pocket facing out. Gabriel had placed the silver case containing the imprints of Yusef’s keys in a brown envelope—standard size, plain, no markings. He sat at a table drinking tea, eyes working methodically over the crowd.

  The bodel bought coffee, started to walk away. Gabriel got up and followed him, slicing through the crowded market, until he was directly behind him. Gabriel bumped the bodel as he was taking the first sip of coffee, spilling some of it down the front of his jacket. He apologized and walked away, the plain brown envelope now residing safely in the outside pocket of the bodel‘s briefcase.

  Gabriel wound his way through St. Giles, across New Oxford Street, then up the Tottenham Court Road, where there were several shops specializing in electronic goods. Ten minutes later, after visiting two of the shops, he was back in a taxi heading across London to the listening post in Sussex Gardens. On the seat next to him was a bag containing four items: a Sony clock radio, a British Telecom phone, and two felt-tipped pens, one red, one blue, both bold.

  Karp sat at the dining room table, studying the exposed internal components of the clock radio and telephone through a lighted magnifying glass. As Gabriel watched Karp work, he thought about his studio in Cornwall and imagined he was peering through his Wild microscope at the surface of the Vecellio.