Gabriel Allon 01 - Kill Artist Page 23

  “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 women 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 Charles de Gaulle Airport. You’ll meet the Palestinian leader in the terminal. Only he and a few of his closest aides know where he’s going. You’ll accompany him to the gate and board the airplane. The destination may be the site of the meeting, or you may have to take another flight—or a train, or a ferry, or drive. I don’t know. When the meeting is over, you’ll return to Paris and go your separate ways. You’ll never see him again, and you’ll never mention this to another person.”

  “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 t
o 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?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  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, or the yacht. It was the art. The paintings were a better aphrodisiac than cocaine.

  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.

  He spoke for twenty minutes without pausing. As Jacqueline watched him, she thought about the night he asked her to join the Office. She felt the same sense of purpose and duty she had felt that night. Shamron’s taut little body portrayed so much strength that her fears seemed to melt away. On its face what he was asking of her was outrageous—accompany the world’s most dangerous terrorist on a mission—but she was able to evaluate his words without the cumbersome emotion of fear. She thought: Shamron is not afraid; therefore I am not afraid. She had to admit that she was enthralled by the mere idea of it. Imagine, the girl from Marseilles whose grandparents were murdered in the Holocaust, helping to destroy Tariq al-Hourani and preserve the security of Israel. It would be the perfect end to her career with the Office, the fulfillment of every desire that made her join in the first place. It would also prove to Gabriel that she could be brave too.

  “You have every right to tell us no,” Shamron said. “You signed up for a very different operation than this—one much shorter in duration and with considerably less physical risk. But the situation has changed. Sometimes operations are like that.”

  He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of her. “But I can assure you of one thing, Jacqueline. Your safety will be our first priority. You’ll never be alone. We’ll walk you to the airplane and be waiting at the other end when you come off. We’ll go wherever you go. And the first time an opportunity presents itself, we’ll move in and end things. You also have my word that if your life is in danger, we will move in at that moment, regardless of the consequences. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  She nodded. Shamron reached into his briefcase, withdrew a small gift box, about two inches by two inches, and handed it to Jacqueline. She opened it. A gold lighter, nestled in white cotton filler.

  “It sends out a beacon with a range of thirty miles. Which means if something goes wrong—if we lose contact with you for some reason—we’ll always be able to find you again.”

  Jacqueline removed the lighter from the box and snapped the hammer. The lighter expelled a slender tongue of flame. When she slipped the lighter into the breast pocket of her blouse, Shamron’s face broke i
nto a brief smile. “I feel obligated to inform you that your friend Gabriel has serious reservations about this whole thing.” He was on the move again, this time standing before the landscape by Claude. “Gabriel is afraid you may be walking straight into a trap. Usually I trust Gabriel’s opinion. We have a considerable history between us. But in this case I find myself in respectful disagreement with him.”

  “I understand,” Jacqueline murmured, but she was thinking of the night she had brought Yusef to this very room.

  “Claude was born in France, but he lived almost his entire life in Venice, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Actually, you’re mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome.”

  Perhaps he was testing her, even then.

  Shamron continued, “I could tell you many things. I could tell you that Tariq is an animal with the blood of hundreds of Jews on his hands. I could remind you that he killed our ambassador and his wife in cold blood in Paris. I could remind you that he murdered a great friend of Israel and his wife in Amsterdam. I could tell you that he’s planning to strike again. That you will be doing a great service to the State of Israel and the Jewish people. I could tell you all these things, but I can’t tell you to do this.”

  Jacqueline looked at Gabriel, but he was standing in front of the del Vaga, craning his neck sideways, as if he was looking for flaws in the last restoration. Don’t look at me, he was saying. This is your decision, yours alone.

  * * *

  Shamron left them alone. Gabriel crossed the room and stood where Shamron had been. Jacqueline wanted him closer, but Gabriel seemed to require a buffer zone. His face had already changed. It was the same change that had come over him in Tunis. There had been two Gabriels in Tunis. The Gabriel of the surveillance phase, when they had been lovers, and Gabriel the night of the assassination. She remembered the way he had looked during the drive from the beach to the villa: part grim determination, part dread. He looked the same way now. It was his killing face. When he spoke, he resumed where Shamron had left off. Only the quality of his voice was different. When Shamron spoke Jacqueline could almost hear drums beating. Gabriel spoke softly and quietly, as if he were telling a story to a child at bedtime.