The Kill Artist Read online

  The gag muffled Jacqueline’s scream. The girl tenderly blew air over the burned skin and covered it with Jacqueline’s blouse. Even the sensation of the light cotton lying on her flesh caused pain. She closed her eyes and felt hot tears running over her cheeks.

  Leila said, “Let’s try again. Did you ever make love to Tariq?”

  Jacqueline shook her head, eyes still closed.

  “Too bad for you,” she said. “I hear he’s a wonderful lover. The girl in Paris told me everything in explicit detail. In a way I suppose she’s lucky Tariq killed her in the end. No man would have ever made love to her the way he did. Her love life would have been a series of disappointments.”

  Jacqueline realized that she was never going to set foot outside this room alive. Leila was a psychopath who had no intention of allowing her to live. Indeed, she would probably take pleasure in Jacqueline’s death. No, she thought, if she were going to die, she would die on her own terms. She would die trying to save Gabriel.

  But how?

  She had to create an opportunity to get away. To do that she had to convince Leila to let her out of the bed.

  Through her gag Jacqueline managed to mumble, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “What did you say?”

  Jacqueline repeated her words, more forcefully.

  Leila said, “If you have to go, go.”

  “Please,” said Jacqueline.

  Leila set the empty mug on the floor and removed the gun from the waistband of her trousers. “Remember, we don’t need you for anything. If you try to get away I’ll shoot you in that beautiful face of yours. Do you understand me?”

  Jacqueline nodded.

  Leila unlocked the cuffs, starting with Jacqueline’s hands and ending with her feet.

  “Stand up,” said Leila. “Slowly. And walk, slowly, into the bathroom with your hands behind your head.”

  Jacqueline did as she was told. She entered the bathroom, turned around, started to close the door. Leila put her hand on it and aimed the gun at Jacqueline’s face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Please,” said Jacqueline.

  Leila looked around. The bathroom was windowless, no way out except the door. “Knock on the door when you’re finished, Dominique. Stay inside until I tell you to come out.”

  Jacqueline lowered her jeans and sat down on the toilet. Now what? To have any chance of getting away she needed a weapon of some sort. Maybe she could hit her with the lid to the toilet tank. No, too big, too heavy. She looked around the bathroom: a shampoo bottle, a bar of soap, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, a nail file.

  A nail file.

  It was resting on the shelf above the sink, below the mirror: a metal nail file, rounded at one end, sharp at the other. Jacqueline remembered her self-defense course at the Academy. The simplest device could be turned into a lethal weapon if the attacker struck in the right place: the eyes, the ears, the throat. Carefully, she picked up the nail file and gripped it across her palm, so that about an inch of the blade protruded from the heel of her hand.

  But can I really do this?

  Jacqueline thought of what Tariq was going to do to Gabriel. She thought about what Leila was going to do to her. She raised her blouse and looked at the burned skin of her abdomen.

  She stood up and knocked on the door.

  “Open the door slowly and step out with your hands behind your head.”

  Jacqueline concealed the nail file in the palm of her right hand, opened the door, and placed her hands behind her head. Then she walked out into the living room. Leila was there, pointing the gun at Jacqueline’s chest. “Back to the bedroom,” she said, motioning with the gun.

  Jacqueline turned and walked to the bedroom, Leila trailing a pace behind her, the gun in her outstretched hands. Jacqueline stopped at the edge of the bed.

  Leila said, “Lie down and attach the handcuff to your right wrist.”

  Jacqueline hesitated.

  Leila shouted, “Do it!”

  Jacqueline whirled around. As she turned she used her thumb to press the blade of the nail file into view. Leila was caught completely off guard. Instead of shooting she instinctively raised her hands. Jacqueline was aiming for her ear canal, but Leila moved just enough so that the tip of the file tore into the flesh of her cheekbone.

  It was a deep wound, and blood immediately began to spout from it. Leila howled in pain, the gun tumbled from her grasp.

  Jacqueline resisted the natural impulse to grab for the gun and forced herself to stab the girl again. She drew back her arm and swung it in a wide arc. This time the blade struck Leila in the side of the neck.

  Warm blood spurted onto Jacqueline’s hand.

  She let go of the file. It was protruding from the side of Leila’s neck. Leila looked at Jacqueline, her gaze a peculiar mixture of pain, horror, and utter surprise, her hands clutching at the metal object in her neck.

  Jacqueline reached down and picked up the fallen gun.

  Leila pulled the nail file from the side of her neck and lunged toward Jacqueline with a killing rage in her eyes.

  Jacqueline raised the gun and shot her through the heart.

  FORTY-FOUR

  New York City

  Tariq stood up and crossed Fifth Avenue. He walked to the service entrance of the apartment house and picked up a case of champagne that was standing just inside the doorway. A man with an apron and heavily oiled black hair looked up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Tariq shrugged, still holding the case of champagne. “My name is Emilio Gonzales.”

  “So?”

  “I was told to come here. I work for Elite Catering.”

  “So how come I don’t know you?”

  “This is my first job for them. I got a call this morning. Guy told me to get my ass over here right away—big party, needed some extra help. So here I am.”

  “Well, it is a big party, and I could use a pair of extra hands. Someone important too. Helluva lot of security up there.”

  “So?”

  “So what the fuck are you standing there for? Take that upstairs and get your ass back down here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the small apartment the gunshot sounded like a cannon blast. Surely someone had heard it. Jacqueline had to get away quickly. But she had to do one thing first. She had to warn Gabriel about Tariq’s plan.

  She stepped over Leila’s dead body, snatched up the receiver, dialed the number in London. When she heard the recording of her own voice, she pressed three more numbers. There was a series of clicks, followed by a humming tone, then the voice of a young woman.

  “Yes.”

  “I need Ari Shamron, priority one. It’s an emergency.”

  “Security word.”

  “Jericho. Please, hurry!”

  “Stand by, please.”

  The calmness in the woman’s voice was maddening. There was another series of clicks and buzzes, but this time it was the voice of Shamron on the line.

  “Jacqueline? Is that really you? Where are you?”

  “I’m not sure. Somewhere in Brooklyn, I think.”

  “Hold on. I’ll get your exact address from headquarters.”

  “Don’t leave me alone!”

  “I’m not. I’m right here.”

  She began to cry.

  “What happened?”

  “Tariq’s out there somewhere! He’s disguised as a waiter. He looks totally different from Montreal. He was going to use the secure link to lure Gabriel into a trap, but I killed Leila with a nail file and her gun.”

  She realized she probably sounded like a hysteric.

  “Is the girl there now?”

  “Yes, right next to me, on the floor. Oh, Ari, it’s horrible.”

  “You have to get out of there. Just tell me one thing: Do you know where Tariq is going?”

  “No.”

  Just then she heard heavy footfalls in the stairwell.

  Shit!<
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  She whispered, “Someone’s coming!”

  “Get out of there!”

  “There’s only one way out.”

  She heard knocking at the door: two crisp blows that seemed to shake the entire apartment.

  “Ari, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Be quiet and wait.”

  Three more knocks, harder still. No more footsteps. Whoever was out there hadn’t left yet.

  She was unprepared for the next sound: a violent thud, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. The noise was so loud that Jacqueline expected to see several people charge into the room, but it was only one man—the man who had appeared in the doorway that morning when Tariq brought her into the building.

  He held a baseball bat in his clenched fists.

  Jacqueline dropped the receiver. The man looked down at Leila’s body, then at Jacqueline. Then he raised the bat and started running toward her. Jacqueline leveled the gun and squeezed off two shots. The first struck him high in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second tore into the center of his back, severing his spinal cord. She moved forward and fired two more shots.

  The room was filled with gun smoke and the smell of powder, the walls and floor spattered with blood. Jacqueline bent down and picked up the telephone.

  “Ari?”

  “Thank God it’s you. Listen carefully, Jacqueline. You have to get out of there now.”

  “No shit, Ari! Where do I go?”

  “Apparently, you’re at the corner of Parkville Avenue and East Eighth Street in Brooklyn.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  “Leave the building and walk to Parkville Avenue. Make a left turn onto Parkville and walk to Coney Island Avenue. At Coney Island Avenue make a right turn. Do not cross Coney Island. Stay on that side of the street. Keep walking. Someone will pick you up.”

  “Who?”

  “Just do as I say, and get out of there now!”

  The line went dead.

  She dropped the receiver onto the floor and picked up her coat, which was lying on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on the coat, slipped the gun into the front pocket, and walked quickly out. She followed Shamron’s instructions and a moment later was walking past the storefronts of Coney Island Avenue.

  One mile away, in the auditorium of a Jewish community center on Ocean Avenue, Gabriel stood a few feet from the prime minister as he read the story of Masada to a group of schoolchildren. Another member of the prime minister’s security detail tapped Gabriel on the shoulder lightly and whispered, “You have a phone call. Sounds urgent.”

  Gabriel stepped into the lobby. Another bodyguard handed him a cell phone.

  “Yes?”

  Shamron said, “She’s alive.”

  “What! Where is she?”

  “Heading your way on Coney Island Avenue. She’s walking on the west side of the street. She’s alone. Go get her. I’ll let her tell you the rest.”

  Gabriel severed the connection and looked up. “I need a car. Now!”

  Two minutes later Gabriel was speeding north along Coney Island Avenue, his eyes scanning the pedestrians on the sidewalks for any sign of Jacqueline. Shamron had said she would be on the west side of the street, but Gabriel looked on both sides in case she had become confused or frightened by something else. He read the passing street signs: Avenue L, Avenue K, Avenue J…

  Damn! Where the hell is she?

  He spotted her at the intersection of Coney Island and Avenue H. Her hair was mussed, her face swollen. She had the air of the hunted about her. Still, she was composed and cool. Gabriel could see her eyes scanning slowly back and forth.

  He quickly made a U-turn, pulled to the curb, and reached across the front seat to open the passenger-side door. Reflexively, she backed away a few steps and reached into her pocket. Then she saw it was him, and her composure dissolved. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

  “Get in,” he said calmly.

  She climbed in and closed the door.

  Gabriel pulled into traffic, accelerating rapidly.

  After a few blocks she said, “Pull over.”

  Gabriel turned into a side street and parked, engine running. “Are you all right, Jacqueline? What happened? Tell me everything.”

  She started to weep, softly at first; then her entire body began to convulse with wrenching sobs. Gabriel pulled her to him and held her tightly. “It’s over,” he said softly. “It’s all over.”

  “Please don’t ever leave me again, Gabriel. Be with me, Gabriel. Please, be with me.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  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 ambassador-ship 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 li
fe, 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.