The Kill Artist

ELEVEN

Before the war Maurice Halévy was one of the most prominent lawyers in Marseilles. He and his wife, Rachel, had lived in a stately old house on the rue Sylvabelle in the Beaux Quartiers, where most of the city’s successful assimilated Jews had settled. They were proud to be French; they considered themselves French first and Jews second. Indeed, Maurice Halévy was so assimilated that he rarely bothered to go to synagogue. But when the Germans invaded, the Halévys’ idyllic life in Marseilles came to an abrupt end. In October 1940 the collaborationist Vichy government handed down the statut des Juifs, the anti-Jewish edicts that reduced Jews to second-class citizens in Vichy France. Maurice Halévy was stripped of the right to practice law. He was required to register with the police, and later he and his wife were forced to wear the Star of David on their clothing.

The situation worsened in 1942, when the German army moved into Vichy France after the Allied invasion of North Africa. French Resistance forces carried out a series of deadly attacks on German forces. The German security police, with the help of Vichy French authorities, responded with brutal reprisal killings. Maurice Halévy could ignore the threat no longer. Rachel had become pregnant. The thought of trying to care for a newborn in the chaos of Marseilles was too much to bear. He decided to leave the city for the countryside. He used his dwindling savings to rent a cottage in the hills outside Aix-en-Provence. In January, Rachel gave birth to a son, Isaac.

A week later the Germans and French police began rounding up the Jews. It took them a month to find Maurice and Rachel Halévy. A pair of German SS officers appeared at the cottage on a February evening, accompanied by a local gendarme. They gave the Halévys twenty minutes to pack a bag weighing no more than sixty pounds. While the Germans and the gendarme waited in the dining room, the woman from the next cottage appeared at the door.

“My name is Anne-Marie Delacroix,” she said. “The Halévys were looking after my son while I went to the market.”

The gendarme studied his papers. According to the documents, only two Jews lived in the cottage. He called for the Halévys and said, “This woman says the boy belongs to her. Is this the truth?”

“Of course it is,” Maurice Halévy said, squeezing Rachel’s arm before she could utter a sound. “We were just watching the boy for the afternoon.” The gendarme looked at Maurice Halévy incredulously, then consulted the registration documents a second time. “Take the child and leave,” he snapped to the woman. “I have a good mind to take you into custody myself for entrusting a French child to the care of these dirty Jews.”

Two months later Maurice and Rachel Halévy were murdered at Sobibor.

After the liberation, Anne-Marie Delacroix took Isaac to a synagogue in Marseilles and told the rabbi what had happened that night in Aix-en-Provence. The rabbi offered her the choice of placing the child for adoption by a Jewish family or raising him herself. She took the boy back to Aix and raised him as a Jew alongside her own Catholic children. In 1965 Isaac Halévy married a girl from Nîmes named Deborah and settled in Marseilles in his father’s old house on the rue Sylvabelle. Three years later they had their first and only child: a girl they named Sarah.

Paris

Michel Duval was the hottest fashion photographer in Paris. The designers and the magazine editors adored him because his pictures radiated an eye-grabbing aura of dangerous sexuality. Jacqueline Delacroix thought he was a pig. She knew he achieved his unique look by abusing his models. She wasn’t looking forward to working with him.

She stepped out of a taxi and entered the apartment building on the rue St-Jacques where Michel kept his studio. Upstairs a small crowd was waiting: makeup artist, hairdresser, stylist, a representative from Givenchy. Michel stood atop a ladder, adjusting lights: good looking, shoulder-length blond hair, feline features. He wore black leather trousers, low-slung around narrow hips, and a loose pullover. He winked at Jacqueline as she came in. She smiled and said, “Nice to see you, Michel.”

“We’ll have a good shoot today, yes? I can feel it.”

“I hope so.”

She entered a changing room, undressed, and studied her appearance in the mirror with professional dispassion. Physically she was a stunning woman: tall, graceful arms and legs, elegant waist, pale olive skin. Her breasts were aesthetically perfect: firm, rounded, neither too small nor abnormally large. The photographers had always loved her breasts. Most models detested lingerie work, but it never bothered Jacqueline. She’d always had more offers for work than she could fit into her schedule.

Her gaze moved from her body to her face. She had curly raven hair that fell about her shoulders, dark eyes, a long, slender nose. Her cheekbones were wide and even, her jawline angular, her lips full. She was proud of the fact that her face had never been altered by a surgeon’s scalpel. She leaned forward, probed at the skin around her eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. It wasn’t a line, really-something more subtle and insidious. The intangible sign of aging. She no longer had the eyes of a child. She had the eyes of a thirty-three-year-old woman.

You’re still beautiful, but face facts, Jacqueline. You’re getting old.

She pulled on a white robe, went into the next room, and sat down. The makeup artist began applying a base to her cheek. Jacqueline watched in the mirror as her face was slowly transformed into that of someone she didn’t quite recognize. She wondered what her grandfather would think if could see this.

He’d probably be ashamed…

When the makeup artist and hairstylist finished, Jacqueline looked at herself in the mirror. Had it not been for the courage of those three remarkable people-her grandparents and Anne-Marie Delacroix-she would not be here today.

And look at what you’ve become-an exquisite clothes hanger.

She stood up, walked back to the changing room. The dress, a black strapless evening gown, waited for her. She removed her robe, stepped into the gown, and pulled it up over her bare breasts. Then she glanced at herself in the mirror. Devastating.

A knock at the door. “Michel is ready for you, Miss Delacroix.”

“Tell Michel I’ll be out in a moment.”

Miss Delacroix…

Even after all these years she was still not used to it: Jacqueline Delacroix. Her agent, Marcel Lambert, was the one who had changed her name-“Sarah Halévy sounds too… well… you know what I mean, mon chou. Don’t make me say it out loud. So vulgar, but such is the way of the world.” Sometimes the sound of her French name made her skin crawl. When she learned what had happened to her grandparents in the war, she had burned with hatred and suspicion of all French people. Whenever she saw an old man, she would wonder what he had done during the war. Had he been a guard at Gurs or Les Milles or one of the other detention camps? Had he been a gendarme who helped the Germans round up her family? Had he been a bureaucrat who stamped and processed the paperwork of death? Or had he simply stood by in silence and done nothing? Secretly it gave her intense delight that she was deceiving the fashion world. Imagine their reaction if they found out the lanky, raven-haired beauty from Marseilles was in fact a Provençale Jew whose grandparents had been gassed at Sobibor. In a way being a model, the very image of French beauty, was her revenge.

She took one last look at herself, lowering her chin toward her chest, parting her lips slightly, bringing fire to her coal-black eyes.

Now she was ready.

They worked for thirty minutes without stopping. Jacqueline adopted several poses. She sprawled across a simple wooden chair. She sat on the floor, leaning back on her hands, with her head tilted upward and her eyes closed. She stood with her hands on her hips and her eyes boring through the lens of Michel’s camera. Michel seemed to like what he was seeing. They were in sync. Every few minutes he would pause for a few seconds to change his film, then quickly resume shooting. Jacqueline had been in the business long enough to know when a shoot was working.

So she was surprised when he suddenly stepped from behind the camera and ran a hand through his hair. He was frowning. “Clear the studio, please. I need some privacy.”

Jacqueline thought: Oh, Christ. Here we go.

Michel said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me!”

“Nothing? You’re flat, Jacqueline. The pictures are flat. I might as well be taking pictures of a mannequin wearing the dress. I can’t afford to give Givenchy a set of flat prints. And from what I hear on the street, you can’t afford it either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re getting old, darling. It means that no one’s quite sure whether you have what it takes anymore.”

“Just get back behind the camera, and I’ll show you I have what it takes.”

“I’ve seen enough. It’s just not there today.”

“Bullshit!”

“You want me to get you a drink? Maybe a glass of wine will help loosen you up.”

“I don’t need a drink.”

“How about some coke?”

“You know I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well, I do.”

“Some things never change.”

Michel produced a small bag of cocaine from his shirt pocket. Jacqueline sat down in the prop chair while he prepared two lines on a glass-topped table. He snorted one, then offered her the rolled-up hundred-franc note. “Feel like being a bad girl today?”

“All yours, Michel. Not interested.”

He leaned over and snorted the second line. Then he wiped the glass with his finger and spread the residue over his gums. “If you’re not going to have a drink or do a line, maybe we need to think of some other way to light a fire in you.”

“Like what?” she said, but she knew what Michel had on his mind.

He stood behind her, placed his hands lightly on her bare shoulders. “Maybe you need to be thinking about getting fucked.” His hands moved from her shoulders, and he stroked the skin just above her breasts. “Maybe we can do something to make the idea a little more realistic in your imagination.”

He pressed his pelvis against her back, so that she could feel his erection beneath his leather trousers.

She drew away.

“I’m just trying to help, Jacqueline. I want to make sure these pictures come out well. I don’t want to see your career crash and burn. My motives are purely selfless.”

“I never knew you were such a philanthropist, Michel.”

He laughed. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He took her by the hand and pulled her off the set. They walked down a hallway and entered a room furnished with nothing but a large bed. Michel pulled off his shirt and began unbuttoning his trousers.

Jacqueline said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You want good pictures, I want good pictures. Let’s get in the right frame of mind. Take off the dress so it doesn’t get ruined.”

“Go fuck yourself, Michel. I’m leaving.”

“Come on, Jacqueline. Stop fooling around and get into bed.”

“No!”

“What’s the big deal? You slept with Robert Leboucher, so he would give you that swimwear shoot in Mustique.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because he told me.”

“You’re a bastard, and so is he! I’m not some seventeen-year-old who’s going to spread her legs for you because she wants good pictures from the great Michel Duval.”

“If you walk out of here, your career is over.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

He pointed at his erection. “What am I supposed to do about this?”

Marcel Lambert lived a short distance away, on the rue de Tournon, in the Luxembourg Quarter. Jacqueline needed time to herself, so she walked, taking her time in the narrow side streets of the Latin Quarter. Darkness falling, lights coming on in the bistros and the cafés, the smell of cigarettes and frying garlic on the chill air.

She crossed into the Luxembourg Quarter. How quickly it had come to this, she thought-Michel Duval, trying to threaten her into a quickie between takes. A few years ago he wouldn’t have considered it. But not now. Now she was vulnerable, and Marcel had decided to test her.

Sometimes she was sorry she ever got into this business. She had planned to be a ballet dancer-had studied at the most prestigious academy in Marseilles-but at sixteen she was spotted by a talent scout from a Paris modeling agency, who gave her name to Marcel Lambert. Marcel scheduled a test shoot, let her move into his flat, taught her how to move and act like a model instead of a ballerina. The photographs from the test shoot were stunning. She had dominated the camera, radiated a playful sexuality. Marcel quietly put the pictures into circulation around Paris: no name, nothing about the girl, just the pictures and his card. The reaction was instantaneous. His telephone didn’t stop ringing for a week. Photographers were clamoring to work with her. Designers wanted to sign her up for their fall shows. Word of the photographs leaked from Paris to Milan and from Milan to New York. The entire fashion world wanted to know the name of this mysterious raven-haired French beauty.

Jacqueline Delacroix.

How different things were now. The quality work had started to slow down when she turned twenty-six, but now that she was thirty-three the good jobs had dried up. She still got some runway work in Paris and Milan in the fall, but only with lower-level designers. She still landed the occasional lingerie ad-“There’s nothing wrong with your tits, darling,” Marcel liked to say-but he had been forced to hire her out for different types of shoots. She had just finished a shoot for a German brewery in which she posed as the attractive wife of a successful middle-aged man.

Marcel had warned it would happen this way. He had told her to save her money, to prepare herself for a life after modeling. Jacqueline had never bothered-she’d assumed the money would pour in forever. Sometimes she tried to remember where all of it had gone. The clothes. The crash pads in Paris and New York. The extravagant vacations with the other girls in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. The ton of cocaine she had sucked up her nose before getting straight.

Michel Duval had been right about one thing: she had slept with a man to get a job, an editor from French Vogue named Robert Leboucher. It was a high-profile job that she needed desperately-a swimsuit and summer-wear shoot in Mustique. It could change everything for her-give her enough money to get back on stable ground financially, show everyone in the industry that she still had what it took for the hot jobs. At least for one more year, two at the most. Then what?

She walked into Marcel’s building, entered the lift, rode up to his flat. When she knocked on the door, it flew back. Marcel stood there, wide-eyed, mouth open. “Jacqueline, my pet! Please tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t kick Michel Duval in the balls! Tell me he made up the entire thing!”

“Actually, Marcel, I kicked him in the cock.”

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I’m certain you’re the first woman who’s ever done that. Serves the bastard right. He almost ruined Claudette. You remember what he did to her? Poor little thing. So beautiful, so much talent.”

He pulled his lips downward, emitted a Gallic snort of disapproval, took her by the hand, and pulled her inside. A moment later they were drinking wine on the couch in his sitting room, the hum of evening traffic drifting through the open windows. Marcel lit her cigarette and deftly waved out the match. He wore tight-fitting faded blue jeans, black loafers, and a gray turtleneck sweater. His thinning gray hair was cropped very short. He’d had another face-lift recently; his blue eyes seemed unnaturally large and bulging, as if he were constantly surprised. She thought about those days so long ago, when Marcel had brought her to this flat and prepared her for her life ahead. She’d always felt safe in this place.

“So what kind of stunt did Michel pull now?”

Jacqueline described the shoot, holding nothing back. There were few secrets between them. When she finished Marcel said, “You probably shouldn’t have kicked him. He’s threatening to sue.”

“Let him try. Every girl he’s coerced into having sex will testify at his trial. It’ll destroy him.”

“Robert Leboucher called me a few minutes before you arrived. He’s trying to back out of Mustique. He says he can’t work with a woman who kicks photographers.”

“Word travels fast in this business.”

“It always has. I think I can talk some sense into Robert.” Marcel hesitated, then added, “That is, if you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to.”

“Are you sure, Jacqueline? Are you sure you still have what it takes for this kind of work?”

She took a long drink of the wine, leaned her head against Marcel’s shoulder. “Actually, I’m not quite sure I do.”

“Do me a favor, sweetheart. Go to your house in the south for a few days. Or take one of those long trips like you used to take. You know-the ones you were always so mysterious about. Get some rest. Clear your head. Do some serious thinking. I’ll try to talk some sense into Robert. But you have to decide whether this is really what you want.”

She closed her eyes. Perhaps it was time to get out while she still had some shred of dignity. “You’re right,” she said. “I could use a few days in the countryside. But I want you to call that fucking Robert Leboucher right now and tell him that you expect him to keep his word about the shoot in Mustique.”

“And what if I can’t make him change his mind?”

“Tell him I’ll kick him in the cock too.”

Marcel smiled. “Jacqueline, darling, I’ve always liked your style.”

TWELVE

Bayswater, London

Fiona Barrows looked a great deal like the block of flats she managed in Sussex Gardens: broad and squat with a bright coat of paint that could not conceal the fact she was aging and not terribly gracefully. The short walk from the lift to the entrance of the vacant flat left her slightly out of breath. She shoved the key into the lock with her plump hand, pushed open the door with a little grunt. “Here we are,” she sang.

She led him on a brief tour: a sitting room furnished with well-worn couches and chairs, two identical bedrooms with double beds and matching bedside tables, a small dining room with a modern table of tinted gray glass, a cramped galley kitchen with a two-burner stove and a microwave oven.

He walked back into the sitting room, stood in the window, opened the blinds. Across the road was another block of flats.

“If you want my opinion, you couldn’t ask for a better location in London for the price,” Fiona Barrows said. “ Oxford Street is very close, and of course Hyde Park is just around the corner. Do you have children?”

“No, I don’t,” Gabriel said absently, still looking at the block of flats across the street.

“What kind of work do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m an art restorer.”

“You mean you spruce up old paintings?”

“Something like that.”

“You do the frames as well? I have an old frame in my flat that needs patching up.”

“Just the paintings, I’m afraid.”

She looked at him as he stood in the window, gazing into space. A handsome man, she thought. Nice hands. Good hands were sexy in a man. Imagine, an art restorer, right here in the building. It would be nice to have a touch of class around for a change. Oh, that she was still single-single, twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter. He was a cautious fellow; she could see that. A man who never made a move without thinking through every angle. He would probably want to see a dozen more flats before making up his mind. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” he said to the window.

“When would you like it?”

Gabriel closed the blind. “Right now.”

For two days Gabriel watched him.

On the first day he saw him just once-when he rose shortly after noon and appeared briefly in the window wearing only a pair of black underpants. He had dark, curly hair, angular cheekbones, and full lips. His body was lean and lightly muscled. Gabriel pulled open Shamron’s file and compared the face in the window with the photograph clipped to the manila cover.

Same man.

Gabriel could feel an operational coldness spreading over him as he studied the figure in the window. Suddenly everything seemed brighter and sharper in contrast. Noises seemed louder and more distinct-a car door closing, lovers quarreling in the next flat, a telephone ringing unanswered, his teakettle screaming in the kitchen. One by one he tuned out these intrusions and focused all his attention on the man in the window across the street.

Yusef al-Tawfiki, part-time Palestinian nationalist poet, part-time student at University College London, part-time waiter at a Lebanese restaurant called the Kebab Factory on the Edgware Road, full-time action agent for Tariq’s secret army.

A hand appeared on Yusef’s abdomen: pale skin, luminous against his dark complexion. A woman’s hand. Gabriel saw a flash of short blond hair. Then Yusef vanished behind the curtains.

The girl left an hour later. Before climbing into the taxi, she looked up toward the flat to see if her lover was watching. The window was empty and the curtains drawn. She closed the door, a little harder than necessary, and the taxi drove away.

Gabriel made his first operational assessment: Yusef didn’t treat his women well.

The next day Gabriel decided to mount a loose physical surveillance.

Yusef left the flat at midday. He wore a white shirt, black trousers, and a black leather jacket. As he stepped onto the pavement, he paused to light a cigarette and scan the parked cars for any sign of surveillance. He waved out the match and started walking toward the Edgware Road. After about a hundred yards he stopped suddenly, turned around, and walked back to the entrance of the block of flats.

Standard countersurveillance move, thought Gabriel. He’s a professional.

Five minutes later Yusef was back outside and walking in the direction of the Edgware Road. Gabriel went into the bathroom, rubbed styling oil into his short hair, and slipped on a pair of red-tinted spectacles. Then he pulled on his coat and went out.

Across the street from the Kebab Factory was a small Italian restaurant. Gabriel went inside and sat down at a table next to the window. He remembered the lectures at the Academy. If you’re watching a target from a café, don’t do things that make you look like you’re watching a target from a café, such as sitting alone for hours pretending to read a newspaper. Too obvious.

Gabriel transformed himself. He became Cedric, a writer for an upstart Paris cultural magazine. He spoke English with a nearly impenetrable French accent. He claimed to be working on a story about why London was so exciting these days and Paris so dreary. He smoked Gitane cigarettes and drank a great deal of wine. He carried on a tiresome conversation with a pair of Swedish girls at the next table. He invited one of them to his hotel room. When she refused he asked the other. When she refused he asked them both. He spilled a glass of Chianti. The manager, Signor Andriotti, appeared at the table and warned Cedric to keep quiet or he would have to leave.

Yet all the while Gabriel was watching Yusef across the street. He watched him while he skillfully handled the lunch crowd. Watched him when he left the restaurant briefly and walked up the road to a newsstand that stocked Arabic-language newspapers. Watched while a pretty dark-haired girl jotted her telephone number on the back of a napkin and slipped it into his shirt pocket for safekeeping. Watched while he carried on a long conversation with a vigilant-looking Arab. In fact, at the moment Gabriel was spilling his Chianti, he was memorizing the make and registration number of the Arab’s Nissan car. And while he was fending off the exasperated Signor Andriotti, he was watching Yusef talking on the telephone. Who was he talking to? A woman? A cousin in Ramallah? His control officer?

After an hour Gabriel decided it was no longer wise to remain in the café. He paid his check, left a generous tip, and apologized for his boorish behavior. Signor Andriotti guided him to the door and cast him gently out to sea.

That evening Gabriel sat in the chair next to his window, waiting for Yusef to return home. The street shone with the night rain. A motorcycle sped past, boy driving, girl on the back, pleading with him to slow down. Probably nothing, but he made a note of it in his logbook, along with the time: eleven-fifteen.

He had a headache from the wine. Already the flat was beginning to depress him. How many nights had he spent like this? Sitting in a sterile Office safe flat or a shabby rented room, watching, waiting. He craved something beautiful, so he slipped a compact disc of La Bohème into the portable stereo at his feet and lowered the volume to a whisper. Intelligence work is patience, Shamron always said. Intelligence work is tedium.

He got up, went into the kitchen, took aspirin for his headache. Next door a mother and a daughter began to quarrel in Lebanese-accented Arabic. A glass shattered, then another, a door slamming, running outside in the corridor.

Gabriel sat down again and closed his eyes, and after a moment he was back in North Africa, twelve years earlier.

The rubber dinghies came ashore with the gentle surf at Rouad. Gabriel climbed out into warm shin-deep water and pulled the dinghy onto the sand. The team of Sayaret commandos followed him across the beach, weapons at their sides. Somewhere a dog was barking. The scent of woodsmoke and grilling meat hung on the air. The girl waited behind the wheel of the Volkswagen mini-bus. Four of the commandos climbed into the Volkswagen with Gabriel. The rest slipped into a pair of Peugeot station wagons parked behind the minibus. A few seconds later the engines started in unison, and they sped off through the cool April evening.

Gabriel wore a lip microphone connected to a small transmitter in his jacket pocket. The radio broadcast over a secure wavelength to a specially equipped Boeing 707 flying just off the Tunisian coastline in a civilian air corridor, masquerading as an El Al charter. If anything went wrong, they could abort the mission within seconds.

“Mother has arrived safely,” Gabriel murmured. He released the talk button and heard the words “Proceed to Mother’s house.”

Gabriel held his Beretta between his knees during the drive, smoked for his nerves. The girl kept both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the darkened streets. She was tall, taller than Leah, with black eyes and a mane of dark hair held in place by a simple silver clasp at the nape of her neck. She knew the route as well as Gabriel. When Shamron dispatched Gabriel to Tunis to study the target, the girl had gone with him and posed as his wife. Gabriel reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder as she drove. Her muscles were rigid. “Relax,” he said softly, and she smiled briefly and let out a long breath. “You’re doing fine.”

They entered Sidi Boussaid, a wealthy Tunis suburb not far from the sea, and parked outside the villa. The Peugeots pulled in behind them. The girl killed the engine. Twelve-fifteen. Exactly on schedule.

Gabriel knew the villa as well as he knew his own home. He had studied it and photographed it from every conceivable vantage point during the surveillance operation. They had built a perfect duplicate in the Negev, where he and the rest of the team rehearsed the assault countless times. During the final session they had managed to carry out the mission in twenty-two seconds.

“We’ve arrived at Mother’s house,” Gabriel murmured over the radio.

“Pay Mother a visit.”

Gabriel turned and said, “Go.”

He opened the door of the minibus and crossed the street, walking swiftly, not running. He could hear the quiet footfalls of the Sayaret team behind him. Gabriel drew several even breaths to try to slow his heart rate. The villa belonged to Khalil el-Wazir, better known as Abu Jihad, the PLO’s chief of operations and Yasir Arafat’s most trusted lieutenant.

Just outside the villa, Abu Jihad’s driver was sleeping behind the wheel of a Mercedes, a gift from Arafat. Gabriel shoved the end of a silenced Beretta into the driver’s ear, pulled the trigger, kept walking.

At the entrance of the villa, Gabriel stepped aside as a pair of Sayaret men attached a special silent plastique to the heavy door. The explosive detonated, emitting less sound than a handclap, and the door blew open. Gabriel led the team into the entrance hall, the Beretta in his outstretched hands.

A Tunisian security guard appeared. As he reached for his weapon, Gabriel shot him several times through the chest.

Gabriel stood over the dying man and said, “Tell me where he is, and I won’t shoot you in the eye.”

But the security guard just grimaced in pain and said nothing.

Gabriel shot him twice in the face.

He mounted the stairs, ramming a fresh clip into his Beretta as he moved, and headed toward the study where Abu Jihad spent most nights working. He burst through the door and found the Palestinian seated in front of a television set, watching news footage of the intifada, which he was helping to direct from Tunis. Abu Jihad reached for a pistol. Gabriel charged forward as he fired, just as Shamron had trained him to do. Two of the shots struck Abu Jihad in the chest. Gabriel stood over him, pressed the gun against his temple, and fired two more times. The body convulsed in a death spasm.

Gabriel darted from the room. In the hallway was Abu Jihad’s wife, clutching their small son in her arms, and his teenage daughter. She closed her eyes and held the boy more tightly, waiting for Gabriel to shoot her.

“Go back to your room!” he shouted in Arabic. Then he turned to the daughter. “Go and take care of your mother.”

Gabriel dashed from the house, followed by the entire Sayaret team. They piled into the minibus and the Peugeots and sped away. They drove through Sidi Boussaid back to Rouad, where they abandoned the vehicles at the beach and boarded the dinghies. A moment later they were speeding over the black surface of the Mediterranean toward the lights of a waiting Israeli patrol boat.

“Thirteen seconds, Gabriel! You did it in thirteen seconds!”

It was the girl. She reached out to touch him, but he recoiled from her. He watched the lights of the ship drawing closer. He looked up into the ink-black sky, searching for the command plane, but saw only a fingernail moon and a spray of stars. Then he saw the faces of Abu Jihad’s wife and children, staring at him with hatred burning in their eyes.

He tossed the Beretta into the sea and began to shake.

The fight next door had gone quiet. Gabriel wanted to think about something besides Tunis, so he imagined sailing his ketch down the Helford Passage to the sea. Then he thought of the Vecellio, stripped of dirty varnish, the damage of the centuries laid bare. He thought of Peel, and for the first time that day he thought of Dani. He remembered pulling what remained of his body from the flaming wreckage of the car in Vienna, checking to see if somehow he had survived, thanking God that he had died quickly and not lingered with one arm and one leg and half a face.

He stood up and paced the room, trying to make the image go away, and for some reason found himself thinking of Peel’s mother. Several times during his stay in Port Navas he’d found himself fantasizing about her. It began the same way each time. He would bump into her in the village, and she would volunteer that Derek was out for a long walk on the Lizard trying to repair the second act. “He’ll be gone for hours,” she would say. “Would you like to come over for tea?” He would say yes, but instead of serving tea she would take him upstairs to Derek’s bed and allow him to pour nine years of self-imposed abstinence into her supple body. Afterward she would lie with her head on his stomach, damp hair spread across his chest. “You’re not really an art restorer, are you?” she would say in his fantasy. And Gabriel would tell her the truth. “I kill people for the government of Israel. I killed Abu Jihad in front of his wife and children. I killed three people in thirteen seconds that night. The prime minister gave me a medal for it. I used to have a wife and a son, but a terrorist put a bomb under their car because I had an affair with my bat leveyha in Tunis.” And Peel’s mother would run screaming from the cottage, body wrapped in a white bedsheet, the bedsheet stained with the blood of Leah.

He returned to his chair and waited for Yusef. The face of Peel’s mother had been replaced by the face of Vecellio’s Virgin Mary. To help fill the empty hours, Gabriel dipped an imaginary brush into imaginary pigment and tenderly healed her wounded cheek.

Yusef came home at 3:00 A.M. A girl was with him, the girl who had given him her telephone number that afternoon at the restaurant. Gabriel watched them disappear through the front entrance. Upstairs in the flat the lights flared briefly before Yusef made his nightly appearance in the window. Gabriel bid him good night as he disappeared behind the curtain. Then he fell onto the couch and closed his eyes. Today he had watched. Tomorrow he would begin to listen.

THIRTEEN

Amsterdam

Three hours later a slender young woman named Inge van der Hoff stepped out of a bar in the red-light district and walked quickly along a narrow alley. Black leather skirt, black leggings, black leather jacket, boots clattering over the bricks of the alley. The streets of the Old Side were still dark, a light mist falling. She lifted her face skyward. The mist tasted of salt, smelled of the North Sea. She passed two men, a drunk and a hash dealer, lowered her head, kept moving. Her boss didn’t like her walking home in the morning, but after a long night of serving drinks and fending off the advances of drunken customers, it always felt good to be alone for a few minutes.

Suddenly she felt very tired. She needed to crash. She thought: What I really need is a fix. I hope Leila scored tonight.

Leila… She loved the sound of her name. Loved everything about her. They had met two weeks earlier at the bar. Leila had come for three consecutive nights, each time alone. She would stay for an hour, have a shot of jenever, a Grolsch, a few hits of hash, listen to the music. Each time Inge went to her table she could feel the girl’s eyes on her. Inge had to admit that she liked it. She was a stunningly attractive woman, with lustrous black hair and wide brown eyes. Finally, on the third night, Inge introduced herself and they began to talk. Leila said that her father was a businessman and that she had lived all over the world. She said she was taking a year off from her studies in Paris, just traveling and living life. She said Amsterdam enchanted her. The picturesque canals. The gabled houses, the museums, and the parks. She wanted to stay for a few months, get to know the place.

“Where are you staying?” Inge had asked.

“In a youth hostel in south Amsterdam. It’s horrible. Where do you live?”

“A houseboat on the Amstel.”

“A houseboat! How wonderful.”

“It’s my brother’s, but he’s in Rotterdam for a few months working on a big construction project.”

“Are you offering to let me crash on your houseboat for a few days?”

“I’m offering to let you stay as long as you want. I don’t like coming home to an empty place.”

Dawn was breaking over the river, first lights burning in the houseboats lining the embankment. Inge walked a short distance along the quay, then stepped onto the deck of her boat. The curtains were drawn over the windows. She crossed the deck and entered the salon. She expected to find Leila in bed asleep, but instead she was standing at the stove making coffee. On the floor next to her was a suitcase. Inge closed the door, trying to hide her disappointment.

“I called my brother in Paris last night while you were at work,” Leila said. “My father is very ill. I have to go home right away to be with my mother. I’m sorry, Inge.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week, two at the most.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Of course I’m coming back!” She kissed Inge’s cheek and handed her a cup of coffee. “My flight leaves in two hours. Sit down. I need to talk to you about something.”

They sat in the salon. Leila said, “A friend of mine is coming to Amsterdam tomorrow. His name is Paul. He’s French. I was wondering if he could stay here for a few days until he finds his own place.”

“Leila, I don’t-”

“He’s a good man, Inge. He won’t try anything with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know how to take care of myself.”

“So you’ll let Paul stay here for a few days?”

“How many days is a few days?”

“A week, maybe.”

“And what do I get in return?”

Leila reached into her pocket, pulled out a small bag of white powder, and held it in front of her between her thumb and forefinger.

Inge reached out and snatched it from her. “Leila, you’re an angel!”

“I know.”

Inge went into her bedroom and pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. Inside was her kit: pack of syringes, candle, spoon, length of rubber to tie around her arm. She cooked the drug while Leila packed the last of her things. Then she loaded the drug into the syringe and carefully slipped the needle into a vein in her left arm.

An instant later her body was overcome by an intensely pleasant sensation of numbness. And the last thing she remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the sight of Leila, her beautiful lover, slipping out the door and floating across the deck of the houseboat.

FOURTEEN

Bayswater, London

Randall Karp, formerly of the Office of Technical Services, Langley, Virginia, lately of the dubiously named Clarendon International Security, Mayfair, London, arrived at Gabriel’s flat in Sussex Gardens in the still moments just before dawn. He wore a fleece pullover against the morning cold, pale blue jeans, and suede sandals with the thick woolen socks of an outdoorsman. From the end of each spiderlike arm hung a canvas duffel bag, one containing his kit, the other the tools of his trade. He set down his bags in the living room with an air of quiet complacency and appraised his surroundings.

“I like what you’ve done with the place, Gabe.” He spoke with a flat Southern California accent and, since Gabriel had seen him last, had grown a ponytail to compensate for his rapidly encroaching baldness. “It even has the right smell. What is it? Curry? Cigarettes? A bit of spoiled milk? I think I’m going to like it here.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Karp moved to the window. “So, where’s our boy?”

“Third floor, directly above the entrance. White curtains.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s a Palestinian who wishes to harm my country.”

“I could have figured that out myself. Can you elaborate? Hamas? Hezbollah? Islamic Jihad?”

But Gabriel said nothing, and Karp knew better than to press. Karp was a consummate audio tech, and techs were used to working with only half the picture. He had achieved legendary status within the Western intelligence community by successfully monitoring a meeting between a Russian and an agent in Prague by attaching a bug to the collar of the Russian’s dog. Gabriel had met him in Cyprus during a joint American-Israeli surveillance of a Libyan agent. After the operation, at Shamron’s suggestion, Gabriel hired a yacht and took Karp for a sail around the island. Karp’s seamanship was as good as his surveillance work, and during their three-day cruise they built a professional and personal bond.

“Why me, Gabe?” said Karp. “Your boys have the best toys in the business. Beautiful stuff. Why do you need an outsider like me to do a simple job like this?”

“Because our boys haven’t been able to do a job like this lately without getting their fingers burned.”

“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.

At the end of a terrace of cottages overlooking the town parking lot was a commercial building. A sign hung in the window: the entire ground floor was available. It had been vacant for months. Jacqueline cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the dirty glass: a large, open room, wood floors, high ceiling. Perfect for a dance studio. She had a fantasy. She would quit modeling and open a ballet school in Valbonne. It would cater to the local girls most of the year, but in August, when the tourists streamed into Valbonne for their summer holidays, she would open the school to visitors. She would teach for a few hours a day, ride her bike through the hills, drink coffee, and read in the café on the square. Shed her name and her image. Become Sarah Halévy again-Sarah Halévy, the Jewish girl from Marseilles. But to open the school she needed money, and to get money she had to keep modeling. She had to go back to Paris and put up with men like Michel Duval a little while longer. Then she would be free.

She mounted her bike and rode slowly home. It was a rather small villa, the color of sandstone with a red-tile roof, hidden from view by a row of towering cypress trees. In the large terraced garden overlooking the valley, rosemary and lavender grew wild among the olive and drooping pepper trees. At the base of the garden was a rectangular swimming pool.

Jacqueline let herself inside, propped the bike in the entrance hall, and went into the kitchen. The red light on her answering machine was winking. She pressed the playback button and made coffee while she listened to the messages.

Yvonne had called to invite her to a party at the home of a millionaire Spanish tennis player in Monte Carlo. Michel Duval had called to apologize for his behavior at the shoot the other day. The bruise was healing nicely. Marcel had called to say that he had spoken to Robert. The shoot in Mustique was back on. “You leave in three weeks, angel, so get off the cheese and pasta and get your beautiful ass in shape.”

She thought of her bicycle ride and smiled. Her face might have looked thirty-three, but her body had never looked better.

“Oh, by the way, a fellow called Jean-Claude came by the office. Said he wanted to talk to you personally about a job.”

Jacqueline set down the coffeepot and looked at the machine.

“I told him you were in the south. He said he was on his way there and that he would look you up when he arrived. Don’t be angry with me, angel. He seemed like a nice guy. Good-looking, too. I was insanely jealous. Love you. Ciao.”

She pressed the rewind button and listened to the message again to make certain she had heard it right.

“Oh, by the way, a fellow called Jean-Claude came by the office. Said he wanted to talk to you personally about a job.”

She pressed the erase button, hand trembling, heart beating against her ribs.

Jacqueline sat outside on the sunlit terrace, thinking about the night she was recruited by Ari Shamron. She had used some of her money from modeling to buy her parents a retirement present: a small beachfront apartment in Herzliya. She visited them in Israel whenever she could get away for a few days. She fell completely in love with the country. It was the only place she felt truly free and safe. More than anything else she loved the fact that she did not have to conceal her being Jewish.

One evening in a jazz café in Tel Aviv an older man appeared at her table. Bald, rather ugly, steel-rimmed glasses, khaki trousers, a bomber jacket with a tear on the right breast.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said, smiling confidently. “May I join you?”

She looked up, startled. “How did you know my name is Sarah?”

“Actually, I know a great deal about you. I’m a big fan.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ari. I work for an organization loosely connected to the Ministry of Defense called the Institute for Coordination. We just call it the Office.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad we cleared that up.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “We’d like to talk to you about a job. Do you mind if I call you Sarah? I have trouble thinking of you as Jacqueline.”

“My parents are the only ones who call me Sarah anymore.”

“No old friends?”

“I only have new friends,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “At least people who claim to be my friends. All my old friends from Marseilles dropped away after I became a model. They thought I’d changed because of my work.”

“But you have changed, haven’t you, Sarah?”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Then she thought: Why am I telling this to a man I just met? I wonder if he gets under everyone’s skin so quickly.

“And it isn’t just a job, is it, Sarah? It’s a way of life. You hang out with fashion designers and famous photographers. You go to glitzy parties and exclusive restaurants with actors and rock stars and millionaire playboys. Like that Italian count you had an affair with in Milan, the one that made the newspapers. Surely you’re not the same little girl from Marseilles. The little Jewish girl whose grandparents were murdered by the Nazis at Sobibor.”

“You do know a great deal about me.” She looked at him carefully. She was used to being surrounded by attractive, polished people, and here she was now in the company of this rather ugly man with steel glasses and a tear in his jacket. There was something of the primitive in him-the rough-hewn Sabra that she had always heard about. He was the kind of man who didn’t know how to tie a bow tie and didn’t care. She found him utterly charming. But more than anything she was intrigued by him.

“As a Jew from Marseilles, you know that our people have many enemies. Many people would like to destroy us, tear down everything we have built in this land.” As he spoke his hands carved the air. “Over the years Israel has fought many wars with her enemies. At this moment there is no fighting, but Israel is still engaged in another war, a secret war. This war is ceaseless. It will never end. Because of your passport and, quite frankly, your appearance, you could be a great deal of help to us.”

“Are you asking me to become a spy?”

He laughed. “I’m afraid it’s nothing quite so dramatic as that.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to become a bat leveyha.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“Bat leveyha is the term we use for a female assistant agent. As a bat leveyha, you may be called on to perform a number of functions for the Office. Sometimes you might be asked to pose as the wife or girlfriend of one of our male officers. Sometimes you might be asked to obtain a vital piece of information that a woman like you might get more readily than a male officer.”

He stopped talking for a moment and took his time lighting his next cigarette. “And sometimes we may ask you to perform another kind of assignment. An assignment that some women find too unpleasant to even consider.”

“For example?”

“We might ask you to seduce a man-one of our enemies, for instance-in order to place him in a compromising situation.”

“There are lots of beautiful women in Israel. Why on earth would you need me?”

“Because you’re not an Israeli. Because you have a legitimate French passport and a legitimate job.”

“That legitimate job, as you call it, pays me a great deal. I’m not prepared to throw it away.”

“If you decide to work for us, I’ll see that your assignments are brief and that you are compensated for lost wages.” He smiled affectionately. “Although I don’t think I can afford your usual fee of three thousand dollars an hour.”

“Five thousand,” she said, smiling.

“My congratulations.”

“I have to think about it.”

“I understand, but as you consider my offer, keep one thing in mind. If there had been an Israel during the Second World War, Maurice and Rachel Halévy might still be alive. It’s my job to ensure the survival of the State so that the next time some madman decides to turn our people into soap, they’ll have a place to take refuge. I hope you’ll help me.”

He gave her a card with a telephone number and told her to call him with a decision the following afternoon. Then he shook her hand and walked away. It was the hardest hand she had ever felt.

There had never been a question in her mind what her answer would be. By any objective standard she lived an exciting and glamorous life, but it seemed dull and meaningless compared with what Ari Shamron was offering. The tedious shoots, the pawing agents, the whining photographers-suddenly it all seemed even more plastic and pretentious.

She returned to Europe for the fall fashion season-she had commitments in Paris, Milan, and Rome -and in November, when things quieted down, she told Marcel Lambert she was burned out and needed a break. Marcel cleared her calendar, kissed her cheek, and told her to get as far away from Paris as possible. That night she went to the El Al counter at Charles de Gaulle, picked up the first-class ticket Shamron had left for her, and boarded a flight for Tel Aviv.

He was waiting when she arrived at Ben-Gurion Airport. He escorted her to a special holding room inside the terminal. Everything was designed to convey to her that she was now one of the elite. That she was walking through a secret door and her life would never be the same again. From the airport he whisked her through the streets of Tel Aviv to a luxurious safe flat in the Opera Tower with a large terrace overlooking the Promenade and Ge’ula Beach. “This will be your home for the next few weeks. I hope you find it to your liking.”

“It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Tonight you rest. Tomorrow the real work begins.”

The next morning she went to the Academy and endured a crash course in Office tradecraft and doctrine. He lectured her on the basics of impersonal communication. He trained her to use a Beretta and to cut strategic slits in her clothing so she could grab it in a hurry. He taught her how to pick locks and how to make imprints of keys using a special device. He taught her how to detect and shake surveillance. Each afternoon she spent two hours with a man named Oded, who taught her rudimentary Arabic.

But most of the time at the Academy was spent developing her memory and awareness. He placed her alone in a room and flashed dozens of names on a projection screen, forcing her to memorize as many as possible. He took her into a small apartment, allowed her to look at the room for a matter of seconds, then pulled her out and made her describe it in detail. He took her to lunch at the canteen and asked her to describe the steward who had just served them. Jacqueline confessed she had no idea. “You must be aware of your surroundings all the time,” he said. “You must assume that the waiter is a potential enemy. You must be scanning, watching, and surveying constantly. And yet you must appear as though you are doing nothing of the sort.”

Her training did not stop at sundown. Each evening Shamron would appear at the Opera Tower and take her into the streets of Tel Aviv for more. He took her to a lawyer’s office, told her to break in and steal a specific set of files. He took her to a street filled with fashionable boutiques and told her to steal something.

“You’re joking.”

“What if you are on the run in a foreign country? What if you have no money and no way to make contact with us? The police are looking for you and you need a change of clothing quickly.”

“I’m not exactly built for shoplifting.”

“Make yourself inconspicuous.”

She entered a boutique and spent ten minutes trying on clothing. When she returned to the lobby she had bought nothing, but inside her handbag was a sexy black cocktail dress.

Shamron said, “Now I want you to find a place to change and discard your other clothing. Then meet me outside at the ice cream stand on the promenade.”

It was a warm evening for early November, and there were many people out strolling and taking in the air. They walked arm in arm along the waterfront, like a rich old man and his mistress, Jacqueline playfully licking an ice cream cone.

“You’re being followed by three people,” Shamron said. “Meet me in the bar of that restaurant in half an hour and tell me who they are. And keep in mind that I’m going to send a kidon to kill them, so don’t make a mistake.”

Jacqueline engaged in a standard countersurveillance routine, just as Shamron had taught her. Then she went to the bar and found him seated alone at a corner table.

“Black leather jacket, blue jeans with a Yale sweatshirt, blond girl with a rose tattooed on her shoulder blade.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong. You just condemned three innocent tourists to death. Let’s try it again.”

They took a taxi a short distance to Rothschild Boulevard, a broad promenade lined with trees, benches, kiosks, and fashionable cafés.

“Once again, three people are following you. Meet me at Café Tamar in thirty minutes.”

“Where’s Café Tamar?”

But Shamron turned and melted into the flow of pedestrians. Half an hour later, having located the chic Café Tamar on Sheinkin Street, she joined him once again.

“The girl with the dog, the boy with the headphones and the Springsteen shirt, the kid from the kibbutz with the Uzi.”

Shamron smiled. “Very good. Just one more test tonight. See that man sitting alone over there?”

Jacqueline nodded.

“Strike up a conversation with him, learn everything you can, and then entice him back to your flat. When you get to the lobby, find some way of unsnarling yourself from the situation without making a scene.”

Shamron got up and walked away. Jacqueline made eye contact with the man, and after a few minutes he joined her. He said his name was Mark, that he was from Boston and worked for a computer firm doing business in Israel. They talked for an hour and began to flirt. But when she invited him back to her apartment, he confessed that he was married.

“Too bad,” she said. “We could have had a very nice time.”

He quickly changed his mind. Jacqueline excused herself to use the bathroom, went to a public telephone instead. She dialed the front desk at the Opera Tower and left a message for herself. Then she went back to the table and said, “Let’s go.”

They walked to her flat. Before going upstairs she checked with the front desk. “Your sister called from Herzliya,” the clerk said. “She tried your apartment, but there was no answer, so she called here and left a message.”

“What is it?”

“Your father has had a heart attack.”

“Oh, my God!”

“They’ve taken him to the hospital. She says he’s going to be all right, but she wants you to come right away.”

Jacqueline turned to the American. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

The American kissed her cheek and walked away, crestfallen. Shamron, who was watching the entire scene from across the lobby, came forward, grinning like a schoolboy. “That was pure poetry. Sarah Halévy, you’re a natural.”

Her first assignment didn’t require her to leave Paris. The Office was trying to recruit an Iraqi nuclear weapons scientist who lived in Paris and worked with Iraq ’s French suppliers. Shamron decided to set a “honey trap” and gave the job to Jacqueline. She met the Iraqi in a bar, seduced him, and began spending the night at his apartment. He fell head over heels in love. Jacqueline told her lover that if he wanted to continue seeing her, he would have to meet with a friend of hers who had a business proposition. The friend turned out to be Ari Shamron, the proposition simple: work for us or we will tell your wife and Saddam’s security thugs you’ve been fucking an Israeli agent. The Iraqi agreed to work for Shamron.

Jacqueline had been given her first taste of intelligence work. She found it exhilarating. She had played a small role in an operation that had dealt a blow to Iraq ’s nuclear ambitions. She had helped protect the State of Israel from an enemy that would do anything to destroy it. And in a small way she had avenged the deaths of her grandparents.

She had to wait another year for her next assignment: seducing and blackmailing a Syrian intelligence officer in London. It was another stunning success. Nine months later she was sent to Cyprus to seduce a German chemical company executive who was selling his wares to Libya. This time there was a twist. Shamron wanted her to drug the German and photograph the documents in his briefcase while he was unconscious. Once again she pulled off the job without a hitch.

After the operation Shamron flew her to Tel Aviv, presented her with a secret citation, told her she was finished. It didn’t take long for things to circulate through the intelligence underground. Her next target might suspect that the pretty French model was more than she appeared to be. And she might very well end up dead.

She begged him for one more job. Shamron reluctantly agreed.

Three months later he sent her to Tunis.

Jacqueline had thought it was strange that Shamron instructed her to meet Gabriel Allon in a church in Turin. She found him standing atop a platform, restoring a fresco depicting the Ascension. She worked with good-looking men every day in her overt life, but there was something about Gabriel that took her breath away. It was the intense concentration in his eyes. Jacqueline wanted him to look at her the way he was looking at the fresco. She decided she was going to make love to this man before the operation was over.

They traveled to Tunis the following morning and checked into a hotel on the beach. For the first few days he left her alone while he worked. He would return to the hotel each evening. They would have dinner, stroll the souk or the corniche along the beach, then go back to their room. They would talk like lovers in case the room was bugged. He slept in his clothing, stayed rigorously on his side of the bed, a wall of Plexiglas separating them.

On the fourth day he took her with him while he worked. He showed her the beach where the commandos would come ashore and the villa owned by the target. Her passion for him deepened. Here was a man who had devoted his life to defending Israel from its enemies. She felt insignificant and frivolous by comparison. She also found that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She wanted to run her hands through his short hair, touch his face and his body. As they lay in bed together that night, she rolled on top of him without warning and kissed his lips, but he pushed her away and made a Bedouin’s camp bed for himself on the floor.

Jacqueline thought: My God, I’ve made a complete fool of myself.

Five minutes later he came back to the bed and sat down by her side. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear: “I want to make love to you too, but I can’t. I’m married.”

“I don’t care.”

“When the operation is over, you’ll never see me again.”

“I know.”

He was just as she imagined: skilled and artful, meticulous and gentle. In his hands she felt like one of his paintings. She could almost feel his eyes touching her. She felt a stupid pride that she had been able to break through his walls of self-control and seduce him. She wanted the operation to go on forever. It couldn’t, of course, and the night they left Tunis was the saddest of her life.

After Tunis she threw herself into her modeling. She told Marcel to accept every offer that came in. She worked nonstop for six months, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion. She even tried dating other men. None of it worked. She thought about Gabriel and Tunis constantly. For the first time in her life she felt obsession, yet she was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. At her wits’ end, she went to Shamron and asked him to put her in touch with Gabriel. He refused. She began to have a terrible fantasy about the death of Gabriel’s wife. And when Shamron told her what had happened in Vienna, she felt unbearable guilt.

She had not seen or spoken to Gabriel since that night in Tunis. She couldn’t imagine why he would want to see her now. But one hour later, as she watched his car pulling into her drive, she felt a smile spreading across her face. She thought: Thank God you’re here, Gabriel, because I can use a little restoration myself.

SEVENTEEN

Tel Aviv

The CIA’s executive director, Adrian Carter, was a man who was easily underestimated. It was a trait he had used to great effect during his long career. He was short and thin as a marathoner. His sparse hair and rimless spectacles gave him a slightly clinical air, his trousers and blazer looked like they’d been slept in. He seemed out of place in the cold, modern conference room at King Saul Boulevard, as if he had wandered into the building by mistake. But Ari Shamron had worked with Carter when he was the head of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center. He knew Carter was a seasoned operative-a man who spoke six languages fluently and could melt into the back alleys of Warsaw or Beirut with equal ease. He also knew that his talents in the field were matched only by his skills in the bureaucratic trenches. A worthy opponent indeed.

“Any breaks in the Paris investigation?” Carter asked.

Shamron shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not.”

“Nothing at all, Ari? I find that difficult to believe.”

“The moment we hear anything you’ll be the first to know. And what about you? Any interesting intercepts you’d care to share? Any friendly Arab services tell you anything they’d be reluctant to share with the Zionist entity?”

Carter had just completed a two-week regional tour, conferring with intelligence chiefs from the Persian Gulf to North Africa. King Saul Boulevard was his last stop. “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said. “But we’ve heard a few whispers from some of our other sources.”

Shamron raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“They tell us that the word on the street is that Tariq was behind the attack in Paris.”

“Tariq has been quiet for some time. Why would he pull something like Paris now?”

“Because he’s desperate,” Carter said. “Because the two sides are getting closer to a deal, and Tariq would like nothing better than to spoil the party. And because Tariq sees himself as a man of history, and history is about to pass him by.”

“It’s an interesting theory, but we’ve seen no evidence to suggest Tariq was involved.”

“If you did receive such evidence, you’d share it with us, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t need to remind you that an American citizen was murdered along with your ambassador. The president has made a promise to the American people that her killer will be brought to justice. I plan to help him keep that promise.”

“You can count on the support of this service,” Shamron said piously.

“If it was Tariq, we’d like to find him and bring him to the United States for trial. But we won’t be able to do that if he turns up dead someplace, filled with twenty-two-caliber bullet holes.”

“ Adrian, what are you trying to say to me?”

“What I’m saying is that the man in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue wants the situation handled in a civilized fashion. If it turns out Tariq was the one who killed Emily Parker in Paris, he wants him tried in an American courtroom. No eye-for-an-eye bullshit on this one, Ari. No back-alley execution.”

“We obviously have a difference of opinion about how best to deal with a man like Tariq.”

“The president also believes a reprisal killing at this time might not be in the best interests of the peace process. He believes that if you were to respond with an assassination, you’d be playing into the hands of those who wish to bring it down.”

“And what would the president have us do when terrorists murder our diplomats in cold blood?”

“Show some fucking restraint! In our humble opinion it might be wiser for you to lean on the ropes for a couple of rounds and absorb a few blows to the body if you have to. Give the negotiators room to maneuver. If the radicals hit after you have a deal in place, then by all means hit back. But don’t make matters worse now by seeking revenge.”

Shamron leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “I can assure you, Adrian, that neither the Office nor any other branch of the Israeli security services is planning any operation against any member of any Arab terror group-including Tariq.”

“I admire your prudence and courage. So will the president.”

“And I respect you for your bluntness.”

“I’d like to offer a friendly piece of advice if I may.”

“Please,” said Shamron.

“ Israel has entered into agreements with several Western intelligence services pledging it would not conduct operations on the soil of those countries without first notifying the host intelligence service. I can assure you, the Agency and its friends will react harshly if those agreements are breached.”

“That sounds more like a warning than a word of advice between friends.”

Carter smiled and sipped his coffee.

The prime minister was working through a stack of papers at his desk when Shamron entered the room. Shamron sat down and quickly briefed him on his meeting with the man from the CIA. “I know Adrian Carter too well,” Shamron said. “He’s a good poker player. He knows more than he’s saying. He’s telling me to back off or there’s going to be trouble.”

“Or he suspects something but doesn’t have enough to come straight out with it,” the prime minister said. “You have to decide which is the case.”

“I need to know if you still want me to carry out the operation under these new circumstances.”

The prime minister finally looked up from his paperwork. “And I need to know whether you can carry out the operation without the CIA finding out about it.”

“I can.”

“Then do it, and don’t fuck it up.”

EIGHTEEN

Valbonne, Provence

The afternoon had turned colder. Jacqueline made sandwiches while Gabriel stacked olive wood in the fireplace and set it alight with newspaper. He was squatting on his haunches, watching the thin flames lick the wood. Every few seconds he would reach into the fire and make some minor adjustment in the disposition of the kindling or the attitude of one of the larger pieces of wood. He seemed capable of holding the hot wood for a long time without discomfort. Finally he stood upright and patted his hands together to remove the remnants of wood dust and soot. He moves with such ease, Jacqueline thought-a dancer lifting from a deep knee bend. He seemed somehow younger. Less gray in his hair, eyes clearer and brighter.

She placed the food on a tray and carried it into the living room. For years she had imagined a scene like this. In a sense she had made this room for Gabriel, decorated it in a way she imagined he might like-the stone floor, the rustic rugs, the comfortable furnishings.

She placed the tray on a coffee table and sat down on the couch. Gabriel sat next to her and spooned sugar into his coffee. Yes, this is how it would be if we had ended up together. A simple meal, a drive into the mountains, a stroll through an ancient hill town. Perhaps down to the coast to wander the Old Port of Cannes or take in a film at the cinema. Then home to make love in the firelight. Stop it, Jacqueline.

Gabriel said, “I’m working for the Office again, and I need your help.”

So, it was just business after all. Gabriel had been pulled back in, and he needed her for a job. He was going to pretend the past had never happened. Perhaps it was easier that way.

“Ari told me you’d left the Office.”

“He asked me to come back for one job. You know how Shamron can be when he wants something.”

“I remember,” Jacqueline said. “Listen, Gabriel, I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I’m very sorry about what happened in Vienna.”

He looked away, his eyes cold and expressionless. Clearly, Leah was off-limits. Jacqueline had seen a photograph of her once. Gabriel’s wife looked just the way she had imagined-a dark-haired Sabra, brimming with the kind of fire and confidence that Jacqueline had longed to possess when she was a Jew growing up in France. The fact that he had chosen a woman like Leah had only made Jacqueline love Gabriel more.

He abruptly changed the subject. “I assume you heard about the attack on our ambassador in Paris?”

“Of course. It was terrible.”

“Shamron is convinced Tariq was behind the attack.”

“And he wants you to find him?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Why you, Gabriel? You’ve been out of the game so long. Why not use one of his other katsas?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Office has had more disasters than successes lately.”

“Tariq has managed to stay one step ahead of the Office for years. How are you supposed to find him now?”

“Shamron has identified one of his agents in London. I’ve put a tap on his telephone at work, but I need to bug his flat so I can find out who he’s talking to and what he’s saying. If we’re lucky, we might be able to learn where Tariq is planning to strike next.”

“Why do you need me?”

“I need you to help me get inside his flat.”

“Why do you need my help? You know how to pick a lock and plant a bug.”

“That’s just the point. I don’t want to have to pick his lock. Break-ins are risky. If he figures out someone has been in his flat, then we lose the advantage. I want you to get inside his flat for me, make a copy of his keys, and check out what kind of telephone he has so I can produce a duplicate.”

“And how am I supposed to get inside his flat?” She knew the answer, of course. She just wanted to hear him say it.

Gabriel stood up and added another piece of wood to the fire. “Yusef likes women. He enjoys the London nightlife. I want you to meet him in a bar or a disco and make friends with him. I want you to encourage him to invite you back to his flat.”

“Sorry, Gabriel. I’m not interested. Let Ari give you one of his new girls.”

He turned and looked at her.

She thought, He’s surprised I said no to him. He didn’t expect that.

“I’m offering you a chance to help me track down Tariq al-Hourani before he kills any more Jews and does any more damage to the peace process.”

“And I’m telling you that I’ve done my bit. Let another girl have a turn.”

He sat down again.

“I understand why Shamron would want to pull you back in,” Jacqueline said. “You’re the best at what you do. But I don’t understand why you need me.”

“Because you’re good too,” he said. Then he added, “And because I can trust you.”

She thought: What are you trying to tell me, Gabriel Allon? She said, “I have to go to the Caribbean for a shoot in three weeks.”

“I’ll only need you for a few days.”

“I’m not going to do this for nothing.”

“I want you, and I won’t settle for anyone else,” Gabriel said. “Therefore, you are in a position to name your price.”

She looked toward the ceiling, calculating how much she would need. Rent, renovations, advertising…

“Fifty thousand.”

“Francs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel. Dollars.”

He pulled his face into a frown. Jacqueline crossed her arms defiantly. “Fifty thousand, or you can call Shamron and ask him for a new girl.”

“Fifty thousand,” he said.

Jacqueline smiled.

Jacqueline telephoned Marcel Lambert in Paris and told him to cancel all her shoots for the next two weeks.

“Jacqueline, have you lost your mind? You can’t be serious. A woman in your tenuous position does not go around making matters worse by canceling shoots. That’s how one earns a reputation in this business.”

“Marcel, I’ve been in this business for seventeen years, and I’ve never had a reputation for blowing off shoots. Something’s come up, and I need to go away for a few days.”

“That’s what you expect me to tell the people who’ve been good enough to hire you? ”Something’s come up.“ Come on, darling. You’ll have to do much better than that.”

“Tell them I’ve come down with something.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Leprosy,” she said.

“Oh, yes, marvelous.” His voice turned suddenly serious. “Tell me something, Jacqueline. You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you? You know you can trust me. I’ve been there from the beginning, remember. I know all your secrets.”

“And don’t forget that I know all yours, Marcel Lambert. And no, I’m not in any sort of trouble. There’s just something I need to take care of, and it won’t wait.”

“You’re not sick, are you, Jacqueline?”

“I’m in perfect health.”

“It’s not the coke again, is it?” Marcel whispered.

“Marcel!”

“Surgery? An eye job?”

“Fuck you.”

“A man. Is it a man? Has someone finally managed to put a dent in that iron heart of yours?”

“I’m hanging up now, Marcel. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“So I’m right! It is a man!”

“You’re the only man for me, Marcel.”

“I wish it were so.”

“À tout à l’heure.”

“Ciao.”

They set out in the late afternoon and followed the winding highway north into the mountains. Breakaway clouds hovered over the ravines. As they rose higher into the hills, fat balls of rain pounded the windshield of Gabriel’s rented Peugeot. Jacqueline reclined her seat and watched tributaries of rainwater racing over the moon roof, but already her mind was focused on London and the target. She lit a cigarette and said, “Tell me about him.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want anything in your head that might place you in a compromising situation.”

“You came for me because I know what I’m doing, Gabriel. Tell me something about him.”

“His name is Yusef. He grew up in Beirut.”

“Where in Beirut?”

“Shatila.”

“Jesus,” she said, closing her eyes.

“His parents were refugees in ‘forty-eight. They used to live in the Arab village of Lydda, but during the war they fled across the border to Lebanon. They stayed in the south for a while, then moved to Beirut in search of work and settled in the Shatila camp.”

“How did he end up in London?”

“An uncle brought him to England. He made sure Yusef was educated and learned to speak perfect English and French. He became a political radical. He felt Arafat and the PLO had surrendered. He supported the Palestinian leaders who wanted to continue the war until Israel was erased from the map. He came to the attention of Tariq’s organization. He’s been an active member for several years.”

“Sounds charming.”

“He is, actually.”

“Any hobbies?”

“He likes Palestinian poetry and European women. And he helps Tariq kill Israelis.”

Gabriel turned off the motorway and followed a small road east into the mountains. They passed through a sleeping village and turned onto a rutted mud track lined with bare, dripping plane trees. He followed the track until he spotted a broken wooden gate leading to a patch of cleared land. He stopped the car, climbed out, pushed the gate open wide enough to accommodate the Peugeot. He drove into the clearing and shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on. He reached into Jacqueline’s handbag and took out her Beretta and spare clip. Then he grabbed one of her glossy fashion magazines and ripped off the front and back covers.

“Get out.”

“It’s raining.”

“Too bad.”

Gabriel climbed out and walked a few yards across the sodden earth toward a tree where the tattered remains of a No Trespassing sign hung from a bent, rusting nail. He shoved the magazine cover over the head of the nail and walked back toward the car. Jacqueline was silhouetted against the yellow headlights, hood up against the rain, arms folded. It was quiet except for the ticking of the Peugeot’s radiator and the distant barking of a farm dog. Gabriel removed the clip from the Beretta, checked to make certain the chamber was empty, then handed the gun and ammunition to Jacqueline.

“I want to know if you can still handle one of these.”

“But I know the girl on that cover.”

“Shoot her in the face.”

Jacqueline shoved the clip into the butt of the Beretta, tapped the base of the grip against the heel of her palm to make certain it was firmly in place. She stepped forward, raised the gun, bent her knees slightly, turned her body a few degrees to reduce her target profile for the imaginary enemy. She fired without hesitation, rhythmically and steadily, until the clip was empty.

Gabriel, listening to the popping of the little hand-gun, was suddenly back in the stairwell of the apartment house in Rome. Jacqueline lowered the Beretta, removed the clip, and inspected the chamber to make certain it was empty. She tossed the gun to Gabriel and said, “Let’s see you try it now.”

Gabriel just slipped the Beretta into his coat pocket and walked over to the tree to examine her results. Only one shot had missed; the hits were grouped tightly in the upper right. He ripped down the front cover, hung the back cover in its place, gave the Beretta back to Jacqueline. “Do it again, but this time, move forward while you’re firing.”

She rammed the second clip into the Beretta, pulled the slide, and advanced on the target, firing as she went. The last shot was from almost point-blank range. She pulled down the target, turned, and held it up so that the headlamps shone through the bullet holes in the paper. Each shot had found the mark. She walked back to Gabriel and gave him the Beretta and the magazine cover.

He said, “Pick up your brass.”

While Jacqueline gathered the spent cartridges, he quickly disassembled the Beretta. He removed the tire iron from the trunk and pounded the gun components until they were inoperable. They got back into the Peugeot, and Gabriel left the way he had come. Along the way he hurled the magazine covers and the broken bits of the Beretta into the darkness. After they had passed through the village, he opened the window once more and scattered the cartridges.

Jacqueline lit another cigarette. “How did I do?”

“You passed.”

NINETEEN

Amsterdam

Tariq spent the afternoon running errands. He walked from the houseboat to Centraalstation, where he purchased a first-class ticket for the evening train to Antwerp. From the train station he walked to the red-light district, wandering the labyrinth of narrow alleys, past the sex shops and brothels and dreary bars, until a drug dealer pulled him aside and offered him heroin. Tariq haggled over the price, then asked for enough for three people to trip. Tariq gave him the money, slipped the drugs into his pocket, walked away.

In Dam Square, he hopped onto a streetcar and rode south through the city to the Bloemenmarkt, a floating outdoor flower market on the Singel canal. He went to the largest stall and asked the florist for an elaborate bouquet of traditional Dutch flowers. When the florist asked how much he was willing to spend, Tariq assured him money was no object. The florist smiled and told him to come back in twenty minutes.

Tariq wandered through the market, past tulips and irises, lilies and sunflowers exploding with color, until he came upon a man painting. Short-cropped black hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes. His work depicted the Bloemenmarkt, framed by the canal and a terrace of gabled houses. It was dreamlike, an eruption of liquid color and light.

Tariq paused for a moment and watched him work. “Do you speak French?”

“Oui,” said the painter without looking up from his canvas.

“I admire your work.”

The painter smiled and said, “And I admire yours.”

Tariq nodded and walked away, wondering what in the hell the crazy painter was talking about.

He collected the flowers and returned to the houseboat. The girl was asleep. Tariq knelt beside her bed and gently shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked at him as though he were mad. She closed her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time for work.”

“Come to bed.”

“Actually, I might have something you’ll enjoy more.”

She opened her eyes and saw the flowers. She smiled. “For me? What’s the occasion?”

“Just my way of thanking you for being such a gracious host.”

“I like you better than flowers. Take off your clothes and come to bed.”

“I have something else.”

He held up the bags of white powder.

Inge quickly pulled on some clothes while Tariq went into the galley. He dug a spoon from the drawer and lit a candle. He heated the drug over the flame, but instead of diluting one bag of heroin into the mixture, he used all three. When he finished, he drew the liquid into a syringe and carried it back into the forward cabin.

Inge was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had tied a length of rubber above her elbow and was probing the bruises along the inside of her forearm, looking for a suitable vein.

“That one looks like it will do,” Tariq said, handing her the syringe. She held it in the palm of her hand and calmly inserted the needle into her arm. Tariq looked away as she drew back the plunger with the tip of her thumb and the liquid heroin clouded with her blood. Then she pressed the plunger and loosened the elastic, sending the drug coursing through her body.

She looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “Hey, Paul, man… what’s going-”

She fell backward onto the bed, body shuddering with violent convulsions, the empty needle dangling from her arm. Tariq walked calmly to the galley and made coffee while he waited for the girl to finish dying.

Five minutes later, as he was packing his things into a small overnight bag, he felt the boat rock sharply. He looked up, stunned. Someone was on the deck! Within seconds the door opened and a large, powerfully built man entered the salon. He had blond hair and studs in both ears. Tariq thought he bore a vague resemblance to Inge. Instinctively he felt for his Makarov pistol, which was tucked inside his trousers at the small of his back.

The man looked at Tariq. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Inge’s. I’ve been staying here for a few days.” He spoke calmly, trying to gather his thoughts. The suddenness of the man’s appearance had thrown him completely off guard. Five minutes ago he had quietly dispensed with the girl. Now he was confronted with someone who could wreck everything. Then he thought: If I’m truly Inge’s friend, I have nothing to fear. He forced himself to smile and hold out his hand. “My name is Paul.”

The intruder ignored Tariq’s hand. “I’m Maarten, Inge’s brother. Where is she?”

Tariq motioned toward the bedroom. “You know how Inge can be. Still sleeping.” He realized he had left the door open. “Let me close her door so we don’t wake her. I’ve just made coffee. Would you like a cup?”

But Maarten walked past him and entered Inge’s room. Tariq thought, Damn it! He was shocked at how quickly things had spun out of control. He realized he had about five seconds to decide how he was going to kill him.

The easiest thing to do, of course, was to shoot him. But that would have consequences. Murder by handgun was almost unheard of in the Netherlands. A dead girl with a syringe sticking from her arm was one thing. But two dead bodies-one of them filled with 9mm rounds-was quite another. There would be a major investigation. The police would question the occupants of the surrounding houseboats. Someone might remember his face. They would give a description to the police, the police would give a description to Interpol, Interpol would give a description to the Jews. Every policeman and security official in western Europe would be looking for him. Shooting Maarten would be quick, but it would cost him in the long run.

He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. He remembered that in the drawer next to the propane stove was a large knife. If he killed Inge’s brother with a knife it might look like a crime of passion or an ordinary street crime. But Tariq found the idea of killing someone with a knife utterly repulsive. And there was another, more serious problem. There was a good chance he might not kill him with the first blow. The illness had already begun to take a toll on him. He had lost strength and stamina. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself in a life-or-death struggle with a bigger, stronger opponent. He saw his dreams-of destroying the peace process and finally evening the score with Gabriel Allon-evaporating, all because Inge’s big brother had come home at an inopportune moment. Leila should have chosen more carefully.

Tariq heard Maarten scream. He decided to shoot him.

He drew the Makarov from his waistband. He realized the gun had no silencer attached to it. Where is it? In the pocket of his coat, and the coat was on the chair in the salon. Shit! How could I have become so complacent?

Maarten charged out of the bedroom, face ashen. “She’s dead!”

“What are you talking about?” Tariq asked, doing his best to stall.

“She’s dead! That’s what I’m talking about! She overdosed!”

“Drugs?”

Tariq inched closer to his jacket. If he could pull the silencer from the pocket and screw it into the barrel, then he could at least kill him quietly…

“She has a needle hanging from her arm. Her body is still warm. She probably shot up only a few minutes ago. Did you give her the fucking drugs, man?”

“I don’t know anything about drugs.” Tariq realized that he sounded too calm for the situation. He had tried to appear unfazed by Maarten’s arrival, and now he seemed too casual about his little sister’s death. Maarten clearly didn’t believe him. He screamed in rage and charged across the salon, arms raised, fists clenched.

Tariq gave up on trying to get the silencer. He gripped the Makarov, pulled the slide, leveled it at Maarten’s face, shot him through the eye.

Tariq worked quickly. He had managed to kill Maarten with a single shot, but he had to assume that someone on one of the neighboring houseboats or along the embankment had heard the pop. The police might be on their way right now. He slipped the Makarov back into his waistband, then grabbed his suitcase, the flowers, and the spent cartridge, and stepped out of the salon onto the aft deck. Dusk had fallen; snow was drifting over the Amstel. The dark would help him. He looked down and noticed he was leaving footprints on the deck. He dragged his feet as he walked, obscuring the impressions, and leaped onto the embankment.

He walked quickly but calmly. In a darkened spot along the embankment he dropped his suitcase into the river. The splash was nearly inaudible. Even if the police discovered the bag, there was nothing in it that could be traced to him. He would purchase a change of clothing and a new case when he arrived in Antwerp. Then he thought: If I arrive in Antwerp.

He followed the Herengracht westward across the city. For a moment he considered aborting the attack, going directly to Centraalstation, and fleeing the country. The Morgenthaus were soft targets and of minimal political value. Kemel had selected them because killing them would be easy and because it would allow Tariq to keep up the pressure on the peace process. But now the risk of capture had increased dramatically because of the fiasco on the boat. Perhaps it was best to forget the whole thing.

Ahead of him a pair of seabirds lifted from the surface of the canal and broke into flight, their cries echoing off the facades of the canal houses, and for a moment Tariq was a boy of eight again, running barefoot through the camp at Sidon.

The letter arrived in the late afternoon. It was addressed to Tariq’s mother and father. It said that Mahmoud al-Hourani had been killed in Cologne because he was a terrorist-that if Tariq, the youngest child of the al-Hourani family, became a terrorist, he would be killed too. Tariq’s father told him to run up to the PLO office and ask if the letter spoke the truth. Tariq found a PLO officer and showed it to him. The PLO man read it once, handed it back to Tariq, ordered him to go home and tell his father that it was true. Tariq ran through the squalid camp toward his home, tears blurring his vision. He worshiped Mahmoud. He couldn’t imagine living without him.

By the time he arrived home, word of the letter had spread throughout the camp-other families had received similar letters over the years. Women gathered outside Tariq’s home. The sound of their wailing and the fluttering of their tongues rose over the camp with the smoke from the evening fires. Tariq thought it sounded like birds from the marshes. He found his father and told him that the letter was true-Mahmoud was dead. His father tossed the letter into the fire. Tariq would never forget the pain on his father’s face, the unspeakable shame that he had been told of the death of his eldest son by the very men who had killed him.

No, Tariq thought now as he walked along the Herengracht. He would not call off the attack and run because he was afraid of being arrested. He had come too far. He had too little time left.

Tariq arrived at the house. He climbed the front steps, reached out, and pressed the bell. A moment later the door was opened by a young girl in a maid’s uniform.

He held out the flower arrangement and said in Dutch, “A gift for the Morgenthaus.”

“Oh, how lovely.”

“It’s quite heavy. Shall I bring it inside for you?”

“Dank u.”

The girl stepped aside so Tariq could pass. She closed the door to keep out the cold and waited with one hand on the latch for Tariq to place the box on a table in the entrance hall and leave. He set down the package and drew the Makarov while turning around. This time the silencer was screwed into place.

The girl opened her mouth to scream. Tariq shot her twice in the throat.

He dragged the body out of the entrance hall and used a towel from the bathroom to wipe up the trail of blood. Then he sat in the darkened dining room and waited for David and Cynthia Morgenthau to come home.

TWENTY

Paris

Shamron summoned Gabriel to the Tuileries gardens the following morning for a crash meeting. Gabriel found him seated on a bench next to a gravel footpath, surrounded by a gang of pigeons. He wore a slate-gray silk scarf around his neck with the ends tucked neatly beneath the lapels of his black overcoat so that his bald head seemed to be mounted atop a pedestal. He stood up, removed a black leather glove from his right hand, and stuck it out like a trench knife. Gabriel found his palm unusually warm and damp. Shamron blew into the throat of the glove and quickly put it back on. He was not accustomed to cold climates, and Paris in winter depressed him.

They walked quickly, not like two men talking in a park but like two men going somewhere in a hurry-along the footpaths of the Tuileries, across the windswept place de la Concorde. Dead leaves rattled at their feet as they marched along the tree-lined sidewalk next to the Champs-Élysées.

“We received a report this morning from a sayan in the Dutch security service,” Shamron said. “It was Tariq who killed David Morgenthau and his wife in Amsterdam.”

“How can they be so certain?”

“They’re not certain, but I am. The Amsterdam police discovered a dead girl on a houseboat in the Amstel. She had overdosed on heroin. Her brother was dead too.”

“Heroin?”

“A single bullet through the eye.”

“What happened?”

“According to the girl’s neighbors, an Arab woman moved into the houseboat a couple of weeks ago. She left a couple of days ago and a man took her place. A Frenchman who called himself Paul.”

“So Tariq sent an agent to Amsterdam ahead of time to secure safe lodging and a girl for cover.”

“And when he was finished with her, he fed her enough heroin to kill a camel. The police say the girl had a history of drug use and prostitution. Obviously, he thought he could make it look like an accidental overdose.”

“How did the brother end up dead?”

“The houseboat is registered in his name. According to the police, he’s been working in Rotterdam on a construction project. Maybe he appeared on the scene unannounced while Tariq was killing his sister.”

“Makes sense.”

“Actually, there’s evidence to support that theory. A couple of the neighbors heard the gunshot. If Tariq had been planning to kill the brother, he would have used a quieter method of execution. Maybe he was surprised.”

“Have they compared the slug from the brother with the slugs taken from the Morgenthaus and the maid?”

“It’s a perfect match. Same gun killed all four people.”

A young Swedish couple was posing for a photograph. Gabriel and Shamron turned abruptly and walked the other way.

Gabriel said, “Any other news?”

“I want you to watch your step in London. A man from Langley paid a courtesy call on me last week. The Americans have been told by their sources that Tariq was involved in Paris. They want him arrested and prosecuted in the United States.”

“The last thing we need now is to be tripping over the CIA.”

“It gets worse, I’m afraid. The man from Langley also dropped a not-so-subtle warning about the pitfalls of operating in certain countries without permission.”

“Do they know anything?”

“I doubt it, but I wouldn’t rule it out completely.”

“I was hoping that my return to the Office wouldn’t land me in a British jail.”

“It won’t as long as you stay disciplined.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Did you find her?” Shamron asked, changing the subject.

Gabriel nodded.

“And she’s willing to do it?”

“It took me a while to convince her, but she agreed.”

“Why are all my children so reluctant to come home again? Was I such an errant father?”

“Just an overly demanding one.”

Gabriel stopped in front of a café on the Champs-Élysées. Jacqueline was seated in the window, wearing large sunglasses and reading a magazine. She glanced up as they approached, then turned her gaze to her magazine once more.

Shamron said, “It’s nice to see you two working together again. Just don’t break her heart this time. She’s a good girl.”

“I know.”

“You’ll need a cover job for her in London. I know someone who’s looking for a secretary.”

“I’m one step ahead of you.”

Shamron smiled and walked away. He melted into the crowds along the Champs-Élysées and a moment later was gone.

Julian Isherwood made his way across the wet bricks of Mason’s Yard. It was three-thirty, and he was just returning to the gallery from lunch. He was drunk. He hadn’t noticed that he was drunk until he stepped out the door of Green’s and took a few deep breaths of the freezing, damp air. The oxygen had resuscitated his brain, and his brain had alerted his body that once again he had poured too much wine into it. His lunch mate had been the tubby Oliver Dimbleby, and once again the topic of conversation had been Oliver’s proposal to buy out Isherwood Fine Arts. This time Isherwood had managed to maintain his composure and discuss the situation somewhat rationally-though not without the assistance of two bottles of superb Sancerre. When one is discussing the dismemberment of one’s business-one’s very soul, he thought-one is allowed to dull the pain with good French wine.

He pulled his coat up around his ears. A blast of wet wind poured through the passageway from Duke Street. Isherwood found himself caught in a whirlpool of dead leaves and wet rubbish. He stumbled forward a few steps, hands shielding his face, until the maelstrom spun itself out. For Christ’s sake! Dreadful climate. Positively Siberian. He considered slipping into the pub for something to warm his bones but thought better of it. He’d done enough damage for one afternoon.

He used his key to unlock the door on the ground floor, slowly climbed the stairs, thinking he really should do something about the carpet. On the landing was the entrance to a small travel agency. The walls were hung with posters of fiercely tanned amazons frolicking half naked in the sun. Perhaps this is the best thing for me, he thought, staring at a topless girl lying facedown in perfect white sand. Perhaps I should get out while I still have a few decent years left in me. Flee London, go someplace warm, lick my wounds.

He shoved the key into the lock, pushed back the door, removed his coat, and hung it on the hook in the anteroom. Then he stepped into his office and flipped the light switch.

“Hello, Julian.”

Isherwood spun around and found himself face-to-face with Gabriel Allon. “You! How the bloody hell did you get in here?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I suppose not,” said Isherwood. “What in God’s name are you doing here? And where have you been?”

“I need a favor.”

“You need a favor! You need a favor-from me! You ran out on me in the middle of a job. You left my Vecellio in a Cornish cottage with no security.”

“Sometimes the best place to hide a priceless Vecellio is the last place anyone would think to look for it. If I had wanted to help myself to the contents of your vault downstairs, I could have done it quite easily.”

“That’s because you’re a freak of nature!”

“There’s no need to get personal, Julian.”

“Oh, really. How’s this for personal?” He picked up a coffee mug from his desk and threw it directly at Gabriel’s head.

Gabriel could see that Isherwood had been drinking, so he pulled him back outside to sober him. They circled the footpaths of Green Park until Isherwood grew tired and settled himself on a bench. Gabriel sat next to him and waited for a couple to pass by before he started to speak again.

“Can she type?” Isherwood said. “Does she know how to answer the telephone? How to take a message?”

“I don’t think she’s done an honest day’s work her entire life.”

“Oh, how perfect. Absolutely stupendous.”

“She’s a smart girl. I’m sure she’ll be able to help out around the office.”

“That’s comforting. Am I allowed to ask why I’m supposed to hire this woman?”

“Julian, please.”

“Julian, please. Julian, mind your own business. Julian, shut up and do as we tell you. It’s always the same with you people. And all the while my business is going straight to hell. Oliver’s made me an offer. I’m going to take him up on it.”

“Oliver doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t run out on me.”

“I didn’t run out on you.”

“What do you call it, Gabriel?”

“It’s just something I need to do. It’s just like the old days.”

“In the old days that was part of the arrangement going in. But these aren’t the old days. This is business-straight fucking business, Gabriel-and you’ve given me the right royal shaft. What am I supposed to do about the Vecellio while you’re playing games with Ari?”

“Wait for me,” Gabriel said. “This will be over soon, and I’ll work day and night on it until it’s finished.”

“I don’t want a crash job. I brought it to you because I knew you would take your time and do it right. If I wanted a crash job, I could have hired a hack to do it for a third of what I’m paying you.”

“Give me some time. Keep your buyer at bay, and whatever you do, don’t sell out to Oliver Dimbleby. You’ll never forgive yourself.”

Isherwood looked at his watch and stood up. “I have an appointment. Someone who actually wants to buy a picture.” He turned and started to walk away; then he stopped and said, “By the way, you left a brokenhearted little boy behind in Cornwall.”

“Peel,” Gabriel said distantly.

“It’s funny, Gabriel, but I never had you figured for the type that would hurt a child. Tell your girl to be at the gallery at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And tell her not to be late.”

“She’ll be there.”

“What am I to call this secretary you’re sending me?”

“You may call her Dominique.”

“Good-looking?” Isherwood said, regaining a bit of his old humor.

“Not bad.”

TWENTY-ONE

Maida Vale, London

Gabriel carried the suitcases in while Jacqueline surveyed her new home, a cramped bed-sit flat with a single window overlooking an inner courtyard. A foldout couch, a club chair of cracked leather, a small writing desk. Next to the window was a flaking radiator and next to the radiator a door leading to a kitchen scarcely larger than the galley on Gabriel’s ketch. Jacqueline went into the kitchen and began opening and closing cabinets, sadly, as if each was more repulsive than the last.

“I had the bodel do a bit of shopping for you.”

“Couldn’t you have found something a little bit nicer?”

“Dominique Bonard is a girl from Paris who came to London in search of work. I didn’t think a three-bedroom maisonette in Mayfair was appropriate.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Not exactly.”

“Stay for a few minutes. I find the thought of being alone here depressing.”

“A few.”

She filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove, and switched on the burner. Gabriel found tea bags and a box of shelf milk. She prepared two mugs of tea and carried them into the sitting room. Gabriel was on the couch. Jacqueline removed her shoes and sat across from him, knees beneath her chin. “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try the next night.”

She lit a cigarette, threw back her head, blew smoke at the ceiling. Then she looked at Gabriel and narrowed her eyes. “Do you remember that night in Tunis?”

“Which night?”

“The night of the operation.”

“Of course I remember it.”

“I remember it as though it were yesterday.” She closed her eyes. “I especially remember the trip across the water back to the boat. I was so excited I couldn’t feel my body. I was flying. We had actually done it. We had walked right into that bastard’s house in the middle of a PLO compound and taken him out. I wanted to scream with joy. But I’ll never forget the look on your face. You were haunted. It was as if the dead men were sitting next to you in the boat.”

“Very few people understand what it’s like to shoot a man at close range. Even fewer know what it’s like to place a gun against the side of his head and pull the trigger. Killing on the secret battlefield is different from killing a man on the Golan or Sinai, even when it’s a murderous bastard like Abu Jihad.”

“I understand that now. I felt like such a fool when we got back to Tel Aviv. I acted like you had just scored the winning goal, and all the while you were dying inside. I hope you can forgive me.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But what I don’t understand is how Shamron enticed you back after all these years.”

“It has nothing to do with Shamron. It’s about Tariq.”

“What about Tariq?”

Gabriel sat silently for a moment, then stood and walked to the window. In the courtyard a trio of boys kicked a ball in amber lamplight, old newspaper floating above them in the wet wind like cinder.

“Tariq’s older brother, Mahmoud, was a member of Black September. Ari Shamron tracked him to Cologne, and he sent me to finish him off. I slipped into his flat while he was sleeping and pointed a gun at his face. Then I woke him up so that he wouldn’t die a peaceful death. I shot him in both eyes. Seventeen years later Tariq took his revenge by blowing up my wife and son right before my eyes.”

Jacqueline covered her mouth with her hands. Gabriel was still staring out the window, but she could tell it was Vienna that he saw now and not the boys playing in the courtyard.

“For a long time I thought Tariq had made a mistake,” Gabriel said. “But he never makes mistakes like that. He’s careful, deliberate. He’s the perfect predator. He went after my family for a reason. He went after them to punish me for killing his brother. He knew it would be worse than death.” He turned to face her. “From one professional to another, it was an exquisite piece of work.”

“And now you’re going to kill him in return?”

He looked away and said nothing.

“I always blamed myself for what happened in Vienna,” Jacqueline said. “If we hadn’t-”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gabriel said, cutting her off. “It was my fault, not yours. I should have known better. I behaved foolishly. But it’s over now.”

The coldness of his voice felt like a knife in her chest. She took a long time crushing out her cigarette, then looked up at him. “Why did you tell Leah about us?”

He stood in the window for a moment, saying nothing. Jacqueline feared she had taken it too far. She tried to think of some way to defuse the situation and change the subject, but she desperately wanted to know the answer. If Gabriel hadn’t confessed the affair, Leah and Dani would never have been with him on assignment in Vienna.

“I told her because I didn’t want to lie to her. My entire life was a lie. Shamron had convinced me I was perfect, but I wasn’t perfect. For the first time in my life I had behaved with a bit of human frailty and weakness. I suppose I needed to share it with her. I suppose I needed someone to forgive me.”

He picked up his coat. His face was twisted. He was angry, not with her but with himself. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.” His voice was all business now. “Get settled and try to get some rest. Julian’s expecting you at nine o’clock.”

And then he went out.

For a few minutes she was distracted by the ritual of unpacking. Then the pain crept up on her, like the delayed sting of a slap. She collapsed onto the couch and began to cry. She lit another cigarette and looked around at the dreary little flat. What in the hell am I doing here? She had agreed to come back for one reason-because she thought she could make Gabriel love her-but he had dismissed their affair in Tunis as a moment of weakness. Still, why had he come back after all these years to kill Tariq? Was it simply revenge? An eye for an eye? No, she thought-Gabriel’s motives ran far deeper and were more complex than pure revenge. Perhaps he needed to kill Tariq in order to forgive himself for what happened to Leah and finally move on with his life. But will he ever be able to forgive me? Perhaps the only way to earn his forgiveness was to help him kill Tariq. And the only way I can help him kill Tariq is to make another man fall for me and take him to bed. She closed her eyes and thought of Yusef al-Tawfiki.

Gabriel had left his car on the Ashworth Road. He made a show of dropping his keys on the curb and groping in the darkness as if he were trying to find them. In reality he was searching the undercarriage of the car, looking for something that shouldn’t be there-a mass, a loose wire. The car looked clean, so he climbed in, started the motor, drove in circles for a half hour through Maida Vale and Notting Hill, making certain he was not being followed.

He was annoyed with himself. He had been taught-first by his father, then by Ari Shamron-that men who could not keep secrets were weak and inferior. His father had survived Auschwitz but refused ever to speak of it. He struck Gabriel only once-when Gabriel demanded that his father tell him what had happened at the camp. If it hadn’t been for the numbers tattooed on his right forearm, Gabriel might never have known that his father had suffered.

Indeed, Israel was a place filled with damaged people-mothers who buried sons killed in wars, children who buried siblings killed by terrorists. After Vienna, Gabriel leaned on the lessons of his father: Sometimes people die too soon. Mourn for them in private. Don’t wear your suffering on your sleeve like the Arabs. And when you’re finished mourning, get back on your feet and get on with life.

It was the last part-getting on with life-that had given Gabriel the most trouble. He blamed himself for what had happened in Vienna, not only because of his affair with Jacqueline but because of the way he had killed Tariq’s brother. He had wanted the satisfaction of knowing that Mahmoud was aware of his death-that he had been terrified at the moment Gabriel’s Beretta quietly dispatched the first scorching bullet into his brain. Shamron had told him to terrorize the terrorists-to think like them and behave like them. Gabriel believed he had been punished for allowing himself to become like his enemy.

He had punished himself in return. One by one he had closed the doors and barred the windows that had once given him access to life’s pleasures. He drifted though time and space the way he imagined a damned spirit might visit the place where he had lived: able to see loved ones and possessions but unable to communicate or taste or touch or feel. He experienced beauty only in art and only by repairing damage inflicted by uncaring owners and by the corrosive passage of time. Shamron had made him the destroyer. Gabriel had turned himself back into the healer. Unfortunately, he was not capable of healing himself.

So why tell his secrets to Jacqueline? Why answer her damned questions? The simple answer was he wanted to. He had felt it the moment he walked into her villa in Valbonne, a prosaic need to share secrets and reveal past pain and disappointment. But there was something more important: he didn’t have to explain himself to her. He thought of his silly fantasy about Peel’s mother, how it had ended when he had told her the truth about himself. The scenario reflected one of Gabriel’s deep-seated fears-the dread of telling another woman he was a professional killer. Jacqueline already knew his secrets.

Maybe Jacqueline had been right about one thing, he thought-maybe he should have asked Shamron for another girl. Jacqueline was his bat leveyha, and tomorrow he was going to send her into the bed of another man.

He parked around the corner from his flat and walked quickly along the pavement toward the entrance of the block. He looked up toward his window and murmured, “Good evening, Mr. Karp.” And he pictured Karp, peering through the sight of his parabolic microphone, saying, “Welcome home, Gabe. Long time, no hear from.”

TWENTY-TWO

Maida Vale, London

Jacqueline felt a peculiar exhilaration the following morning as she walked along Elgin Avenue toward the Maida Vale tube station. She had lived a life of hedonistic excess-too much money, too many men, fine things taken for granted. It felt reassuring to be doing something so ordinary as taking the Underground to work, even if it was only a cover job.

She bought a copy of The Times from the newsstand on the street, then entered the station and followed the stairs down to the ticket lobby. The previous evening she had studied street maps and memorized the Underground lines. They had such curious names: Jubilee, Circle, District, Victoria. To get to the gallery in St. James’s, she would take the Bakerloo Line from Maida Vale to Piccadilly Circus. She purchased a ticket from an automated dispenser, then passed through the turnstile and headed down the escalator to the platform. So far, so good, she thought. Just another working girl in London.

Her notion of relaxing for a few minutes with the newspaper dissolved when the train arrived at the station. The carriages were hopelessly crowded, the passengers crushed against the glass. Jacqueline, who was always protective of her personal space, considered waiting to see if the next train was any better. She looked at her watch, saw she had no time to waste. When the doors opened, only a handful of people got off. There seemed to be no place for her to stand. What would a Londoner do? Push her way in. She held her handbag across her breasts and stepped aboard.

The train lurched forward. The man next to her was breathing last night’s beer into her face. She stretched her long frame, tilted her head back, closed her eyes, found a draft of fresh air leaking through the crack in the doors.

A few moments later the train arrived at Piccadilly Circus. Outside, the mist had turned to light rain. Jacqueline pulled an umbrella from her handbag. She walked quickly, keeping pace with the office workers around her, making subtle alterations in course to avoid oncoming traffic.

Turning into Duke Street, she glanced over her shoulder. Walking a few feet behind her, wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, was Gabriel. She moved south along Duke Street until she arrived at the entrance of Mason’s Yard.

Gabriel bumped her elbow as he passed. “You’re clean. Give my love to Julian.”

The gallery was exactly as Gabriel had described it: wedged between the shipping company office and the pub. Next to the door was a panel, and on the panel were two buttons and two corresponding names: LOCUS TRAVEL and ISHER OO FINE AR S. She pressed the button, waited, pressed it again, waited, glanced at her watch, pressed it again. Nothing.

She crossed Mason’s Yard, entered Duke Street, and found a little café where she could wait. She ordered coffee and settled in the window with her Times. Fifteen minutes later, at precisely nine-twenty, she spotted a stylishly clothed gray-haired man rushing along Duke Street as though he were running late for his own funeral. He ducked through the passageway and disappeared into Mason’s Yard. Isherwood, she thought. Had to be.

She pushed her newspaper into her handbag and slipped out of the café after him. She followed him across Mason’s Yard toward the gallery. As he was unlocking the door she called out, “Mr. Isherwood, is that you? I’ve been waiting for you.”

Isherwood turned around. His mouth fell open slightly as she approached.

“I’m Dominique Bonard. I believe you were expecting me this morning.”

Isherwood cleared his throat several times rapidly and seemed to have trouble remembering which key opened the office. “Yes, well, delighted, really,” he stammered. “Awfully sorry, bloody tube, you know.”

“Let me take your briefcase. Maybe that will help.”

“Yes, well, you’re French,” he said, as if he thought this might be a revelation to her. “I have fluent Italian, but I’m afraid my French is rather atrocious.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine in English.”

“Yes, quite.”

Finally, he managed to unlock the door. He held it open rather too gallantly and gestured for her to lead the way up the stairs. On the landing, Isherwood paused in front of the travel agency and studied the girl in one of the posters. He turned and glanced at Jacqueline, then stared at the girl in the photograph once more. “You know, Dominique, she could be your twin sister.”

Jacqueline smiled and said, “Don’t be silly.”

Isherwood opened the gallery and showed Jacqueline to her desk.

“There’s a man called Oliver Dimbleby coming later this morning. He looks rather like an English sausage in a Savile Row suit. Buzz him up when he arrives. Until then, let me show you round the rest of the gallery.”

He handed her a pair of keys on a blue elastic band. “These are for you. Whenever one of us leaves the gallery, the doors are to be armed. The disarm code is five-seven-six-four-nine-seven-three-two-six. Get that?”

Jacqueline nodded. Isherwood looked at her incredulously, and she repeated the sequence of numbers briskly and without error. Isherwood was clearly impressed.

They entered a small lift, barely large enough to accommodate two passengers. Isherwood inserted his key into the security lock, turned it, and pressed the button marked B. The lift groaned and shuddered, then traveled slowly down the shaft, coming to rest with a gentle bump. The doors opened, and they entered a cool, dark room.

“This is the tomb,” he said, switching on the lights. It was a cramped cellar filled with canvases, some framed, some unframed and resting in slots built into the walls. “This is my stockroom. Hundreds of works, many of them valuable, many more that have little or no worth on the open market and are therefore accumulating dust in this room.”

He led her back into the lift, and this time they rode up. The doors opened onto a large, high-ceilinged room. Gray morning light trickled through a circular glass dome in the roof. Jacqueline cautiously walked forward a few paces. Isherwood threw a switch, illuminating the room.

It was as if she had stepped into a museum. The walls were cream-colored and pristine, the hardwood floor burnished to a high gloss. In the center of the floor was a low bench covered in soft velvet the color of claret. On the walls were towering canvases lit by focused halogen lamps mounted in the ceiling. Rain pattered softly on the domed skylight. Jacqueline sat down on the bench. There was a Venus by Luini and a Nativity by del Vaga; a Baptism of Christ by Bordone and a stunning landscape by Claude.

“It’s breathtaking,” she said. “I feel like I’m in the Louvre. You must come up here often.”

“When I need to think. Feel free to come up anytime you like. Bring your lunch.”

“I will. Thank you for showing it to me.”

“If you’re going to work here, I suppose you should know your way round the place.”

They took the lift to the main level. Jacqueline sat at her new desk, pulled open the drawers, rummaged through the paper clips and pens, experimented with the copy machine.

Isherwood said, “You do know how to use those things, don’t you?”

“I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.”

“Oh, good Lord,” he murmured.

Oliver Dimbleby arrived promptly at eleven o’clock. Jacqueline inspected him through the security camera-he did look rather like a sausage in a Savile Row suit-and buzzed him up. When he caught sight of her, he pulled in his stomach and smiled affectionately. “So, you’re Julian’s new girl,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m Oliver Dimbleby. Very pleased to meet you. Very pleased, indeed.”

“Come, Oliver,” Isherwood called from the inner office. “Here, boy. Let go of her hand and get in here. We haven’t got all day.”

Oliver reluctantly relinquished her hand and stepped into Isherwood’s office. “Tell me, Julie, my love. If I actually buy this place, does that angel in there convey?”

“Oh, do shut up, Oliver.” Isherwood closed the door.

Jacqueline went back to her office and tried to figure out how to use the fax machine.

The telephone call arrived at the Kebab Factory at 4:00 P.M. Gabriel waited three minutes and twenty seconds for Yusef to come to the phone-he knew the precise amount of time it took because later he felt compelled to measure it with a stopwatch. During Yusef’s absence he was treated to the sounds of the kitchen help chattering in Lebanese Arabic and Mohammed, the afternoon manager, screaming at a busboy to clear table seventeen. When Yusef finally came to the phone, he seemed slightly out of breath. Their entire conversation lasted thirty-seven seconds. When it was done Gabriel rewound the tape and listened to it so many times Karp begged him to stop.

“Trust me, Gabe, there’s nothing sinister going on. It’s two guys talking about getting a drink and maybe finding a girl and getting laid. You remember getting laid, don’t you?”

But Gabriel was initiating the next phase of the operation-he was sending Jacqueline into hostile territory-and he wanted to be certain he wasn’t sending her into a trap. So he listened again:

“We still on for tonight?”

“Absolutely. Where?”

“All Bar One, Leicester Square, nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

“We still on for tonight?”

“Absolutely. Where?”

“All Bar One, Leicester Square, nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

“All Bar One, Leicester Square, nine o’clock.”

STOP. PLAY.

“I’ll be there.”

Gabriel picked up the telephone and punched in the number for Isherwood Fine Arts.

TWENTY-THREE

Leicester Square, London

All Bar One stood on the southwest corner of Leicester Square. It had two floors and large windows, so that Gabriel, seated outside on a cold wooden bench, could see the action inside as though it were a play on a multilevel stage. Crowds of tourists and filmgoers streamed past him. The street performers were out too. On one side of the square a German sang Jimi Hendrix through a crackling microphone, accompanied by an amplified acoustic guitar. On the other a group of Peruvians played the music of the mountains to a disconsolate-looking gang of urban punks with purple hair. A few feet from the entrance of the bar a human statue stood frozen atop a pedestal, face painted the color of titanium, eyeing Gabriel malevolently.

Yusef arrived five minutes later, accompanied by a trim, sandy-haired man. They negotiated the short line at the door by bribing the muscled ape who was standing guard. A moment later they appeared in the window on the second level. Yusef said hello to a lanky blonde. Gabriel removed a mobile phone from his coat pocket, dialed a number, murmured a few words, then pressed the END button.

Jacqueline, when she arrived five minutes later, wore the same clothes she had worn to Isherwood’s gallery that morning, but she had let down her long hair. She presented herself to the doorman and inquired about the wait. The doorman promptly stepped aside, much to the annoyance of the other patrons gathered outside. As Jacqueline disappeared into the bar, Gabriel heard someone mutter, “French bitch.”

She went upstairs, bought herself a glass of wine, and sat down in the window a few feet from Yusef and his friend. Yusef was still talking to the blonde, but after a few moments Gabriel could see his eyes wandering to the tall, dark-haired girl seated to his right.

Twenty minutes later, neither Gabriel nor the statue had moved, but Yusef had disengaged himself from the blonde and was sitting next to Jacqueline. She was feeding on him with her eyes, as though whatever he was saying was the most fascinating thing she had heard in years.

Gabriel stared at the statue, and the statue stared back.

At midnight they left the bar and walked across the square through a swirling wind. Jacqueline shivered and folded her arms beneath her breasts. Yusef put an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. She could feel the wine. She had found that judicious use of alcohol helped in situations like these. She had drunk just enough to lose any inhibitions about sleeping with a complete stranger-inhibitions that might betray her-but not enough to dull her senses or instincts of self-preservation.

They climbed into a taxi on the Charing Cross Road.

Jacqueline said, “Where do you live?” She knew the answer, but Dominique Bonard did not.

“I have a flat in Bayswater. Sussex Gardens. Shall we go there?”

She nodded. They rode up the Charing Cross Road, past darkened shops, then west along Oxford Street toward Marble Arch and the Park. Sometimes they would pass a lighted shop or slip beneath a street lamp and she would see his face for an instant, like a photograph flashed on a screen and then taken away. She studied him in profile. The hinge of his jaw was a perfect right angle, his nose long and slender with crisp lines along the bridge, his lips full. Long eyelashes, wide eyebrows. He had shaved carefully. He wore no cologne.

Based on what Gabriel had told her, she had expected Yusef to be cocky and overly confident. But instead he displayed a pleasant, somewhat shy intelligence. She thought about the German chemical executive she had seduced in Cyprus. He was bald and had foul breath. Over dinner he had told her how much he hated Jews. Later, in bed, he had asked her to do things that made her feel sick.

They headed up the Edgware Road and turned into Sussex Gardens. She wanted to look up and find the flat where Gabriel had established his listening post. She forced herself to look at Yusef instead. She traced her finger along his jaw. “You’re quite beautiful, you know.”

He smiled. She thought: He’s used to compliments from women.

The taxi arrived in front of his building. It was a charmless place, a flat-fronted postwar block house with an air of institutional decay. He helped her out of the taxi, paid off the driver, led her up a short flight of steps to the front entrance. He walked on the balls of his feet-like Gabriel, she thought-as if he were perpetually prepared to lunge or pounce. She wondered if Gabriel was watching them.

He removed his keys, singled out one for the front door-Yale model, she noted-and inserted it into the chamber. He led her across a small lobby of checkered linoleum, then up a dimly lit flight of stairs. She wondered how he would make his move. Would he open a bottle of wine, play soft music, or light candles? Or would he be straightforward and businesslike? If they talked she might learn something about him that could be helpful to Gabriel. She decided she would try to stretch the seduction a little longer.

At the door of his flat he used a second Yale to unlock the dead bolt, then an old-fashioned skeleton for the latch. Three locks, three separate keys. No problem.

They entered the flat. The room was in darkness. Yusef closed the door. Then he kissed her for the first time.

Jacqueline said, “I’ve wanted you to do that all night. You have beautiful lips.”

“I’ve wanted to do other things all night.” He kissed her again. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of wine would be nice if you have any.”

“I think so. Let me check.”

He switched on a light, a cheap standing lamp with the beam focused on the ceiling, and left his keys on a small table next to the door. Jacqueline placed her handbag beside them. Shamron’s training took over. She quickly surveyed the room. It was the flat of an intellectual revolutionary, a sparse, utilitarian base camp. Three cheap Oriental carpets covered the linoleum floor. The coffee table was a large, square piece of pressboard propped on four gray cinder blocks surrounded by a foursome of mismatched chairs. In the center of the table was an ashtray the size of a dinner plate containing several brands of cigarette butts. A few were smudged with lipstick, two different shades. Around the ashtray were a half-dozen small cups, stained, like Rorschach test patterns, with Turkish coffee grounds.

She turned her attention to the walls. There were posters of Bob Marley and Che Guevara, another of Tommie Smith and John Carlos raising their gloved fists at the Mexico City Olympics in 1968. There was a black, green, and red Palestinian flag and a print of a painting depicting a village girl being bathed by other women on the night before her wedding. She recognized the painting as one of Ibrahim Ghannan’s. Everywhere there were books, some stacked, some in piles, as if they were awaiting gasoline and a match-volumes of Middle East history, histories of the Middle East wars, biographies of Arafat, Sadat, Ben-Gurion, Rabin.

“You read a great deal,” Jacqueline said.

“It’s an addiction of mine.”

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“ Palestine.”

He came into the room from the kitchen and handed her a glass of red wine. Then he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

Gabriel stood in his window. Karp’s laser microphone picked up snatches of their conversation, but it was like listening to a vinyl record album that skipped. When they moved to the bedroom to make love, Gabriel said, “Shut it off.”

“But, Gabe, it’s just getting to the good part.”

“I said, shut it off.”

Karp lowered the microphone and switched off the power. “I’m hungry. I’m going for a walk.”

“Go.”

“You all right, Gabe?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?”

“Go.”

One hour later Yusef climbed out of bed, walked to the window, and opened the curtains. The yellow street lamp had turned his olive skin the color of old newsprint. Jacqueline lay on her stomach. She placed her chin atop her hands and looked at him, eyes following the line from his square shoulders to his lean, muscular waist. She wondered if Gabriel was looking at him too.

Yusef was watching the street-looking into parked cars, scanning the building opposite. He turned his body slightly, and she could see a wide, flat scar on his back, running between his right shoulder blade and the center of his ridged spine. She had felt it when they were making love. It was hard and coarse, like sandpaper. Like the skin of a shark.

He had been a gentle lover, meticulous in his attempts to give her pleasure. When he was inside her, she had closed her eyes and imagined it was Gabriel, and when she felt the scar between his shoulder blades she imagined it was Gabriel’s scar, a relic from one of his secret missions, and she wished that she could pass her hand over it and make it go away.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

Yusef turned around and folded his arms across his chest.

“Have you ever slept with an Arab before, Dominique?”

She thought: And you’re changing the subject. She said, “You’re my first. I may have to do it again sometime.”

“Not while you’re sleeping with me.”

“Are we sleeping together now?”

“That’s up to you.”

“All right, we are now officially sleeping together.” She rolled onto her back, looked at the light from the street falling across her body, imagined it was Gabriel’s gaze. “Do you think we should get to know each other a little better, now that we’re officially sleeping together?”

He smiled and said, “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what happened to your back.”

He turned and looked out the window.

She studied the digital alarm clock on the bedside table.

“There are some things about my past that you might find unpleasant,” he said.

“Bad things you’ve done?”

“No, Dominique. Bad things that were done to me.”

“How did you get that scar on your back?”

He turned and looked at her. “I grew up in a refugee camp in Lebanon -the Shatila camp in south Beirut. Perhaps you’ve heard of Shatila, Dominique.”

“Of course I’ve heard of Shatila.”

“The PLO had offices in the Shatila camp, so when the Israelis invaded Lebanon in ‘eighty-two, they shelled the camp day and night. A missile fired by an Israeli fighter jet hit the building where our family lived. The building collapsed on top of me, and a chunk of concrete tore away the skin of my back.”

“Why were you in Lebanon?”

“Because that’s where my family ended up after they were driven from their ancestral homes in Palestine by the Jews.”

Jacqueline looked at the ceiling.

Yusef said, “Why do you look away from me when I tell you that?”

“I met some Israelis once in a nightclub in Paris. They were debating this issue with a group of French students. They said that the Jews didn’t have to expel the Arabs from Palestine because the Arabs left on their own.”

Yusef laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid you have fallen for the great Zionist myth, Dominique. The myth that the Palestinians would voluntarily trade the land where they had lived for centuries for exile and refugee camps. The myth that the Arab governments told the Palestinians to leave.”

“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.

Karp said, “We call it a hot mike. Your outfit calls it a glass if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re correct as usual.”

“It’s a wonderful little piece of equipment, coverage of his flat and his telephone with the same device. Two for the price of one, you might say. And you never have to worry about replacing the battery because the transmitter draws its power from the telephone.”

Karp paused for a moment to concentrate on his work. “Once these go in, the monitoring operation is basically on autopilot. The tape decks are voice-activated. They’ll roll only if there’s something coming from the source. If you need to leave the flat for any reason, you can check the tapes when you come back. My work is basically finished.”

“I’ll miss you, Randy.”

“Gabe, I’m touched.”

“I know.”

“That was a nice piece of work, sending in the girl like that. Break-ins can get messy. Always better to get the keys and phone before you go in for the plant.”

Karp placed the cover back on the telephone, handed it to Gabriel. “Your turn.”

Gabriel the restorer picked up his pens and began making marks on the keypad.

Kemel Azouri had been at Schloss headquarters in Zürich earlier that morning, meeting with his sales staff, when he received a text message over his pager: Mr. Taylor wished to speak to him about a problem with last Thursday’s shipment. Kemel cut short his meeting, took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and boarded the next Eurostar train to London. The timing of the message intrigued him. Mr. Taylor was the code name for an agent in London. “A problem with the shipment” was a code phrase for urgent. Use of the word Thursday meant the agent wished to meet on Cheyne Walk at four-fifteen. Kemel strode through the arrival hall at Waterloo and climbed into a taxi at the stand. A moment later he was speeding across the Westminster Bridge.

He told the driver to drop him at Royal Hospital Chelsea. He walked along the river through the gathering darkness and waited at the foot of Battersea Bridge.

He checked his watch: four-twelve.

He lit a cigarette and waited.

Three minutes later, at precisely four-fifteen, a handsome young man in a black leather jacket appeared at his side.

“Mr. Taylor, I presume.”

“Let’s take a walk.”

“I’m sorry to drag you all the way to London, Kemel, but you wanted to know about every potential approach.”

“What was her name?”

“She called herself Dominique Bonard.”

“French?”

“Claims to be.”

“You suspect she’s lying.”

“I’m not sure. I can’t be certain, but it’s possible she was going through my things this morning.”

“Have you been followed recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Where’s she from?”

“She says she’s from Paris.”

“What’s she doing in London?”

“She works at an art gallery.”

“Which one?”

“A place called Isherwood Fine Arts in St. James’s.”

“Where do you stand with this woman?”

“I’m supposed to see her again in two hours.”

“By all means, keep your date with her. In fact I’d like the two of you to develop a very close relationship. Do you think you’re up to the job?”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

TWENTY-FIVE

St. James’s, London

The security buzzer groaned early that evening while Julian Isherwood was working his way through a stack of bills and sipping a good whiskey. He remained at his desk-after all, it was the girl’s job to answer the door-but when the buzzer howled a second time he looked up. “Dominique, there’s someone at the door. Would you mind? Dominique?”

Then he remembered he had sent her down to the storeroom to return a batch of paintings. He stood, walked wearily into the anteroom, peered into the security monitor. Standing outside was a young man. Mediterranean of some sort, good-looking. He pressed the button on the intercom. “Sorry, closed. As you can see we show by appointment only. Why don’t you ring in the morning? My secretary will be happy to set aside some time for you.”

“Actually, I’m here to see your secretary. My name is Yusef.”

Jacqueline stepped out of the lift and came into the anteroom.

Isherwood said, “There’s a fellow named Yusef downstairs. Says he’s here to see you.”

Jacqueline looked into the monitor.

Isherwood said, “Do you know him?”

She pressed the buzzer that released the door lock. “Yes, I know him.”

“Who is he?”

“A friend. A good friend.”

Isherwood’s jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide.

Jacqueline said, “If you’re going to be uncomfortable, perhaps you should leave.”

“Yes, I think that’s wise.” He walked back into his office and put on his jacket. When he returned to the anteroom, the Arab was kissing Jacqueline on the cheek. She said, “Yusef, I’d like you to meet Mr. Isherwood. He’s the owner of the gallery.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Yusef. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I’m running late for an appointment. So if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be going.”

“Do you mind if I show Yusef around the gallery?”

“Of course not. Delighted. Be sure to lock up, Dominique, darling. Thank you. See you in the morning. Pleasure meeting you, Yusef. Cheers.”

Isherwood clambered down the stairs and hurried across Mason’s Yard to the sanctuary of the bar at Green’s. He ordered a whiskey and drank it very fast, all the while wondering whether it was truly possible that Gabriel’s girl had just brought a terrorist into his gallery.

Gabriel sat on a bench on Victoria Embankment, watching the gray river moving sluggishly beneath the Blackfriars Bridge, holding a copy of the Daily Telegraph. On page thirteen, hidden behind an advertisement, was a coded field report for Shamron. The bodel appeared ten minutes later. He walked past Gabriel and headed up the steps toward the Temple Underground station. He wore a hat, which meant he was not being followed and it was safe to proceed. Gabriel followed him into the station, then down the escalator to the platform. When the train arrived, the two men entered the same crowded carriage. They were forced to stand side by side, which made the exchange-Yusef’s keys for the newspaper containing Gabriel’s field report-quite impossible to detect. Gabriel got off at Paddington Station and headed back to the listening post.

Jacqueline said, “There’s something I want to show you.” She led Yusef into the lift, and they rode up in silence. When the door opened, she took his hand and guided him into the center of the darkened gallery. She said, “Close your eyes.”

“I don’t like games like these.”

“Close your eyes.” Then she added playfully, “I promise to make it worth your while.”

He closed his eyes. Jacqueline walked across the room to the lighting control panel and placed her hand on the main dimmer switch. “Now, open them.”

She brought the lights up slowly. Yusef’s mouth fell slightly open as he surveyed the surrounding paintings. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s my favorite place in the world.”

Yusef took a few steps forward and stood before one of the paintings. “My God, is that really a Claude?”

“Yes, it is. In fact, that’s one of his first river scenes. It’s very valuable. Look at the way he depicted the sun. Claude was one of the first artists to actually use the sun as the source of light for an entire composition.”

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

“Actually, you are mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome, in a small flat on the Via Margutta near the Piazza di Spagna. He became the most sought-after landscape painter in all of Italy.”

Yusef turned away from the painting and looked at her. “You know a great deal about painting.”

“Actually, I know very little, but I work in an art gallery.”

Yusef asked, “How long have you been working here?”

“About five months.”

“About five months? What does that mean exactly? Does that mean four months or six months?”

“It means nearly five months. And why do you want to know? Why is this important to you?”

“Dominique, if this relationship is to continue, there must be complete honesty between us.”

“Relationship? I thought we were only sleeping together.”

“Maybe there can be more between us, but only if there are no lies. No secrets.”

“Complete honesty? Are you sure about that? Can there ever be complete honesty between two people? Would that be healthy? Isn’t it best to keep some things secret? Have you told me all your secrets, Yusef?”

He ignored this question.

“Tell me, Dominique,” he said. “Are you in love with another man?”

“No, I am not in love with another man.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Of course I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of the way you made love to me last night.”

“You’ve made love to many women? You’re an expert in these matters?”

He pulled his lips into a modest smile.

Jacqueline said, “What is it about the way that I make love to you that has convinced you I am in love with another man?”

“You closed your eyes while I was inside you. You closed your eyes as if you didn’t want to look at me. You closed your eyes as if you were thinking about someone else.”

“And if I were to admit to you that I was in love with another man? How would you feel about this? Would it change anything between us?”

“It might make me care even more for you.”

“I like to close my eyes when I make love, Yusef. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Are you keeping any secrets from me?”

“None of any consequence.” She smiled. “Are you going to take me to dinner?”

“Actually, I had a better idea. Let’s go back to my flat. I’ll make dinner for us.”

Jacqueline felt a stab of panic. He seemed to sense her unease because he tilted his head and asked, “Is something wrong, Jacqueline?”

“No, nothing,” she said, managing a weak smile. “Dinner at your place sounds wonderful.”

Gabriel crossed the street, a nylon rucksack over his shoulder. Inside were the duplicate telephone and clock radio. He looked up toward the listening post. Karp had switched on the light, a signal meaning it was safe to proceed. They planned to do all their communication with light signals, though Gabriel carried a cell phone in case of an emergency.

He walked up the steps of Yusef’s building and removed the set of duplicate keys from his pocket. He selected the key for the front door, slipped it into the chamber, turned. It stuck. Gabriel swore softly beneath his breath. He jiggled it back and forth, tried again. This time the lock opened.

Once inside he walked across the lobby without hesitation. It was a doctrine that had been pounded into him by Shamron during the Black September operation: hit hard and fast, don’t worry about making a bit of noise, get away quickly. After his first job, the assassination of the Black September chief in Rome, Gabriel was flying to Geneva within an hour of the killing. He hoped this operation would go as smoothly.

He mounted the stairs and climbed quickly toward the second floor. Descending toward him were a group of young Indians: two boys, a pretty girl. As they passed him on the first-floor landing, Gabriel turned his face and pretended to be working the zipper on the rucksack. As the Indians continued down the stairs, he risked a glance over his shoulder. None of them looked back. He waited on the second-floor landing a moment and listened as they crossed the lobby and headed out the front entrance. Then he walked to Yusef’s flat: number 27.

This time the keys worked perfectly on the first try, and within seconds Gabriel was inside the flat. He closed the door and left the lights off. He reached into the rucksack and removed a small flashlight. He switched it on and quickly played the beam around the floor next to the door, looking for a telltale-a scrap of paper or any other innocent-looking small object that would alert Yusef that the flat had been entered. He saw nothing.

He turned and shone the light quickly around the room. He resisted the impulse to search Yusef’s flat. He had watched him from a distance for several days, developed a natural curiosity about the man. Was he neat and orderly, or a slob? What kind of food did he eat? Did he have debts? Did he use drugs? Did he wear strange underwear? Gabriel wanted to search his drawers and read his private papers. He wanted to look at his clothing and his bathroom. He wanted to see anything that might complete the picture-any clue that might help him better understand how Yusef fit into Tariq’s organization. But now was not the time for that kind of search. Too risky, the odds of detection too great.

The beam of the flashlight settled on Yusef’s telephone. Gabriel crossed the room, knelt beside it. He removed the duplicate from the rucksack and quickly compared it with the original. Perfect match. Jacqueline had done her job well. He pulled the wire from Yusef’s phone and exchanged it for the duplicate. The cord connecting the handset to the base on Yusef’s telephone was worn and stretched, the cord on the duplicate brand-new, so Gabriel quickly switched the cords.

He glanced out the window toward the listening post. Karp’s signal light was still burning. It was safe to continue. He shoved Yusef’s phone into the rucksack as he moved from the sitting room into the bedroom.

As he passed the bed, he had a disturbing image of Jacqueline’s naked body writhing in rumpled sheets. He wondered whether his curiosity about Yusef was purely professional. Had it become personal as well? Did he now consider the Palestinian something of a rival?

He realized he had been staring at the empty bed for several seconds. What in the hell has got into you?

He turned around, focused his attention on the clock radio. Before unplugging it, he checked the settings. The alarm was programmed to go off at 8:00 A.M. He turned on the radio: BBC Radio Five, volume low.

He shut off the radio, pulled the power cord out of the wall.

At that instant his cell phone rang.

He stood and looked out the window. The signal light was out.

He had been so unnerved by the image of Jacqueline on the bed that he had forgotten to keep an eye on the listening post. He answered the phone before it could ring a second time.

Karp said, “Get the fuck out of there! We have company.”

Gabriel crossed the room toward the window and looked out.

Jacqueline and Yusef were getting out of a taxi. What happened to dinner?

He turned around. Now he had a serious problem. He had unplugged Yusef’s clock radio. He had to plug it back in and reprogram it before leaving. Otherwise Yusef would suspect someone had been in the flat.

He calculated how long it would take them to come upstairs. A few seconds to open the front entrance… a few more seconds to cross the lobby… about forty-five seconds to climb the stairs and walk down the hallway to the door. He had nearly a minute.

He decided to do it.

He took the duplicate clock radio from the rucksack and plugged it in. The red display lights flashed 12:00… 12:00… 12:00… He almost had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The future of the operation depended on whether he could set an alarm clock quickly enough to avoid being caught. Ari Shamron had persuaded him to come back and help restore the glory of the Office, but now it was going to be just another fiasco!

He began pressing the hour-setting button. The numbers advanced, but his fingers were trembling from the adrenaline, and he mistakenly set it for nine o’clock instead of eight. Shit! He had to go through the entire twenty-four-hour cycle again. The second time he got it right. He set the current time, then switched on the radio, tuned it to Radio Five, and adjusted the volume.

He had no idea how long it had taken.

He snatched up the rucksack, killed the flashlight, moved from the bedroom to the front door. As he walked he pulled his Beretta from the waistband of his trousers and slipped it into the front pocket of his coat.

He paused at the front door and pressed his ear against it. The corridor was quiet. He had to try to get out. There was noplace in the flat where he could hide and reasonably expect to slip out again. He pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor.

He could hear footfalls in the stairwell.

He placed his hand around the grip of the Beretta and started walking.

In the taxi Jacqueline had forced herself to calm down. Her job had been to keep Yusef away from the flat, but if she had objected to his idea of eating dinner at home, he might have become suspicious. The chances of Gabriel being in the flat the moment they returned were next to nothing. The entire job would take only minutes. The odds were good that he had already planted the bugs and was gone. There was another, more reassuring possibility: Gabriel had expected Yusef to meet her at the gallery at six-thirty and then take her to dinner. Perhaps he hadn’t even entered the flat yet. He would notice that they had returned early, and he would call it off and try another time.

They crossed the lobby, started up the stairs. A man passed them on the second-floor landing: Gabriel, head down, rucksack over his shoulder.

Jacqueline flinched involuntarily. She regained her composure, but not before Yusef noticed that she was rattled. He stopped and watched Gabriel walking down the stairs, then looked at Jacqueline. He took her by the arm and led her to the door. When they entered the flat, he looked around the room quickly, then walked to the window and watched Gabriel walking away through the darkness.

TWENTY-SIX

Lisbon

A dense Atlantic fog rolled up the Rio Tejo as Kemel picked his way through the teeming streets of the Bairro Alto. Early evening, workers streaming home from jobs, bars and cafés filling up, Lisboans lining the counters of the cervejarias for an evening meal. Kemel crossed a small square: old men drinking red wine in the chill night air; varinas, the fishwives, washing sea bass in their big baskets. He negotiated a narrow alley lined with vendors selling cheap clothing and trinkets. A blind beggar asked him for money. Kemel dropped a few escudos in the black wooden box around his neck. A gypsy offered to tell his fortune. Kemel politely declined and kept walking. The Bairro Alto reminded him of Beirut in the old days- Beirut and the refugee camps, he thought. By comparison, Zürich seemed cold and sterile. No wonder Tariq liked Lisbon so much.

He entered a crowded fado house and sat down. A waiter placed a green-tinted bottle of house wine in front of him along with a glass. He lit a cigarette, poured himself a glass of the wine. Ordinary, no complexity, but surprisingly satisfying.

A moment later the same waiter went to the front of the cramped room and stood next to a pair of guitarists. When the guitarists strummed the first dark chords of the piece, the waiter closed his eyes and began to sing. Kemel couldn’t understand the words but soon found himself swept away by the haunting melody.

In the middle of the piece, a man sat down next to Kemel. Thick woolen sweater, shabby reefer coat, kerchief knotted at his throat, unshaven. Looked like a dockworker from the waterfront. He leaned over, muttered a few words to Kemel in Portuguese. Kemel shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t speak the language.”

He turned his attention back to the singer. The piece was reaching its emotional climax, but, in the tradition of fado, the singer remained ramrod straight, as though he were standing at attention.

The dockworker tapped Kemel’s elbow and spoke Portuguese to him a second time. This time Kemel simply shook his head and kept his eyes on the singer.

Then the dockworker leaned over and said in Arabic: “I asked you whether you liked fado music.”

Kemel turned and looked carefully at the man seated next to him.

Tariq said, “Let’s go somewhere quiet where we can talk.”

They walked from the Bairro Alto to the Alfama, a warren of narrow alleys and stone steps winding among whitewashed houses. Kemel was always amazed at Tariq’s uncanny ability to blend into his surroundings. Walking the steep hills seemed to tire him. Kemel wondered how much longer he could go on.

Tariq said, “You never answered my question.”

“Which question was that?”

“Do you like fado music?”

“I suppose it’s an acquired taste.” He smiled and added, “Like Lisbon itself. For some reason it reminds me of home.”

“Fado is a music devoted to suffering and pain. That’s why it reminds you of home.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

They passed an old woman sweeping the front step of her home.

Tariq said, “Tell me about London.”

“It looks as though Allon has made his first move.”

“That didn’t take long. What happened?”

Kemel told him about Yusef and the girl from the art gallery. “Yusef noticed a strange man in his block of flats last night. He thinks the man may have been an Israeli. He thinks he may have planted a bug in his flat.”

Kemel could see that Tariq was already calculating the possibilities. “Is this agent of yours a man who can be trusted with an important assignment?”

“He’s a very intelligent young man. And very loyal. I knew his father. He was killed by the Israelis in ‘eighty-two.”

“Has he looked for the bug?”

“I told him not to.”

“Good,” Tariq said. “Leave it in place. We can use it to our advantage. What about this girl? Is she still in the picture?”

“I’ve instructed Yusef to continue seeing her.”

“What’s she like?”

“Apparently quite attractive.”

“Do you have the resources in London to follow her?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do it. And get me a photograph of her.”

“You have an idea?”

They passed through a small square, then started up a long, steep hill. By the time they had reached the top, Tariq had explained the entire thing.

“It’s brilliant,” Kemel said. “But it has one flaw.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t survive it.”

Tariq smiled sadly and said, “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a very long time.”

He turned and walked away. A moment later he had vanished into the fog. Kemel shivered. He turned up the collar of his coat and walked back to the Bairro Alto to listen to fado.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Bayswater, London

The operation settled into a comfortable if rather dull routine. Gabriel spent endless stretches of time with nothing to do but listen to the trivial details of Yusef’s life, which played out on his monitors like a dreadful radio drama. Yusef chatting on the telephone. Yusef arguing politics over cigarettes and Turkish coffee with his Palestinian friends. Yusef telling a heartbroken girl he could no longer see her because he was seriously involved with another. Gabriel found his life moving to the rhythm of Yusef’s. He ate when Yusef ate, slept when Yusef slept, and when Yusef made love to Jacqueline, Gabriel made love to her too.

But after ten days, Gabriel’s bugs had picked up nothing of value. There were several possible explanations. Perhaps Shamron had simply made a mistake. Perhaps Yusef really was just a waiter and a student. Perhaps he was an agent but was inactive. Or perhaps he was an active agent but was talking with his comrades through other means: signal sights and other forms of impersonal communication. To detect that, Gabriel would have to mount a full-scale round-the-clock surveillance operation. It would require multiple teams, at least a dozen officers-safe flats, vehicles, radios… An operation like that would be difficult to conceal from MI5, the British security service.

But there was one other possibility that troubled Gabriel most: the possibility that the operation was already blown. Perhaps his surveillance had turned up nothing because Yusef already suspected he was being watched. Perhaps he suspected that his flat was bugged and his telephones tapped. And perhaps he suspected that the beautiful French girl from the art gallery was actually an Israeli agent.

Gabriel decided it was time for another face-to-face meeting with Shamron in Paris.

He met Shamron the following morning in a tea shop on the rue Mouffetard. Shamron paid his tab, and they walked slowly up the hill through the markets and street vendors. “I want to pull her out,” Gabriel said.

Shamron paused at a fruit stand, picked up an orange, studied it for a moment before placing it gently back in the bin. Then he said, “Tell me you didn’t bring me all the way to Paris for this insanity.”

“Something doesn’t feel right. I want her out before it’s too late.”

“She’s not blown, and the answer is still no.” Shamron looked at Gabriel carefully and added, “Why is your face fallen, Gabriel? Are you listening to the tapes before you send them to me?”

“Of course I am.”

“Can’t you hear what’s going on? The endless lectures on the suffering of the Palestinians? The ruthlessness of the Israelis? The recitation of Palestinian poetry? All the old folklore about how beautiful life was in Palestine before the Jews?”

“What’s your point?”

“Either the boy is in love, or he has something else on his mind.”

“It’s the second possibility that concerns me.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Yusef thinks of her as more than just a pretty girl? Has it ever occurred to you that he thinks of her as an impressionable girl who might be useful to Tariq and his organization?”

“It has, but she’s not prepared for that kind of operation. And frankly, neither are we.”

“So you want to fold up your tent and go home?”

“No, I just want to pull Jacqueline out.”

“And then what happens? Yusef gets nervous. Yusef gets suspicious and tears apart his flat. If he’s disciplined, he throws out every electrical appliance in the place. And your microphones go with them.”

“If we handle her departure skillfully, he’ll never suspect a thing. Besides, when I hired her, I promised her a short-term job. You know she has other commitments.”

“None more important than this. Pay her wages, full price. She stays, Gabriel. End of discussion.”

“If she stays, I go.”

“Then go!” Shamron snapped. “Go back to Cornwall and bury your head in your Vecellio. I’ll send in someone to take over for you.”

“You know I’m not going to leave her in your hands.”

Shamron quickly moved for appeasement. “You’ve been working around the clock for a long time. You don’t look so good. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. Forget about Yusef for a few hours. He’s not going anywhere. Take a drive. Do something to clear your head. I need you at your best.”

On the train back to London, Gabriel entered the lavatory and locked the door. He stood for a long time in front of the mirror. There were new lines around his eyes, a sudden tightness at the corners of his mouth, a knife edge to his cheekbones. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, like smudges of charcoal.

“I haven’t forgotten what it’s like.”

The Black September operation… They had all come down with something: heart problems, high blood pressure, skin rashes, chronic colds. The assassins suffered the worst. After the first job in Rome, Gabriel found it impossible to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he heard bullets tearing through flesh and shattering bone, saw fig wine mingling with blood on a marble floor. Shamron found a doctor in Paris, a sayan, who gave Gabriel a bottle of powerful tranquilizers. Within a few weeks he was addicted to them.

The pills and the stress made Gabriel look shockingly older. His skin hardened, the corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes turned the color of ash. His black hair went gray at the temples. He was twenty-two at the time but looked at least forty. When he went home, Leah barely recognized him. When they made love she said it was like sleeping with another man-not an older version of Gabriel but a complete stranger.

He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed vigorously with a paper towel, then studied his reflection once more. He contemplated the chain of events-the bizarre roulette wheel of fate-that had led him to this place. Had there been no Hitler, no Holocaust, his parents would have remained in Europe instead of fleeing to a dusty agricultural settlement in the Jezreel Valley. Before the war his father had been an essayist and historian in Munich, his mother a gifted painter in Prague, and neither had adjusted well to the collectivism of the settlement or the Zionist zeal for manual labor. They had treated Gabriel more as a miniature adult than a boy with needs different from their own. He was expected to entertain and look after himself. His earliest childhood memory was of their small two-room house on the settlement: his father reading in his chair, his mother at her easel, Gabriel on the floor between them, building cities with crude blocks.

His parents detested Hebrew, so when they were alone they used the languages they had spoken in Europe: German, French, Czech, Russian, Yiddish. Gabriel absorbed them all. To his European languages he added Hebrew and Arabic. From his father he also took a flawless memory, from his mother unshakable patience and attention to detail. Their disdain for the collective had bred in him arrogance and a lone wolf attitude. Their secular agnosticism had encumbered him with no sense of Jewish morality or ethics. He preferred hiking to football, reading to agriculture. He had an almost pathological fear of getting his hands dirty. He had many secrets. One of his teachers described him as “cold, selfish, unfeeling, and altogether brilliant.” When Ari Shamron went looking for soldiers in the new secret war against Arab terror in Europe, he came upon the boy from the Jezreel Valley who, like his namesake, the Archangel Gabriel, had an unusual gift for languages and the patience of Solomon. Shamron found one other valuable personality trait: the emotional coldness of a killer.

Gabriel left the lavatory and went back to his seat. Beyond his window was East London: rows of crumbling Victorian warehouses, all shattered windows and broken brick. He closed his eyes. Something else had made them all sick during the Black September operation: fear. The longer they remained in the field, the higher the risk of exposure-not only to the intelligence services of Europe but to the terrorists themselves. That point was driven home in the middle of the operation, when Black September murdered a katsa in Madrid. Suddenly every member of the team knew that he too was vulnerable. And it taught Gabriel the most valuable lesson of his career: when agents are operating far from home, in hostile territory, hunters can easily become the hunted.

The train pulled into Waterloo. Gabriel strode across the platform, sliced his way through the crowded arrivals hall. He had left his car in an underground car park. He dropped his keys, engaged in his ritualistic inspection, then climbed inside and drove to Surrey.

There was no sign at the gate. Gabriel had always wanted a place with no sign. Beyond the wall was a well-tended lawn with evenly spaced trees. At the end of a meandering drive stood a rambling redbrick Victorian mansion. He lowered the car window and pressed the button of the intercom. The lens of a security camera stared down at him like a gargoyle. Gabriel instinctively turned his face away from the camera and pretended to fish something from the glove compartment.

“May I help you?” Female voice, Middle European accent.

“I’m here to see Miss Martinson. Dr. Avery is expecting me.”

He raised the window, waited for the automatic security gate to roll aside; then he entered the grounds and headed slowly up the drive. Late afternoon, cold and gray, light wind chasing through the trees. As he drew closer to the house, he began to see a few of the patients. A woman sitting on a bench, dressed in her Sunday best, staring blankly into space. A man in an oilskin and Wellington boots strolling on the arm of a towering Jamaican orderly.

Avery was waiting in the entrance hall. He wore expensive corduroy trousers, the color of rust and neatly pressed, and a gray cashmere pullover sweater that looked more suited to the golf links than a psychiatric hospital. He shook Gabriel’s hand with a cold formality, as though Gabriel were the representative of an occupying power, then led him down a long carpeted hallway.

“She’s been speaking quite a bit more this month,” Avery said. “We’ve actually had a meaningful conversation on a couple of occasions.”

Gabriel managed a tense smile. In all these years she had never spoken to him. “And her physical health?” he asked.

“No change, really. She’s as fit as can be expected.”

Avery used a magnetic card to pass through a secure door. On the other side was another hall, terra-cotta tiling instead of carpet. Avery discussed her medication as they walked. He had increased the dosage of one drug, reduced another, taken her off a third altogether. There was a new drug, an experimental, that was showing some promising results in patients suffering from a similar combination of acute post-traumatic stress syndrome and psychotic depression.

“If you think it will help.”

“We’ll never know unless we try.”

Clinical psychiatry, Gabriel thought, was rather like intelligence work.

The terra-cotta hall ended in a small room. It was filled with gardening tools-pruning sheers, hand shovels, trowels-and bags of flower seed and fertilizer. At the other end of the cutting room was a pair of double doors with circular portholes.

“She’s in her usual place. She’s expecting you. Please don’t keep her long. I should think a half hour would be appropriate. I’ll come for you when it’s time.”

A solarium, oppressively hot and moist. Leah in the corner, seated in a straight-backed garden chair of wrought iron, young potted roses at her feet. She wore white. The white rollneck sweater Gabriel had given her for her last birthday. The white trousers he had bought for her during a summer holiday in Crete. Gabriel tried to remember the year but couldn’t. There seemed to be only Leah before Vienna and Leah after Vienna. She sat with a schoolgirl’s primness, looking away across the expanse of the lawn. Her hair had been cut institutionally short. Her feet were bare.

She turned her head as Gabriel stepped forward. For the first time he could see the swath of scarring on the right side of her face. As always it made him feel violently cold. Then he saw her hands, or what was left of her hands. The hard white scar tissue reminded him of the exposed canvas of a damaged painting. He wished he could simply mix a bit of pigment on his palette and put her back to normal.

He kissed her forehead, smelled her hair for the familiar traces of lavender and lemon, but instead there was only the oppressive moisture of the solarium and the stench of plants in an enclosed space. Avery had left a second chair, which Gabriel pulled a few inches closer. Leah flinched as the wrought-iron legs scraped over the floor. He murmured an apology and sat down. Leah looked away.

It was always like this. It wasn’t Leah sitting next to him, only a monument to Leah. A gravestone. He used to try to talk to her, but now he was content to just sit in her presence. He followed her gaze across the misty landscape and wondered what she was looking at. There were days, according to Avery, when she just sat and relived it over and over again in excruciatingly vivid detail, unable, or unwilling, to make it stop. Gabriel couldn’t imagine her suffering. He had been permitted to carry on with some semblance of his life, but Leah had been stripped of everything-her child, her body, her sanity. Everything but her memory. Gabriel feared that her grip on life, however tenuous, was somehow linked to his continued fidelity. If he allowed himself to fall in love with someone else, Leah would die.

After forty-five minutes he stood and pulled on his jacket; then he crouched at her feet with his hands resting on her knees. She looked over his head for a few seconds before lowering her eyes and meeting his gaze. “I have to go,” he said. Leah made no movement.

He was about to stand when suddenly she reached out and touched the side of his face. Gabriel tried not to recoil at the sensation of the scar tissue sliding along the skin at the corner of his eye. She smiled sadly and lowered her hand. She placed it in her lap, covered it with the other, resumed the frozen pose Gabriel had found her in.

He stood and walked away. Avery was waiting for him outside. He walked Gabriel to his car. Gabriel sat behind the wheel for a long time before starting the engine, thinking about her hand on his face. So unlike Leah, touching him like that. What did she see there? The strain of the operation? Or the shadow of Jacqueline Delacroix?

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lisbon

Tariq appeared in the doorway of the fado house. Once again he was dressed like a dockworker. Ghostly pale, hand trembling as he lit his cigarette. He crossed the room and sat down next to Kemel. “What brings you back to Lisbon?”

“It turns out we have a rather serious bottleneck in our Iberian distribution chain. I may be forced to spend a great deal of time in Lisbon over the next few days.”

“That’s all?”

“And this.” Kemel laid a large color photograph on the table. “Meet Dominique Bonard.”

Tariq picked up the photograph, studied it carefully. “Come with me,” he said calmly. “I want to show you something that I think you’ll find interesting.”

Tariq’s flat was high in the Alfama. Two rooms, sagging wooden floors, a tiny veranda overlooking a quiet courtyard. He fixed tea Arab style, strong and sweet, and they sat near the open door of the veranda, rain smacking on the stones of the courtyard.

Tariq said, “Do you remember how we found Allon in Vienna?”

“It was a long time ago. You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

“My brother was in bed when he was killed. He had a girl with him-a German student, a radical. She wrote a letter to my parents a few weeks after Mahmoud was killed and told them how it happened. She said she would never forget the face of the assassin as long as she lived. My father took the letter to the PLO security officer in the camp. The security officer turned it over to PLO intelligence.”

“This all sounds vaguely familiar,” Kemel said.

“After Abu Jihad was murdered in Tunis, PLO security conducted an investigation. They worked from a simple prem-ise. The killer seemed to know the villa well, inside and out. Therefore he must have spent time around the villa conducting surveillance and planning the attack.”

“A brilliant piece of detective work,” Kemel said sarcastically. “If PLO security had been doing their job right to begin with, Abu Jihad would still be alive.”

Tariq went into the bedroom, returned a moment later holding a large manila envelope. “They began reviewing all the videotape from the surveillance cameras and found several shots of a small, dark-haired man.” Tariq opened the envelope and handed Kemel several grainy prints. “Over the years PLO intelligence had kept track of the German girl. They showed her these photographs. She said it was the same man who had killed Mahmoud. No doubt about it. So we started looking for him.”

“And you found him in Vienna?”

“That’s right.”

Kemel held out the photographs to Tariq. “What does this have to do with Dominique Bonard?”

“It goes back to the investigation of the Tunis affair. PLO security wanted to find out where the assassin had stayed in Tunis while he was planning the attack. They knew from past experience that Israeli agents tend to pose as Europeans during jobs like this. They assumed that a man posing as a European had probably stayed in a hotel. They started calling on their spies and informants. They showed the photographs of the assassin to a concierge at one of the beachfront hotels. The concierge said the man had stayed in the hotel with his French girlfriend. PLO security went back to the tapes and began looking for a girl. They found one and showed her to the concierge.”

“Same girl?”

“Same girl.”

Then Tariq reached into the envelope and removed one more surveillance photograph: this one of a beautiful dark-haired girl. He handed it to Kemel, who compared it with the photograph of the woman in London.

“I could be mistaken,” Tariq said. “But it looks to me like Yusef’s new girlfriend has worked with Gabriel Allon before.”

They reviewed the plan one last time as they walked through the twisting alleys of the Alfama.

“The prime minister and Arafat leave for the United States in five days,” Kemel said. “They’re going to Washington first for a meeting at the White House, then it’s off to New York for the signing ceremony at the United Nations. Everything is in place in New York.”

“Now I just need a traveling companion,” Tariq said. “I think I’d like a beautiful French woman-the type of woman who would look good on the arm of a successful entrepreneur.”

“I think I know where I can find a woman like that.”

“Imagine, killing the peace process and Gabriel Allon in one final moment of glory. We’re going to shake the world, Kemel. And then I’m going to leave it.”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“You’re not concerned about my safety at this point?”

“Of course I am.”

“Why? You know what’s happening to me.”

“Actually, I try not to think about it.”

At the bottom of the hill they came to a taxi stand. Tariq kissed Kemel’s cheeks, then gripped his shoulders. “No tears, my brother. I’ve been fighting for a long time. I’m tired. It’s best this way.”

Kemel released his grip and opened the door to the waiting taxi.

Tariq said, “He should have killed the girl.”

Kemel turned around. “What?”

“Allon should have killed the German girl who was with my brother. It would all have ended there.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“It was a stupid mistake,” Tariq said. “I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.”

Then he turned and walked slowly up the hill into the Alfama.

TWENTY-NINE

St. James’s, London

When the security buzzer sounded, Jacqueline turned and peered into the monitor: a bicycle courier. She looked at her watch: six-fifteen. She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then walked from her desk into the hallway to sign for the package. A large manila envelope. She went back to her office, sat down at the desk, sliced open the envelope with the tip of her forefinger. Inside was a single piece of executive-sized letter paper, light gray in color, folded crisply in half. The letterhead bore the name Randolph Stewart, private art dealer. She read the handwritten note: Just back from Paris… Very good trip… No problems with the acquisition… Continue with sale as planned. She placed the letter in Isherwood’s shredder and watched it turn to paper linguine.

She stood up, pulled on her coat, then walked into Isherwood’s office. He was hunched over a ledger book, chewing on the end of a pencil. He looked up as she entered the room and gave her a weak smile. “Leaving so soon, my love?”

“I’m afraid I must.”

“I shall count the hours until I see you again.”

“And I shall do the same.”

As she walked out she realized that she would miss Isherwood when it was all over. He was a decent man. She wondered how he had become entangled with the likes of Ari Shamron and Gabriel. She hurried across Mason’s Yard through windblown rain, then walked up Duke Street toward Piccadilly, thinking about the letter. It depressed her. She could picture the rest of the evening. She would meet Yusef at his flat. They would go to dinner, then return to his flat and make love. Then two hours of Middle East history. The injustices heaped upon the defenseless Palestinians. The crimes of the Jews. The inequity of the two-state solution on the negotiating table. It was getting harder and harder for her to pretend that she was enjoying herself.

Gabriel had promised her a short assignment: seduce him, get into his flat, get his keys and his telephone, and get out again. She had not signed up for a long-term romance. She found the idea of sleeping with Yusef again repulsive. But there was something else. She had agreed to come to London because she thought working with Gabriel would rekindle their romance. If anything it had driven them farther apart. She rarely saw him-he communicated through letters-and the few times they had been together he had been cold and distant. She had been a fool to think things could ever be the way they had been in Tunis.

She entered the Piccadilly Underground station and walked to the crowded platform. She thought of her villa; of cycling through the sun-drenched hillsides around Valbonne. For a moment she imagined Gabriel riding next to her, his legs pumping rhythmically. Then she felt silly for allowing herself to think about such things. When the train came, she squeezed her way into the packed carriage and clung to a metal handhold. As the car lurched forward, she decided this would be the last night. In the morning, she would tell Gabriel she wanted out.

Gabriel paced the carpet of the listening post, casually dribbling a lime-green tennis ball with his stocking feet. It was shortly before midnight. Jacqueline and Yusef had just finished making love. He listened to their mutual declarations of physical pleasure. He listened to Yusef using the toilet. He listened to Jacqueline padding into the kitchen for something to drink. He heard her ask Yusef where he had hidden her cigarettes.

Gabriel lay on the couch and tossed the ball toward the ceiling while he waited for Yusef to begin tonight’s seminar. He wondered what the topic would be. What was it last night?-the myth that only the Jews made the desert bloom. No, that was the night before. Last night had been the betrayal of the Palestinians by the rest of the Arab world. He switched off the lamp and continued tossing the ball and catching it in the dark to test his reflexes and sensory perception.

A door opening, the snap of a light switch.

Yusef said somberly: “We need to talk. I misled you about something. I need to tell you the truth now.”

Gabriel snatched the tennis ball out of the darkness and held it very still in the palm of his hand. He thought of Leah, the night she used those same words before telling him that she had retaliated for his infidelity by taking lovers of her own.

Jacqueline said lightheartedly, “Sounds awfully serious.”

Gabriel sent the ball floating upward through the darkness with a subtle flick of his wrist.

“It’s about the scar on my back.”

Gabriel got to his feet and switched on the lamp. Then he checked his tape decks to make certain they were recording properly.

Jacqueline said, “What about the scar on your back?”

“How it got there.”

Yusef sat down on the end of the bed. “I lied to you about how I got the scar. I need to tell you the truth now.”

He took a deep breath, let the air out slowly, began speaking, slowly and softly.

“Our family stayed in Shatila after the PLO was driven out of Lebanon. Maybe you remember that day, Dominique; the day Arafat and his guerrillas pulled out while the Israelis and the Americans waved good-bye to them from the waterfront. With the PLO gone we had no protection. Lebanon was in shambles. Christians, Sunnis, Shütes, the Druse-everyone was fighting everyone else, and the Palestinians were caught in the middle of it. We lived in fear that something terrible might happen. Do you remember now?”

“I was young, but I think I remember.”

“The situation was a powder keg. It would take just one spark to set off a holocaust. That spark turned out to be the assassination of Bashir Gemayel. He was the leader of Lebanon ’s Maronite Christians and the president-elect of the country. He was killed in a car bomb explosion at the headquarters of the Christian Phalange party.

“That night half of Beirut was screaming for vengeance, while the other half was cowering in fear. No one was sure who had planted the bomb. It could have been anyone, but the Phalangists were convinced the Palestinians were to blame. They loathed us. The Christians never wanted us in Lebanon, and now that the PLO was gone, they wanted to eliminate the Palestinian problem from Lebanon once and for all. Before his death Gemayel had said it very clearly: ”There is one people too many: the Palestinian people.“

“After the assassination the Israelis moved into West Beirut and took up positions overlooking Sabra and Shatila. They wanted to cleanse the camps of the remaining PLO fighters, and in order to prevent Israeli casualties they sent in the Phalange militiamen to do the job for them. Everyone knew what would happen once the militiamen were let loose on the camps. Gemayel was dead, and we were the ones who were going to pay the price. It would be a bloodbath, but the Israeli army let them in anyway.

“The Israelis let the first Phalangists into Shatila at sunset, one hundred and fifty of them. They had guns, of course, but most of them had knives and axes as well. The slaughter lasted forty-eight hours. The lucky ones were shot. Those who weren’t so lucky died more gruesome deaths. They chopped people to bits. They disemboweled people and left them to die. They skinned people alive. They gouged out eyes and left people to wander the carnage blindly until they were shot. They tied people to trucks and dragged them through the streets until they were dead.

“Children weren’t spared. A child could grow up to be a terrorist, according to the Phalangists, so they killed all the children. Women weren’t spared, because a woman could give birth to a terrorist. They made a point of ritualistically slicing off the breasts of the Palestinian women. Breasts give milk. Breasts nourish a people that the Phalangists wanted to exterminate. All through the night they broke into homes and slaughtered everyone inside. When darkness fell, the Israelis lit up the sky with flares so the Phalangists could go about their work more easily.”

Jacqueline made a steeple of her fingers and pressed them against her lips. Yusef continued with his account.

“The Israelis knew exactly what was going on. Their headquarters was located just two hundred yards from the edge of Shatila. From the rooftop they could see directly into the camp. They could overhear the Phalangists talking on their radios. But they didn’t lift a finger to stop it. And why did they stand by and do nothing? Because it was exactly what they wanted to happen.

“I was just seven at the time. My father was dead. He was killed that summer when the Israelis shelled the camps during the Battle of Beirut. I lived in Shatila with my mother and my sister. She was just a year and a half old at the time. We hid beneath our bed, listening to the screaming and the gunfire, watching the shadows of the flares dancing on the walls. We prayed that the Phalangists would somehow miss our house. Sometimes we could hear them outside our window. They were laughing. They were slaughtering everyone in sight, but they were laughing. My mother covered our mouths whenever they came near to keep us quiet. She nearly smothered my sister.

“Finally they broke down our door. I wriggled out of my mother’s grasp and went to them. They asked where my family was, and I told them everyone was dead. They laughed and told me that I would soon be with them. One of the Phalangists had a knife. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me outside. He stripped off my shirt and sliced away the skin on the center of my back. Then they tied me to a truck and dragged me through the streets. At some point I went unconscious, but before I blacked out I remember the Phalangists shooting at me. They were using me for target practice.

“Somehow, I survived. Maybe they thought I was dead, I don’t know. When I regained consciousness the rope they had used for the dragging was still wrapped around my right ankle. I crawled beneath a pile of rubble and waited. I stayed there for a day and a half. Finally, the massacre was over, and the Phalangists withdrew from the camps. I came out of my hiding place and found my way back to our family’s house. I found my mother’s body in our bed. She was naked, and she had been raped. Her breasts had been sliced off. I looked for my sister. I found her on the kitchen table. They had cut her into pieces and laid her out in a circle with her head in the center.”

Jacqueline tumbled out of bed, crawled into the bathroom, and was violently sick. Yusef knelt beside her and placed a hand on her back as her body wretched.

When she finished he said, “You ask me why I hate the Israelis so much. I hate them because they sent the Phalangists to massacre us. I hate them because they stood by and did nothing while Christians, their great friends in Lebanon, raped and killed my mother and chopped my sister to bits and laid her body out in a circle. Now you know why I’m a rejectionist when it comes to this so-called peace process. How can I trust these people?”

“I understand.”

“Do you really understand, Dominique? Is it possible?”

“I suppose not.”

“Now, I’ve been completely honest with you about everything. Is there anything you wish to tell me about yourself? Any secrets you’ve been keeping from me?”

“Nothing of any consequence.”

“You’re telling me the truth, Dominique?”

“Yes.”

The call came at four-fifteen that morning. It woke Yusef, though not Gabriel. He had been sitting up all morning, listening to Yusef’s account of Sabra and Shatila over and over again. It rang just once. Yusef, his voice heavy with sleep, said, “Hello.”

“Lancaster Gate, tomorrow, two o’clock.”

Click.

Jacqueline said, “What was that?”

“A wrong number. Go back to sleep.”

Maida Vale in morning. A gang of schoolboys teasing a pretty girl. Jacqueline imagined they were Phalangist militiamen armed with knives and axes. A lorry roared past, belching diesel fumes. Jacqueline saw a man tied to the bumper being dragged to death. Her block of flats loomed in front of her. She looked up and imagined Israeli soldiers standing on the roof, watching the slaughter below through binoculars, firing flares so the killers could better see their victims. She entered the building, climbed the stairs, and slipped into the flat. Gabriel was sitting on the couch.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me he had survived Shatila? Why didn’t you tell me his family had been butchered like that?”

“What difference would it have made?”

“I just wish I had known!” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Is it true? Are the things he told me true?”

“Which part?”

“All of it, Gabriel! Don’t play fucking games with me.”

“Yes, it’s true! His family died at Shatila. He’s suffered. So what? We’ve all suffered. It doesn’t give him the right to murder innocent people because history didn’t go his way!”

“He was an innocent, Gabriel! He was just a boy!”

“We’re in the middle of an operation, Jacqueline. Now is not the time for a debate on moral equivalence and the ethics of counterterrorism.”

“I apologize for permitting the question of morality to enter my thoughts. I forgot you and Shamron never get tripped up over something so trivial.”

“Don’t lump me in with Shamron.”

“Why not? Because he gives orders, and you follow them?”

“What about Tunis?” Gabriel asked. “You knew Tunis was an assassination job, but you willingly took part in it. You even volunteered to go back the night of the killing.”

“That’s because the target was Abu Jihad. He had the blood of hundreds of Israelis and Jews on his hands.”

“This one has blood on his hands too. Don’t forget that.”

“He’s just a boy, a boy whose family was butchered while the Israeli army looked on and did nothing.”

“He’s not a boy. He’s a twenty-five-year-old man who helps Tariq kill people.”

“And you’re going to use him to get to Tariq, because of what Tariq did to you? When does it end? When there’s no more blood to shed? When, Gabriel?”

He stood up and pulled on his jacket.

Jacqueline said, “I want out.”

“You can’t leave now.”

“Yes, I can. I don’t want to sleep with Yusef anymore.”

“Why?”

“Why? You have the nerve to ask me why?”

“I’m sorry, Jacqueline. That didn’t come out-”

“You think of me as a whore, don’t you, Gabriel! You think it doesn’t bother me to sleep with a man I don’t care for.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is that what I was to you in Tunis? Just a whore?”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Then tell me what I was.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going back to France? Back to your villa in Valbonne? Back to your Parisian parties and your photo shoots and your fashion shows, where the most difficult question is deciding what shade of lipstick to wear?”

She slapped him across the left side of his face. He stared back at her, eyes cold, color rising in the skin over his cheekbone. She drew back her hand to slap him again, but he casually lifted his left hand and deflected her blow.

“Can’t you hear what’s going on?” Gabriel said. “He told you the story of what happened to him at Shatila for a reason. He’s testing you. He wants you for something.”

“I don’t care.”

“I thought you were someone I could depend on. Not someone who was going to fall apart in the middle of the game.”

“Shut up, Gabriel!”

“I’ll contact Shamron-tell him we’re out of business.”

He reached out for the door. She grabbed his hand. “Killing Tariq won’t make it right. That’s just an illusion. You think it will be like fixing a painting: you find the damage, retouch it, and everything is fine again. But it’s not like that for a human being. In fact it’s not even like that for a painting. If you look carefully you can always see where it’s been retouched. The scars never go away. The restorer doesn’t heal a painting. He just hides the wounds.”

“I need to know if you’re willing to continue.”

“And I want to know if I was just your whore in Tunis.”

Gabriel reached out and touched her cheek. “You were my lover in Tunis.” His hand fell to his side. “And my family was destroyed because of it.”

“I can’t change the past.”

“I know.”

“Did you care for me?”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, very much.”

“Do you care for me now?”

He closed his eyes. “I need to know whether you can go on.”

THIRTY

Hyde Park, London

Karp said, “Your friend picked a damned lousy place for a meeting.”

They were sitting in the back of a white Ford van on the Bayswater Road a few yards from Lancaster Gate, Karp hunched over a console of audio equipment, adjusting his levels. Gabriel could scarcely hear himself think over the riotous din of cars, taxis, lorries, and double-decker buses. Overhead the trees lining the northern edge of the park writhed in the wind. Through Karp’s microphones the air rushing through the branches sounded like white water. Beyond Lancaster Gate the fountains of the Italian Gardens splashed and danced. Through the microphones it sounded like a monsoonal downpour.

Gabriel said, “How many listeners do you have out there?”

“Three,” Karp said. “The guy on the bench who looks like a banker, the pretty girl tossing bread to the ducks, and the guy selling ice cream just inside the gate.”

“Not bad,” Gabriel said.

“Under these conditions don’t expect any miracles.”

Gabriel looked at his wristwatch: three minutes past two. He thought: He’s not going to show. They’ve spotted Karp’s team, and they’re aborting. He said, “Where the fuck is he?”

“Be patient, Gabe.”

A moment later Gabriel saw Yusef emerge from Westbourne Street and dart across the road in front of a charging delivery truck. Karp snapped a couple of photographs as Yusef entered the park and strolled around the fountains. During the middle of his second circuit, he was joined by a man wearing a gray woolen overcoat, face obscured by sunglasses and a felt hat. Karp switched to a longer lens, took several more photographs.

They circled the fountains once in silence, then during the second circuit began to speak softly in English. Because of the noise from the wind and the fountains, Gabriel could make out only every third or fourth word.

Karp swore softly.

They circled the fountains for a few minutes, then walked up a small rise to a playground. The girl who had been feeding the ducks walked slowly after them. After a moment the surveillance van was filled with the joyous screams of children at play.

Karp pressed his fists against his eyes and shook his head.

Karp delivered the tape to Gabriel at the listening post three hours later with the resigned air of a surgeon who had done all he could to save the patient. “I fed it through the computers, filtered out the background noise, and enhanced the good stuff. But I’m afraid we got only about ten percent, and even that sounds like shit.”

Gabriel held out his hand and accepted the cassette. He slipped it into the deck, pressed play, and listened while he paced the length of the room.

“… needs someone… next assignment…”

A sound, like static turned up full blast, obliterated the rest of the sentence. Gabriel paused the tape and looked at Karp.

“It’s the fountain,” Karp said. “There’s nothing I can do with it.”

Gabriel restarted the tape.

“… check out her… in Paris… problems… thing’s fine.”

Gabriel stopped the tape, pressed REWIND, then PLAY.

“… check out her… in Paris… problems… thing’s fine.”

“… not sure… right person for… sort of…”

“… be persuasive… if you explain the importance…”

“… what am I… tell her exactly?”

“… vital diplomatic mission… cause of true peace in the Middle East… routine security precaution…”

“… it supposed to work…”

The audio level dropped sharply. Karp said, “They’re walking toward the playground right now. We’ll get coverage in a moment when the girl moves into position.”

“… meet him… de Gaulle… from there… to the final destination…”

“… where…”

An injured child cries out for its mother, obliterating the response.

“… do with her after…”

“… up to him…”

“… what if… says no…”

“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.”

And the next thing Gabriel heard was a mother berating her son for scraping a lump of chewing gum off the bottom of the seesaw and putting it into his mouth.

That evening Jacqueline picked up curry after work and brought it to Yusef’s flat. While they ate they watched an American film on television about a German terrorist on the loose in Manhattan. Gabriel watched along with them. He muted his own television and listened to Yusef’s instead. When the film was over Yusef pronounced it “total crap” and shut off the television.

Then he said, “We need to talk about something, Dominique. I need to ask you something important.”

Gabriel closed his eyes and listened.

Next morning Jacqueline stepped off the carriage at the Piccadilly Underground station and floated along with the crowd across the platform. As she rode up the escalator she looked around her. They had to be following her: Yusef’s watchers. He wouldn’t let her loose on the streets of London without a secret escort, not after what he had asked her to do last night. A black-haired man was staring at her from a parallel escalator. When he caught her eye he smiled and tried to hold her gaze. She realized he was only a lecher. She turned and looked straight ahead.

Outside, as she walked along Piccadilly, she thought she spotted Gabriel using a public telephone, but it was only a Gabriel look-alike. She thought she saw him again stepping out of a taxi, but it was only Gabriel’s nonexistent younger brother. She realized there were versions of Gabriel all around her. Boys in leather jackets. Young men in stylish business suits. Artists, students, delivery boys-with minor alterations Gabriel could pass for any of them.

Isherwood had arrived early. He was seated behind his desk, speaking Italian over the telephone and looking hung-over. He placed his hand over the receiver and mouthed the words “Coffee, please.”

She hung up her coat and sat down at her desk. Isherwood could survive a few more minutes without his coffee. The morning mail lay on the desk, along with a manila envelope. She tore open the flap, removed the letter from inside. I’m going to Paris. Don’t set foot outside the gallery until you hear from me. She squeezed it into a tight ball.

THIRTY-ONE

Paris

Gabriel hadn’t touched his breakfast. He sat in the first-class carriage of the Eurostar train, headphones on, listening to tapes on a small portable player. The first encounters between Yusef and Jacqueline. Yusef telling Jacqueline the story of the massacre at Shatila. Yusef’s conversation with Jacqueline the previous night. He removed that tape, inserted one more: Yusef’s meeting with his contact in Hyde Park. He had lost track of how many times he had heard it by now. Ten times? Twenty? Each time it disturbed him more. He pressed the rewind button and used the digital tape counter to stop at precisely the spot he wanted to hear.

“… check out her… in Paris… problems… thing’s fine.”

STOP.

He pulled off the headphones, removed a small spiral notebook from his pocket, turned to a blank page. He wrote: check out her… in Paris… problems… thing’s fine. Between the staccato phrases he left blank spaces corresponding approximately to the times of the dropouts on the tape.

Then he wrote: We sent a man to check out her story in Paris. There were no problems. Everything’s fine.

It was possible that’s what he had said, or it could have been this: We sent a man to check out her story in Paris. There were big problems with it. But everything’s fine.

That made no sense. Gabriel crossed it out, then slipped on the headphones and listened to the section of the tape yet again. Wait a minute, he thought. Was Yusef’s contact saying thing’s fine or other side?

This time he wrote: We sent a man to check out her story in Paris. There were big problems with it. We think she may be working for the other side.

But if that were the case, why would they ask her to accompany an operative on a mission?

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 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 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?”

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 into 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.

“Your link to the Office will be the telephone in your flat here in London. The line will be routed through to headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. When you arrive at your destination, tell Tariq you need to check your messages. When you call, the people in the Office will see the number you’re dialing from and locate it. If you’re alone you can even talk to them and pass along messages to us. It will be very secure.”

“And what if he refuses to let me use the telephone?”

“Then you throw a fit. You tell him that Yusef never said you wouldn’t be allowed to use the telephone. You tell him Yusef never said you were going to become a prisoner. Tell him that unless you’re allowed to check your messages you’re leaving. Remember, as far as you know, this man is a Palestinian dignitary of some sort. He’s on a diplomatic mission. He’s not someone you’re supposed to fear. If he senses you’re afraid of him, he’ll suspect you know more than you should know.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t be surprised if you hear messages on your machine. We’ll place a few there. Remember, according to the rules laid down by Yusef, no one but Julian Isherwood is allowed to know that you’ve gone away. Perhaps Isherwood will call and ask when you’re planning to return. Perhaps he’ll have some sort of emergency at the gallery that will require your attention. Perhaps a family member or a friend will call from Paris to see how things are going for you in London. Maybe a man will call and ask you to dinner. You’re an attractive woman. It would be suspicious if there weren’t other men pursuing you.”

She thought: So why not you, Gabriel?

“Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you’ll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?”

Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel’s voice.

“Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don’t be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don’t be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it-she may want to make idle threats about walking out-but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we’ll be close by. We’ll be watching. I’ll be watching.”

He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. “I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it’s going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I’m trying to make is that you’ll never know when it’s going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “He won’t die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn’t that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I’ll have to finish the job. There’s only one way to do that.”

He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.

“I don’t want you to watch me when I do this. It’s not who I am.”

She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.

“How is she?” asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.

“She’s resolute.”

“And you?”

“My feelings are immaterial at this point.”

“You’re not excited in any way? You’re not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?”

“I lost those feelings a long time ago.”

“You and I are different, Gabriel. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him.”

“You’re right. You and I are very different.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for her.”

“I’ve always liked her.”

“You’ve never liked anyone or anything in your life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There’s no middle ground for you.”

“Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?”

“I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious.”

“Can we please change the subject?”

“All right, we’ll change the subject. How do you feel about me, Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

Gabriel crossed the Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. “This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren’t many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man.”

“Like Lillehammer,” Gabriel said.

Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of kidons from Shamron’s team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September’s chief of operations and the mastermind of the Munich massacre. It turned out to be a tragic case of mistaken identity-the man was not Salameh but a Moroccan waiter who was married to a Norwegian woman. After the murder Gabriel and Shamron escaped, but several members of the hit team fell into the hands of the Norwegian police. Shamron barely managed to salvage his career. At King Saul Boulevard the Lillehammer disaster became known as Leyl-ha-Mar, Hebrew for “the night of bitterness.”

Shamron said, “Please, do you really think now is a good time to mention Leyl-ha-Mar?” He paused, then smiled with surprising warmth. “I know you think I’m a monster. I know you think I’m a man completely without morals. Perhaps you’re right. But I always loved you, Gabriel. You were always my favorite. You were my prince of fire. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.”

“Where are you going, by the way?”

“We’re going to need an airplane tomorrow. I thought I’d book a reservation on Air Stone.”

“Ari, you’re not drinking! Unfair!”

“Sorry, Benjamin, but I have a long night ahead of me.”

“Work?”

Shamron inclined his head slightly to indicate the affirmative.

“So what brings you here?”

“I need a favor.”

“Course you need a favor. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Hope you haven’t come looking for money, because the Bank of Stone is temporarily closed, and your account is badly overdrawn. Besides, money’s gone. Creditors are singing a bloody aria. They want what’s rightfully theirs. Funny how creditors can be. And as for my lenders, well, let’s just say they’re heading for calmer waters. What I’m trying to say to you, Ari, my old stick, is that I am in serious fucking financial trouble.”

“It’s not about money.”

“So what is it? Speak, Ari!”

“I need to borrow your jet. Actually, I need to borrow you and your jet.”

“I’m listening. You have my attention now.”

“Tomorrow an enemy of the State of Israel is going to board a flight at Charles de Gaulle. Unfortunately we don’t know what flight or what his destination is. And we won’t know until he gets on the plane. It’s imperative that we follow rapidly and that we arrive with some degree of secrecy. An unscheduled El Al charter, for example, might raise eyebrows. You, however, have a reputation for impetuous travel and last-minute changes in your schedule and itinerary.”

“Damn right, Ari. Come and go like the wind. Keeps people on their fucking toes. It’s that business in Paris, isn’t it? That’s why you took my money before. I must say I’m intrigued. It sounds as though I’m going to be involved in a real operation. Front lines, heavy stuff. How can I possibly say no?”

Stone snatched up the telephone. “Get the plane ready. Paris, one hour, usual suite at the Ritz, usual girl. One with the diamond stud in her tongue. A dream, that one. Have her waiting in the room. Ciao.”

He rang off, refilled his glass of champagne, and raised it in Shamron’s direction.

“I can’t thank you enough, Benjamin.”

“You owe me, Ari. Someday I’m going to need a favor. Someday, all debts come due.”

THIRTY-THREE

St. James’s, London

Jacqueline had hoped a brief walk alone would settle her nerves. It was a mistake. She should have taken a taxi straight to Yusef’s door, because now she felt like turning around and telling Shamron and Gabriel to go to hell. She had just a few seconds to pull herself together. She realized she was not used to fear, at least not the kind of fear that made it nearly impossible to breathe. She had felt fear like this only once in her life-the night of the raid in Tunis -but that night Gabriel had been at her side. Now she was alone. She thought of her grandparents and the fear they must have felt while they were waiting to die at Sobibor. If they could face death at the hands of the Nazis, I can face this, she thought.

But there was something else she was feeling: love. Intense, unbearable, intolerable love. Perfect love. Love that had survived twelve years, meaningless relationships with other men. It was the promise of Gabriel that finally pushed her forward toward Yusef’s door. She thought of something Shamron had said to her the night he recruited her: “You must believe in what you are doing.” Oh, yes, Ari, she thought. I definitely believe in what I’m doing now.

She pressed the buzzer for Yusef’s flat. A moment. Nothing. Pressed it again, waited, looked at her watch. He had told her to come at nine. She was so nervous about arriving late that she had managed to come five minutes early. So what should I do, Gabriel? Stay? Walk around the block? If she left she might never come back. She lit a cigarette, stamped her feet against the cold, waited.

A moment later a Ford van braked to a halt in the street in front of her. The side door slid open, and Yusef leapt onto the wet asphalt. He walked toward her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, head swiveling from side to side. “How long have you been standing here?”

“I don’t know. Three minutes, five minutes. Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you to come at nine. I didn’t say five minutes before nine. I said nine.”

“So I was a few minutes early. What’s the big deal?”

“Because the rules have changed.”

She remembered what Gabriel had said to her: You have no reason to be afraid. If they push you, push back.

“Listen, the rules haven’t changed until I say they’ve changed. I haven’t decided whether I’m going. This is crazy, Yusef. You won’t tell me where I’m going. You won’t tell me when I’ll be back. I love you, Yusef. I want to help you. But you have to put yourself in my shoes.”

His demeanor softened immediately. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I’m just a little tense. Everything has to go right. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Come inside. We’ll talk. But we don’t have much time.”

Gabriel had never seen the Ford van till now. He wrote down the registration number as it vanished into the darkness. Shamron joined him in the window. Together they watched Yusef and Jacqueline disappear into the lobby. A moment later lights burned in Yusef’s flat. Gabriel could hear two voices. Yusef, calm and reassuring; Jacqueline, edgy, stressed. Shamron made a base camp at the end of the couch and watched the scene across the street as though it were being played out on a movie screen. Gabriel closed his eyes and listened. They were stalking each other, circling the room like prizefighters. Gabriel didn’t have to watch it. He could hear it in the way the audio level rose each time one of them passed by the telephone.

“What is it, Yusef? Drugs? A bomb? Tell me, you bastard!”

So convincing was her performance that Gabriel feared Yusef would change his mind. Shamron seemed to be enjoying the show. When Jacqueline finally agreed to go, he looked up at Gabriel. “That was marvelous. A nice touch. Well done. Bravo.”

Five minutes later Gabriel watched them climb into the back of a dark blue Vauxhall. A few seconds after the Vauxhall drove away, a car passed beneath Gabriel’s window: Shamron’s watchers. There was nothing to do now but wait. To fill the time he rewound the tape and listened to their conversation again. “Tell me something,” Jacqueline had said. “When this is over will I ever see you again?” Gabriel stopped the tape and wondered whether she was speaking to Yusef or to him.

The Cromwell Road at midnight: the dreary corridor connecting Central London to the western suburbs had never looked so beautiful to Jacqueline. The bleak Edwardian hotels with their flickering neon vacancy signs seemed enchanting to her. She watched the changing patterns of traffic lights reflected in the wet pavement and saw an urban masterpiece. She lowered her window a few inches and smelled the air: diesel fumes, damp, cheap fried food cooking somewhere. London at night. Spectacular.

They had switched cars, the blue Vauxhall for a gray Toyota with a cracked windshield. The Vauxhall had been driven by a good-looking boy with his hair drawn back into a ponytail. Sitting behind the wheel now was an older man-at least forty, she guessed-with a narrow face and nervous black eyes. He drove slowly.

Yusef murmured a few words to him in Arabic.

Jacqueline said, “Speak French or English or nothing at all.”

“We are Palestinians,” Yusef said. “Arabic is our language.”

“I don’t give a shit! I don’t speak Arabic. I can’t understand what you’re saying, and it’s making me uncomfortable, so please speak fucking English, or you can find someone else.”

“I was only telling him to slow down a little.”

Actually, Yusef, you were telling him to make certain we aren’t being followed, but let’s not get hung up on the details.

On the seat between them lay a small suitcase. Yusef had taken her to her flat and helped her pack. “There won’t be time to go to baggage claim,” he had said. “If you need more clothing you’ll be given money to buy more clothing.” He had watched her pack carefully, inspecting each item she placed in the bag. “How should I dress?” she had asked sarcastically. “Warm climate or cold? Are we going to Norway or New Zealand? Sweden or Swaziland? What’s the dress code? Formal or casual?”

She lit a cigarette. Yusef took one out too and held out his hand for Jacqueline’s lighter. She gave it to him and watched him light his cigarette. He was about to hand it back when something made him stop and inspect the lighter more carefully.

Jacqueline felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

“This is very nice.” He turned it over and read the inscription. “ ”To Dominique, with affection and fond memories.‘ Where did you get this cigarette lighter?“

“I’ve had it for about a hundred years.”

“Answer my question.”

“It was a gift from a man. A man who didn’t send me off with a complete stranger.”

“He must have been very kind, this man. Why have I never seen this?”

“You haven’t seen a lot of things. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Look at the date, you idiot.”

“ ”June nineteen ninety-five,“ ” he recited. “Is this man still in the picture?”

“If he was, I wouldn’t be with you.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“June nineteen ninety-five, with affection and fond memories.”

“He must have been very important to you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept his lighter.”

“It’s not his lighter, it’s my lighter. And I kept it because it’s a good lighter.”

She thought: Gabriel was right. He suspects something. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me tonight. She looked out her window and wondered whether the Cromwell Road on a wet winter’s night was going to be her last snapshot of the world. She should have written a letter to her mother and locked it in a safety deposit box. She wondered how Shamron would break it to her. Would he explain that she had been working for the Office? Or would they cover up her death in some other way? Would she have to read about it in the newspapers? Jacqueline Delacroix, the Marseilles schoolgirl who rose to the peak of European modeling before a precipitous decline, died under mysterious circumstances… She wondered if the journalists she had treated with such contempt while she was alive would rise up en masse and savage her in death. At least Rémy would write well of her. They had always been cordial. Maybe she could get something nice out of Jacques. Perhaps even Gilles-No, wait. Remember the party in Milan, the argument over the coke. Christ, Gilles was going to rip her to shreds.

Yusef handed her the lighter. She dropped it back into her purse. The silence was appalling. She wanted to keep him talking; somehow talking made her feel safe, even if it was lies. “You never answered my question,” she said.

“Which question is that? You’ve had so many tonight.”

“When this is all over, am I going to see you again?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“And you’re still not answering my question.”

“I always answer your questions.”

“Do you? If you’d told me the truth in the beginning, I doubt I’d be flying off with a complete stranger in the morning.”

“I had to keep some things from you. And what about you, Dominique? Have you been completely honest with me? Have you told me everything about yourself?”

“Everything of consequence.”

“That’s a very convenient answer. You use it very effectively when you want to avoid talking anymore.”

“It also happens to be the truth. Answer my question. Am I ever going to see you again?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You’re full of shit, Yusef.”

“And you’re very tired. Close your eyes. Get some rest.”

She leaned her head against the window. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that, but how about telling me where?”

“You’ll see it when we arrive.”

“Why would we need someplace safe? What’s wrong with your flat? What’s wrong with my flat?”

“This place belongs to a friend of mine. It’s close to Heathrow.”

“Is your friend going to be there?”

“No.”

“Are you going to stay the night?”

“Of course. And in the morning I’ll fly with you to Paris.”

“And after that?”

“After that you’ll be in the company of our Palestinian official, and your journey will begin. I wish I could be in your shoes. It would be such an honor to be with this man on this trip. You have no idea how lucky you are, Dominique.”

“What’s his name, this great man? Maybe I know him.”

“I doubt you know him, but I still can’t tell you his name. You will refer to him only by his cover name.”

“And that is?”

“Lucien. Lucien Daveau.”

“Lucien,” she said softly. “I’ve always liked the name Lucien. Where are we going, Yusef?”

“Close your eyes. It won’t be long now.”

Shamron answered the telephone in the listening post before it could ring a second time. He listened without speaking, then gently replaced the receiver as if he had just been informed of the death of an old adversary. “It looks as though they’ve settled for the night,” he said.

“Where?”

“A council estate in Hounslow near the airport.”

“And the team?”

“In place, well hidden. They’ll spend the night with her.”

“I’d feel better if I were there.”

“You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I suggest you get a few hours’ sleep.”

But Gabriel went into the bedroom and returned a moment later, jacket on, nylon rucksack over his shoulder.

Shamron said, “Where are you going?”

“I need to take care of something personal.”

“Where are you going? When will you be back?”

But Gabriel walked out without another word and followed the stairs down to the street. As he walked past the front of the building, he thought he saw Shamron eyeing him through a slit in the blinds. And as he moved closer to the Edgware Road, he had the uncomfortable feeling that Shamron had one of his teams watching him too.

THIRTY-FOUR

Hounslow, England

The Toyota dropped them and then sped away. A car park bathed in yellow sodium light, a colony of stout redbrick council flats that looked like an industrial complex fallen on hard times. Jacqueline offered to carry her own bag, but Yusef wouldn’t hear of it. He took her hand and led her across the car park, then across a common strewn with crushed beer cans and bits of broken toys. A red wagon with no front wheels. A headless baby with no clothing. A plastic pistol. Gabriel’s pistol, thought Jacqueline, remembering the night in the hills of Provence, when he had tested her ability to shoot. Seemed like ages ago. A lifetime ago. A cat spit at them from the shadows. Jacqueline grabbed Yusef’s elbow and nearly screamed. Then a dog began to bark, and the cat scampered along the sidewalk and slithered beneath a fence.

“This is lovely, Yusef. Why didn’t you tell me you kept a place in the country?”

“Please don’t talk until we’re inside.”

He led her into a stairwell. Dead leaves and old newspaper in the corners, lime green walls, yellow light fixture overhead. The collision of color made them both look nauseated. They climbed two flights, then passed through a connecting door and walked the length of a long corridor. A cacophony of disharmonious sounds greeted them. A child screaming for its mother. A couple quarreling in Caribbean-accented English. A crackling radio blaring a play on the BBC, Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing. Yusef stopped in front of a doorway with the number 23 mounted below a security peephole. He unlocked the door, led her inside, switched on a small parchment-shaded lamp.

The living room was empty except for one molting armchair and a television set. Its cord wound across the linoleum like a dead garden snake. Through a half-open door she could see a bedroom with a mattress on the floor. Through another doorway a small kitchen, a bag of groceries resting on the counter. Despite the absence of furnishings, the flat was impeccably clean and smelled of lemon air deodorizer.

She opened the window; cold air poured in. Below the window ran a fence, and beyond the fence lay a football pitch. A half-dozen young men, dressed in colorful warm-up suits and woolen caps, kicked a ball about in the headlights of a car parked along the sideline. Their long shadows played over brick walls below Jacqueline’s window. In the distance she could hear the soggy grumble of the motorway. An empty train rattled past on an elevated track. A jetliner screamed overhead.

“I like what your friend’s done with the place, Yusef, but it’s not really my style. Why don’t we check into one of the hotels at the airport? Someplace with room service and a decent bar.”

Yusef was in the kitchen, unpacking the bag of groceries. “If you’re hungry I can make you something. There’s some bread, cheese, eggs, a bottle of wine, and coffee and milk for the morning.”

Jacqueline walked into the kitchen. There was barely enough room for the two of them in the cramped space. “Don’t be so literal. But this is a shithole. Why is it empty?”

“My friend just got the place. He hasn’t had a chance to move his things. He’s been living with his parents.”

“He must be very happy, but I still don’t know why we have to stay here tonight.”

“I told you, Dominique. We came here for reasons of security.”

“Security from who? Security from what?”

“Perhaps you’ve heard of the British security service, better known as MI5. They make it their business to infiltrate exile and dissident communities. They watch people like us.”

“Like us?”

“Like me. And then there are the guys from Tel Aviv.”

“You lost me there, Yusef. Who are the guys from Tel Aviv?”

Yusef looked up and stared at her incredulously. “Who are the guys from Tel Aviv? The most ruthless, murderous intelligence service in the world. A gang of hired killers might be a more appropriate description.”

“And why would the Israelis be a threat here in Britain?”

“The Israelis are everywhere that we are. National boundaries are of no concern to them.”

Yusef emptied the bag and used it to line the wastebasket. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“No, just extremely tired. It’s late.”

“Go to bed. I have some business to take care of.”

“You’re not leaving me here alone, are you?”

He held up a mobile phone. “I just have to make a couple of calls.”

Jacqueline put her arms around his waist. Yusef drew her forehead to his lips and kissed her softly.

“I wish you wouldn’t make me do this.”

“It’ll just be for a few days. And when you come back, we can be together.”

“I wish I could believe you, but I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

He kissed her again, then placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Go to bed. Try to get some sleep.”

She entered the bedroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the light; it would feel less depressing if she had only a vague sense of her surroundings. She reached down, grabbed a handful of the bedding, and sniffed. Newly laundered. Still, she decided to sleep in her clothing. She lay down and carefully placed her head on the pillow so that it touched no portion of her face or neck. She left on her shoes. She smoked a last cigarette to cover up the overpowering smell of the disinfectant. She thought of Gabriel, her dance school in Valbonne. She listened to the jetliners and the trains and the resounding thump of a foot making solid contact with a leather ball out on the football pitch. She watched the shadows of high-stepping athletes dancing on her wall like marionettes.

Then she heard Yusef, speaking in a low murmur over his mobile phone. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. She didn’t care. Indeed, her last thought before drifting into a feverish sleep was that Yusef, her Palestinian lover, probably did not have long to live.

Isherwood opened the door of his home in Onslow Gardens a few inches and eyed Gabriel malevolently through the security chain. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He unchained the door. “Come inside before we both get pneumonia.”

Isherwood wore pajamas, leather slippers, a silk dressing gown. He led Gabriel into the drawing room, then disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a pot of coffee and a couple of mugs. “I hope you take your coffee black, because I’m afraid the milk in the fridge was purchased during the Thatcher government.”

“Black is fine.”

“So, Gabriel, my love. What brings you here at”-he paused to look at his watch and grimaced-“Christ, at two forty-five in the morning.”

“You’re going to lose Dominique.”

“I guessed that when Ari Shamron rolled into my gallery like a poisonous cloud. Where’s she off to? Lebanon? Libya? Iran? What was her real name, by the way?”

Gabriel just sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“Hate to see her go, actually. An angel, that one. And not a bad secretary once she got the hang of things.”

“She won’t be coming back.”

“They never do. I have a way of driving away women. Always have.”

“I hear you’re in final negotiations with Oliver Dimbleby to sell the gallery.”

“One doesn’t really negotiate when one is tied to the railroad tracks, Gabriel. One grovels. One begs.”

“Don’t do it.”

“How dare you sit there and tell me how to run my affairs? I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you and your friend Herr Heller.”

“The operation may be over sooner than we expected.”

“And?”

“And I can get back to work on the Vecellio.”

“There’s no way you can finish it in time to save my neck. I am now officially insolvent, which is why I’m negotiating with Oliver Dimbleby.”

“Dimbleby’s a hack. He’ll ruin the gallery.”

“Frankly, Gabriel, I’m too tired to give a shit at this point. I need something stronger than coffee. You?”

Gabriel shook his head. Isherwood shuffled over to the sideboard and dumped an inch of gin into a tumbler. “What’s in the bag?”

“An insurance policy.”

“Insurance on what?”

“Against the possibility that I’m unable to complete work on the Vecellio in time.” Gabriel handed the bag to Isherwood. “Open it.”

Isherwood set down his drink and unzipped the bag. “My God, Gabriel. How much is it?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“I can’t take your money.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Shamron’s, via Benjamin Stone.”

“The Benjamin Stone?”

“In all his glory.”

“What the hell are you doing with a hundred thousand pounds of Benjamin Stone’s money?”

“Just take it and don’t ask any more questions.”

“If it’s really Benjamin Stone’s, I think I will.” Isherwood raised his glass of gin. “Cheers, Gabriel. I’m sorry for all the miserable things I’ve thought about you during the past few weeks.”

“I deserved it. I should have never run out on you.”

“All is forgiven.” Isherwood stared into his drink for a long moment. “So where is she? Gone for good?”

“The operation has moved into its final stages.”

“You’ve not put that poor girl in any danger, have you?”

“I hope not.”

“So do I, for her sake and yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, I’ve been in this lousy racket for almost forty years, and in all that time, no one’s ever managed to sell me a forgery. Dimbleby’s had his fingers burned. Even the great Giles Pittaway has managed to buy a fake or two in his time. But not me. I have the gift, you see. I may be a lousy businessman, but I can always tell a fraud from the real thing.”

“Are you coming to the point of this?”

“She’s the real thing, Gabriel. She’s golden. You may never get another chance like this. Hang on to her, because if you don’t, it will be the biggest mistake of your life.”