The Confessor

patch on the fogged glass of the window. The front door opened a few inches and Malone, turtle-like, poked out his head. It swiveled from side to side as he searched in vain for the man who had just telephoned. Then he bent down and scooped up the book. Gabriel looked at Mordecai and smiled. Victory. Five minutes later, he pressed the redial button on his phone. This time Malone answered on the first ring.
    "Who are you?"
    "Did you see the passage I circled in the book?"
    "The Abu Jihad assassination? What about it?"
    "I was there that night."
    "For which side?"
    "The good guys."
    "So you're a Palestinian?"
    "No, Abu Malone, I'm not a Palestinian."
    "Who are you, then?"
    "I'm the agent who was code-named Sword."
    "Good Lord," Malone whispered. "Where are you? What do
    you want?"
    "I want to talk to you."
    "About what?"
    "Benjamin Stern."
    A long pause: "I have nothing to say to you."
    Gabriel decided to push a little harder. "We found your telephone number among his things. We know you were working with him on his book. We think you might know who killed him and why."
    Another long silence while Malone pondered his next move. Gabriel's use of the pronoun we was quite deliberate, and it had its
    intended effect.
    "And if I do know something?"
    "I'd like to compare notes."
    "And what do I get in return?" Malone, ever the alert reporter, was going to make Gabriel sing for his supper.
    "I'll talk to you about that night in Tunis," Gabriel said, then added: "And others like it."
    "Are you serious?"
    "Benjamin was my friend. I'd do almost anything to find the men
    who killed him."
    "Then you have a deal." Malone's tone was suddenly brisk. "How
    do you want to go about this?"
    "Are there assistants in the house?" Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.
    "Two girls."
    "Get rid of them. Leave the front door unlatched. When I see
    them go, I'll come inside. No tape recorders, no cameras, no fucking around. Do you understand me?"
    Gabriel killed the connection before the reporter could answer then slipped the telephone into his pocket. Two minutes later, the front door opened and a pair of young women stepped outside. When they were gone, Gabriel climbed out of the van and walked across the square toward the house. The front door was unlocked, just as he had instructed. He turned the latch and stepped inside.
    THEY APPRAISED each other across the marble entrance hall like captains of opposing football teams. Gabriel could see why it was difficult to watch British television without seeing Malone's face--and why he was considered one of London's most eligible bachelors. He was trim and fine-boned, immaculately dressed in wool trousers and a cardigan sweater the color of claret wine. Gabriel, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his face concealed behind a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap, seemed a man from the wrong side of town. Malone did not offer Gabriel his hand.
    "You can take off that ridiculous disguise. I'm not in the habit of betraying sources."
    "If you don't mind, I prefer to keep it on."
    "Suit yourself. Coffee? Something stronger?"
    "No, thank you."
    "My office is upstairs. I think you'll find it comfortable."
    It was an old drawing room, long and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and oriental carpets. In the center of the room were two antique library tables, one for Malone, another for his research assistants. Malone switched off the computer and sat down in one of the wing chairs next to the gas fire, motioning for Gabriel to do the same.
    "I must say it is rather bizarre to actually be in the same room with you. I've heard so much about your exploits that I feel I actually know you. You're quite the legend. Black September, Abu Jihad, and countless others in between. Have you killed anyone lately?"
    When Gabriel did not rise to the bait, Malone carried on. "While I find you morbidly fascinating, I must admit that I find the things you've done to be morally repugnant. In my opinion, a state which resorts to assassination as a matter of policy is no better than the enemy it's trying to defeat. In many respects, it's worse. You're a murderer in my book, just so you understand where I'm coming from."
    Gabriel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake by coming here. He had learned long ago that arguments like this could never be won. He'd had too many just like it with himself. He sat very still, gazing at Peter Malone through his dark glasses, waiting for him to come to the point.