The Kill Artist

there something going on in Canada I should know about?" Mordecai asked.
    "What are you talking about?"
    "I was reviewing the expense reports from Ottawa station, and there was a minor discrepancy in the payouts for the support staff. I thought I'd save a few minutes and deal with it by telephone rather than cable. It really is just a minor thing. I thought that Zvi and I could clear it up in a moment or two."

Lev drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. "What does this have to do with Operations?"
    "I couldn't find Zvi. In fact I couldn't find anyone. It seems your entire Ottawa station is missing."
    "What do you mean missing?"
    "I mean nowhere to be found. Gone without explanation."
    "Who did you speak to?"
    "A girl from the code room."
    "What did she say?"
    "That Zvi and all his field personnel took off in a hurry a few hours ago."
    "Where's the old man?"
    "Somewhere in Europe."
    "He just came back from Europe. Why did he go this time?"
    Mordecai frowned. "You think the old man tells me anything? That old bastard is so secretive that half the time I don't think he even knows where he's going."
    "Find him," Lev said.
    THIRTY-SEVEN
    Montreal
    Leila rented a car at the airport. She drove very fast along an elevated motorway. To their right lay an icy river, to their left freezing fog drifted over a vast rail yard like the smoke of battle. The lights of downtown Montreal floated in front of them, obscured by a veil of low cloud and falling snow. Leila drove as if she knew the way.
    "You've been here before?" Leila asked. It was the first time she had spoken to Jacqueline since the café at Charles de Gaulle in Paris.
    "No, never. How about you?"
    "No."
    Jacqueline folded her arms against her body and shivered. The heater was roaring, but it was still so cold in the car she could see her breath. "I don't have clothes for this kind of cold," she said.
    "Lucien will buy you whatever you need."
    So, Lucien was meeting her here in Montreal. Jacqueline blew on her hands. "It's too cold to go shopping."
    "All the best boutiques in Montreal are underground. You'll never have to set foot outside."
    "I thought you said you've never been here."
    "I haven't."
    Jacqueline leaned her head against the window and briefly closed her eyes. They had sat in business class, Leila across the aisle and one row behind. An hour before landing, Leila had gone to the lavatory. On the way back to her seat she'd handed Jacqueline a note: Go through immigration and customs alone and meet me at the Hertz counter.
    Leila turned off the motorway and turned onto the boulevard René Lévesque. Wind howled through the canyons of high-rise office buildings and hotels. The snowbound sidewalks seemed to have been depopulated. She drove a few blocks, stopped in front of a large hotel. A porter rushed out and opened Jacqueline's door. "Welcome to the Queen Elizabeth. Checking in?"
    "Yes," said Leila. "We can manage the bags, thank you."
    The porter gave her a claim check for the car and climbed behind the wheel. Leila led Jacqueline into the large, noisy lobby. It was filled with Japanese tourists. Jacqueline wondered what on earth could bring them to Montreal in the dead of winter. Leila deliberately switched her bag from her right hand to her left. Jacqueline forced herself to look the other way. She had been trained in the art of impersonal communication; she knew a good piece of body talk when she saw it. The next act was about to begin.
    Tariq watched them from the hotel bar. His appearance had changed since Lisbon: charcoal-gray wool trousers, a cream-colored pullover, Italian blazer. He was neatly shaved and wore small gold-rimmed eyeglasses with clear lenses. He had added a touch of gray to his hair.
    He had seen the photograph of the woman called Dominique Bonard, but he was still taken aback by her appearance. He wondered how Shamron and Gabriel Allon could justify putting a woman like that into such danger.
    He glanced around the lobby. He knew that they were here, somewhere, hidden among the tourists and the businessmen and the hotel employees: Shamron's watchers. Tariq had stretched their resources by taking the woman from London to Paris and then Montreal. But surely they had regrouped and moved their assets into place. He knew that the moment he approached the woman he would be revealing himself to his enemies for the first time.
    He found that he was actually looking forward to it. Finally, after all these years in the shadows, he was