The Kill Artist

about to step into the light. He wanted to shout: Here I am. See, I'm a man like you, flesh and blood, not a monster. He was not ashamed of his life's work. Quite the opposite. He was proud of it. He wondered if Allon could say the same thing.
    Tariq knew that he had one major advantage over Allon. He knew he was about to die. His life was over. He had survived on the knife edge of danger to be betrayed in the end not by his enemies but by his own body. He would use the knowledge of his impending death like a weapon, the most powerful he had ever possessed.
    Tariq stood up, smoothed the front of his blazer, and crossed the lobby.
    They rode an elevator to the fourteenth floor, walked along a quiet corridor, stopped at room 1417. He opened the door with a electronic card key, then slipped the card into his pocket. When Jacqueline entered the room, Shamron's awareness and memory drills took over: small suite, separate bedroom and sitting room. On the coffee table was a room service tray with a half-eaten salad. A garment bag lay on the floor, open, still packed.
    He held out his hand. "Lucien Daveau."
    "Dominique Bonard."
    He smiled: warm, confident. "I was told by my associates that you were a very beautiful woman, but I'm afraid their descriptions did not do you justice."
    His mannerisms and speech were all very French. If she had not known he was a Palestinian, she would have assumed he was a well-to-do Parisian.
    "You're not what I expected," she said truthfully.
    "Oh really? What did you expect?" He was already testing her-she could sense it.
    "Yusef said you were an intellectual. I suppose I was expecting someone with long hair and blue jeans and a sweater with holes in it."
    "Someone more professorial?"
    "Yes, that's the word." She managed a smile. "You don't look terribly professorial."
    "That's because I'm not a professor."
    "I'd ask what you are, but Yusef told me not to ask too many questions, so I suppose we'll just have to make pleasant small talk."
    "It's been a long time since I made pleasant small talk with a beautiful woman. I think I'm going to enjoy the next few days immensely."
    "Have you been in Montreal long?"
    "You just asked me a question, Dominique."
    "I'm sorry, I just-"
    "Don't apologize. I was just joking. I arrived this morning. As you can see, I haven't had a chance to unpack."
    She walked from the sitting room into the bedroom.
    He said, "Don't worry, I intend to sleep on the couch tonight."
    "I thought we were supposed to be posing as lovers."
    "We are."
    "What if the hotel staff notices that you slept on the couch?"
    "They might assume we're quarreling. Or they might assume that I was working late and didn't want to disturb you and that I fell asleep on the couch."
    "They might."
    "Yusef said you were intelligent, but he neglected to say that you also possess a conspiratorial mind."
    It had played out long enough. Jacqueline was proud of the fact that she was guiding the conversation and not he. It gave her the sense that at least she was in control of something.
    "Do you mind if I smoke?"
    "Not at all."
    She placed a cigarette between her lips and struck the lighter Shamron had given her. She could almost imagine the radio waves flying out, searching for a receiver.
    "I didn't bring clothing for this kind of weather. Leila said you would take me out shopping for something warmer."
    "I'd be happy to. I apologize for the way we had to keep you in the dark about where you were going. I assure you it was quite necessary."
    "I understand." A pause. "I suppose."
    "Answer one question for me, Dominique. Why did you agree to come on this mission with me? Do you believe in what you are doing? Or are you doing it simply for love?"
    The coincidence of his question was almost too vulgar to contemplate. She calmly placed the lighter back into her handbag and said, "I'm doing it because I believe in love. Do you believe in love?"
    "I believe in the right of my people to have a homeland of our own choosing. I've never had the luxury of love."
    "I'm sorry-" She was about to call him Lucien, but for some reason she stopped herself.
    "You don't want to say my name, Dominique? Why won't you call me Lucien?"
    "Because I know it isn't your real name."
    "How do you know that?"
    "Yusef told me."
    "Do you know my real name?"
    "No, Yusef wouldn't tell me."
    "Yusef is a good man."
    "I'm very fond of him."
    "Is Dominique really your name?"
    She was caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"
    "It's a simple