The Kill Artist

desk get us inside the room?"
    "Sure."
    "I want to put a glass on his telephone."
    "No problem. I brought a kit from Ottawa. We can get another room at the hotel to set up a listening post. It will tie down one member of the team, though."
    "Getting his phone is well worth one member of your team."
    "I'll use the new girl."
    "No, I may need the girl for street work."
    Yadin glanced at Shamron. "Now for the problems, Boss."
    "What problems?"
    "Lev."
    "What about Lev?"
    "While I was waiting for you to arrive, I checked in with the station."
    "And?"
    "Mordecai called on a routine housekeeping matter after we'd left. Obviously he told Lev the entire station was missing, because Lev fired off a cable from the operations center about a half hour later, wondering what the fuck was going on."
    "What was Lev told?" Shamron said wearily.
    "I left a cover story in place with our secretary. She told Lev that we received a tip from a friend in the Canadian service that a member of Islamic Jihad might be living in Quebec City and that we had run up to QC to have a look at him. Lev sends another rocket: On whose authority? Please supply the name of IJ Activist. So on and so forth. You get the picture, boss."
    Shamron swore softly. "Send him a message when you get home. Tell him it was a false alarm."
    "Listen, boss, we go back a long way. But you're going to retire again soon, and Lev may be running this place. He could make my life miserable. He enjoys that sort of thing. He's a bastard."
    "Let me worry about Lev. You were just doing what I told you to do."
    "Just following orders-right, boss?"
    Yadin's cell phone chirped softly. He flipped open the mouthpiece and brought it to his ear. "Yes?"
    A pause.
    "When?"
    Another pause.
    "Where?"
    Another pause, slightly longer.
    "Stay with them. But remember who you're dealing with. Keep a safe distance."
    He severed the connection and tossed the phone onto the dash.
    "What is it?" asked Shamron.
    "He's on the move."
    "What about Jacqueline?"
    "They're together."
    "Where?"
    "Look's like they've gone shopping."
    "Get me a picture, Zvi. I need to make sure it's him."
    There are two Montreals. There is the Montreal of the surface. In winter it becomes a snowbound tundra. Icy Arctic winds roar between the skyscrapers and prowl the winding alleyways of the Old City down by the river. Then there is underground Montreal: a labyrinth of gleaming shops, cafés, bars, markets, and designer clothing stores that snakes its way beneath much of downtown, making it possible to travel for blocks without ever setting foot outside.
    A fitting spot for it to end, thought Jacqueline; two worlds, two layers, two realities. I'm Jacqueline Delacroix, the model. I'm Dominique Bonard, the secretary from Isherwood Fine Arts in London. I'm Sarah Halévy, the Jewish girl from Marseilles, the agent from the Office. She had more layers than Montreal.
    She was walking at his side. His hand was resting lightly on her shoulder, and he was using it to guide her through the crowds of evening shoppers. Jacqueline studied the kaleidoscope of faces streaming past her: pretty French boys and girls, Arabs, Africans, Jews-the ethnic patchwork quilt that is Montreal. She might have forgotten she had ever left Paris except for the blunt edge of their French accents.
    He was checking to see if they were being followed-Jacqueline could see that. Pausing in storefronts, making abrupt changes in direction, inventing excuses to double back. She hoped Shamron's team was good. If they weren't, Tariq was going to spot them.
    They walked through the exclusive shops beneath the rue St-Catherine. In one she picked out a full-length down-lined coat. In another a fur hat. In a third two pairs of jeans and several pairs of long underwear. Finally, in a shop specializing in outdoor goods, she picked out a pair of insulated boots. He hung at her side the entire time. When she went into a changing room to try on the jeans he waited just outside the door and smiled pleasantly at the salesgirls. He paid for everything with a credit card in the name of Lucien Daveau.
    When they were finished they walked back toward the hotel. She thought: What are you waiting for? Do it now. Take him down. But they couldn't do it here-not in underground Montreal. The entire network of shopping malls could be sealed off in a matter of minutes. Gabriel and the rest of the team would be trapped inside. They would be arrested and questioned. The police would establish a