The Kill Artist

one option. Play the game a little longer and find some way to alert Gabriel.
    She said, "Let me see the passport."
    He handed it to her.
    She opened it and looked at the name: Hélène Sarrault. Then she looked at the photograph: Leila. The likeness was vague but convincing.
    "You'll do it?"
    Jacqueline said, "Keep driving."
    He entered the plaza at the border crossing and braked to a halt. A border patrolman stepped out of his booth and said, "Good evening. Where are you headed this evening?"
    Tariq said, "Burlington."
    "Business or pleasure?"
    "My sister is ill, I'm afraid."
    "Sorry to hear that. How long are you planning to stay?"
    "One day, two at the most."
    "Passports, please."
    Tariq handed them across. The officer opened them and examined the photographs and the names. Then he looked into the car and glanced at each of their faces.
    He closed the passports and handed them back. "Have a pleasant stay. And drive carefully. Weather report says there's a big storm coming in later tonight."
    Tariq took the passports, dropped the car into gear, and drove slowly across the border into Vermont. He placed the passports in his pocket and a moment later, when they were well clear of the border, he removed a Makarov pistol and placed the barrel against the side of her head.
    FORTY-ONE
    Washington, D.C.
    Yasir Arafat sat behind the desk in the presidential suite at the Madison Hotel, making his way through a stack of paperwork, listening to the late-evening traffic hissing along the damp pavement of Fifteenth Street. He paused for a moment, popped a Tunisian date into his mouth, then swallowed a few spoonfuls of yogurt. He was fastidious about his diet, did not smoke or consume alcohol, and never drank coffee. It had helped him survive a demanding revolutionary lifestyle that might have destroyed other men.
    Because he was expecting no more visitors that evening, he had changed out of his uniform into a blue tracksuit. His bald head was bare, and as usual he had several days' growth on his pouchy face. He wore reading glasses, which magnified his froglike eyes. His thick lower lip jutted out, giving him the appearance of a child on the verge of tears.
    He possessed a near-photographic memory for written material and faces, which allowed him to work through the stack of documents quickly, pausing now and then to scribble notes in the margins of memoranda or sign his name. He was now in charge of the Gaza Strip and a large portion of the West Bank, a development that had seemed impossible only a few years earlier. His Palestinian Authority was responsible for the mundane details of ordinary governance, like trash collection and schools. It was a far cry from the old days, when he had been the world's most famous guerrilla.
    He set aside the remainder of his work and opened a document bound in a leather cover. It was a copy of the interim agreement he was to sign the following day at the United Nations in New York. The agreement was yet another incremental step toward the fulfillment of his life's work: the establishment of a Palestinian state. It was much less than he had wanted when he set out on this path-back then he had dreamed of the destruction of Israel-but it was the best he was going to get. There were some within the movement who wished him failure, some who even wished him death. The rejectionists, the dreamers. If they'd had their way, the Palestinians would be forever condemned to the refugee camps of the diaspora.
    An aide knocked on the door. Arafat looked up as he entered the room. "Sorry to disturb you, Abu Amar, but the president is on the phone."
    Arafat smiled. This too would have been impossible only a few years earlier. "What does he want so late at night?"
    "He says his wife is out of town and he's bored. He wants to know whether you would be willing to come to the White House and keep him company."
    "Now?"
    "Yes, now."
    "To do what?"
    The aide shrugged. "Talk, I suppose."
    "Tell him I'll be there in ten minutes."
    Arafat stood up, removed his tracksuit, and dressed in his usual plain khaki uniform and traditional Palestinian headdress. He wore the black-and-white kaffiyeh of the peasant with the front shaped to a point to symbolize the map of Palestine. The aide reappeared with an overcoat and draped it over Arafat's shoulders. Together they stepped into the hall and were immediately surrounded by a group of security men. Some were members of his personal bodyguard, the rest were officers of the