The Kill Artist

alive."
    "We want the same things, Prime Minister. But at this moment your security is our first priority." Shamron picked up the schedule and began to read.
    "After the ceremony at the United Nations, it's down to the financial district for a meeting with investors, followed by an appearance at the New York Stock Exchange. After that you go to the Waldorf for a luncheon hosted by the Friends of Zion." Shamron looked up briefly. "And that's the first half of the day. After lunch you go to Brooklyn to visit a Jewish community center and discuss the peace process. Then it's back to Manhattan for a round of cocktail parties and receptions."
    Shamron lowered the paper and looked at the prime minister. "This is a security nightmare. I want Allon assigned to your personal detail for the day."
    "Why Allon?"
    "Because he got a good look at Tariq in Montreal. If Tariq's out there, Gabriel will see him."
    "Tell him he has to wear a suit."
    "I don't think he owns one."
    "Get one."
    It was a tiny apartment: a sparsely furnished living room, a kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked porcelain sink, a single bedroom, a bathroom that smelled of damp. The windows were hung with thick woolen blankets, which blocked out all light. Tariq opened the closet door. Inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. He carried the suitcase into the living room, placed it on the floor, opened it. Black gabardine trousers, neatly pressed and folded, white dinner jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. In the zippered compartment, a wallet. Tariq opened it and studied the contents: a New York driver's license in the name of Emilio Gonzales, a Visa credit card, a video store rental card, an assortment of receipts, a clip-on identification badge. Kemel had done his work well.
    Tariq looked at the photograph. Emilio Gonzales was a balding man with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. His cheeks were fuller than Tariq's; nothing a few balls of cotton wouldn't take care of. He removed the clothing from the suitcase and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he removed the final item from the suitcase-a small leather toiletry kit, and went into the bathroom.
    He placed the toiletry kit on the basin and propped the photograph of Emilio Gonzales on the shelf below the mirror. Tariq looked at his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized his own face: deep black circles beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin, bloodless lips. Part of it was lack of sleep-he couldn't remember when he had slept last-but the illness was to blame for most of it. The tumor was stalking him now: numbness in his extremities, ringing in his ears, unbearable headaches, fatigue. He did not have much longer to live. He had arrived at this place, this moment in history, with little time to spare.
    He opened the toiletry kit, removed a pair of scissors and a razor, and began cutting his hair. It took nearly an hour to complete the job.
    The transformation was remarkable. With the silver hair coloring, mustache, and thicker cheeks, he bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph. But Tariq understood that the subtleties of his performance were just as important as the actual likeness. If he behaved like Emilio Gonzales, no security guard or policeman would question him. If he acted like a terrorist on a suicide mission, he would die in an American prison.
    He went into the living room, removed his clothing, changed into the waiter's uniform. Then he walked back to the bathroom for one final look in the mirror. He combed his thinned-out hair over his new bald spot and felt vaguely depressed. To die in a strange land, with another man's name and another man's face. He supposed it was the logical conclusion of the life he had led. Only one thing to do now: make certain his life had not been wasted on a lost cause.
    He walked into the bedroom.
    As he entered Leila stood, face alarmed, and raised her gun.
    "It's only me," he said softly in Arabic. "Put the gun down before it goes off and you hurt somebody."
    She did as he said, then shook her head in wonderment. "It's remarkable. I would never have recognized you."
    "That's the point."
    "You obviously missed your true calling. You should have been an actor."
    "So, everything is in place. All we need now is Gabriel Allon."
    Tariq looked at Jacqueline. She lay spread-eagled on the small bed, wrists and ankles secured by four sets of handcuffs, mouth gagged by heavy electrical tape.
    "I found it interesting that