The Kill Artist

within minutes of arriving at the hotel room in Montreal you checked your telephone messages at your flat in London. When I was working for the PLO, we discovered that the Israelis had the ability to take virtually any telephone in the world and route it directly to their headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. Obviously that was done to your telephone in London. When you called that number, it must have alerted headquarters that you were in the Hotel Queen Elizabeth in Montreal."
    Tariq sat down on the edge of the bed, gently pushed Jacqueline's hair out of her face. She closed her eyes and tried to draw away from his touch.
    "I'm going to use that device one more time to deceive Ari Shamron and Gabriel Allon. Leila is not a bad actress herself. When I'm ready to move against the target, Leila will telephone your number in London and impersonate you. She will tell headquarters where I am and what I'm about to do. Headquarters will tell Shamron, and Shamron will quickly dispatch Gabriel Allon to the scene. Obviously, I will know that Allon is coming. Therefore, I will hold a significant advantage."
    He removed the Makarov, placed the barrel beneath her chin. "If you are a good girl, if you behave yourself, you will be allowed to live. Once Leila makes that telephone call, she will have to leave this place. It's up to her whether Ari Shamron finds a dead body chained to this bed. Do you understand me?"
    Jacqueline stared back at him with a cold insolence. He pressed the barrel of the gun into the soft flesh of her throat until she groaned through the gag.
    "Do you understand me?"
    She nodded.
    He stood up, slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers. Then he walked into the living room, pulled on an overcoat and a pair of gloves, and went out.
    A clear, cold afternoon, the sun shining brightly. Tariq slipped on a pair of sunglasses, turned up the collar of his overcoat. He walked to Coney Island Avenue, strolled along a row of shops until he found a grocer specializing in Middle Eastern goods. He entered the cramped market, accompanied by the tinkle of a small bell on the door, and was immediately overwhelmed by the scents of home. Coffee and spices, roasting lamb, honey and tobacco.
    A teenage boy stood behind the counter. He wore a Yankees sweatshirt and was speaking rapid, Moroccan-accented Arabic on a cordless telephone.
    "Dates," Tariq said in English. "I'm looking for dried dates."
    The boy paused for a moment. "Back row on the left."
    Tariq picked his way through the narrow aisles until he arrived at the back of the store. The dates were on the top shelf. As Tariq reached up to grasp them, he could feel the Makarov digging into the small of his back. He pulled down the dates and looked at the label. Tunisia. Perfect.
    He paid and went out. From Coney Island Avenue he walked east through quieter residential streets, past small apartment houses and tiny brick homes, until he arrived at the Newkirk Avenue subway stop. He purchased a token, then walked down the stairs to the small exposed platform. Two minutes later he boarded a Q train bound for Manhattan.
    Gabriel was beginning to think he would never find Tariq. At that moment he was speeding up Park Avenue in the front seat of a black minivan, surrounded by the rest of the prime minister's security detail. A few feet ahead of them was the prime minister's limousine. To their right, a motorcycle outrider. Gabriel wore a gray suit he had borrowed from one of the other bodyguards. The jacket was too big, the pants too short. He felt like a damned fool-like someone who comes to an expensive restaurant without proper attire and has to borrow the house blazer. It was no matter; he had more important things to worry about.
    So far the day had gone off without a problem. The prime minister had had coffee with a group of high-powered investment bankers to discuss business opportunities in Israel. Then he had toured the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Gabriel had been at his side the entire time. He left nothing to chance. He stared at every face-the bankers, the traders, the janitors, people on the street-looking for Tariq. He remembered Tariq's face from the rue St-Denis in Montreal: the mocking smile as he pushed Jacqueline into the car and drove away.
    He wondered whether she was even still alive. He thought about the string of dead women Tariq had left in his wake: the American in Paris, the hooker in Amsterdam, the shopgirl in Vienna.
    He