The Kill Artist

Brooklyn. Gabriel forced himself to listen dispassionately, to set aside momentarily his rage over what Tariq had done to her so he could search for clues to his intentions.
    One detail caught his attention. Why did Tariq feel it was necessary to bring Gabriel to him by having Leila impersonate Jacqueline over the secure phone link?
    The answer was probably quite simple: because he did not believe Gabriel would be at the place where he intended to strike. But why not? If he had come to New York to assassinate the prime minister of Israel, the great peacemaker, then surely he would assume that Gabriel would be at the prime minister's side. After all, Gabriel had just seen Tariq in Montreal.
    Gabriel thought of the painting by Van Dyck: a religious scene on the surface, a rather ugly woman beneath. One painting, two realities. The entire operation had been like that painting, and Tariq had beaten him at every turn.
    Damn it, Gabriel. Don't be afraid to trust your instincts!
    He picked up the cell phone and dialed the number for Shamron at the diplomatic mission. When Shamron came on the line, Gabriel said tersely, "Where's Arafat?"
    He listened for a moment, then said: "Shit! I think Tariq is there disguised as a waiter. Tell his people I'm coming."
    He severed the connection and looked at Jacqueline. "You still have the girl's gun?"
    She nodded.
    "Anything left?"
    Jacqueline released the magazine and counted the remaining rounds. "Five," she said.
    Gabriel turned north onto the FDR Drive and put the accelerator to the floor.
    * * *
    Tariq walked to the entrance of the kitchen and peered through the passageway into the party. Flashbulbs popped as guests posed for photographs with Arafat. Tariq shook his head. Ten years ago these same people had written Arafat off as a ruthless terrorist. Now they were treating him like a rock star in a kaffiyeh.
    Tariq looked around the room for Allon. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Leila had been unable to get through on the telephone. Perhaps Allon was playing some sort of game. Whatever the case, Tariq knew he could not wait long to act. He knew Arafat better than anyone. The old man was prone to last-minute changes in plans. That's how he had survived all these years. He could walk out of the party at any time, and Tariq would lose his opportunity to kill him.
    He had wanted to kill them both at the same time-Allon and Arafat, one final act of vengeance-but it looked as though that was not to be. Once he killed Arafat, the bodyguards would swarm him. He would fight back and leave them no choice but to kill him. Anything is better than letting the tumor kill me. Allon would miss everything, and therefore his life would be spared. Arafat the traitorous coward would not be so lucky.
    Rodney tapped Tariq on the shoulder. "Start washing dishes, my friend, or this will be the last party you ever work."
    Rodney walked away. Tariq went into the pantry and switched on the light. He reached up to the top shelf and removed the bag of Tunisian dates he had hidden there an hour earlier. He carried the dates into the kitchen, arranged them on a white china plate. Then he started picking his way through the crowd.
    Arafat was standing in the center of the main drawing room, surrounded by a half-dozen aides and security men and a crowd of well-wishers. Ambassador Cannon stood at his side. Tariq moved forward, the butt of the Makarov pressing into the flesh of his abdomen. Arafat was now ten feet away, but there were five people between him and Tariq, including a bodyguard. Arafat was so short that Tariq could barely see him through the crowd-only the black-and-white of his checkered kaffiyeh. If he drew the Makarov now, surely one of the bodyguards would spot it and open fire. Tariq had to get closer before he drew the gun. He had to play out the ruse with the dates.
    But now Tariq had another problem. The crowd around Arafat was so tightly packed that he could move no closer. Standing directly in front of him was a tall man in a charcoal-gray suit. When Tariq tapped him on the shoulder, the man turned briefly and, spotting the tray and Tariq's white jacket, said, "No thank you."
    "They're for President Arafat," Tariq said, and the man reluctantly stepped aside.
    Next Tariq was confronted with a woman. Once again, he tapped the woman on the shoulder, waited for her to step aside, and moved another three feet closer to the target. But now he was standing beside one of Arafat's aides. He