The Kill Artist

Israel."
    "What if the government and the people found out exactly how you pulled off this great coup?"
    "The prime minister knows everything."
    "And the people?"
    "Don't get any ideas about running to the newspapers."
    "Why? Because I might end up like Benjamin Stone?"
    Shamron said nothing.
    Gabriel shook his head. "You'd do it, wouldn't you? You'd kill me too if I got in your way. And you wonder why you can't sleep at night."
    "Someone has to do these things, Gabriel! If not me, who? If our enemies think the Office is weak, then our enemies will test us. They might kill a few Jews whenever they felt like it. The Syrians might come rolling out of those hills again and try to drive us into the sea. Another Hitler might get the idea that he can exterminate my people while the world stands by and does nothing. I may embarrass you from time to time. I may use methods that you find distasteful, but secretly you're glad I'm here. It helps you sleep at night."
    "Why?" said Gabriel. "Why lie to me after all these years? Why not play it straight? Why engage in such an elaborate deception?"
    Shamron managed a weak smile. "Did I ever tell you about the night we kidnapped Eichmann?"
    "I've heard the story a hundred times."
    "Never the whole story, though." Shamron closed his eyes and winced slightly, as if the memory were painful. "We knew the bastard rode the same bus home every night. All we had to do was grab him as he stepped off. We'd practiced it a hundred times. During the drills I was able to perform the snatch in twelve seconds. But that night, as I climbed out of the car, I tripped. Eichmann nearly got away from us because I tripped. Do you know why I tripped, Gabriel? I tripped because I had forgotten to tie my shoelaces. I got him of course. But I learned a valuable lesson that night. Leave absolutely nothing to chance."
    "So it was no accident Yusef walked past my table tonight in Tel Aviv?" Gabriel asked. "You sent him there so I would see him. You wanted me to know the truth."
    Shamron inclined his head a fraction of an inch. Indeed.
    It was four o'clock in the morning by the time Gabriel returned to the flat in Jerusalem. On the table was a large Office envelope. Inside were three smaller packets: one containing an airline ticket for the morning flight to London, another containing three passports of different nationalities, and a third filled with American dollars and British pounds. Gabriel placed the smaller envelopes in the larger one and carried it into the bedroom, where he packed his remaining possessions into his rucksack. The flight wasn't for another five hours. He thought about sleeping, knew he couldn't. He thought about driving up to Herzliya. Jacqueline. None of it had been real. Only Jacqueline. He went into the kitchen and made coffee. Then he stepped out onto the balcony and waited for dawn.
    EPILOGUE
    Port Navas, Cornwall
    Something made Peel wake up. He rolled onto his side, snatched the torch from his bedside table, and shone it at his watch: 3:15 A.M. He switched off the light and lay awake in the darkness, listening to the wind moaning in the eaves and his mother and Derek quietly quarreling in the room next door.
    He could hear only snatches of their conversation, so he closed his eyes, remembering something about the blind hearing better than the sighted. "Having trouble with the new play," Derek was saying. "Can't seem to find my way into the first act… hard with a child in the house… back to London to be with his father… time alone together… lovers again…" Peel squeezed his eyes tightly, refusing to permit the tears to escape onto his cheeks.
    He was about to cover his ears with his pillow when he heard a sound outside on the quay: a small car, rattling like an oxcart with a broken wheel. He sat, threw off his blankets, placed his feet on the cold wood floor. He carried his torch to the window and looked out: a single red taillight, floating along the quay toward the oyster farm.
    The car vanished into the trees, then appeared a moment later, only now Peel was staring directly into the headlights. It was an MG, and it was stopping in front of the old foreman's cottage. Peel raised his torch, aimed it at the car, and flashed the light twice. The lights of the MG winked back. Then the engine died, and the lights went dark.
    Peel climbed back into bed and pulled his blankets beneath his chin. Derek and his mother were still quarreling, but he didn't really care. The stranger was