The Kill Artist

respectable front had provided him an airtight cover, allowing him to travel the Middle East and Europe without raising the suspicion of security and intelligence services. The ultimate wolf in sheep's clothing, he moved among the most elite and cultured circles of Europe, worked with the Continent's most powerful business leaders, socialized with the rich and famous. Yet all the while he was working for the PLO-maintaining networks, recruiting agents, planning operations, carrying messages, collecting money from donors across the Middle East. He used the shipping and distribution systems of Schloss to move weaponry and explosives into place for operations. Indeed, it always gave him a rather morbid sense of pleasure to think that packed among life-giving medicines were the instruments of murder and terror.
    Now his situation was even more complicated. When Yasir Arafat agreed to renounce violence and enter into negotiations with the Zionists, Kemel became enraged and secretly joined forces with his old comrade Tariq al-Hourani. Kemel served as the chief of operations and planning for Tariq's organization. He saw to the finances, ran the communications networks, secured the weaponry and explosives, and handled operational planning-all from his office in Zürich. They formed a rather unique partnership: Tariq, the ruthless terrorist and cold-blooded killer; Kemel, the refined and respectable front man who provided him the tools of terror.
    Kemel closed his sales reports and looked up. Damn! Where is he? Perhaps something had gone wrong.
    Just then the compartment door opened and a man stepped inside: long blond hair, sunglasses, Yankees baseball hat, rock music blaring from his headphones. Kemel thought: Christ! Who is this idiot? Now Tariq will never dare to show.
    He said, "I'm sorry, but you're in the wrong compartment. These seats are all taken."
    The man lifted one earpiece of his headphones and said, "I can't hear you." He spoke English like an American.
    "These seats are taken," Kemel repeated impatiently. "Leave, or I'll call a steward."
    But the man just sat down and removed his sunglasses. "Peace be with you, my brother," Tariq said softly in Arabic.
    Kemel smiled in spite of himself. "Tariq, you bastard."
    "I was worried when Achmed failed to check in after I sent him to Greece," Kemel said. "Then I heard a body had been found in the villa on Samos, and I knew you two must have spoken."
    Tariq closed his eyes, tilted his head slightly to one side. "He was sloppy. You should choose your messengers more carefully."
    "But did you really have to kill him?"
    "You'll find another-better, I hope."
    Kemel looked at him carefully for a moment. "How are you feeling, Tariq? You don't-"
    "Fine," Tariq said, cutting him off. "How are things proceeding in Amsterdam?"
    "Quite nicely, actually. Leila has arrived. She's found you a woman and a place to stay."
    Tariq said, "Tell me about her."
    "She works in a bar in the red-light district. Lives alone on a houseboat on the Amstel. It's perfect."
    "When do I go?"
    "About a week."
    "I need money."
    Kemel reached into his briefcase and handed Tariq the envelope of cash. Tariq slipped it into his coat pocket. Then his pale gray eyes settled on Kemel. As always Kemel had the uncomfortable feeling that Tariq was deciding how best to kill him if he needed to.
    "Surely you didn't drag me all the way here to criticize me for killing Achmed and to ask about my health. What else do you have?"
    "Some interesting news."
    "I'm listening."
    "The men from King Saul Boulevard are convinced you were behind the attack in Paris."
    "How brilliant of them."
    "Ari Shamron wants you dead, and the prime minister has given him the green light."
    "Ari Shamron has wanted me dead for years. Why is this so important now?"
    "Because he's going to give the job to an old friend of yours."
    "Who?"
    Kemel smiled and leaned forward.
    SEVEN
    St. James's, London
    The sometimes-solvent firm of Isherwood Fine Arts resided in a crumbling Victorian warehouse in a quiet backwater of St. James's called Mason's Yard. It was wedged between the offices of a minor shipping company and a pub that always seemed to be filled with pretty office girls who rode motor scooters. The formal sign in the first-floor window stated that the gallery specialized in the works of the old masters, that the owner, Julian Isherwood, was a member in good standing of the Society of London Art Dealers, and that his collection could be seen by