The Kill Artist

was time to get out while she still had some shred of dignity. "You're right," she said. "I could use a few days in the countryside. But I want you to call that fucking Robert Leboucher right now and tell him that you expect him to keep his word about the shoot in Mustique."
    "And what if I can't make him change his mind?"
    "Tell him I'll kick him in the cock too."
    Marcel smiled. "Jacqueline, darling, I've always liked your style."
    TWELVE
    Bayswater, London
    Fiona Barrows looked a great deal like the block of flats she managed in Sussex Gardens: broad and squat with a bright coat of paint that could not conceal the fact she was aging and not terribly gracefully. The short walk from the lift to the entrance of the vacant flat left her slightly out of breath. She shoved the key into the lock with her plump hand, pushed open the door with a little grunt. "Here we are," she sang.
    She led him on a brief tour: a sitting room furnished with well-worn couches and chairs, two identical bedrooms with double beds and matching bedside tables, a small dining room with a modern table of tinted gray glass, a cramped galley kitchen with a two-burner stove and a microwave oven.
    He walked back into the sitting room, stood in the window, opened the blinds. Across the road was another block of flats.
    "If you want my opinion, you couldn't ask for a better location in London for the price," Fiona Barrows said. "Oxford Street is very close, and of course Hyde Park is just around the corner. Do you have children?"
    "No, I don't," Gabriel said absently, still looking at the block of flats across the street.
    "What kind of work do you do, if you don't mind me asking?"
    "I'm an art restorer."
    "You mean you spruce up old paintings?"
    "Something like that."
    "You do the frames as well? I have an old frame in my flat that needs patching up."
    "Just the paintings, I'm afraid."
    She looked at him as he stood in the window, gazing into space. A handsome man, she thought. Nice hands. Good hands were sexy in a man. Imagine, an art restorer, right here in the building. It would be nice to have a touch of class around for a change. Oh, that she was still single-single, twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter. He was a cautious fellow; she could see that. A man who never made a move without thinking through every angle. He would probably want to see a dozen more flats before making up his mind. "So, what do you think?"
    "It's perfect," he said to the window.
    "When would you like it?"
    Gabriel closed the blind. "Right now."
    For two days Gabriel watched him.
    On the first day he saw him just once-when he rose shortly after noon and appeared briefly in the window wearing only a pair of black underpants. He had dark, curly hair, angular cheekbones, and full lips. His body was lean and lightly muscled. Gabriel pulled open Shamron's file and compared the face in the window with the photograph clipped to the manila cover.
    Same man.
    Gabriel could feel an operational coldness spreading over him as he studied the figure in the window. Suddenly everything seemed brighter and sharper in contrast. Noises seemed louder and more distinct-a car door closing, lovers quarreling in the next flat, a telephone ringing unanswered, his teakettle screaming in the kitchen. One by one he tuned out these intrusions and focused all his attention on the man in the window across the street.
    Yusef al-Tawfiki, part-time Palestinian nationalist poet, part-time student at University College London, part-time waiter at a Lebanese restaurant called the Kebab Factory on the Edgware Road, full-time action agent for Tariq's secret army.
    A hand appeared on Yusef's abdomen: pale skin, luminous against his dark complexion. A woman's hand. Gabriel saw a flash of short blond hair. Then Yusef vanished behind the curtains.
    The girl left an hour later. Before climbing into the taxi, she looked up toward the flat to see if her lover was watching. The window was empty and the curtains drawn. She closed the door, a little harder than necessary, and the taxi drove away.
    Gabriel made his first operational assessment: Yusef didn't treat his women well.
    The next day Gabriel decided to mount a loose physical surveillance.
    Yusef left the flat at midday. He wore a white shirt, black trousers, and a black leather jacket. As he stepped onto the pavement, he paused to light a cigarette and scan the parked cars for any sign of surveillance. He waved out the match and started walking toward the