The Kill Artist

Al charter. If anything went wrong, they could abort the mission within seconds.
    "Mother has arrived safely," Gabriel murmured. He released the talk button and heard the words "Proceed to Mother's house."
    Gabriel held his Beretta between his knees during the drive, smoked for his nerves. The girl kept both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the darkened streets. She was tall, taller than Leah, with black eyes and a mane of dark hair held in place by a simple silver clasp at the nape of her neck. She knew the route as well as Gabriel. When Shamron dispatched Gabriel to Tunis to study the target, the girl had gone with him and posed as his wife. Gabriel reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder as she drove. Her muscles were rigid. "Relax," he said softly, and she smiled briefly and let out a long breath. "You're doing fine."
    They entered Sidi Boussaid, a wealthy Tunis suburb not far from the sea, and parked outside the villa. The Peugeots pulled in behind them. The girl killed the engine. Twelve-fifteen. Exactly on schedule.
    Gabriel knew the villa as well as he knew his own home. He had studied it and photographed it from every conceivable vantage point during the surveillance operation. They had built a perfect duplicate in the Negev, where he and the rest of the team rehearsed the assault countless times. During the final session they had managed to carry out the mission in twenty-two seconds.
    "We've arrived at Mother's house," Gabriel murmured over the radio.
    "Pay Mother a visit."
    Gabriel turned and said, "Go."
    He opened the door of the minibus and crossed the street, walking swiftly, not running. He could hear the quiet footfalls of the Sayaret team behind him. Gabriel drew several even breaths to try to slow his heart rate. The villa belonged to Khalil el-Wazir, better known as Abu Jihad, the PLO's chief of operations and Yasir Arafat's most trusted lieutenant.
    Just outside the villa, Abu Jihad's driver was sleeping behind the wheel of a Mercedes, a gift from Arafat. Gabriel shoved the end of a silenced Beretta into the driver's ear, pulled the trigger, kept walking.
    At the entrance of the villa, Gabriel stepped aside as a pair of Sayaret men attached a special silent plastique to the heavy door. The explosive detonated, emitting less sound than a handclap, and the door blew open. Gabriel led the team into the entrance hall, the Beretta in his outstretched hands.
    A Tunisian security guard appeared. As he reached for his weapon, Gabriel shot him several times through the chest.
    Gabriel stood over the dying man and said, "Tell me where he is, and I won't shoot you in the eye."
    But the security guard just grimaced in pain and said nothing.
    Gabriel shot him twice in the face.
    He mounted the stairs, ramming a fresh clip into his Beretta as he moved, and headed toward the study where Abu Jihad spent most nights working. He burst through the door and found the Palestinian seated in front of a television set, watching news footage of the intifada, which he was helping to direct from Tunis. Abu Jihad reached for a pistol. Gabriel charged forward as he fired, just as Shamron had trained him to do. Two of the shots struck Abu Jihad in the chest. Gabriel stood over him, pressed the gun against his temple, and fired two more times. The body convulsed in a death spasm.
    Gabriel darted from the room. In the hallway was Abu Jihad's wife, clutching their small son in her arms, and his teenage daughter. She closed her eyes and held the boy more tightly, waiting for Gabriel to shoot her.
    "Go back to your room!" he shouted in Arabic. Then he turned to the daughter. "Go and take care of your mother."
    Gabriel dashed from the house, followed by the entire Sayaret team. They piled into the minibus and the Peugeots and sped away. They drove through Sidi Boussaid back to Rouad, where they abandoned the vehicles at the beach and boarded the dinghies. A moment later they were speeding over the black surface of the Mediterranean toward the lights of a waiting Israeli patrol boat.
    "Thirteen seconds, Gabriel! You did it in thirteen seconds!"
    It was the girl. She reached out to touch him, but he recoiled from her. He watched the lights of the ship drawing closer. He looked up into the ink-black sky, searching for the command plane, but saw only a fingernail moon and a spray of stars. Then he saw the faces of Abu Jihad's wife and children, staring at him with hatred burning in their eyes.
    He tossed the Beretta into the sea