The Kill Artist

pieces of true, relatively harmless intelligence-all things the Israelis already knew. The Israeli believed he was now dealing with a genuine defector and agreed to meet with the Palestinian a second time, at a café a week later. But this time Tariq went to Madrid. He walked into the café at the appointed time, shot the officer twice in the face, and calmly walked out.
    He came to the river and walked along the embank-ment a short distance until he arrived at the girl's houseboat. It was a depressing place-dirty, filled with drug and sexual paraphernalia-but a perfect spot to hide while he planned the attack. He crossed the deck and entered the cabin. The skylights were covered with the new snow, the salon very cold. Tariq switched on a lamp, then turned on the little electric space heater. In the bedroom he could hear the girl stirring beneath her blankets. She was a pathetic wretch, not like the girl he had stayed with in Paris. No one would miss this one when she was gone.
    She rolled over and gazed at him through the strands of her stringy blond hair. "Where have you been? I was worried about you."
    "I was just out walking. I love walking in this city, especially when it's snowing."
    "What time is it?"
    "Four-thirty. Shouldn't you be getting out of bed?"
    "I don't have to leave for another hour."
    Tariq made her a mug of Nescafé and carried it into the bedroom. Inge rolled over and leaned on her elbow. The blanket slipped down her body, exposing her breasts. Tariq handed her the coffee and looked away. The girl drank the coffee, her eyes looking at him over the rim of the mug. She asked, "Something wrong?"
    "No, nothing."
    "Why did you look away from me?"
    She sat up and pushed away the blankets. He wanted to say no, but he feared she might be suspicious of a Frenchman who resisted the advances of an attractive young woman. So he stood at the edge of the bed and allowed her to undress him. And few moments later, as he exploded inside her, he was thinking not of the girl but of how he was going to finally kill Gabriel Allon.
    He lay in bed for a long time after she had left, listening to the sounds of the boats moving on the river. The headache came an hour later. They were coming more frequently now-three, sometimes four a week. The doctor had warned it would happen that way. The pain slowly intensified until he was nearly blinded by it. He placed a cool, damp towel on his face. No painkillers. They dulled his senses, made him sleep too heavily, and gave him the sensation of tumbling backward through an abyss. So he lay alone in the Dutch girl's bed, on a houseboat in the Amstel River, feeling as though someone were pouring molten lead into his skull through his eye sockets.
    SIXTEEN
    Valbonne, Provence
    The morning was clear and chilly, sunlight streaming over the hillsides. Jacqueline pulled on a pair of full-length riding chamois and a woolen jersey and tucked her long hair beneath a dark blue helmet. She slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses and studied her appearance in the mirror. She looked like a very handsome man, which was her intention. She stretched on the floor of her bedroom, then walked downstairs to the entrance hall, where her Bianchi racing bike leaned against the wall. She pushed the bike out the front door and wheeled it across the gravel drive. A moment later she was gliding through the cold shadows down the long gentle hill toward the village.
    She slipped through Valbonne and made the long, steady climb toward Opio, cold air burning her cheeks. She pedaled slowly and evenly for the first few miles while her muscles warmed. Then she switched gears and increased the cadence of her pedaling. Soon she was flying along the narrow road, head down, legs pumping like pistons. The smell of lavender hung on the air. Beside her a grove of olive trees spilled down a terraced hillside. She emerged from the shadows of the olive trees onto a flat plain of warm sunlight. After a moment she could feel the first sweat beneath her jersey.
    At the halfway point she checked her split: only thirty seconds off her best time. Not bad for a chilly December morning. She circled a traffic roundabout, switched gears, and started up a long, steep hill. After a few moments her breath was hoarse and ragged and her legs burning-too many goddamned cigarettes!-but she forced herself to remain seated and pound up the long hill. She thought of Michel Duval: Pig! One hundred yards from the crest she rose from the