The Kill Artist

for an organization loosely connected to the Ministry of Defense called the Institute for Coordination. We just call it the Office."
    "Well, I'm certainly glad we cleared that up."
    He threw his head back and laughed. "We'd like to talk to you about a job. Do you mind if I call you Sarah? I have trouble thinking of you as Jacqueline."
    "My parents are the only ones who call me Sarah anymore."
    "No old friends?"
    "I only have new friends," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "At least people who claim to be my friends. All my old friends from Marseilles dropped away after I became a model. They thought I'd changed because of my work."
    "But you have changed, haven't you, Sarah?"
    "Yes, I suppose I have." Then she thought: Why am I telling this to a man I just met? I wonder if he gets under everyone's skin so quickly.
    "And it isn't just a job, is it, Sarah? It's a way of life. You hang out with fashion designers and famous photographers. You go to glitzy parties and exclusive restaurants with actors and rock stars and millionaire playboys. Like that Italian count you had an affair with in Milan, the one that made the newspapers. Surely you're not the same little girl from Marseilles. The little Jewish girl whose grandparents were murdered by the Nazis at Sobibor."
    "You do know a great deal about me." She looked at him carefully. She was used to being surrounded by attractive, polished people, and here she was now in the company of this rather ugly man with steel glasses and a tear in his jacket. There was something of the primitive in him-the rough-hewn Sabra that she had always heard about. He was the kind of man who didn't know how to tie a bow tie and didn't care. She found him utterly charming. But more than anything she was intrigued by him.
    "As a Jew from Marseilles, you know that our people have many enemies. Many people would like to destroy us, tear down everything we have built in this land." As he spoke his hands carved the air. "Over the years Israel has fought many wars with her enemies. At this moment there is no fighting, but Israel is still engaged in another war, a secret war. This war is ceaseless. It will never end. Because of your passport and, quite frankly, your appearance, you could be a great deal of help to us."
    "Are you asking me to become a spy?"
    He laughed. "I'm afraid it's nothing quite so dramatic as that."
    "What do you want me to do?"
    "I want you to become a bat leveyha."
    "I'm sorry, but I don't speak Hebrew."
    "Bat leveyha is the term we use for a female assistant agent. As a bat leveyha, you may be called on to perform a number of functions for the Office. Sometimes you might be asked to pose as the wife or girlfriend of one of our male officers. Sometimes you might be asked to obtain a vital piece of information that a woman like you might get more readily than a male officer."
    He stopped talking for a moment and took his time lighting his next cigarette. "And sometimes we may ask you to perform another kind of assignment. An assignment that some women find too unpleasant to even consider."
    "For example?"
    "We might ask you to seduce a man-one of our enemies, for instance-in order to place him in a compromising situation."
    "There are lots of beautiful women in Israel. Why on earth would you need me?"
    "Because you're not an Israeli. Because you have a legitimate French passport and a legitimate job."
    "That legitimate job, as you call it, pays me a great deal. I'm not prepared to throw it away."
    "If you decide to work for us, I'll see that your assignments are brief and that you are compensated for lost wages." He smiled affectionately. "Although I don't think I can afford your usual fee of three thousand dollars an hour."
    "Five thousand," she said, smiling.
    "My congratulations."
    "I have to think about it."
    "I understand, but as you consider my offer, keep one thing in mind. If there had been an Israel during the Second World War, Maurice and Rachel Halévy might still be alive. It's my job to ensure the survival of the State so that the next time some madman decides to turn our people into soap, they'll have a place to take refuge. I hope you'll help me."
    He gave her a card with a telephone number and told her to call him with a decision the following afternoon. Then he shook her hand and walked away. It was the hardest hand she had ever felt.
    There had never been a question in her mind what her answer would be. By any objective standard she lived an exciting