The Kill Artist

himself for what had happened in Vienna, not only because of his affair with Jacqueline but because of the way he had killed Tariq's brother. He had wanted the satisfaction of knowing that Mahmoud was aware of his death-that he had been terrified at the moment Gabriel's Beretta quietly dispatched the first scorching bullet into his brain. Shamron had told him to terrorize the terrorists-to think like them and behave like them. Gabriel believed he had been punished for allowing himself to become like his enemy.
    He had punished himself in return. One by one he had closed the doors and barred the windows that had once given him access to life's pleasures. He drifted though time and space the way he imagined a damned spirit might visit the place where he had lived: able to see loved ones and possessions but unable to communicate or taste or touch or feel. He experienced beauty only in art and only by repairing damage inflicted by uncaring owners and by the corrosive passage of time. Shamron had made him the destroyer. Gabriel had turned himself back into the healer. Unfortunately, he was not capable of healing himself.
    So why tell his secrets to Jacqueline? Why answer her damned questions? The simple answer was he wanted to. He had felt it the moment he walked into her villa in Valbonne, a prosaic need to share secrets and reveal past pain and disappointment. But there was something more important: he didn't have to explain himself to her. He thought of his silly fantasy about Peel's mother, how it had ended when he had told her the truth about himself. The scenario reflected one of Gabriel's deep-seated fears-the dread of telling another woman he was a professional killer. Jacqueline already knew his secrets.
    Maybe Jacqueline had been right about one thing, he thought-maybe he should have asked Shamron for another girl. Jacqueline was his bat leveyha, and tomorrow he was going to send her into the bed of another man.
    He parked around the corner from his flat and walked quickly along the pavement toward the entrance of the block. He looked up toward his window and murmured, "Good evening, Mr. Karp." And he pictured Karp, peering through the sight of his parabolic microphone, saying, "Welcome home, Gabe. Long time, no hear from."
    TWENTY-TWO
    Maida Vale, London
    Jacqueline felt a peculiar exhilaration the following morning as she walked along Elgin Avenue toward the Maida Vale tube station. She had lived a life of hedonistic excess-too much money, too many men, fine things taken for granted. It felt reassuring to be doing something so ordinary as taking the Underground to work, even if it was only a cover job.
    She bought a copy of The Times from the newsstand on the street, then entered the station and followed the stairs down to the ticket lobby. The previous evening she had studied street maps and memorized the Underground lines. They had such curious names: Jubilee, Circle, District, Victoria. To get to the gallery in St. James's, she would take the Bakerloo Line from Maida Vale to Piccadilly Circus. She purchased a ticket from an automated dispenser, then passed through the turnstile and headed down the escalator to the platform. So far, so good, she thought. Just another working girl in London.
    Her notion of relaxing for a few minutes with the newspaper dissolved when the train arrived at the station. The carriages were hopelessly crowded, the passengers crushed against the glass. Jacqueline, who was always protective of her personal space, considered waiting to see if the next train was any better. She looked at her watch, saw she had no time to waste. When the doors opened, only a handful of people got off. There seemed to be no place for her to stand. What would a Londoner do? Push her way in. She held her handbag across her breasts and stepped aboard.
    The train lurched forward. The man next to her was breathing last night's beer into her face. She stretched her long frame, tilted her head back, closed her eyes, found a draft of fresh air leaking through the crack in the doors.
    A few moments later the train arrived at Piccadilly Circus. Outside, the mist had turned to light rain. Jacqueline pulled an umbrella from her handbag. She walked quickly, keeping pace with the office workers around her, making subtle alterations in course to avoid oncoming traffic.
    Turning into Duke Street, she glanced over her shoulder. Walking a few feet behind her, wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, was Gabriel. She