The Kill Artist

us."
    Jacqueline felt a stab of panic. He seemed to sense her unease because he tilted his head and asked, "Is something wrong, Jacqueline?"
    "No, nothing," she said, managing a weak smile. "Dinner at your place sounds wonderful."
    Gabriel crossed the street, a nylon rucksack over his shoulder. Inside were the duplicate telephone and clock radio. He looked up toward the listening post. Karp had switched on the light, a signal meaning it was safe to proceed. They planned to do all their communication with light signals, though Gabriel carried a cell phone in case of an emergency.
    He walked up the steps of Yusef's building and removed the set of duplicate keys from his pocket. He selected the key for the front door, slipped it into the chamber, turned. It stuck. Gabriel swore softly beneath his breath. He jiggled it back and forth, tried again. This time the lock opened.
    Once inside he walked across the lobby without hesitation. It was a doctrine that had been pounded into him by Shamron during the Black September operation: hit hard and fast, don't worry about making a bit of noise, get away quickly. After his first job, the assassination of the Black September chief in Rome, Gabriel was flying to Geneva within an hour of the killing. He hoped this operation would go as smoothly.
    He mounted the stairs and climbed quickly toward the second floor. Descending toward him were a group of young Indians: two boys, a pretty girl. As they passed him on the first-floor landing, Gabriel turned his face and pretended to be working the zipper on the rucksack. As the Indians continued down the stairs, he risked a glance over his shoulder. None of them looked back. He waited on the second-floor landing a moment and listened as they crossed the lobby and headed out the front entrance. Then he walked to Yusef's flat: number 27.
    This time the keys worked perfectly on the first try, and within seconds Gabriel was inside the flat. He closed the door and left the lights off. He reached into the rucksack and removed a small flashlight. He switched it on and quickly played the beam around the floor next to the door, looking for a telltale-a scrap of paper or any other innocent-looking small object that would alert Yusef that the flat had been entered. He saw nothing.
    He turned and shone the light quickly around the room. He resisted the impulse to search Yusef's flat. He had watched him from a distance for several days, developed a natural curiosity about the man. Was he neat and orderly, or a slob? What kind of food did he eat? Did he have debts? Did he use drugs? Did he wear strange underwear? Gabriel wanted to search his drawers and read his private papers. He wanted to look at his clothing and his bathroom. He wanted to see anything that might complete the picture-any clue that might help him better understand how Yusef fit into Tariq's organization. But now was not the time for that kind of search. Too risky, the odds of detection too great.
    The beam of the flashlight settled on Yusef's telephone. Gabriel crossed the room, knelt beside it. He removed the duplicate from the rucksack and quickly compared it with the original. Perfect match. Jacqueline had done her job well. He pulled the wire from Yusef's phone and exchanged it for the duplicate. The cord connecting the handset to the base on Yusef's telephone was worn and stretched, the cord on the duplicate brand-new, so Gabriel quickly switched the cords.
    He glanced out the window toward the listening post. Karp's signal light was still burning. It was safe to continue. He shoved Yusef's phone into the rucksack as he moved from the sitting room into the bedroom.
    As he passed the bed, he had a disturbing image of Jacqueline's naked body writhing in rumpled sheets. He wondered whether his curiosity about Yusef was purely professional. Had it become personal as well? Did he now consider the Palestinian something of a rival?
    He realized he had been staring at the empty bed for several seconds. What in the hell has got into you?
    He turned around, focused his attention on the clock radio. Before unplugging it, he checked the settings. The alarm was programmed to go off at 8:00 A.M. He turned on the radio: BBC Radio Five, volume low.
    He shut off the radio, pulled the power cord out of the wall.
    At that instant his cell phone rang.
    He stood and looked out the window. The signal light was out.
    He had been so unnerved by the image of Jacqueline on the bed that he had forgotten to