The Kill Artist

point?"
    "Of course I am."
    "Why? You know what's happening to me."
    "Actually, I try not to think about it."
    At the bottom of the hill they came to a taxi stand. Tariq kissed Kemel's cheeks, then gripped his shoulders. "No tears, my brother. I've been fighting for a long time. I'm tired. It's best this way."
    Kemel released his grip and opened the door to the waiting taxi.
    Tariq said, "He should have killed the girl."
    Kemel turned around. "What?"
    "Allon should have killed the German girl who was with my brother. It would all have ended there."
    "I suppose you're right."
    "It was a stupid mistake," Tariq said. "I wouldn't have made a mistake like that."
    Then he turned and walked slowly up the hill into the Alfama.
    TWENTY-NINE
    St. James's, London
    When the security buzzer sounded, Jacqueline turned and peered into the monitor: a bicycle courier. She looked at her watch: six-fifteen. She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then walked from her desk into the hallway to sign for the package. A large manila envelope. She went back to her office, sat down at the desk, sliced open the envelope with the tip of her forefinger. Inside was a single piece of executive-sized letter paper, light gray in color, folded crisply in half. The letterhead bore the name Randolph Stewart, private art dealer. She read the handwritten note: Just back from Paris… Very good trip… No problems with the acquisition… Continue with sale as planned. She placed the letter in Isherwood's shredder and watched it turn to paper linguine.
    She stood up, pulled on her coat, then walked into Isherwood's office. He was hunched over a ledger book, chewing on the end of a pencil. He looked up as she entered the room and gave her a weak smile. "Leaving so soon, my love?"
    "I'm afraid I must."
    "I shall count the hours until I see you again."
    "And I shall do the same."
    As she walked out she realized that she would miss Isherwood when it was all over. He was a decent man. She wondered how he had become entangled with the likes of Ari Shamron and Gabriel. She hurried across Mason's Yard through windblown rain, then walked up Duke Street toward Piccadilly, thinking about the letter. It depressed her. She could picture the rest of the evening. She would meet Yusef at his flat. They would go to dinner, then return to his flat and make love. Then two hours of Middle East history. The injustices heaped upon the defenseless Palestinians. The crimes of the Jews. The inequity of the two-state solution on the negotiating table. It was getting harder and harder for her to pretend that she was enjoying herself.
    Gabriel had promised her a short assignment: seduce him, get into his flat, get his keys and his telephone, and get out again. She had not signed up for a long-term romance. She found the idea of sleeping with Yusef again repulsive. But there was something else. She had agreed to come to London because she thought working with Gabriel would rekindle their romance. If anything it had driven them farther apart. She rarely saw him-he communicated through letters-and the few times they had been together he had been cold and distant. She had been a fool to think things could ever be the way they had been in Tunis.
    She entered the Piccadilly Underground station and walked to the crowded platform. She thought of her villa; of cycling through the sun-drenched hillsides around Valbonne. For a moment she imagined Gabriel riding next to her, his legs pumping rhythmically. Then she felt silly for allowing herself to think about such things. When the train came, she squeezed her way into the packed carriage and clung to a metal handhold. As the car lurched forward, she decided this would be the last night. In the morning, she would tell Gabriel she wanted out.
    Gabriel paced the carpet of the listening post, casually dribbling a lime-green tennis ball with his stocking feet. It was shortly before midnight. Jacqueline and Yusef had just finished making love. He listened to their mutual declarations of physical pleasure. He listened to Yusef using the toilet. He listened to Jacqueline padding into the kitchen for something to drink. He heard her ask Yusef where he had hidden her cigarettes.
    Gabriel lay on the couch and tossed the ball toward the ceiling while he waited for Yusef to begin tonight's seminar. He wondered what the topic would be. What was it last night?-the myth that only the Jews made the desert bloom. No, that was the night before. Last night had been