The Kill Artist

Gabriel?
    "Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you'll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?"
    Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel's voice.
    "Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don't be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don't be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it-she may want to make idle threats about walking out-but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we'll be close by. We'll be watching. I'll be watching."
    He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. "I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it's going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I'm trying to make is that you'll never know when it's going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you're not to look at me. You're not to flinch or call out my name. You're not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead."
    He paused for a moment, then added, "He won't die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn't that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I'll have to finish the job. There's only one way to do that."
    He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.
    "I don't want you to watch me when I do this. It's not who I am."
    She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.
    "How is she?" asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.
    "She's resolute."
    "And you?"
    "My feelings are immaterial at this point."
    "You're not excited in any way? You're not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?"
    "I lost those feelings a long time ago."
    "You and I are different, Gabriel. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him."
    "You're right. You and I are very different."
    "If I didn't know better, I'd say you had feelings for her."
    "I've always liked her."
    "You've never liked anyone or anything in your life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There's no middle ground for you."
    "Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?"
    "I didn't need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious."
    "Can we please change the subject?"
    "All right, we'll change the subject. How do you feel about me, Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?"
    "Some things are better left unsaid."
    Gabriel crossed the Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. "This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren't many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man."
    "Like Lillehammer," Gabriel said.
    Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of kidons from Shamron's team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September's chief of operations and the mastermind of