The Kill Artist

Gabriel? Stay? Walk around the block? If she left she might never come back. She lit a cigarette, stamped her feet against the cold, waited.
    A moment later a Ford van braked to a halt in the street in front of her. The side door slid open, and Yusef leapt onto the wet asphalt. He walked toward her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, head swiveling from side to side. "How long have you been standing here?"
    "I don't know. Three minutes, five minutes. Where the hell have you been?"
    "I told you to come at nine. I didn't say five minutes before nine. I said nine."
    "So I was a few minutes early. What's the big deal?"
    "Because the rules have changed."
    She remembered what Gabriel had said to her: You have no reason to be afraid. If they push you, push back.
    "Listen, the rules haven't changed until I say they've changed. I haven't decided whether I'm going. This is crazy, Yusef. You won't tell me where I'm going. You won't tell me when I'll be back. I love you, Yusef. I want to help you. But you have to put yourself in my shoes."
    His demeanor softened immediately. "I'm sorry, Dominique. I'm just a little tense. Everything has to go right. I didn't mean to take it out on you. Come inside. We'll talk. But we don't have much time."
    Gabriel had never seen the Ford van till now. He wrote down the registration number as it vanished into the darkness. Shamron joined him in the window. Together they watched Yusef and Jacqueline disappear into the lobby. A moment later lights burned in Yusef's flat. Gabriel could hear two voices. Yusef, calm and reassuring; Jacqueline, edgy, stressed. Shamron made a base camp at the end of the couch and watched the scene across the street as though it were being played out on a movie screen. Gabriel closed his eyes and listened. They were stalking each other, circling the room like prizefighters. Gabriel didn't have to watch it. He could hear it in the way the audio level rose each time one of them passed by the telephone.
    "What is it, Yusef? Drugs? A bomb? Tell me, you bastard!"
    So convincing was her performance that Gabriel feared Yusef would change his mind. Shamron seemed to be enjoying the show. When Jacqueline finally agreed to go, he looked up at Gabriel. "That was marvelous. A nice touch. Well done. Bravo."
    Five minutes later Gabriel watched them climb into the back of a dark blue Vauxhall. A few seconds after the Vauxhall drove away, a car passed beneath Gabriel's window: Shamron's watchers. There was nothing to do now but wait. To fill the time he rewound the tape and listened to their conversation again. "Tell me something," Jacqueline had said. "When this is over will I ever see you again?" Gabriel stopped the tape and wondered whether she was speaking to Yusef or to him.
    * * *
    The Cromwell Road at midnight: the dreary corridor connecting Central London to the western suburbs had never looked so beautiful to Jacqueline. The bleak Edwardian hotels with their flickering neon vacancy signs seemed enchanting to her. She watched the changing patterns of traffic lights reflected in the wet pavement and saw an urban masterpiece. She lowered her window a few inches and smelled the air: diesel fumes, damp, cheap fried food cooking somewhere. London at night. Spectacular.
    They had switched cars, the blue Vauxhall for a gray Toyota with a cracked windshield. The Vauxhall had been driven by a good-looking boy with his hair drawn back into a ponytail. Sitting behind the wheel now was an older man-at least forty, she guessed-with a narrow face and nervous black eyes. He drove slowly.
    Yusef murmured a few words to him in Arabic.
    Jacqueline said, "Speak French or English or nothing at all."
    "We are Palestinians," Yusef said. "Arabic is our language."
    "I don't give a shit! I don't speak Arabic. I can't understand what you're saying, and it's making me uncomfortable, so please speak fucking English, or you can find someone else."
    "I was only telling him to slow down a little."
    Actually, Yusef, you were telling him to make certain we aren't being followed, but let's not get hung up on the details.
    On the seat between them lay a small suitcase. Yusef had taken her to her flat and helped her pack. "There won't be time to go to baggage claim," he had said. "If you need more clothing you'll be given money to buy more clothing." He had watched her pack carefully, inspecting each item she placed in the bag. "How should I dress?" she had asked sarcastically. "Warm climate or cold? Are