He pulled his face into a frown. Jacqueline crossed her arms defiantly. “Fifty thousand, or you can call Shamron and ask him for a new girl.”
“Fifty thousand,” he said.
Jacqueline smiled.
Jacqueline telephoned Marcel Lambert in Paris and told him to cancel all her shoots for the next two weeks.
“Jacqueline, have you lost your mind? You can’t be serious. A woman in your tenuous position does not go around making matters worse by canceling shoots. That’s how one earns a reputation in this business.”
“Marcel, I’ve been in this business for seventeen years, and I’ve never had a reputation for blowing off shoots. Something’s come up, and I need to go away for a few days.”
“That’s what you expect me to tell the people who’ve been good enough to hire you? ‘Something’s come up.’ Come on, darling. You’ll have to do much better than that.”
“Tell them I’ve come down with something.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Leprosy,” she said.
“Oh, yes, marvelous.” His voice turned suddenly serious. “Tell me something, Jacqueline. You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you? You know you can trust me. I’ve been there from the beginning, remember. I know all your secrets.”
“And don’t forget that I know all yours, Marcel Lambert. And no, I’m not in any sort of trouble. There’s just something I need to take care of, and it won’t wait.”
“You’re not sick, are you, Jacqueline?”
“I’m in perfect health.”
“It’s not the coke again, is it?” Marcel whispered.
“Marcel!”
“Surgery? An eye job?”
“Fuck you.”
“A man. Is it a man? Has someone finally managed to put a dent in that iron heart of yours?”
“I’m hanging up now, Marcel. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“So I’m right! It is a man!”
“You’re the only man for me, Marcel.”
“I wish it were so.”
“À tout à l’heure.”
“Ciao.”
They set out in the late afternoon and followed the winding highway north into the mountains. Breakaway clouds hovered over the ravines. As they rose higher into the hills, fat balls of rain pounded the windshield of Gabriel’s rented Peugeot. Jacqueline reclined her seat and watched tributaries of rainwater racing over the moon roof, but already her mind was focused on London and the target. She lit a cigarette and said, “Tell me about him.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want anything in your head that might place you in a compromising situation.”
“You came for me because I know what I’m doing, Gabriel. Tell me something about him.”
“His name is Yusef. He grew up in Beirut.”
“Where in Beirut?”
“Shatila.”
“Jesus,” she said, closing her eyes.
“His parents were refugees in ’forty-eight. They used to live in the Arab village of Lydda, but during the war they fled across the border to Lebanon. They stayed in the south for a while, then moved to Beirut in search of work and settled in the Shatila camp.”
“How did he end up in London?”
“An uncle brought him to England. He made sure Yusef was educated and learned to speak perfect English and French. He became a political radical. He felt Arafat and the PLO had surrendered. He supported the Palestinian leaders who wanted to continue the war until Israel was erased from the map. He came to the attention of Tariq’s organization. He’s been an active member for several years.”
“Sounds charming.”
“He is, actually.”
“Any hobbies?”
“He likes Palestinian poetry and European women. And he helps Tariq kill Israelis.”
Gabriel turned off the motorway and followed a small road east into the mountains. They passed through a sleeping village and turned onto a rutted mud track lined with bare, dripping plane trees. He followed the track until he spotted a broken wooden gate leading to a patch of cleared land. He stopped the car, climbed out, pushed the gate open wide enough to accommodate the Peugeot. He drove into the clearing and shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on. He reached into Jacqueline’s handbag and took out her Beretta and spare clip. Then he grabbed one of her glossy fashion magazines and ripped off the front and back covers.
“Get out.”
“It’s raining.”
“Too bad.”
Gabriel climbed out and walked a few yards across the sodden earth toward a tree where the tattered remains of a No Trespassing sign hung from a bent, rusting nail. He shoved the magazine cover over the head of the nail and walked back toward the car. Jacqueline was silhouetted against the yellow headlights, hood up against the rain, arms folded. It was quiet except for the ticking of the Peugeot’s radiator and the distant barking of a farm dog. Gabriel removed the clip from the Beretta, checked to make certain the chamber was empty, then handed the gun and ammunition to Jacqueline.
“I want to know if you can still handle one of these.”
“But I know the girl on that cover.”
“Shoot her in the face.”
Jacqueline shoved the clip into the butt of the Beretta, tapped the base of the grip against the heel of her palm to make certain it was firmly in place. She stepped forward, raised the gun, bent her knees slightly, turned her body a few degrees to reduce her target profile for the imaginary enemy. She fired without hesitation, rhythmically and steadily, until the clip was empty.
Gabriel, listening to the popping of the little handgun, was suddenly back in the stairwell of the apartment house in Rome. Jacqueline lowered the Beretta, removed the clip, and inspected the chamber to make certain it was empty. She tossed the gun to Gabriel and said, “Let’s see you try it now.”
Gabriel just slipped the Beretta into his coat pocket and walked over to the tree to examine her results. Only one shot had missed; the hits were grouped tightly in the upper right. He ripped down the front cover, hung the back cover in its place, gave the Beretta back to Jacqueline. “Do it again, but this time, move forward while you’re firing.”
She rammed the second clip into the Beretta, pulled the slide, and advanced on the target, firing as she went. The last shot was from almost point-blank range. She pulled down the target, turned, and held it up so that the headlamps shone through the bullet holes in the paper. Each shot had found the mark. She walked back to Gabriel and gave him the Beretta and the magazine cover.
He said, “Pick up your brass.”
While Jacqueline gathered the spent cartridges, he quickly disassembled the Beretta. He removed the tire iron from the trunk and pounded the gun components until they were inoperable. They got back into the Peugeot, and Gabriel left the way he had come. Along the way he hurled the magazine covers and the broken bits of the Beretta into the darkness. After they had passed through the village, he opened the window once more and scattered the cartridges.
Jacqueline lit another cigarette. “How did I do?”
“You passed.”
19
AMSTERDAM
Tariq spent the afternoon running errands. He walked from the houseboat to Centraalstation, where he purchased a first-class ticket for the evening train to Antwerp. From the train station he walked to the red-light district, wandering the labyrinth of narrow alleys, past the sex shops and brothels and dreary bars, until a drug dealer pulled him aside and offered him heroin. Tariq haggled over the price, then asked for enough for three people to trip. Tariq gave him the money, slipped the drugs into his pocket, walked away.
In Dam Square, he hopped onto a streetcar and rode south through the city to the Bloemenmarkt, a floating outdoor flower market on the Singel canal. He went to the largest stall and asked the florist for an elaborate bouquet of traditional Dutch flowers. When the florist asked how much he was willing to spend, Tariq assured him money was no object. The florist smiled and told him to come back in twenty minutes
.
Tariq wandered through the market, past tulips and irises, lilies and sunflowers exploding with color, until he came upon a man painting. Short-cropped black hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes. His work depicted the Bloemenmarkt, framed by the canal and a terrace of gabled houses. It was dreamlike, an eruption of liquid color and light.
Tariq paused for a moment and watched him work. “Do you speak French?”
“Oui,” said the painter without looking up from his canvas.
“I admire your work.”
The painter smiled and said, “And I admire yours.”
Tariq nodded and walked away, wondering what in the hell the crazy painter was talking about.
He collected the flowers and returned to the houseboat. The girl was asleep. Tariq knelt beside her bed and gently shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked at him as though he were mad. She closed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time for work.”
“Come to bed.”
“Actually, I might have something you’ll enjoy more.”
She opened her eyes and saw the flowers. She smiled. “For me? What’s the occasion?”
“Just my way of thanking you for being such a gracious host.”
“I like you better than flowers. Take off your clothes and come to bed.”
“I have something else.”
He held up the bags of white powder.
Inge quickly pulled on some clothes while Tariq went into the galley. He dug a spoon from the drawer and lit a candle. He heated the drug over the flame, but instead of diluting one bag of heroin into the mixture, he used all three. When he finished, he drew the liquid into a syringe and carried it back into the forward cabin.
Inge was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had tied a length of rubber above her elbow and was probing the bruises along the inside of her forearm, looking for a suitable vein.
“That one looks like it will do,” Tariq said, handing her the syringe. She held it in the palm of her hand and calmly inserted the needle into her arm. Tariq looked away as she drew back the plunger with the tip of her thumb and the liquid heroin clouded with her blood. Then she pressed the plunger and loosened the elastic, sending the drug coursing through her body.
She looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “Hey, Paul, man . . . what’s going—”
She fell backward onto the bed, body shuddering with violent convulsions, the empty needle dangling from her arm. Tariq walked calmly to the galley and made coffee while he waited for the girl to finish dying.
Five minutes later, as he was packing his things into a small overnight bag, he felt the boat rock sharply. He looked up, stunned. Someone was on the deck! Within seconds the door opened and a large, powerfully built man entered the salon. He had blond hair and studs in both ears. Tariq thought he bore a vague resemblance to Inge. Instinctively he felt for his Makarov pistol, which was tucked inside his trousers at the small of his back.
The man looked at Tariq. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Inge’s. I’ve been staying here for a few days.” He spoke calmly, trying to gather his thoughts. The suddenness of the man’s appearance had thrown him completely off guard. Five minutes ago he had quietly dispensed with the girl. Now he was confronted with someone who could wreck everything. Then he thought: If I’m truly Inge’s friend, I have nothing to fear. He forced himself to smile and hold out his hand. “My name is Paul.”
The intruder ignored Tariq’s hand. “I’m Maarten, Inge’s brother. Where is she?”
Tariq motioned toward the bedroom. “You know how Inge can be. Still sleeping.” He realized he had left the door open. “Let me close her door so we don’t wake her. I’ve just made coffee. Would you like a cup?”
But Maarten walked past him and entered Inge’s room. Tariq thought, Damn it! He was shocked at how quickly things had spun out of control. He realized he had about five seconds to decide how he was going to kill him.
The easiest thing to do, of course, was to shoot him. But that would have consequences. Murder by handgun was almost unheard of in the Netherlands. A dead girl with a syringe sticking from her arm was one thing. But two dead bodies—one of them filled with 9mm rounds—was quite another. There would be a major investigation. The police would question the occupants of the surrounding houseboats. Someone might remember his face. They would give a description to the police, the police would give a description to Interpol, Interpol would give a description to the Jews. Every policeman and security official in western Europe would be looking for him. Shooting Maarten would be quick, but it would cost him in the long run.
He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. He remembered that in the drawer next to the propane stove was a large knife. If he killed Inge’s brother with a knife it might look like a crime of passion or an ordinary street crime. But Tariq found the idea of killing someone with a knife utterly repulsive. And there was another, more serious problem. There was a good chance he might not kill him with the first blow. The illness had already begun to take a toll on him. He had lost strength and stamina. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself in a life-or-death struggle with a bigger, stronger opponent. He saw his dreams—of destroying the peace process and finally evening the score with Gabriel Allon—evaporating, all because Inge’s big brother had come home at an inopportune moment. Leila should have chosen more carefully.
Tariq heard Maarten scream. He decided to shoot him.
He drew the Makarov from his waistband. He realized the gun had no silencer attached to it. Where is it? In the pocket of his coat, and the coat was on the chair in the salon. Shit! How could I have become so complacent?
Maarten charged out of the bedroom, face ashen. “She’s dead!”
“What are you talking about?” Tariq asked, doing his best to stall.
“She’s dead! That’s what I’m talking about! She overdosed!”
“Drugs?”
Tariq inched closer to his jacket. If he could pull the silencer from the pocket and screw it into the barrel, then he could at least kill him quietly. . . .
“She has a needle hanging from her arm. Her body is still warm. She probably shot up only a few minutes ago. Did you give her the fucking drugs, man?”
“I don’t know anything about drugs.” Tariq realized that he sounded too calm for the situation. He had tried to appear unfazed by Maarten’s arrival, and now he seemed too casual about his little sister’s death. Maarten clearly didn’t believe him. He screamed in rage and charged across the salon, arms raised, fists clenched.
Tariq gave up on trying to get the silencer. He gripped the Makarov, pulled the slide, leveled it at Maarten’s face, shot him through the eye.
Tariq worked quickly. He had managed to kill Maarten with a single shot, but he had to assume that someone on one of the neighboring houseboats or along the embankment had heard the pop. The police might be on their way right now. He slipped the Makarov back into his waistband, then grabbed his suitcase, the flowers, and the spent cartridge, and stepped out of the salon onto the aft deck. Dusk had fallen; snow was drifting over the Amstel. The dark would help him. He looked down and noticed he was leaving footprints on the deck. He dragged his feet as he walked, obscuring the impressions, and leaped onto the embankment.
He walked quickly but calmly. In a darkened spot along the embankment he dropped his suitcase into the river. The splash was nearly inaudible. Even if the police discovered the bag, there was nothing in it that could be traced to him. He would purchase a change of clothing and a new case when he arrived in Antwerp. Then he thought: If I arrive in Antwerp.
He followed the Herengracht westward across the city. For a moment he considered aborting the attack, going directly to Centraalstation, and fleeing the country. The Morgenthaus were soft targets and of minimal political value. Kemel had selected them because killing them would be easy and because it would allow Tariq to keep up the pressure on the peace process. But now the risk of capture had increased dramatica
lly because of the fiasco on the boat. Perhaps it was best to forget the whole thing.
Ahead of him a pair of seabirds lifted from the surface of the canal and broke into flight, their cries echoing off the facades of the canal houses, and for a moment Tariq was a boy of eight again, running barefoot through the camp at Sidon.
The letter arrived in the late afternoon. It was addressed to Tariq’s mother and father. It said that Mahmoud al-Hourani had been killed in Cologne because he was a terrorist—that if Tariq, the youngest child of the al-Hourani family, became a terrorist, he would be killed too. Tariq’s father told him to run up to the PLO office and ask if the letter spoke the truth. Tariq found a PLO officer and showed it to him. The PLO man read it once, handed it back to Tariq, ordered him to go home and tell his father that it was true. Tariq ran through the squalid camp toward his home, tears blurring his vision. He worshiped Mahmoud. He couldn’t imagine living without him.
By the time he arrived home, word of the letter had spread throughout the camp—other families had received similar letters over the years. Women gathered outside Tariq’s home. The sound of their wailing and the fluttering of their tongues rose over the camp with the smoke from the evening fires. Tariq thought it sounded like birds from the marshes. He found his father and told him that the letter was true—Mahmoud was dead. His father tossed the letter into the fire. Tariq would never forget the pain on his father’s face, the unspeakable shame that he had been told of the death of his eldest son by the very men who had killed him.
No, Tariq thought now as he walked along the Herengracht. He would not call off the attack and run because he was afraid of being arrested. He had come too far. He had too little time left.
Tariq arrived at the house. He climbed the front steps, reached out, and pressed the bell. A moment later the door was opened by a young girl in a maid’s uniform.
He held out the flower arrangement and said in Dutch, “A gift for the Morgenthaus.”
“Oh, how lovely.”
“It’s quite heavy. Shall I bring it inside for you?”