Gabriel Allon 01 - The Kill Artist

  “Come in.”

  He came into the room. He seemed surprised that she was already in the bath. He looked away, searching for a spot to place the coffee. “How do you feel?” he said, eyes averted.

  “How do you feel after you kill someone?”

  “I always feel dirty.”

  Jacqueline scooped up a handful of water and let it run over her face.

  Gabriel said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “It can wait until you’re dressed.”

  “We’ve lived together as man and wife, Gabriel. We’ve even behaved like man and wife.”

  “That was different.”

  “Why was it different?”

  “Because it was a necessary part of the operation.”

  “Sleeping in the same bed, or making love to each other?”

  “Jacqueline, please.”

  “Maybe you won’t look at me because I just slept with Yusef.”

  Gabriel glared at her and went out. Jacqueline permitted herself a brief smile, then slipped below the water.

  “The phone is made by British Telecom.”

  She was sitting in the cracked club chair, her body covered in a thick white robe. She rattled off the name and model number as she worked a towel through her damp hair.

  “There’s no telephone in the bedroom, but he does have a clock radio.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Sony.” She gave him the model number.

  “Let’s go back to the telephone for a moment,” Gabriel said. “Any distinguishing marks? Any price tags or stickers with telephone numbers on them? Anything that would give us a problem?”

  “He fancies himself a poet and a historian. He writes all the time. It looks as though he dials the telephone with the tip of a pen. The keypad is covered with marks.”

  “What color ink?”

  “Blue and red.”

  “What kind of pen?”

  “What do you mean? The kind of pen you write with.”

  Gabriel sighed and looked wearily at the ceiling. “Is it a ballpoint pen? Is it a fountain pen? Perhaps a felt-tipped pen?”

  “Felt-tipped, I believe.”

  “You believe?”

  “Felt-tipped. I’m sure of it.”

  “Very good,” he said as though he were speaking to a child. “Now, is it fine point, medium, or bold?”

  She slowly raised the long, slender middle finger of her right hand and waved it at Gabriel.

  “I’ll take that to mean bold point. What about the keys?”

  She hunted through her handbag, tossed him the silver mascara case. Gabriel thumbed the release, lifted the lid, looked at the imprints.

  She said, “We may have a problem.”

  Gabriel closed the lid and looked up.

  Jacqueline said, “I think he may have seen me with his keys.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She recounted the entire chain of events for him, then added cautiously, “He wants to see me again.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight at six-thirty. He’s meeting me at the gallery.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “Yes, but I can—”

  “No,” Gabriel said, interrupting her. “That’s perfect. I want you to meet him and keep him entertained long enough for me to get inside his flat and plant the bugs.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it will be done.”

  Gabriel left the building through a back service door. He slipped across the courtyard, scaled a cinder-block wall, and leaped into an alleyway strewn with beer cans and bits of broken glass. Then he walked to the Maida Vale Underground station. He felt unsettled. He didn’t like the fact that Yusef had asked to see Jacqueline a second time.

  He rode the Underground to Covent Garden. The bodel was waiting in line for coffee at the market. It was the same boy who had taken Gabriel’s field report at Waterloo Station. A black, soft-sided leather briefcase hung on his back from a shoulder strap, a side pocket facing out. Gabriel had placed the silver case containing the imprints of Yusef’s keys in a brown envelope—standard size, plain, no markings. He sat at a table drinking tea, eyes working methodically over the crowd.

  The bodel bought coffee, started to walk away. Gabriel got up and followed him, slicing through the crowded market, until he was directly behind him. Gabriel bumped the bodel as he was taking the first sip of coffee, spilling some of it down the front of his jacket. He apologized and walked away, the plain brown envelope now residing safely in the outside pocket of the bodel’s briefcase.

  Gabriel wound his way through St. Giles, across New Oxford Street, then up Tottenham Court Road, where there were several shops specializing in electronic goods. Ten minutes later, after visiting two of the shops, he was back in a taxi heading across London to the listening post in Sussex Gardens. On the seat next to him was a bag containing four items: a Sony clock radio, a British Telecom phone, and two felt-tipped pens, one red, one blue, both bold.

  Karp sat at the dining room table, studying the exposed internal components of the clock radio and telephone through a lighted magnifying glass. As Gabriel watched Karp work, he thought about his studio in Cornwall and imagined he was peering through his Wild microscope at the surface of the Vecellio.

  Karp said, “We call it a hot mike. Your outfit calls it a glass if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re correct as usual.”

  “It’s a wonderful little piece of equipment, coverage of his flat and his telephone with the same device. Two for the price of one, you might say. And you never have to worry about replacing the battery because the transmitter draws its power from the telephone.”

  Karp paused for a moment to concentrate on his work. “Once these go in, the monitoring operation is basically on autopilot. The tape decks are voice-activated. They’ll roll only if there’s something coming from the source. If you need to leave the flat for any reason, you can check the tapes when you come back. My work is basically finished.”

  “I’ll miss you, Randy.”

  “Gabe, I’m touched.”

  “I know.”

  “That was a nice piece of work, sending in the girl like that. Break-ins can get messy. Always better to get the keys and phone before you go in for the plant.”

  Karp placed the cover back on the telephone, handed it to Gabriel. “Your turn.”

  Gabriel the restorer picked up his pens and began making marks on the keypad.

  Kemel Azouri had been at Schloss headquarters in Zürich earlier that morning, meeting with his sales staff, when he received a text message over his pager: Mr. Taylor wished to speak to him about a problem with last Thursday’s shipment. Kemel cut short his meeting, took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and boarded the next Eurostar train to London. The timing of the message intrigued him. Mr. Taylor was the code name for an agent in London. “A problem with the shipment” was a code phrase for urgent. Use of the word Thursday meant the agent wished to meet on Cheyne Walk at four-fifteen. Kemel strode through the arrival hall at Waterloo and climbed into a taxi at the stand. A moment later he was speeding across Westminster Bridge.

  He told the driver to drop him at Royal Hospital Chelsea. He walked along the river through the gathering darkness and waited at the foot of Battersea Bridge.

  He checked his watch: four-twelve.

  He lit a cigarette and waited.

  Three minutes later, at precisely four-fifteen, a handsome young man in a black leather jacket appeared at his side.

  “Mr. Taylor, I presume.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you all the way to London, Kemel, but you wanted to know about every potential approach.”

  “What was her name?”

  “She called herself Dominique Bonard.”

  “French?”

  “Claims to be.”

  “You suspect she’s lying.”

  “I’m not sure
. I can’t be certain, but it’s possible she was going through my things this morning.”

  “Have you been followed recently?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “She says she’s from Paris.”

  “What’s she doing in London?”

  “She works at an art gallery.”

  “Which one?”

  “A place called Isherwood Fine Arts in St. James’s.”

  “Where do you stand with this woman?”

  “I’m supposed to see her again in two hours.”

  “By all means, keep your date with her. In fact I’d like the two of you to develop a very close relationship. Do you think you’re up to the job?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  25

  ST. JAMES’S, LONDON

  The security buzzer groaned early that evening while Julian Isherwood was working his way through a stack of bills and sipping a good whiskey. He remained at his desk—after all, it was the girl’s job to answer the door—but when the buzzer howled a second time he looked up. “Dominique, there’s someone at the door. Would you mind? Dominique?”

  Then he remembered he had sent her down to the storeroom to return a batch of paintings. He stood, walked wearily into the anteroom, peered into the security monitor. Standing outside was a young man. Mediterranean of some sort, good-looking. He pressed the button on the intercom. “Sorry, closed. As you can see we show by appointment only. Why don’t you ring in the morning? My secretary will be happy to set aside some time for you.”

  “Actually, I’m here to see your secretary. My name is Yusef.”

  Jacqueline stepped out of the lift and came into the anteroom.

  Isherwood said, “There’s a fellow named Yusef downstairs. Says he’s here to see you.”

  Jacqueline looked into the monitor.

  Isherwood said, “Do you know him?”

  She pressed the buzzer that released the door lock. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend. A good friend.”

  Isherwood’s jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide.

  Jacqueline said, “If you’re going to be uncomfortable, perhaps you should leave.”

  “Yes, I think that’s wise.” He walked back into his office and put on his jacket. When he returned to the anteroom, the Arab was kissing Jacqueline on the cheek. She said, “Yusef, I’d like you to meet Mr. Isherwood. He’s the owner of the gallery.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Yusef. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I’m running late for an appointment. So if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be going.”

  “Do you mind if I show Yusef around the gallery?”

  “Of course not. Delighted. Be sure to lock up, Dominique, darling. Thank you. See you in the morning. Pleasure meeting you, Yusef. Cheers.”

  Isherwood clambered down the stairs and hurried across Mason’s Yard to the sanctuary of the bar at Green’s. He ordered a whiskey and drank it very fast, all the while wondering whether it was truly possible that Gabriel’s girl had just brought a terrorist into his gallery.

  Gabriel sat on a bench on Victoria Embankment, watching the gray river moving sluggishly beneath Blackfriars Bridge, holding a copy of the Daily Telegraph. On page thirteen, hidden behind an advertisement, was a coded field report for Shamron. The bodel appeared ten minutes later. He walked past Gabriel and headed up the steps toward the Temple Underground station. He wore a hat, which meant he was not being followed and it was safe to proceed. Gabriel followed him into the station, then down the escalator to the platform. When the train arrived, the two men entered the same crowded carriage. They were forced to stand side by side, which made the exchange—Yusef’s keys for the newspaper containing Gabriel’s field report—quite impossible to detect. Gabriel got off at Paddington Station and headed back to the listening post.

  Jacqueline said, “There’s something I want to show you.” She led Yusef into the lift, and they rode up in silence. When the door opened, she took his hand and guided him into the center of the darkened gallery. She said, “Close your eyes.”

  “I don’t like games like these.”

  “Close your eyes.” Then she added playfully, “I promise to make it worth your while.”

  He closed his eyes. Jacqueline walked across the room to the lighting control panel and placed her hand on the main dimmer switch. “Now, open them.”

  She brought the lights up slowly. Yusef’s mouth fell slightly open as he surveyed the surrounding paintings. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s my favorite place in the world.”

  Yusef took a few steps forward and stood before one of the paintings. “My God, is that really a Claude?”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, that’s one of his first river scenes. It’s very valuable. Look at the way he depicted the sun. Claude was one of the first artists to actually use the sun as the source of light for an entire composition.”

  “Claude was born in France, but he lived almost his entire life in Venice, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Actually, you are mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome, in a small flat on the Via Margutta near the Piazza di Spagna. He became the most sought-after landscape painter in all of Italy.”

  Yusef turned away from the painting and looked at her. “You know a great deal about painting.”

  “Actually, I know very little, but I work in an art gallery.”

  Yusef asked, “How long have you been working here?”

  “About five months.”

  “About five months? What does that mean exactly? Does that mean four months or six months?”

  “It means nearly five months. And why do you want to know? Why is this important to you?”

  “Dominique, if this relationship is to continue, there must be complete honesty between us.”

  “Relationship? I thought we were only sleeping together.”

  “Maybe there can be more between us, but only if there are no lies. No secrets.”

  “Complete honesty? Are you sure about that? Can there ever be complete honesty between two people? Would that be healthy? Isn’t it best to keep some things secret? Have you told me all your secrets, Yusef?”

  He ignored this question.

  “Tell me, Dominique,” he said. “Are you in love with another man?”

  “No, I am not in love with another man.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of the way you made love to me last night.”

  “You’ve made love to many women? You’re an expert in these matters?”

  He pulled his lips into a modest smile.

  Jacqueline said, “What is it about the way that I make love to you that has convinced you I am in love with another man?”

  “You closed your eyes while I was inside you. You closed your eyes as if you didn’t want to look at me. You closed your eyes as if you were thinking about someone else.”

  “And if I were to admit to you that I was in love with another man? How would you feel about this? Would it change anything between us?”

  “It might make me care even more for you.”

  “I like to close my eyes when I make love, Yusef. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Are you keeping any secrets from me?”

  “None of any consequence.” She smiled. “Are you going to take me to dinner?”

  “Actually, I had a better idea. Let’s go back to my flat. I’ll make dinner for us.”

  Jacqueline felt a stab of panic. He seemed to sense her unease because he tilted his head and asked, “Is something wrong, Dominique?”

  “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.