The Kill Artist by Daniel Silva Page A

Gabriel charmed them out of a couple of omelets and a pot of tea. Shamron, acting the role of Herr Heller, used a damp paper napkin to dab the dust of the footpath from his costly suede loafers. The girl who served them wore so many earrings and bracelets she sounded like a wind chime when she moved. There was something of Leah in her—Gabriel could see it; Shamron could see it too.
    “Why do you think it was Tariq?”
    “Did you hear about the girl? The American girl? The one he used for cover and then murdered in cold blood? Tariq always liked women. Too bad they all ended up the same way.”
    “That’s all you have? A dead American girl?”
    Shamron told him about the videotape, about the waiter who made a mysterious telephone call a minute before the ambassador and his wife stepped into the car. “His name is Mohammed Azziz. He told the catering company he was an Algerian. He’s not a waiter, and he’s not Algerian. He’s been a member of Tariq’s organization for ten years. He’s played a supporting role in several of Tariq’s operations.”
    Shamron fell silent as the girl with the bracelets came to their table and added hot water to their teapot.
    When she was gone he asked, “Do you have a girl?” He knew no boundaries when it came to asking personal questions. No corner of a man’s life, friend or enemy, was off limits.
    Gabriel shook his head and busied himself with the tea—milk on the bottom, tea on top, English style. Shamron dumped three packets of sugar into his cup, stirred violently, and pressed on with his inquiries. “No little loves? No loose women that you lure onto your boat for a pleasure cruise?”
    “No women on the boat. Just Peel.”
    “Ah, yes, Peel. Your watcher.”
    “My watcher.”
    “May I ask why not?”
    “No, you may not.”
    Shamron frowned. He was accustomed to unimpeded access into Gabriel’s personal life.
    “What about this girl?” Shamron cocked his head in the direction of the waitress. “She can’t take her eyes off of you. She doesn’t interest you in any way?”
    “She’s a child,” said Gabriel.
    “You’re a child.”
    “I’m closing in on fifty now.”
    “You look forty.”
    “That’s because I don’t work for you anymore.”
    Shamron dabbed omelet from his lips. “Maybe you won’t take another woman because you’re afraid Tariq will try to kill her too.”
    Gabriel looked up as if he had heard a gunshot.
    “Maybe if you help me take down Tariq, you can forgive yourself for what happened in Vienna. I know you blame yourself, Gabriel. If it wasn’t for Tunis, Leah and Dani would never have been in Vienna.”
    “Shut up—”
    “Maybe if you help me take down Tariq, you can finally let go of Leah and get on with your life.”
    Gabriel stood up, tossed a crumpled ten-pound note onto the table, and went out. Shamron smiled apologetically at the girl and followed softly after him.
     
    At the base of the cliff, on the little gray-sand beach at Polpeor Cove, stood the ruins of a lifeguard station slip. A bright wet moon shone through the broken clouds, and the sea held the reflection of light. Gabriel thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket, thinking of Vienna. The afternoon before the bombing. The last time he had made love to Leah. The last time he had made love to anyone . . . . Leah had insisted on keeping the blinds of their bedroom window open, even though it overlooked the courtyard of the apartment house and Gabriel was convinced the neighbors were watching them. Leah hoped they were. She found perverse justice in the idea of Jews—even secret Jews living as an Italian art restorer and his Swiss girlfriend—seeking pleasure in a city where they had suffered so much persecution. Gabriel remembered the damp heat of Leah’s body, the taste of salt on her skin. Afterward they had slept. When he awakened he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. “I want this to be your last job. I can’t take this anymore. I