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 dramatically 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
