Tariq’s flat was high in the Alfama. Two rooms, sagging wooden floors, a tiny veranda overlooking a quiet courtyard. He fixed tea Arab style, strong and sweet, and they sat near the open door of the veranda, rain smacking on the stones of the courtyard.
Tariq said, “Do you remember how we found Allon in Vienna?”
“It was a long time ago. You’ll have to refresh my memory.”
“My brother was in bed when he was killed. He had a girl with him-a German student, a radical. She wrote a letter to my parents a few weeks after Mahmoud was killed and told them how it happened. She said she would never forget the face of the assassin as long as she lived. My father took the letter to the PLO security officer in the camp. The security officer turned it over to PLO intelligence.”
“This all sounds vaguely familiar,” Kemel said.
“After Abu Jihad was murdered in Tunis, PLO security conducted an investigation. They worked from a simple prem-ise. The killer seemed to know the villa well, inside and out. Therefore he must have spent time around the villa conducting surveillance and planning the attack.”
“A brilliant piece of detective work,” Kemel said sarcastically. “If PLO security had been doing their job right to begin with, Abu Jihad would still be alive.”
Tariq went into the bedroom, returned a moment later holding a large manila envelope. “They began reviewing all the videotape from the surveillance cameras and found several shots of a small, dark-haired man.” Tariq opened the envelope and handed Kemel several grainy prints. “Over the years PLO intelligence had kept track of the German girl. They showed her these photographs. She said it was the same man who had killed Mahmoud. No doubt about it. So we started looking for him.”
“And you found him in Vienna?”
“That’s right.”
Kemel held out the photographs to Tariq. “What does this have to do with Dominique Bonard?”
“It goes back to the investigation of the Tunis affair. PLO security wanted to find out where the assassin had stayed in Tunis while he was planning the attack. They knew from past experience that Israeli agents tend to pose as Europeans during jobs like this. They assumed that a man posing as a European had probably stayed in a hotel. They started calling on their spies and informants. They showed the photographs of the assassin to a concierge at one of the beachfront hotels. The concierge said the man had stayed in the hotel with his French girlfriend. PLO security went back to the tapes and began looking for a girl. They found one and showed her to the concierge.”
“Same girl?”
“Same girl.”
Then Tariq reached into the envelope and removed one more surveillance photograph: this one of a beautiful dark-haired girl. He handed it to Kemel, who compared it with the photograph of the woman in London.
“I could be mistaken,” Tariq said. “But it looks to me like Yusef’s new girlfriend has worked with Gabriel Allon before.”
They reviewed the plan one last time as they walked through the twisting alleys of the Alfama.
“The prime minister and Arafat leave for the United States in five days,” Kemel said. “They’re going to Washington first for a meeting at the White House, then it’s off to New York for the signing ceremony at the United Nations. Everything is in place in New York.”
“Now I just need a traveling companion,” Tariq said. “I think I’d like a beautiful French woman-the type of woman who would look good on the arm of a successful entrepreneur.”
“I think I know where I can find a woman like that.”
“Imagine, killing the peace process and Gabriel Allon in one final moment of glory. We’re going to shake the world, Kemel. And then I’m going to leave it.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“You’re not concerned about my safety at this point?”
“Of course I am.”
“Why? You know what’s happening to me.”
“Actually, I try not to think about it.”
At the bottom of the hill they came to a taxi stand. Tariq kissed Kemel’s cheeks, then gripped his shoulders. “No tears, my brother. I’ve been fighting for a long time. I’m tired. It’s best this way.”
Kemel released his grip and opened the door to the waiting taxi.
Tariq said, “He should have killed the girl.”
Kemel turned around. “What?”
“Allon should have killed the German girl who was with my brother. It would all have ended there.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“It was a stupid mistake,” Tariq said. “I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.”
Then he turned and walked slowly up the hill into the Alfama.
TWENTY-NINE
St. James’s, London
When the security buzzer sounded, Jacqueline turned and peered into the monitor: a bicycle courier. She looked at her watch: six-fifteen. She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then walked from her desk into the hallway to sign for the package. A large manila envelope. She went back to her office, sat down at the desk, sliced open the envelope with the tip of her forefinger. Inside was a single piece of executive-sized letter paper, light gray in color, folded crisply in half. The letterhead bore the name Randolph Stewart, private art dealer. She read the handwritten note: Just back from Paris… Very good trip… No problems with the acquisition… Continue with sale as planned. She placed the letter in Isherwood’s shredder and watched it turn to paper linguine.
She stood up, pulled on her coat, then walked into Isherwood’s office. He was hunched over a ledger book, chewing on the end of a pencil. He looked up as she entered the room and gave her a weak smile. “Leaving so soon, my love?”
“I’m afraid I must.”
“I shall count the hours until I see you again.”
“And I shall do the same.”
As she walked out she realized that she would miss Isherwood when it was all over. He was a decent man. She wondered how he had become entangled with the likes of Ari Shamron and Gabriel. She hurried across Mason’s Yard through windblown rain, then walked up Duke Street toward Piccadilly, thinking about the letter. It depressed her. She could picture the rest of the evening. She would meet Yusef at his flat. They would go to dinner, then return to his flat and make love. Then two hours of Middle East history. The injustices heaped upon the defenseless Palestinians. The crimes of the Jews. The inequity of the two-state solution on the negotiating table. It was getting harder and harder for her to pretend that she was enjoying herself.
Gabriel had promised her a short assignment: seduce him, get into his flat, get his keys and his telephone, and get out again. She had not signed up for a long-term romance. She found the idea of sleeping with Yusef again repulsive. But there was something else. She had agreed to come to London because she thought working with Gabriel would rekindle their romance. If anything it had driven them farther apart. She rarely saw him-he communicated through letters-and the few times they had been together he had been cold and distant. She had been a fool to think things could ever be the way they had been in Tunis.
She entered the Piccadilly Underground station and walked to the crowded platform. She thought of her villa; of cycling through the sun-drenched hillsides around Valbonne. For a moment she imagined Gabriel riding next to her, his legs pumping rhythmically. Then she felt silly for allowing herself to think about such things. When the train came, she squeezed her way into the packed carriage and clung to a metal handhold. As the car lurched forward, she decided this would be the last night. In the morning, she would tell Gabriel she wanted out.
Gabriel paced the carpet of the listening post, casually dribbling a lime-green tennis ball with his stocking feet. It was shortly before midnight. Jacqueline and Yusef had just finished making love. He listened to their mutual
