up in Shamron’s face.
He suggested a coffee before dinner, so they stopped in an espresso bar a short distance from the hotel. Jacqueline flipped idly through a tourist guide while he sipped his drink. At one point he removed a prescription bottle from his pocket and swallowed two tablets. Five minutes later-she knew the exact time because she had been playing Shamron’s awareness games throughout the excursion-a man in a gray business suit sat down at the next table. He placed his briefcase on the ground: black leather, soft sides, gold combination latches. The man stayed for a few minutes, then stood and walked away, leaving the bag behind. When Tariq had finished his coffee, he nonchalantly picked up the bag along with Jacqueline’s parcels.
Two Montreals, two realities, thought Jacqueline as they walked back to the hotel. In one reality they had just gone shopping. In the other Tariq had spent an hour checking to see if he was being followed, and Tariq had taken possession of his gun.
Gabriel appeared at the concierge desk and asked directions to a good restaurant. The concierge was called Jean-small and neat, with the thin mustache and frozen smile of an accomplished hotelier. Gabriel spoke rapid French. The concierge answered him in the same language. He told Gabriel about an excellent Parisian-style bistro called the Alexandre; then he handed him a folded tourist map and told him the address. Gabriel tucked the map into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, thanked the concierge, and walked away. But instead of heading toward the street entrance, he strode across the lobby, boarded an elevator, and rode it to the fourteenth floor.
He walked quickly along the corridor. In his right hand was a plastic shopping bag from one of the boutiques in the lobby, and inside the bag was a hotel telephone, wrapped in tissue paper. As he approached the door he removed the map from his breast pocket and unfolded it. Inside was the credit card-style key to Tariq’s room. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the latch. Gabriel slipped the card key in and out of the door slot, then stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.
For their command post Yadin had taken a suite at the Sheraton, a few blocks up the boulevard Rene Levesque from the Queen Elizabeth. When Gabriel entered the suite, Shamron was there, along with Yadin and a black-haired girl whom Yadin introduced as Deborah. She reminded Gabriel a great deal of Leah, more than he might have wished at that moment. A large-scale street map of Montreal was spread over the bed. Shamron had shoved his glasses onto his forehead and was rubbing the bridge of his nose as he paced. Gabriel poured himself a cup of coffee and held it tightly to warm his hands.
Yadin said, “They’re back in the room. The glass is picking up their conversation perfectly. Nice work, Gabriel.”
“What are they saying?”
“Small talk mostly. I’ll send a man over to collect the tapes. If there’s anything urgent the boy in the room will call.”
“Where’d they go while they were out?”
“Shopping mainly, but we think Tariq may have a gun.”
Gabriel lowered his coffee cup and looked up sharply.
“Deborah was following them at the time,” Yadin said. “She saw the whole thing.”
She quickly described the scene at the coffee bar. She spoke English with an American accent.
“How’s Jacqueline holding up?”
“She looked good. A little tired but fine.”
The telephone rang. Yadin picked it up before it could ring a second time. He listened for a moment without speaking, then set down the receiver and looked up at Shamron. “He just booked a table at a restaurant on the rue St. Denis.”
“What’s the area like?”
“Cafes, shops, bars, discos, that sort of thing,” said Yadin. “Very busy, very Bohemian.”
“The kind of place we could mount a surveillance operation?”
“Absolutely.”
“The kind of place where a kidon might be able to get close to a target?”
“No problem.”
Gabriel said, “What about escape routes?”
“We’d have several,” Yadin said. “You could head north into Outremont or Mont-Royal or go south, straight to the expressway. The rest of the team could melt into the Old City.”
There was a soft knock outside. Yadin murmured a few words through the closed door, then opened it. A boyish-looking man with fair hair and blue eyes entered the room.
“I’ve got them on videotape.”
Shamron said, “Let’s see it.”
The young man connected the handheld recorder to the television set and played the tape: Jacqueline and the man called Lucien Daveau, moving through the underground mall. It had been shot from a balustrade one level up.
Shamron smiled. “It’s him. No question.”
Gabriel said, “How can you tell from that angle?”
“Look at him. Look at the photographs. It’s the same man.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain!” Shamron shut off the television. “What’s wrong with you, Gabriel?”
“I just don’t want to kill the wrong man.”
“It’s Tariq. Trust me.” Shamron looked down at the street map of Montreal. “Zvi, show me the rue St-Denis. I want to end this thing tonight and go home.”
THIRTY-NINE
Montreal
They left the hotel room at eight o’clock, rode the elevator down to the lobby. The evening check-in rush had ended. A Japanese couple was having their picture taken by a stranger. Tariq paused, turned around, and theatrically beat his pockets as if he were missing something important. When the photo session ended he resumed walking. A roar rose from the hotel bar: Americans watching a football game on television. They rode an escalator down to underground Montreal, then walked a short distance to a Metro station. He made a point of keeping her to his right. She remembered he was left-handed-obviously he didn’t want her in a position to grab his arm if he had to go for his gun. She tried to remember what kind of gun he preferred. A Makarov; that was it. Tariq liked the Makarov.
He moved through the station as if he knew the way. They boarded a train and rode east to the rue St-Denis. When they stepped outside on the crowded boulevard, the bitter cold nearly took her breath away.
It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street…
She kept her eyes down and resisted the impulse to look for him.
You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound…
“Is something wrong?” He spoke without looking at her.
“I’m just freezing to death.”
“The restaurant isn’t far.”
They walked past a row of bars. The ragged sound of a blues band spilled from a cellar tavern. A used record store. A vegetarian restaurant. A tattoo parlor. A gang of skinhead boys walked past them. One of them said something crude to Jacqueline. Tariq eyed him coldly; the boy shut his mouth and walked away.
They arrived at the restaurant. It was in an old Victorian house, set slightly back from the street. He guided her up the steps. The maitre d‘ helped them off with their coats and showed them upstairs to a table in the window. Tariq sat facing out. She could see his eyes scanning the street below. When the waiter appeared, Jacqueline ordered a glass of Bordeaux.
“Monsieur Daveau?”
“Just some sparkling water, please,” he said. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache tonight.”
