“Perhaps he might listen to you now.”
“I’m afraid Tariq listens to no voice but his own. He’s a man haunted by demons.”
“All of us are, especially when you reach my age.”
“And mine,” said Arafat. “But I’m afraid Tariq is haunted by a different kind of demon. You see, he’s a young man who’s dying, and he wants to settle accounts before he leaves.”
Beckwith raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Dying?”
“According to my sources he has a severe brain tumor.”
“Do the Israelis know this?”
“Yes,” Arafat said. “I’ve told them myself.”
“Who?”
“Their chief of intelligence, Ari Shamron.”
“I wonder why their chief of intelligence neglected to share this piece of information with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Arafat laughed. “I suppose you’ve never met Ari Shamron. He’s crafty and a warrior from the old school. Shamron makes a habit of never letting the left hand know what the right is doing. Do you know the motto of the Israeli secret service?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“ ”By way of deception, thou shalt do war.“ Ari Shamron lives by those words.”
“You think Shamron might be playing some game?”
“Anything’s possible when it comes to Shamron. You see, there are some people inside the Israeli secret service who want Tariq dead, whatever the political costs. But there are others, I’m afraid, who would like to see him succeed.”
“Into which category does Shamron fall?”
Arafat frowned. “I wish I knew.”
Shortly before midnight the president walked Arafat down to his waiting car. They were a mismatched pair, the tall, patrician president and the little revolutionary in his olive drab and flowing kaffiyeh.
Beckwith said, “I understand you’re attending a reception at the home of Douglas Cannon after the signing ceremony tomorrow. Douglas and I are good friends.”
“He and I are friends as well. He saw the justness of the Palestinian cause long before most American politicians. It took a great amount of courage, considering the fact that he was a senator from New York, where the Jewish lobby is so powerful.”
“ Douglas always stood his ground and let the political chips fall where they might. That’s what set him apart from most of the politicians in this damned town. Please give him my warmest regards when you see him.”
“I will indeed.”
They shook hands formally beneath the North Portico; then Arafat turned and walked toward his limousine.
“And do me one other favor, Mr. Arafat.”
The Palestinian turned around and raised one eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Watch your back.”
“Always,” said Arafat. Then he climbed into the back of his car and disappeared from sight.
FORTY-TWO
Burlington, Vermont
“Your name is not Dominique Bonard, and you don’t work for an art gallery in London. You work for Israeli intelligence. And we left Montreal the way we did because your friend Gabriel Allon was coming to kill me.”
Jacqueline’s mouth went dry. She felt as though her throat might close up. She remembered what Gabriel had told her in London: Dominique Bonard has nothing to fear from this man. If he pushes, push back.
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know anyone named Gabriel Allon! Stop this fucking car! Where the fuck do you think you’re taking me! What’s wrong with you?”
He hit her in the side of the head with the gun: a short, brutal blow that instantly brought tears to her eyes. She reached up, touched her scalp, found blood. “You bastard!”
He ignored her. “Your name is not Dominique Bonard, and you don’t work for an art gallery in London. You work for Ari Shamron. You’re an Israeli agent. You’re working with Gabriel Allon. That was Gabriel Allon who was crossing the street toward us in Montreal. He was coming to kill me.”
“I wish you would just shut up about all this shit! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anyone named Gabriel, and I don’t know anyone named Ari Shamron.”
He hit her again, another blow that seemed to come out of nowhere. It landed in precisely the same spot. The pain was so intense that in spite of every effort she began to cry. “I’m telling you the truth!”
Another blow: harder.
“My name is Dominique Bonard! I work for-”
Another blow: harder still. She felt as though she was going to lose consciousness.
“You bastard,” she said, weeping. She pressed her fingers against the wound. “Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?”
Once again he ignored her. If he was trying to drive her mad, it was working. When he spoke there was an edge of pity to his voice, as if he felt sorry for her. She knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tear down the last of her resistance, to make her believe she had been betrayed and was completely alone.
“You went to Tunis with Gabriel Allon and posed as his lover while he planned the murder of Abu Jihad.”
“I’ve never been to Tunis in my life, let alone with someone named Gabriel Allon!”
He lifted the gun to hit her again, but this time she saw the blow coming and raised her hands in defense. “Please,” she cried. “Don’t hit me again.”
He lowered the gun. Even he seemed to have no stomach for it.
“He’s aged a bit since I saw him last. I suppose he has a right, considering everything he’s been through.”
Jacqueline felt her will to resist crumble. The reality of intelligence work set in. Before it had been an adventure, something she did to make herself feel that she was more than just a face and a body. But this was the true nature of Ari Shamron’s secret war. It was dirty and violent, and now she was caught in the middle of it. She had to think of some way to gain control of the situation. Perhaps she could discover his plans. Maybe she could find some way to warn Gabriel and Shamron. Maybe I can find some way to survive.
“They’ll come for you,” she said. “Half the police in Canada and America are probably looking for us right now. You’ll never get to New York.”
“Actually, I doubt anyone’s looking for us but your friends Gabriel Allon and Shamron. I suspect they can’t ask the Canadians for help, because the Canadians and Americans probably don’t know they’re here. If they found out now, it could prove very embarrassing to your service.”
He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief for her head. “By the way, we knew you were working for the Office the moment you walked into Yusef’s life.”
“How?”
“Do you really want to know this?”
“Yes.”
“All right, but first you have to answer a few questions for me. Are you really French?”
So, she thought, he doesn’t know everything. She said, “Yes, I’m French.”
“Are you also Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Is Dominique Bonard your true name?”
“No.”
“What is your real name?”
She thought: What is my real name? Am I really Jacqueline Delacroix? No, that was just the name Marcel
