assigned to your personal detail for the day.”
“Why Allon?”
“Because he got a good look at Tariq in Montreal. If Tariq’s out there, Gabriel will see him.”
“Tell him he has to wear a suit.”
“I don’t think he owns one.”
“Get one.”
It was a tiny apartment: a sparsely furnished living room, a kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked porcelain sink, a single bedroom, a bathroom that smelled of damp. The windows were hung with thick woolen blankets, which blocked out all light. Tariq opened the closet door. Inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. He carried the suitcase into the living room, placed it on the floor, opened it. Black gabardine trousers, neatly pressed and folded, white dinner jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. In the zippered compartment, a wallet. Tariq opened it and studied the contents: a New York driver’s license in the name of Emilio Gonzales, a Visa credit card, a video store rental card, an assortment of receipts, a clip-on identification badge. Kemel had done his work well.
Tariq looked at the photograph. Emilio Gonzales was a balding man with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. His cheeks were fuller than Tariq’s; nothing a few balls of cotton wouldn’t take care of. He removed the clothing from the suitcase and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he removed the final item from the suitcase-a small leather toiletry kit, and went into the bathroom.
He placed the toiletry kit on the basin and propped the photograph of Emilio Gonzales on the shelf below the mirror. Tariq looked at his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized his own face: deep black circles beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin, bloodless lips. Part of it was lack of sleep-he couldn’t remember when he had slept last-but the illness was to blame for most of it. The tumor was stalking him now: numbness in his extremities, ringing in his ears, unbearable headaches, fatigue. He did not have much longer to live. He had arrived at this place, this moment in history, with little time to spare.
He opened the toiletry kit, removed a pair of scissors and a razor, and began cutting his hair. It took nearly an hour to complete the job.
The transformation was remarkable. With the silver hair coloring, mustache, and thicker cheeks, he bore a striking resemblance to the man in the photograph. But Tariq understood that the subtleties of his performance were just as important as the actual likeness. If he behaved like Emilio Gonzales, no security guard or policeman would question him. If he acted like a terrorist on a suicide mission, he would die in an American prison.
He went into the living room, removed his clothing, changed into the waiter’s uniform. Then he walked back to the bathroom for one final look in the mirror. He combed his thinned-out hair over his new bald spot and felt vaguely depressed. To die in a strange land, with another man’s name and another man’s face. He supposed it was the logical conclusion of the life he had led. Only one thing to do now: make certain his life had not been wasted on a lost cause.
He walked into the bedroom.
As he entered Leila stood, face alarmed, and raised her gun.
“It’s only me,” he said softly in Arabic. “Put the gun down before it goes off and you hurt somebody.”
She did as he said, then shook her head in wonderment. “It’s remarkable. I would never have recognized you.”
“That’s the point.”
“You obviously missed your true calling. You should have been an actor.”
“So, everything is in place. All we need now is Gabriel Allon.”
Tariq looked at Jacqueline. She lay spread-eagled on the small bed, wrists and ankles secured by four sets of handcuffs, mouth gagged by heavy electrical tape.
“I found it interesting that within minutes of arriving at the hotel room in Montreal you checked your telephone messages at your flat in London. When I was working for the PLO, we discovered that the Israelis had the ability to take virtually any telephone in the world and route it directly to their headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. Obviously that was done to your telephone in London. When you called that number, it must have alerted headquarters that you were in the Hotel Queen Elizabeth in Montreal.”
Tariq sat down on the edge of the bed, gently pushed Jacqueline’s hair out of her face. She closed her eyes and tried to draw away from his touch.
“I’m going to use that device one more time to deceive Ari Shamron and Gabriel Allon. Leila is not a bad actress herself. When I’m ready to move against the target, Leila will telephone your number in London and impersonate you. She will tell headquarters where I am and what I’m about to do. Headquarters will tell Shamron, and Shamron will quickly dispatch Gabriel Allon to the scene. Obviously, I will know that Allon is coming. Therefore, I will hold a significant advantage.”
He removed the Makarov, placed the barrel beneath her chin. “If you are a good girl, if you behave yourself, you will be allowed to live. Once Leila makes that telephone call, she will have to leave this place. It’s up to her whether Ari Shamron finds a dead body chained to this bed. Do you understand me?”
Jacqueline stared back at him with a cold insolence. He pressed the barrel of the gun into the soft flesh of her throat until she groaned through the gag.
“Do you understand me?”
She nodded.
He stood up, slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers. Then he walked into the living room, pulled on an overcoat and a pair of gloves, and went out.
A clear, cold afternoon, the sun shining brightly. Tariq slipped on a pair of sunglasses, turned up the collar of his overcoat. He walked to Coney Island Avenue, strolled along a row of shops until he found a grocer specializing in Middle Eastern goods. He entered the cramped market, accompanied by the tinkle of a small bell on the door, and was immediately overwhelmed by the scents of home. Coffee and spices, roasting lamb, honey and tobacco.
A teenage boy stood behind the counter. He wore a Yankees sweatshirt and was speaking rapid, Moroccan- accented Arabic on a cordless telephone.
“Dates,” Tariq said in English. “I’m looking for dried dates.”
The boy paused for a moment. “Back row on the left.”
Tariq picked his way through the narrow aisles until he arrived at the back of the store. The dates were on the top shelf. As Tariq reached up to grasp them, he could feel the Makarov digging into the small of his back. He pulled down the dates and looked at the label. Tunisia. Perfect.
He paid and went out. From Coney Island Avenue he walked east through quieter residential streets, past small apartment houses and tiny brick homes, until he arrived at the Newkirk Avenue subway stop. He purchased a token, then walked down the stairs to the small exposed platform. Two minutes later he boarded a Q train bound for Manhattan.
Gabriel was beginning to think he would never find Tariq. At that moment he was speeding up Park Avenue in the front seat of a black minivan, surrounded by the rest of the prime minister’s security detail. A few feet ahead of them was the prime minister’s limousine. To their right, a motorcycle outrider. Gabriel wore a gray suit he had borrowed from one of the other bodyguards. The jacket was too big, the pants too short. He felt like a damned fool-like someone who comes to an expensive restaurant without proper attire and has to borrow the house blazer. It was no matter; he had more important things to worry about.
So far the day had gone off without a problem. The prime minister had had coffee with a group of high- powered investment bankers to discuss business opportunities in Israel. Then he had toured the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Gabriel had been at his side the entire time. He left nothing to chance. He stared at every face-the bankers, the traders, the janitors, people on the street-looking for Tariq. He remembered Tariq’s face from the rue St-Denis in Montreal: the mocking smile as he pushed Jacqueline into the car and drove away.
He wondered whether she was even still alive. He thought about the string of dead women Tariq had left in his wake: the American in Paris, the hooker in Amsterdam, the shopgirl in Vienna.
He borrowed a cell phone from one of the other security officers and checked in with Shamron at the mission. Shamron had heard nothing. Gabriel severed the connection, swore softly. It was beginning to feel hopeless. It seemed Tariq had beaten them again.
The motorcade pulled into the parking garage at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The prime minister bounded out of his limousine and shook a few hands before he was escorted to the grand ballroom. Gabriel followed a few paces
