FORTY-FIVE
New York City
Tariq circulated through the magnificent rooms overlooking Central Park while the guests carelessly dropped items on his oval-shaped tray: empty glasses, half-eaten plates of food, crumpled napkins, cigarette butts. He glanced at his watch. Leila would have made the call by now. Allon was probably on his way. It would be over soon.
He walked through the library. A pair of French doors led onto the terrace. In spite of the cold, a handful of guests stood outside admiring the view. As Tariq stepped onto the balcony, the wail of distant sirens filled the air. He walked to the balustrade and looked up Fifth Avenue: a motorcade, complete with police escort and motorcycle outriders.
The guest of honor was about to arrive.
But where the hell is Allon?
“Excuse me? Hello?”
Tariq looked up. A woman with a fur coat was waving at him. He had been so absorbed by the sight of the approaching motorcade that he had forgotten he was posing as a busboy.
The woman held up a half-empty glass of red wine. “Can you take this please?”
“Certainly, madam.”
Tariq walked across the terrace and stood next to the woman, who was now talking to a friend. Without looking she reached out and tried to place the glass on Tariq’s tray, but it teetered on its small base and tipped over, splashing red wine over Tariq’s white jacket.
“Oh heavens,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry.” Then she turned away as if nothing had happened and resumed her conversation.
Tariq carried his tray back to the kitchen.
“What the fuck happened to you?” It was the man with the apron and the oiled black hair: Rodney, the boss.
“A woman spilled wine on me.”
Tariq placed his full tray on the counter next to the sink. Just then he heard a round of applause sweep through the apartment. The guest of honor had entered the room. Tariq picked up an empty tray and started to leave the kitchen.
Rodney said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back out to do my job.”
“Not looking like that, you’re not. You’re on kitchen duty now. Get over there and help with the dishes.”
“I can clean the jacket.”
“It’s red wine, pal. The jacket’s ruined.”
“But-”
“Just get over there and start on those dishes.”
Douglas Cannon said, “President Arafat, so good to see you again.”
Arafat smiled. “Same to you, Senator. Or should I say Ambassador Cannon now?”
“ Douglas will do you just fine.”
Cannon took Arafat’s small hand in his own bearish paws and shook it vigorously. Cannon was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a mane of unruly gray hair. His middle had thickened with age, though his paunch was concealed nicely by an impeccably tailored blue blazer. The New Yorker magazine had once called him “a modern-day Pericles”-a brilliant scholar and philanthropist who rose from the world of academia to become one of the most powerful Democrats in the Senate. Two years earlier he had been called out of retirement to serve as the American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s in London. His ambassador-ship had been cut short, however, when he was gravely wounded in a terrorist attack. He showed no sign of it now as he took Arafat by the hand and propelled him into the party.
“I was so saddened by the attempt on your life, Douglas. It’s good to see you looking so fit again. Did you receive the flowers that Suhla and I sent for you?”
“Yes, indeed. They were the most beautiful in the hospital room. Thank you so much. But enough about me. Come, this way. There are a lot of people here who are interested in meeting you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Arafat, smiling. “Lead on.”
Gabriel sped over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. Jacqueline had regained her composure and was giving him a thorough account of the last forty-eight hours, beginning with the night in the council flat near Heathrow, ending with the gruesome sequence of events in Brooklyn. Gabriel forced himself to listen dispassionately, to set aside momentarily his rage over what Tariq had done to her so he could search for clues to his intentions.
One detail caught his attention. Why did Tariq feel it was necessary to bring Gabriel to him by having Leila impersonate Jacqueline over the secure phone link?
The answer was probably quite simple: because he did not believe Gabriel would be at the place where he intended to strike. But why not? If he had come to New York to assassinate the prime minister of Israel, the great peacemaker, then surely he would assume that Gabriel would be at the prime minister’s side. After all, Gabriel had just seen Tariq in Montreal.
Gabriel thought of the painting by Van Dyck: a religious scene on the surface, a rather ugly woman beneath. One painting, two realities. The entire operation had been like that painting, and Tariq had beaten him at every turn.
Damn it, Gabriel. Don’t be afraid to trust your instincts!
He picked up the cell phone and dialed the number for Shamron at the diplomatic mission. When Shamron came on the line, Gabriel said tersely, “Where’s Arafat?”
He listened for a moment, then said: “Shit! I think Tariq is there disguised as a waiter. Tell his people I’m coming.”
He severed the connection and looked at Jacqueline. “You still have the girl’s gun?”
She nodded.
“Anything left?”
Jacqueline released the magazine and counted the remaining rounds. “Five,” she said.
Gabriel turned north onto the FDR Drive and put the accelerator to the floor.
Tariq walked to the entrance of the kitchen and peered through the passageway into the party. Flashbulbs popped as guests posed for photographs with Arafat. Tariq shook his head. Ten years ago these same people had written Arafat off as a ruthless terrorist. Now they were treating him like a rock star in a kaffiyeh.
Tariq looked around the room for Allon. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Leila had been unable to get through on the telephone. Perhaps Allon was playing some sort of game. Whatever the case, Tariq knew he could not wait long to act. He knew Arafat better than anyone. The old man was prone to last-minute changes in plans. That’s how he had survived all these years. He could walk out of the party at any time, and Tariq would lose his opportunity to kill him.
He had wanted to kill them both at the same time-Allon and Arafat, one final act of vengeance-but it looked as though that was not to be. Once he killed Arafat, the bodyguards would swarm him. He would fight back and leave them no choice but to kill him. Anything is better than letting the tumor kill me. Allon would miss everything, and therefore his life would be spared. Arafat the traitorous coward would not be so lucky.
Rodney tapped Tariq on the shoulder. “Start washing dishes, my friend, or this will be the last party you ever work.”
Rodney walked away. Tariq went into the pantry and switched on the light. He reached up to the top shelf and removed the bag of Tunisian dates he had hidden there an hour earlier. He carried the dates into the kitchen,
