“A very interesting story, President Arafat.”
“Will you allow me to indulge in another?”
“I should probably be going,” Tariq said, reaching for the Makarov.
“Please, it will only take a moment.”
Tariq hesitated and said, “Of course, President Arafat. I’d love to hear the story.”
“Sit down, my friend. You must be tired.”
“It would not be appropriate.”
“As you wish,” Arafat replied. “It was during the siege of Beirut. The Israelis were trying to finish off the PLO once and for all. They wanted me dead, too. Everywhere I went Israeli bombs and rockets fell. It was as if they knew where I was all the time. So this friend of mine starts investigating. He discovers that Israeli intelligence has recruited several spies among my staff. He discovers that the Israelis have given the spies radio beacons, so they know where I am all the time. He detains the spies and convinces them to confess their crimes. He wants to send a message to other potential spies that this sort of betrayal will not be tolerated. He asks me to sign death warrants so the spies can be executed.”
“And did you?”
“I did not. I told this man that if I executed the traitors, I would be making enemies of their brothers and cousins. I told this man that they would be punished in a different way-that they would be cut off from the revolution. Banished. Exiled. For me, this would be a punishment worse than death. But I told him one other thing. I told him that no matter how serious their crimes, we Palestinians cannot be killing each other. We have too many enemies as it is.”
“And how did this man react?”
“He was angry with me. He told me I was a fool. He was the only one of my senior staff who had the courage to speak to me that way. He had the heart of a lion, this man.” Arafat paused, then said, “I have not seen him in many years. I hear he’s very sick. I hear he does not have long to live.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“When we have our own state, I will repay him for all the great things he did for the movement. When we have our own state, and our own schools, the children of Palestine will learn about all his heroic deeds. In the villages they will tell stories about this man around the fires at night. He will be a great hero of the Palestinian people.” Arafat lowered his voice. “But not if he does something foolish now. Then he will be remembered as just another fanatic.”
Arafat looked into Tariq’s eyes and said calmly, “If you must do this thing, my brother, then do it and get it over with. If you have no stomach for it, then I suggest you leave here, and quickly, and find some way to end your life with dignity.”
Arafat lifted his chin slightly. Tariq lowered his gaze, smiled slightly, and slowly buttoned his coat. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for another man. Peace be with you, my brother.”
Tariq turned and walked out of the room.
Arafat looked at the bodyguard and said, “Come in here and close the door, you idiot.” Then he let out a long breath and tried to quiet his trembling hands.
They entered the apartment, Gabriel and Jacqueline side by side, surrounded by the group of security men. The sudden appearance of five very agitated people sent a shock wave through the guests, and the party immediately fell silent. Gabriel had his hand inside his jacket, fingers wrapped around the butt of the Beretta. He looked quickly around the room; there were at least a half-dozen white-jacketed waiters moving through the crowd. He looked at Jacqueline. She shook her head.
Douglas Cannon joined the group as they moved from the entrance hall to the large living room overlooking Fifth Avenue and the park. Three waiters were moving through the guests, passing out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Two of the waiters were women. Jacqueline looked at the man. “Not him.”
At that moment she spotted a white-jacketed man disappear into the kitchen. She had seen him for just an instant, but she was certain of it. “Gabriel! There he is!”
Gabriel looked at Cannon. “Where’s Arafat?”
“In my study using the telephone.”
“Where’s the study?”
“At the end of that hall!”
Gabriel pushed his way past the guests and ran down the hallway. When he burst through the door, he found himself confronted by a bodyguard pointing a pistol directly at his chest. Arafat was seated calmly behind the desk. “I’m afraid he’s come and gone,” Arafat said. “I’m still here, however-no thanks to you.”
Gabriel turned and ran out of the room.
Tariq walked quickly through the kitchen. There was a back door, leading onto a set of service stairs. He stepped out the door and quickly closed it. Several cases of champagne stood on the landing. He pushed the cases against the door. They were not heavy enough to block it completely, just heavy enough to slow down whoever was trying to get through, which was his intention. He walked down to the next landing, removed his Makarov, and waited.
Gabriel charged into the kitchen, Beretta drawn, as the back door was closing. He sprinted across the room and tried to open it. The knob turned, but the door itself wouldn’t move.
Jacqueline came into the room on the run.
Gabriel took a step back and then drove his shoulder into the door. It opened a few inches, and on the other side he could hear a loud thud, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
He pushed the door again. This time it gave way, though there was still some resistance.
He pushed again, and the door opened completely. Gabriel stepped onto the landing and looked down.
Tariq stood on the landing below, feet apart, the Makarov in his outstretched hands.
Gabriel saw the muzzle flashes in the dim light, felt the first bullet tearing into his chest. He thought how fitting it was that it should end like this. He had killed his first man in the stairwell of an apartment house, and now he would die the same way. There was a circular quality about it, like a good piece of music. He wondered if Tariq had planned it this way all along.
He could hear Tariq running down the stairs. Then he saw Jacqueline’s face leaning over him-Jacqueline’s beautiful face. Then her face turned to water, only to be replaced by the face of the woman in the lost Van Dyck. And then he blacked out.
As Gabriel slipped into unconsciousness, Jacqueline screamed, “Call an ambulance!” Then she stood and started running down the stairs.
Above her she heard one of the security officers scream, “Stop!” She ignored him.
She could hear the pounding of Tariq’s feet echoing up the stairwell toward her. She reached into her pocket and removed the gun she had taken from the apartment in Brooklyn. She thought: I’ve done this twice today. I can do it again.
She ran. The stairs seemed to go on forever. She tried to remember what floor the apartment had been on. Seventeen-yes, that was it; she was sure of it. She passed a door that said eighth floor.
She thought: Keep going, Jacqueline. Don’t slow down. He’s sick. He’s dying. You can catch him. Move!
She thought of Gabriel, his life draining out of him on the landing above her. She forced herself to run even faster. She propelled herself down the stairs so quickly that her feet struggled to stay beneath her body. She imagined that by catching up with Tariq and killing him she might save Gabriel’s life.
She thought of the day Gabriel had come for her, remembered the bicycle ride she had taken through the hills around Valbonne, the fire in her thighs as she had pushed herself to a new record.
Do it again!
She reached the bottom of the stairwell. There was a metal fire door, and it was slowly closing.
Tariq was right in front of her!
She ripped open the door and sprinted through it. Ahead of her stretched a corridor about fifty feet long, with another door at the opposite end. Halfway down the corridor was Tariq.
He was clearly exhausted. His pace was beginning to flag, his strides short and uncoordinated. He turned and looked over his shoulder, his face a mask of pain from the run down the stairs. Jacqueline raised the gun and fired two shots in quick succession. The first appeared to sail harmlessly over his head, but the second struck him high in the left shoulder, knocking him from his feet. As he landed on the ground, his gun fell from his grasp and slid
