The Kill Artist, Page 2

  Emily met Leila in mid-October at the Musée de Montmartre. She was a student at the Sorbonne, a stunningly attractive woman with lustrous black hair and wide brown eyes. She had been raised in Amman, Rome, and London, and spoke a half-dozen languages fluently. She was everything that Emily was not: beautiful, confident, cosmopolitan. Gradually, Emily unburdened all her secrets to Leila: the way her mother had made her feel so terribly ugly; the pain she felt over being abandoned by her fiancé; her deep-rooted fear that no one would ever love her again. Leila promised to fix everything. Leila promised to introduce Emily to a man who would make her forget all about the boy she had foolishly fallen for in college.

  It happened at Leila’s dinner party. She had invited twenty guests to her cramped little flat in Montparnasse. They ate wherever they could find space: on the couch, on the floor, on the bed. All very Parisian bohemian: roast chicken from the corner rotisserie, a heaping salade verte, cheese, and entirely too much inexpensive Bordeaux. There were other students from the Sorbonne, an artist, a young German essayist of note, the son of an Italian count, a pretty Englishman with flowing blond hair called Lord Reggie, and a jazz musician who played the guitar like Al DiMeola. The room sounded like the Tower of Babel. The conversation moved from French to English, then from English to Italian, then from Italian to Spanish. Emily watched Leila moving about the flat, kissing cheeks, lighting cigarettes. She marveled at the ease with which Leila made friends and brought them together.

  “He’s here, you know, Emily—the man you’re going to fall in love with.”

  René. René from the south somewhere, a village Emily had never heard of, somewhere in the hills above Nice. René who had a bit of family money and had never had the time, or the inclination, to work. René who traveled. René who read many books. René who disdained politics—“Politics is an exercise for the feebleminded, Emily. Politics has nothing to do with real life.” René who had a face you might pass in a crowd and never notice, but if you looked carefully was rather good looking. René whose eyes were lit by some secret source of heat that Emily could not fathom. René who took her to bed the night of Leila’s dinner party and made her feel things she had never thought possible. René who said he wanted to remain in Paris for a few weeks—“Would it be possible for me to crash at your place, Emily? Leila has no room for me. You know Leila. Too many clothes, too many things. Too many men.” René who had made her happy again. René who was eventually going to break the heart he had healed.

  He was already slipping away; she could feel him growing slightly more distant every day. He was spending more time on his own, disappearing for several hours each day, reappearing with no warning. When she asked him where he had been, his answers were vague. She feared he was seeing another woman. A skinny French girl, she imagined. A girl who didn’t have to be taught how to make love.

  That afternoon Emily wound her way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to the rue Norvins. She stood beneath the crimson awning of a bistro and peered through the window. René was seated at a table near the door. Funny how he always insisted on sitting near the doorway. There was a man with him: dark hair, a few years younger. When Emily entered the bistro, the man stood and quickly walked out. Emily removed her coat and sat down. René poured wine for her.

  She asked, “Who was that man?”

  “Just someone I used to know.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jean,” he said. “Would you like—”

  “Your friend left his backpack.”

  “It’s mine,” René said, putting a hand on it.

  “Really? I’ve never seen you carry it before.”

  “Trust me, Emily. It’s mine. Are you hungry?”

  And you’re changing the subject again. She said, “I’m famished, actually. I’ve been walking around in the cold all afternoon.”

  “Have you really? Whatever for?”

  “Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious.”

  He removed the backpack from the chair and placed it on the floor at his feet. “What have you been thinking about?”

  “Really, René—it was nothing important.”

  “You used to tell me all your secrets.”

  “Yes, but you’ve never really told me yours.”

  “Are you still upset about this bag?”

  “I’m not upset about it. Just curious, that’s all.”

  “All right, if you must know, it’s a surprise.”

  “For who?”

  “For you!” He smiled. “I was going to give it to you later.”

  “You bought me a backpack? How very thoughtful, René. How romantic.”

  “The surprise is inside the backpack.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s been my experience that the surprise itself never quite lives up to the anticipation of the surprise. I’ve been let down too many times. I don’t want to be let down again.”

  “Emily, I’ll never let you down. I love you too much.”

  “Oh, René, I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “It happens to be the truth. Let’s eat something, shall we? Then we’ll take a walk.”

  Ambassador Zev Eliyahu stood in the grand center hall of the Musée d’Orsay, using every diplomatic skill he possessed to hide the fact that he was bored to tears. Trim, athletic, deeply tanned in spite of the dreary Parisian fall, he crackled with a brash energy. Gatherings like this annoyed him. Eliyahu had nothing against art; he simply didn’t have time for it. He still had the work ethic of a kibbutznik, and between ambassadorial postings he had made millions in investment banking.

  He had been talked into attending the reception tonight for one reason: it would give him an opportunity to have an unofficial moment or two with the French foreign minister. Relations between France and Israel were icy at the moment. The French were angry because a pair of Israeli intelligence officers had been caught trying to recruit an official from the Defense Ministry. The Israelis were angry because the French had recently agreed to sell jet fighters and nuclear reactor technology to one of Israel’s Arab enemies. But when Eliyahu approached the French foreign minister for a word, the minister virtually ignored him, then pointedly engaged the Egyptian ambassador in a lively conversation about the Middle East peace process.

  Eliyahu was angry—angry and bored silly. He was leaving for Israel the following night. Ostensibly, it was for a meeting at the Foreign Ministry, but he also planned to spend a few days in Eilat on the Red Sea. He was looking forward to the trip. He missed Israel, the cacophony of it, the hustle, the scent of pine and dust on the road to Jerusalem, the winter rains over the Galilee.

  A waiter in a white tunic offered him champagne. Eliyahu shook his head. “Bring me some coffee, please.” He looked over the heads of the shimmering crowd for his wife, Hannah, and spotted her standing next to the chargé d’affaires from the embassy, Moshe Savir. Savir was a professional diplomat: supercilious, arrogant, the perfect temperament for the posting in Paris.

  The waiter returned, bearing a silver tray with a single cup of black coffee on it.

  “Never mind,” Eliyahu said, and he sliced his way through the crowd.

  Savir asked, “How did it go with the foreign minister?”

  “He turned his back on me.”

  “Bastard.”

  The ambassador reached out his hand for his wife. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

  “Don’t forget tomorrow morning,” Savir said. “Breakfast with the editorial staff of Le Monde at eight o’clock.”

  “I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”

  “It’s important, Zev.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be my usual charming self.”

  Savir shook his head. “See you then.”

  The Pont Alexandre III was Emily’s favorite spot in Paris. She loved to stand in the center of the graceful span at night and gaze down the Seine toward Notre-Dame, with the gilded
église du Dôme to her right, floating above Les Invalides, and the Grand Palais on her left.

  René took Emily to the bridge after dinner for her surprise. They walked along the parapet, past the ornate lamps and the cherubs and nymphs, until they reached the center of the span. René removed a small rectangular, gift-wrapped box from the backpack and handed it to her.

  “For me?”

  “Of course it’s for you!”

  Emily tore away the wrapping paper like a child and opened the leather case. Inside was a bracelet of pearls, diamonds, and emeralds. It must have cost him a small fortune. “René, my God! It’s gorgeous!”

  “Let me help you put it on.”

  She put out her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her coat. René slipped the bracelet around her wrist and closed the clasp. Emily held it up in the lamplight. Then she turned around, leaned her back against his chest, and gazed at the river. “I want to die just like this.”

  But René was no longer listening. His face was expressionless, brown eyes fixed on the Musée d’Orsay.

  The waiter with the platter of tandoori chicken had been assigned to watch the ambassador. He removed the cellular phone from the pocket of his tunic and pressed a button that dialed a stored number. Two rings, a man’s voice, the drone of Parisian traffic in the background. “Oui.”

  “He’s leaving.”

  Click.

  Ambassador Eliyahu took Hannah by the hand and led her through the crowd, pausing occasionally to bid good night to one of the other guests. At the entrance of the museum, a pair of bodyguards joined them. They looked like mere boys, but Eliyahu took comfort in the fact that they were trained killers who would do anything to protect his life.

  They stepped into the cold night air. The limousine was waiting, engine running. One bodyguard sat in front with the driver; the second joined the ambassador and his wife in back. The car pulled away, turned onto the rue de Bellechasse, then sped along the bank of the Seine.

  Eliyahu leaned back and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get home, Hannah.”

  “Who was that, René?”

  “No one. Wrong number.”

  Emily closed her eyes again, but a moment later came another sound: two cars colliding on the bridge. A minivan had smashed into the rear end of a Peugeot sedan, the asphalt littered with shattered glass, traffic at a standstill. The drivers jumped out and began screaming at each other in rapid French. Emily could tell they weren’t French—Arabs, North Africans perhaps. René snatched up his backpack and walked into the roadway, picking his way through the motionless cars.

  “René! What are you doing?”

  But he acted as though he hadn’t heard her. He kept walking, not toward the wrecked cars but toward a long black limousine caught in the traffic jam. Along the way he unzipped the bag and pulled something out of it: a small sub-machine gun.

  Emily couldn’t believe what she was seeing. René, her lover, the man who had slipped into her life and stolen her heart, walking across the Pont Alexandre III with a machine gun in his hand. Then the pieces began falling into place. The nagging suspicion that René was keeping something from her. The long, unexplained absences. The dark-haired stranger at the bistro that afternoon. Leila?

  The rest of it she saw as slow-moving half images, as though it were taking place beneath murky water. René running across the bridge. René tossing his backpack beneath the limousine. A flash of blinding light, a gust of fiercely hot air. Gunfire, screams. Someone on a motorbike. Black ski mask, two pools of black staring coldly through the eyeholes, damp lips glistening behind the slit for the mouth. A gloved hand nervously revving the throttle. But it was the eyes that captured Emily’s attention. They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  Finally, in the distance, she could hear the two-note song of a Paris police siren. She looked away from the motorcyclist and saw René advancing slowly toward her through the carnage. He expelled the spent magazine from his weapon, casually inserted another, pulled the slide.

  Emily backpedaled until she was pressed against the parapet. She turned and looked down at the black river gliding slowly beneath her.

  “You’re a monster!” she screamed in English, because in her panic her French had abandoned her. “You’re a fucking monster! Who the fuck are you?”

  “Don’t try to get away from me,” he said in the same language. “It will only make things worse.”

  Then he raised his gun and fired several shots into her heart. The force of the bullets drove her over the edge of the parapet. She felt herself falling toward the river. Her hands reached out, and she saw the bracelet on her wrist. The bracelet René, her lover, had given her just moments before. Such a beautiful bracelet. Such a terrible shame.

  She collided with the river and slipped below the surface. She opened her mouth, and her lungs filled with frigid water. She could taste her own blood. She saw a flash of brilliant white, heard her mother calling her name. Then there was only darkness. A vast, silent darkness. And the cold.

  THREE

  Tiberias, Israel

  Despite the events in Paris, the stranger might have managed to remain in seclusion but for the resurrection of the legendary spymaster Ari Shamron. It was not necessary to awaken Shamron that night, for he had long ago lost the gift of sleep. Indeed, he was so restless at night that Rami, the young head of his personal security detail, had christened him the Phantom of Tiberias. At first Shamron suspected it was age. He had turned sixty-five recently and for the first time had contemplated the possibility that someday he might actually die. During a grudging annual physical his doctor had had the audacity to suggest—“And this is just a suggestion, Ari, because God knows I’d never try to actually give you an order”—that Shamron reduce his daily intake of caffeine and tobacco: twelve cups of black coffee and sixty strong Turkish cigarettes. Shamron had found these suggestions mildly amusing.

  It was only during an uncharacteristic period of introspection, brought on by his forced retirement from the service, that Shamron had settled on the causes of his chronic sleeplessness. He had told so many lies, spun so many deceptions, that sometimes he could no longer tell fact from fiction, truth from untruth. And then there was the killing. He had killed with his own hands, and he had ordered other men, younger men, to kill for him. A life of betrayal and violence had taken its toll. Some men go crazy, some burn out. Ari Shamron had been sentenced to remain forever awake.

  Shamron had made an uneasy peace with his affliction, the way some people accommodate madness or terminal disease. He had become a night wanderer, roaming his sandstone-colored villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee, sitting on the terrace when the nights were fine and soft, staring at the lake and the moonlit expanse of the Upper Galilee. Sometimes he would slip down to his studio and engage in his great passion, repairing old radios—the only activity that completely released his mind from thoughts of work.

  And sometimes he would wander down to the security gate and pass a few hours sitting in the shack with Rami and the other boys, telling stories over coffee and cigarettes. Rami liked the story of Eichmann’s capture the best. Each time a new boy joined the detail, Rami urged Shamron to tell it again, so the new boy would understand that he had been given a great privilege: the privilege of protecting Shamron, the Sabra superman, Israel’s avenging angel.

  Rami had made him tell the story again that night. As usual it had dredged up many memories, some of them not so pleasant. Shamron had no old radios in which to lose himself, and it was too cold and rainy to sit outside, so he lay in bed, wide-eyed, sorting through new operations, remembering old ones, dissecting opponents for frailty, plotting their destruction. So when the special telephone on his bedside table emitted two sharp rings, Shamron reached out with the relieved air of an old man grateful for company and slowly pulled the receiver to his ear.

  Rami stepped outside the guardhouse and watched the old man pounding down the drive. He was bald and thick, with steel-rimmed spectacles. His f
ace was dry and deeply creviced—like the Negev, thought Rami. As usual he wore khaki trousers and an ancient leather bomber jacket with a tear on the right breast, just below the armpit. Within the service there were two theories about the tear. Some believed the jacket had been pierced by a bullet during a reprisal raid into Jordan in the fifties. Others argued that it had been torn by the dying fingers of a terrorist whom Shamron garroted in a Cairo back alley. Shamron always insisted gruffly that the truth was much more prosaic—the jacket had been torn on the corner of a car door—but no one within the service took him seriously.

  He walked as if he were anticipating an assault from behind, elbows out, head down. The Shamron shuffle, the walk that said, “Get the fuck out of my way or I’ll have your balls for breakfast.” Rami felt his pulse quicken at the sight of the old man. If Shamron told him to jump off a cliff, he’d jump. If the old man told him to stop in midair, he’d figure out some way to do it.

  As Shamron drew closer, Rami caught sight of his face. The lines around his mouth were a little deeper. He was angry—Rami could see it in his eyes—but there seemed to be a hint of a smile across his arid lips. What the hell is he smiling about? Chiefs aren’t disturbed after midnight unless it’s urgent or very bad news. Then Rami hit upon the reason: the Phantom of Tiberias simply was relieved he had been spared another sleepless night with no enemies to fight.