Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (40 page)

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 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 behind him. As the prime minister entered the ballroom, a thousand people stood up and began to applaud. The noise was thunderous. It could easily cover the sound of a gunshot. The prime minister walked to the podium, basked in the warm reception. Gabriel slowly circled the ballroom, looking for Tariq.

Tariq left the Q train at the Broadway-Lafayette Street station and boarded an uptown Number 5 train. He got off at East Eighty-sixth Street and strolled from Lexington Avenue across town to Fifth Avenue, taking in the grand old apartment houses and brownstones. Then he walked uptown two blocks to Eighty-eighth Street. He stopped in front of an apartment house overlooking the park. An Elite Catering truck was double-parked on Eighty-eighth Street; white-jacketed waiters were carrying trays and food and cases of liquor through the service entrance. He looked at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now. He crossed Fifth Avenue, sat down on a bench in a patch of sunlight, and waited.

Jacqueline closed her eyes, tried to think. Tariq was going to use the resources and technology of the Office to lure Gabriel into a trap. She pictured him in his new disguise; even
she
barely recognized him, and they had been together every minute for the past eighteen hours. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Gabriel to spot him. Tariq was right: he would hold every advantage. Gabriel would never see him coming.

The girl came into the room, a mug of tea in her hands, gun shoved down the front of her jeans. She paced slowly, looking at Jacqueline, drinking the tea. Then she sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me something,
Dominique.
Did you make love to Tariq while you were in Montreal?”

Jacqueline stared back at the girl, wondering what possible relevance this question could have now. The girl lifted the bottom of Jacqueline’s blouse, exposing her abdomen, and poured the scalding tea over her skin.

The gag muffled Jacqueline’s scream. The girl tenderly blew air over the burned skin and covered it with Jacqueline’s blouse. Even the sensation of the light cotton lying on her flesh caused pain. She closed her eyes and felt hot tears running over her cheeks.

Leila said, “Let’s try again. Did you ever make love to Tariq?”

Jacqueline shook her head, eyes still closed.

“Too bad for you,” she said. “I hear he’s a wonderful lover. The girl in Paris told me everything in explicit detail. In a way I suppose she’s lucky Tariq killed her in the end. No man would have ever made love to her the way he did. Her love life would have been a series of disappointments.”

Jacqueline realized that she was never going to set foot outside this room alive. Leila was a psychopath who had no intention of allowing her to live. Indeed, she would probably take pleasure in Jacqueline’s death. No, she thought, if she were going to die, she would die on her own terms. She would die trying to save Gabriel.

But how?

She had to create an opportunity to get away. To do that she had to convince Leila to let her out of the bed.

Through her gag Jacqueline managed to mumble, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“What did you say?”

Jacqueline repeated her words, more forcefully.

Leila said, “If you have to go, go.”

“Please,” said Jacqueline.

Leila set the empty mug on the floor and removed the gun from the waistband of her trousers. “Remember, we don’t need you for anything. If you try to get away I’ll shoot you in that beautiful face of yours. Do you understand me?”

Jacqueline nodded.

Leila unlocked the cuffs, starting with Jacqueline’s hands and ending with her feet.

“Stand up,” said Leila. “
Slowly.
And walk,
slowly,
into the bathroom with your hands behind your head.”

Jacqueline did as she was told. She entered the bathroom, turned around, started to close the door. Leila put her hand on it and aimed the gun at Jacqueline’s face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Please,” said Jacqueline.

Leila looked around. The bathroom was windowless, no way out except the door. “Knock on the door when you’re finished,
Dominique.
Stay inside until I tell you to come out.”

Jacqueline lowered her jeans and sat down on the toilet. Now what? To have any chance of getting away she needed a weapon of some sort. Maybe she could hit her with the lid to the toilet tank. No, too big, too heavy. She looked around the bathroom: a shampoo bottle, a bar of soap, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, a nail file.

A nail file.

It was resting on the shelf above the sink, below the mirror: a metal nail file, rounded at one end, sharp at the other. Jacqueline remembered her self-defense course at the Academy. The simplest device could be turned into a lethal weapon if the attacker struck in the right place: the eyes, the ears, the throat. Carefully, she picked up the nail file and gripped it across her palm, so that about an inch of the blade protruded from the heel of her hand.

But can I really do this?

Jacqueline thought of what Tariq was going to do to Gabriel. She thought about what Leila was going to do to her. She raised her blouse and looked at the burned skin of her abdomen.

She stood up and knocked on the door.

“Open the door slowly and step out with your hands behind your head.”

Jacqueline concealed the nail file in the palm of her right hand, opened the door, and placed her hands behind her head. Then she walked out into the living room. Leila was there, pointing the gun at Jacqueline’s chest. “Back to the bedroom,” she said, motioning with the gun.

Jacqueline turned and walked to the bedroom, Leila trailing a pace behind her, the gun in her outstretched hands. Jacqueline stopped at the edge of the bed.

Leila said, “Lie down and attach the handcuff to your right wrist.”

Jacqueline hesitated.

Leila shouted, “Do it!”

Jacqueline whirled around. As she turned she used her thumb to press the blade of the nail file into view. Leila was caught completely off guard. Instead of shooting she instinctively raised her hands. Jacqueline was aiming for her ear canal, but Leila moved just enough so that the tip of the file tore into the flesh of her cheekbone.

It was a deep wound, and blood immediately began to spout from it. Leila howled in pain, the gun tumbling from her grasp.

Jacqueline resisted the natural impulse to grab for the gun and forced herself to stab the girl again. She drew back her arm and swung it in a wide arc. This time the blade struck Leila in the side of the neck.

Warm blood spurted onto Jacqueline’s hand.

She let go of the file. It was protruding from the side of Leila’s neck. Leila looked at Jacqueline, her gaze a peculiar mixture of pain, horror, and utter surprise, her hands clutching at the metal object in her neck.

Jacqueline reached down and picked up the fallen gun.

Leila pulled the nail file from the side of her neck and lunged toward Jacqueline with a killing rage in her eyes.

Jacqueline raised the gun and shot her through the heart.

44

NEW YORK CITY

Tariq stood up and crossed Fifth Avenue. He walked to the service entrance of the apartment house and picked up a case of champagne that was standing just inside the doorway. A man with an apron and heavily oiled black hair looked up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Tariq shrugged, still holding the case of champagne. “My name is Emilio Gonzales.”

“So?”

“I was told to come here. I work for Elite Catering.”

“So how come I don’t know you?”

“This is my first job for them. I got a call this morning. Guy told me to get my ass over here right away—big party, needed some extra help. So here I am.”

“Well, it
is
a big party, and I could use a pair of extra hands. Someone important too. Helluva lot of security up there.”

“So?”

“So what the fuck are you standing there for? Take that upstairs and get your ass back down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the small apartment the gunshot sounded like a cannon blast. Surely someone had heard it. Jacqueline had to get away quickly. But she had to do one thing first. She had to warn Gabriel about Tariq’s plan.

She stepped over Leila’s dead body, snatched up the receiver, dialed the number in London. When she heard the recording of her own voice, she pressed three more numbers. There was a series of clicks, followed by a humming tone, then the voice of a young woman.

“Yes.”

“I need Ari Shamron, priority one. It’s an emergency.”

“Security word.”

“Jericho. Please,
hurry
!”

“Stand by, please.”

The calmness in the woman’s voice was maddening. There was another series of clicks and buzzes, but this time it was the voice of Shamron on the line.

“Jacqueline? Is that really you? Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in Brooklyn, I think.”

“Hold on. I’ll get your exact address from headquarters.”

“Don’t leave me alone!”

“I’m not. I’m right here.”

She began to cry.

“What happened?”

“Tariq’s out there somewhere! He’s disguised as a waiter. He looks totally different from Montreal. He was going to use the secure link to lure Gabriel into a trap, but I killed Leila with a nail file and her gun.”

She realized she probably sounded like a hysteric.

“Is the girl there now?”

“Yes, right next to me, on the floor. Oh, Ari, it’s horrible.”

“You have to get out of there. Just tell me one thing: Do you know where Tariq is going?”

“No.”

Just then she heard heavy footfalls in the stairwell.

Shit!

She whispered, “Someone’s coming!”

“Get out of there!”

“There’s only one way out.”

She heard knocking at the door: two crisp blows that seemed to shake the entire apartment.

“Ari, I don’t know what to do.”

“Be quiet and wait.”

Three more knocks, harder still. No more footsteps. Whoever was out there hadn’t left yet.

She was unprepared for the next sound: a violent thud, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. The noise was so loud that Jacqueline expected to see several people charge into the room, but it was only one man—the man who had appeared in the doorway that morning when Tariq brought her into the building.

He held a baseball bat in his clenched fists.

Jacqueline dropped the receiver. The man looked down at Leila’s body, then at Jacqueline. Then he raised the bat and started running toward her. Jacqueline leveled the gun and squeezed off two shots. The first struck him high in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second tore into the center of his back, severing his spinal cord. She moved forward and fired two more shots.