The Kill Artist by Daniel Silva Read Free Book Online Page A

top of the head.
    Blood spread over the stone floor. Tariq looked at the body and felt nothing more than a vague sense of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a few days of recuperation on the island before the next operation. He was tired, his nerves were frayed, and the headaches were getting worse. Now he would have to be on the move again, all because the goddamned ferry had been held up by high seas and Kemel had sent a bumbling idiot to deliver an important message.
    He slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers, picked up the train ticket, and went out.

5
     
    TEL AVIV
     
    Uzi Navot traveled to Tel Aviv the following morning. He came to Shamron’s office “black,” which meant that neither Lev nor any other member of the senior staff witnessed his arrival. Hanging from the end of his brick-layer’s arm was a sleek metal attaché case, the kind carried by businessmen the world over who believe their papers are too valuable to be entrusted to mere leather. Unlike the other passengers aboard the El Al flight from Paris that morning, Navot had not been asked to open the case for inspection. Nor had he been forced to endure the maddening ritualistic interrogation by the suntanned boys and girls from El Al security. Once he was safely inside Shamron’s office, he worked the combination on the attaché case and opened it for the first time since leaving the embassy in Paris. He reached inside and produced a single item: a videotape.
     
    Navot lost count of how many times the old man watched the tape. Twenty times, thirty, maybe even fifty. He smoked so many of his vile Turkish cigarettes that Navot could barely see the screen through the fog. Shamron was entranced. He sat in his chair, arms folded, head tilted back so he could peer through the black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of his daggerlike nose. Navot offered the occasional piece of narrative background, but Shamron was listening to his own voices.
    “According to museum security, Eliyahu and his party got into the car at ten twenty-seven,” Navot said. “As you can see from the time code on the screen, the Arab makes his telephone call at exactly ten twenty-six.”
    Shamron said nothing, just jabbed at his remote control, rewound the tape, and watched it yet again.
    “Look at his hand,” Navot said breathlessly. “The number has been stored into the mobile phone. He just hits the keypad a couple of times with his thumb and starts talking.”
    If Shamron found this scrap of insight interesting or even remotely relevant he gave no sign of it.
    “Maybe we could get the records from the telephone company,” Navot said, pressing on. “Maybe we could find out the number he dialed. That phone might lead us to Tariq.”
    Shamron, had he chosen to speak, would have informed young Navot that there were probably a half-dozen operatives between Tariq and the French cellular telephone company. Such an inquiry, while admirable, would surely lead to a dead end.
    “Tell me something, Uzi,” Shamron said at last. “What kind of food did that boy have on his silver platter?”
    “What, boss?”
    “The food, the hors d’oeuvres, on his platter. What were they?”
    “Chicken, boss.”
    “What kind of chicken, Uzi?”
    “I don’t know, boss. Just chicken.”
    Shamron shook his head in disappointment. “It was tandoori chicken, Uzi. Tandoori chicken, from India.”
    “Whatever you say, boss.”
    “Tandoori chicken,” Shamron repeated. “That’s interesting. You should have known that, Uzi.”
     
    Navot signed out an Office car and drove dangerously fast up the coast road to Caesarea. He had just pulled off a very nice piece of work—he had stolen a copy of the videotape from the Musée d’Orsay—but the only thing the old man cared about was the chicken. What difference did it make if it was tandoori chicken or Kentucky Fried Chicken? Maybe Lev was right. Maybe Shamron was past his prime. To hell with the old man.
    There