“Yes,” said Leila. “We can manage the bags, thank you.”

The porter gave her a claim check for the car and climbed behind the wheel. Leila led Jacqueline into the large, noisy lobby. It was filled with Japanese tourists. Jacqueline wondered what on earth could bring them to Montreal in the dead of winter. Leila deliberately switched her bag from her right hand to her left. Jacqueline forced herself to look the other way. She had been trained in the art of impersonal communication; she knew a good piece of body talk when she saw it. The next act was about to begin.

Tariq watched them from the hotel bar. His appearance had changed since Lisbon: charcoal-gray wool trousers, a cream-colored pullover, Italian blazer. He was neatly shaved and wore small gold-rimmed eyeglasses with clear lenses. He had added a touch of gray to his hair.

He had seen the photograph of the woman called Dominique Bonard, but he was still taken aback by her appearance. He wondered how Shamron and Gabriel Allon could justify putting a woman like that into such danger.

He glanced around the lobby. He knew that they were here, somewhere, hidden among the tourists and the businessmen and the hotel employees: Shamron’s watchers. Tariq had stretched their resources by taking the woman from London to Paris and then Montreal. But surely they had regrouped and moved their assets into place. He knew that the moment he approached the woman he would be revealing himself to his enemies for the first time.

He found that he was actually looking forward to it. Finally, after all these years in the shadows, he was about to step into the light. He wanted to shout: Here I am. See, I’m a man like you, flesh and blood, not a monster. He was not ashamed of his life’s work. Quite the opposite. He was proud of it. He wondered if Allon could say the same thing.

Tariq knew that he had one major advantage over Allon. He knew he was about to die. His life was over. He had survived on the knife edge of danger to be betrayed in the end not by his enemies but by his own body. He would use the knowledge of his impending death like a weapon, the most powerful he had ever possessed.

Tariq stood up, smoothed the front of his blazer, and crossed the lobby.

They rode an elevator to the fourteenth floor, walked along a quiet corridor, stopped at room 1417. He opened the door with a electronic card key, then slipped the card into his pocket. When Jacqueline entered the room, Shamron’s awareness and memory drills took over: small suite, separate bedroom and sitting room. On the coffee table was a room service tray with a half-eaten salad. A garment bag lay on the floor, open, still packed.

He held out his hand. “Lucien Daveau.”

“Dominique Bonard.”

He smiled: warm, confident. “I was told by my associates that you were a very beautiful woman, but I’m afraid their descriptions did not do you justice.”

His mannerisms and speech were all very French. If she had not known he was a Palestinian, she would have assumed he was a well-to-do Parisian.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said truthfully.

“Oh really? What did you expect?” He was already testing her-she could sense it.

“Yusef said you were an intellectual. I suppose I was expecting someone with long hair and blue jeans and a sweater with holes in it.”

“Someone more professorial?”

“Yes, that’s the word.” She managed a smile. “You don’t look terribly professorial.”

“That’s because I’m not a professor.”

“I’d ask what you are, but Yusef told me not to ask too many questions, so I suppose we’ll just have to make pleasant small talk.”

“It’s been a long time since I made pleasant small talk with a beautiful woman. I think I’m going to enjoy the next few days immensely.”

“Have you been in Montreal long?”

“You just asked me a question, Dominique.”

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“Don’t apologize. I was just joking. I arrived this morning. As you can see, I haven’t had a chance to unpack.”

She walked from the sitting room into the bedroom.

He said, “Don’t worry, I intend to sleep on the couch tonight.”

“I thought we were supposed to be posing as lovers.”

“We are.”

“What if the hotel staff notices that you slept on the couch?”

“They might assume we’re quarreling. Or they might assume that I was working late and didn’t want to disturb you and that I fell asleep on the couch.”

“They might.”

“Yusef said you were intelligent, but he neglected to say that you also possess a conspiratorial mind.”

It had played out long enough. Jacqueline was proud of the fact that she was guiding the conversation and not he. It gave her the sense that at least she was in control of something.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.”

She placed a cigarette between her lips and struck the lighter Shamron had given her. She could almost imagine the radio waves flying out, searching for a receiver.

“I didn’t bring clothing for this kind of weather. Leila said you would take me out shopping for something warmer.”

“I’d be happy to. I apologize for the way we had to keep you in the dark about where you were going. I assure you it was quite necessary.”

“I understand.” A pause. “I suppose.”

“Answer one question for me, Dominique. Why did you agree to come on this mission with me? Do you believe in what you are doing? Or are you doing it simply for love?”

The coincidence of his question was almost too vulgar to contemplate. She calmly placed the lighter back into her handbag and said, “I’m doing it because I believe in love. Do you believe in love?”

“I believe in the right of my people to have a homeland of our own choosing. I’ve never had the luxury of love.”

“I’m sorry-” She was about to call him Lucien, but for some reason she stopped herself.

“You don’t want to say my name, Dominique? Why won’t you call me Lucien?”

“Because I know it isn’t your real name.”

“How do you know that?”

“Yusef told me.”

“Do you know my real name?”

“No, Yusef wouldn’t tell me.”

“Yusef is a good man.”

“I’m very fond of him.”

“Is Dominique really your name?”

She was caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a simple question, really. I want to know if your name is really Dominique.”

“You’ve seen my passport.”

“Passports can easily be forged.”

“Maybe for people like you!” she snapped. “Listen, Lucien, or whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t like your question. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

He sat down and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Please accept my apology. The politics of the Middle East tend to make one paranoid after a while. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I need to check my machine in London.”

“Of course.” He reached out and pressed the speaker button on the telephone. “Tell me the number, and I’ll dial it for you.”

She recited the number, and his fingers worked over the keypad. A few seconds later she heard the phone ringing-the two-beat moan of a British phone-followed by the sound of her own voice on the message tape. She pictured a technician, seated behind a computer console in Tel Aviv, reading the words Hotel Queen Elizabeth, Montreal, Room 1417. She reached out for the receiver, but he covered it with his hand and looked up at her. “I’d like to listen, if you don’t mind. Paranoia is creeping up on me again.”

She had three messages. The first was from a woman who identified herself as Dominique’s mother. The second was from Julian Isherwood-he had misplaced a file and was wondering if she could give him a ring at some point to help him locate it. The third was from a man who didn’t identify himself. She instantly recognized the sound of Gabriel’s voice. “I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you. If you need anything I’m here for you. See you soon, I hope. Cheers.”