“Leave him,” she said. “He’s suffered enough because of you.”

“Allon has suffered? Gabriel Allon murdered my brother. His suffering is nothing compared to the suffering he inflicted on my family.”

“Your brother was a terrorist! Your brother deserved to die!”

“My brother fought for his people. He didn’t deserve to be shot like a dog as he lay in bed.”

“It was a long time ago. It’s over now. Take me instead of Gabriel.”

“That’s very noble of you, Sarah, but your friend Gabriel is not going to lose another woman to me without a fight. Close your eyes and get some rest. We have a long way to go tonight.”

It was nearly dawn as Tariq sped across the Whitestone Bridge and entered Queens. The traffic began to thicken as he passed La Guardia Airport. To the east the sky had turned light gray with the coming dawn. He switched on the radio, listened to a traffic report, then turned down the volume and concentrated on his driving. After a few minutes the East River appeared. Jacqueline could see the first rays of sunlight reflected on the skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan.

He exited the expressway and drove along the surface streets of Brooklyn. Now that it was light she could see him clearly for the first time since the previous afternoon. The long night of driving had taken its toll. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot and strained. He drove with his right hand. His left hand lay in his lap, clutching the Makarov.

She looked at the street signs: Coney Island Avenue. The neighborhood had turned markedly Middle Eastern and Asian. Colorful Pakistani markets with fruit stands spilling onto the sidewalk. Lebanese and Afghan restaurants. Middle East travel companies. A carpet and tile store. A mosque with a false green-and-white marble facade mounted on the brick exterior of an old commercial property.

He turned into a quiet residential street called Parkville Avenue and drove slowly for one block, stopping outside a square three-story brick building on the corner of East Eighth Street. On the ground floor was a boarded-up delicatessen. He shut off the engine, gave two short beeps of the horn. A light flared briefly in the second-floor apartment.

“Wait for me to walk around the car,” he said calmly. “Don’t open the door. If you open the door, I’ll kill you. When we get out of the car, walk straight inside and up the stairs. If you make a sound, if you try to run, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

She nodded. He slipped the Makarov into the front of his coat and climbed out. Then he walked around the back of the car, opened her door, and pulled her out by the hand. He closed the door, and together they walked quickly across the street. The ground-floor door was slightly ajar. They stepped inside and crossed a small foyer littered with flyers. The frame of a rusting bicycle with no tires leaned against the flaking woodwork.

Tariq mounted the stairs, still clutching her hand; his skin was hot and damp. The stairwell smelled of curry and turpentine. A door opened, and a face briefly appeared in the darkness, a bearded man wearing a white gown. He glanced at Tariq, then slipped back into his apartment and softly closed the door.

They came to a doorway marked 2A. Tariq knocked softly twice.

Leila opened the door and pulled Jacqueline inside.

FORTY-THREE

New York City

One hour later Ari Shamron arrived at the Israeli diplomatic mission to the United Nations on Second Avenue and Forty-third Street. He slipped through a knot of protesters, head bowed slightly, and stepped inside. A member of the mission security staff was waiting for him in the lobby and escorted him upstairs to the secure room. The prime minister was there, surrounded by a trio of nervous-looking aides, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Shamron sat down and looked at the prime minister’s chief of staff. “Give me a copy of his schedule and leave the room.”

As the aides filed out of the room, the prime minister said, “What happened in Montreal?”

Shamron gave him a detailed account. When he finished, the prime minister closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I brought you out of retirement to restore the reputation of the Office, Ari-not to create yet another disaster! Do we have any reason to believe the Canadians were aware of our presence in Montreal?”

“No, Prime Minister.”

“Do you think your agent is still alive?”

“It’s hard to say, but the situation appears to be rather bleak. The women who have encountered Tariq in the past have not fared terribly well.”

“The press is going to have a field day with this one. I can see the headlines now: Beautiful French Fashion Model Secret Agent for Israel! Fuck, Ari!”

“There’s no way she can be formally linked to the Office.”

“Someone’s going to get the story, Ari. Someone always does.”

“If they do, we’ll use our friends like Benjamin Stone to knock it down. I can assure you complete deniability of all aspects of this affair.”

“I don’t want deniability! You promised me Tariq’s head on a platter with no fuckups and no fingerprints! I still want Tariq’s head on a platter, and I want Jacqueline Delacroix alive.”

“We want the same things, Prime Minister. But at this moment your security is our first priority.” Shamron picked up the schedule and began to read.

“After the ceremony at the United Nations, it’s down to the financial district for a meeting with investors, followed by an appearance at the New York Stock Exchange. After that you go to the Waldorf for a luncheon hosted by the Friends of Zion.” Shamron looked up briefly. “And that’s the first half of the day. After lunch you go to Brooklyn to visit a Jewish community center and discuss the peace process. Then it’s back to Manhattan for a round of cocktail parties and receptions.”

Shamron lowered the paper and looked at the prime minister. “This is a security nightmare. I want Allon assigned to your personal detail for the day.”

“Why Allon?”

“Because he got a good look at Tariq in Montreal. If Tariq’s out there, Gabriel will see him.”

“Tell him he has to wear a suit.”

“I don’t think he owns one.”

“Get one.”

It was a tiny apartment: a sparsely furnished living room, a kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked porcelain sink, a single bedroom, a bathroom that smelled of damp. The windows were hung with thick woolen blankets, which blocked out all light. Tariq opened the closet door. Inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. He carried the suitcase into the living room, placed it on the floor, opened it. Black gabardine trousers, neatly pressed and folded, white dinner jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. In the zippered compartment, a wallet. Tariq opened it and studied the contents: a New York driver’s license in the name of Emilio Gonzales, a Visa credit card, a video store rental card, an assortment of receipts, a clip-on identification badge. Kemel had done his work well.

Tariq looked at the photograph. Emilio Gonzales was a balding man with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. His cheeks were fuller than Tariq’s; nothing a few balls of cotton wouldn’t take care of. He removed the clothing from the suitcase and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. Then he removed the final item from the suitcase-a small leather toiletry kit, and went into the bathroom.

He placed the toiletry kit on the basin and propped the photograph of Emilio Gonzales on the shelf below the mirror. Tariq looked at his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized his own face: deep black circles beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin, bloodless lips. Part of it was lack of sleep-he couldn’t remember when he had slept last-but the illness was to blame for most of it. The tumor was stalking him now: numbness in his extremities, ringing in his ears, unbearable headaches, fatigue. He did not have much longer to live. He had arrived at this place, this moment in history, with little time to spare.