The kill artist: a novel by Daniel Silva

Author:Daniel Silva [Silva, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Fiction, Art restorers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Terrorism, Political fiction, Political, Middle East
ISBN: 9780375500909
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2000-12-19T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FOUR

Maida Vale, London

When Jacqueline arrived back at her flat, Gabriel was seated on the couch drinking coffee. "How did it go?"

"It was lovely. Bring me some of that coffee, will you?"

She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and began filling the tub. Then she stripped off her clothing and slipped beneath the warm water. A moment later Gabriel knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He came into the room. He seemed surprised that she was already in the bath. He looked away, searching for a spot to place the coffee. "How do you feel?" he said, eyes averted.

"How do you feel after you kill someone?"

"I always feel dirty."

Jacqueline scooped up a handful of water and let it run over her face.

Gabriel said, "I need to ask you some questions."

"I'm ready when you are."

"It can wait until you're dressed."

"We've lived together as man and wife, Gabriel. We've even behaved like man and wife."

"That was different."

"Why was it different?"

"Because it was a necessary part of the operation."

"Sleeping in the same bed, or making love to each other?"

"Jacqueline, please."

"Maybe you won't look at me because I just slept with Yusef."

Gabriel glared at her and went out. Jacqueline permitted herself a brief smile, then slipped below the water.

"The phone is made by British Telecom."

She was sitting in the cracked club chair, her body covered in a thick white robe. She rattled off the name and model number as she worked a towel through her damp hair.

"There's no telephone in the bedroom, but he does have a clock radio."

"What kind?"

"A Sony." She gave him the model number.

"Let's go back to the telephone for a moment," Gabriel said. "Any distinguishing marks? Any price tags or stickers with telephone numbers on them? Anything that would give us a problem?"

"He fancies himself a poet and a historian. He writes all the time. It looks as though he dials the telephone with the tip of a pen. The keypad is covered with marks."

"What color ink?"

"Blue and red."

"What kind of pen?"

"What do you mean? The kind of pen you write with."

Gabriel sighed and looked wearily at the ceiling. "Is it a ballpoint pen? Is it a fountain pen? Perhaps a felt-tipped pen?"

"Felt-tipped, I believe."

"You believe?"

"Felt-tipped. I'm sure of it."

"Very good," he said as though he were speaking to a child. "Now, is it fine point, medium, or bold?"

She slowly raised the long, slender middle finger of her right hand and waved it at Gabriel.

"I'll take that to mean bold point. What about the keys?"

She hunted through her handbag, tossed him the silver mascara case. Gabriel thumbed the release, lifted the lid, looked at the imprints.

She said, "We may have a problem."

Gabriel closed the lid and looked up.

Jacqueline said, "I think he may have seen me with his keys."

"Tell me about it."

She recounted the entire chain of events for him, then added cautiously, "He wants to see me again."

"When?"

"Tonight at six-thirty. He's meeting me at the gallery."

"Did you accept?"

"Yes, but I can-"

"No," Gabriel said, interrupting her. "That's perfect. I want you to meet him and keep him entertained long enough for me to get inside his flat and plant the bugs.

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