The Kill Artist Read Free Page B

dreary Parisian fall, he crackled with a brash energy. Gatherings like this annoyed him. Eliyahu had nothing against art; he simply didn't have time for it. He still had the work ethic of a kibbutznik, and between ambassadorial postings he had made millions in investment banking.
    He had been talked into attending the reception tonight for one reason: it would give him an opportunity to have an unofficial moment or two with the French foreign minister. Relations between France and Israel were icy at the moment. The French were angry because a pair of Israeli intelligence officers had been caught trying to recruit an official from the Defense Ministry. The Israelis were angry because the French had recently agreed to sell jet fighters and nuclear reactor technology to one of Israel's Arab enemies. But when Eliyahu approached the French foreign minister for a word, the minister virtually ignored him, then pointedly engaged the Egyptian ambassador in a lively conversation about the Middle East peace process.
    Eliyahu was angry-angry and bored silly. He was leaving for Israel the following night. Ostensibly, it was for a meeting at the Foreign Ministry, but he also planned to spend a few days in Eilat on the Red Sea. He was looking forward to the trip. He missed Israel, the cacophony of it, the hustle, the scent of pine and dust on the road to Jerusalem, the winter rains over the Galilee.
    A waiter in a white tunic offered him champagne. Eliyahu shook his head. "Bring me some coffee, please." He looked over the heads of the shimmering crowd for his wife, Hannah, and spotted her standing next to the chargé d'affaires from the embassy, Moshe Savir. Savir was a professional diplomat: supercilious, arrogant, the perfect temperament for the posting in Paris.
    The waiter returned, bearing a silver tray with a single cup of black coffee on it.
    "Never mind," Eliyahu said, and he sliced his way through the crowd.
    Savir asked, "How did it go with the foreign minister?"
    "He turned his back on me."
    "Bastard."
    The ambassador reached out his hand for his wife. "Let's go. I've had enough of this nonsense."
    "Don't forget tomorrow morning," Savir said. "Breakfast with the editorial staff of Le Monde at eight o'clock."
    "I'd rather have a tooth pulled."
    "It's important, Zev."
    "Don't worry. I'll be my usual charming self."
    Savir shook his head. "See you then."
    The Pont Alexandre III was Emily's favorite spot in Paris. She loved to stand in the center of the graceful span at night and gaze down the Seine toward Notre-Dame, with the gilded église du Dôme to her right, floating above Les Invalides, and the Grand Palais on her left.
    René took Emily to the bridge after dinner for her surprise. They walked along the parapet, past the ornate lamps and the cherubs and nymphs, until they reached the center of the span. René removed a small rectangular, gift-wrapped box from the backpack and handed it to her.
    "For me?"
    "Of course it's for you!"
    Emily tore away the wrapping paper like a child and opened the leather case. Inside was a bracelet of pearls, diamonds, and emeralds. It must have cost him a small fortune. "René, my God! It's gorgeous!"
    "Let me help you put it on."
    She put out her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her coat. René slipped the bracelet around her wrist and closed the clasp. Emily held it up in the lamplight. Then she turned around, leaned her back against his chest, and gazed at the river. "I want to die just like this."
    But René was no longer listening. His face was expressionless, brown eyes fixed on the Musée d'Orsay.
    The waiter with the platter of tandoori chicken had been assigned to watch the ambassador. He removed the cellular phone from the pocket of his tunic and pressed a button that dialed a stored number. Two rings, a man's voice, the drone of Parisian traffic in the background. "Oui."
    "He's leaving."
    Click.
    Ambassador Eliyahu took Hannah by the hand and led her through the crowd, pausing