say, although he was not expecting very much. Whatever the Englishman was up to, Raz was no doubt going to have to find out for himself.
His mobile phone rang in his pocket and he dug it out, hit the key and put it to his ear. ‘Raz.’
As he listened, he got to his feet and headed for the door, knocking papers off a desk and not stopping to pick them up. Seconds later he was running out through the entrance, past the building’s security guard and down the broad stone steps, waving for his driver who was waiting outside reading a newspaper.
Stratton and Abed hurried along the street, passing a school on one side and a heavily secured government building on the other, and closed on a Y-junction which was the start of a densely populated shopping area. Stratton paused on the triangle in the road to study his options, Abed behind him, both men panting heavily.
‘Why are we chasing him?’ Abed asked.
‘He has a bomb,’ Stratton said. There was still no point in anyone knowing what kind of bomb, and, besides, he needed Abed and did not want him taking off in the opposite direction.
‘The Al Aqsa mosque in the old city,’ Abed said.
‘If he wants to attack Islam that is the place. Is he of the Islam faith?’
Stratton had not thought about that. It was an interesting question, but did not appear on Zhilev’s profile. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘If not, he will not be permitted into the square. Only those of the faith may enter.’
Zhilev did not need to put the bomb in the mosque to raise it to the ground, but the old city would be a good place for the explosion. It would read better in the press reports.
‘The old city straight ahead?’ Stratton asked, indicating the road crammed with shops, barrows and swarms of people.
‘I don’t know,’ Abed said. ‘I have never been to Jerusalem before.’Abed asked a passer by who pointed down the street.
They moved quickly into the throng, slowed by the density of the crowds, and headed down the steep, snaking road that became narrower as it divided into a fork. They paused at the split. Abed looked around for a sign, found one, and confirmed some information with a passing shopper.
‘That leads to the Damascus Gate,’ Abed said to Stratton, indicating the right fork. ‘And that one to Herod’s Gate.’
‘You take that one.’
‘What do I do if I see him?’
‘Stay with him,’ Stratton shouted as he continued down the busy hill. Without communications there was not much else he could do. If Abed did find Zhilev, he had a better chance of following him unnoticed since he wasn’t white. Stratton did not think he needed to tell Abed to tackle Zhilev if he thought the Russian was about to detonate the device. He had a feeling Abed would have a go if he thought there were no other options.
The bottom of the street got even narrower and became crammed with mini-buses, obviously the local bus depot, and Stratton pushed through and broke out into a broad street that ran across his front. Beyond the street the ancient white stone walls of the old city spread in front of him, the great, gold, bulbous dome of the Al Aqsa mosque rising out of the city in the distance.
He crossed the street, dodging traffic, and stopped at the top of a broad, jagged semi-circle of steps that formed an amphitheatre in front of a large fortress facade with battlements on top and an arch at the centre that led into the city. Stratton paused to scan the people milling around the amphitheatre where several traders had set up shop on the steps offering shoes, clothes, cheap electronics and fruit and vegetables. There was no sign of a big white man so Stratton ran down the steps to the floor of the amphitheatre and followed it across a stone bridge over a moat that once helped protect the gate from being stormed. The entrance led immediately into a hall packed with vendors, and beyond was the entrance into the city proper, around a tight corner guarded by half a dozen Israeli police and soldiers, the police armed with pistols, the soldiers with M16 assault rifles.They were watching everyone who passed in and out, occasionally selecting someone to search. Stratton was suddenly aware of the gun in his pocket, but the need to press forward and find Zhilev was greater than avoiding the risk of being searched. Stratton reduced his speed to a normal pace as he approached. One of the soldiers studied him as he passed. Stratton could feel the man’s eyes on his back as he walked into the city but no one called after him.
A few yards in Stratton stopped at a fork in the walkway.Vehicles could not navigate this part of the city. In fact, all but a couple of the central roads were closed to wheeled traffic except the numerous barrows. The walkway straight ahead was crowded with people and tightly lined with kiosks and one-room shops, their wares spilling into the walkway leaving barely enough room for the barrows and people to move along. The path to the left dropped steeply away and led into a less crowded residential area. There was trash everywhere and grey water, thickened by filth, trickled along gutters and formed stagnant pools in the cracks and depressions of the stepped walkways. Every surface was stone: the walls, the road underfoot and the surrounding battlements, disfigured in places with patches of modern concrete sloppily applied, and graffiti could be found everywhere, some of it hundreds of years old. Only the older men wore traditional Arab dress, black-and-white, or red-and-white
Stratton took the map he had picked up from the hotel reception from his pocket and studied it. He decided on the busy route through the market and headed down the widely stepped walkway that had a narrow central path levelled out for the barrows. There was a loud shout behind him and he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a young boy navigating an overburdened barrow down the path through the crowd, using his sandal on the wheel as a brake and looking as if he was only barely in control.
All the while Stratton scanned in every direction and inside the shops for the giant Russian. The Palestinians were not a tall race and he hoped it would be easy to spot Zhilev, but there was no sign of him.
The crowded walkway threaded into the central mass of buildings where it became a low, narrow tunnel still lined with shops. It was well lit with electric lights but there were nooks, crannies and even tighter alleyways branching off on both sides into residential areas, a veritable labyrinth.
After a hundred yards or so Stratton paused at a junction and looked at his three new options, comparing them quickly to the map. The right path led to a flight of stairs, left led downhill in the direction of the great mosque and straight ahead, through the thinning crowd, led deeper into the city, where a group of soldiers approached on patrol. Stratton chose the left path.
A few yards down the walkway he passed under a low arch and back out into sunlight. The shops gave way to homes where washing and small children were in abundance. Frustration began to creep over him as he realised how overwhelming the endless alleyways and tunnels were becoming. The old city was only half a mile square but the miles of walkways turned it into a maze. The horrifying truth was dawning that the only way he was going find Zhilev was through luck, and that was not a good basis on which to mount a search operation. A boy grabbed his arm in an effort to persuade him to buy something from his shop and Stratton pulled away so aggressively the boy almost toppled over.
Stratton could feel the stress rising in him along with mounting doubts about what he was doing. He stopped to look back at the junction he had just left as the tail end soldier passed through it along the walkway he had taken from the city entrance. The urge to turn around, head out of the city and get as far away as possible grew, threatening to corrupt his commitment. Fear was also beginning to nibble at him, fear of failing, as well as dying. He suddenly felt pathetically helpless. It had been a long time since he had experienced any kind of panic and it was starting to rise steadily inside of him. He took control of it and pushed it out of his stomach where it was massing, and concentrated on himself, who he was, what he had achieved in his life and the many dangers he had survived when he should not have. He walked on down the hill, his efforts working, but it still did not affect the source of the problem: to believe in himself he had to doubt Gabriel. If Gabriel was right, he was wrong and Zhilev was going to detonate his nuclear bomb, and he was going to die.
Stratton broke into a run, unsure where he was going. It was the worst feeling in the world.
