quickly explained how Stratton and the man he was with had split up, and that he had followed Stratton, who was running, and lost him outside the gate, believing he had entered the old city.
Raz could not think what to make of it. He had no information of any specific threat and was angry that British intelligence was conducting its own operation on Israeli territory without consulting him. On the other hand he was experienced enough to recognise that whatever it was they were up to had rapidly developed into something urgent, and that Stratton was reacting to what was no doubt an emergency. The British argument would be that Stratton intended to brief the Israelis but events suddenly got ahead of things. That would come later. Right now, he had a British agent in pursuit of something that was obviously important or they would not be here, and the man was operating unsupported, except for the mysterious Palestinian.
‘Go through Herod’s Gate,’ Raz said. ‘Call me as soon as you see him but don’t stop him. And get some people here,’ he shouted as he ran down the steps and hurried towards the entrance to the city.
Stratton jogged along a broad walkway that was practically deserted, the frustration of looking for Zhilev eating away at him.With every passing minute he was growing closer to quitting the assignment, the voices in his head urging him to find a gate and get out of the city and as far away from it as possible. Deserting was not in his nature but his devil was pressing him to save himself, reminding him he didn’t owe anyone anything, that he had done his best and although it was not good enough, that’s how things went sometimes. No one ever won them all. Gabriel would not be around to point the finger at him.The question would be asked why he had not brought Gabriel out with him, and it would be a difficult one to answer. Everyone would know Stratton had run, but so what? Who wouldn’t have? The simple answer was, he could not save the city and so why die just to prove he had tried? The only thing that was keeping him on the search so far was that he believed he still had some time.
It had to be assumed that Zhilev was not on a suicide mission and would most likely set the device timer to give him the leeway to escape the blast. What was eating at Stratton was the growing belief that Zhilev had already planted the device in a secure location and was on his way out of town. Finding it would be an impossible task. If Zhilev had left himself enough time to get away, that meant Stratton could also escape, but only if he left now.
He paused to check the map. Every path eventually led to an exit and the one he was on headed back towards the Damascus Gate. He made up his mind. He would search as far as the gate, and if he did not find Zhilev, he would quit. As for Abed, since he no longer knew where he was, the Palestinian was on his own.
Stratton jogged up an incline and paused at a right turn that led towards what looked like a monastery on the brow of a rise where several monks were having a conversation. Straight ahead, in the distance, was the main market again. Both paths led to the gate. He was about to take the less crowded monastery option when something caught his eye. In front of him, protruding into the street and attached to the corner of a large building at a crooked angle, was what appeared to be a small mausoleum.The entrance was protected by an iron fence linked to a pair of ancient pillars, their tops broken off just above the level of the gate, which was chained shut.What caught his attention was the carving in the stone above the door. It was of Christ lying on the ground with his cross over his back, but above that was written the number three in Roman numerals. The last thing Gabriel had said to him as he left the hotel was the number seven without knowing what it meant. Beside the number three were the letters STA. The meaning hit him like a freight train. He had read the short blurb on the back of the map about the fourteen stations of Christ’s journey with his cross through the streets of the old city to his eventual crucifixion. STA was short for station. A sign on a wall named the road as the Via Dolorosa, the Path of Pain.
He quickly opened his map and searched the list on the back of it. Station three was where Christ fell for the first time. Station seven was where he fell for the second time. Stratton turned the map over hoping to see the stations indicated, but they were not.
A Palestinian stepped out of a shop a few yards away and Stratton hurried over to him. ‘Where’s station seven?’ he asked urgently.
The Palestinian did not appear to understand him. Stratton took his shoulder with the minimum of politeness and directed his attention to the mausoleum.
‘Station three. Three,’ he said, holding up three fingers. ‘Station seven,’ he said, holding up seven fingers. ‘Where is it?’
The man still appeared confused. Then the penny dropped and he repeated the number in horrible pronunciation while holding up seven of his own fingers.
‘Seven. Yes. Where?’
The man pointed towards the market area and before his hand had levelled in that direction, Stratton was off at the run.
He grabbed the Tokarev in his pocket, not only to stop it bouncing about, but in anticipation of meeting the Russian although the feeling remained that he was too late. Much as Stratton wanted to get away, it was his nature that if there was even the most slender of chances of succeeding, he could not resist pursuing it. There might be life yet left in this hunt. If there was ever a time to start praying, this was it. It was certainly the right place.
He sprinted around a gentle curve to see people milling about the marketplace ahead and slowed to search for station seven.
He concentrated on the walls hoping to find something written above a door or a plaque on a wall. A woman in traditional dress approached carrying a bag brimming with assorted vegetables and Stratton blocked her path.
‘Station seven? Seven?’
As soon as he asked her it was obvious she could not speak anything other than her native tongue and she looked at him as if he were an alien and moved around him without uttering a word. He turned to ask a man passing the other side of him who did not understand either.
Stratton carried on along the walkway which grew steeper. Up ahead it passed through an arch to burrow inside the city. Traders’ tables lined one side of the tunnel which was illuminated by strip lights fixed to the low, arched stone ceiling.
Suddenly shouts came from inside the tunnel but Stratton was too far away to see what the commotion was. As he moved under the arch, he could see the walkway ended at a T-junction some forty yards ahead. More shouts echoed through the stone tunnels and people scurried away to avoid a couple of police officers running across the end of the junction.
He closed on it just as a soldier, clutching his M16, followed the police officers, pushing his way through the people and shouting at them to move.
Stratton did not care what the fuss was about and concentrated on searching for station seven.
Before he reached the end of the walkway he stopped dead in his tracks. Directly in front of him, twenty yards away, at the end of the T-junction and facing him, was a pair of doors set into the stone wall, and above them, on a large brass plaque, was the number seven in Roman numerals and the letters ST.
The black doors were shut.Trash was strewn about the ground, and Stratton was suddenly positive he was looking at the place where an atomic bomb was ticking away. When he had first learned it was a nuclear device, he had considered what he would do if he found the bomb armed and ready to go. The brief report he had read on its probable type and construction had provided no hope of dismantling it. The only plan he had come up with was to warn the authorities of whichever country he was in and let them deal with it, while he got out of there as quickly as he could. Now that he was possibly faced with that option, he could not improve on this choice of action, but before he could do anything, he had to see the bomb.
He was about to take a step forward when one of the doors started to open inwards. He stopped dead in his tracks and his hand shot to his pocket, pulled out the Tokarev and held it down against his thigh, partly covered by his other hand. He did not move any further nor did he even blink as the door opened fully and a large figure took a step through it.
Zhilev saw Stratton immediately and froze in the doorway. There was a handful of locals in the vicinity but this white man, in his battered leather jacket, standing some twenty yards away and staring directly at him, stood out like a tree in a field of snow. Zhilev did not miss the gun in his hand held low by his body. He looked into the man’s eyes and knew instantly that he had come for a fight, a fight to the end, and he also had the distinct impression the man was no stranger to such situations. He was smaller than Zhilev, and alone as far as he could tell, but his cold, unswerving eyes revealed everything he needed to know about him. He had come for Zhilev, there was no doubt of that, which meant the man knew what he was up against, and yet he was there, standing like a
