rock, his feet apart and shoulders square. A hint of fear cracked through Zhilev’s body, shooting from the pit of his stomach to every part of him, but he maintained control as his mind raced to consider his options. He had only two as far as he could see: continue out of the crypt, or go back inside. His aggressive nature wanted to push forward and take on this foe, but something in his heart warned him that at this precise moment he would lose, if for no other reason than he had left the Uzi on the table inside. The man was waiting for Zhilev to make his next move.
Zhilev stepped back into the crypt, shut the door and looked at the device on the table, now completely exposed, the wood discarded. He considered his next action. Whatever it was going to be, it needed to be immediate. It might already be too late, but soldiers do not think like that. The wisdom in a developing situation is to strike quickly. To hesitate could be to lose. The decision he had to make was about the bomb. There was a panic sequence on the three arming buttons. Hitting them in one direction set the device to fifteen minutes, and then each hit of the last button reduced it by a further five minutes. Three strikes, five minutes each, and it detonated immediately. His hand hovered over the buttons, the pressure mounting to make a decision. Was fifteen minutes enough time to get away? From here on he would be doing everything at the sprint. If he could get through the man standing outside, he could get out of the city in less than five minutes. If he could grab a car, any one in the street, wrench the driver out and drive like the devil, he could get five miles away in ten minutes if he drove over pavements, through traffic lights and through people if they got in his way.
Zhilev did not waste another second thinking about it and hit the buttons in sequence. The device bleeped twice indicating acceptance of the change. Zhilev snapped up the Uzi, checked the safety was off, held it firmly in one hand and gripped the door knob with the other.
Stratton held the pistol in two hands and moved to one side, away from the position his enemy had last seen him in, and started to walk slowly forward. His enemy had three options: to charge out and fight, or stay inside and wait for Stratton to come in and get him.The third option did not bear thinking about and that was the man committing suicide and taking everyone with him.
Stratton sensed movement behind him but dared not turn to look in case Zhilev came out at that precise moment. It sounded like running. He concealed his gun under his jacket in case it was more soldiers, and he was right. A police officer ran past, closely followed by another. As the third and last officer passed him, Stratton saw the door to the crypt open and Zhilev emerge at the charge, a weapon in his hands. The following seconds were a mass of noise and confusion and seemed to last far longer than they really had.
Machine-gun fire filled the tunnel as Zhilev unleashed a hail of bullets in short, accurate bursts. The copper- coated lead rounds hammered into the first officer’s flak jacket before tearing open his throat. His colleague close behind him took a round in the arm before two smacked into his head killing him instantly. Stratton brought his gun up, but the third officer sidestepped in front of him while fumbling with his own sub-machine gun, overwhelmed by the shock of the surprise onslaught. Stratton fired between the falling bodies and a bullet slammed into Zhilev’s side. But the Russian was in full fury and only death would stop him now. His next burst travelled up the third officer’s body, from his crotch, across his flak jacket and into his face, sending him backwards into Stratton.They fell back together, Stratton’s head one side of the officer, his gun the other. The way was clear for a shot but Stratton was falling. As another burst from Zhilev went wide and hit the wall and ceiling in front of Stratton, something hammered into Stratton’s chest with horrifying force and immediately began to burn. Stratton fired repeatedly until he hit the ground on his back, the weight of the officer knocking the wind completely out of him. But as he fell his bullets ripped into Zhilev - one of his kneecaps flew off, his left hip exploded as the bullet bounced off the bone, a round penetrated his stomach, another his chest, two struck the wall behind him, and the last three shattered Zhilev’s jaw, drilled through his neck and ripped a piece of the side of his head away.
Zhilev stood for a moment in a daze, the world spinning, his vision blurred, images from his life that he had not remembered for years flicking in front of him like an erratic slide show. The only conscious thought he had, which lasted less than a second before the lights went out, was that it was over. The Uzi clattered across the stone floor, and Zhilev dropped back in front of the doorway to the crypt, hitting the ground like a felled oak.
Stratton released the gun to pull himself out from under the police officer’s body with what felt like all the strength he had left. He took a deep breath before trying to sit up and the pain, like a bolt of electricity, seemed to ignite his entire chest and forced him to lie back. He reached a hand under his jacket and felt around his body, his mind unable to pinpoint the pain, and withdrew it to find it wet with blood. He had been hit by a bullet, a ricochet off the wall. He started to feel giddy and fought to control his mind. This was not the time to go unconscious. The will to live and win remained iron in him and the fight was not yet over. While the bomb remained unexploded there was a chance left, be it a desperate one, but that was what this fight had come down to. He knew Zhilev had set the bomb’s timer to detonate. Why else had he made his last desperate charge? The problem was Stratton did not feel he had the strength to carry on.
He looked towards the sound of moaning nearby and saw a Palestinian woman on the ground holding her bleeding arm, a dead trader beside her.
Stratton rolled carefully over, every inch of effort causing a searing pain, and got on to all fours. He reached for a table and, calculating each move and preparing himself for the sting, pulled his feet under him and pushed upwards. He immediately became dizzy and gripped the table to steady himself. It was obvious he was not going to stay upright without support and quickly planned a route to the entrance of the crypt using the line of traders’ tables. He heard more running behind him but this time the boots slid to a halt. Stratton looked over his shoulder to see soldiers taking cover in doorways or on their bellies where the walkway curved out of sight, their weapons pointed at him. He ignored them and pressed on. He did not have a gun and hoped they would at least try to identify his role in the carnage before they shot him.
He reached the last table and considered the gap across the walkway to the crypt entrance. It was only a couple of yards but seemed a long way without help, and so he took a moment to gather himself before he made what was going to be a very painful effort.
Abed had heard the gunfire from outside an old antique shop not far away and had ducked inside after seeing several soldiers running up the walkway towards him. They ran past the entrance and he remained hidden, concerned about the sudden increase in police and military activity in the old city. As the echo of gunfire subsided, he cautiously looked out of the front door and could see a man lying on the ground. He could not be sure, but it looked like the big Russian, and he was not moving.
Abed checked in the opposite direction where traders and shoppers were slowly emerging from shops and doorways, none daring to come any closer, and thought about getting away before the place was crawling with soldiers when he saw a white man casually making his way through them and heading in Abed’s direction.
Before the man reached the shop, Abed ducked back inside and watched him through the dirty window as he passed by. He looked dignified, like a professor, and he was not young.
Abed went to the door and watched the man approach the scene of the shooting.
Stratton heard footsteps coming along the walkway on his right this time, but they were unhurried and sounded like only one pair. He looked up to find Gabriel walking towards him.
Gabriel stopped beside him and took a long look at the carnage.‘My God,’ he mumbled. His eyes finally fell on Zhilev. ‘Is that him?’
‘Yes,’ Stratton said weakly.
‘And the bomb?’
‘Inside there, I think. Your number seven.’
Gabriel looked at the writing above the door and nodded. ‘That’s what I saw,’ he said. Gabriel had not noticed Stratton’s condition at first and showed immediate concern when he realised how much pain he was in. ‘Are you okay?’
Stratton took a short breath and held it while a bolt of fire surged through him. His hands trembled on the table until he brought it under control. ‘Do I have a hole in my back?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Gabriel said, as if he had not heard correctly.
‘Is there a hole in my back?’
Gabriel stifled his shock and moved behind Stratton to take a look. ‘I don’t see any blood.’
‘Give me a hand,’ Stratton said, letting go of the table to grab Gabriel’s shoulder. They shuffled across the walkway and then, unable to stand the pain any more, Stratton dropped to his knees and fell with his back against
