before falling from his grasp.
Asil screamed with the pain in his arm, the knife slipping away, lodged in the policeman. Somewhere not too far away a whistle blew for the gendarmerie were out in force that night because of the bomb outrage, and the gunshots had been heard. Youssef dragged his friend away, hurrying him through the narrow streets in the direction of their apartment. A car screeched around a corner ahead of them, its lights blazing.
The two terrorists ducked into an alleyway, breaking into an awkward run, convinced they had been spotted. They had. The police car came to a halt at the alleyway entrance; doors flew open, uniformed men jumped out. They shouted, 'Arretez!' before aiming their weapons and firing.
Bullets smacked into the walls around the fleeing Arabs and one ricocheted off cobblestones to tear through the outer edge of Youssef s calf. Both men were handicapped, although they were able to keep on the move. Youssef was weeping as he limped along, the whole of his leg numbed with the shock, pain not yet registering.
They emerged into a wider street and saw other uniformed men coming towards them. There were still a few pedestrians around, one or two cars crawling close to the kerbs. All came to a standstill as the shouting gendarmes weaved through them. Asil and Youssef started in the opposite direction, running as fast as their wounds would allow, cursing themselves for their foolishness, knowing how angry their masters would be at the risk they had exposed themselves and the organisation to. They silently implored Allah to lend them wings.
Rounding another corner, they stumbled over the bodies of three clochards huddled on a metro vent (these raggedy men relished the underground warmth whatever the season). Asil struck his head against the pavement, stunning himself. The complaining winos kicked out and Youssef rolled into the gutter. He quickly sat up and was horrified when he saw the inert body of his friend. Running footsteps drawing near, headlights and blaring sirens approaching fast. He scrambled to his feet and pulled up his dazed companion, urging him to run.
Into an alleyway apposite they went, the smell of an underoround river that had been turned into a sewer strong in the confines of the narrow space. A saxophone played bluesily overhead, the musician uninterested in the commotion below. Garbage piled up in heaps against walls near the backdoors of restaurants. Run, Asil, Run, Youssef! But to where? Paris was not familiar, they were disorientated. They would never find their way to the apartment that night.
The numbness had left Youssef's leg. It felt as though it was an fire. Ash's head had not yet cleared, and all he was really conscious of was the searing pain in his arm. He had to rely on his lover to lead him onwards.
Out into another street, this one wider than the last, but with little cruising traffic. Across the road, into a courtyard, shouts and footsteps behind. Both men were near to exhaustion, their wounds draining strength. They knew they could not go much further.
Akhoo Sharmoota! No way out! The courtyard was a closed trap! Beloved Allah, show mercy to loyal soldiers of the jihad!
Shouted commands outside. Whistles blowing. Tyres screeching to a halt. Doors slamming.
But Asil was pointing and Youssef could not understand how his dazed companion had seen the tiny opening between the buildings, a dark cleft as if the houses had been eased apart.
Yatamajad ism al rab! The way had been shown!
They staggered across the courtyard, where lights from windows were coming on to throw reflections like searchlights down on them. and entered the pinch-black opening, just enough room inside far them to lope along helping each ocher. A dim glow Seemed to rise from the ground ahead, and they soon found themselves at the tap of a seep flight of stone steps. A single streetlarnp lit the exit a short distance away.
Voices in the courtyard behind. No time to linger. Down they went. But blinding pain gnashed throe gh the muscles of Youssefs calf and he slipped, gabbed far Asil as he fell, taking him along, aver and aver, the edges of the worn steles scraping skin, jarring, bones, as they plunged then slid, slowing to a tumbling roll as they neared the bottom.
They lay there, tangled together. sobbing and moaning, with no strength to carry on, and no will either.
The exit was not far away. Yet it was too far.
Echoing footsteps from above The policemen would punish them severely for killing one of their own.
And when they realised they had killed yet another earlier in the day, that they were responsible for the bombing at the station, what then? Asil and Youssef shuddered, the thought shared. They reached for each other's hand and waited, shivering with hurt and fear.
But something was moving across the opening in front of them. A shiny blackness. Sleekly slow. They thought it would pass by, but the vehicle stopped when the rear door was level with the passageway.
The door opened. A voice whispered to them down the close walls of the alley.
'Ta al maee wa sa ta eesh lee taktol mara sani ya—come with me and you'll live to kill again,' it said.
The promise gave them enough strength to crawl into the black limousine.
(And it was a promise that Kline certainly kept.)
31 RETURN TO NEATH
Kline stirred, shifting in the seat so that his face was away from Halloran.
The Shield operative watched him, his attention momentarily away from the passing countryside. The psychic had hardly moved since the Mercedes had left the Magma building an hour or so before, yet he had seemed too still to be sleeping. No rhythmic breathing, no total limpness; it was almost as if he had gone into same kind of self- induced trance. Maybe he had, Halloran considered. Wasn't that what psychics did Nat for the first time during the journey, Halloran looked over his shoulder through the rear window. A couple of cars behind but, as far as he could tell, nothing to warty about: they weren't being followed. The Granada containing his own men came iota view, keeping swell back, ready to accelerate into action should a problem arise. He checked ahead before settling back into the seat, remaining alert, but reasonably sure there were no immediate worries. .Although Monk and the. Jordanians had been left back at Magma, evidently to collect some items for Kline from his penthouse, he considered it no, great loss of manpower. If the Mercedes were to come under attack, then he could rely on himself and the two Shield men without the. blunderings of untrained bodyguards to hinder his own counter-tactics. The fact that his, own men were armed mow added to his confidence.
Halloran ran a hand over his eyes and across his rough chin. He was tired, the dream last night obviously having disturbed what little rest he'd had in the armchair. A shower, a shave, and something to eat wouldn't come amiss. .fin inspection of the house and grounds and then, with luck, a couple of hours'
sleep. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, but which told him he would need all the rest he could get if he were to cope with the next day or two. An instinct he had come to depend on through the years made him aware that something was imminent. It was a feeling he couldn't explain even to himself, but there was a familiar tension building inside him, honing his senses, sharpening his reactions, preparing him for what was to come. Fear had always mingled with that sensing, and that was natural; but this time a deep foreboding was involved, a disquieting dread, and that was new to him.
A muffled sound from Kline. The psychic's shoulders rose and slumped. His breathing became regular.
Now he was sleeping.
Cora, next to Palusinski in the front of the car, turned to look at her employer. Her eyes caught Halloran's and her smile was tentative. A moment went by before he returned the smile.
She faced the front again and Halloran, on the opposite corner of the Mercedes, was able to study her profile. He wondered if she really had it in her to give away company secrets. Unlikely. She was too closely linked to Kline and, Halloran was sure, too much afraid of her employer to betray him. Yet Kline had had no doubts. He'd denounced her before Magma's chairman and vice-chairman. Surely there had to be good reason for that?
Halloran checked the windows again. All clear, with only the Granada behind them. He realised they would soon be at Neath.
So what plans did Kline have for Cora? Would she be accused once they arrived at Neatly or would he set a trap for her, catch her in the act of betrayal? Kline's paranoia suggested the former, his sly vindictiveness the latter. Halloran made up his mind that he would get to her first, warn her of what was to happen. To hell with Kline and the Magma Corporation. To hell with the assignment. He'd continue to guard the target, but he would also keep the girl from any harm. Halloran had already suspected that Kline's four bodyguards were more than just that; he was sure they were well used to meting out punishment—particularly Monk, in this respect—whenever their employer
