Dan leaped up, shouting, ‘Mohammed!’
Images came to him like photography stills. Mohammed lunging for his friend. The motorbike roaring into view. The beggar springing back, trying to hide his knife in his robe. People’s faces, slack with shock.
Dan launched himself at the beggar but the man was fast and slipped behind a pedestrian, raced for the motorbike.
Ignoring the beggar Dan went for the bike, barging people aside. He fixed his eyes on the rear tyre, just yards away, saw the beggar swing his leg over the back of the bike and as the engine lifted, preparing to accelerate, Dan flung himself forward in a messy, flailing rugby tackle. Right shoulder down, he crashed into the bike, taking down several pedestrians as well as his prey.
Shouts and yells. Someone screamed.
He swarmed over the bike, going for the beggar, but the man was already up and running away. The driver of the bike was kicking at Dan, yelling at him. He was just a kid, maybe sixteen or so, but Dan grabbed him and hauled him upright, and punched him hard on the side of the chin, where the jaw was attached to his skull. The boy’s eyes rolled upwards. Dan let him drop to the ground unconscious and tore after the beggar, following the sounds of shouts and protests ahead, praying the man would continue to flee and not drop to walking pace and blend in with the crowd or he’d never find him.
Dan charged forward, elbowing his way past the crowds, ignoring the protests, and then suddenly there was a clear patch of ground and dead ahead, the beggar running flat out for the souk.
Dan sprinted after him.
He tore across the entrance walkway lined with old men in robes, sitting silently. Their heads turned to follow him as he ran past.
A sea of colour enveloped him as he dived into the souk, tearing past stalls selling jars of olives, silver tea sets, ornate lamps, carpets. At the next junction, the beggar ducked right and for a moment Dan thought he might lose him – he’d know the rabbit warren like the back of his hand, wouldn’t he? – but when he tore around the corner he realised he was gaining on him.
Dan increased his speed.
Their footsteps hammered on the ground. People stared as they flashed past. And then the beggar looked over his shoulder. A fatal mistake. He faltered, nearly tripped, and Dan was on him as fast as a leopard, piling into him and slamming him to the ground.
The man was smaller than Dan, light-boned, and Dan hauled him upright. Put his hands around the man’s throat and squeezed. He was panting hard, the man gasping.
‘Who sent you?’
The man’s eyes were wild, terrified, his mouth open.
‘Who sent you?’ Dan roared.
The man kicked at Dan, tried to hit him, but Dan was far stronger. He shook him like a terrier would a rat. The man’s face darkened as the blood filled his face. He plucked at Dan’s arms. Turned puce.
Dan released his grip a little. The man took a gulp of air.
‘Jibran,’ he choked. ‘Wazir aldifae–’
His words were snatched away when Dan felt something hit him very hard between the shoulder blades. Dan’s grip on the man’s throat slipped. He tried to grab the beggar again but someone punched him on the back of the head and suddenly there were three men attacking him.
The beggar turned and ran.
Dan tried to follow but the men stopped him, hitting him, slapping him and shouting. One of them was wielding a walking stick, another a tea tray.
Dan threw a jab at one man, felt it connect. Kicked another hard on the knee. A gap opened up and Dan went for it, pelting past the men and after the beggar, but his attackers had given his quarry the advantage and when he came to the next corner, the beggar was nowhere to be seen.
Dan didn’t give up. He quartered the area, watching out for anyone taking more-than-usual interest in him, any abnormal movement or behaviour.
Nothing.
The beggar, the assassin, had vanished.
25
Dan headed back to the main square. As he walked, he thought of the decrepit Mercedes that had followed him from Mehdi’s to his riad. Since he was under surveillance, he assumed he’d been followed to the night market but he then realised the beggar, the assassin, had been selling packs of tissues at the table when he arrived.
His apprehension grew as he thought further. It was a professional hit, he was certain. Knifing someone like that to reach the heart from behind was very difficult to pull off. How had they known Mehdi would be there? Or was it an opportunistic move? Kill anyone who met Dan that night? That would be ridiculous. Mehdi had been the target. When he’d visited Mehdi’s house earlier, had the Mercedes driver been able to hear what the woman in jeans had said?
The night market tonight. Eight o’clock. Stall a hundred and two.
If so, it would mean a listening device of some sort. Something sophisticated and extremely sensitive. The only other explanation would be that the woman – Dan had assumed she was Mehdi’s wife – had betrayed him, but it didn’t feel right. She’d been protective, shielding her husband. Angry too that he’d come to their house.
Mohammed was nowhere to be seen when he returned to the stall, but when the second chef saw Dan, he came over.
‘They go in the ambulance. Mehdi…’ His face lengthened. ‘He is dead.’
Dan felt his heart hollow. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Mohammed wanted your telephone number.’
Dan gave it to the man. He saw no reason not to, not when Mehdi had been killed.
‘Please, also… He tells me, do not go to the police. Not until Mohammed calls you. Okay?’
Dan thought it over, and since the cons far
