Then, as he straightened up, he saw the Renault drive around the outside of the grey van behind them – the priest had found a way through the opposite-direction traffic.
Angela saw the vehicle at the same moment and shouted a warning.
‘I know,’ Bronson said, desperately looking for a way out.
He slammed on the brakes and slewed his car over to the right-hand side of the road, on to a small open area. Behind him, the driver of the grey van also braked, but Bronson was gambling that he’d take longer to stop.
He swung the wheel hard round, spinning the car until it faced back the way it had come, then accelerated across to the other side of the road behind the grey van. The priest’s car was now the wrong side of the van, and Bronson hoped it would take him at least a minute or two to get back in pursuit.
The traffic was still heavy, but he forced his way into the line of vehicles, keeping on the outside and overtaking every time a gap appeared.
‘Where is he?’ Angela demanded, turning in her seat to stare back down the road. Her face was white, her eyes panicked.
‘Hopefully he’s still trying to turn round,’ Bronson said.
He checked his mirrors again, but there was still no sign of the other car. The traffic started slowing for some unseen obstacle ahead, and Bronson began to relax. Now his car was just another in a line of white cars, effectively invisible.
And then, just seconds later, the priest reappeared from a side street over to their right, and forced his way back into the traffic stream perhaps half a dozen vehicles behind them.
‘Shit,’ Bronson said. He dropped down a gear and accelerated past a couple of cars.
‘How on earth—’
‘He must have used a parallel street,’ Bronson snapped. ‘Either he knows the area well or he just got lucky. We’ve got to lose him.’
He pulled out, tyres screaming, and dived in front of a Mercedes saloon and down a street to the right, praying that it wasn’t a dead end.
It wasn’t, and it took several seconds before the other car appeared behind them. But Bronson knew he couldn’t keep running. Somehow he had to finish the chase and stop the priest. And he had the glimmerings of an idea.
Ninety yards back, Killian smiled grimly. Bronson’s car was in front of him, and despite the earlier impact, his own was apparently undamaged. And on these quieter streets, he should easily be able to finish the job.
He accelerated, starting to close the gap, and looked well ahead, searching for a spot where he could drive Bronson off the road. Once he’d forced his car to stop, he could kill Bronson – the switchblade was still in his pocket – and then Angela would be easy meat. It was just a shame he wouldn’t be able to take his time over the killings, and make them truly appreciate the exquisite beauty of the divine agony he could offer them before death ended their rapture.
Bronson saw the priest getting closer and accelerated to maintain the distance between them. He needed to make a couple of rapid turns, but not so quickly that the priest would lose sight of him.
He picked a wide street on the left and turned down it, his car’s tyres howling in protest. Fifty yards further on, he swung right, just as the other car appeared around the previous corner. There were narrow streets on both sides of them. It would have to do.
Bronson slammed on the brakes, pulled the gear lever into reverse and backed his car down one of the streets on the right, stopping just a few yards from the junction.
‘Get down,’ he snapped, grabbing Angela by the shoulder. They ducked down below the level of the windscreen and just waited, listening for the sound of the engine of the pursuing car.
The priest raced past. Bronson immediately slipped the gear lever into first and drove out of the side street.
‘Thank God. Let’s get out of here,’ Angela breathed, then stared at Bronson as he turned right to follow the priest, not left, as she’d expected. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
‘Ending this,’ Bronson said simply.
Killian stared down the street in front of him and lifted his foot from the accelerator pedal. For the moment, he’d lost sight of Bronson, though he knew he had to be somewhere nearby.
He slowed still further, checking every opening on both sides of the street, his head snapping from side to side as he searched for his prey.
‘Can’t we just get back to the hotel?’ Angela pleaded.
‘He must have found out where we were staying,’ Bronson pointed out. ‘That was why he was waiting on the street nearby. It’s the one place we can’t go back to.’
‘But if we just drive to the airport?’
‘That’s where we’re going, eventually. But first I’m going to make sure that priest is stuck here in Cairo long enough to let us get out of Egypt without seeing him again.’
Bronson turned the next corner and saw, just as he’d expected, the priest driving fairly slowly down the street in front of them.
‘Get down,’ Bronson said. ‘He’ll be checking his mirrors, looking for two people in a white Peugeot.’
Angela ducked down as low as she could.
Bronson looked ahead, weighing up the situation. He was closing up on the priest quickly, and knew it was only a matter of time before he realized who was behind him.
He’d closed to about ten yards when the priest suddenly accelerated hard. He knew he’d been recognized.
Bronson floored the accelerator pedal to increase speed, then eased out until the front wing of his car was level with the rear wing of the other. Then he swung the steering wheel hard over to the right, still keeping the speed up. In America, it’s known as the ‘PIT manoeuvre’. Bronson had no idea what it was called in Egypt, but it worked just the same.
As he kept up the pressure on the steering wheel, the rear wheels of the priest’s car suddenly lost adhesion and it started to spin anti-clockwise. Bronson quickly turned the wheel left again, so that the front of his car hit the rear of the other, finishing the manoeuvre.
The priest’s car spun sideways across the road, tyres howling as shreds of rubber were torn away from the tread, and slammed hard into the jagged edge of the pavement on the left-hand side of the road. As the car hit, Bronson distinctly heard the bang as at least one of the tyres blew. He smiled in satisfaction.
‘Now you can sit up again,’ he said to Angela. ‘He won’t be bothering us any more.’
In the rear-view mirror he saw a figure climb out of the wrecked Renault. Then he swept round a corner and out of sight.
‘Now where do we go?’ Angela asked.
Bronson shook his head. ‘We’ll drive to the airport and climb on to the first flight out of this country, ideally one heading back to Britain.’
To his surprise, Angela shook her head. ‘I haven’t finished with this yet,’ she said firmly. ‘Going to the airport’s a good idea – there’ll be armed guards and police there, because of the terrorist situation. As soon as we arrive I’m going to start translating that text. Then we’ll decide where we go next, but I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be Britain.’
Half a mile away, Killian picked up his bags and walked away from his crashed car, ignoring the shouts and protestations from the crowds of people who’d gathered at the scene.
Though he realized a British police officer would be a competent driver, Bronson’s move had taken him completely by surprise. His car was undriveable – not only had one of the tyres blown, but the sideways impact with the kerb had snapped one of the front suspension components, and that wheel leaned drunkenly to one side as well.
He’d have to find a taxi and get away from the area as quickly as he could, before a car-load of cops turned up and started asking awkward questions. Then he’d have to decide what to do next. He tried to put himself in Bronson’s place. He guessed that Bronson and Angela would either return to their hotel or, perhaps more likely, head straight for the airport to follow whatever clues they’d found in the Montgomery paintings. And if they were following the clues, he would be able to follow them.
