The policemen's two knives were suddenly plunged into the upper right arms of the two arrogant killers. Screams, covered by the intense, growing babble of the moving crowds, followed the involuntary release of weapons as blood spewed out of torn flesh and arrogance turned into infuriated weakness, death perhaps preferable to disgrace, eyes bulging in disbelief.
The terrorists were rushed into the dark alley by Ahmat's two trusted police; unseen hands threw the huge, lethal weapons after them. Kendrick parted the bodies in front of him and raced into the deserted tunnel. Twenty feet inside, the youthful, wild-eyed killers were supine on the stone pavement, the policemen's knives above their throats.
'La!' shouted Evan's protector, telling him No! 'Turn away!' he continued in English, for fear Kendrick might misunderstand. 'Hide your face and say nothing!'
'I must ask you!' cried Kendrick, turning but disobeying the second command. 'They probably don't speak English, anyway—’
'They probably do, ya Shaikh, sir,' broke in the other policeman. 'Whatever you have to say, say later! As spokesman, my instructions are to be obeyed without question. Is that understood, sir?'
'Understood.' Evan nodded quickly and walked back towards the arched entrance to the bazaar.
'I will come back, ya Shaikh,' said Kendrick's protector, hovering over his prisoner. 'We will take these pigs out the other end and I will be back for you—’
The man's words were interrupted by a violent, shattering scream of defiance. Without thinking, Evan whipped his head around, suddenly wishing he hadn't, wondering instantly if the image would ever leave him. The terrorist on the left had grabbed the policeman's long-bladed knife above and yanked it down, slicing it into his own throat. The sight turned Kendrick's stomach; he thought he would vomit.
'Fool!' roared the second policeman, not so much in rage as in anguish. 'Child! Pig! Why do you do this to yourself? Why to me?' The protest was in vain; the terrorist was dead, blood covering his bearded young face. Somehow, thought Evan, he had witnessed a microcosm of the violence, the pain and the futility that was the world of the Middle East and Southwest Asia.
'All is changed,' said the first officer, his knife held up, rising above his open-mouthed, incredulous prisoner and touching his comrade's shoulder. The latter shook his head as if trying to rid his eyes and his mind of the youthful, bloody corpse beneath him, then nodded rapidly, telling his companion he understood. The first officer approached Kendrick. 'There will be a delay now. This incident must not reach the other streets so we must move quickly. The man you seek, the man who is waiting for you, is known as El-Baz. You will find him in the market beyond the old south fortress in the harbour. There is a bakery selling orange baklava. Ask inside.'
'The south fortress… in the harbour?'
'There are two stone fortresses built by the Portuguese many centuries ago. The Mirani and the jalili—'
'I remember, of course,' interrupted Evan, rambling, finding part of his sanity, his eyes avoiding the death-wound of the mutilated body on the floor of the dark alleyway. 'Two forts built to protect the harbour from raiding pirates. They're ruins now—a bakery selling orange baklava.'
'There is no time, sir. Go! Run out the other side. You cannot be seen here any longer. Quickly!'
'First answer my question,' shot back Kendrick, angering the police officer by not moving. 'Or I stay here and you can answer to your sultan.'
'What question? Leave!'
'You said these two might join “other reckless… pigs” –those were your words. What other pigs? Where?'
'There is no time!'
'Answer me!'
The policeman inhaled deeply through his nostrils, trembling with frustration. 'Very well. Incidents like tonight have happened before. We have taken a number of prisoners who are questioned by many people. Nothing must be said—'
'How many?'
'Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty by now. They disappear from the
