'Lay?' replied the hunched figure, asking why.
'I have an appointment,' continued Evan in Arabic. I'm expected.'
'Who sends you?' said the man without moving.
'That's not your concern.'
'I am not here to receive such an answer.' The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. 'Again, who sends you?'
Evan wondered whether the sultan's police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. 'I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,' he said rapidly. 'I spoke—’
'A bakery?' broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. 'There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.'
'Goddamn it, baklaval' spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. 'Some asinine orange—’
'Enough,' said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. 'It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A baker sent you, you see?'
'All right. Fine! May I go inside, please?'
'First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?'
'For God's sake, the man who lives here… works here.'
'He is a man without a name?'
'Are you entitled to know it?' Evan's intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.
'A fair question, sir,' said the Arab, nodding pensively. 'However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—’
'Christ on a raft!' exploded Kendrick. 'All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me in? I'm in a hurry!'
'It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir. He will let you in if it is his pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—'
It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head towards the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.
'Elhahoonai!'
'Udam!'
And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman's voice. 'Siboomi jihalee!' she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, 'You bastards!'
Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to know! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.
In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layers of stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still levelled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds, she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him? Why? Who was she?
'Here!' In a panicked whisper the guard was calling him. Evan whipped his head around; the Arab was gesturing wildly for him to come to the heavy, forbidding door in the
