The Moses Stone

that extended out into the narrow streets, forcing passers-by to duck and weave their way around them; clocks; spices sold from open sacks; carpets; blankets; and silver trinkets. Margaret always stopped at one particular stall and watched, fascinated, as sheets of silver were hammered flat and then cut, shaped, moulded and soldered to form teapots, bowls and utensils.

And everywhere she looked there were food stalls, selling everything from sandwiches to lamb cooked in traditional Moroccan tajines, the peculiarly shaped earthenware pots that look something like inverted funnels. The first time they had walked through the souk, Margaret had wanted to try some of the local 'fast food', but Ralph had cautioned her against it.

'Just look at the condition of those stalls,' he'd said. 'A British health inspector would have a fit if he saw them. These people have no idea about hygiene.'

Margaret had been tempted to point out that everybody they'd seen looked notably healthy on their diet of local food, prepared without the 'benefit' of flavourings, colourings, preservatives and all the other assorted chemical compounds that seemed increasingly essential in the British diet, but bit her lip. So they had, predictably enough, eaten every meal in their hotel since they'd arrived in the city. Ralph had even been suspicious of some of the dishes served in the hotel dining room, but they had to eat somewhere, and it seemed to him to be the safest option.

Taking pictures in the souk hadn't proved to be quite as easy as Margaret had expected, because most of the traders and shoppers appeared very reluctant to be photographed, even by a tourist. And, obviously, what she had been hoping to capture on her pocket-sized Olympus were the people there – they were what she wanted to remember.

When yet another tall Moroccan swerved away from her as she raised the camera, she muttered in irritation.

'Oh, for God's sake.'

Margaret lowered the Olympus and held it at chest height, partially concealed by her handbag. She'd altered the length of the bag's strap, looped it over her shoulder and was holding it against her body with her left hand because they were in an area where pickpockets were known to operate. She would take a scatter-gun approach to her photographic mission, she decided, and just click the shutter as they walked through the souk, not bothering to aim the camera properly. That was one advantage of digital photography – the memory card was big enough to hold well over a hundred pictures. She'd be able to delete those that were no good when she got back home to Kent, and she had a spare data card with her if she filled up the one in the camera.

'OK, Ralph,' Margaret said, 'you can walk on my right side. That'll help keep the camera out of sight. We'll go all the way through to the other end. And then,' she added, 'we'll walk back to the hotel and enjoy our last dinner here in Morocco.'

'Good idea.' Ralph O'Connor sounded relieved at the prospect of getting out of the souk. He moved across the narrow passageway to stand where his wife had instructed. Then, pursued by a small group of boys clamouring for their attention, they began to walk slowly, their progress punctuated by a succession of faint clicks as Margaret snapped away.

About halfway through the souk there was a sudden commotion at one of the stalls almost directly in front of them. Some half a dozen men, all of them wearing traditional Arab clothing, were shouting and jostling each other, their voices loud and – though Margaret understood barely a word of Arabic – clearly very angry. The focus of their attention seemed to be a small, shabbily dressed man standing beside one of the stalls. The men confronting him appeared to be gesturing towards the wares on display, which puzzled Margaret as it looked as if the stall offered only a collection of grubby clay tablets and potsherds, the kind of rubbish that could be dug up in almost any ancient site in Morocco. Perhaps, she thought, the Arabs were officials and some of the goods on display were stolen or looted from an archaeological site. Whatever the cause of the dispute, it was a lot more dramatic than anything they'd seen before in the souk.

Margaret did her best to aim the camera straight at the group and began clicking the shutter release.

'What are you doing?' Ralph hissed.

'Just getting a bit of local colour, that's all,' Margaret replied. 'Much more interesting if I can take pictures of a fight rather than some old stall-holders flogging brass coffee pots.'

'Come on. Let's go.' Ralph tugged at his wife's sleeve, urging her to leave the scene. 'I don't trust these people.'

'God, Ralph, you can be such a wimp sometimes.'

But the argument they were witnessing did seem to be turning nasty, so Margaret took a final couple of pictures and then turned away, heading back towards the entrance to the souk, her husband striding along beside her.

Before they'd gone fifty yards, the commotion behind them flared into still angrier shouts and yells, and moments later they were aware of the sound of running feet, rapidly approaching.

Quickly Ralph pulled Margaret into one of the narrow side alleys of the souk and, almost as soon as they'd moved out of the main thoroughfare, the small and shabby man they'd seen at the stall raced past. A few seconds behind him, the other men who'd been arguing followed, yelling something at their quarry.

'I wonder what he's done,' Margaret said, as she stepped out of the alley.

'Whatever it is, it's nothing to do with us,' Ralph said.

'I'll feel a lot happier when we're back inside the hotel.'

They threaded their way through the crowds, but before they reached the main gateway, as they were walking past another of the short side alleys beside a spice-seller, they heard another outburst. Moments later, the little Arab ran past them again, his breath coming in short, urgent gasps as he desperately sought sanctuary. Behind him, Margaret could clearly hear his pursuers, now much closer than they'd been before.

And as he ran past, a small beige object fell from one of the pockets of his jellaba and tumbled towards the ground, its fall interrupted by an open sack of light-coloured spice. The object landed virtually in the centre of the sack, and almost immediately became invisible, its colour blending with the spice around it.

The man clearly had no idea that he'd dropped anything, and continued in his headlong flight. Seconds later, half a dozen men pounded past, their pace increasing as they caught sight of their prey, now only about thirty yards in front of them.

Margaret glanced down at the object, then looked up at the stall-holder, who had turned in the direction of the retreating men. Swiftly, she bent down, plucked the beige object out of the bag of spice and slipped it into one of the pockets of her light jacket.

'What on earth are you doing?'

'Shut up, Ralph,' Margaret hissed, as the stall-holder looked at them. She smiled pleasantly, linked arms with her husband, and began to walk away, heading for the closest exit from the souk.

'That doesn't belong to you,' Ralph muttered, as they walked out of the souk and turned towards their hotel. 'You shouldn't have taken it.'

'It's only a bit of clay,' Margaret responded, 'and I doubt if it's worth anything. Anyway, I'm not stealing it. We know which stall that little man runs, so tomorrow I'll come back into the souk and return it to him.'

'But you don't know he was anything to do with that stall. He might just have been standing beside it. You shouldn't have got involved.'

'I'm not 'involved', as you put it. If I hadn't picked it up somebody else would have, and there would be no chance of making sure it was returned to its rightful owner. I'll take it back tomorrow, I promise. And then we need never think about it again.'

2

The pursuers finally caught up with the fleeing man in the open area that lies between Rabat's walls and the Chellah, the ancient necropolis that is now a popular picnic spot for tourists during the