pistol, but then lowered it when he realized his target was much too far away to risk a shot.
He looked to the right, expecting to see Angela Lewis following Bronson, but there was no sign of her. Then he saw his man sprinting into view barely fifty yards away, pistol clutched in his right hand, and Yacoub guessed what must have happened. Lewis had given him the slip, and it was Lewis they wanted, not Bronson.
Yacoub leant out of the car window and waved, simultaneously sounding the car horn and flashing the headlights. His man glanced to his left, saw the car and immediately changed direction, hiding his pistol as he ran. He stopped, panting, beside the car door and bent down.
'Where's the girl?' Yacoub demanded.
'I was chasing her. She was with Bronson.'
'No, she wasn't, you idiot. I've just seen Bronson and he was definitely by himself. Go back the way you came. She must be hiding somewhere down that street.'
'The bar. The last time I saw them both, she was running into a bar with Bronson.'
'Right. Go back there,' Yacoub ordered, 'and find her.'
'What about Bronson?'
'Leave him. Just find the woman.'
Some seventy yards further along the road, Bronson was crouched down between two parked cars, staring back the way he'd come. He'd finally looked behind him, and for the first time since he'd started running, he couldn't see any sign of pursuit. There were people all over the road, but the man who'd been chasing him was nowhere in sight.
The thug had definitely been behind him when he ran out of the bar. Unless he'd managed to lose him in the crowds, there was only one explanation that made sense.
They wanted to kill him, but they were trying to snatch Angela. The gunman must have seen she was no longer running with him, and had gone back to find her.
For a few seconds Bronson wrestled with indecision. He'd told Angela to get out of the bar and make for the Hilton Hotel, but suppose she hadn't managed to get away? Suppose Yacoub and his man were even then dragging her screaming out of the bar and into a car?
There was only one thing he could do.
Bronson took a final look round the street, then stood up and started running as hard as he could back down the road, back towards Zangwill and the bar where he'd left Angela.
Yacoub was looking the wrong way, watching his man run back the way he'd come; he never saw Bronson sprint past on the opposite side of the road.
The noise of the sirens was now much louder, and as he glanced in his mirrors he saw the first police car swing into the street behind him, blue lights flashing, and accelerate down the road. He waited until it had passed and turned down the road opposite, then eased the Peugeot out from the kerb and drove sedately along Basel to the end, where he swung left, away from the commotion.
Bronson slowed to a trot as he neared the bar. A few minutes had passed since the last shot had been fired, and the mood of the crowd seemed calmer now the immediate danger from the lone gunman appeared to have passed. Bronson didn't want to attract any unwelcome attention by running, though every fibre of his body was urging him to hurry.
Two police cars screeched to a halt, blocking the road. Blue-uniformed officers piled out, weapons in hand, to be immediately surrounded by gesticulating crowds of people. Bronson ignored them and walked calmly past, stopping a few yards from the bar.
The establishment appeared to be almost empty, just a couple of people standing near the door and peering out. But then Bronson suddenly spotted Yacoub's thug walking out of the alleyway, empty-handed. And at the same moment the Moroccan saw him, and then the armed police just a few yards away.
For a long moment, the two men just held each other's gaze. Then, as somebody in the crowd raised a shout and pointed at the Moroccan, Bronson saw the man drawing his weapon, the black muzzle of the pistol swinging towards him.
People ran, terrified by the sight of the automatic pistol. Bronson spun round, ran a few steps and dodged behind a parked car – though he knew the thin steel would offer little protection against a high-velocity round. He dropped flat, making himself as small a target as he could.
The Moroccan fired, the copper-jacketed bullet smashing through the back window and the rear door. It hit the tarmac less than a foot from Bronson's head and whined away into the night.
Even before the sound of the shot had died away, the man fired again, this time over the heads of the group of people still crowded round the police cars. Everyone ducked for cover, even the armed officers, and by the time they recovered, the gunman was fifty yards away and running hard down the road.
The police couldn't fire at him because of the number of civilians still crowding the street, and he was in any case already well out of pistol range. The Israeli police cars were facing in the wrong direction, and the three officers who gave chase were encumbered with bulletproof vests and heavy utility belts. It was going to be a very one-sided race.
But as the Moroccan reached the end of the street, another police car swung round the corner and braked to a stop. Bronson saw the gunman raise his weapon and snap off a quick shot at the vehicle as he ran, but then two Israeli police officers stepped out of the car, pistols raised, and a volley of shots rang out. The Moroccan appeared to stumble, then fell forward heavily onto the unyielding tarmac surface of the road and lay still.
The officers approached him cautiously, pistols aimed at the unmoving figure. One kicked out at an object lying beside the Moroccan – presumably the man's pistol – then pressed his own weapon into the man's back as his companion snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. Then they stepped back and holstered their weapons. From their actions Bronson knew that the gunman was either dead or very badly wounded.
From the vantage point he'd selected, a hundred yards away at the eastern end of Basel, Yacoub sat in the driving seat of the Peugeot hire car and dispassionately watched the last act of the drama unfold. The moment his man pointed his weapon at the Israeli police car, Yacoub knew he was doomed. He should have just run on past the vehicle and kept his pistol out of sight. It was a stupid mistake, and he had paid for it with his life.
And no doubt now Bronson and the woman would change hotels once more. Musab and his contacts would just have to track them down yet again. But, Yacoub reflected, he seemed to be getting quite good at doing that.
Bronson didn't care about Yacoub or his gunman. All he was worried about was Angela.
He pushed his way into the bar. The two Israelis inside looked at him, but didn't try to stop him. Something in his face must have told them that trying to do so would be a very bad idea. He walked into the toilets and opened all the doors. There was nobody inside, but on the floor of one of the female cubicles he found a smear of blood.
Bronson turned round and walked out of the bar, back into the street. Had she escaped? Was she even then waiting for him at the Hilton? Or had Yacoub's thug found her, dragged her out of the bar and then killed her, dumping her body in the yard at the rear? That appalling thought stayed with Bronson as he strode down the adjacent alleyway and stepped into the yard.
Shards of broken glass glittered like discarded jewels in the light from the bar, but otherwise the small open space looked exactly as it had done before. Bronson heaved a sigh of relief. He'd seen Yacoub's man walking out of the alleyway, so if Angela's body wasn't in the bar or back there in the yard, she had to be still alive – somewhere.
He jogged back to the street and looked round again.
He needed to get to the Hilton, and quickly.
He'd barely taken a dozen steps before he heard her calling his name.
'Chris!' He turned and saw her. Her clothes were dishevelled, her face smeared with dust and sweat and tears and her feet were bare, but he still thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
'My God, Angela.' He stepped forward and pulled her to him. 'You're safe.'
'I am now,' she muttered, burying her face in his shoulder. For a long moment they stood locked in an embrace, oblivious to the crowds of people milling around them.
'The Hilton?' Bronson asked gently, as Angela eased back.
'I couldn't get there,' she said. 'I think I must have trodden on a piece of glass somewhere. My foot's agony.'
