“So we’re on the right track?” Bronson asked.
“Definitely. All we have to do now is work out where to start looking.”
For a minute or so they walked on in silence, Angela lost in thought while Bronson kept up his scan of the area, checking for any possible surveillance—or worse. But wherever he looked, the people appeared reassuringly normal and nonthreatening, and he slowly began to relax. Maybe their unannounced move to a different hotel had worked, and they’d thrown Yacoub’s men—because Bronson was certain he’d recognized their attacker at Qumran—off the scent.
His comfortable feeling only lasted until they reached Nordau Avenue, the wide boulevard that runs eastwards from the northern end of the Ha’Azma’ut Garden.
They crossed to the tree-lined central reservation, and then had to stop at the edge of the highway to allow a number of cars to pass. The last one in the line was a white Peugeot, traveling quite slowly, the shapes of a driver and front-seat passenger dimly visible in the soft glow of the street lighting.
When the vehicle passed directly in front of them, Bronson glanced incuriously at the driver, a swarthy, black-haired man he knew he’d never seen before. Then the passenger leaned forward, talking animatedly on a mobile phone. Bronson saw his face quite clearly, at the same moment as the man in the car turned to stare at him, and for the briefest of instants their eyes locked. And then the car was past them.
“Christ,” Bronson said, reeling backward and grabbing Angela’s arm. “That’s bloody Yacoub!”
“Oh, God, no,” Angela moaned. “But he’s dead. How could it be?”
Even as they turned and ran, Bronson heard the sudden squeal of tires from behind them as the Peugeot slewed to a stop. And then a burst of shouts in Arabic, and the sound of running feet pounding across the pavement toward them.
“Wait!” Angela shouted as they reached the south side of Nordau Avenue.
“What?” Bronson glanced at her, then stared back the way they’d come. Their pursuer—he could only see one figure, and he was sure it wasn’t Yacoub—was no more than fifty yards away.
Angela grabbed his arm, kicked off one of her high heels, then bent down and ripped off the other.
As she did so, a shot rang out, the bullet smashing into the wall of the building just inches above their heads, then ricocheted away into the darkness. The flat crack of the shot echoed from the concrete canyons that surrounded them, seeming to still the noises of the night.
“Jesus,” Bronson muttered.
“Let’s go,” Angela yelled, dropping the shoe onto the pavement.
A hundred yards behind them, Yacoub ran around the Peugeot and dropped down into the driver’s seat. Slamming the door closed, he rammed the gear lever into first and accelerated hard down the road. At the first junction, he wrenched the steering wheel to the left, shooting out in front of an approaching car, whose driver sounded a long irritated blast on his horn. Yacoub ignored the noise as he powered along Dizengoff, his attention entirely focused on finding the next left turn so he could cut off the fleeing pair.
Musab had been as good as his word. His contact had identified the hotel Bronson and the woman had checked into, and he’d telephoned the information to Yacoub just before the hour was up. Bizarrely, Yacoub had actually been on his way to the hotel, talking to Musab on his mobile, when he’d glanced through the windscreen and seen Bronson and the woman standing at the side of the road right in front of him.
Yacoub didn’t know the area, but he guessed that if he turned left three times, he should end up in front of his quarry. The first street he came to—Basel—was no-entry, with a line of cars waiting to come out of it, but the next was Jabotinsky, another wide boulevard. He turned left, going more slowly, then left again, entering the maze of narrow streets that lay behind the major roads.
He had to be in the right area now.
Screams and shouts of alarm greeted the sound of the shot and, as Bronson and Angela raced down Zangwill, people were yelling and starting to run. Confusion and panic spread through the crowd, which Bronson hoped might actually help them get away. Chasing two running figures through a busy street was one thing—doing the same thing when
everyone
in the street was running was an entirely different matter.
Zangwill is a one-way street, and three cars were heading down it, straight toward them, but slowing down rapidly as frightened pedestrians started spilling out into the road, trying to work out where the shot had come from.
“This way,” Bronson said, pointing. They weaved around the front of the first car, which had now stopped, onto the pavement on the left-hand side of the street. A group of people spilled out of a bar right in front of them, attracted by the noise outside. Bronson cannoned into one of the men, knocking him to the ground, but he barely even paused, just glanced back to make sure Angela was keeping up, then ran on.
The man chasing them had a pistol, and had already shown that he wasn’t afraid to use it. Bronson knew that their only hope of escape was to keep moving, to keep ahead of him. That wasn’t much of a plan, he realized, but right then he hadn’t got any better ideas. And he was worried about Angela. She was keeping up with him, but in bare feet it would only take a sharp stone or a piece of glass on the pavement to effectively cripple her. He had to do something to either get them away from Yacoub’s man or somehow disarm him.
At least their pursuer hadn’t fired at them again. Perhaps there was a measure of safety in numbers, in being a part of the crowd. Maybe he didn’t want to risk hitting an innocent bystander—or more likely he’d hidden his weapon to avoid being identified as the gunman. There might be Israeli police or soldiers in the area who would have little compunction in gunning down an obviously armed man on a crowded street.
Bronson looked behind them, searching for their pursuer, but at that moment, in the mêlée of running figures in the street, he couldn’t see him. That might work to their advantage, or at least give them a few moments’ respite.
“In here,” Bronson panted, his voice harsh and strained. He grabbed Angela’s arm and pulled her into a bar.
About a dozen young Israelis, male and female, stared at them as they crashed in through the door.
Angela bent forward, hands on her thighs, panting and gasping for breath. Bronson span back, staring through the front windows of the bar as he scanned the street for any sign of the gunman. The scene outside was chaotic, figures running and moving in all directions, and for a few moments he thought they’d managed to evade the man.
Then he saw him, barely thirty yards away, heading straight toward the door of the bar, a slight smile crossing his face as he saw Bronson.
Bronson span round, grabbed Angela by the arm and ran, almost dragging her, to the back of the bar. There was an archway on the right-hand side, an enamel plaque screwed to the wall beside it bearing two words, one definitely Hebrew, the other what looked like Arabic. He couldn’t read either of them, but directly below that plaque was another one, much smaller, that displayed two stick figures, one wearing a dress—the universal sign for a toilet.
“Get in there,” he said urgently, “and lock the door.”
Angela shook her head. “I’m coming with you,” she panted.
“Don’t argue. I can run faster without you. I’ll go out the back door. Once it’s quiet, get out of here and run to the Hilton. I’ll meet you there.”
He gave Angela a shove that sent her through the archway, then sprinted for the rear door of the bar. Bronson hit the safety bar with his foot as he reached the door. It crashed open, swinging back on squeaking hinges, and he dashed through and into the space behind the building. It was a small yard, discolored stone walls on three sides, crates of empty bottles stacked against them. To his right, a half-open door beckoned, an alleyway beyond it. He looked back into the bar as he turned for the door, ready to run.
The front door of the bar swung open and the black-haired man strode in, his hand already reaching inside his jacket.
Bronson instinctively ducked and dived to his right. Then the window in the door exploded outward as a bullet plowed through it, the sound of shattering glass completely inaudible against the crashing echo of the shot. Screams and yells of terror rang out from the bar. Bronson risked a single glance back to ensure the man was still running toward him, then took to his heels. At all costs he had to draw the thug away from Angela.
He raced through the door in the side wall and looked both ways. He had no choice. The alley was blind-ended, running down the side of the bar and ending in a ten-foot brick wall at the far end. Bronson ran right, back toward the street. Behind him, another shot rang out as his pursuer burst out of the rear door of the bar, the bullet hitting the wall so close to Bronson that he was showered with stone chips.
Crowds of people milled around on the street, but Bronson knew he couldn’t risk trying to hide in some group. He had no doubt Yacoub’s man would just shoot him down, and probably anyone else who got in his way.
He forced his way through the mass of humanity, dodging left and right, then broke free, running hard toward the end of the road.
Yacoub distinctly heard the sound of two shots, very close together, as he swung the Peugeot left into Basel to head back toward the coast. Ahead of him he saw running figures, men and women fleeing in panic into the street from the road on his right, dodging through the traffic as they desperately sought sanctuary.
In the distance he could hear the nerve-jangling wailing of sirens. Somebody—probably one of the bar or restaurant staff—had made a call, and Yacoub knew they had just minutes to finish this, before the whole area would be swarming with police.
This had to be where Bronson and the woman had fled. With any luck, his man would act as a beater, driving the prey toward the hunter. All he had to do was sit there and wait for them. Bronson was expendable—he’d told his man that—but he wanted the Lewis woman alive. He could, he was sure, persuade her to tell him whatever he wanted to know. A cruel, lopsided smile appeared on his face as he considered that pleasurable prospect, then vanished. First, they had to find and seize her.
He slowed down, like the drivers of the vehicles in front of him, and pulled in to the side of the road. But he stayed in the car. He knew what a distinctive figure he cut, how memorable; he would only show himself if there was no alternative.
Almost without conscious thought, while his eyes were still searching the running people around him, Yacoub lowered the driver’s door window, then reached inside his jacket and took out his pistol. He pulled back the slide and then let it run forward, stripping the first cartridge from the magazine and chambering it. He clicked off the safety catch on the left side of the frame and then held the weapon loosely in his right hand, below the level of the side window, and just watched and waited.
Bronson reached the T-junction at the end of the street and broke right, heading toward Hayark, the road that ran parallel to the coast. All around him, people were running in panic, but he couldn’t risk slowing down. He had no idea how close his pursuer was behind him, and daren’t look round for fear he’d trip or stumble or simply crash into someone or something.
He skirted a group of teenagers who were standing and staring back down the road, reached the opposite pavement and ran harder.
Yacoub saw Bronson emerge from the street on his right and start running along the road. He raised the 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 leaned 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.