*
According to a notice on the door, the Mohammed Bin-Rahman Mosque was closed until further notice for pest control. Ali laughed at the irony but knew now he was right. The birds had flown, and taken Hamza with them. Nevertheless, stepping up to the door, he spat a soft, warm lump of gum into his palm and pushed it into the lock. Five seconds, a fizz, a crack, and Ali passed through the ancient stone gateway into the deserted, moonlit courtyard where he prised off his trainers and socks. It was still a holy place, despite the nature of the men who prayed there. Besides, bare feet made less noise.
Holding the Sig-Sauer in both hands at waist height, he crept stealthily across the courtyard, slinking through the shadows and flickering moonlight to the heavy, dusty green curtain. He eased it carefully aside and peered into the gloomy, stone-flagged passage. Like the courtyard, like Talal's office, it was empty. The papers had gone. The PC had gone. Even the kettle and glasses had gone. Damnation. He was too late. Moussa must have been telling the truth when he said Hamza had betrayed them. Maybe he was even a double agent. Ali shook himself angrily and banished the thought. Whatever the situation, the men from Dar El-Tawhid had already melted away into the dark, endless, unpredictable maze of cul-de-sacs, courtyards and alleys of Old Damascus where they would never be found and Ali was no nearer learning what the delivery to Moustapha Al-Sekem's Hands across the Sands actually involved. Frustrated, no longer bothering to conceal himself or steal stealthily through the shadows, he clattered furiously through the toilets, the schoolroom, the library and back to the mosque. There was no-one to hear him and nothing to find. The trail had gone cold.
It was nearly ten when he gave up. He was unsure what to do next. The safe-house was no longer safe and he knew no-one he could trust. He decided to retrieve the Nokia, call Colonel Ibrahim, find the Syrian branch of Wadi Insurance, preferably before midnight, hand himself in and admit defeat. It would not be easy, swallowing his pride like this. Nevertheless, whilst Hamza's life was at stake, Ali's pride could take a hit or two.
Passing along eerily quiet Straight Street in the footsteps of St Paul, King Herod and Emperor Tiberias, he spotted Anas and his kid brother Firas sitting on the base of a broken column under a Roman arch. Anas' stubbly scalp gleamed a little in the soft glow of the street-light. He was wearing his usual pale blue shirt, bottle-green jogging pants and brown sandals. Firas still sported the red and black striped shirt of local soccer club Al-Jaish SC and grubby white shorts but was bare-legged and bare-foot. Fellow Iraqis, thought Ali, would surely help.
''Hey,'' he called out as he approached.
Anas was holding a bottle of Stella beer. Firas jumped anxiously.
''Ali!'' Anas called. ''Everyone's looking for you. The police, Hisham, Osama, everyone.''
''Well, I'm here now,'' Ali replied.
The brothers glanced nervously at each other.
''I didn't take the money,'' Ali said flatly.
''We know,'' said Anas. '' Tamer stole it.''
''That's why everyone's looking for you,'' chirped Firas, ''To tell you everything's fine, kulu'u tamam.''
''They want you to come back,'' said Anas. ''Imam Talal says you're his best student.''
''Where is Imam Talal?'' asked Ali.
''Not far,'' said Anas. ''Want some beer? It's still quite cold.'' He rummaged in his glue-sniffing bag for another green bottle. ''It's OK. Firas gets them from the Journalists' Club.''
''I heard something happened to Moussa Bashir.'' Ali took the bottle. The glass was streaming with condensation. The brothers glanced at each other again, more nervously.
''He got hit by a car when he was chasing Tamer,'' said Anas. ''The funeral's tomorrow.''
''At the mosque?''
Anas nodded. ''Ten o'clock.''
''What about Tamer?''
''The police got him,'' gulped Firas, dancing anxiously on the spot.
Ali tapped the beer-bottle against his thigh and considered his options. He did not believe a word of this story. It was clearly a ploy to return him to Talal Hafez. On the other hand, it was the surest way of finding him and thus finding out what had happened to Hamza.
''Can you take me to Imam Talal?'' he asked.
''It's late,'' said Anas. ''Can't you wait till the morning?''
''Stay here with us,'' Firas suggested, ''Under the arch.''
''You haven't opened your beer,'' Anas observed.
''I'm no longer thirsty.'' Ali turned away. ''Besides, I don't drink. See you, boys.''
Firas squeaked. Osama, ghost-like in a glowing white galabeya, and five burly, baseball-bat-bearing men were approaching from Bab Sharki.
''Looks like they found you after all,'' Anas smugly remarked, swigging some beer.
Smiling, Ali slipped the last exploding Chiclet onto his tongue, settled the glasses on the bridge of his nose, checked the square for exit-points and waited calmly, hands by his sides. He had expected this, and was prepared.
''Run,'' Firas urged anxiously, ''Run, or they'll kill you.''
''Shut up, Firas,'' snarled his brother. ''He stole money from the mosque, killed Moussa and beat up Tamer and now he's gonna get what's coming.''
Osama and the others were strung in a line like gunslingers in an old cowboy film. Which to take out first? The biggest? The quickest? Osama? How much fighting would he do anyway? Surely he would just give orders. Six against one, seven if Anas joined in, were not great odds. Ali knew he'd have to move quickly and efficiently if he was to win this fight.
''Ali.''
There was no greeting, just the name, spoken without emotion.
''Osama.'' Ali nodded acknowledgement. ''And you brought your little friends. Six big men to tackle one small boy. What a hero you've become.''
Osama spat into the dust. ''Choose your words carefully, Ali. They may be your last.''
''That's what Moussa Bashir said,'' Ali replied, ''Just before I threw him off a roof.''
The flicker of uncertainty that passed across Osama's thin features gave Ali his cue. He hurled the unopened beer-bottle at the man on Osama's right, knocking him cold.
Moving quickly, Ali fired a dart from his glasses into the neck of the guy on the left, who cried aloud, clapped a hand to his throat and dropped like a sack of rice. Twisting, ducking, Ali fired the second at the man at the end of the line who also fell where he stood. As the remaining three yelled and charged forward, Ali leapt over the low, wire fence and rolled on his shoulder through the Roman arch into the bushes.
Seizing his shirt, Anas cried ''I got him'' and swung a clumsy punch which Ali easily dodged, but the contact had slowed him down. He spat out the gum and, shoving it up Anas's nose, rolled away from the shattering crack and blood-chilling shriek.
''Gesundheit,'' called Ali, steadying himself behind a broken Roman column, pulling the gun from his waistband and surveying the scene.
The men he had hit with the beer-bottle and knock-out darts lay unconscious in the dust. Anas, cradling his face, was slumped on the road, blood streaming over his fingers. Firas, crying, was squatting beside him, hand on his back.
''Drop the bats.'' Ali pointed the Sig-Sauer's round black eye at Osama, ''Or I'll drop you.''
As the bats clattered to the street, he took the Walkman from his pocket, pressed Play and tossed it to the biggest thug shouting ''Catch''. The device exploded with a flaming roar. There was another terrible scream but Ali charged forward, the gun in his right hand, the Axe in his left, and sprayed a burst of tear-gas into Osama's face. Osama howled and clawed at his thin face, breaking his glasses with his agonized scrabbling.
Spraying again to left and right, Ali crashed through the gang to the other side. When he turned round, he could see the mayhem he had caused. Two thugs, their clothes and hair on fire, lay on the road, possibly dead. Osama and the others were blundering blindly around in the choking gas, coughing and cursing in equal measure.
''You broke your specs, Osama,'' Ali remarked. ''No need to cry.'' He raised the gu
n.
''No!'' cried Firas. ''Not in cold blood!''
Ali grinned, swung the muzzle upwards and shot out the street-light. Everything plunged into darkness. Then he twisted the cap of the Axe can clockwise and exploded the smoke-bomb. A thick black cloud filled the street and Ali moved away, back towards the city. He did not want to be around when the cops came. Suddenly, out of the mist, darkness, loomed the white-robed, hook-handed, black-bearded spectre of Talal Hafez.
''Where's Hamza?'' Ali shouted, raising the gun once more.
Talal spread his hands. ''Hamza? Who is this Hamza?''
''Your goons kidnapped him,'' barked Ali. ''Where is he?''
''You're mistaken,'' said Talal. ''It wasn't us. Maybe the police? Or the security service?''
Ali had two bullets left. He could put one through Talal's knee, make him talk. He drew back the hammer and squinted through the Siglite Night-Sight along the seven inch barrel.
''I won't ask you again,'' he said coldly. ''Where is Hamza Madani?''
Talal Hafez ran his hook through his beard. He seemed to be considering his options, calculating the odds of Ali shooting him, or not.
Then Firas ran wailing across the road.
''My brother's hurt, teacher. Come help him.'' He tugged at Talal's hand.
''Firas!'' Ali yelled, waving the gun, ''Get back! Get back!''
Talal seized the boy's thin shirt and dragged him to his chest. The metal hook flashed brightly in the darkness as the needle tip pressed into the flesh of Firas' neck.
''Put down the gun!'' ordered Talal. ''Put down the gun, or I will kill the boy.''
''Go ahead,'' said Ali, feigning indifference. ''He means nothing to me.''
Firas choked.
''Go ahead,'' Ali repeated, ''Kill him. And then I'll put a bullet through your beard.''
He held the gun in both hands and trained it on Talal's left eye.
The sharpened steel pricked Firas' skin and made him howl, a mix of pain and terror. Even in the darkness, Ali could see a trickle of blood redden the ashen skin.
''I'm not bluffing,'' Talal said coldly, ''But I think you are.''
''This is a Swiss-made Sig-Sauer M11-A1 pistol,'' said Ali. ''It is a nine-millimetre calibre hand-gun. The barrel is nearly four inches long, the whole gun seven. It takes fifteen rounds and has a short-reset trigger. I trained with this gun. I know its mechanism inside out. I could put a bullet through your skull in the time it takes for you to draw a breath. Draw well, Talal Hafez. It will be your last.''
But he was bluffing. He did not want to risk hitting Firas. Even though the pistol had night sights, Firas was writhing and squirming like a landed fish. He could easily get hit. And Ali only had two bullets. He would have one shot. As his mind furiously tried to work out what to do, Talal dragged Firas up his chest by the chin so the boy's bare toes left the ground. The golden eagle badge on the red and black Al-Jaish shirt twisted out of shape.
''If you shoot me,'' the Imam said, ''My death reflex will slit his jugular and his blood will gush out like a ripped hosepipe. It will cover you from face to foot. Firas will die for the cause but his blood will be quite literally on your head, your face, and you will never wash away the blood of an innocent child.''
''Let him go,'' said Ali. The thirty-two ounces of polymer steel were getting heavier.
Talal dug his hook into Firas' throat again. More blood dribbled over the skin. Further down the street some of the men were beginning to stir, and Ali suddenly understood that Talal was waiting for reinforcements. He swore. He would have to shoot him before they arrived and chance Firas' safety, or escape, lose his target, lose Hamza. Torn, undecided, uncertain, the mouth of the gun wavered, then swung back, then wavered again. Ali swore again and decided.
''Let the kid go,'' he said, lowering the pistol, ''And I'll surrender.''
''Gun on the floor.'' Talal jerked Firas violently up and down. ''Floor.''
Slowly Ali placed the gun on the ground next to his foot and kicked it away. Scornfully Talal pushed Firas away. Tears were streaming down the boy's pale cheeks, snot was bubbling thickly from his nose and blood was dribbling from the two long, gashes which punctured his neck. Ali caught him against his chest, marvelling at the skeletal figure's mortal fragility.
Talal regarded Ali appraisingly. Ali tensed his shoulders, expecting at least a punch. It did not come. Instead Talal nodded briefly and gathered up the gun.
''Come with me,'' he said, ''And all will be clear.''