The Moses Stone (33 page)

Authors: James Becker

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Adventure

BOOK: The Moses Stone

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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 toward 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 curb 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 fiber 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 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 toward him.

People ran, terrified by the sight of the automatic pistol. Bronson span 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 bullet-proof 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 around 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 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 disheveled, 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 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.”

That explained the blood on the floor of the cubicle.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Not far, and not fast,” Angela said.

Bronson glanced round. The street was full of people, and there were now four police vehicles and at least a dozen armed officers standing there. Angela would probably be as safe in that place as anywhere in Tel Aviv.

“Over there,” Bronson said, pointing to a still-open bar with several vacant tables inside.

Angela wrapped her arm around his shoulders and hobbled over to the door. He pushed it open and pulled out a chair for her to sit on. A waiter walked over and Bronson ordered a brandy.

“You stay here,” he said, standing up to leave. “I’ll go and get the car.”

“Good. I can’t wait to climb into bed.”

Bronson shook his head. “Sorry, but you won’t be sleeping anywhere in Tel Aviv tonight. We have to get out of here, and quickly. It was no coincidence that Yacoub and his tame gunman pitched up here this evening. Somehow they knew which hotel we’d moved to. I’m going to get back there, grab our stuff and run.” He stood up. “Stay right here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll hit the road.”

“But how can Yacoub still be alive, Chris?” Angela demanded, returning to a theme she’d already visited several times during what had turned out to be a very long and uncomfortable night. “Are you absolutely sure it was him?”

They were sitting in their hire car in the parking lot of an all-day restaurant outside Jerusalem, waiting for the place to open so they could have breakfast.

Bronson had seen nobody in or near the hotel when he’d run there after leaving Angela in the bar. He’d checked around the building as thoroughly as he could, then gone in, packed their few belongings, paid the bill by shoving a handful of notes at the puzzled night clerk, and driven away. They’d been on the road more or less ever since, because trying to find a hotel open to new arrivals after midnight had proved fruitless. In the end, Bronson had given up and headed for Jerusalem, and the restaurant parking lot had seemed as good a place as any to wait out what remained of the night.

Once they’d stopped, he had gently washed the ragged cut on the bottom of Angela’s left foot. It wasn’t too deep, though it was certainly painful. He’d placed a thin pad over it and secured it with strips of plaster he’d bought from an all-night pharmacy in Tel Aviv. Angela had pulled on a pair of trainers and tried a few steps. The trainers weren’t elegant, but with them on her feet she could at least walk again—she wouldn’t be running anywhere for a while.

Bronson sighed. “Look,” he said, “Yacoub doesn’t have the kind of face it’s easy to forget. And I didn’t tell you this before, but what Jalal Talabani did when he rescued us back in Rabat just seemed too easy to me. One man—even with the element of surprise in his favor—would find it difficult to take out three armed men, especially if he was tackling them in a house he’d never set foot inside before. I think he had help, and the only reasonable explanation is that Yacoub must have set it up for him.”

“But Talabani did kill those men, didn’t he?” Angela asked.

“Definitely. I checked Ahmed’s body myself.”

Angela shivered. “So Yacoub must have been prepared to sacrifice at least three of his men—Ahmed and the two we saw upstairs—just for what?”

“To convince us that he—Yacoub, I mean—was dead so we would feel happy about following the trail he’d prepared. The word ‘ruthless’ barely covers what he’s prepared to do. He wanted us—or rather
you
—to be so determined to find the Silver Scroll and the Mosaic Covenant that you’d come out here to Israel and lead him straight to the relics. And it wasn’t a bad plan, really, because you’ve got the contacts and the knowledge to pull this off. All he would have to do was follow you, and that’s what he’s been doing.”

“But that gunman tried to kill you, Chris.”

Bronson nodded. “I know. I can only assume Yacoub’s losing patience. He probably wanted me dead so that he could kidnap you. Then he’d try to persuade you to tell him where to look for the relics.”

Angela’s face looked pale in the early-morning light. “Dear God. I’m really glad you’re out here with me, Chris. Yacoub simply terrifies me. He wouldn’t even need to torture me—one look at his face and I’d just tell him everything.”

Bronson shifted his gaze from the road beyond the parking lot—ever since they’d stopped, he’d been checking the passing vehicles, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway Now he looked across at Angela. “Look,” he said, “if you want to give this up right now, it’s no problem. We can be sitting on a flight out of Ben Gurion back to Britain in a few hours, never come back to Israel, and forget all about these lost relics. It’s your decision. I’m really just along for the ride.”

Angela didn’t reply for a few moments, just sat there with her head slightly bowed, her hands clasped in her lap, almost a Madonna figure. Then she shook her head and swung round to face Bronson. “No,” she said firmly. “If I walk away now I know I’ll always regret it. This is the biggest opportunity of my career—of any archaeologist’s career, in fact—and I’m not prepared to give it up. We’ll just have to make sure we stay one step ahead of Yacoub and his band of pistol-toting thugs. And that’s your job, Chris,” she added, with a small smile.

“So no pressure, then,” Bronson said, an answering smile on his face. “Right, if you’re determined, let’s decide where we go from here. Once this place finally opens and we’ve got some food inside us, I mean.”

As he spoke, the illuminated signs of the restaurant suddenly flickered into life, and Bronson saw figures moving around inside the building.

“At last,” he muttered. “Let’s eat.”

An hour later they walked back to their car.

“Any ideas?” Bronson asked, sitting down in the driver’s seat. Angela had taken several pages of notes with her into the restaurant, and had read through them carefully while they had breakfast She had said little during the meal.

“Possibly, just give me a few minutes.”

Bronson nodded as if he’d just made a decision, and leaned across to Angela. “Can I ask you something? Something personal?”

“Yes,” she replied cautiously, drawing out the word. “What?”

“Yosef Ben Halevi? You worked with him, right?”

“Yes, about five years ago, I think it was. Why?”

“So you don’t really know him that well?”

Angela shrugged. “No, not really, I suppose. He was just a colleague.”