He saw me staring at his shirt and misinterpreted my expression. ‘Lend me that peculiar garment you’re wearing.’
‘What for?’
‘For God’s sake, Vicky, pull yourself together and stop asking silly questions. It won’t serve you as a disguise, not with that mop of blond hair shining like a beacon, and you can probably run faster without it. If, as I hope but dare not expect, we get as far as the corniche, we’ll have to catch a taxi. Even a Luxor cab driver may be reluctant to pick up a fare who looks as if he’s been in a war.’
‘Especially these days,’ I muttered, stripping off the galabiya.
It didn’t suit him, but at least it covered the blood.
Max had instructed us to be ready at ten minutes to eight. Once he had made his move – whatever it was – we could count on five minutes, maybe less. If he hadn’t acted by ten after eight we were on our own, and he wished us the best of British luck.
Either he had overestimated the appetites of his associates or my watch was slow. We were crossing the hall, exposed and fully visible from at least four directions, when I heard them leaving the dining room. I almost ran over John, who was in the lead, in my wild dash towards what could only he described as comparative concealment. The first of them entered the parlour as I ducked under the stairs.
Before I had time to catch my breath, Max acted. It wasn’t until later that I figured out what he had done; at the time I was too confused to hear anything except a medley of shouts and expletives, in various languages and various voices. People were running in all directions, some through the French doors onto the terrace, others into the hall. Mary was among the latter. I caught only a glimpse of her as she darted past. One glimpse was more than enough. That face would have looked appropriate under a head of writhing snakes.
Larry was right behind her. Instead of following her up the stairs he ran towards his study. Interesting, how basic instincts prevail in moments of crisis. Inconvenient, too. I didn’t know how Mary planned to get through that locked door, but I didn’t underestimate the little dear’s cunning, and when she discovered she’d lost her new toy she’d be back. And so would Larry, as soon as he had found Sweet. And we were still in the house and the door was probably locked or guarded or both. I began to wonder if my girlish confidence in Max had been misplaced.
Even as this unkind doubt entered my mind I heard the door open. It must have been Hans who was standing guard outside, for Max called out in German. ‘Hurry! They went that way. After them!’
He followed Hans. When I started forward, assisted by a shove from John, the hall was empty and the front door stood open.
It was almost too easy. Max had directed the search towards the back of the house, which was where sensible fugitives would go – poorly lighted, thickly landscaped. It was even darker back there after Max shot out some of the lights. I assumed it was Max, since none of the others would have been so helpful.
Almost too easy, I said. One dedicated soul had stuck to his post. His black uniform blended with the darkness. If he hadn’t moved closer to the gate, drawn by curiosity, we wouldn’t have seen him in time. The light glinted dully off the rifle barrel.
We froze in a puddle of shadow, knowing the slightest movement would betray our presence. There wasn’t even a skinny shrub between us and the guard.
‘Give me the knife.’ John breathed the words into my ear.
I didn’t ask what he was going to do with it. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with it. The guy was ten or fifteen feet away and there was no way of creeping up on him unobserved. The rifle wasn’t slung over his shoulder, it was in his hands.
John’s arm shot back and his foot hooked around my ankle, sending me sprawling to the ground. A bullet whined through the air over my head; when I got up, which I did with considerable alacrity, the guard lay face down and unmoving.
‘Is he dead?’ I asked breathlessly.
John straightened, the rifle in his hand. ‘Not unless he passed on from sheer terror. I can’t throw a knife that accurately; it was only meant to distract him. Vicky, would you mind terribly if we postponed this conversation and started running? They’ll have heard the shot, you know.’
Running barefoot over a hard, broken surface is no fun. The first time I stubbed my toe John tossed the rifle away and took my hand. When I stumbled, which I did every two or three steps, he yanked at my arm and kept me moving forward in a series of staggering rushes. I stopped listening for sounds of pursuit, I stopped worrying about whether there would be another guard at the street; I could only think how much my feet hurt.
When we emerged, unchallenged, onto the brightly lit expanse of the corniche I was still preoccupied with my feet. ‘Slow down,’ I panted, trying to free my hand. ‘We made it.’
‘Not yet.’ He stopped, raising his arm. ‘Praise be to God and Saint Jude, there’s a taxi. I do hope you have some money. I’m getting tired of hitting people.’
The driver may have been dubious about picking us up but John didn’t give him time to think about it. As the cab pulled away he looked out of the back window and said something under his breath. I deduced that Saint Jude, the patron of hopeless causes, wasn’t going to get a donation after all. Someone had seen us get into the cab.
After giving the driver directions John didn’t speak again except to demand money, in the tone a bank robber might have employed. I handed over part of Schmidt’s wad and sat nursing my sore feet. I wondered where we were going, but I didn’t have the energy to inquire. After we passed the Luxor Temple the cab turned away from the river into the streets of the town and finally came to a stop.
‘Can you walk a little farther?’ John asked, helping me out.
‘What’s the alternative?’ I stood on one foot. It only hurt half as much that way.
‘Crawling a little farther.’
But he put his arm around me and lifted me over the worst spots. The sidewalk was broken and littered. I was too busy watching where I stepped to notice my surroundings; when he turned into a doorway and knocked, I was only glad we had reached our destination. I was beginning to think the occupant wasn’t home when I heard a rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened a crack. Then it started to close again.
John inserted his foot. ‘Open, sesame,’ he said.
It was the foot, not the request, that got the point across. The door swung open and there she was. She had drawn a fold of cloth across her face, hiding all her features except beady little black eyes. But I’d have known her anywhere.
‘Hi, Granny,’ I said. ‘I’m back. Aren’t you glad to see me?’
Feisal wasn’t glad to see us either. After a prolonged and obviously profane monologue in his own lanunage he threw up his hands. ‘In here,’ he snapped, opening a door. It was Granny’s parlour, elegantly fitted out with shiny upholstered furniture and a television set and a rug covered with bright red roses. Granny let out a wavering howl of protest. I couldn’t really blame her for not wanting two dusty vagabonds in her nice clean room. However, my bloody footprints blended with the red roses.
I collapsed into the nearest chair and stretched my legs. When he saw my feet, Feisal’s face changed. ‘What happened?’
‘Quite a lot has happened,’ John said.