Stratton took the map he had picked up from the hotel reception from his pocket and studied it. He decided on the busy route through the market and headed down the widely stepped walkway that had a narrow central path levelled out for the barrows. There was a loud shout behind him and he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a young boy navigating an overburdened barrow down the path through the crowd, using his sandal on the wheel as a brake and looking as if he was only barely in control.
All the while Stratton scanned in every direction and inside the shops for the giant Russian. The Palestinians were not a tall race and he hoped it would be easy to spot Zhilev, but there was no sign of him.
The crowded walkway threaded into the central mass of buildings where it became a low, narrow tunnel still lined with shops. It was well lit with electric lights but there were nooks, crannies and even tighter alleyways branching off on both sides into residential areas, a veritable labyrinth.
After a hundred yards or so Stratton paused at a junction and looked at his three new options, comparing them quickly to the map. The right path led to a flight of stairs, left led downhill in the direction of the great mosque and straight ahead, through the thinning crowd, led deeper into the city, where a group of soldiers approached on patrol. Stratton chose the left path.
A few yards down the walkway he passed under a low arch and back out into sunlight. The shops gave way to homes where washing and small children were in abundance. Frustration began to creep over him as he realised how overwhelming the endless alleyways and tunnels were becoming. The old city was only half a mile square but the miles of walkways turned it into a maze. The horrifying truth was dawning that the only way he was going find Zhilev was through luck, and that was not a good basis on which to mount a search operation. A boy grabbed his arm in an effort to persuade him to buy something from his shop and Stratton pulled away so aggressively the boy almost toppled over.
Stratton could feel the stress rising in him along with mounting doubts about what he was doing. He stopped to look back at the junction he had just left as the tail end soldier passed through it along the walkway he had taken from the city entrance. The urge to turn around, head out of the city and get as far away as possible grew, threatening to corrupt his commitment. Fear was also beginning to nibble at him, fear of failing, as well as dying. He suddenly felt pathetically helpless. It had been a long time since he had experienced any kind of panic and it was starting to rise steadily inside of him. He took control of it and pushed it out of his stomach where it was massing, and concentrated on himself, who he was, what he had achieved in his life and the many dangers he had survived when he should not have. He walked on down the hill, his efforts working, but it still did not affect the source of the problem: to believe in himself he had to doubt Gabriel. If Gabriel was right, he was wrong and Zhilev was going to detonate his nuclear bomb, and he was going to die.
Stratton broke into a run, unsure where he was going. It was the worst feeling in the world.
Zhilev stepped through the Zion Gate and stopped to look around. To his surprise there were no soldiers in sight. He had originally planned to enter by the Damascus Gate after completing his reconnaissance the day before, but as he walked through the entrance hall, he saw a group of Israeli soldiers and police checking people’s bags. He stopped dead. Zhilev could not afford to let anyone inspect the log now that the panel cover had broken off. He turned around, pushed through a crowd and made his way back out on to the street. Entering the city was probably the final obstacle to his target and he wanted to avoid all risks where possible. He consulted his map of the old city and considered the eight gates. It was worth checking the other seven.
He headed east towards the Herod Gate, decided to ignore it because it was too close to the Damascus Gate and turned the corner of the city walls towards the Golden Gate. That entrance was closed and so he continued south to the next corner and then west towards the Dung Gate.
A couple of soldiers were sitting outside the gate enjoying a smoke and although several people passed through without being stopped, Zhilev decided to carry on and check out the last four. If they were fouled, he would head back to the Dung Gate and try his luck with the smokers.
At the southernmost point of the city, the Zion Gate was practically deserted. He had not reconnoitred this section but the map was detailed enough to lead him to where he wanted to go. It showed he was in the Armenian quarter and he set off, following the walkways east a few yards then turned north for several hundred more until he reached the Holy Sepulchre, the church built around Calvary and where Jesus was nailed to the cross.
Zhilev stopped to check his map, completely ignoring a man trying to get him to step into his shop to look at his selection of carpets. Zhilev did not have far to go. He looked ahead to where the short walkway disappeared around a corner and set off, leaving the carpet salesman, already depressed by the scarcity of tourists, to limp back to his shop. This was a quiet part of the city with no one else around and as Zhilev turned the corner, he literally bumped into a couple of soldiers coming in the other direction, nearly knocking one of them over.
‘Izvinitye,’ Zhilev apologised immediately, as surprised as the soldier who was half his mass.
The soldier regained his composure as his two friends looked on, one somewhat accusingly at Zhilev, the other grinning at his friend’s misfortune.
‘Gavaritye pa-russki,’ the soldier said, looking up cockily at the giant in front of him.
‘Yes,’ Zhilev replied. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I did not see you.’
‘Where are you from?’ the soldier asked in a guttural accent. It was obvious to Zhilev this boy had not learned his Russian in the Motherland and was no doubt the son of one of the many immigrants who had come to Israel.
‘Latvia,’ Zhilev said.
‘So you’re not real Russian then,’ the soldier said with an attitude.
It did not faze Zhilev in the slightest, and not just because he wanted to be on his way as soon as possible and without any fuss. He hated being talked to rudely by children, especially when they carried guns, but his contempt for this little one was such that he was not inclined to waste any anger on him.
‘I feel Russian,’ Zhilev said, forcing a smile which did not produce a likewise response from the soldier.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’ the soldier asked.
‘I’m not in a hurry. I was reading my map and did not see you.’
‘What are you looking for?’
Zhilev glanced around at the other two soldiers who had continued on their way behind him and did not appear to share their friend’s interest.