The Lost Testament

26

Abdul was intensely frustrated. He had the name of his quarry — Anum Husani — and the address of the man’s shop, but he had no idea where the trader lived.

He leaned against a wall in a narrow alleyway, a few yards away from the entrance to the shop operated by his target, virtually invisible among the crowds of people strolling up and down. He had already walked into the shop to inspect some of the goods on offer, choosing a time when the trader apparently in charge of the establishment was busy with two other customers, and taking care to keep his face averted. All that had achieved was to confirm what he’d already guessed, that Husani wasn’t on the premises. The description of the man he’d forced out of Mahmoud before he’d killed him was accurate enough for him to be certain of that.

He could wait for him, of course, but that would only work if the man was intending to visit the shop, and as it was already mid-morning that was looking increasingly unlikely. With the news of Mahmoud’s death already coursing through the streets, and the only connection — as far as Abdul knew — between the two men being the ancient parchment, any prudent man would probably decide to lie low for a while. He needed to find out where his target lived, and as quickly as possible, before the trader ran for his life.

Abdul waited until Husani’s shop was empty again, then strode forward briskly, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

‘I have an urgent message for Anum Husani,’ he said, walking across the small shop to the counter at the back, behind which a swarthy and heavily-built man, most of his face invisible behind a thick black beard, the hairs heavily curled with the apparent consistency of wire wool, was sitting and reading an Arabic-language newspaper.

‘He’s not here,’ the man replied, glancing up from his paper, ‘and he might not be here all day. Give it to me and I’ll see he gets it as soon as he arrives.’

‘No,’ Abdul said. ‘I have to deliver it in person, and he must get it today.’

The idea of such unseemly haste clearly puzzled the trader.

‘But he isn’t here, so you can’t,’ he stated.

‘Then I’ll have to deliver it to his home address. Where does he live?’

The man put down his newspaper and looked at Abdul for a long moment, then he shrugged his shoulders, picked up a pencil and a small piece of paper from the counter in front of him, scribbled something on it and handed it to Abdul.

‘He might not be there,’ he warned.

‘Thank you,’ Abdul replied, glanced at what the man had written. Then he turned and left the shop.

He now had a good chance of concluding the contract that day — well within the tight timescale he had been given. And he hadn’t even had to kill anyone to get this vital piece of information.