The Lost Testament

31

Almost sobbing in terror, Husani fumbled for the second bolt and pulled it back. He wrenched open the door, slamming it back against the frame and the wall beside it. He dashed into the street outside and started running for his life.

As he did so, he heard heavy footsteps behind him, pounding across the wooden floor of the house, and then the sudden crack of a pistol shot, the bullet crashing into the wall of the house on the opposite side of the road, a bare couple of metres behind him. Shards of stone flew around him as he ran, a couple nicking the skin of his face.

Husani was sufficiently familiar with pistols to realize he was still within accurate range of the killer’s weapon, and the next shot, he knew, could bring him down. Without breaking his stride, he swung his right arm back towards his house, clicked off the safety catch on his own weapon and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. He couldn’t aim the pistol properly, but he didn’t care about that. All he was trying to do was scare the other man enough to make his escape.

Another shot rang out, but the bullet missed him, again hitting the wall of a house on the street, and then a group of men stepped into view from a side alley, just a few metres in front of him. They’d obviously heard the sound of the shots and were peering about them cautiously, clearly wondering what was going on.

Instantly, Husani slid the pistol into his trouser pocket, out of view of the men, and dodged around them. As he did so, he risked a glance behind him. The man who’d shot at him was running down the street in pursuit, but was about fifty metres back. In that briefest of instants, Husani saw that his pursuer had also tucked his weapon out of sight.

The group of men had stopped in the street and were staring at the spectacle unfolding in front of them, as Husani fled down the street, the other man running hard after him.

Husani dodged right into an alleyway, then almost immediately left, down one that was even more narrow. These were his streets, a part of Cairo he knew well. What he didn’t know was whether or not his pursuer was also a local, a man who might have an equally comprehensive knowledge of the area.

The alleyway was unusually quiet, nobody in evidence, which wasn’t what Husani had expected — or wanted. He knew that safety lay in numbers, in being able to lose himself in the crowds. There was another crack from behind him, as the killer risked one more shot at his prey, but as both the shooter and his target were running hard, accurate shooting was impossible. That, at least, was what Husani was hoping as he dodged and weaved his way down the narrow passage.

The alleyway ended at a blank wall, but a few metres before he reached it there was a narrow opening to the left, which Husani sped down, scattering a pile of cardboard boxes from one side of it as he did so, hoping that might delay his pursuer slightly. But still he could hear the pounding of footsteps behind him. And if anything they seemed to be getting closer.

At the end, a kind of safety beckoned, a crowd of people milling about in a small square. He burst out of the alley, immediately turned right and increased his speed, forcing his way through the crowd.

In a country where almost nobody moved quickly, a running man was bound to attract attention: two men doubly so. As Husani pushed his way through the mêlée, he registered the expressions on the faces of men he was passing, expressions which ran the gamut of emotions from shock to amusement.

On his left, Husani saw an old man pushing a handcart, loaded with sacks of some kind of produce. He reacted instinctively, spinning around behind the cart and tipping it over in one fluid movement.

The old man bellowed his rage, but Husani simply ran on, now with a couple of other men who’d seen the incident starting to chase him as well. That would have muddied the waters, he hoped, and the overturned cart might give him a few more seconds’ breathing space. And he needed that, because now his breath was coming in short gasps. His lungs felt as if they were on fire and there was a sudden sharp, stabbing pain in his side from his exertions.

In amongst the agitated crowds, Husani dodged and dived, weaved and ducked, but his movements were slower and more laboured than before, and he knew he’d have to stop soon or he’d just collapse. When he’d skirted around another large group of people, he halted abruptly and looked back. He was sure the man was back there somewhere, but at that moment he couldn’t see him.

Husani seized the opportunity, and ran over to a small store on the right-hand side of the street. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him and retreated to the back wall, the proprietor looking at him curiously.

Husani glanced at him, and made the first excuse that came into his head.

‘My wife’s lover,’ he panted. ‘Chasing me. Trying to kill me.’

The store owner nodded in sympathy, suggesting that perhaps he too had had experience of such matters.

‘Use the back door,’ he said, and gestured behind the counter. ‘Through here.’

Husani didn’t hesitate.

‘Shokran,’ he replied simply, ‘thank you.’ Then he stepped behind the counter and out into another narrow alleyway that ran behind the row of shops.

He looked both ways, but it was deserted. He turned and headed back the way he’d come, paralleling the street he’d run down, and walking quickly. Then he took the first cross-passage he came to, putting as much distance between himself and the killer as he could. Husani glanced back frequently, but saw no signs of pursuit, and after five more minutes he was convinced he’d made good his escape. He was now just one more middle-aged man wearing Western clothes in a city with a population of about twenty million people. Finding him now, Husani knew, would be significantly more difficult than tracking down a needle in a haystack.

At last he allowed himself to relax, and began walking a little more briskly. He didn’t want to be late for his appointment with Ali Mohammed.