The Moses Stone

68

'They're on the third floor,' Hoxton muttered, as he pushed the button to call the lift. 'Adjoining rooms, 305 and 307. This shouldn't take long.'

They stepped out of the lift together, and walked down the narrow corridor. Outside number 305 they stopped.

Hoxton leant forward, pressing his ear against the door.

'I can hear movement inside,' he whispered, stepping back and easing the Browning out of his waistband. 'You cover the other door,' he told Dexter. He watched as his companion moved a few feet down the corridor. 'Ready?'

Dexter looked unhappy but took a firm grip of the pistol and nodded. Hoxton rapped sharply on the door.

'Who is it?' Bronson asked.

'Maintenance,' an indistinct but clearly male voice replied. 'There's a problem with one of the lights in your room that we need to fix.'

Bronson stepped back. Two things bothered him about what he'd just heard. First, every member of hotel staff they'd talked to so far had spoken English to some extent, some of them haltingly, others quite fluently. But the man outside the door didn't just speak English: as far as Bronson could tell, he was English. Why would an Englishman be working as a maintenance man in a small hotel in Jerusalem?

The second thing was that all the lights in the bedroom and bathroom were working perfectly.

'I've just got out of the shower,' Bronson said. 'Let me put on some clothes.'

Walking quickly across the room, he stuffed the rest of his possessions into the overnight bag he'd been packing, and then crossed to the connecting door with room 307 and knocked gently.

'I'll only be a few seconds,' he said aloud, as the connecting door opened.

Swiftly, Bronson slipped through into Angela's room, pushed the door to behind him and locked it. 'We've got company,' he said. 'Get your stuff together. We need to get out of here right now.'

Quickly Angela shoved all her clothes into her carry-on bag. Bronson closed her laptop and slid it, with the papers and notes, into her leather computer case. As he did so, there was a splintering sound from the adjoining room.

Striding over to the door, Bronson transferred his bag to his left hand, and turned the handle gently with his right. But as he eased the door open, a figure on the other side kicked out, slamming the door back against the wall, just missing Bronson. And, as Bronson looked out into the corridor, he immediately registered the pistol the man was holding in his hand.

Bronson reacted instantly. He swung his overnight bag towards the man's face, then kicked out with his right foot. His blow caught the stranger's forearm and knocked the pistol off aim, and Bronson followed up the kick with a hard right-hand punch to the man's stomach. The gunman bent forward, retching, and the pistol clattered to the floor. Bronson brought his right knee up, hard, into the man's face.

The gunman yelled in pain, as spurts of blood from his broken nose splattered the carpet in the hallway.

'Run,' Bronson shouted, pointing down the corridor, towards the fire escape.

As Angela sprinted down the corridor, Bronson reached down and tried to grab the fallen pistol, but the gunman was too quick for him and grabbed for it himself. Bronson kicked out, sending the weapon skittering across the floor and out of reach, then turned and ran after Angela. Behind him, he heard cursing amid the cries of pain, and guessed that his attacker's companion was chasing after him.

There was a right-angle bend in the corridor, which Bronson took at speed, but then he slammed to a halt. The rest of the corridor was straight, and Angela was still only about halfway down it. Unless he could manage to slow down their pursuer, they'd both be sitting ducks as soon as the man rounded the corner.

He looked around for a weapon – any weapon. Absolutely the only thing there was a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall beside him. That would have to do. He dropped his bag and snatched it off the bracket.

Bronson moved slightly forward until he was right at the corner, and listened to the sound of running footsteps, trying to calculate just how close his pursuer was. Then he stepped forward, swinging the extinguisher in a vicious arc at waist height.

The man running towards him, an automatic pistol gripped in his right hand, had no chance to react. The extinguisher hit him full in the stomach and he fell backwards, gasping for breath. But he held on to his pistol and, even as he tumbled to the floor, he pulled the trigger.

The crash of the shot in the confined space was deafening. The bullet missed Bronson by feet, ricocheting off the walls and ceiling. He knew the man would recover in seconds, and didn't hesitate, just threw the extinguisher at his attacker, grabbed his bag and ran for it.

At the end of the corridor the emergency exit doors beckoned. Bronson caught up with Angela just as she reached them, and pushed hard on the horizontal safety bar holding them closed. As the doors smashed open a siren began wailing. Bronson pushed Angela outside just as another shot echoed down the corridor, the flat slap of the bullet hitting the wall behind them clearly audible.

In front of them was a small square concrete platform, sections of steps descending from it in a zig-zag pattern down to the street below, and another flight reaching up to the upper floors of the building.

'You first – quick,' Bronson said. He glanced back down the hotel corridor. At the far end he saw the man he'd knocked down walking quickly towards him, holding his stomach with his left hand, the pistol in his right.

Then he fired another shot, and Bronson knew he couldn't wait any longer.

He shifted his bag to his left hand and jumped down the four steps to the first platform, grabbed the safety rail and swung himself round to go down the next set of steps.

Below him, Angela was already nearing the bottom. 'Run!' Bronson shouted. 'Get round the side of the building.' Seconds later, he saw her sprint away from the fire escape, her bag in hand.

He reached the bottom steps and looked up. His attacker had stepped on to the concrete platform and was leaning over the rail, taking aim with his pistol. Bronson knew the platforms and steps made hitting him virtually impossible; once he moved away he would become an easier target.

But he had to move. The obvious route was to follow Angela – the corner of the building was a mere twenty feet away – but Bronson guessed that the man with the gun would expect him to run in that direction. Instead, he vaulted over the safety rail and ran for the other corner of the hotel, zig-zagging from side to side.

He could hear movement as the gunman crossed to the other side of the platform, then two shots in quick succession smashed into the paving slabs close behind him. Then he reached the corner and dodged around it. He was safe – at least for the moment.

Sprinting to the front of the hotel, he found Angela standing by the wall, looking nervously back the way she'd come.

'Here,' he called, taking her by the arm. 'Quick. Follow me.'

They ran away from the hotel, down the street and along to the spot where Bronson had parked the car. He unlocked it, tossed their bags on to the back seat, started the engine and drove away, watching his mirrors the whole time.

Angela was trembling slightly, from exertion or fear, or more likely both. 'Don't say it,' she muttered.

'I'm not going to. You know that I think what we're doing is dangerous, but I'm in it with you to the bitter end.

Armageddon – here we come!' 'I think that bastard broke my nose,' Dexter muttered as the two men walked quickly away from the hotel. 'I can feel it.'

'That's about the fifth time you've told me,' Hoxton snapped, his breath still wheezing slightly. 'Just shut up about it and walk.'

'Where are we going?'

'We're going back to the hotel to see if Baverstock's got any further with the inscription.'

'What about Bronson and Lewis?'

'We've lost them for the moment, but sooner or later my contacts will get a lead on them – they'll check into another hotel or something – and we'll get hold of the information they've got. We've come too far to stop now.'

'And Bronson?' Dexter asked.

'He's a dead man walking,' Hoxton said.