The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные полные книги .TXT) 📗

kerb had to abandon their cars there, for they were never able to

extricate them from the tangle. Perhaps there was a little truth in

this, for some of those vehicles she could see had not been moved for

weeks. Their windscreens were completely obscured with dust and many of

them had flat tyres.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was a taxi stopped only

inches from her back bumper, and behind that the traffic was backed up

solidly. Only the motorcyclists had freedom of movement. As she watched

in the mirror, one of these came weaving through the congestion with

suicidal abandon. It was a battered red 200 cc Honda so covered with

dust that the colour was hardly recognizable. There was a passenger

perched on the pillion, and both he and the driver had covered the lower

half of their faces with the corners of their white headcloths as

protection against the exhaust fumes and dust.

Passing on the wrong side, the Honda skimmed through the narrow gap

between the taxi and the cars parked at the kerb with nothing to spare

on either side.

The taxi-driver made an obscene gesture with thumb and forefinger, and

called on Allah to witness that the driver was both mad and stupid.

The Honda slowed slightly as it drew level with Royan's Renault, and

the' pillion passenger leaned out and dropped something through the open

window on to the passenger seat beside her, Immediately the driver

accelerated so abruptly that for a moment the front wheel was lifted off

the ground. He put the motorcycle over into a tight turn and sped away

down the narrow alleyway that opened off the main thoroughfare, narrowly

avoiding hitting an old woman in his path.

As the pillion passenger looked back at her the wind blew the fold of ck

she recognized the man she had last seen in the headlights of the Fiat

on the road beside the oasis.

"Yusuf!" As the Honda disappeared she looked down at the object that he

had dropped on to the seat beside her.

It was egg-shaped and the segmented metallic surface was painted

military green. She had seen the same thing so often on old TV war

movies that she recognized it instantly as a fragmentation grenade, and

at the same moment she realized that the priming handle had flown off

and the weapon was set to explode within seconds.

Without thinking, she grabbed the door handle beside her and flung all

her weight against the door. It burst open and she tumbled out in the

road. Her foot slipped off the clutch and the Renault bounded forward

and crashed into the back of the stationary bus.

As Royan sprawled in the road under the wheels of the following taxi,

the grenade exploded. Through the open driver's door blew a sheet of

flame and smoke and debris. The back window burst outwards and sprayed

her with diamond chips of glass, and the detonation drove painfully into

her eardrums.

A stunned silence followed the shock of the explosion, broken only by

the tinkle of falling glass shards, and then immediately there was a

hubbub of groans and screams.

Royan sat up and clasped her injured arm to her chest. She had fallen

heavily upon it and the stitches were agony.

The Renault was wrecked, but she saw that her leather sling bag had been

blown out of the door and lay in the street close at hand. She pushed

herself unsteadily to her feet and hobbled over to pick it up. All

around her was confusion. A few of the passengers in the bus had been

injured, and a piece of shrapnel or wreckage had wounded a little girl

on the sidewalk. Her mother was screaming and mopping at the child's

bloody face with her scarf The girl struggled in her mother's grip,

wailing pitifully.

Nobody was taking any notice of Royan, but she knew the police would

arrive within minutes. They were geared up to respond swiftly to

fundamentalist terror attacks. She knew that if they found her here she

would be tied up in days of interrogation. She slung the bag over her

shoulder and walked as swiftly as her bruised leg would allow her to the

alleyway down which the Honda had disappeared.

At the end of the street was a public lavatory. She locked herself in

one of the cubicles and leaned against the door with her eyes closed,

trying to recover from the shock and to get her confused thoughts in

order.

In the horror and desolation of Duraid's murder she had not until now

considered her own safety. The realization of danger had been forced

upon her in the most savage manner. She remembered the words of one of

the assassins spoken in the darkness beside the oasis "We always know

where to find her later!'

The attempt on her life had failed only narrowly. She had to believe

that there would be another.

I can't go back to the flat," she realized. "The villa is gone, and

anyway they would look for me there."

Despite the unsavoury atmosphere she remained locked in the cubicle for

over an hour while she thought out her next movements. At last she left

the toilet and went to the row of stained and cracked washbasins. She

splashed her face under the tap. Then in the mirror she combed her hair,

touched up her make-up, and straightened and tidied her clothing as best

she was able.

She walked a few blocks, doubling back on her tracks and watching behind

her to make sure she -was not being followed, before she hailed a taxi

in the street.

She made the driver drop her in the street behind her bank, and walked

the rest of the way. It was only minutes before closing time when she

was " shown into the cubicle office of one of the sub-accountants. She

withdrew what money was in her account, which amounted to less than five

thousand Egyptian pounds. It was not a great sum, but she had a little

more in her Lloyds Bank account in York, and then she had her

Mastercard.

"You should have given us notice to withdraw an article from safe

deposit," the bank official told her severely.

She apologized meekly and played the helpless little-girllost so

convincingly that he relented. He handed over to her the package that

contained her British passport and her Lloyds banking papers.

Duraid had numerous relatives and friends who would have been pleased to

have her to stay with them, but she wanted to remain out of sight, away

from her usual haunts.

She chose one of the two-star tourist hotels away from the river where

she hoped she could remain anonymous amongst the multitudes of the tour

groups. At this type of hotel there was a high turnover of guests, for

most of them stayed only for a few nights before moving on up to Luxor

and Aswan to view the monuments.

As soon as she was alone in her single room she phoned British Airways

reservations. There was a flight to Heathrow the following morning at

ten 'clock. She booked a one-way economy seat and gave them the number

of her Mastercard.

It was after six 'clock by then, but the time difference between Egypt

and the UK meant that it would still be office hours there. She looked

up the number in her notebook. Leeds University was where she had

completed her studies. Her call was answered on the third ring.

"Archaeology Department. Professor Dixon's office," said a prim English

schoolmarm voice.

:Is that you, Miss Higgins?"

Yes, it is. To whom am I speaking?"

"It's Royan. Royan Al Simma, who used to be Royan Said :, Royan! We