'Inspector Tamir.'

I mouthedpolice at Ken. His face hardened.

Tamir said: 'I am sorry to trouble you but I want you to know the shop is surrounded and all gates to the City watched. So it would be simplest if you came out quietly, and with the sword.'

I absorbed some of this, then asked: 'What's your number?'

He gave it. Probably the police barracks just inside the Jaffa Gate.

I rang off. 'He says we're surrounded and come out quietly.'

Gadulla shook his head. 'You cannot surround a street like this, with all the back doors… And they will not use much force in the City. They are afraid of riots.'

Ken looked at him steadily. 'But somebody sold us out. Again.'

He spread his hands. 'For what? What would the police offer me?'

I picked up the phone, dialled the number. It was a police station, all right. 'Do you speak English? – good. I want to speak to Miss Eleanor Travis. The American lady. I think she came with Inspector Tamir.'

'Yes. I will find her.'

I put the phone down, feeling suddenly tired. 'Little Eleanor, all right. She met the cop in Tel Aviv. She discovers the sword for the government, they give her the inside track for the first bid.'

Mitzi said: 'But I promised her first refusal.'

'But this way,' I said, 'it's legal and above-board and the Met's reputation isn't hurt. Fame and promotion for our Eleanor.'

Ken leant against the wall. 'We're in real Judas country, aren't we?'

Mitzi suddenly panicked. 'But when the police come in, what will they think abouthim?' She flustered a hand at Ben Iver.

They won't believe he committed suicide,' I said. 'What you mean is you murdered somebody and you'd rather it didn't become public knowledge. You should think of these things in advance. Can we manage to lose him?' I asked Gadulla.

'We will have to,' he said calmly.

Ken nodded. 'Right. And then out the back door.'

I said: 'Ken – they're watching the gates, and at night they don't need many men for that. There's only seven ways out of the City.'

'There's always another way.'

Gadulla shook his head dubiously. "The City was always a fort. It still is.'

'Allright, we'll hide out somewhere here until we've grown beards like rabbis! They'll get tired after a month or two.'

'I can just see Mitzi with a beard.'

And that was it. Unless we kept her nailed down, she'd be off like the good news from Ghent to Aix doing a new deal that swapped us for whatever the police had on offer that week. Ken sighed and nodded.

I said: 'We can walk out now – without the sword. No sword, no body – no crime. Eleanor can't prove the thing existed. So they'll screw us around for a day and let us go.'

Gadulla liked it. Ken didn't. 'No-o. I've come a long way to find the damn thing and I'm not letting go.'

Of course, if the sword stayed with Gadulla so did the profit. I picked it off the floor and wiped it clean on the charred rug. The gold wire was crumpled around the hilt now, but otherwise it wasn't harmed from tasting blood for the first time in nearly eight hundred years.

I swung it gently. Heavy, all right, but balanced. A simple killing weapon, worth maybe a million dollars. Logic, please.

I shook my head to clear it. 'Ken, we've never been much good on swords. Just forget it.'

'No! That'sit! Our years in jail and losing the aeroplane and all.'

'And growing old?'

He took a slow breath. 'Like running out of time. Dying a loser.'

The phone rang again. I took it out of Gadulla's hand. 'Yes?'

'Shalom. Mr Case? You have ten minutes. That's what they usually say on TV, so it must be right.'

'Shalom.' I put the phone down. 'Well, they may not have the place surrounded but they know which front door to kick in. Ten minutes.'

'Move that body, then, if you want to.'

I looked at Gadulla. After a moment, he stood up. I passed the sword to Ken.

We wrapped the rug around the arms and face, then carried it down the basement steps, winding full circle or more so at the bottom I didn't know what direction we were facing. Gadulla turned on a torch and wedged it under his armpit, aiming down a narrow arched tunnel that smelt of rats'-piss and was lined with flaky patches of dry lichen. We took a couple of turns, past heavy old wooden doors with modern padlocks and up a short flight of worn stone steps.

At the landing, there was a metal grille, its bars rusted thin with time, set in the wall. We put Ben Iver down and Gadulla lifted the grille clear. Beyond was a sort of chimney, leading up and down, and I could hear the bustle of flowing water at the bottom.

'It only fills after a storm,' Gadulla said. 'At other times it is dry. Perhaps Suleiman planned that – who can know?'

'Where does he come out?'

'Never. When it is dry you can hear the rats.'

I paused a moment, then picked up my end. He made a shallow splash that echoed like a bell. Gadulla muttered something and lifted back the grille. The stone blocks at the lip were rounded with centuries of wear, so maybe Ben Iver wouldn't be lonely.

'What did you say then?' I asked. I mean whispered.

'Allah-hu ahkbar. God is great.' And I suppose that about covered it. 'What will your friend Caviti do now?'

'You mean what will we do, him and me. Lead the way and we'll find out.'

As we came back into the shop Mitri had just finished wiping the floor clean. Ken was on the phone; he seemed a little surprised to see us, but just dropped his voice and went on talking. '… nearly a hundred, I'd guess… Just a clear passage out of the countrywith the sword… Yes, nine boxes andnot here so don't waste your time looking… Okay.' He put the phone down.

Nearly a hundred what? In nine boxes? I sat down because my knees suddenly felt like it.

'You were quick,' he said. 'I got to thinking we could maybe arrange something-'

'Not you, Ken. Not you as well.'

He looked blank, but he'd always been able to. 'What d'you mean?'

'I mean…" I mean twenty years and a million flying miles and the girls and the booze and the failed engines and times like in Isfahan… Why can you only think of the pieces of something after it's busted? '… I mean not you.'

'Look, just-'

'I mean nine boxes marked champagne! You swap a terrorist plot for a clean getaway. Who stays behind this time?'

The Uzi waggled vaguely in my direction. 'Ah, well…'

'Of course, it's my turn, isn't it?'

'Just a couple of years-'

'Ten, for terrorism.'

'Roy, it's at least half a million dollars! I'll be waiting.'

'So you do the ten and I'll do the waiting.'

His face hardened. 'I'm never going back.'

I nodded. The room was thick with over-breathed air and the smell of that spirit stove. Gadulla and Mitzi didn't seem to feel like contributing.

'Ken – you – you're a fuckup even as Judas. There's no boxes. Jehangir got them before I could reach him.'

'Ahhh.' The sub-machine gun wilted towards the floor. 'I wish I'd known… I never was much good at the business side. And you don't look much like Jesus, either."

I stood up. 'Fine. Dump the gun and we'll walk out of here.'

'No.' And oddly, his face seemed suddenly younger. Untroubled. He flicked the gun at Gadulla. 'I want the keys to the roof! ' He got them. 'Coming, Roy?'

'Not this time.'

'See you then.' He picked up the sword and went through the door to the roof stairs.

I snapped at Gadulla: 'Open your front door. Maybe we can distract them.'

He shrugged fatalistically, but led the way to the front of the shop. As he got the padlock clear, he turned. 'What will happen to me?'