50
Marrakech
Morocco
JON SMITH SPRINTED INTO the courtyard while Randi fired upward from the cover of the balcony above her. A bullet impacted only inches from the prone Gerhard Eichmann’s head, kicking up a spray of shattered marble.
The near miss broke him from his stupor and he rolled to his knees, trying to crawl beneath the leafy branches of an orange tree next to him. Psychological cover at best.
Another shot from above slammed into the floor and Smith grabbed the elderly scientist under the arm, jerking him to his feet and dragging him into the house’s entry. Randi came in a moment later, her momentum carrying her into an ancient sideboard and knocking an undoubtedly priceless vase to the floor.
Eichmann jerked at the sound of it shattering, then grabbed Smith’s shoulder with adrenaline-fueled strength. “They were shooting at me!” he said in panicked German. “Not at you! At me!”
“That’s because they aren’t after me,” Smith said, crouching and ripping open the leg of Eichmann’s pants to get at the bullet wound. “They know we’re talking to you and they want you silenced.”
“No…I don’t believe…”
“How is he?” Randi said. “Because I’m almost out and if that guy comes down the stairs with a full clip we’re going to be screwed.”
“Just a scratch,” Smith answered, standing again. “Dr. Eichmann. Is there another way out of here? We can’t get caught in that alley with a shooter above us.”
“No…Yes! There’s a servants’ door that leads to the main street. We haven’t used it in years, though. I don’t—”
“Take us to it,” Randi said when the sound of cautious footsteps reached them from the stairwell. “Now!”
He led them through the kitchen and Smith shoved him forward when he tried to stop next to his immobilized cook. They passed through a curtain at the back and down a narrow passage lined with food and kitchen utensils before coming to a thick wooden door.
It was dead-bolted with a rusted but extremely sturdy-looking iron bar. Even using both hands and a foot against the jamb, it took Smith a good thirty seconds to break it free.
“This leads out to the pedestrian shopping street?” Randi said, pressing her back to the wall and looking down the narrow hallway for signs of pursuit.
Eichmann nodded.
“We’ll want to get off it as soon as we can. Is the closest branch left or right?”
“Left. Yes, next to a jewelry stall. Twenty meters at the most.”
Smith nodded and glanced at Randi, who took a position by the door. “On three.”
He counted down and shoved the door open. Randi went first, hiding her gun beneath her chador and pulling Eichmann along with her. Smith followed, staying a few paces back as they integrated themselves into the shoppers and tourists jammed into the souk.
They’d made it almost halfway to the jewelry stall Eichmann mentioned when a shot sounded from above. There was no way to identify the impact point because of the crowd’s sudden, violent reaction. Deafening screams rose up as everyone scattered in different directions. A motor scooter hit a cart cooking chestnuts a few meters away and Smith found himself being pushed away from the side street that was their objective. Randi’s disguise was a little too good and he lost sight of her as he fought his way back to the outer wall of Eichmann’s house.
Smith flattened himself against the stone, edging along it in an effort not to be trampled by the people running past. He finally reached the door they’d come through and wedged his fingers into the crack between it and the jamb—there was no outside handle.
Finally, he managed to get it open and slipped inside before slamming the bolt home again. The woman in the kitchen let out a muffled scream as he ran past and started up the winding stairs.
When he broke back out into the blinding sunlight, he immediately spotted a man disassembling a rifle on the north edge of the roof.
“Jesus, Eric,” Smith said, slowing to a walk. “You actually hit him.”
The man shrugged and stuffed the stock of his weapon in a canvas sack. “You said to make it convincing, mate. He looked convinced to me.”