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thought. He doesn't know I left my handgun behind. He'll come slowly.
    Whirling, Saul stared toward the other end of the alley. A second figure entered. No way out.
    But there had to be. The fire escape? No good-as he struggled up, he'd attract their fire. He sensed them pressing closer.
    The door beneath the fire escape? He lunged, twisting the knob, but it was locked. Using an elbow, he smashed a window next to the door, knowing the crash would alert his hunters, rushing, feeling the glass lance through his jacket. Blood soaked his arms. His shoes scraped as he thrust himself through the window, wincing from pressure on his chest, tilting, falling.
    He struck a floor. Darkness surrounded him. Soon, he thought. The men in the hotel. They'll charge out to help me.
    Stay alive till they get here.
    He scrambled forward, bumping against an unseen banister, jarring his chest. Sweat slicked his face. Feeling around, he touched two stairways, one up, one down. Stifling a groan, he staggered up. The hall stank from urine. He sprawled on a landing, squirmed ahead, and cracked his skull against the spoked wheels of a baby carriage.
    He touched its greasy side. As blood dripped off his arms, he shoved the carriage toward the top of the stairs. The wheels creaked. He froze. Don't make a sound. Outside the window, a shadow crept near.
    He sensed what his hunter felt. The only entrance to this building was the broken window. But the window might be a trap.
    The shadow paused. But Saul had been shot. He was on the run. The shadow might feel confident.
    He did. With amazing speed, the shadow dove through the window, thudding on the floor, rolling quickly, stopping in the dark.
    The assassin would find the two sets of stairs. But up or down?
    Which way had Saul gone? The rule was up. The high ground was easier to defend.
    The problem was, had Saul remained consistent, obeying the rule, or had he gone to the basement, hoping to fool his enemy? A mental toss of a coin.
    The tenement was silent. All at once, the gunman charged the stairs. Pushing the baby carriage, Saul struck him in the face, hearing the carriage clatter as the gunman toppled. Lunging down, Saul kicked, feeling the jaw give way. He heard a moan and grabbed the gunman's sweater. Jerking it down with one hand, he rammed his other arm up toward the throat. The larynx snapped. The gunman fell, convulsing, suffocating. His pistol thumped.
    Saul bent in pain to find it. The feel was familiar, palmsized, He'd used the weapon often-a Beretta, this one equipped with a barrel long enough to accommodate a silencer. A customized.22, so precisely remachined that what it lacked in power it gained in accuracy. The handgun preferred by the Mossad-another of their calling cards.
    He peered through the shattered window. Down the alley, the second gunman stalked through the shadows. Saul squeezed the trigger, jerking from repeated spits, continuing to shoot as the gunman fell and heaved. He leaned against the wall, trying to keep his balance. There'd be other hunters. He had to assume it. His survival depended on assumptions. Get away. He hurried up the stairs.
    A baby cried in an apartment. He reached the top of the stairs, pushed a metal door, and came out crouching on the roof, his pistol aimed at air 'vents, clotheslines, pipes, TV aerials. No one. Move. He crept through shadows, biting his lip from pain as he eased to a lower level. Stars glinted coldly.
    Abruptly he faced the edge. The next building was too far away for him to reach with a jump. Glancing around, he saw a rectangular structure projecting from the roof, opened its door, and stared toward the black of a stairwell. Dear God, the pain!
    One floor, then another, then another. At last on the bottom, he peered toward an exit. Someone might be waiting, but he had to take the risk. The street was dark. He eased out. Holding his breath, he reached the sidewalk. No shots. No figures lunging at him.
    He'd made it. But where could he go?