214
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
"Mamnunah Our thanks to you," we said, and walked into
the night.
THE MADMAN
MOUSTAFA and I walked in silence through the blackedout streets. Gaza was as dead as Samson's Tomb, with not a
living thing visible or audible. Only an occasional light flickered from a second-story window: those on the first floor were
either heavily latticed or covered with wooden shutters
locked tight. Then, in the silence, I became aware of a muffled
shuffling of feet behind us. I turned around several times
uneasily, but saw nothing.
"Somebody is following us, Moustafa. Stop now, and
listen. . . ."
The shuffling continued for a few seconds, then stopped.
It began again when we resumed walking.
"You are right," Moustafa said, softly, reaching for his
holster. "What have you to protect yourself?"
"You know I have nothing but a Boy Scout knife."
We walked faster. "How many are there?" I asked.
"I think only one, unless they are keeping in perfect step."
I recalled that Bedouin tribes sometimes welcomed a
stranger, or even an enemy, to their home, honored him at
their table, then followed him and stabbed him later. I wondered if our host would attempt such a thing. Or could it be
some of the Nazis—Friedrich, for instance? It could be a
Follower of Truth. And there was the Gaza man whom I'd insulted at the beach. His kind were known to hire assassins.
. . . It was still a long way to the Grand Gaza Hotel.
Without breaking step Moustafa leaned over and whispered: "When I take your hand in mine, run. Then we will
hide."
We broke into a double run, hand in hand, and heard our
pursuer follow.