I reached the King David at two o'clock, which happened also to be the middle of a thunderstorm, possibly one I'd already met personally. I walked straight through the big lobby and up the corridor to the bar and just stood there, dripping on to the polished floor. Ken stood up from the gloom, looking pleasantly dry on the outside.

'Where's the aeroplane?'

I jerked my head and sprayed water over an approaching waiter. 'Where you wanted it. Whisky sour, please.'

I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. The bar had an air-conditioned chill and my shirt was wet as well. The hell with it. I put the jacket back on and sat down.

'Could be worse,' Ken said. 'You could be flying in this stuff.'

'I was. Where d'you think this front was, an hour and a half ago?'

'How did you swing it?'

'Sabotaged the ILS and took off for Nicosia. Decided I couldn't penetrate and by then Ben Gurion was clamped for anything but an instrument approach… so they diverted me here.'

'Neat. Could you have penetrated?'

'I'm not sure I could.'

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. I'd wanted to tell him, somebody who'd understand, more of what it had been like. But no need. He'd know.

'It must have been slightly intrepid.' He knew, all right.

'Just moderately slightly.'

The waiter put down my whisky sour and 1 took a gulp and the flight was just an entry in my log-book.

But – 'One thing, Ken. I may have screwed up the whole idea. I managed to louse up most of the avionics; they probably won't even let us take off until we've got a lot of it replaced.' I'd ordered some replacements, but I could hear Kapotas's blood-pressure bubbling at 200 miles.

He didn't seem worried. 'No rush. Once we've got the sword, we can pick our own time to get it out A grounded aeroplane that's opened up a bit, you visiting it twice a day – that's a nice cover for getting something on board. Did you have any trouble at the airport?'

Apart from landing on a downhill runway without brakes? 'No, it just took an hour to get a customs man up to clear me out.'

'You weren't followed?'

'No. But it's no secret that I'm here. A bit of hurry-'

'Sure. What happened to Jehangir yesterday?'

'I may have killed him.'

'Christ… Well, it couldn't happen to a nastier guy. But what about a comeback from Cyprus?'

'It all happened airside and he had a private aeroplane so I pushed him in and…' Should I say he'd taken the champagne boxes as well? I wasn't too proud of letting them go. And Ken would start rhubarbing about 'capital' again. He might even be right. So I said: 'What were you doing in Acre last night?'

He stiffened. 'Who said that?'

'We got picked up by a cop in Tel Aviv last night. He works for the Antiquities Department. Ken, itwas a trap.'

'Of course it was. They were behind me from the start -that's why I went to Acre, where Brtjno was digging. Always give the client what he suspects, anyway. They're probably ripping that town apart looking for buried treasure.'

'And you. How did you get away?'

'Got up early and caught a train. Have you any idea what time the trains get up in this country?'

'Well… they'll soon know I'm in Jerusalem and they could guess about you. Anyway, if I was looking for Cavitt and Case I'd put a man in the bar of the King David and forget the rest of the country.'

He looked around quickly. Only a dim yellow light came in through the Olde Englyshe windows behind him, and they hadn't turned on the main lights. But nobody seemed to be bending an ear at us. Thejest of the crop seemed to be normal tubby tourists.

Ken relaxed and grinned. "They don't know usthat well. Anyway, Israeli cops can't afford to drink here.'

'Neither can we. After this one, let's get operational. Have you really got a deal?'

'I spent an hour with Gadulla before I rang you today. We've got a deal.'

'Let's get started on it, then.'

'Look, nothing much can happen before night.'

'We can get spotted, that's what can happen. It's a small country, Ken. The cops know each other. The word gets around fast.'

Thunder ripped the invisible sky and didn't even shake the drink in my glass. Just sound and fury; harmless.

Ken nodded at the ceiling. 'In this clag?'

"That's all right. I'm wet already.'

No taxis, of course, and the half mile to the Jaffa Gate had stretched in the rain to a good mile-and-a-half. But behind us, beyond the weird great sultan's palace of the YMCA, the sky was clearing to a copper-sulphate blue. The front was almost through.

We moved at an Olympic walk, the rain bouncing up around our ankles.

'Great idea,' Ken said in a sodden voice. 'Now we can plead not guilty by reason of pneumonia.'

'It's all in the mind. Did Gadulla mention anything about a letter from the Prof?'

'He was expecting one, all right. So it existed.'

'You didn't say what had happened to it?'

'Why complicate things? He probably hasn't heard of Papa getting dead and wouldn't connect it up anyway. If he likes to think the letter never got written…' He took his hands out of his pockets to shrug more expressively, then hastily stuffed them back.

Then there was the City ahead of us, the squat grey-gold walls and ramparts reflected and exaggerated in the shapes of the thunderheads above. At least the rain had flattened the dust that usually blows in your eyes at that corner.

We went in by the Jaffa Gate – really just a gap torn in the wall by some Turkish slob in the nineteenth century – and about that time, the rain cut off. Just like that.

Ken said: 'Just ten minutes and we could have got here without total baptism.'

Around us, the sun was hatching out taxis, tourists – and a handful of khaki-uniformed coppers. Ken jerked his head. 'Come on."

The Old City's been around a long time, but once you're inside, it doesn't feel particularly old. Not like those tall quiet back streets in Florence or Venice. This is all too quick and busy, and the Holy Sepulchre itself, over Christ's tomb, just beats Southend funfair but only just. King Richard didn't miss much.

But our part of town was the narrow jostling souks and alleys, sometimes covered with vaulted roofs and ventilation holes half blocked with weed so the sunlight comes down in pale green shafts into the blue smoke drifting from the metal-workers' shops. Each shop a tall narrow cave stretching back into what could be primeval rock but is probably the brickwork of Suleiman the Magnificent or even Herod. So maybe the place does feel a bit old, when you stop and think. We weren't stopping.

We weaved through the crowd, banging our heads on baskets and dresses hung overhead, brushing off Arab boys shouting: 'Hey, my friend, I am your guide…' until I was properly lost. As far as you can get lost in a place only half a mile square. Just Ken's way of shaking off any tail.

I found myself getting a close-up of a goatskin jacket hanging over a clothing shop while Ken scouted our back trail. Until then, the air had smelled of spices and coffee and that vegetable smell that rain brings out anywhere. Now the late goat had it all his own way.

'Any bogeymen?' I asked.

'No, I don't think so.'

'So we can move on? – this jacket's getting friendly.'

Tell it you're engaged.' He led the way around one more corner into a souk that was mostly metal and jewellery shops, with crumbling old boys sitting behind counters brazing brass pots with blow-lamps. Ken stopped at a cave lined with spearheads, pots, swords, helmets – most of them so obviously reproduction that the few aged pieces looked pretty good by contrast.

A chirpy Arab boy in jeans and a V-neck sweater came forward to start his sales talk.