No more looking over your shoulder for a Russian with a Makarov. Which is more than I can say for the poor man we’re about to visit. Rajpal Patel, the doorman from the Palace Hotel. He is hiding in Deira, on the far side of the creek.” “Then shouldn’t we be heading south, to cross the bridge?” Sharaf shook his head. “By now Lieutenant Assad’s men may be looking for this car as well. We’ll park in the old quarter of Bastakiya, and make the crossing by abra.” “Just like the dead tourist.” “Only with better results, I hope.” The waterfront in Bastakiya, the oldest part of the city, swarmed with activity, making it the perfect place to blend in with the crowd. Abras came and went from the docks like a procession of airport taxis, jostling to and fro in the cloudy green chop as their big diesel engines popped and grumbled like Harleys. They were low-slung, narrow craft, built of thick wooden beams the size and color of railroad ties. Passengers sat on a two-sided bench that ran down the spine of the open deck, facing outward, ten to a side.
