hey changed at the next station； Gare de l'Est； going on to Chaussee d'Antin； and from there to Montmartre。 They had journeyed no great distance； but enough to throw off any pursuers and not long enough for the police to set up checks at metro exits （even if that were possible with so many stations）。 They emerged into the soft glow of evening and the distant sounds of sirens。
They strolled down the wide； tree…lined boulevard towards the river； mingling with tourists； their hearts still beating wildly； although outwardly they managed to appear nonchalant。 They passed streetside restaurants； sniffed at roasting meat and spicy sauces； politely declined when approached by smiling prostitutes； not stopping until they reached the Seine where they watched the passing bateaux…mouches crammed with sightseers。
Only then did they look slyly at each other and giggle。
They had a 'safe house' to go to； an apartment in one of the small courtyards in the Rue Mouffetard area close to the outdoor market just across the river。 Hut there was no need to make their way back yet； indeed； training had taught them it was often better to stay lost in the crowd for as long as possible。
They wandered along the river bank for a short while； then headed back into the streets towards St Denis； taking their time rind watching the street entertainers…buskers； dancers； jugglers； even fire…eaters。 They felt frightened but exhilarated。 They felt alive。 The operation had been successful； and there was the bonus of one dead gendarme。 Their clothes were too nondescript for easy identification； even if witnesses to the stabbing had e forward； and at the height of the tourist season； with students of all races gathered in this city of culture and romance； two young Arabs of murderous natures would be almost impossible to wheedle out。
The only disappointment came when they were seated at a streetside cafe drinking white wine （so wonderful to be away from the strictures of a Moslem society） and learned from the conversations around them that nobody appeared to have been killed in that day's bomb blast at the Gare du Nord； although five people； a child among them； were seriously injured。
Asil and Youssef drifted on； soon finding a creperie where they took delight in decadent European cooking。 As they consumed the food and wine； it was with each other they flirted。 The bustle and the festive atmosphere （despite the bombing） around them heightened their excitement； the killing and maiming served as a stimulus for their passion。
Eventually they crossed the river at the lie de la Cite； going towards the market quarter and their apartment； but stopping once again to take more wine at one of the cafes on the Place de la Contrescarpe。 After two more glasses they decided that the night still held further adventures for them。 The crowds had dwindled； most of the tourists having tottered back to their hotels and pensions leaving the streets mostly to students and winos； the clochards。 Asil and Youssef finally went in search of yet another victim； one who； would fulfil a certain need in them。
They rejected the first two male prostitutes because they looked too old…in their twe=nties at least…and too tough。 The third was an effeminate boy who locked no more than seventeen。 He led them into a dark cul…de…sac where he assured them they would not be disturbed。 Youssef did not have leis beloved garotte with him； but the tie he wore would do； prolonged torture would not he possible here； but Asil would have fun with his blade while the boy's skin turned purple and his tongue swelled from his mouth。
Unluckily for them； the 'boy' was neither as young as he appeared； nor what he claimed to be （and certainly not effeminate）。
Light from a distant lamp glinted on the pistol he produced from beneath his jacket。 'Police；' he informed them； holding up an ID in his left hand。
The bullet scraped along the bone of Asil's lower arm as he lunged with the knife； this time his victim's stomach exposed and an easy target。 The fake prostitute dropped like a stone； the gun firing into the pavement before falling from his grasp。
Asil screamed with the pain in his arm； the knife slipping away； lodged in the policeman。 Somewhere not too far away a whistle blew for the gendarmerie were out in force that night because of the bomb outrage； and the gunshots had been heard。 Youssef dragged his friend away； hurrying him through the narrow streets in the direction of their apartment。 A car screeched around a corner ahead of them； its lights blazing。
The two terrorists ducked into an alleyway； breaking into an awkward run； convinced they had been spotted。 They had。 The police car came to a halt at the alleyway entrance； doors flew open； uniformed men jumped out。 They shouted； 'Arretez！' before aiming their weapons and firing。
Bullets smacked into the walls around the fleeing Arabs and one ricocheted off cobblestones to tear through the outer edge of Youssef s calf。 Both men were handicapped； although they were able to keep on the move。 Youssef was weeping as he limped along； the whole of his leg numbed with the shock； pain not yet registering。
They emerged into a wider street and saw other uniformed men ing towards them。 There were still a few pedestrians around； one or two cars crawling close to the kerbs。 All came to a standstill as the shouting gendarmes weaved through them。 Asil and Youssef started in the opposite direction； running as fast as their wounds would allow； cursing themselves for their foolishness； knowing how angry their masters would be at the risk they had exposed themselves and the organisation to。 They silently implored Allah to lend them wings。
Rounding another corner； they stumbled over the bodies of three clochards huddled on a metro vent （these raggedy men relished the underground warmth whatever the season）。 Asil struck his head against the pavement； stunning himself。 The plaining winos kicked out and Youssef rolled into the gutter。 He quickly sat up and was horrified when he saw the inert body of his friend。 Running footsteps drawing near； headlights and blaring sirens approaching fast。 He scrambled to his feet and pulled up his dazed panion； urging him to run。
Into an alleyway apposite they went； the smell of an underoround river that had been turned into a sewer strong in the confines of the narrow space。 A saxophone played bluesily overhead； the musician uninterested in the motion below。 Garbage piled up in heaps against walls near the backdoors of restaurants。 Run； Asil； Run； Youssef！ But to where？ Paris was not familiar； they were disorientated。 They would never find their way to the apartment that night。
The numbness had left Youssef's leg。 It felt as though it was an fire。 Ash's head had not yet cleared； and all he was really conscious of was the searing pain in his arm。 He had to rely on his lover to lead him onwards。
Out into another street； this one wider than the last； but with little cruising traffic。 Across the road； into a courtyard； shouts and footsteps behind。 Both men were near to exhaustion； their wounds draining strength。 They knew they could not go much further。
Akhoo Sharmoota！ No way out！ The courtyard was a closed trap！ Beloved Allah； show mercy to loyal soldiers of the jihad！
Shouted mands outside。 Whistles blowing。 Tyres screeching to a halt。 Doors slamming。
But Asil was pointing and Youssef could not understand how his dazed panion had seen the tiny opening between the buildings； a dark cleft as if the houses had been eased apart。
Yatamajad ism al rab！ The way had been shown！
They staggered across the courtyard； where lights from windows were ing on to throw reflections like searchlights down on them。 and entered the pinch…black opening； just enough room inside far them to lope along helping each ocher。 A dim glow Seemed to rise from the ground ahead； and they soon found themselves at the tap of a seep flight of stone steps。 A single streetlarnp lit the exit a short distance away。
Voices in the courtyard behind。 No time to linger。 Down they went。 But blinding pain gnashed throe gh the muscles of Youssefs calf and he slipped； gabbed far Asil as he fe