At Peril in Riyadh

David turned at the street by the round building and walked past banks, shops and auto agencies. Television sets on display did not tempt him; there were only Arabic broadcasts from Riyadh and Bahrain. Litter and cigarette butts had been swept from the walkways, and now blemished the gutters.

He bumped into men as he strode. Crossing the street near the water tower, he walked past the sky-top restaurant, its slender stalk supporting the revolving café, higher than any other building in Riyadh. It was always darkened. He wondered why.

This part of the city had grown early, as unplanned as an inkblot. He walked onward, toward the Baatha Canal. He would explore the Waziri suqs today. Although he had walked three kilometers, he was not yet tired. He had succeeded in distracting his mind from the accident. And with that thought, it all came back, the racing vehicles, the trap between the two, the crashing sound, the spinning, the old man. He counted passing cars until he forced himself stop.

David waited with a crowd at the bridge over the canal for a break in traffic in order to cross to the shops on the other side. He felt someone standing directly behind and was annoyed by the close contact. He checked his wallet, still safe in the front pocket of the thobe. He glanced over his left shoulder into the concrete storm drain twenty feet below. Old tires, broken glass bottles and other debris littered the bottom. Standing only hip-high, the steel railing seemed scant protection. He felt the crowd push toward the canal and instinctively leaned away.

Then he felt a violent shove and he and two others went sprawling out into the traffic, David sandwiched between them. Horns blared and a truck, brakes screeching, stopped just short of the tangle of men.

One by one, they picked themselves up, David stumbling on the skirt of his thobe Heart pounding, he saw the others were all uninjured and heard a chorus of ‘il Hamdulillah’s’ which he echoed.

Looking back onto the bridge, he saw a large man, dressed as a soldier, walking away. Everyone else was looking toward those who had fallen. Could this be another attempt to injure him? Was the push deliberate? But who would want to harm him? Probably one of the others had stumbled and he himself just happened to be in the way.

He brushed himself off, said ‘Il Hamdullilah’ with the others and walked across the street with the crowd while the traffic was still stopped. Shaken, he wiped at the grease stains on his white clothing and saw there was a tear in his thobe where one knee had ground into the asphalt. It was a small price to pay. Two miraculous events in two days. He thought of his run at dawn and his rejection of prayer. He began counting cars again.

It had not been possible to maneuver the dakhtar to stand next to the railing but when he had leaned away, toward the traffic, Mansur had acted impulsively. He had shoved the man directly behind David, sending both asprawl in the street along with a third. Immediately, Mansur walked the other way. He turned to look as the noise of brakes and horns stilled.

He saw all three struggle to their feet, unharmed. He turned again away from them and walked to a shop window. When he saw in the reflection of the glass that the Dakhtar had gone on, he again reversed himself and followed, grinding his teeth in frustration and caressing the knife in his pocket.

He watched his quarry walk past the sky-top restaurant with its revolving top high above. He knew why no meals were served there; it would be a location too tempting for an assassin with a rifle, as it commanded the entire downtown area. The police would not allow this risk to the men of power who traveled on the streets of Riyadh.

When the dakhtar disappeared into the Waziri suqs, the sun was still bright. He threw a tail of his guttra across his face and followed, waiting inside for a few seconds until his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. It was like the bazaars to be found anywhere in the Arab world. The great, square, one-story concrete building was lined with stalls on each side of aisles wide enough for a pickup truck to pass.

Most of the shoppers were Saudi natives, facial features varying from finely-handsome to coarse; some with classic noses and some hawked. Their clothing marked their station in life. Though it was still hot, some wore European suit jackets over thobes. The few women shopping were covered from crown to ankles with the black Abayeh, leaving only an inch or two of the fabric of the gown exposed to show whether richly or plainly dressed. He regarded the Saudi with contempt; only ignorant people made their women hide under veils so they he could not been seen.

Ignoring the low hum of muttering that permeated the big hall, Mansur checked for police. Satisfied, he saw the Mareekhan ahead and...