Like the Medina and the Kasbah, the Soukh was effectively a medieval walled city. A huge labyrinth of tiny, twisting streets leading into and out of each other in seemingly endless profusion. High, forbidding walls, windowless, featureless, alternated with bright shopfronts selling all kinds of wares, for this city within a city was dedicated to one thing only: commerce. The two men, apparently unremarkable Arabs, arrived just after the sunset prayer. And they did so just in time, for soon the gates would be closed to outsiders so the night’s business could begin. Richard had been here before but was overwhelmed anew by the intensity of the place. As he was in disguise, he was not pestered by boys demanding alms or offering wares for sale. Instead, he had some leisure, though not much, to look around himself.
The gates to the Soukh were huge, carved in wood and adorned with black iron. They would fill the high stone arch of the entrance completely when closed, forbidding entry to all the rest of the world. Inside them the clamor began at once. A clamor that threatened to overcome ears, eyes, and nose alike. A million voices, it seemed, trapped by the walls and the buildings within them, demanded, demurred, cajoled, chatted, begged, and bargained. Radios and televisions mingled conversations, car chases, high, wailing songs, and occasional gunshots with the noise. Livestock bleated, bellowed, neighed, lowed. Cars revved their engines threateningly and hooted their horns imperiously. Dogs — a great profusion of dogs — barked, snarled, yapped, whined, and howled.
The odors of the place varied constantly according to the vagaries of the heavy breeze. The stink of camel dung would be replaced in a breath by the scent of sandalwood; the carrion stench of open butchers’ shops piled with offal would give way to the aromas of simmering curry or the fragrance of bread baking in roadside ovens. The eye-watering fumes of dye from boiling vats or great hanks of vivid yarn hanging to dry would, in a single step, be replaced by the perfume of fresh dates and green figs. The putrid emanations from leather being tanned in shallow baths of urine would mingle with the bouquet of oleander, japonica, mimosa.
His eyes were at first dazzled by the kaleidoscope of color, shape, and movement, which slowly resolved itself into the visual counterpart of all he could hear and smell. Immediately within the gates was a square from which many roads led off in all directions. In the center of the square stood a great water trough. All round it clustered animals drinking and pens for those that had drunk. Camels he saw at once, and goats and a few lean sheep. No cows or pigs. Oxen. Donkeys. Horses. Around the patient herds swirled people. Light-skinned and tall, dressed in dark blue and black. Dark and wiry, dressed in plain white djellabahs and multicolored kaffiyahs, as they were themselves. Boys in little more than vests. Stately gentlemen in fine sleeveless overrobes. Shy women in black abbahs with gold filigreed chadors over their faces, gold chains falling from beneath their headdresses to hang above their huge, kohl-dark eyes.
“Come,” said Salah at his side in whispered English. “We’ll start in the Street of the Carpet Makers.”
Together they crossed the busy square and dived into the dizzying swirl beyond. The Street of the Carpet Makers led away to the right and it was as though the throng from the central square had simply been squeezed into it like toothpaste. On the pavements, such as they were, and on the narrow roadway, lay carpets. Individually, flat. In piles, in hillocks. In bundles rolled like logs or standing erect like multicolored forests against tall walls. In shopfronts that were little more than stalls open to every passerby. In exclusive establishments that would not have disgraced Knightsbridge or Fifth Avenue. Here the smells were of dye and dust, of rope and of age. The sound remained overwhelming save that no cars drove here and the rumble of footsteps was muffled by millions of pounds’ worth of rugs. At the most exclusive-looking of the shops, Salah paused. There were no customers in evidence within, nor anyone paying particular attention to two more shoppers thinking of entering.
“Wait by the door. Pretend to look at the carpets, but keep an eye on the street. Say nothing.” Salah spoke in a barely audible whisper and they were in.
The air-conditioning hit Richard like a bucket of ice water; he was surprised his breath did not come in clouds on the air. A tall man came forward and salaamed. The two of them performed the same courtesy, then Salah was escorted into the dark recesses within and Richard found himself alone. He began to examine the exquisite workmanship on those carpets nearest the door, keeping a careful eye out through the plate glass. Soon he became fascinated by the way in which the carpets were thrown into the road. When he had first come across the practice, he had assumed that only the cheapest rugs were put there as a sort of advertising gimmick. But later he discovered that this was not so. Sometimes the most expensive carpets were put out for anyone to walk on because the constant motion of so many feet tightened the knots in the carpets’ weave and made them stronger and more priceless. In fact, some of the most priceless carpets in the world, tradition had it, were left in the roadways outside villages near Bokhara or Tabriz for the better part of a year so that the footsteps of passersby could finish the weavers’ work in the summer, and then the winter snows lift out the dirt to leave them fresh and clean.
“Richard!” He spun round. It was Salah, holding two small shoulder bags made of carpet. Richard had seen many people carrying them here this evening, for traditional robes had no pockets. He took the one offered and, feeling its weight, looked inside. His eyes flicked up to meet the Palestinian’s calculating gaze.
“They are necessary. Vital. We have come to do business. We must be seen to mean business. And if we do not need them for tonight, we will find a use for them soon enough.”
With a sudden imperative sense of danger, Richard slung his bag over his shoulder. If he let his hand hang casually inside it he could easily grasp the butt of the machine pistol it contained.
Then they were out in the suffocating miasma of the street. Richard felt his whole body prickling with sweat and resisted an urge to scratch. A man immediately in front of him felt no such inhibition, however, and luxuriously scratched his right buttock. The result was a huge damp patch on the crisp white cotton, through which could be seen the garish patterns on his underwear.
“Where next?”
“Let’s try the Street of Gold.”
As with the Street of the Carpet Makers, the name described the trade. Every piece of pavement, stall, shop, emporium, was given over to the smithing and selling of gold. It could be seen molten in crucibles, being stretched into wires or being beaten into silver-gilt; being etched, stamped, filigreed, set with precious stones. Made into finger rings, toe rings, earrings, nose rings. Anklets, bracelets, armlets, necklets, waistlets, and belts. Chains, bangles, medals, medallions, stars, shapes of a thousand different sizes and significances. The place reeked of the smelting fires, of the seething metal. It rang with the tintinabulation of the goldsmiths’ hammers. The jingling of golden bracelets and bells; the ticking, striking, and chiming of all those golden clocks.
“We’ll be quick here. It’s just a hunch. We’ve only got an hour for the whole thing.”
“Why that little?”
“That’s how long it’ll take them to find us.”
“Them?”
“The police. You’ve met Captain Suleiman?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be seeing more of him soon.”
On that word “soon” they entered not a shop but an alleyway between two shopfronts. It was narrow — Richard’s broad shoulders brushed the walls on either side — and dark. They reached a recessed doorway, a deeper shadow in the shade. “You are my bodyguard,” whispered Salah. “You speak no Farsi!”