Another train roared in and people poured out of it, crowding together on the platform. Stan turned and darted for a washroom, breaking the wrappings on the fusion package as he ran. A moment later he had snapped the detonating wires and broken the delicate, clockwork mechanism and the almost infinitesimally small transceiver.
He threw the remains of the package under the wheels of the train at the same time a pistol shot roared above his head, chipping off some of the tile of the ceiling.
Then he had made it to the washroom door, passed his hand over a brass plaque, and darted through the circle of black that appeared into....
... a dark corner of a bazaar in Damascus.
The bazaar stretched down both sides of the street, terminating against a mosque at one end. There were small, open shops that sold copperware and incense burners and large metal dishes, ornately tooled. There were tables and boxes of elaborate mosaic work—tables with veneers of rare wood and inlaid with mother of pearl. There were small restaurants and notion stores and shops that displayed bolt after bolt of silk and brocade.
Stan watched the people wandering past, then brushed past a small native boy begging for coins, and walked into one of the silk shops.
"Yes, M'sieur?"
"You're holding a bolt of brocade for a Mr. Liebman. May I see it please?" Stan flashed a card.
The little clerk waddled to the back of the store and returned with a small bolt of silk. Stan reached for it but the small man held it back.