The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett

to console him: and he could forego the freedom of the desert to live in a crowded city if he had the urban luxuries to console him: but he could not lose both. He had never told anyone of this: it was his secret nightmare. The idea of living in a tiny, colorless cell, among the scum of the earth (and all of them men), eating bad food, never seeing the blue sky or the endless Nile or the open plains ... panic touched him glancingly even while he contemplated it. He pushed it out of his mind. It was not going to happen.
    At eleven forty-five the large, grubby form of Abdullah waddled past the café. His expression was vacant but his small black eyes looked around sharply, checking his arrangements. He crossed the road and disappeared from view.
    At five past twelve Wolff spotted two military caps among the massed heads in the distance.
    He sat on the edge of his chair.
    The officers came nearer. They were carrying their briefcases.
    Across the street a parked car revved its idling engine.
    A bus drew up to the stop, and Wolff thought: Abdullah can’t possibly have arranged that: it’s a piece of luck, a bonus.
    The officers were five yards from Wolff.
    The car across the street pulled out suddenly. It was a big black Packard with a powerful engine and soft American springing. It came across the road like a charging elephant, motor screaming in low gear, regardless of the main road traffic, heading for the side street, its horn blowing continuously. On the corner, a few feet from where Wolff sat, it plowed into the front of an old Fiat taxi.
    The two officers stood beside Wolff’s table and stared at the crash.
    The taxi driver, a young Arab in a Western shirt and a fez, leaped out of his car.
    A young Greek in a mohair suit jumped out of the Packard.
    The Arab said the Greek was the son of a pig.
    The Greek said the Arab was the back end of a diseased camel.
    The Arab slapped the Greek’s face and the Greek punched the Arab on the nose.
    The people getting off the bus, and those who had been intending to get on it, came closer.
    Around the corner, the acrobat who was standing on his colleague’s head turned to look at the fight, seemed to lose his balance, and fell into his audience.
    A small boy darted past Wolff’s table. Wolff stood up, pointed at the boy and shouted at the top of his voice: “Stop, thief!”
    The boy dashed off. Wolff went after him, and four people sitting near Wolff jumped up and tried to grab the boy. The child ran between the two officers, who were staring at the fight in the road. Wolff and the people who had jumped up to help him cannoned into the officers, knocking both of them to the ground. Several people began to shout “Stop, thief!” although most of them had no idea who the alleged thief was. Some of the newcomers thought it must be one of the fighting drivers. The crowd from the bus stop, the acrobats’ audience, and most of the people in the café surged forward and began to attack one or other of the drivers—Arabs assuming the Greek was the culprit and everyone else assuming it was the Arab. Several men with sticks—most people carried sticks—began to push into the crowd, beating on heads at random in an attempt to break up the fighting which was entirely counterproductive. Someone picked up a chair from the café and hurled it into the crowd. Fortunately it overshot and went through the windshield of the Packard. However the waiters, the kitchen staff and the proprietor of the café now rushed out and began to attack everyone who swayed, stumbled or sat on their furniture. Everyone yelled at everyone else in five languages. Passing cars halted to watch the melee, the traffic backed up in three directions, and every stopped car sounded its horn. A dog struggled free of its leash and started biting people’s legs in a frenzy of excitement. Everyone got off the bus. The brawling crowd became bigger by the second. Drivers who had stopped to watch the fun regretted it, for when