Over the peck of bullets upon the cobbles about him, over the crash of mortars at village edge, Harris heard the rumble of tanks. Tigers—he knew the sound of those well enough. He screwed his head in search of refuge. A door swung on broken hinges only yards away. With his carbine under his chin Harris squirmed on elbows and knees to its safety. A last glance showed the first tank turning into the street, its gun ablaze.
Harries looked about for a protected nook. He had crawled into an antique store. Shelves held cups and saucers in neat arrangement. On the end wall, a trio of tapestries hung. Those on either side had been made in Turkey, Harris judged by the weave and pattern. They held too many swirls and filigrees for his taste, and he could think of no place at home where gold, red, and orange would fit. Tables in the room’s center stood stacked with figurines mostly of Dutch design. Price tags were out of sight.