You're close enough to safety to mean you can reasonably hope to outrun any Nazis you run into. Time to abandon caution and just get the hell out of here.
You break into a fast sprint through little-frequented alleys, tending south through the festering warren whenever you can. Soon you're breathing hard and sweating, but in a few minutes your are past the Western Wall and in the long, low plaza which leads from the teeming streets of the Old City to the squat, crenelated bulk of the Dung Gate.
British soldiers man the checkpoint at the gate, Enfield rifles slung casually across their chests. They're smoking, joking, and scanning the milling crowds.
To your left rises the vast, numinous hulk of the Temple Mount, its meleke limestone iridescent in the blazing August sunshine. The gleam of the Dome of the Rock is just visible, refracting golden brilliance into the Jerusalem air. If any place in the world is wondrous, this is that place, but you are not enjoying the spectacle today. Businesslike, offering no obvious signs of anxiety or distress, you pass uninterrupted through the British checkpoint, under the elaborate arch of the gate, and out onto the broad road beyond.
A little down the road from the gate, looking splendid and innocuous, sits the Rolls Royce Phantom, its engine idling. The elegant blond lady is at the wheel. She looks up from her newspaper as you approach.
"Splendid, you made it!" she says with a bright smile. "Now get in."