The man was gone. Where he had stood was nothing but rain bouncing off tarmac. The street was empty.

Had he gone to alert others to my presence? Was he about to telephone Kulaski and tell him I was back in town? Should I pack my bag and flee?

But where to? There were no busses this time of night. No taxis either. I'd already ruled out hotels, and I couldn't sleep on the street in this weather.

Besides, the man might be lying in ambush, waiting for me. I was safer here.

I swore again, checked the gun, added a fresh bullet to the magazine to replace the one I'd fired in the bar.

I could stay up all night, waiting in dread, but I needed my sleep. But if someone came while I was sleeping, I might not live to regret it.

Picking up a chair, I leaned it against the apartment door. It wouldn't stop someone from opening it, but it would fall if they did. The clatter would wake me. I'd be able to fight. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.

I lay in Moria's bed, listening to the rain. I stared up into darkness and thought of the man and almost laughed at myself. Did I really think I'd be able to sleep with him out there?

But then my eyes drifted shut, and I drifted off, and I didn't stir till morning light invaded the windows.

I woke up in a fright, my hand fumbling for the gun, which had slipped from my grasp in the night. I was alone, and the sun was bright and sparkling. The sky was free of clouds.

In the living room, I saw the chair still angled on the door. I looked out the window, and there was no man across the street gazing back at me, just the ordinary traffic of people heading to work and school.

But he might still be around. If he had indeed been following me, he wouldn't be standing in the open like that in daylight.

As yesterday, I ate breakfast from a can and waited until the Shukruns went out. Daniel came first, just about the same time as yesterday, but Lillian dawdled again. It was noon when she appeared, again with the stroller, but this time she didn't pause to look back at the building.

I hurried out, doing my best not to scour the street with my eyes. If the man hadn't seen me after all, I wanted him to think I didn't know about him. It would make it easier to spot him.

Turning west onto Tsfanya Street, I walked at a casual pace, veered south onto Yona, west onto Hagai, and south again to Yekhezkel. I used each turn to get a quick look behind me. I saw plenty of people, men and women both, but no one who stood out.

I went into a café and ordered lunch. Five minutes later a man came in and did the same. I'd chosen a table at the rear; he opted for one by the window. He sat with his back to me, perusing a newspaper, and appeared to pay me no mind. I refrained from looking directly at him, fearing he could see me reflected in the window, but snatched sidelong glances at him from time to time.

I wasn't sure, but he looked familiar. Not a long familiarity, but of a more recent vintage. It took me a few minutes to put my finger on it.

Yesterday. The movie theater. The one I'd hidden in for three straight screenings.

He'd been there. Not during the first screening, I thought, but the second. I'd noticed him because he'd come alone, like me, which was unusual, but then I'd put him out of my mind when he took a seat a few rows ahead of me and proceeded to ignore my existence.

But maybe that had just been the impression he gave.

He was of average height and build, with black hair that was thinning on top. Clean-shaven, a high forehead, a wide space between his long nose and thin-lipped mouth. He wore a dark-blue jacket and black slacks, a flat cap he put on the table next to his plate.

Could he be the man I'd seen last night on Amos Street?

The answer was yes, but so could a big chunk of the male population of Jerusalem. I had to make sure.

I asked for my check, paid it, and left. I ambled south and a block later stopped to admire a suit in a display window. At the edge of my vision I caught sight of the man, bent low over his shoe, retying its laces.

Got you, I thought, but the sense of victory was mingled with fear.

I walked on, my back prickling, knowing I was being watched. I picked up my pace, taking my shadow on a trip south and east, finally coming to Hillel Street, where I entered the open expanse of Mamilla Cemetery.

This was a Muslim cemetery, by and large, where centuries of dead rested, but I'd heard that archaeologists had found graves here dating back to Byzantine times, and that a few Crusaders were interred here as well.

The cemetery was five acres of uneven ground and in a deplorable state. Many of the old tombstones were broken or dirty or sunk into the earth at odd angles. Trees of various types dotted the large area with no order or cultivation. Much of the ground was covered by wild grass, weeds, stubby bushes, and the occasional wildflower. The rest was mud.

I walked along a narrow path that curved southeast. The man shadowing me had a problem now. This was open ground, with few places to hide, and there were no people about. If he followed me into the cemetery, he'd be easy to spot.

On the other hand, the cemetery was large and had numerous exits. If he gave up the tail, he'd have no clue where I went. I hoped he wouldn't let that happen.

I was taking a risk. The isolation afforded by the cemetery could backfire. Not only was this hallowed ground empty of living souls but me, the cemetery was ringed by a stone wall that shielded much of it from view of passersby on surrounding streets. It was the perfect spot for a crime without witnesses. A place fit for murder.

I passed a scattering of graves that might have been from the time of the Mamluk Sultanate, though I couldn't be sure. I couldn't read the faded Arabic inscriptions.

Walking on, now fifty meters into the cemetery, I stopped abruptly to light a cigarette. Behind me, I heard the faint scrape of a shoe as someone came to a sudden halt. The man had followed me in, but he was keeping his distance. Good news on both counts. He was still on my tail, but too far to fire a gun accurately. It made me feel a little safer.

I didn't turn, though my back was no longer prickling but itching like mad. I carried on, pulling on the cigarette as though I hadn't a care in the world. Soon I arrived at a spot I remembered from my previous visit to this cemetery shortly after the War of Independence. It was a Muslim mausoleum, squat and domed, dating from the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The man buried there must have been important to merit such an edifice, and it had withstood the eroding claws of time better than any other graves I'd seen here.

The mausoleum had an entryway topped by an ornamental arch, and inside two shafts of light slashed the dimness from windows on the opposite wall. Instead of entering, I circled the structure to the far side. Here I stopped, taking care not to block either window, dropped my cigarette, and killed it under my shoe. The trail continued on, and for some distance the mausoleum blocked it from view of anyone coming on its other side. Like the man following me.

I could hear him now. Soft-footed but not silent, approaching at an unhurried but steady pace. I got ready, counted back from ten to one, and then completed the encirclement of the mausoleum, the gun pointed forward.

My timing was imperfect; I didn't come up behind him as I'd hoped. But it was good enough. The man was eight feet away. A little far for such a small gun, but close enough so he'd think twice about chancing it. The man froze, his jaw dropping, and I closed the distance, stopping five feet away, the gun aimed at the center of his homely face.

"Who the hell are you?" I said. "And why are you following me?"

"Following you?" the man said, his voice quavering. "I don't know what you mean, mister. I've never seen you before in my life. I was cutting through here to Agron Street. Don't shoot me. I got kids."

"You followed me here from a café on Yekhezkel Street," I said. "And yesterday, you came into a cinema after me. Boring movie, wasn't it?"

The man swallowed hard, making a clicking sound deep in his throat. "You've got me mixed up with someone else. I didn't watch any movie yesterday."

"And last night you were on Amos Street, right across from the building where I slept." I angled the gun downward. "Now, do I have to shoot you in the knee to get you to stop lying? You feel like hobbling on a cane for the rest of your life?"

The man went green, and his hands shook. His eyes darted in all directions.

"There's no one here," I said. "And this is a small gun. The sound won't carry far. I don't have much patience. Are you going to make me count to three?"

He exhaled loudly and shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Lapid."

I smiled. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"I'm Yigal Ruslander."

"Are you armed, Yigal?"

"No."

"Let's make sure, shall we? Very slowly, open your coat. Good. Now lift it up so I can see your waistband. Turn around and keep those hands still."