"Indeed he is."

"So Gafni has influence in the ruling party, and the deputy commissioner knows this. He also knows that it would be Mapai who'll pick the next commissioner, so when Gafni calls to ask a favor, the deputy commissioner goes along with it. Is that about right?"

"To your infinite fortune, yes."

"What does Gafni want with me? Why does he need a detective?"

"I'll leave it to him to tell you. But if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with his daughter."

"What about her?"

Birnbaum's expression was grave. "She's dead."

Birnbaum parked before a wide three-story building with tall windows and no balconies.

"Do try not to mess this up, Adam," he said, in the weary tone of a disillusioned father who expects very little from his son. "You're not off the hook yet. A single phone call and you're liable to find yourself back behind bars."

In the loving care of Inspector Kulaski, I thought, my insides knotting.

"I'll do my best to not fall short of your recommendation."

"Good luck, Adam," Birnbaum said with a sigh, then reached for the ignition key to start the car.

I was surprised. "Is that it? You're not going to make me swear to tell you the whole story when I'm done?"

"Not this time."

"How come?"

"I don't see any public interest in the story, whatever you may find."

"So that's it, then?"

"That's it," Birnbaum said. "This is one of Gafni's factories. He's expecting you."

Earlier, I had asked Birnbaum how Gafni's daughter had died, but he said it was up to Gafni to tell me, if indeed her death was the reason Gafni wished to meet me. I got the impression that I was about to take an audition. Only if I passed would I be given the information I'd need to carry out my assignment, whatever it might be.

I opened the door and was about to exit the car when a question came to me.

"Shmuel, is it true the government intends to outlaw Herut?"

"Why do you ask? Are you a member of Herut, Adam?"

"No."

"Good. I won't ask if you voted for them, but if you did, keep it to yourself. Don't let Gafni know."

"You haven't answered my question. Will they be outlawed?"

"There are rumors that some of the ministers are pushing for it. Ultimately, it will be Ben-Gurion's decision."

"Will he do it?"

"I hope not, but I don't know. He won't if he uses his brain, which he usually does."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because if you outlaw Herut, you turn it into an underground organization with Begin as its leader. Like I told you before, Begin is perfect for such a role. He'll be far more dangerous to Ben-Gurion and the country than if he remains a regular politician with a modicum of public support."

I nodded. Birnbaum's logic made sense, though I still worried. "I hope you're right about Ben-Gurion, Shmuel. I really do."

"I think he'll do the smart thing. Why don't you try to follow his example from now on, eh?"

I got out and closed the door without replying and waited as Birnbaum started the car and drove off. I searched my pockets for my cigarettes before remembering that they'd been pilfered by a cop with sticky fingers and a foot made of steel. I looked around for a kiosk or a store, but there was none. I considered going around the corner but decided it would be best to meet my savior and see what he wanted of me as quickly as possible.

The building had a large metal door. Heaving it open, I was hit by the ear-thumping rumble of machinery. I stepped over the threshold and into the smell of leather, oil, and cloth. Past a short vestibule was a vast hall with two rows of support columns dividing the space into roughly equal thirds. About thirty people worked there. Some were seated at sewing machines, others toiled with needle and thread, and others still were affixing buckles and zippers and testing their handiwork. They were making handbags, suitcases, valises, wallets, and other items in that vein. Along one wall were samples of finished products, all neatly arranged on tables or hanging on pegs. I was no expert, but they looked like quality products.

A thickset woman was walking among the employees, looking very much in charge. I told her Mr. Gafni was expecting me. She pointed to a staircase. "Second door on the left."

I followed her instructions, the aches and pains of yesterday's battle flaring with each step I ascended, and soon found myself before a small desk occupied by an attractive blonde secretary, somewhere in her mid-thirties. I gave her my name and purpose, and she told me to wait while she inquired whether Mr. Gafni wished to see me now or at all.

She went through a door into what I presumed was Gafni's office and returned less than a minute later with the good news: Mr. Gafni had decided to grant me an audience. I was to go right in. She did not offer me coffee or anything else. Perhaps she was busy.

I entered an office with large windows overlooking the production floor below. The windowpanes must have been thick because the noise of machinery was but a murmur. Behind a desk stood a man wearing a well-fitting gray suit and a conservative dark tie. A white handkerchief peeked neatly from his breast pocket. Mr. Gafni, I presumed.

He was on the short side and carried some extra weight. It showed in his face, which was as round as a ball, and on the underside of his chin, which drooped like a sagging floor. A small rectangular mustache did little to offset the overall softness of his features, but based on what Birnbaum had told me about him, I imagined that softness belied a sturdier core. His hair had deserted the front half of his scalp. The bare skin gleamed pink. The hair that remained was taupe and short. Deep lines gouged his forehead, lending him an air of distinguished thoughtfulness. I pegged his age at fifty, but I might have been off by three or four years either way.

He surveyed me with a pair of small eyes the color of bitter chocolate. I could tell I was making a lousy impression. Not that this was any surprise. My clothes were streaked with dirt. The collar of my shirt was torn. I hadn't shaved since yesterday morning. And based on how poorly I'd slept in recent weeks, and last night in particular, I must have looked haggard. Most likely, he was regretting his call to the deputy commissioner and wondering whether Birnbaum had lost his mind. Could the slovenly creature before him really be the resourceful detective Birnbaum had assured him I was? The role of the deranged beater of policemen suited me better.

It occurred to me that it might be worthwhile to say something to improve my negative image. Perhaps thank him for talking to the deputy commissioner? But I feared that would only make things worse.

Instead, I said, "I'm sorry about your daughter, Mr. Gafni."

His expression changed abruptly. Before, it had been critical and judgmental. Now, he looked as though he'd been gut punched. It lasted but an instant, though. Then he was eying me with undisguised suspicion.

"How do you know about my daughter?" He had a faint Eastern European accent. Russian or Lithuanian, but he'd left there a good while ago, maybe in childhood.

"I asked Shmuel Birnbaum why you wanted to see me. He speculated that it might have something to do with your daughter. He said she had passed away but wouldn't give me any details."

Gafni nodded and ran a hand over his mouth. He appeared to be trying to hold his emotions in check. Though whether it was sadness over his daughter or irritation at Birnbaum for informing me of her death, I couldn't say. He gestured to one of two chairs that stood before his desk. "Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Lapid."

It appeared that I had passed the audition, or at least the initial part.

"Would you care for something to drink?"

I said coffee would be nice, and he called to the secretary and told her to fetch some. While we waited, both of us seated, he continued to appraise me, and it was clear he didn't know what to make of me. He didn't say one word until the secretary arrived with my coffee and left, shutting the door behind her at Gafni's request.

Gafni did not have coffee himself. I took a few sips from my cup, enjoying the warmth that spread around my midsection. The coffee wasn't real; real coffee was hard to come by in Israel and cost a pretty penny. This was the chicory variety the government rationed out. It was a poor substitute for the real thing, even when you laced it with sugar, which was also rationed, and this particular cup was no exception. If Gafni was as wealthy as Birnbaum had said, he likely possessed the real thing, unless he was one of the virtuous few who abstained from shopping on the black market. Maybe he didn't wish to waste any of the good stuff on me.