Yonatan gave a start. Opening his eyes wide, he cartwheeled backwards, supple as a cat, gripping his gun with both hands, prepared to fight for his life.

“Bravo!” laughed the old man. “Bravo! What reflexes! Splendid! But have no fear. You face a friend, not a foe. A hat you have maybe? To be put on immediately. Tlallim.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tlallim. Alexander. Sasha. That was one horrible dream I woke you from, eh? Come, malenki mine, off we go. When you fell asleep, there may have been shade here, but now it’s a blazing furnace.”

Yonatan glanced at his dead watch. His voice dropped to its lowest register. “Do you know what time it is?”

“The very best of times! Here, give me a hand, my love. We’ll put you to bed in the royal palace until morning comes. And we’ll feed you with sweetmeats and cakes. And bird’s milk will be yours to drink. Come on, now. Kushat i spat. Dayosh!”

Yonatan vaguely remembered this tall, thin codger from last night, when, upon arriving in Ein-Husub, he had made out among the soldiers, workers, and transients a lanky, long-limbed bushranger with an unruly white beard, a naked, gray-curled chest as brown as a Bedouin’s, and a pair of blue eyes peering merrily out of a copper-colored face.

“Thank you,” said Yonatan. “But I’ve got to be on my way.”

“Nu, hit the road, by all means.” The old man grinned, his twinkling eyes sly and friendly. “Hit it as hard as you can. Only with what, eh? The only vehicle in all of Ein-Husub right now is Burlak.”

“Excuse me?”

“Burlak, my beloved jeep. It was once the apple of General Allenby’s eye. He used to take it for spins from Cairo to Damascus, but now it’s my own pet. In a few hours Burlak and I can bring you with all honors to Bir-Meliha. You won’t be slipping across the border before nightfall anyway. And what about water, krasavits? Do you really mean to try to get by on that one pathetic flask? Believe me, you’ll die of thirst, man! I’ll give you one of those plastic, nu, what do you call them, jerrycans. Then you’ll have enough water to get you there. You call me Tlallim. Or Sasha. Or Grandpa. Whatever you call me, I’m still in charge of the desert around here. Come on, let’s get moving. Just please stick a headpiece on that crazy skull of yours before I count to three. You call me Tlallim, and I’ll call you krasavits. Dayosh!”

It took Yonatan a while to take all this in. He was dumbfounded but managed to stammer at last, “What border? What are you talking about? I was just—”