My eyes turned to where she'd pointed, and there he was, leaning nonchalantly against the southern wall of the café, about three meters away. He wore a thin brown jacket over a dark shirt and pants, and his head was covered by a black flat cap, which he'd pulled low over his forehead. He gazed at me calmly with his brown eyes, his expression blank.

"Michael?" I said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I was passing by on my way to work when I saw him drag you into the shadows," Michael Shamir said. "The son of a bitch was about to cut you up."

He pushed himself off the wall, came forward, and laid a folding knife on the table. It was a crude instrument, not as finely crafted as mine. Crude or not, press it against skin and it would slice through easily. I realized that the click I'd heard when I was on the ground at Davidson's feet was him opening the blade, locking it into place, readying it for use.

I raised my eyes from the table to Michael. His face bore no bruises or cuts. If he had sustained any injuries during his fight with Davidson, they were hidden by his clothes. Before we first met, I had felt a strange jealousy toward him, born out of Mira's obvious admiration of him. During our meeting, that jealousy was supplanted by a sense of affinity. I saw something of myself in this man, this former soldier and widower, this quiet, orderly loner. But now he had saved me from serious harm, perhaps even death, and, apart from gratitude, I found myself filled with that same emotion Mira and Moshe Klinger felt toward him—admiration.

"Thank you," I told Michael. "I'm lucky you showed up when you did."

He shrugged again. "Don't mention it." Then he gave me a small smile. "I sort of enjoyed it."

"This man said not to call a doctor or get a taxi to take you to the hospital," Greta said, her tone making it clear that she doubted the wisdom of this decision.

I took quick stock of myself. "Michael is right. I'm banged up, but I think I'm okay. If I start to feel worse, I'll get myself looked at."

"He also said this is the brute who assaulted you, but to leave it to you to decide whether to call the police."

Only then did I notice the large figure out cold in a chair to the left.

Alon Davidson.

Even in his slumped position, with his head lolling against his chest, Davidson looked massive. Six foot five or six, very wide across the shoulders and deep across the chest. Tanned, muscular arms like tree trunks that culminated in hands the size of melons. Instinctively, I ran my tongue over my teeth, thinking how many of them I would have lost had I not moved my head just before Davidson's fist had struck.