I frowned. The way he was speaking reminded me of past interrogations I had conducted as a policeman. I had no doubt he had experience in such matters. He talked like a cocky criminal who knows the cops have only so much on him and that, if he were to remain alert and in control, he might not spend a good deal of his near future in a cell. But we were not in a police station. Why wasn't he afraid of being at the wrong end of a gun?

"If you don't start talking," I told him, "I'll put a bullet in you."

He snorted. "No, you won't. You're a policeman. Or you were. It don't matter. Once a policeman, always a policeman. Take me to the station if you want. You won't shoot me."

The bastard had a smug smile on his face, and I could tell by his posture that he was readying himself to spring at me when the opportunity arose. Which was probably why he'd invited me to march him to the police station, thinking I'd have to get close to him to do so. Outside, the waves smacked into the beach with a steady rhythm. I counted off five such crashes and pulled the trigger simultaneously with the sixth.

The boom of the gun ricocheted from one shed wall to the other. But I had timed it perfectly. Anyone not standing close by would likely think he'd just heard a big wave blasting into sand.

The muzzle flare caught Yossi Cohen's cocksure expression for a dazzling instant. Then he was on the ground, howling in pain, both hands latched to his thigh just above the knee, where blood was soaking through his pants.

I knelt before him, brandishing the gun in front of his gaping, panicked eyes.

"Shut up or I'll shoot you again. You hear?"

He bit his lower lip to stifle his cries. Now he whimpered instead. His face looked white and sweat had begun popping on his forehead and cheeks. Looking at his wound, I said, "From the rate it's pumping, I'd say a major blood vessel got hit. Maybe an artery. That's bad news for you."

I rose, unclasped my belt and pulled it free from its loops. I knelt again and looped the belt around his thigh, above the wound, cinching it tight like a tourniquet. The blood flow eased considerably.

"Good," I said. "You may not bleed out in the next five minutes. Now here's the score: If you don't answer my questions, you get another bullet. Understood?" I didn't wait for a nod. "How did you know where to find me?"

It was obviously an effort for him to speak, but he got the words out. "I was told to find you at the café."

"By who?" I asked, expecting to hear the name Alon Davidson.

"Strauss," he croaked. "God, this hurts."