"You're welcome," I said, uncomfortable with her gratitude, then swung the door shut and tapped twice on the roof for the driver to go.

Back inside Café Tamar, I found Birnbaum with a ruminative look in his eyes.

He said, "First impression, she looked so brittle I thought she might come apart at any second. Now I suspect that she's made of steel. An incredible woman. Utterly incredible."

"If I didn't know better, Shmuel, I might think you truly care about her."

Birnbaum draped his pudgy face in a hurt expression. "Is that what you think of me, Adam? That I am heartless?"

"On the contrary. I know you have a heart. But only for stories."

"How little you know me. It's true that I love finding and writing stories more than anything else, but I like people, too. Read my columns; you won't find one in which I was nasty to anyone. Not more than they absolutely deserved. Some of my colleagues make a sport out of eviscerating people in print. I don't. What I like most of all are stories that bring to light the indomitable human spirit, stories of triumph over adversity, stories of resilience and resurgence. Stories such as Henrietta Ackerland's. Stories such as yours, dear Adam."

I got a cigarette out, but didn't light it, just rolled it between thumb and forefinger. "Michael Shamir doesn't deserve to be eviscerated in the paper."

Birnbaum inclined his bald head. "No? He killed a woman and stole a child. I think that's more than enough reason to disembowel him, figuratively speaking of course." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why do you care about him?"

Because I owe him for rescuing me from Alon Davidson, I thought. But if I said that, Birnbaum would demand elaboration, and I did not want to get into that. I also couldn't tell him that I feared Mira's reaction when she read Birnbaum's column filleting her hero in the newspaper she hated.

I said, "Because he did some good things. As a soldier and in the Irgun."

"The latter won't do him any good as far as my editors at Davar are concerned. The Irgun is our political foe, Adam, you know that. They won't allow me to squander an opportunity to tarnish the Irgun's reputation." He cast a quick look around, then leaned toward me, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. "Listen, Adam, despite being a supporter of Mapai, I don't hate the Irgun. In fact—and if you repeat this to anyone, I'll vehemently deny it—I rather admire them. They're fanatics, but you won't find tougher, more dedicated warriors. Without them, we might still have the British lording over us." He leaned back, examining my face. "I ask again, why do you care about Shamir? Some sort of camaraderie between soldiers?"

"Something like that," I said.

"Aha," said Birnbaum. "Somehow I don't think that's quite it, Adam. I think you're hiding something, which in turn makes me very curious."