"The Irgun stormed the prison where the British kept the ten captured maapilim. It was a fiasco. Six more died, though they did manage to get the other four out. They also killed five British guards."

Six dead for four liberated. Not a good trade.

"It was no great honor to be part of that raid, you can imagine," Birnbaum continued. "So it's no surprise I only managed to uncover the name of one of the Irgun members involved."

"What's his name?" I asked.

"It's a she. Mira Roth."

I wrote down the name as well as the phone number and address where she worked.

"Thank you, Shmuel," I said.

"Just remember our deal. I'm counting on a very big story from you."

I told him I would do my best and rang off. Luckily, no one was waiting to use the phone. I dialed the number Birnbaum had given me.

Female chatter and laughter in the background. A woman's voice said hello. I asked to speak with Mira Roth. She was called to the phone.

"Mira speaking. Who is this?" Her voice was strong and deep and laced with smoke. A confident voice.

“Ms. Roth, my name is Adam Lapid. I'm calling for information regarding a ship, the Salonika. I—"

"Who gave you my number? How did you get my name?" She was agitated. Her voice rose somewhat in pitch.

"From Shmuel Birnbaum. You may know the name. He writes for Davar—"

"Davar!" Acid dripped over the line along with that single word. "You think I'm going to talk to anyone working for that rag? Don't ever call here again, you hear?"

She slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my ear. I was about to ring her again, but decided to obey her instructions. Besides, she never said anything about not coming to see her in person, did she?

8

The hair salon stood three doors west of the corner of Frishman and Dizengoff, flanked by a stationery store and a photography studio. Through the open door came a similar sound of female festivity to the one I'd heard when I called there earlier. Inside were five women. Two were seated in high chairs in front of mirrors, having their hair done, each attended by a hairdresser. The fifth woman occupied a chair at the opposite wall. She was either waiting her turn or simply enjoying the company of her friends.

My appearance in the doorway had an immediate effect on the merry quintet. Conversation abruptly ceased, and five pairs of eyes flicked my way. I got the distinct impression male visitors were rare in this bastion of womanhood.

"Can we help you with something?" said the older of the two hairdressers, a plump late-fortyish woman.

"I'm here to see Mira Roth," I said.