He shrugged and slid the book off the counter, but his expression was sad. Goldberg was a man of words, and he lamented the rejection of any language.

I paid for the other two novels and put them in the paper bag. I thanked him for putting them aside for me and was about to leave, when it occurred to me he might be able to clarify something for me.

"Erwin, you've lived here all these years, what can you tell me about the Irgun?"

"The Irgun? I was never a member myself. I don't like their politics much. Menachem Begin is too extreme for my taste, though I must admit he and his boys fought the British like lions."

"His girls, too," I muttered, thinking of Mira again.

"Excuse me?"

I waved a hand. "Never mind. What I was wondering is how secretive they were."

"Very much so. They had to be. If the British caught them, they would lock them up or hang them. The British were ruthless in that regard, and there were plenty of snitches—Jews too—who would sell them out to the British for money. Shameful. Quite shameful." Goldberg emphasized this last sentiment with a mournful shake of his head.

"What about today?"

"Today? What do you mean, today?"

"Are Irgun members still secretive?"

"Not like they were when the British ruled here, of course. But our government is not a fan of the Irgun or the Herut party that succeeded it. I'd say Irgun members trust each other more than they do other people. But as I said, I've never been a member." He gazed at me thoughtfully. "Adam, why are you asking all these questions about the Irgun?"

"It's nothing important. Just some minor thing I'm working on."

But it wasn't. It was something that had begun niggling at the back of my mind the evening before. A question for which I had no answer. What Goldberg told me did not provide the answer, simply confirmed the validity of the question. It might prove to be unimportant, but what I had learned as a police detective is that seemingly unimportant questions can have very important answers. They often led you to see things in a new light.

I thanked Goldberg and left, heading south. At the corner of Allenby and Ben Yehuda, I walked past Moghrabi Theater and recalled the crowds of jubilant Jews who had danced in the street in front of the theater when, in November 1947, the United Nations voted in favor of partitioning Palestine between the Jews and the Arabs. Continuing south, I soon got to Greta's Café.

Greta served me lunch—soup, rice and cooked vegetables—but the lunch crowd kept her too busy for chatting. Someone had left a copy of Ma'ariv and I read through it while I ate. The top headline claimed that Israel and Syria were expected to sign the first draft of an armistice agreement later that day.