In all of his travels, Thorn had never been to Israel; his knowledge of the land came from newspaper accounts of strife and his recent research into the Bible. He was struck by its modernity. A country that was conceived in the time of the Pharaohs but born in the age of asphalt and concrete, it was like a dollop of plaster dropped in the middle of an arid desert. The sky that had watched over exodus on camel back was punctured now with high-rise buildings and towering hotels, the sound of construction booming everywhere. Giant cranes lumbered like mechanical elephants, swinging their trunkloads of building materials ever upward, the city seemingly determined to spread in whatever direction it could. Jackhammers tore up sidewalks and streets already obsolete after so few years; signs hung everywhere offering excursions to the Holy Land. Police too were much in evidence, checking luggage and handbags, their eyes constantly on the watch for potential saboteurs.

Thorn and Jennings were stopped at the airport, their facial bruises arousing suspicion. Thorn used his civilian passport, passing unnoticed as an official of the American government. In their previous flight to Rome, with less rigorous security, the private jet had served their purpose. But here the key to anonymity was to travel and look like everyone else.

They went by cab to a Hilton hotel, then bought lighter clothing in the men's shop downstairs. It was hot in the city, the sun's rays amplified by the concrete, and Thorn's perspiration soaked into his bandage, bringing fresh pain to the wound under his arm. It was discolored and still draining; as Jennings saw him changing clothes, he suggested they see a doctor. Thorn refused. All he wanted was to find the man Bugenhagen.

It was dark by the hour they were ready. They walked the streets of the city, passing time until their search could begin. Thorn was weak and perspiring freely; they stopped at an outdoor cafe, ordering tea in the hope he would regain his strength. They had little to say to one another now; Jennings was restless, discomforted by the lifeless silence of his companion. As his eyes wandered idly over the activity of the streets, he caught sight of two women watching them nearby.

"You know what we need," he said to Thorn. "To get our minds off everything."

Thorn followed Jennings' gaze, spotting the women who were now heading for the table.

"I get the one with the moles," said Jennings.

Thorn eyed Jennings with revulsion; the photographer stood politely offering the women a seat at their table.

"Speak English?" Jennings asked, as they settled in.

They merely smiled, an indication that they didn't.

"It's nicer that way," said Jennings to Thorn. "All you have to do is point."

Thorn's face filled with disgust.

"I'll be at the hotel," he said.

"Why don't you wait and see what's on the menu?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Might be very tasty," smiled Jennings.