“Yes.” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. As far as these Jews were concerned, it did of course. They thought it belonged to Eric Gruen. No doubt they expected I would say something defiant like “Long live Germany” or “Heil Hitler.” But Nazi Germany and Hitler could not have been farther from my mind. I was thinking of Palestine. Perhaps Shlomo had hit me for not calling it Israel. Either way I had very little time left if I was going to talk my way out of a bullet in the back of the head. Shlomo was already checking the magazine of his big Colt automatic.

“Please listen to me,” I said through chattering teeth. “I’m not Eric Gruen. There’s been a mistake. My real name is Bernie Gunther. I’m a private detective. Twelve years ago, in 1937, I did a job in Israel for Haganah. I spied on Adolf Eichmann for Fievel Polkes and Eliahu Golomb. We met in a café in Tel Aviv called Kaplinsky’s. Kaplinsky, or Kapulsky, I really don’t remember. It was near a cinema on Lilienblum Strasse. If you telephone Golomb he’ll remember me. He’ll vouch for me. I’m sure of it. He’ll remember that I borrowed Fievel’s gun. And what I advised him to do.”

“Eliahu Golomb died in 1946,” said my interrogator.

“Fievel Polkes, then. Ask him.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea where he is.”

“He gave me an address to write to, if ever I had some information for Haganah, and I couldn’t contact Polkes,” I said. “Polkes was Haganah’s man in Berlin. I was to write to an address in Jerusalem. To a Mr. Mendelssohn. I think it was Bezalel Workshops. I don’t remember the street. But I do remember that I was to place an order for a brass object damascened in silver, and a photograph of the Sixty-five Hospital. I’ve no idea what it means. But he said it would be a signal for someone in Haganah to get in contact with me.”

“Maybe he did meet with Eliahu Golomb.” Shlomo spoke angrily to my interrogator. “We know he had contact with senior people in the SD. Including Eichmann. So what? You’ve seen the photographs, Zvi. We know he was chummy with the likes of Heydrich and Himmler. Anyone that shook that bastard Göring’s hand deserves a bullet in the head.”

“Did you shoot Eliahu Golomb?” I asked. “Because he shook hands with Eichmann?”

“Eliahu Golomb is a hero of the State of Israel,” Zvi said stiffly.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” I said, shivering violently now. “But ask yourself this, Zvi. Why would he have trusted me with a name and address if he hadn’t trusted me? And while you’re thinking about it, here’s something else to consider. If you kill me, you’ll never find out where Eichmann is hiding.”