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the way, why are you spending so much time in Jerusalem? Do you have anyone there? Family?”
    Grenish colored. “Hardly family. There was a girl I used to know living there. She chose to marry a religious type, and they immigrated to Israel. I thought I might look her up, maybe take them out to dinner.”
    El Dhamouri waggled a finger at him.” An old flame, eh? And if the husband is busy, or is out of town when you come to call …” He smiled indulgently. “Ah, well, you’ll be on vacation. But to get to my business, when you get my letter you will go to the Old City, and if you enter by Jaffa Gate, which is the one most tourists use, you will be facing David Street. You walk down David Street looking at the shop windows like any tourist until you come to Muristan Street and next is the Shuk El Lohamin. There you will see the Mideast Trading Corporation. The windows have the usual tourist goods, little carvings in olive wood and mother-of-pearl, leather bags, sheepskin vests. You show a little interest, asking prices, perhaps, and go inside to look at the better merchandise in the back.”
    â€œYour cousin will be alone in the shop?”
    â€œNo, he has several clerks, but he’s sure to be around. You will give the letter only to him, and preferably when you are alone with him.”
    â€œShould I ask for him?”
    â€œNo-o, I don’t think so. If you’re an ordinary tourist you wouldn’t be likely to know him, would you?”
    â€œThen how—”
    El Dhamouri smiled. “How would you know him? No problem. He’s about my age but looks older. And he has a bad squint in one eye.”
    Grenish wondered if his friend wasn’t being boyishly romantic about a simple matter of delivering a letter. “All right, I get a letter from you at the Excelsior and—”
    â€œNot from me, my friend. My name on the envelope might draw attention to it by—by various people. Do you know Elmer Levy?”
    â€œOf Harvard? The physicist? I know of him, of course, but I’ve never met him.”
    â€œFine. Then the letter will come from Professor Levy. So when you get a letter from Levy—Harvard Faculty Club stationery, probably—you just take it down to the Old City and drop it off with my cousin Mahmoud.”
    â€œThat’s all? There’ll be no reply? No message he’ll want me to convey to you?”
    â€œNothing.” He smiled. “Except that if you see something in his shop that interests you, perhaps some beads or a pin for your old girlfriend, I’m sure he’ll give you a good price on it. Oh, and write me if you have a chance. Your first time in Greece, right? And you’ll be there for a couple of weeks? It will be interesting to hear how the country strikes you.”

6
    In a studio apartment in a high-rise condominium that was already beginning to show signs of wear even though it had been erected only half a dozen years previously, two men sat playing chess. Except for a couple of cots, two easy chairs, two straight-backed chairs, and a low coffee table, the apartment was bare. In the Pullman kitchenette there was a microwave oven, a coffee percolator, and a few glass dishes.
    Avram, a man of sixty, sat in one of the easy chairs, the coffee table jammed up against his knees as he studied the chessboard. Gavriel, a good twenty-five years younger, sat opposite him on a straight-backed chair. He reached forward, then drew his hand back, and then nodding, reached forward and made his move. “Check,” he announced. “And if you interpose with the knight, I move my queen up and—”
    â€œAll right. You’ve got a win. That’s, let’s see, three out of seven today. Your game is improving. A coffee, maybe?”
    The phone rang. Gavriel scooped it up from where it was resting on the floor. “Yes?”
    He listened for a moment, said “Right,” and hung up.