I slapped my cup down with a clang that made the tubby proprietor look at me wide-eyed. 'Now look, Ken: if you go back there you'll confirm everything they believe – that there's something hidden and you know where. They'll be sleeping in your pockets.'

'Maybe, maybe not.' True; how well a surveillance works depends on how experienced your target is. And Ken was.

'All right, so you find Gadulla and say: "Here, Oswarthy foreigner, hand over King Richard's sword." What does he do? D'you think he's even got the thing?'

'It doesn't seem too likely,' Ken admitted. 'I mean Bruno trusting anyone that much. More like, the letter told him how to find it-'

Tine. So whoever's got the letter doesn't need to go near Gadulla. He goes direct for the hiding-place.'

"The letter can't be everything,' Ken persisted. 'It can't have been complete, somehow. That's why he was torturing Papa, why he was snooping back at the house.'

There was something in that, but: 'That still doesn't help you. And, incidentally, Lazarosdidn't say anything about the torture, so we don't know. Remember that.'

'Ah. That's the hold-out, is it?' Every fancy murder case brings in false confessions from nitwits, so they always conceal one piece of evidence, something only the real murderer would know, to use as a cross-check.

He finished his own coffee and looked at his watch. 'Gadulla's still the only lead we've got.'

'For God's sake, leave the damn sword alone. Tell Mitzi about Gadulla and then leave it lay – you can't afford to go to Israel, anyway. We've got a business to start up again.'

He smiled wryly. 'The same one?'

'I don't know…' I stared at the tabletop. 'We're sort of running out of time on that, I think. But now – we know a lot more about air cargo generally; we can cost a job properly. We don't have to go for the big margins and risks.'

He shrugged. 'If you say so. You're the boss on the business side.'

'Oh hell, Ken-'

'No, you always were. I'm a better pilot, but how often does that matter? – twice, three times a year? You're the one whoknows how to bring in business; that matters all the time. I'm not complaining. But – just try and keep off strawberries and monkeys.'

I grinned. 'I'll try.' So maybe, after – how many? – three nights out of jail, he was cured. We could get back to work.

He stood up. 'I'll drop over and see Mitzi. Back at the Castle for lunch, no?'

I mooched about the town staring into closed shops and listening to church bells until noon, then back to the hotel for a first beer with Kapotas.

He was looking fresh and smart in a non-Sunday tie, but also gloomy and nervous. Then I remembered Papaand the partner from Harborne, Gough coming in that afternoon.

'Cheers. Have you got the books balanced?'

'On a tight-rope. You know about Papadimitriou?'

'I heard. Tell me – when we were in Beirut, was anybody here asking for him?'

'Would I know? Papadimitriou was the first person anybody coming here would meet, most of the time.'

I nodded. It was also possible that Papa had gone looking for a partner instead of one finding him.

'Somebody was asking about Professor Spohr,' Kapotas added.

'Who? When?'

'On Friday evening. Only by telephone. It was the Israeli Embassy.'

'Areyou sure?'

He shrugged. 'The voice sounded… well, right.' There's already a clipped, dry tone you could call an Israeli accent just so long as you don't expect all Israelis to have it. 'I said I knew nothing and put Papadimitriou to speak to him.'

'This was Friday evening? After dark?'

'Yes, why?' Then: 'Oh, of course,' as he got the point.

Naturally no Israeli Embassy can be strictly religious; they'd break the Sabbath, all right – but only on important business. Dead or alive, Bruno Spohr couldn't stand very high on Israel's list of problems.

'What happened then?' I asked.

'I don't know.' He took a mouthful of beer and tried to think. 'Papa went out soon after, and… and I never saw him again,' he suddenly remembered. 'Perhaps I should tell the police.'

I nodded. God knows what they'd make of it, but at least they'd have the authority to check with the embassy. I'd get told to go and unleaven my head.

I changed the subject: 'Has Papa's niece been told?'

'She is off duty now. I gave Inspector Lazarosher address.'

A waiter – I meanthe waiter – came in and started clattering about leisurely, laying the tables behind us. I went to fetch two more beers.

Then Ken came in, bouncing like a frisky cat. He saw the glasses in my hand. 'Lay off that stuff, boyo- you're aviating.'

I put the glasses carefully back on the bar. 'I'm what?'

'Doing the ever-popular intrepid birdman act. Private charter to Israel.'

If the glasses hadn't been out of my hands they would have been anyway. 'Towhere! On whose money? And with that… that… 'Apostólosthe barman was watching me; '… with that… load?'

Kapotas was on his feet by now. Ken grabbed both beer-glasses and shooed us back to the table, out of range of the bar. He shoved one glass at Kapotas and gulped at the other. 'The girls'll pay the charter, they've agreed. They think Gadulla's our only chance, and if it comes right we need the Beech. Nowyou-' he turned to Kapotas '-wouldn't mind having the aeroplane and its cargo out of the way – earning money, remember -while your big wheel from London comes snooping through? Roy told me about him.'

Kapotas looked thoughtful. I said: 'I hope they know what charter rates are like. '

'I was moderately honest about it,' Ken said. 'They're paying a hundred quid – they're saving the air fares, remember – and it won't be more than three hours there-and-back so you'll seesome profit. The lad from London will think you're marvellous.'

Kapotas was beginning to like it. I said firmly: 'Dynamite into Hell, yes, but I'm not flying that load into Israel. Of all places-'

Ken waved his non-drinking hand impatiently. 'It's stilltransit cargo. They won't care as long as it stays in the Beech.'

There was a long silence except for the shufflings of the waiter in the dining-room end. Kapotas was back to gloom again.

I slapped both hands on the table. 'All right. This time. But Ken -you go by airline. Eleanor won't look suspicious and Mitzi should get by with Braunhof on her passport, but the name Cavitt could blow the whole expedition.'

He saw the sense of it. 'Okay, I'll get booking.'

I followed him into the lobby; there was nobody around. 'You got the hundred off the girls in advance?'

He nodded. 'I didn't want to mention it in front of Kapotas.'

'Quite so. But give me fifty now; I've got to refuel.'

'Sure.' He split a wad of Cyprus notes and gave me half.

'Thanks. And I learnt one thing: somebody saying they were the Israeli Embassy rang about Spohr on Friday evening. He talked to Papa, then Papa went out and resigned from there.'

He got the point of Friday evening straight off. 'But an Israeli accent?'

'Kapotas thinks so.'

He considered. 'I doubt Papa knew Israel. He might've been ready to go shares with somebody who did.'

'And who knows us.'

'Say again?'

'One reason why he didn't kill you: if he recognised you he'd guess I'd be somewhere around.'

He scratched his nose with the earpiece of the phone. 'Plenty of people who know us and Israel… Only one I can think of here is that Israeli agent – Mihail Ben Iver.'

I nodded. 'I love him, too.'

'Come off it, Roy. The Ha Mosad's pulled some dirty tricks down the line, but…'

'Who says he's their secret service, except you?'

After a time he said softly: 'That's right, isn't it?'