After a few turns we came out on to David Steps and up towards the brighter lights near the Jaffa Gate. We went into the first restaurant we saw, not too close to the gate.

I ordered while Ken borrowed the phone. The place was a simple tourist joint making a 60-watt attempt to look like a nightclub. The cheery Arab mine host was the only staff on view, and at that time no more was needed. Just a family group at another table and a couple of soldiers drinking pop at the bar, Uzi sub-machine guns on the counter between them. I think there's some regulation about youmust go armed in Jerusalem.

Ken came back. 'I got Mitzi. Eleanor's got there but she's out at the moment. What did you order?'

'Lamb and chips.' The menu was basically tourist, with a few simple Arab dishes for those who wanted to boast they'd tasted real atmosphere.

'Steak tomorrow.' He sat down. 'Mitzi should be able to tell if it's real antique and it matches the description. That's all we need: he hasn't had time to cobble up a fake from genuine old parts.'

'He's had over a year.'

'Until a few days ago he thought he was dealing with Bruno. He wouldn't bother to try that on him.'

It figured.

'Mitzi knows the address?'

'Yes, but she's meetinguà near here. Ten to seven.' He glanced at his watch, but there was half an hour to go.

Then our lamb arrived. Not at all bad, though lamb's one of the safest things to order in Israel. And a bottle of Negev wine. I sipped and chomped for a while.

Ken suddenly put his knife and fork down. 'Mint sauce. I knew there was something missing. It'll be worth getting back to England just for that.'

'And they say travel broadens the mind. Mint sauce kept us out of the Common Market for ten years.'

'Worth every minute.'

After another while, I asked: 'What's Gadulla getting out of this deal?'

'Mitzi agreed to twenty per cent'

I chewed. 'Nice of him to accept, seeing the Prof'told him he could expect half.'

'You think the letter said that?'

I tried to write the missing letter in my head. Dear Mohamed- it would be in English -Dear Mohamed, I'm sending documentation on the sword to a man in Beirut, Pierre Aziz. Get in touch with him and split the profit. But what had stopped Gadulla selling the sword already? It was worth something, even without the description. The letter must have said something else: Dear Mohamed…

I woke up. 'Just Dear Mohamed. A handwritten letter wouldn't say "Gadulla" or his address. That's what Ben Iver was torturing Papa for: Gadulla's full name! '

Ken took a bit of meat from his mouth and looked at it curiously, put it down. 'What about the envelope?'

'Papa wouldn't keep it. With uncancelled stamps, it's proof he was robbing the mail train.'

He nodded thoughtfully. 'It works… How would Ben Iver expect to find who"Mohamed" is, then?'

'Find one of us and follow.'

He looked quickly sideways, but the place was as empty as before. The family had gone, another couple had arrived. The two soldiers still at the bar.

The proprietor stood up and grinned helpfully, but I shook my head.

Ken said softly: 'No way he can be behind us two. But when Mitzi gets here, I'll lead her around the houses, you tail us to make sure nobody else is.'

'Wilco.' I chewed on. Maybe mint sauce, now I was thinking of it, would have helped. 'How's anybody going to pay Gadulla anyhow? The Met won't fork out for weeks at least.'

Ken looked at his watch again, then waved to the proprietor. 'Getting near time. Gadulla's prepared to trust us, that's all.'

'The word of a white man, huh? Balls. He's got some scheme of his own running.'

Ken shrugged. The bill arrived and he paid it. 'Maybe he's just honest.'

'Ken, nobody in this is honest, starting from you and me.'

'Two minutes.' He stared at the table. 'Well, all right – we're finally getting rid of that champagne.'

The room went cold and quiet. 'To Gadulla? You Want him to havethat stuff?'

'Why not?' he whispered fiercely. T knew it would come in useful. Capital always does – and that's all it is, just like all the other boxes we've carried. Only this time we got lucky and we own it. And now we can cash it in for a share of that sword.'

'New lamps for old, hey? Ken – Gadulla was probably born a Palestinian. You know what he'll do with nine boxes of guns in Jerusalem. He'll give-'

'Not him. He'll sell them.'

'To the same people. I see why you wanted the aeroplane up here. You couldn't have unloaded at Ben Gurion. This airfield's not so well guarded. I suppose his boys were going in at midnight and-'

He stood up. 'Time. Theyare going in around midnight.'

They weren't, but he didn't know why. I followed him to the door, and the proprietor rushed to open it, wish us a good night and come back soon.

'Ken-' but Mitzi was already strolling – as much as her rather nervous walk could become a stroll – past. Ken closed up and took her arm.

1 gave them seven seconds start, then strolled after, though the whole thing was pointless by now. When Gadulla the Bold found there weren't any nine boxes of untraceable small arms in the deal, then his interest in twenty per cent of a vague promise was going to reach nil. I still did the covering well enough, stopping to listen behind me, skittering ahead cat-footed to keep Ken and Mitzi in sight.

Going back, the City was even quieter and emptier than it had been. Once we'd turned off David Street, the alleys were just dark echoing links between sparks of light from little lamps on occasional walls.

After ten minutes, when we'd passed the front of Gadulla's shop twice and were just reaching the back steps, I caught them up. 'Nobody's behind. Ken, before we see Gadulla-'

But he went on up the steps and pressed the bell. Mitzi followed, then halfway up she stumbled and dropped her handbag. It hit the stone below with a sharp glassy pop.

'Scheisse!'

Ipicked it up. 'What the hell have you got in there?'

'It was just a little pot I had bought. I thought to ask Herr Gadulla if it was real.'

'I hope it wasn't.' I took it up the steps. The door creaked open and dim light filtered out. A pot goespopi I opened the handbag and shook out the ruins of a light bulb.

Or signal gun.

A soldier ran into the alley behind us, pointing an Uzi.

'Please do not move,' said the voice of Mihail Ben Iver.

Of course, hewas a soldier; any Israeli his age would still be on the reserve. And if you happen to want to take your submachine gun to a party, you'd attract comment in civilian dress and no second glance in uniform.

He arranged us competently: Ken, Gadulla and me in chairs jammed into a corner, with nothing we could reach or kick within range. But not until Mitzi had searched us. Gadulla didn't like that. Not one bit he didn't.

Mitzi stood back, mousey eyes glinting and smiling watchfully.

Ken asked: 'I suppose young fuzzy-chops found out where you were staying and came a-calling?'

Ben Iver said: 'Miss Spohr decided to change her agent. She thought I might get her a better deal.'

Well, maybe. He could cut out Ken and me and Gadulla – if Gadulla agreed to turn up the sword at all – but he'd also be cutting himself a big slice of the action.

'Is that the gun that killed Papadimitriou?' Ken asked.

Ben Iver grinned. 'Hardly.'

It had been a ridiculous question. But the answer had solved Papa's death, all right.

'Any more questions?' Ben Iver asked cheerfully, his glasses twinkling in the lamplight. 'Or shall we move on to item three, like where is the sword?"

Nobody said anything, Gadulla in particular. Mitzi looked hopefully at Ben Iver. He held the gun one-handed – you can do that easily with a small, compact gun like the Uzi – and took out a smallish colour photograph.