ABSALOM STUCK HIS HEAD IN BARUCH’S DOOR. “HERE’S THE latest bulletin from the dust bins,” he drawled, slipping into a good imitation of BBC Hebrew. “Azazel came up with a short, heavy ex-convict who had an eye shot out in the Sixty-seven war and sports an eye-patch that makes him look like one of those old advertisements for Hathaway shirts. The Palestinian in question flunked out of a Cairo medical school after two years and wound up opening a pharmacy, which he still operates, in the village of Jalazun near Ramallah. How’s that for formal medical training? At one point in his life he was denounced and arrested, but released for lack of evidence. Watch this space for more bulletins.”
Baruch raised his wrist so Absalom could see his watch. “Tomorrow is the last day of Ramadan.”
“I’m dancing as fast as I can,” mewled Absalom. Grimacing as if he had been stung by a bee, he vanished down the corridor.