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the money?” he said.
    “I told you, Ishmael. There will be no money until you provide us with something worthwhile. We are not paying you just to sit here and drink coffee.”
    “How do I know I can trust you?” he said.
    It was an astounding proposition for a traitor to put forward. “Without trust, what is life?”
    He dropped his eyes insolently to her breasts. He switched to English. “You are a beautiful woman,” he said.
    These Arabs, she thought, they try and penetrate you with their eyes. “We are here to do business,” she said.
    “Why don’t we go somewhere and fuck?” he whispered.
    Typical of a town Arab. They think using words like that is a sign of sophistication. She held his gaze with her eyes and did not answer.
    “There is a hotel just round the comer,” he said.
    “All right. You go ahead.” She sipped her coffee. “If I’m not there in half an hour, start without me.”
    He laughed, a cheerful sound that came from deep in his chest.
    Now his masculinity has been established, Sarah thought, perhaps we can begin. “We have been meeting here every week now for a month. You have still to tell me anything really useful.”
    “I told you it might take time.”
    “This is a simple transaction, Ishmael. You are the merchant, I am the buyer. I pay nothing until you offer me something valuable.”
    Ishmael leaned forward, holding his cigarette near his lips in a furtive posture that announced to the entire café that he was about to impart a secret. “One of your buses is to be attacked.”
    Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
    “The morning Egged service to Tel Aviv. They plan to kill all the passengers, loot their belongings and burn the bus.”
    “When?”
    “Two days’ time. It will be ambushed in the Bab el-Wad.”
    “How many men? What kind of weapons?”
    Ishmael drew on his cigarette, and the tobacco crackled like firewood. “About a dozen,” he said. “Don’t worry about their weapons. They’ll probably do themselves more harm than anyone on the bus.”
    “How did you come by this information?”
    His face became sulky. “You wanted something you could use. I have given it to you. Now you pay me.”
    Sarah shook her head. “If the bus is attacked, we will pay you. I’m not giving you money for some story you just made up.”
    “You think I would do that?”
    “I am sure of it.”
    He smiled. “You’re right. But this time I’m telling you the truth. What are you going to do?”
    “We will take precautions.”
    He stubbed out his cigarette and switched back to Arabic. His eyes speculated. “Perhaps I do not want to be paid in money . . .”
    “That’s all we are offering.”
    “A pity.” He looked at his watch. It was expensive, she noted, an American Rolex. “I have to go.”
    “Evening prayers?”
    He grinned, but his eyes were cold. She watched him leave. Information, she had been taught, was important, but knowing what motivated your contact was just as valuable. You could not control the flow of information unless you understood its source. So what had made Ishmael seek out the Haganah? she wondered.
    Some Arabs informed because they heard there was easy money to be made; that’s what made the city effendis an especially rich seam to mine. They were softened by city living and addicted to the city’s pleasures; their loyalties were blurred by the dictates of self-interest.
    For others it was a game, as if the outcome of the conflict would not affect them or their families. Greed blinded them to the future.
    Others used the Haganah to settle old grievances. Let the Jews kill my enemy, the reasoning went, and spare my family the consequences of a blood feud should I do it myself.
    She wondered to which category Ishmael belonged.
    In the corner an Arab in a dirty white abbayah fingered his tespi beads, quietly reciting his prayers. His name was Levi Bar-Ayal; he was a Shai agent, like herself. Sarah nodded to him. He got up and followed Ishmael