Free City of Secrets by Stewart O’Nan

the trains from Jaffa running empty. It wasn’t worth sitting in the station queue. He followed Pincus and Scheib’s advice, sticking to the better hotels, laying for rich Americans, even if it meant the occasional search. Against his instincts, he strewed old rags and oilcans and crumpled lunch bags about his trunk to confuse the dogs. There was nothing in the compartment, only the promise of contraband—enough to hold him. At every checkpoint he practiced his English accent.“What’s all this then, eh?” Clever Jossi, everybody’s friend. That he wasn’t making any money was annoying but ultimately meant nothing. Eventually Asher would call, and Brand’s other life would begin again.
    When the call finally came, it wasn’t from Asher but Fein, throwing off not just Brand but Mrs. Ohanesian, who frowned at the mysterious voice as if Brand should have prepared her. It was Thursday evening. He’d been at Eva’s every night that week, yet somehow they knew he was home. He’d forgotten: there were watchers everywhere.
    The meeting was in Mekor Baruch, not far from the old-age home. Brand drove Eva and Lipschitz, a mismatched couple, parking on a street lined with scabby sycamores and squat apartment blocks. Here the luckier children of the war swarmed the dusty alleys, playing commando with branches and seed balls, hollering to one another in Polish mixed with Yiddish. Above, their mothers hung boiled laundry from the fire escapes like dull bunting. The coded address Fein had given Brand led to the building most likely to host a secret meeting, a drab Ashkenazi synagogue beside a butcher shop with headless chickens in the window for Sabbath dinner. Before he opened the door, he had a hunch it might be a trap. Why had Fein called? Had something happened to Asher?
    Inside, Brand wasn’t sure where to go. For a taxi driver, he had no sense of direction. As always, he thought the basement would be the safest place. As if she’d been there before, Eva took the stairs straight to the second floor.
    In a small meeting room with a chalkboard on wheels satAsher, Victor and, in a rumpled seersucker suit, his Star of David and lion tattoo hidden beneath an Oxford shirt, the Sabra.
    In the suit he looked more than ever an Arab, the hawk nose and dark skin making the yod-shaped scar above his eye seem even stranger, the mark of fate. He had a boxer’s build, a scrappy bantamweight like John Garfield, and Garfield’s carelessly tousled hair. He looked like a gangster dressed for a trial. It was hard to believe he’d nearly died just a month ago. Brand realized he was staring and recovered.
    â€œGlad to see you’re feeling better.”
    The man nodded in acknowledgment. To Eva, he nodded significantly, as if in gratitude. Brand recalled him moaning wordlessly in the backseat and wondered if he was a mute. After a minute, Brand realized no one was speaking—not Asher or Victor. Protocol. There would be no introductions.
    They all sat around the table waiting for Fein and Yellin. The chalkboard was sponged clean. Lipschitz took out a pad and began writing. The Sabra waved a hand and he put it away.
    From the hall came footfalls, the clash of a door. Fein was alone, and though Brand wanted to ask after Yellin, he waited for someone else to break the silence.
    â€œClose the door,” Asher said.
    Apparently Yellin wasn’t coming, another development Brand didn’t like on principle.
    The Sabra stood and buttoned his jacket, smoothing his front as if he were going to make a speech. “First, I want to thank you. My friend here tells me how instrumental you were in helping me the other night. I’m indebted to you, and will do my utmostto repay your kindness.” He spoke stiffly, as if addressing a crowd. Brand, who had practice, couldn’t place the accent—part Spanish, part something else. Maybe French, with its buzzing sibilants. It was