"Eighteen pounds," the gun merchant said, expecting to get fifteen.
"That is cheap," Faris whispered. "Buy it."
"Ten pounds," I offered.
"Sixteen and it is yours."
"Ten," I said.
"It cost me fifteen, I swear by Allah."
"It's worth no more than ten pounds," I insisted, and made a move to leave.
I finally bought it for eleven pounds.
IT WAS no joy ride. The distance from Jerusalem to Cairo was about three hundred miles, the greater part of it over desert. Our transportation on the first leg of our journey was a hired open truck with rickety sidings, filled with ten large drums of gasoline and six crates of oranges, which Faris proposed to sell in Beersheba to get additional money for guns. All the drums leaked and the floor of the truck was already drenched when I clambered on board. I didn't think gassoaked oranges would taste good, but it was none of my business.
I was dressed appropriately: my khaffiya about my face, my Green Shirt armband in place, my Arab credentials carefully placed where I could get at them quickly. My job was to sit