like butterscotch pudding spilled from the hills.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said and moved back in my seat. “To me, it looks like pumpkin porridge dripping from the rim of a pot.” No one made pumpkin porridge like that anymore. My grandfather made it in the autumn, from pumpkins we gathered off the vines that grew on the fence behind his house. He said he learned to make porridge from his father, and that I should learn it from him. After I moved to Pyongyang, I couldn’t get pumpkins. Or when I did, I couldn’t find the time.

“Sounds delicious, pumpkin porridge. Can you make it?” Just then the pitch of the engines changed. Jenö glanced around nervously, straining to hear what might come next. The engines dropped back to normal, and he relaxed. “I am very sensitive to sound, Inspector. Some people respond to visual cues. I am hypersensitive to sounds of all types.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The people behind us, incidentally, are Israeli.” This he said in Korean, accented, but perfectly understandable. In fact, too good; it was as if the sound were coming from a machine. It nearly knocked me off my seat.

“You speak Korean? Why didn’t you let on before?” I had meant that to come out as complimentary, but the annoyance was quicker on its feet.

“Surprised? Your language isn’t so difficult, no worse than Hungarian. Besides, they’re related. Come to think of it, maybe we’re related. Wouldn’t that be something? Ancient brothers from tribes that wandered apart in the misty past.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like paprika.”

The trolley with drinks stopped beside us. The stewardess looked down at me. Why don’t these good-looking girls work in my office, even near my office? I thought. Why are they confined to this ancient Russian tube ten thousand meters above the earth? Jenö nudged my arm. “Don’t pant. Just tell her what you want.”

“Nothing.” I nodded to the stewardess. “Nothing for me. Perhaps our guest would like something, though. Go ahead, ask him in Korean. Or Hungarian. No, wait, try Hebrew.”

“You really shouldn’t refuse me, Inspector,” the girl tossed her head back, just a little, just enough to notice, then she smiled at the foreigner. “Drink?” she asked in English.

He took a cup of tea; the trolley moved on. I looked around the cabin and then settled back. I closed my eyes, pretending I was somewhere pleasant. An elbow nudged me.

“I’d rather not be poked,” I said. “Please, don’t poke me like that, I don’t care whether we are tribesmen or not.”

He paid no attention. “You might get up and stroll into the first class cabin. There are some interesting passengers beyond the curtain. You’ll find three more, just like that group behind us. Say ‘shalom’ to them and watch their eyes pop out.” I didn’t move. “Go ahead, have some fun, what can it hurt?” He poked me. “Eh?”

I sat up. All of a sudden, existence was awash in Israelis. A few weeks ago, I’d never met one in my life. Now they had me surrounded on, of all places, an airplane. I wondered if they were planning to hijack the plane. These were the people who had carried off Entebbe. They were larger than life, tougher than nails. I didn’t like traveling by air in the first place; I hadn’t wanted to go on this assignment to Beijing; and now I was being poked relentlessly, surrounded by a commando flying squad. “I’m not going up to first class,” I said. “I never walk on an airplane when it’s aloft. It’s not right. Movement could disturb the balance, or the trim—whatever it is.”

“You don’t go to the toilet?”

“I make it a point to take short flights.”

“How about standing? Can you at least stand?”

“Standing is possible, as long as it is done gently,” I said. I stood up carefully and looked back at the trio seated three rows behind us. Business suits, European, but slightly off. They were reading papers in an alphabet I’d never seen.

Jenö reached over and tugged at my jacket. “The papers are in Hebrew. They think no one can understand. Classified documents, I’ll bet.”

I sat down again. “You know these people, I take it. And the ones up front, too?”

“Not personally, I don’t know them.” His eyebrows went into the first few steps of a gavotte and then stopped, as if the orchestra had abruptly gone out for a smoke. “I heard them talking while we were in line at the check-in counter. They’re from