Tongues of Fire by Peter Abrahams

that she felt no need to be modest about that, and supposed she had been guarded about the visit to the Seven Churches because it was a spiritual, not material accomplishment. Rehv thought she should be guarded about the money too: He saw that one or two people had turned to look at her as soon as she had mentioned it.
    The bus entered another town, much like the last except the church was bigger and made of stone.
    â€œEpiscopal,” the woman said, as they drove past. “This was very religious country once,” she went on, keeping her eyes on it. “Jonathan Edwards. Winthrop. The City on a Hill.”
    â€œAnd the Salem witches,” Rehv said, before he could stop himself.
    Slowly the woman turned toward him. She had a serene smile on her face. “And it’s going to be a very religious country again,” she said. “Praise the Lord.”
    The bus stopped in front of a small cafe in the center of the town, and Rehv got off. He wondered whether Baron was a title, the name of her husband, or the name of her dog. He went inside the cafe. Two big men wearing bulky coats sat at the counter, their backs to him. One was handing a cylindrical sugar dispenser to the other. The old woman behind the counter looked up. The glare from the light striking the greasy lenses of her glasses hid her eyes.
    â€œI’m looking for the Tehiyyah Kibbutz,” Rehv said to her.
    The sugar dispenser stopped in midair, two thick hands wrapped around it. “That would be the old Cutler farm,” the woman said in a high, brittle voice. “First right after the Mobil station.”
    â€œIs it far?”
    â€œTwo miles.”
    â€œThank you.” He turned to go. The sugar dispenser resumed its journey.
    Two miles was far enough when the roads weren’t plowed and the snow lay knee-high. Ice wedged inside Rehv’s shoes and up his pant legs, soaking his feet, ankles, and calves. The snow fell silently. Once he left the town he saw no people, no buildings. He heard only the muffled tramp of his feet, and his own excited breathing.
    He reached the top of a small hill and paused to brush the snow from his hair. In the distance he saw a large isolated farmhouse, surrounded on every side by empty rolling fields; he saw a barn, several smaller outbuildings, and three long trailers parked by the side of the house; he saw a wooden flagpole, not very high, flying the Star of David. He saw the headquarters of the Israeli government-in-exile, a government recognized by no one. The capital of Israel.
    He began running to it, slipping and sliding in the snow. He was breathless when he reached the wooden gate. Inside the gate was a car with an official crest on the side. The door opened and a Vermont state trooper got out. He wore sunglasses.
    â€œTraining for the marathon, pal?” he said. He opened his coat to show the gun on his hip, but he didn’t bother drawing it.
    â€œI’m an Israeli,” Rehv said. “I want to go inside.”
    â€œOh yeah?” A snowflake landed on the left lens of his sunglasses and clung there like a white spider. “No one told me about any visitors.” He tried to dislodge the snowflake by twitching his cheek, but it stayed where it was. Perhaps he had a tic.
    â€œI’m sure they’ll see me,” Rehv said. They stood watching each other over the top of the gate. The white spider melted and dribbled off the trooper’s lens and onto his cheek. It twitched again. After a while he decided he didn’t want to stand outside anymore.
    â€œYou wait here,” he said to Rehv, and walked toward the house.
    â€œTell them I was a lieutenant in the army and an assistant professor at the Hebrew University,” Rehv called to him.
    The trooper showed no sign of having heard. He knocked at the door. It opened. Rehv saw a dark-haired woman in a red plaid shirt. The trooper said something to her. She looked over his shoulder at Rehv. He