It took ninety minutes to get to Tilton and the flat where Wasim’s commemorative coin was sending out its steady homing signal. With Segev’s driving they’d have been there earlier but had to spend an extra fifteen minutes in the toilet cubicle of a service station where Eli submitted to Rafi cleaning and stitching his wound on his forehead. Sitting on the toilet, Rafi standing over him, Eli held the unrolled sterilised medi-pack on his lap while Rafi cleaned, probed, then sewed. For a big-handed man, he was surprisingly deft.
‘You’re very lucky,’ Rafi said puffing antibiotic powder on to his work. ‘It’s clean and neat. More than you deserve.’
When they came out of the cubicle together they kept their heads down but they still got a look from a man at the urinals. Rafi kept his arm aroun
