Abdulla studies himself in the mirror, turns this way and that, smooths his coat.
The mirror was his mother’s pride, said to come from a famous Tel Aviv department store, a seven-foot slab of silvered glass in a gilded frame.
Abdulla remembers that it took four men to bring it up the stairs to her room.
In the reflection he sees her bed behind him, made up just as she liked it, as though she might come in and lie down for an afternoon nap.
He smooths his coat again, then unbuttons it to check the detonators a last time.