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The plane ride in from London had been long and crowded, and passport and customs lines and the effervescent Panos were the last things I wanted to see when I was disgorged into the hot and busy immigration hall at Ben Gurion Airport. I wanted nothing more than a stiff glass of scotch on the rocks, a shower, and four hours of sleep in a Tel Aviv hotel room before I went any farther. But there my office manager from my new assignment, Panos Mikalides, was, holding a placard with my name on it and bouncing around between me and that long passport control line, which looked all the more daunting by the stern-faced Israeli soldiers prowling around with their Uzis at the ready. I sighed and acknowledged to my new exuberant Greek employee that I indeed was the new Israel bureau chief for the International Press news agency and prepared myself for the worst.

From the beginning, however, Mikalides demonstrated for me how he'd become a legend in the IP system as Mr. Fixit. In no time, he had escorted me through a reel of red tape at the airport, turning stern and suspicious expressions of a parade of officials into broad smiles and thumpings on the back, and we were out of the terminal and into an Opel sedan and racing toward the towers of Tel Aviv and the blue Mediterranean in no time. Mikalides was driving with his hands and his mouth, both of which were going a mile a minute, and I wasn't able to establish that I wanted nothing more at the moment but a slug of scotch and my hotel room before he had veered off south of the city center and driven into what appeared to be a village dolled up for the tourist ...

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