The call from Paris to Sierra Leone had been relayed through three separate servers – all of which had been changed for each new attempt to get through. Then the line came alive with what sounded like the fumbling of a hands-free set being connected.

‘Good to hear from you, my friend. I thought maybe you were dead.’

I breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Almost,’ I said. ‘But not quite.’

‘Al tid’ag, there’s plenty of time yet.’

Ezra Black’s voice was unmistakable. He peppered his English with Hebrew, and his English accent sounded at times more French than Israeli. But when any Israeli told me not to worry, I wondered immediately what was wrong. There was another awkward pause.

‘So, what’s up, buddy?’ he continued. ‘Did you find my plane yet, or what?’

‘Oh, come on man, you were paid for that.’ Baaz looked at me, uncomprehending. He could only hear one half of our conversation. ‘Paid more than it was worth, too. A lot more.’

At the other end of the line, the faintest suggestion of laughter – or the closest Ezra got to it.

‘OK, but I liked that plane.’

‘Seriously, Ezra. I’m in shit. I need a favour.’

‘OK.’ The lightness in his voice evaporated immediately. ‘Tell me what you need, then. Seriously.’ He rolled the r and protracted the ou in such a way that, if I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed he was from the Jura, not Jerusalem. ‘One day you can do something for me, eh?’

I didn’t doubt that he was serious about that, either. Ezra ran a private security company in Sierra Leone, headquartered in the capital Freetown. And although he’d been out of the Israel Defence Forces for nearly two decades, his paramilitary police training operation in West Africa was still very much bankrolled by the Israelis. The last favour he’d done me had nearly killed me. Baaz set down more tea and switched on the table lamp. It was overcast outside and half-dark indoors. The blinds were still drawn.

‘I’m in France. There’s an Interpol Red Notice on me and …’

‘Interpol?’ Ezra cut me off. ‘What do those tembelim want with you?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘It always is, eh?’

‘The Russians are after me. Possibly the Brits, too. And the Yanks. Not even Grumpy Jock can help. So, I came to see Lukov, but …’

‘Lukov?’ he spat down the phone. ‘That aluka? I swear to you one day I will kill him. No, I won’t kill him. I’ll just fuck him up. Death is too good for that ben zona!’

‘You’re too late,’ I said. ‘The leech bled to death yesterday while we were having a drink. In Paris. In public. Sniper. Pro job. Tricky headshot. Russians, most likely. Or the Brits. Or, you know, literally anyone.’