‘Ken, or one of his kalat da’at women.’ Ezra cleared his throat. ‘But that is serious, my friend. That piece of shit was untouchable.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You are sure,’ he added, ‘the bullet was meant for him, and not you?’

‘No,’ I said truthfully, ‘I’m not.’

‘So. This favour. I sense it’s going to be a good one.’

He was right about that.

‘I need to get out of France and into Israel on a hot Greek passport.’

‘You should work for the Mossad, my friend. It would be so much nicer. They give you proper passports. And they don’t shoot their own operators, eh?’

‘Eh.’

‘From the Israeli side it’s OK. Send me a picture of the passport. Say nothing to no one. Just show them your passport. That’s it. Barur?’

I told him it was crystal clear.

The four-and-a-half-hour flight, he said – a private charter from Paris to Tel Aviv – would take twenty-four hours and cost sixty thousand US dollars to arrange, including ground transportation. He would send a car to me in Paris tomorrow that would take me straight to the aircraft at Le Bourget – a business airfield seventeen klicks north-east of where I was holed up. As with most other private flights, the paperwork would be handled prior to boarding. At Ben Gurion I would be met airside by Ezra’s man – who would navigate Israeli immigration for me, and take me to a hotel.

‘But, Max,’ he cautioned me, ‘about the French, I can do nothing.’

In the background I could hear the sounds of Ezra’s world breaking into the call – hard, high cricket-song and the chatter of monkeys. It brought back memories of the heat, the unceasing sweat, the smell of exhaust fumes and rotting vegetation. I imagined Ezra’s eyes, unreadable beneath heavy, drooping lids.

‘It’s very, very unlikely the French will interfere,’ he went on. ‘It’s a private place, Le Bourget. Only businessmen and air shows. They never check flights like this. Never, never. But if this Interpol shtut blows up and they do, then you’d better pray that Bulgarian fuck did his job with that passport, my friend. It’s a risk you take. About this I have to be absolutely clear.’

‘Got it.’

‘Over and out, buddy.’

I signalled to Baaz and he cut the connection.

‘Who was that?’ he asked.

‘Let’s just say it was a friend of mine. He helped me out on a job last year. He’s going to send a plane. Tomorrow. I need to message him with a pick-up point.’

‘A plane? What, you mean like a private jet?’ he said excitedly. ‘He’s going to send a private jet for us?’ As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it, and he looked down, blushing.

‘No, Baaz. He’s sending a private jet for me.’