She cleared her throat. ‘He’s GRU. Sixth Directorate, specializing in cryptography. His background is classic ex-KGB. He joined military intelligence in 2016, after GRU Director Sergun, uh, died in Lebanon. He’s been in and out of Israel half a dozen times since. Apart from minor details, that is all we know.’

Or, I thought, all you’re going to admit to knowing. ‘Well that explains why he can’t shoot straight, anyway.’ I tilted my head and dragged on the cigarette. ‘He’s a bloody desk jockey.’

‘So was Adolf Eichmann,’ she said. ‘Never underestimate, how do you call them, a “pen-pusher”?’

‘Quite. Well, did Avilov find her? Rachel, I mean.’

‘No. He was too late.’ She rolled her cigarette butt between her thumb and forefinger, crushing it slightly. ‘And so were we. Rachel has gone missing, Mr McLean. She was last seen more than two weeks ago. Just before the end of December. Avilov arrived the day after the last confirmed sighting of her in Israel.’ Perhaps I looked incredulous, or maybe she doubted her English. Either way she added, ‘She is not here, Mr McLean’, just to make sure I understood her loud and clear. ‘If she has left Israel – which is not certain – then she must have done so on a forged passport.’ She weighed up the probability: ‘Which we think is possible.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but first things first.’ I looked around the room. As far as I could tell we were alone, though I assumed every word was being listened to elsewhere. ‘Who’s “we”, exactly?’

‘My name is Talia,’ she said. ‘I’m with the Shabak.’ She smoked her cigarette.

‘Internal security. Of course. I bet you have a badge, too, that says, Trust me, I’m a secret agent, right?’

‘Right.’ She took a cell phone out of her jacket pocket and tapped in a string of digits. I heard the phone click at the other end as the call connected.

‘Hal-lo? Ken, rega.’

She handed me the phone. I pressed it to my ear, and listened.

‘Hi, buddy.’ It was Ezra. Clear as a bell.

‘Seriously?’

‘Trust me. This lady will keep you alive. She’s on the side of the angels.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And why are you messing around with that bullshit Grach, eh? Ask her for something proper. That pistol’s gonna get you fucked up.’ He pronounced ‘bullshit’ bool-sheet which made him sound simultaneously sinister and slightly absurd. It was no coincidence he got on with the Glaswegian Jack Nazzar so well. Everything each of them said sounded like either a joke or a threat. I pitied the fool who couldn’t work out which.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Tov. I have another surprise for you as well. It’s a really good one. I promise you’ll like it.’

‘Oh … What’s that?’

‘You’ll find out. Take care, buddy.’