I kept my mouth shut. Connecting me to Doc’s death was pure speculation on her behalf. It had worked, too. There I was, after all. But as for why I was there? They weren’t getting that for free. They couldn’t know how I knew Rachel, and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t know how Talia was getting her information. Maybe the Shabak had a tap on Lukov’s phone. Maybe he’d sold her our conversation. Whatever the case, Talia had eased my conscience. According to her account, Rachel went missing before Doc Levy had been killed. His death hadn’t put her at risk; unwittingly or not she might have endangered him.

‘And the note?’ Talia asked, breaking the silence. ‘The hundred-dollar bill?’

‘It’s in a safe place,’ I said. By which I meant that it was folded up in my jeans.

‘We offer a very good rate against the shekel.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

She crushed out her half-smoked cigarette and nudged the heavy white plastic bag an inch closer to me. I took the pistol out. It was a compact SIG M11-A1 with customized polymer grips and a fifteen-round magazine – a military version of the P229 I carried out of preference. Ezra had briefed her well. I eased the slide back a fraction. The chamber was clear. I dropped the clip: 9mm NATO ball.

‘Take these, too,’ she said, pushing the cigarettes towards me. ‘I quit.’

I stuck the handgun in my belt, stuffed the Marlboros and matches into my pocket.

‘How will I find you?’ I asked. ‘If I feel like ratfucking.’

‘Look in the phone book,’ she said. ‘You’ll find us under S.’ I made to leave. ‘Oh, one more thing, before you go. A word of advice, if I may?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

‘In this country, “following orders” is considered poor justification for murder.’

22

‘Goldstar, please. Unfiltered.’

The barman nodded and tipped a frosted glass beneath a tap set high above the counter. I sat on the bar stool and stared at my hands. If it was true that you were only ever as good as your last job, I was screwed. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my thigh. The bullet wounds weren’t improving. At least the bar was halfway decent – for a hotel joint, anyway. A gentle breeze was blowing. One of the three pairs of French windows leading to a decked terrace that overlooked the sea had been left open. Waiters serving guests who wanted to smoke traipsed in and out. Sodium-lit clouds peppered the sky beyond the glass. My bedroom window had the same view, one floor higher up.