‘OK, well for God’s sake sit down; we look like a right pair.’ He drew up the bar stool next to me. ‘Actually, no,’ I said, changing my mind. ‘Let’s go outside.’ And then to the barman: ‘Another one of those please, and one for my friend here.’

‘Tea, please,’ Baaz corrected me. ‘I don’t drink.’

I raised my eyebrows at the barman in mock-exasperation and he smiled back, offering to bring the drinks to our table.

‘And a Johnnie Walker Black, too,’ I added. ‘Actually, make it a double. Straight up.’

Outside, we settled into the linen-covered cushions that padded out the wooden patio furniture. Tel Aviv glimmered on either side of us – but dead ahead only sea and sky stretched to the horizon. Ships’ lights swayed on the black tide. Above, inbound aircraft slipped blinking between glowing clouds. The marina south of the hotel was full of boats but empty of people.

‘So,’ I asked. ‘Who is Talia?’

‘I don’t know, but she was hot,’ he said so ingenuously that it was hard not to take him at face value. ‘She was waiting for me at immigration,’ he added. ‘It was awesome. I didn’t have to wait in line or anything. She just took my passport and waved me through. She even got me a taxi.’

‘A taxi?’

‘A really nice one, with leather seats and blacked-out windows.’

‘I see. And the, uh, taxi driver brought you here?’

‘Yes. I didn’t even have to pay.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘you wouldn’t.’

‘Was that,’ he leaned in closer, ‘all part of, you know, government work?’

Was it possible for anyone to be so brilliant and so stupid? Every alarm bell that nearly three decades of experience had hardwired into me was going off simultaneously. And yet here he was, clever, infuriating and – for all I could gauge – entirely genuine.

‘We’re just friends on holiday, OK?’ I cautioned him.

He nodded. I looked around. The other guests looked like tourists and travellers. No self-respecting Israeli sits outside in January. A gay couple perched on the other side of the pool, talking discreetly over dinner. Two women shared a bottle of wine and a plate of mezze three tables to our left. A lone smoker sat by the railing, staring out to sea. He was clothed in an ill-fitting business suit and an air of regret. None of them looked like professional killers. But then we never do. And short of pulling the SIG on them, I was unlikely to find out if one, none or all of them worked for the Shabak, or whomever the two Talias took orders from – or guarded against.

The waiter put our drinks and a bowl of French fries glistening with salt flakes on the table between us. I turned back to Baaz.

‘And if this Talia hadn’t found you, how were you going to find me?’

‘At the university,’ he said. ‘Obviously.’