But of anything that could have been a traitor’s gate, there was no obvious indication.

‘These jokers love their spray paint. Shame you can’t speak Hebrew,’ Baaz said. ‘All this graffiti might mean something.’

He had a point. I tried and failed to read the slogans daubed on practically every flat surface and marvelled at how anyone had managed to get up high enough to deface the upper storey.

‘Like, what does that mean?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘You see there? On the far left-hand wall, on the other side of the main entrance.’

I followed Baaz’s gaze. Stencilled on to the yellow stone wall between a metal gate and a wooden door were the black outlines of an oblong divided into three horizontal stripes. On the left-hand side a triangle cut into the middle stripe. There was no colour, no tag line, no explanation – but the meaning was clear.

‘Bingo.’ Baaz furrowed his brow. I stubbed out the cigarette and savoured instead the momentary rush of unprofessional pleasure at having outsmarted him. ‘That, clever clogs, is the outline of the Palestinian flag.’ We walked over to it. The bolts of the metal gate to its left were secured by a small rusted padlock. The door to the right was fastened with a simple latch. ‘And I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that this,’ I said, knuckles rapping on the painted metal, ‘is the traitor’s gate.’

Pigeons startled by the noise soared into the air and then settled on the gutter above. The men standing opposite called out to someone crossing the street further down and walked off. From inside there was nothing except the echo of my knocking in the void beyond.

I counted to ten and banged on the door again, harder this time, smacking the steel with the heel of my palm. After a few seconds I could hear movement within, and then voices.

‘Rega, ani ba.’

Another pause. Then metal on metal. The door swung open a foot.

‘Rosh chidesh tov.’

We were greeted by a strong smell of turpentine, and by a thickset man with a full grey beard, and a cautious expression framed by coils of messy payot – spring-like extensions of hair tumbling past his cheeks. Five-eight, two hundred pounds – and that was a lowball. A black waistcoat strained over his belly, decorated with what looked like the remnants of his breakfast egg. His face was flushed red with whatever exertions had brought him to the door. The sum of his parts added up to a heart attack about to happen.

A cigarette burned down almost to the stub was wedged between the fingers of his right hand. They were stained a dark, nicotine yellow. Under his left palm, the close-cropped head of a small boy, no more than four or five years old.

‘Max,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew.’