‘All you can be certain of,’ he concluded, ‘is that whatever route he has taken, your Mr Franklin here has been on an incredible journey.’ He stubbed his cigarette out and leaned towards us. Baaz and I leaned in, too. ‘But I think you already know,’ he said, cocking his head to one side, ‘that the real question is not where the bill was printed, but what it was printed for.’

25

‘What now?’

Baaz and I stood at the south-east entrance to Mea She’arim, hands in our pockets.

‘Food,’ I said. ‘I’m starving. The Old City is that way.’ Baaz looked doubtful. ‘You’ll like it. Trust me.’

Five minutes later we passed underneath the pale stone arch of the Damascus Gate like a couple of jaded tourists and into the warren of narrow streets. Israel Defence Forces soldiers milled around. Elderly stallholders shouted out their wares in Palestinian Arabic. Tourist tat flooded the shopfronts: nargilehs jostled for space alongside alabaster models of the Dome of the Rock, menorahs with crucifixes; Yasser Arafats rubbed shoulders with Jesuses of Nazareth. Brightly coloured cloths hung down above the covered walkways; beneath our feet the smooth stone blocks that paved the Via Dolorosa led us on deeper into the maze of alleyways.

Scruffy kids, delivery men and tourist touts shouted and growled, coughed and whispered around us and through us and to us. Hijabed women in elegant abayas picked their way through the chaos, seemingly oblivious to the street theatre unfolding around them. Here and there a blue and white Star of David draped against the stonework – but the black, red and green of the Palestinian flag was everywhere. We followed briefly in the footsteps of Christ before I showed Baaz into the Al-Quds Café – a decent joint that served strong coffee and good street food.

Outside, half a dozen American girls sat by the door giggling, juggling water pipes and fingers full of kibbeh. Inside, the waiter greeted us in English and showed us to a table at the back.

I ordered mezze. Before Baaz could speak, I added: ‘Just the vegetarian stuff, please. No meat. And two glasses of fruit juice. Oh, and some extra hummus for my friend.’

Baaz relaxed.

The walls were hung with carpets, the tables topped with beaten metal. The food came quickly. We ate in silence. When he’d finished, Baaz gulped down the last of his juice and sat back in his chair. Crumbs of lakhma clung to the wisps of his beard. I pointed to the side of his mouth and he licked his lips like a cat.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘But what are we going to do now?’

‘Order coffee,’ I said.