‘No, Baaz. I’m trying to save her.’

He started to drum his fingers lightly on the table.

‘You keep asking me what the number on that banknote means, like it has to mean something, like if it does mean something then you’ll be able to help her. Right?’

‘Right.’ I put the glass to my lips and swallowed the last mouthful of Goldstar. ‘And by the way, you said it meant something, not me.’

‘OK, true. But this brute force business is bloody stressful. Do you want me to help you find a shortcut or are you going to point your gun at everyone we meet?’

‘Pretty much. But sure, knock yourself out.’

‘All right, but there’s no “I” in “team”. If you want me to help, then you have to level with me.’

‘I have to what?’

‘Level with me. You want to solve the equation? Then we have to balance it first. And I can’t do the bloody sums if I don’t know the bloody numbers.’

‘But you do know the numbers.’ I looked around for the waiter, impatient for another beer. ‘You said you couldn’t forget them if you tried.’ I held up a single finger to the barman mixing a cocktail on the other side of the French windows. He nodded and I turned back to Baaz.

‘Not the numbers numbers,’ he said. ‘I mean everything. You, her, the secret mission. That’s the real equation.’

‘Baaz, you’re in enough trouble as it is. The more you know …’ I paused as the waiter appeared with a small dish of roasted almonds, ‘the worse it’s going to get.’

‘Who led you to the Traitor? Who bought you your bloody plane ride, anyway?’ His voice was rising, scratchy and emotional. ‘Just a kid, am I? A stupid kid you had to save in the catacombs, who’s got in the way ever since? I don’t think so.’ His fingers fell still. And – unlike during his other outbursts – his eyes were dry, and looking directly into mine. ‘So, what do you want to do?’ he continued. ‘Sit on your arse and drink beer all day or do some bloody work?’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘You’ve earned that.’

And he had. The catacombs had been a bloodbath. In the space of three days I’d saved his life, tried to lose him, tried to kill him, and then co-opted him. And in return he’d saved me in Paris, put everything at risk by following me to Israel, and applied himself with more success than I’d had to working out the possible meanings of the hundred-dollar bill. I’d taken him half into my confidence and my conscience – unsure whether he was an asset or a liability, a mate or a mark.