‘It’s definitely a gallery.’ He typed some more. ‘A gallery bar. Art and cocktails. “The most relaxed VIP vibe in Tel Aviv.”’ He looked over the screen at me. ‘It’s a few blocks south of here, in the centre of town.’

‘I wonder,’ I said, finishing my coffee, ‘if the punters know they’re buying Moshe’s interpretations?’

28

Baaz and I got out of the taxi simultaneously and cut north, across Rothschild Boulevard, up Allenby Street. I’d assumed we’d be followed. So, as a precaution, we’d changed car three times, splitting up for an hour and then rejoining for the final, short drive. I couldn’t discount the possibility that Talia had given me her book of matches by accident – but equally I’d never seen or heard the Israelis do anything that wasn’t deliberate. Whatever the case, even the slimmest edge of surprise counted for something.

There were any number of ways the visit to Gallery 7 could play out. In anticipation of it going wildly wrong – which wasn’t unlikely – I’d spent the rest of the morning familiarizing Baaz with the SIG semi-auto. By the time we left the hotel he could strip, reassemble and load it, make ready and make safe. He said he’d never even picked up a gun before, but after an initial bout of unease his fingers moved confidently around the steel frame. The point at which Baaz needed to use my pistol was the point at which it probably didn’t matter whether he managed to successfully or not. But instructing him gave us something to talk about other than endless unanswerable questions and intractable equations.

We went through the basics of what to do if the shit hit the fan (if he forgot everything else, just get small, fast), and then I’d broached the delicate issue of concealment: there was no way I was walking to the bar unarmed, and no way I could risk trying to conceal a weapon from the inevitable security search at the entrance.

‘No!’ he’d said at first, so vehemently that I was physically taken aback. ‘Impossible. I’m not a bloody Nihang warrior. It’s manha. Forbidden. Totally out of the question.’

It had taken an afternoon of persuasion and perseverance, but eventually he agreed – on the condition that he did it himself, entirely alone and without me looking, never mind helping. I consented. And forty-five minutes later Baaz had emerged from the bathroom resplendent in his now oversized, tightly wrapped crimson turban – this time concealing not just his hair but also the compact frame of the SIG 9mm.

‘OK,’ I’d said, ‘now you have to practise walking and talking. Back straight, no nodding. Think of it like spy finishing school.’ He didn’t laugh.