I looked around for Baaz, but there was no sign of him in the crowd on the other side of the room. While blondie poured the Scotch, I dialled the number in the book of matches and counted the rings. On the sixth tone the line clicked. Coming back to me, in a distorted reverb, was the fractionally delayed thump-thump-thump of the music smothering the bar. Avraham Landau was on the premises.

‘What the fucking shit do you want, Yossi? I told you not to disturb me.’ Pure foul-mouthed mother-tongue Russian. I took a deep breath.

‘I’ve got a problem,’ I said, also in Russian. ‘At the bar.’

‘Then fucking deal with it,’ came the reply.

‘Nyet,’ I said. ‘It’s a big problem. Shabak.’

‘Fuck. OK. Offer them a drink on the house. I’ll come down.’

I hung up and exchanged the handset for a heavy tumbler of whisky. As I did so, Baaz sidled up beside me. The plan was a simple one: he would remove the SIG from his turban in the bathroom, retie it and then hide the pistol in his folded jacket – which he would then pass to me in the dimly lit jostle of the bar. He stood next to me, nervously swaying from one foot to the other, out of time with the music.

I stepped back from the bar to give a lone, black-eyed woman with an elaborate hairdo and an expensive smile a shot at getting served.

‘OK, let me have it.’ I was looking over Baaz’s shoulder, scanning the room for any response to my call. He didn’t move. ‘Baaz?’ I faced him properly. He was rooted to the spot. He was still wearing his jacket.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There was a … a problem.’

‘What, in the bathroom?’

He nodded. I looked around. A short guy with a black ponytail, wearing a red shirt and a deep frown, bounced down the stairs. Avraham Landau. I watched him skirt around the customers and rock up to the bar. The frown evaporated into a shit-eating grin.

‘Yossi,’ I saw him mouth at the barman in Russian. ‘Where are our friends?’

The barman shrugged, kicking off the inevitable ‘you said, he said’ exchange.

‘Baaz, I need it now. Is it in the bathroom?’ He nodded, eyes downcast. Landau put his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling. The barman was looking for me. ‘Fuck it. Which stall is it in?’

‘It’s in …’

‘Where, Baaz? Where is it?’

He looked up at me, eyes pleading. ‘It’s in the hotel. I couldn’t do it. It’s not … It’s forbidden.’ Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

The barman clocked me and turned to his boss.

Fuck.

I gave Baaz my whisky glass and headed straight towards them. The barman’s hands went under the countertop.

Two metres.