There was no police car waiting for me, no snatch squad; and if there was a sniper watching, he was sitting tight. I made it up the stairs and pushed open the doors to the hotel, treading carefully across the marble floor. Only the night manager’s lamp lit the lobby. He was asleep in his chair, neck crooked at an impossible angle. I looked at his thorax. Breathing. I cleared my throat and he roused himself, tightening the tie under his creased white collar.

‘Shalom,’ I said. And then in English: ‘Room 101, please. Has anyone asked after me?’

He composed himself and leaned forward, looking at me, through me. His mouth opened, but the reply came from behind.

‘No, they haven’t.’ The harsh syllables rang with a seductive edge. I splayed my fingers out, hands wide of my sides, and turned: black hair, pale face, cheekbones like knives.

‘Hello, Talia.’

‘Good morning, Mr McLean. Quite the holiday you’re having.’

‘It’s been enlightening, shall we say.’ She stood staring at me, right hand in her coat pocket. Left hand holding a cell phone. ‘Nine millimetre,’ I said, ‘in the back of my jeans. Just so there are no misunderstandings.’

She nodded and I extracted the Jericho with my thumb and forefinger from my Levi’s. I crouched and put it on the floor at arm’s length and then stood up straight again. The night manager circled around me, Glock 19 at the ready. They had the place locked down. She told me to kick the Jericho to him and I did. He picked it up and moved behind me again, out of sight.

‘I guess it’s over between us, then.’

Her lips lifted into a half-smile. ‘On the contrary. It’s not me I’m worried about getting shot. This is just – how shall we say – an insurance policy.’

‘Sure. How is Moshe, by the way?’

‘Dead. We found him this afternoon. Shot through the heart with a police pistol.’

She turned and held the street door open for me. That he’d been killed was not surprising; how he’d been killed was profoundly alarming.

‘I see,’ I said, trying not to take the bait. ‘Tell me, why “the Traitor”? He served you well in Lebanon.’

‘Why? I will tell you why. The Palestinians. The Iranians. Even the Russians. They are our enemies.’ She stood close to me. I could feel her breath on my lips, smell the musk of a long day clinging to her clothes. ‘They want Israel to fall. All this,’ she looked around the lobby as if it encompassed the extent of her aspirations, ‘gone.’ She clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. ‘But an enemy is just an enemy. A traitor was once a friend. Even so, don’t blame us, Mr McLean. Moshe Mendel Katz had many enemies of his own.’