Angela had arranged to meet Yosef Ben Halevi in a bar just off Jabotinsky, near the Ha’Azma’ut Garden and the Hilton Beach. It was only a short walk in the relative cool of the evening, but Bronson decided they’d take the pretty route, simply so he could satisfy himself that they weren’t being followed. So instead of walking straight down Hayark or Ben Yehuda, they followed the Havakook pedestrian walkway past the Sheraton Beach, and then cut through the Hilton Hotel itself. The city was buzzing, elegantly dressed couples strolling beside the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean as the sun sank below the western horizon in a chaotic artist’s palette of primary colors—reds and blues and yellows. But once they entered the tangle of narrow streets to the east of the Ha’Azma’ut Garden—many named after the world’s major cities, like Basel, Frankfurt and Prague—the scene changed. The hotels were replaced by white-painted low-rise apartment buildings, four and five stories high, walls studded with air-conditioning units, their ground floors a scattering of bars and shops, emblazoned with unfamiliar and exotic signs in Hebrew.
