Our waiter materialised at our elbow, so to speak. 'I am sorry, but we are closing now,' he told us.

I felt so exhausted. 'But you said it was open twenty-four hours...'

'Ah yes, it is,' he said, 'but we close for some of them during Ramadan.'

We staggered wearily out into the street again and fumbled for the guidebook. It was nearly three o'clock now and the customers were dispersing. I scanned the map hopefully but there was nothing else on it of any use, and anyway whatever it was would undoubtedly close as soon as we sat down. The waiter emerged and started locking up.

'Do you know of anywhere else we could go to that may be open?' I asked him.

He considered this. 'I think there is nowhere now,' he said, indicating the time. He walked off briskly without a second glance.

Remembering the street fighting, I began to wonder if we should just head for the nearest hotel and get a room for a few hours. Simon, in desperation, had been stopping random pedestrians as they left the café, and now he called me over. He was with a small, thin man with a moustache and hunched shoulders, who had not been in the café but just passing by. I thought impulsively that he seemed very suspicious.

'I know a place,' he told us, beckoning us to go with him.