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  ‘I heard what you did to Andrzej and his friends,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s talking about it. Very effective. Original, too. The number plates were a nice touch.’

  ‘I knew we were being watched.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Liberty.’

  ‘Relax, Adam. Drink?’ she said, gesturing towards a minibar.

  ‘Vodka,’ said Uzi. ‘Can I smoke?’

  ‘This is England, remember?’

  He looked at her sharply.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she said, ‘if you must. I’ll have the car cleaned later.’

  Uzi lit the cigarette he had been holding between his teeth, accepted the vodka and sat back. Liberty arranged herself in the seat like a child about to watch a film, looking at him intently. She was holding a whisky tumbler containing a cloudy white liquid, in which was a bright red straw.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, blowing smoke from his nose.

  ‘Pernod and water.’

  ‘I thought I could smell aniseed,’ said Uzi. ‘Foul. Reminds me of Arak.’

  She regarded him levelly and he noticed the smallest of quivers in her lip. Then she laughed gently. ‘No accounting for taste.’

  ‘How do you know my real name?’ said Uzi.

  ‘Always so blunt,’ said Liberty, ‘you Israelis.’ She took a sip of her Pernod through the straw, looked out of the window, looked back. ‘You shouldn’t be asking me questions. You should be thanking me.’

  ‘What for?’

  She laughed again. ‘For saving your life.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are, or why you did what you did. But you want something, that’s for sure. You’re no Good Samaritan.’

  ‘Everybody wants something,’ said Liberty, touching him lightly on the arm.

  He drank the vodka and placed the empty glass in its holder. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Just talk.’

  Liberty leaned towards him. ‘I know who you are, Adam Feldman,’ she said, and sat back again, watching his face. ‘Now tell me what you know of me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Come on, Adam. You’re a spy.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Once a spy, always a spy. It’s a curse. You’re cursed.’

  ‘I’m less cursed than I was.’

  She sighed. ‘So you know that people call me Liberty,’ she said. ‘Do you also know that I’m ex-CIA?’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I may be a black horse, but I still have contacts in the intelligence community. I’ve seen your CIA profile. We’re the same, you and I. Both ex-intelligence. Jewish. Both disillusioned with our governments. Both in the substance business, albeit on a different scale. Both out for ourselves now, and only ourselves. Fuck everyone else. Fuck the world. Am I right?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘We’ve been trained to operate as machines. We’ve done things that took away our humanity. We know things that could get us killed.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘OK, I’ll put my cards on the table. I want you to work with me. I’m running a gang of Russians, getting the goods into the UK, selling it on. I’m making a lot of money. And you know what that means: lots of people wanting a piece of the pie. I can’t trust these fucking Russians. I need someone who can speak their language, someone who has experience. Someone who isn’t scared of using direct methods where necessary. I want you to be my eyes and ears, to work to protect my interests.’

  ‘I protect my own interests. Nobody else’s.’

  ‘We’ll have the same interests. I’ll pay you well.’

  ‘You Americans think you can buy anything.’

  ‘You might be growing some good shit, but you’re not exactly a high-flyer, Adam.’

  ‘Call me Uzi, OK?’

  ‘You’re a nothing as Uzi, and you’re a nothing as Adam. A double nothing. How much are you making, five hundred a week? Work for me and you’ll be living in luxury.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about luxury. I need to keep my head low. If I attract attention to myself, it could be dangerous.’

  ‘Luxury can be discreet. The highest form of luxury always is. Look, I’m only going to say this once. I’ll pay all your expenses. I’ll deposit four thousand pounds a month into a bank account of your choice. And you’ll have protection from those Poles.’

  ‘I don’t need your protection.’

  ‘Sure.’

  There was a pause. One song stopped, and in the interval before the next one began, rain could be heard pattering on the roof. The Maybach cruised through the waterlogged streets of London, devouring the road. Liberty nodded gently to the music, drinking Pernod through her straw and looking out the window at the rain. Uzi stubbed out his cigarette. Then he poured himself another vodka and drank it.

  ‘What makes you think I’d accept?’ he said at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know who the fuck you are. You send four gorillas to pick me up in a club. You want me to work with you, but we’ve never met, really. It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘I have nothing to worry about,’ said Liberty. ‘I’ll be paying you more money than you could possibly get anywhere else. That tends to ensure loyalty. And like I said, I’ve seen your profile. I think we’re the same.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question. What makes you think I’d accept?’

  She leaned closer. ‘Two reasons. One, you’ve got nothing to lose. Two, you’ve got everything to gain.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong,’ said Uzi. ‘I work for myself, nobody else. I’m surprised your CIA contacts didn’t tell you that. And anyway, if my government found out I was working with an ex-CIA operative, they’d fuck me.’

  ‘They wouldn’t. You’re not working for them any more, remember? And I’m no longer CIA. Anyway, America and Israel are the best of friends.’

  ‘You think?’ said Uzi bitterly.

  For a moment they stared at each other. At last, Liberty spoke. ‘All right, leave it. Would you like another drink?’

  ‘Give me one for the road and drive me back to the club,’ said Uzi. ‘You’ve taken up enough of my time tonight.’

  Half an hour later he was standing alone, on the rain-washed pavement, his right hand under his arm, fingering the handle of his Glock as he watched the Maybach roar away into the darkness. In his left hand was a business card with nothing but a mobile number printed in black across the middle. He had no intention of calling the number. He put it in his pocket and took shelter under an awning to smoke a cigarette. Then he made his way back into the club.

  15

  The following morning Uzi awoke, terrified, from a dream that he couldn’t remember. His mouth was moistureless and his tongue felt like a slab of wood. For a while he spoke to the Kol, under his breath. As usual, he was told to believe in himself. He smoked a spliff and took two aspirins with a large glass of salted water and lemon, a hangover cure he had picked up in Russia. Then, late for work, he caught the bus to Hendon.

  All morning he thought of nothing but Liberty. Her proposal added up perfectly. They were the same, she and him. He knew that he would be an asset to her business, that with his help it would grow. But working with a partner always meant uncertainty, and uncertainty always meant danger, particularly without an organisation to fall back on. And if he was seen to be consorting with an ex-CIA operative, there would be nothing his horses – or what was left of them – could do. The Office was renowned for jealously guarding its assets and intelligence, and would act ruthlessly to protect it. He had seen it happen before. He would be done for. This was what he pondered as he sat in the shed, lifting the barrier occasionally for a teacher or parent or caretaker. But there was another reason not to get involved with Liberty, one that he felt in his gut. The way her proposal added up was just a little too perfect, and the way she had come into his life just a little too contrived. Perhaps it was paranoia; maybe Avner was right, maybe he was
suffering from spy syndrome. But it all felt too well planned. Believe in yourself, Uzi, he thought. Don’t forget who you are. Believe.

  There was a tap at the door of the shed. Through the window he could see the outline of a schoolgirl. He opened the door.

  ‘You’ve been expecting me,’ said Gal.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you. What have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Dyed it. Ever heard of that?’ She nudged past him and into the shed. He closed the door behind her. Her hair was now raven-black and swept across her forehead. It made her eyes look as vivid as sapphires. Around one of her wrists was a stack of black bracelets. They were new as well. ‘Have you found my iPhone?’ she said. Again, her shirt was being pulled to the side by her rucksack. Again, the sliver of underwear. Again, the little swell of breast, but now a heart had been drawn on to the skin with felt-tip pen.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m thinking of getting a tattoo,’ said Gal. ‘I’m updating myself while my parents are away in Israel.’ She pulled her shirt a little lower to reveal more of her breast, fading from bronze to white. Again, the rush of electricity to his groin. She pointed to the felt-tip heart. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Updating yourself?’

  ‘Yeah. You should think about it once in a while.’

  He shrugged, waiting for the question that he knew would come.

  ‘So did you bring the stuff?’

  ‘No. I forgot,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, you forgot? You forgot I saw you with drugs on school premises? Or you forgot to keep your side of the deal?’

  ‘You’re full of shit, you know that?’ he said.

  ‘I want my stuff.’

  ‘Fine, kid. Fine. I’ll bring it tomorrow.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Kilburn.’

  ‘OK. Let’s drive there after school, OK? Pick up my stuff.’

  ‘I don’t have a car.’

  ‘I do.’ She gave him a withering look and headed for the door. ‘Three thirty.’ She sniffed, turned and was gone.

  The phone rang. It was Avner. As soon as he heard his voice, Uzi hung up. He needed to think. He checked his two-way radio was working, went across the road and had a cigarette. The nicotine gave him a buzz, calmed him. He smoked another. Then he returned to the shed. When he got there, the phone was ringing again.

  ‘Look, Avner . . .’ The line went dead.

  For the rest of the day, Uzi was alone with his thoughts. He dwelled on how effectively the Office turned people from idealistic, open-minded recruits into cold-blooded, self-serving operatives. He remembered the sociometric sessions, where trainees were encouraged to rate each other’s performances in front of their peers, brutally and openly, no holds barred. Several times people broke down, and fights sometimes erupted. At the time it seemed like just another challenge. It was only later that he realised how the Office was moulding his character, and the characters of those around him. The recruits responded to the pressure by forming allegiances and gangs. They started to double-cross each other. Any sense of trust was wiped permanently from their psyches; they had become different people, harder people, and there was no way back.

  After the assassination of Anne-Marie, he had made an appointment to see Yigal. To share his burden of guilt. To seek reassurance that his first hit had been justified. Instead, he was ordered, in no uncertain terms, not to ‘become a man who thinks too much’, or he ‘wouldn’t be around very long’. This memory, which marked the first step on his journey to disillusionment, caused everything to come back to him in a rapid succession of images, voices, memories: the drug smuggling, the arms deals, the money laundering, the corruption, the sex, the assassinations, the double-deals, the disregard for life, the money, the coldness of the money. The advancement of Israel at all costs. As if awakening from a slumber, he had gradually become a man who thinks too much. And some years later, after Operation Cinnamon, he had finally made the decision to escape. Too late.

  Ram Shalev. The picture of him in the garden, his wife, his two children. Trees, blue sky, button-down shirt. Uzi had known him a little, and he had always come across as a decent man. One of the few, perhaps, who had been drawn to politics for the right reasons – it wasn’t impossible. Killed because he had found out that his government was scheming to bomb a fictional target in Iran, just to inject some patriotic vigour into the country before the election. Killed by Operation Cinnamon, killed – among others – by Uzi. Killed by his own countrymen; killed by the very people who were supposed to protect him.

  At three thirty exactly, Gal knocked on the door of the shed. The felt-tip heart had been washed off; when Uzi asked her about it she pretended not to have heard him. She drove a purple Volkswagen Beetle. Her parents, she said, had bought it for her when she turned seventeen. They drove away, ignoring the stares of the crowd of girls clustered around the bus stop.

  ‘So what are you doing in England?’ she asked him, eyes on the road. Her hand was resting on the gear stick and he fought the urge to cup it with his own. He looked out of the window at the grey autumn sky, which stretched dismally above them.

  ‘You know,’ he said at length. ‘I just needed to get out of Israel.’

  ‘I never want to leave when I’m there,’ she replied, ‘I love it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s our land.’ There was no irony in her voice. He looked at her; there was no irony in her expression either.

  ‘What about England?’ he said.

  ‘England’s my country, not my land.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that. You were in the army, right?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘So.’ She stopped talking to concentrate on negotiating a roundabout. They were silent for a while. He wondered what she would say if she knew that the people who govern her land were going to attack Iran on false pretences, and would kill anyone who stood in their way, even fellow Israelis. That he was planning to stop them.

  She turned on the radio. ‘I’m joining the IDF once I finish school,’ she said over the music.

  ‘The army?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s our land,’ she said. ‘The only democracy in the Middle East. Our home. Our people.’

  ‘Good for you,’ he said darkly.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, giving him a brief, disgusted look. ‘What were you fighting for?’

  Uzi had no idea how to answer that question. He continued to look out of the window. She was from a different world, this girl, a different time. She reminded him, somehow, of the sea; of his parents, his sun-drenched childhood, the beach. With this girl he could have stayed up all night playing guitar, discussing which army unit they wanted to join. They could have drunk beer and gone to parties, swum naked in the ocean. She could have watched him fooling around with his friends in the Negev desert, doing stunts and jumps on dirt bikes. They could have hiked in the mountains, explored the ancient, biblical ravines, lain on their stomachs on the earth and fired M16s on target ranges. He looked at her again, silhouetted against the greyness of London, and was torn between an impulse to make love to her and extinguish her life with his hands.

  ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to kill?’ he said.

  She didn’t take her eyes off the road. ‘That would depend who you were killing and why.’

  ‘There’s only ever one victim, and only ever one motive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it.’

  She gave him a sidelong look. ‘This is getting heavy,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘It was you who made it heavy.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Have you heard of Esther Cailingold?’ said Gal suddenly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Esther Cailingold. A British schoolteacher. She fought in the War of Independence in 1948. At the age of twenty-three she was killed in the defence of Jerusalem.’

  ‘Your point is?’


  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m doing a project on her at school.’

  ‘OK, OK. Turn right here. I live there on the corner.’

  ‘Nice neighbourhood.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  Uzi instructed Gal to stop the car a block away from his flat, where a gang of hooded teenagers were eating out of cardboard boxes. A swirl of grimy leaves fluttered across the bonnet. ‘I’m not getting out,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for you here. With the windows closed.’

  ‘Have you heard of Arik?’ said Uzi, opening the door.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ariel Sharon.’

  ‘Of course I have. Think I’m stupid?’

  ‘In 1982 he was found guilty of allowing thousands of Palestinian civilians to be massacred. A government report called for him to be dismissed from his post, that he should never hold public office again.’

  ‘You mean Ariel Sharon who later became prime minister?’

  ‘No, Ariel Sharon the peace activist,’ he said drily.

  ‘Look, Daniel. I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me.’

  ‘Nor do I, kid. But I do know what you’re trying to say to me.’

  He went up to the apartment alone and got the dope. With the eighth in his fingers, he crouched on the floor, his eyes screwed tightly shut, dissolving himself into the blackness. Then he rose and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the shadow of bristles across his chin, the lines etched around his mouth, across his forehead, the eyes that could devour the world. He ran the water and splashed his face again and again. Then he checked the cyst on his shoulder. It was sore today. I am starting to forget who I am, he thought. He dried himself with a towel and went downstairs to the street.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she said.

  Without a word, Uzi got into the car and tossed the eighth on to the dashboard. Gal handed him a twenty-pound note and he pocketed it. But he didn’t move.

  ‘Er, hello?’ said Gal. ‘This is where we go our separate ways.’