The Pure Page 11

  ‘You said your parents are away in Israel, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gal said slowly.

  ‘We’ll go to your place, then. Watch a movie or something.’

  Gal paused, then smiled, then laughed, then started the engine. ‘You army guys are all the same,’ she said casually. ‘I love it.’ She turned up the music loud.

  16

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘My dad always has beer in the fridge. And there’s wine in the rack, whisky, gin . . .’

  ‘One of your dad’s beers would be fine.’

  ‘OK. Do you want a yellow one or a brown one?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Look, there are two colours.’

  ‘Oh. A lager. The yellow one.’

  The house, on the outskirts of Golders Green, was just as he had expected. Large, comfortable, lived-in: spacious garden overgrown around the edges, oversized television facing a well-used sofa; half-read magazines, Post-it notes on the mirrors, piles of paperwork and books. He followed Gal up several flights of stairs to the loft extension, which smelled of new carpets. As they walked up the stairs, his face was at the level of her hips.

  ‘You’re good at that,’ she said as he rolled the spliff. ‘A pro.’

  ‘Practice,’ he said, and lit up. She opened the skylight and turned on a desk lamp. Her phone rang, and she turned it off. Then she put on some music and lay sideways on the bed. He joined her; their legs touched. He sent smoke rings up to the ceiling.

  ‘So you’re seventeen,’ he said.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘A little older.’

  ‘Old enough to be my father?’

  ‘A young father perhaps.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘If I had one, would I be here?’

  ‘Come on, Daniel. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No wife. Not that you have to worry about it.’

  They smoked.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ said Gal, breaking a comfortable silence.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I can see you’re hurting, Daniel. I can see you’ve been through a lot. That’s a sacrifice, you know. You’ve given a part of yourself for your country. Your hurt is a gift to your people. It’s wonderful. I mean it. It’s heroic.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘I don’t need to. Our land depends on people like you accepting burdens that almost destroy you. I’ll bet lots of your friends gave their lives, but you continue to give. You give till it hurts for your country. People like you are the real heroes, the quiet heroes of our people.’

  Uzi tried to laugh but no sound would come. He looked over at the person beside him, her unlined face, her clear eyes looking into his, her lips which could smile forever without losing their joy. She didn’t look real. She sucked on the spliff and little threads of smoke traced the contours of her face. He thought of a word. Then it passed from his mind without a trace. He got up.

  In the bathroom, he looked out of the window at the sky. It was dark and starless above, and an orange light from the streetlamps was glowing. Of course he was married, technically at least. You had to be married to be a Katsa. This was one of the most glaring ironies of the organisation. Sex in the Office was free and rampant: secretaries, Katsas, wives of Katsas, agents, technicians, translators, audio specialists. The sexual connections went back and forth, web after web, trophy after trophy. But so long as you were married, it was all right. If you were married, you were less vulnerable to bribes. That was the official line.

  He took out his Glock – he carried it everywhere now – and aimed it at the bathroom door. He imagined killing the girl, walking calmly into her room and shooting her the way he’d been taught, six times in the body followed by a single shot to the temple. He knew exactly what he would do then, how he would set up the murder scene, remove fingerprints, make a swift and anonymous escape, avoid witnesses, evade detection and capture. It would be easy – an easy thing to do. It would be simple.

  ‘Uzi.’

  ‘You again.’

  ‘This is dangerous, Uzi. You’re losing your grip.’

  ‘Maybe I am. But a voice in my head isn’t helping.’

  ‘You’re better than this.’

  ‘Than what?’

  ‘Stay focused. Remember who you are.’

  Uzi opened up the Glock and emptied all the bullets into his hand. Then he placed them in the pocket of his jacket – he was still wearing his jacket – and concealed his gun again. Weird, he thought. Weird what things can do to a man.

  He left the bathroom and saw Gal sitting on the end of her bed, her back to him, hunched over her computer. Facebook. Her neck – something about her neck. So tender. He suddenly felt as if a hole was opening in the centre of his chest, and he was filled with an overwhelming feeling of affection for the girl, love streaming out of him. She was only a little older than Noam, he guessed; Noam his son, Noam who he knew he would no longer be able to recognise. He walked quietly up behind her and stretched out his hand. It hovered just above her shoulder for a second, two seconds, three, four, and then dropped back down to his side. He sat down heavily on the bed, and she yelped with alarm.

  ‘Shit, you scared me, Daniel.’

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing?’

  ‘Take it easy.’ She finished what she was doing, slid over next to him and put her arm across his shoulders. ‘Like I said, you’re hurting. I’ve seen it before. You’re carrying a burden. Plus you’re stoned.’ She took his calloused hands in both of hers and began to kiss them, slowly, each finger, each joint, one by one. He stared at her, this girl, this child, kissing his hand. He stared at her and did not know what to feel.

  His phone went off. He pulled his hand away and answered it. Gal drew back and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, moving out of earshot.

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Squeal? Is that you?’

  ‘Tommy, listen to me.’

  ‘Speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘There are people in your apartment. I can hear them.’

  ‘What? Which people?’

  The line went dead.

  17

  Uzi stopped the taxi two blocks from his building and stepped into the clammy chill of the autumn darkness. It was a normal night, like any other. The buses groaning through the streets, the graffiti on the bus stops, the people, drunk, veering across pavements. He approached his apartment on foot, sticking to the shadows. From the outside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. No lights were on, there was no sign of disturbance. He phoned Squeal again, and still there was no answer. He cracked his knuckles and put an unlit cigarette between his lips. All his senses were alert.

  The only way to approach his flat was up the main stairs and through the front door. That was why he had chosen it. It was easy to escape from the window, being only on the second floor, but difficult to break into from the outside. He walked up to the entrance of his building and slipped in as a neighbour went out. The foyer had a motion-sensitive light which cast a faltering neon glow over the stairwell. He found the fusebox under the stairs; when the lights went out, he disabled them so that his arrival would go unnoticed. Then, in the dark, he loaded his Glock and stowed it in his jacket pocket. As quietly as he could, he ascended, chewing his unlit cigarette.

  Uzi’s mind felt clear and alert, and his breathing was barely audible. A white-hot rage was brewing in him, streamlining his focus, giving him strength. On the first floor he could smell home cooking, and hear the clatter of pans, the alternating rhythm of voices. He was about to go up to the floor above when there was a noise from below. The click of a door. The wind? He took his Glock out of his pocket and listened. For a few seconds, nothing. Then the sound of somebody creeping up the stairs towards him.

  Uzi took up a position in a doorway and transferre
d his gun to his left hand, aiming it into the blackness above the stairs. The footsteps got louder, the sound of breathing, the jangle of keys. Then a man appeared and, unaware that a gun was aimed at his head, entered the door opposite. Uzi concealed his Glock in his pocket again and carried on up to the second floor.

  Everything looked normal. The door of his flat was closed, a newspaper still on the mat, angled as he’d left it. He ran his finger along the door; his piece of chewing gum was still there, bridging the door and the frame. He relaxed slightly. He rang Squeal’s bell, and rang it again; nobody answered. But the smell of dope was strong. Through the letterbox he could see him lying on the sofa in a stupor, a burnt-out spliff in his fingers, his mobile on the floor. He cursed under his breath. Squeal just smoked too much and got paranoid, he thought. There’s no danger.

  He broke the piece of gum and let himself into his apartment, still holding his Glock in his pocket. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place. His computer desk, his slick, his sofa and TV. His fridge. He turned the lights on. Everything exactly as he’d left it. He made his way through to the kitchen.

  As he was opening the fridge, he heard a sound. He was unsure what it was; a click, an echo, the pipes maybe, or a mouse. But he was on edge, and ready for anything. He drew his gun and removed the safety-catch. Then he prowled through the flat, rehearsing what he would have done if there had really been an intruder, going through the procedure in his mind. He went from the sitting room to the bathroom, parted the shower curtain with his gun, then on into his bedroom. Bed, desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers. Nobody was there.

  Just as he turned to leave the room, he became aware of somebody standing behind him. He half-turned and saw a figure almost within reach, and another directly behind. Time seemed to stand still. He shouted, tried to spin, to aim his gun, but it was too late. The men were there, arms outstretched. Their hands were on him. His arm was twisted and the Glock ripped from his grasp in a single expert move. As he fought he felt a scratch to his neck. Chemicals entered his bloodstream and suddenly his legs felt like rubber. He bellowed, stumbled, and crashed into the wardrobe. The rubberiness turned to numbness, spreading throughout his body. Within seconds he had fallen to the floor, feeling like he was open to the wind. He knew what had happened. He had been disarmed using a straightforward Krav Maga technique then given a neuromuscular blocker. He had done this countless times himself.

  His vision blurred, then sharpened. Two men, nondescript, casually dressed. Neither had made any effort to disguise their identity: Shilo and Laufer, old hands from London Station, both with nasty reputations. One of them closed the curtains. He knew what would come next, and cursed himself for making it easy for them. Without speaking, they dragged him through to the sitting room, tied him to a chair, then opened his trousers and pulled out his penis. Standard procedure all the way.

  ‘So, Feldman,’ said Shilo, resting his foot on Uzi’s chair, between his legs. ‘It’s been a long time. Are you glad to see us? No? That’s disappointing. I thought you’d be filled with joy.’

  Slowly, casually, he lit a cigarette. Then he weighed Uzi’s Glock in his hands, exhaling thoughtfully. Inside, Uzi was screaming, trying to force himself to move, to struggle against the paralysis. But it was hopeless. He couldn’t even speak. He was at their mercy.

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of weapons and equipment that belong to the Office,’ Shilo continued. ‘We thought we’d come and remind you that you’ve left the Office now. So we’d like our equipment back.’

  Uzi drew on his training, tried to quell his mounting panic by accepting the situation, to build up a reservoir of strength, as he’d been taught. How strange, using the Office’s own training against their interrogation techniques. He saw Laufer leaning against the wall, arms folded. As usual, he was letting Shilo do the talking. That was what how they worked.

  ‘Thank you also for using our Sayanim,’ Shilo went on, ‘and promising them large sums of money on our behalf. Thank you for that.’

  Laufer turned on the television and cranked up the volume. Shilo approached the coffee table and brought his heel smashing down on it, again and again, breaking through the false top until the slick was exposed. Then he plucked out Uzi’s Beretta.

  ‘You see, Adam? We know everything. We know about this little slick. We know about every piece of kit you have. We know how busy you’ve been.’ He pressed both weapons hard into Uzi’s temples. Drool was spilling from his mouth and down his shirt.

  ‘I could kill you right here,’ said Shilo in a low voice. ‘I could blow out your brains and leave your body to rot. I could cut off your dick and feed it to you, then stick this Beretta up your arse and shoot your guts out. I could do anything. That is the power of the Office, remember? That is the power of the Office.’

  He paced the room, wiping his forearm across his brow like an animal. Then he crossed to the door of Uzi’s cannabis room and kicked it, smashing it with his heel, until it splintered and caved in. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘We know about everything.’

  He strode in, followed by Laufer, and began smashing up Uzi’s plants, his equipment, his stash of dope, his livelihood. Before his eyes, his lamps went out, his cultivation tents collapsed on themselves, his pumps buckled and split. Rage whipped through him, but his body would not respond. He was entombed in it.

  The two men swivelled Uzi round on his chair again, forcing him to watch as they attacked the rest of his apartment. The destruction was swift and total. In a matter of minutes, nothing was intact.

  ‘Now, Adam, my brother,’ said Shilo, advancing with a table leg in his hands, ‘let’s make sure you never forget what we have taught you tonight.’ He raised the cudgel high above his head, stretching as if trying to hook down something from a shelf; then, making a noise that reminded Uzi of the wild dogs in the Negev at night, he brought it down with all his strength.

  By the time Uzi regained consciousness, the room was dark. He was on his side, still tied to the chair, his penis lying in a pale curve across his thigh. His head was a fist of pain. He groaned softly; at least he could still make a sound. Around him in the half light were broken and jagged silhouettes, all that was left of his apartment. He was cold.

  ‘Uzi. I’m sorry, Uzi. I couldn’t do anything. I don’t have any authority. I’m just a voice.’ Smooth, neutral tones. Like rich milk.

  ‘If you’re just a voice,’ muttered Uzi woozily, ‘at least tell me what to do.’

  ‘There’s only one thing to do. Now’s the time, Uzi.’

  Uzi nodded as if the Kol could see him; the voice went quiet. It took Uzi several minutes to break free of the chair, and when he did so he collapsed to the floor. His neck was stiff and aching. He ran his hand across his face and felt a web of scabs and weals. It was impossible to tell what time it was; the face of his watch was smashed and his phone had been taken. Like a statue coming to life, he uncurled his back and massaged his limbs. He struggled to his feet – he could still stand – and put his penis gingerly back in his trousers. He tried the lights. Nothing. The light bulbs were smashed. He rummaged in his pockets and lit a cigarette.

  In the flicker of the lighter, he hobbled from one room to the next, surveying the damage. Everything was smashed up, everything. The flame could bring nothing but destruction from the darkness. They had stolen his entire stash. His slick was empty. His guns were gone. He let the lighter go out and drew on his cigarette in the gloom. The ash glowed orange and the hiss of burning cigarette paper was loud as he smoked. They’d fucked him. He was still alive, but the Office had fucked him. He’d been goading them, he knew that, but this? He scanned through his memory of the attack, piecing together precisely what Shilo had said. He hadn’t mentioned Uzi’s meeting with Liberty, or his connection with Avner – still an Office employee – or Operation Regime Change. Any one of these things would have resulted in far more than a warning. So Uzi was still one step ahead. And the Office clearly hadn’t known about all of his slicks.


  Rage flowed suddenly through him. He kicked a door that was hanging haphazardly on its hinges, and kicked it again, and again. Then he crouched, head in hands, until the cigarette burned out in his fingers and a worm of ash fell, unseen, to the floor. He came to a decision. From now on there would be no holding back.

  In the bedroom he opened the curtains. By the weak light of the moon, he searched in the wreckage of his wardrobe and found the hollow metal tube on which coat hangers used to be hung. He prodded inside it with a wire hanger and drew out roll after roll of fifty-pound notes and hundred-dollar bills, all wrapped in cellophane. Placing these in a rucksack, he changed his torn and bloodied clothes and went into the bathroom. The light there worked and he spent some time cleaning his face and wounds, rubbing the blood out of his hair in the sink. Then he dried himself off and, with the spoon that he used for scraping the shower head, prised some tiles from the wall. They came away with a dry cracking sound, followed by a cloud of dust. Behind, in a cobwebbed cavity, was a newspaper-wrapped package containing a pocket-sized pistol – a 9mm Rohrbough R9, designed for close-range combat – some ammunition, and a brand new mobile phone in several different parts. There was also a buff folder, the all-important folder. These went into his rucksack too. He took one final look around the devastated apartment. Then he left.

  The motion-sensitive light came on as Uzi stepped into the foyer. Somebody must have fixed the fusebox. He blinked in the light. Before he had set foot on the staircase, Squeal appeared from his apartment, looking dazed.

  ‘You OK?’ said Uzi.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I think so.’

  Uzi hesitated for a moment, then helped him back into his flat and sat him on the sofa.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ said Uzi. ‘Too much skunk?’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ said Squeal.

  ‘Do you remember calling me?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I was just having a bit of a smoke when I heard people moving around in your gaff. It looked dodgy, the lights were off. So I called you, then my phone cut out.’ He looked down at his phone. ‘Looks all right now.’