The Pure Page 19

  ‘It’s always like that on your first operation, my son. The first ones never go smoothly.’ Haim Feldman took a bottle from under his seat and twisted it open. ‘It’s when they go smoothly that you have something to worry about. Arak?’

  Adam nodded. He hated the stuff, but always accepted it when his father offered. Haim handed him a cigarette and they sat in the shade of a lemon tree, watching the sun go down over the distant Mediterranean, smoking and sipping on the aniseed liquor.

  ‘It bothers me,’ Adam replied. ‘That was the first time I lost a comrade.’

  ‘Lost a comrade? But I thought you all escaped?’

  ‘That’s what I told Mother.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We waited in the water for ninety minutes. Then a dinghy came to pick us up. Just as it arrived, the limpet-mines went off and the weapons boat exploded. The Libyans started firing indiscriminately in all directions, and Avi was caught by a stray bullet. It went in behind his ear, came out of his forehead. His face opened like a fruit.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘We were minutes away from safety. Minutes. We weren’t killing anybody. We were just blowing up illegal weapons.’

  Adam sipped his Arak, smoked his cigarette, and gazed into the branches of the lemon tree. An expression of concern clouded his father’s face. He took his son’s hand for a moment then, awkwardly, released it.

  ‘It reminds me of my first commando operation,’ he said. Adam came out of his reverie immediately. His father rarely talked about his own combat experience.

  ‘When was that?’ said Adam.

  ‘1973, during the Yom Kippur War. I had just been assigned to Arik’s unit.’

  ‘You mean Sharon? Ariel Sharon?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You served under Arik? And you never told me?’

  ‘There is a time and a place to talk about such things. I think now is the time. And here, beneath this lemon tree, is the place.’

  ‘You should have told me earlier.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘What was Arik like?’

  ‘Different to how you might imagine. A very learned person. He studied for many years at Hebrew University. And his courage – I’d never before seen such courage in a man. And never since.’

  Adam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly doubting the extent of his own bravery. ‘Were you part of the operation that split the Egyptian forces?’

  ‘I was. By that point in the war, Israel was at breaking-point. We had been caught completely unawares on the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Many of us had been fasting when war broke out, and within hours we were fighting for our lives, and the lives of our families. Arik was called out of retirement. He begged to be allowed to charge the Egyptian forces, guns blazing. David against Goliath.’

  ‘He was refused?’

  ‘The commanders had a better use for him, something more covert. Only a man of his courage could have pulled it off. I was privileged to join him. Under cover of darkness, we left our own army behind and crossed the Suez Canal with bridging equipment. Then we mounted a surprise attack through the Tasa corridor, pierced the Egyptian frontline at the weak point between two of their armies, and came around behind them. The fighting – I’d never known such fighting. The casualties were great. When the route was cleared, Bren Adan’s division followed us over the bridgehead and encircled the whole of Suez, trapping the entire Egyptian Third Army. Then we pressed deep into Egypt. By the end of the war, our forces were only a hundred kilometres from Cairo.’

  ‘And in the north, Israeli paratroopers were only sixty kilometres from Damascus.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You were part of a legend. I never knew,’ said Adam.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Arik, Israel would have fallen,’ Haim continued, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘There would have been a genocide. Another genocide.’ He drained his glass and leaned towards his son. ‘I still have nightmares about that war, even today. The bodies, the flames, the screaming faces. But to me, that is part of my sacrifice. The moment the guns fall silent is only the beginning of the battle.’

  ‘But it was all so much simpler in your day. Our unit lost a comrade, father. For what? This was an operation to blow up a ship, not a war like yours. We weren’t defending our homes, our families.’

  Haim looked his son in the eye. ‘Yes, you were, Adam,’ he said. ‘Yes, you were.’

  They fell silent for a while. The breeze cooled as night approached, and insects could be heard buzzing around them.

  ‘You need to understand something,’ said Haim at last. ‘We Jews have a right to be here, a right to live in peace. But the Arab countries around us are hungry for our blood. During the war they supported Hitler, and drew up plans to bring the Final Solution to Palestine. Then, the moment Israel was formed, they attacked us in overwhelming numbers. This was before our victories, before the settlements, before anybody here had even heard the word “occupation”. We had to beat them back in 1948, and 1967, and again in 1973, all completely unprovoked. We were faced with an enemy determined to put us all to the sword – men, women and children. Now we need to keep the lessons of the early wars alive. We need to achieve dominance and maintain that dominance. The Arab world is still baying for our blood. If we weaken, even for a moment, the hordes would come pouring through.’

  Adam nodded. He had heard this lecture many times before. But now, for the first time, despite his feeling of unease, it seemed to make sense.

  ‘In some ways things are more complicated now, but in other ways they are simpler,’ his father continued, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘The wars of my day demonstrated to your generation that we cannot talk our way to peace. Fuck what the rest of the world thinks. They are not the ones who would be wiped out if their concessions backfired. We can’t afford to let go of anything. We need the settlements as a buffer zone against Israel proper. We need the mountains of the Golan Heights, or the Syrians would overrun us in a matter of hours.’

  He opened the bottle of Arak again and filled their glasses to the brim. ‘To you, my son,’ he said, raising his glass a fraction, ‘and to all your future operations. Everything you do is protecting our people. It makes us all very proud.’

  28

  Another night, and Uzi hadn’t slept. The money still hadn’t been deposited. His head had hit the pillow at half past four in the morning, and the darkness had haunted him, hazy figures emerging and disappearing before his eyes. The Kol had a lot to say, most of which he ignored. At eight he got up, red-eyed, and smoked a spliff. All around him he could hear the sounds of the club, the city, awakening. The clink of room service, the breakfast trays in the corridor. The sound of buses outside. Voices. Danger.

  The spliff mellowed him, and he tried again to sleep. By now, light was filtering through the curtains and he felt at odds with the world. His mind kept churning, churning; a strong electric current was coursing through him. The usual gallery of images arose, reconfigured, combined, gave way to each other like a tag team: the Office, Liberty, Cinnamon, the people he’d killed; Operation Regime Change, Avner, Gal. Nadim Sam Qaaqour, Ram Shalev. Then, further back, his son, Nehama, his parents. The sun rose in the sky and the sheets wound themselves around his body as he struggled to find release.

  And then it was lunchtime. Uzi hauled himself out of bed, ordered room service. Would today be the day? Would Liberty turn up and give him another job? He needed some action, anything to keep his mind off this self-defeating cycle. He ate his lunch while surfing Israeli news sites on his laptop, scratching the back of his neck. Today there was a report on a failed assassination attempt on an Iranian scientist three months before – a scientist who, the newspaper contended, was conducting research in the biological sciences, not the nuclear project. As Avner had said, the death of Ram Shalev was still in the news. There was more analysis of the suicide attack – even more – with animated maps of the Jerusale
m hotel and amateur footage of the explosion. There were more tributes – even more – to Shalev. His picture, pictures of his funeral. The stage was set, but where was the money? Not long now, Avner kept saying, not long now. If we don’t have the money in a week, we’ll start being less polite.

  After lunch he turned on the television, toyed with the idea of phoning Gal, did not pick up the phone. Action, he really needed some action. He smoked another spliff and slept for an hour. Then he woke up. Two films on cable, back-to-back; a packet of cigarettes. Room service. By the time he had turned off the television, and the room had become silent in a way he had almost forgotten, it was growing dark outside. Days seemed to slip by while his life remained frozen. Too nervous to go out, too tired to sleep, he sat in his room while the days rolled past; one after the other, never stopping, everything advancing around him. This is the sort of life he had been willing to accept when he joined the Office all those years ago. A life of commitment to an ideal, of waiting for the opportunity to act, no matter how long it took. A life of intelligence. But those days were gone. In reality, this half-existence, this half-life in which nobody knew the truth any longer – in which he himself had almost forgotten how to discriminate the truth from lies – was bleaker, more meaningless, lonelier than he could ever have imagined.

  It must have been around six in the evening when there was a knock at the door. Uzi sat motionless for a few seconds, then got to his feet, gripped his R9 and turned out the light. He racked his weapon, the metallic double-crunch loud in the room. Through the peephole, nobody could be seen. His forehead clammy with sweat, he opened the door.

  ‘Hey,’ said Liberty, breezing past him into the room, ‘take it easy. Turn the light on. Why did you turn it off, anyway?’

  ‘What is this, an interrogation?’

  ‘I saw the light going out. Is that what the Mossad taught you? How to give yourself away?’

  ‘I wanted the advantage of being in the dark. I wasn’t going to pretend.’

  ‘Oh look at this,’ said Liberty, taking his gun in her hands. ‘Cocked and ready to rock.’ She ejected the bullet from the chamber. ‘What’s up, Uzi? You’re way too jumpy.’

  ‘Do you blame me?’

  Uzi checked the corridor; so far as he could tell, she was alone. He closed the door behind her. Liberty sat on the bed. It was only then that he noticed how different she looked. Gone were the elegant clothes, the jewellery. Tonight she was wearing jeans, trainers, a hoodie. She looked younger, normal almost. And, curiously, more attractive.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Liberty. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘You look different,’ said Uzi, aware that he was stating the obvious. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she had come to shoot him.

  ‘I’m off duty tonight. This is a social call.’

  ‘Social?’

  ‘Look, I told you. Sit down. Actually, before you do that, get dressed.’

  Uzi, who had been wearing nothing but his underwear, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Then he sat down, scowling.

  ‘Finally.’ Liberty pushed back her hood, shook out her hair. ‘Look, there’s something big coming up for you. Something nice on the horizon. Interesting job, fat bonus. So tonight, I figured we’d go out. Get away from it all. Forget our woes, you know? Then we can hit the ground running.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss it tonight. Tonight is for relaxing. Clearing out the system.’

  Uzi made no response. What did this mean? Was it a trap? She may have come to execute him, but that didn’t feel right. Why would she do it herself? Liberty laughed, her dark eyes flashing. ‘Come on, man, relax,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘Stop being so suspicious, all right? I’m just a fun-loving girl. All work and no play . . .’ Her words faded as she read a text on her phone. Then, once again, he had her full attention. ‘All work and no play,’ she repeated, and smiled.

  ‘Where are we going? Tonight?’

  She leaned closer. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘I hate surprises.’

  ‘Come on, Uzi, chill out. You’re not a spy any more. You’re your own man.’

  ‘Stop playing around, Liberty. Just tell me where we’re going. I can’t afford to take any risks.’

  ‘Look,’ said Liberty. ‘I’m worried about you, you know? I don’t want you freaking out on me. I need you.’

  ‘Freaking out?’

  ‘Yeah. Spy syndrome. I mean, just look at the way you answered the door. And look at the state of this place.’

  ‘My life expectancy’s not great,’ said Uzi, anger rising quickly through him. ‘You know that.’

  Liberty shook her head dismissively. ‘We’ve got to get you out for a while, change of scenery. Get your energy back. Come on.’ She took his arm – her grip was surprisingly strong – and pulled him to his feet. For a moment they were close, half an arm’s length away, looking at each other. He pressed his gun into his waistband. And then they were out in the corridor, and she was leading him towards the lift.

  29

  Outside the air was black and crisp. Uzi’s lungs felt different, felt good. None of Liberty’s bodyguards could be seen, but Uzi doubted she was without some protection. She was good at blending in; they left Home House and nobody seemed to notice. He would have expected nothing else. Old habits kicked in, and Uzi too became grey, anonymous. She took his arm again and led him down the street, ghosting away from the underground car park.

  ‘We’re not walking, are we?’ he said.

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s much too far.’

  They stopped in front of a long line of municipal bicycles, known as ‘Boris Bikes’ – after the city’s mayor.

  ‘You’re not serious?’ said Uzi as Liberty inserted her key fob into the docking station.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she said, ‘and I’m trying to make you less so.’

  The bicycles were released from the docking station, Liberty adjusted her seat, and suddenly Uzi was pedalling, struggling to keep up. Liberty wound ahead through the rush-hour traffic, exhaust rising in plumes around her.

  ‘Come on,’ she called, looking over her shoulder, ‘you can do better than that.’

  ‘I haven’t ridden a bike for years,’ he shouted in response, and coughed. He stood on the pedals and the distance closed between them; he found that he was laughing. The bike was heavy, cumbersome, with a string of flashing white lights on the front. For a moment he saw himself on a donkey.

  The ride was longer than he had expected, and with each rotation of the pedals a burden seemed to lift, something constrictive loosened, and his mind seemed to clear. He was still coughing. He had left his cigarettes in his room but he didn’t seem to care. Liberty jinked through the traffic and he was impressed by her agility; from time to time she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. They climbed a hill, his lungs ballooning, and freewheeled down the other side. Still she was ahead. Other people on Boris Bikes occasionally caught their eyes, acknowledging a bond of solidarity: us against the traffic, us against the world. Us and our ugly grey machines, our flashing headlights. Uzi liked that. Still he could see nobody following him or Liberty, no bodyguards. And then – for the first time in a long while – he stopped assessing everything for danger.

  Eventually Liberty swung her leg over the bike, bounced it up on to the kerb and slotted it into a rack. Uzi followed, looking about him, trying to catch his breath. This part of the city was vibrant, dirty, teeming with life. East London. Brick Lane.

  ‘Do you like curry?’ said Liberty as they strolled through the hubbub like tourists.

  ‘Doesn’t everybody like curry.’

  ‘Spoken like a true curry lover.’

  Uzi smiled. He felt as if he had stepped into a dream, become a brand new person. He could be walking to his death, he knew that. Liberty took his arm and they wound their way along the pavements, ignoring the suggestions from men in doorways to step inside their rest
aurants. Liberty was huddling up against his shoulder like a teenager on a date. He could feel the swell of her breast against his biceps, and occasionally the jab of the gun in her pocket.

  ‘You’ve got nobody protecting you, do you?’ he said.

  ‘I have you,’ Liberty replied. A tingling sensation passed across his scalp as he felt the weight of her breast against his arm. His R9 felt hard and hot against his lower back. His mind had begun to send him warnings: stay strong, stay centred. There has to be more to this than meets the eye. There must be. Don’t get drawn in. Stay ready. But his gut was telling him something different. This was exactly what he wanted. Something in him had wanted it for a long time.

  Liberty drew him into a doorway and he followed her up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a strong smell of spices. And then they were in a restaurant, being seated. Pink napkins perched like origami birds in uniform patterns on the tables. Uzi was reminded of something he’d read once about origami – something about a paper bird foretelling a violent death.

  ‘Why here?’ said Uzi as they sat down.

  ‘It’s quiet, out of the way,’ Liberty replied. ‘Nobody would expect us to come here. No prying eyes. And they do a great Lamb Biryani.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. Uzi glanced, as casually as he could, around the room. Only one entrance; only one exit. The windows might be used in an emergency, but they were fairly high up. Risky. The waiting staff looked lethargic, unmotivated. He didn’t think they were hiding anything. Nevertheless, Liberty had led him into a situation known in the Office as a ‘bottle’.