The Pure Read online

  Suddenly he knew who to visit. It was too dangerous to call the man on the phone. He knew how the Office worked. They would be tapping every phone line connected to Uzi. But they wouldn’t be expecting Uzi to return to his old flat, to put his head into the mouth of the lion. It was reckless, perhaps, foolhardy even. But before he disappeared to his new life with Liberty, something in Uzi – this newly emotional man – needed to find out if Squeal had been to see his mother in Ghana. He needed to know that either she had made a recovery, or that Squeal had been at her bedside for her death. This was the reason he gave himself as he directed his Porsche towards Kilburn. But something else, some unfathomable instinct, was also driving him on.

  When he arrived he parked around the corner and contemplated lighting a spliff. But he talked himself out of it; the most dangerous part would be entering the flat, and for that he would need his wits about him. He consoled himself with the thought that once he was inside, and had established that all was safe, he could share a joint with Squeal and play a round of pudding wars. One more round, for old time’s sake, before he vanished. Before he became somebody else for the rest of his days.

  He approached the apartment building on foot, blending into the street, allowing his hands to hang casually by his sides, in easy reach of his R9. The street was quiet, and no different to how he remembered; the graffiti, the litter, the oversized buses roaring past. Fate seemed to be smiling upon him. As he approached the door a woman with a baby was making her way out, and he held it open for her as she manoeuvred the buggy down the steps. She didn’t seem to notice as he slipped inside.

  Uzi padded silently up the stairs, his hand straying to his weapon. First floor, second floor. And then he arrived – his old flat. Or was it? Gone was the worn door with peeling paint and a bell that didn’t work. In its place was a gleaming white door of a plastic/metal composite, the brass numbers shining in the half-light. Of course, the landlady may have taken the opportunity to carry out some renovations. But something didn’t feel right. He went to the peephole and peered through. Even with the warping effect of the lens, he could see that the whole interior had been replaced. No trace remained of the flat he used to live in. Everything was immaculately tidy, like a show flat, but somebody had been there recently. There was a newspaper open on the table, and through the half-open bathroom door a fresh towel could be seen on the rack. It didn’t feel right. It was as if his old flat had been extracted like a tooth, and a new one implanted in its place. What did it mean? His mind began to grip the situation, piecing together theories, scraps of information, possibilities. Then he heard a noise behind him.

  Squeal had caught sight of his old friend and stopped completely still, half in and half out of his apartment, a pile of letters in his hands. It took Uzi a few seconds to recognise him. The dreadlocks were gone; in their place was a neat crew cut. Gone also were the scruffy clothes; the man was dressed in a way that could only be described as smart but casual. He looked at Uzi blankly, and Uzi stared blankly at him.

  ‘Tommy,’ he said at last. ‘Tommy, I thought you were . . .’

  ‘You thought I was what?’

  Squeal said nothing.

  ‘You look different,’ said Uzi.

  ‘Yeah. Different.’

  A bad feeling crept up Uzi’s body like a rash. His unconscious was connecting the pieces of the puzzle; something uncomfortable was emerging.

  ‘What happened to the hair, man?’ he said.

  ‘The hair? Oh you know. Time for a change.’

  ‘Your mum?’

  ‘Ah, she’s fine.’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Full recovery.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  Squeal attempted an awkward smile.

  ‘You did go to see her,’ said Uzi.

  ‘Sure. Yeah, thanks for that. The money and stuff.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  Squeal pursed his lips. ‘I’m not living here any more, Tommy. I moved out. I just came back to pick up my post.’

  His front door swung open behind him. He caught it with his heel and pulled it closed, but not before Uzi had caught sight of the interior. It was new, brand spanking new. Neat, untouched, anonymous. And identical to Uzi’s old flat, even down to the furniture. Squeal closed the door and began to say something, but Uzi was no longer listening. Instead he was looking at the envelopes he was holding: gas bills, phone bills, circulars, and a single unmarked envelope. Without a word, Uzi snatched it, opened it, knowing what he would find. Squeal tried to grab it back, but Uzi shoved him away and pulled out the contents of the envelope. A bundle of notes held together with a blue rubber band. But it wasn’t pounds, or euros, or dollars. It was Israeli currency.

  Uzi looked up and saw Squeal edging towards the top of the stairs; in his hand was his mobile phone, glowing with an orange light. He had just finished writing a text message. Before Uzi could stop him, he pressed ‘send’. Uzi lunged forward but he spun away and leaped down the stairs. He drew his gun, had him for a moment in his sights, but didn’t pull the trigger. Squeal disappeared from view; for a few seconds his footsteps could be heard spiralling down the stairs. The downstairs door slammed and he was gone.

  So the Office had Squeal. They had been keeping tabs on him all along. They had even been taking his rent money! He had stumbled into a trap, and now, just as a shred of hope had entered his life, he had walked straight back into their clutches. He slammed his fist against the wall, cursing his stupidity. Then he tried to collect his thoughts. Squeal’s text message. They knew where he was. He needed to get out of there, fast. This building had no other exit. He had no choice. Aiming his gun in front of him, he hurried down the stairs, feeling once more that death could be close.

  32

  Uzi knew how quickly the Office could move, and when he left the apartment building, tucking his gun-hand inside his jacket, he was expecting them to be waiting. But the streets were deserted; Squeal was nowhere to be seen. He slipped down the road and back to his Porsche. Behind the wheel, he felt better. He steered towards the High Road.

  Three minutes passed before he saw it for the first time: a dark blue Audi, expensive but not flashy, high-performance but not a car that would attract attention. He didn’t know why it caught his eye. It had been instinctive. He couldn’t see the occupants clearly, but there were two of them, and the driver was wearing a hooded top.

  He turned down a side-road, intending to loop back on himself. There was a queue of cars, and the blue Audi passed him. As it did so, for the briefest of moments, the driver’s eyes flicked up, allowing Uzi to see straight into his soul. And he knew.

  His heart began to beat faster as he turned down the side-road at a normal speed and tried to cut through to the High Road. Speed bumps. Again and again the undercarriage of the Porsche crunched against the tarmac as he sped over them, faster and faster each time. His chances of escape – of survival, perhaps – were slim. The blue Audi was nowhere to be seen, but the Office were on to him now; he knew it. With the amount of technology at their disposal, they could be observing him at this moment, even in this deserted street. But what were his options? Should he get out of the car and lie down on the road, his hands behind his head, and wait for them to pick him up? No. He was going to fight them all the way. Maybe, even with all their gadgets, their superior numbers and their firepower, he could find a way to outwit them.

  Heading for home was out of the question. He couldn’t risk giving his safe house away. So Uzi wound his way through London, plotting figure-of-eights and diamonds, doubling back on himself, speeding up and slowing down, waiting for the Office to make their move. He would have to confront them today, outmanoeuvre them, outwit them and leave them behind. Otherwise they would lock on to him with their surveillance and call in their dues. There was no doubt: in the language of the Office, this was a ‘no zero’ moment.

  He drove around for an
hour, cursing under his breath, taunting the Office in his mind, daring them to break their cover. Where were they, damn it, where were they? They had to be out there. And then, as he turned on to the A41 at Paddington, he saw the blue Audi again. He was sure it was the same one; years of memorisation and observation training had made Uzi infallible. It was cruising seven cars behind, close enough to maintain a visual, far enough away not to cause him to panic. Then a black van overtook him and settled in five cars in front, and an old grey Mercedes took up a position in the lane to his left. Finally a Ford 4x4 – a white one – completed the diamond formation on the right. This was all classic Office strategy. The vehicles were all different but all the same, all clean but not too clean, all dirty but not too dirty, all being driven carefully, precisely, in a manner that would not attract attention. Uzi had been ‘boxed’. He knew the procedure, he had done it himself, many times. He was surprised the Office hadn’t come up with something less obvious. They stopped at one traffic light after another, picking up speed when they hit open road, slowing down when they encountered congestion. The Office vehicles didn’t make a move, and neither did Uzi. This wasn’t the time. Not on this single road with no exits, with congestion and traffic lights and speed cameras. Uzi knew it, and the Office knew it. But the stage was set. They would wait for him to make a mistake then tighten the box and force him to stop. If he tried to break the formation and race away, they would either speed after him or call in other operatives, depending on the assets they had in the field. Alternatively this could all just be a ploy. They knew that Uzi was familiar with their tactics. They could be planning something special.

  He did nothing for thirty minutes as he drove away from the city at a steady pace, trying to dull his pursuers’ concentration, perhaps frustrate them a little, cause them to lose their focus. His ear itched and the Kol – the older Kol this time – started speaking in its smooth tones, apologising for only being a voice, telling him there was nothing it could do to help. Telling him to be careful, to believe. Uzi ignored the voice as best he could. He considered calling Avner, but that would just make things more dangerous. This was something he had to deal with alone. And then he knew it was time. He floored the accelerator, chinked past the white Ford and slipped into the fast lane, allowing his speedometer to tip 100mph. The Ford was forced to join the grey Mercedes to his left. Uzi’s Porsche hit its stride, and in a matter of seconds he had overtaken the black van. Now he had them all behind him. He accelerated again, pressing towards 120mph, trying to string them out. The Porsche was singing with happiness. His pursuers lagged behind but kept him in sight and waited to see what he would do. Perhaps they were calling in reinforcements. They wouldn’t shoot, he knew that. The risk to civilian drivers was too great, and the Office was too clever; these things always got messy if the police got involved. He edged towards 130mph.

  Then, suddenly, Uzi pulled the wheel to the left, cut across three lanes and veered on to an exit. The black van and Ford 4×4 were slow to react and disappeared off along the motorway, but the Audi and Mercedes managed to swerve off after him. He circled the roundabout, tyres smoking, without turning off; his pursuers followed him and for a moment it was unclear whether they were chasing him or the other way round. He saw his opportunity, drew his R9, leaned out the window and fired; the front tyre of the Mercedes exploded. The car rotated a quarter-turn and skidded to a halt on the grassy bank beside the roundabout. Then he wrenched the steering wheel to the right and, with a whine of tyres, the Porsche howled across the roundabout and down a two-lane side-road. The blue Audi appeared in his rear-view mirror, but not too close. To his surprise, no shots were fired in return; they were playing it cool. This was more worrying than comforting. Perhaps they were under orders to bring him in alive. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the Audi behind him, and the drivers knew it. They sat on his tail. In the distance, police sirens could be heard. Making a decision, Uzi swung the car across the hard shoulder, off the road, through a gap in the barrier and on to a dirt track that led into a wood.

  The Porsche growled bad-temperedly as he pressed it along the bumpy track, mud spraying from the wheels. In his mirror he saw the Audi pulling over to the side of the road, and two men casually getting out. He remembered his training: there was no reason for him to stay in the vehicle. A foot pursuit may be more to his advantage. He forced the Porsche on as far as he could until the track became too uneven and the trees were good and thick. Then he killed the engine, grabbed his gun and his cigarettes and jumped out. Liberty had told him that the vehicle had been cleaned of identifying marks, and he could only hope she had done a good job. From the glove compartment he took a spray can, and turned it on the number plates; instantly the letters and numbers dissolved. Then he sprayed the steering wheel, the dashboard, the seats, eroding them with acid and destroying his fingerprints. A hurried job, but better than nothing. Setting the car alight would attract attention, and he couldn’t risk that. But at least now the police would have nothing to go on. Breathing hard, he slipped off into the trees.

  The sun was setting, and the trees were cast in bronze highlights and ochre shadows. The clouds sat low and heavy in the sky. The noise of the traffic was incessant, masking the sound of his movements, and those of any pursuers. He jogged along in parallel to the road, weaving between the trees, then began to double back.

  He made his way to the brow of a small hill, then climbed into the branches of a tree and surveyed the wood around him. It was still; empty. A cloud of rooks flew into the air to his left, and a spider crept down the gnarled bark beside him. In the distance police lights were flashing at the roundabout. If they found the bullet hole there would be trouble; a manhunt would make things difficult for him but the implications would be far worse for the Office. He smiled. Whatever happened to him, it would be worth it.

  He tried to predict the actions of the men who were hunting him. If he had been the driver of the Audi, what would he be doing? There were two of them. They would have got out of the car and entered the wood, then split up, number one following the tracks of the Porsche, number two looping around. If number two had chosen to plot his course to the east, Uzi would be a safe distance away. But if he had gone to the west . . .

  There was a noise. Uzi raised his R9 and scanned the woodland below. Another noise. Cracking twigs, rustling leaves, sounds that didn’t fit. Not the unthinking movement of an animal through the undergrowth, but the stop-start progress of a human being trying to remain undetected. It had to be number two: he had to have gone west. Uzi strained his eyes, peering into the wood, trying to catch a sign of movement, opening his ears to all sounds. There it was again, that same cracking noise. And then: there was the man.

  He was wearing a pair of Oakleys with golden lenses. His movements were stiff, almost mechanical, and in the dying sunlight he looked as though he were made of bronze. His hand was tucked inside his jacket, and even from this distance Uzi could see the flush on his face. He remained squatting, motionless, in the tree, as the man’s eyes flicked from side to side. At one point Uzi thought he was looking straight at him, but then his eyes moved away, still searching. The first thing the human eye looks for is movement. If you remain utterly still, a person can look straight at you without really seeing you. The man blew his nose in his hand, flicked it into the undergrowth. Then he continued his path through the trees, twigs and branches cracking beneath his feet, and disappeared back into the wood.

  Uzi waited for ninety seconds, then slid down the tree to the ground. The blue lights were still flashing at the roundabout, but the police did not seem to be searching the area. Now was a good time to escape. The Porsche, however, was a write-off – and without a car, he wouldn’t make it. A crazy plan began to form in his mind. The two Office operatives would be deep in the wood by now. From their perspective, he was on the run and they were the predators. They were the deadly ones; he was running scared. No huntsmen in their right minds expect their prey to act with audacity, even if the
y know he used to be one of them. They wouldn’t be expecting him to steal their car.

  He ducked through the undergrowth and found his way on to a footpath heading towards the bank leading up to the road. The top of the Audi was visible above the barrier. The driver’s door was hanging half-open. Only a junior Katsa would make such a mistake, he thought. Or a complacent old hand.

  As he approached the edge of the wood he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the flicker of a shadow that didn’t belong. He spun, jabbing his R9 towards it; nothing. Perhaps it had been his imagination. But his gut told him it was real. He stood in silence, scanning the wood to the east, moving his gun in a slow arc. And then, from perhaps ten feet behind him, he heard the crunch of a pistol being racked.

  ‘Adam Feldman. It’s been a long time. Put your sidearm on the ground and turn around slowly.’

  The Audi was close, but not that close; if he tried to run, he would be dead. He turned around, but did not put down his weapon.

  ‘I said put your sidearm on the ground,’ came the voice, wavering this time, then rising at the end in an effort to sound authoritative.

  Sensing weakness, Uzi faced him. ‘Kahane?’ said Uzi. ‘Shimon Kahane?’