The Pure (12 page)

The dry ice machine was turned up high, and clouds of it moved slowly across the dance floor. Through this mist Uzi saw four men making their way up the stairs to the balcony. They seemed polite and inconspicuous, and didn’t look even once in his direction; because of this he knew they were coming for him. The mist clung to their legs, slipping away as they climbed the stairs. If he got to his feet, it would inflame the situation. He shifted round in his chair, feeling strangely calm, and folded his arms across his chest so that the fingers of his right hand nestled under his armpit, on his Glock. The Office had taught him how to fall back on his chair, kick the table over and shoot with one movement; he had found the technique easy in training, though he had rarely used it in the field. Ironic. It looked like it might come in useful now he was an exile.

The four men split up and approached him separately, from different angles. Uzi took a cigarette from his packet and put it between his lips. The strange feeling of calmness could not be shaken, and he wondered if it meant he was about to die. He didn’t recognise any of the men. They didn’t look English. Closely cropped hair, pale skin, rough movements. Polish perhaps.

In seconds, all four were standing around his table. One of them spoke in a thick Eastern European accent, loudly, over the noise of the music.

‘Adam Feldman?’ he said. His real name. The Office, he thought. It could only be the Office. He tightened his grip on the gun under his armpit.

‘Who are you?’ he replied.

‘Our boss wants to speak to you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘She.’

‘She?’

‘She says you know her. From Camden.’

‘What is her name?’

‘She says you know her name. She is waiting for you.’

‘Where?’

‘Come this way, please.’

The men did not seem expert, but they certainly were not amateurs. And there were four of them. Uzi had little choice. He got to his feet and followed them through the noise and flashing lights, past the gyrating bodies, through the clouds of dry ice, along corridors, down echoing spiral staircases, and finally out through a fire exit. Outside, the music sounded muffled and atavistic. A fine rain was falling in great, soaking sheets. There, engine snarling, lights off, squatting in the water-sliced shadows, was a sleek, black Maybach 62. The back door was open; through the rain, a woman could be seen sitting on the seat of soft cream leather.

‘Liberty,’ said Uzi.

‘You’ve been doing your homework,’ she said in a languid American purr. ‘When we met, I said I was called Eve.’

‘I Googled you. You’ve obviously Googled me, too.’

‘You could say that,’ she said, a note of seeming warmth in her voice. ‘Join me here on the back seat, Adam.’

Uzi paused and weighed up his options. If things turned nasty he didn’t stand much of a chance; Liberty was armed last time, and she was likely to be armed now as well, not to mention her men. He could try to talk his way out of it. But why? He had nothing to lose any more.

He made his decision and got into the back of the car, sliding across the seat. Two of the men got in the front. The doors slammed with muffled thuds and Uzi had the sudden sensation of sitting inside a jewellery case. The engine whispered as the car moved off. There was a strong smell of aniseed. Liberty was wearing a white blouse this time, and gold gleamed at her throat and fingers. Her hair was twisted over one shoulder, exposing her caramel neck, and her eyes burnt with a dark fire. Her handbag was resting on her lap.

‘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.

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.