The Pure (14 page)

Uzi took up a position in a doorway and transferred 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.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Not sure. I think I was grabbed from behind or something, but that might have been a dream. I was pretty out of it. Something over my face. Then nothing until just now. Guess I fell asleep.’ He laughed, once, loudly. ‘Did you find out who it was?’

‘Burglars,’ said Uzi, ‘but it’s all right now.’ A strange smell was clinging to Squeal’s dreadlocks. Uzi leant closer and sniffed. He’d know that smell anywhere. Sickly sweet to the point of being nauseating. Desflurane ether gas.

‘What’s up?’ said Squeal. ‘I smell bad?’

‘So what else is new?’ said Uzi.

‘Sorry, man,’ said Squeal. ‘I’m just freaked out about my mum. She’s taken a turn for the worse.’

Uzi stopped. From his pocket he took a roll of bank notes and pressed it into Squeal’s palm.

‘What’s this, dude?’

‘I’m going to lie low for a while,’ said Uzi. ‘You know how it is. Go and see your mother, OK?’

Squeal looked at the money in disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure. Then when you get back I’m going to thrash you at pudding wars.’

Squeal broke into a grin. ‘Never. I’m on a roll now. I’ll pay you back, OK?’

Uzi gripped his hand with unusual tightness and held it for several seconds. Then he turned, left the apartment and made his way downstairs to the street.

From now on it’s simple, Uzi told himself as he strode towards the tube station. It couldn’t be simpler. Loyalty is dead. I’m afraid of nothing. I believe in myself, I know who I am. Outside the station, he put the mobile phone together and switched it on. Then he took from his inside pocket a business card and dialled the number. It rang.

‘Yes?’

‘OK. I’m in.’

Liberty paused for a moment. ‘Adam, how nice to hear from you.’

‘I’m in. Whatever it is, I’m in.’

‘I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind.’

‘Yeah, yeah. What’s the first step?’

‘Why don’t we meet for dinner?’

‘Where?’

‘Kensington Roof Gardens? They do delightful seafood, and they have a superb wine list. Two hours’ time. Ask for Eve Klugman. They’ll show you to my private dining room.’

‘I’ll be there.’ He hung up and looked around him. London buzzed like a hive, lights streaked by on the road. Overhead, a streetlight flickered. He lit a cigarette and, from memory, dialled Avner’s number.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘What number are you calling from? I almost didn’t pick up.’

‘New phone.’

‘Are you calling about the operation? If not, don’t bother.’

‘I’m going to do it.’

‘When? You’ve been saying that for ages.’

‘As soon as I can.’

‘You’ve been saying that for ages too, my brother.’

‘This time I mean it. Schedule the meeting, schedule the meeting. Fuck them.’

‘You’re definitely in?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Good.’

‘What about the file I need?’

A pause. ‘My contact says he’s pulled it up from the archive,’ said Avner. ‘He’s going to transmit as soon as it’s safe.’

‘What, wait till everyone’s looking the other way?’

‘More or less.’

‘You’re a hoot.’

‘Just don’t back out on me.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’ll get you the file, don’t worry.’

‘Listen, don’t hang up yet.’

‘What?’

Suddenly Uzi found himself unable to speak. He held the phone against his chest and looked up at the tarry sky, breathing deeply. Then he sucked the last flicker of life from his cigarette, stubbed it out and put the phone to his ear again. He cleared his throat. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Still here.’

‘Listen, I need you to do something for me.’

‘What?’

Uzi took another deep breath. ‘I’ve had a visit from the Office.’

‘Shit. Oh, shit. Do they know about us?’