The Pure (15 page)

‘No. They know nothing. I’ll explain when we’re in four eyes. But I need you to make me a slick. Nothing elaborate, just a grab bag.’

‘What, passport? Money?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You need a gun in there?’

‘If you can.’

‘Shit. Fucking shit. Shit.’

‘Look, it’s nothing. I just need an escape route. In case anything happens.’

‘Fine. Remember this. 83 East End Road, London. The house is owned by a Sayan, a businessman. Outside is a green electricity box. The slick will be in there from midnight tonight. The passport – I’ve got a Canadian one ready for you already.’

‘Thanks.’

‘The electricity box will be locked. You need to lift the whole thing upwards and it will come away. Inside will be a double-locked suitcase. The codes are 9826 and 2034. OK?’

‘OK,’ said Uzi, committing the numbers to memory.

‘And don’t back out on me. Please. We’re running out of time. The yellowcake operation . . .’

‘I know, it’s happening soon. Don’t worry, I’m in.’

‘When can we meet in four eyes?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll call you.’

‘Good luck.’ The line went dead.

Uzi dismantled the phone to prevent it being traced, and put it back in his pocket. Then he took several more deep breaths, trying to settle his nerves. He was hungry. He needed a spliff. He went underground.

The tube was busy and he couldn’t get a seat. His right knee was stiffening up, and his back was badly bruised. His head – well, his head. He caught sight of his reflection in the window as the train jolted along. At least the face was not too bad. Shilo and Laufer must have had specific orders to damage him only within certain limits. Otherwise, knowing them, he would barely be alive. Perhaps it was Moskovitz working for him behind the scenes. Or Rothem. Perhaps his old horses hadn’t completely forgotten him.

He arrived at Sloane Square and made his way through the windswept streets, past the news stands and groups of well-heeled Londoners to a boutique at the top of the King’s Road. There he bought a new set of clothes: grey suit, blue shirt, black shoes. Stylish and well fitting, the most expensive available, yet inconspicuous, at least in this part of town. After leaving the shop he went into a café and, in the toilet, fixed his lead weights into the corners of the jacket. Then the suit was his.

At another shop he purchased a black cashmere coat; a wallet; and a briefcase for his ammunition and cash. As an afterthought, he bought a silver-plated Zippo and cigarette case. He transferred his cash and cards to his new wallet and loaded the case with cigarettes. Then, in the privacy of the changing room, he put the mobile phone together, loaded his R9 and concealed it in his waistband. Back on the street, he gave his old clothes, bag and wallet to a tramp. There was a possibility they contained minute listening or tracking devices. He needed a clean start.

Uzi had reduced one of his cash-rolls significantly now, but his briefcase held many more. He couldn’t even remember how many. He was clean – untracked and not followed – and filled with primal rage, a bull bleeding in a stadium. Feeling his old power seeping back, he hailed a black cab and instructed the driver to take him to Kensington Roof Gardens. Now he was ready for Liberty.

Uzi had been to Kensington Roof Gardens once before, when he was still a Katsa for the Office. He had been undercover as a Russian arms dealer, trying to sell a stash of old Israeli Galil assault rifles to a representative of the Georgian government. The Office had been training Georgia’s special forces, and the Georgians were desperate to equip their troops with the same weapons they had used in training. The Office was withholding its supply so that Uzi, posing as a Russian, could come in through the back door and sell at an inflated price – the aim being to conceal the fact that the Office, to whom they were paying large sums of money for the training contract, was ripping them off.

The extra profit would be used, Uzi was told, to fund the Office’s activities abroad. He hadn’t contested the operation openly, but by that point, the rot had already set in. He had started to question Yigal about the missions he was being given and the methods he was being encouraged to employ. He had been ordered to kill three people in cold blood, and told to adopt an increasingly brutal approach. Yigal had warned him several times, in forceful terms, that he shouldn’t question direct orders, that he was thinking too much, that he had to trust in the chain of command. Uzi knew he was endangering his own career but found himself unable to swallow his opinions. He lived in the hope that his horses, Moskovitz and Rothem, would be able to contain any damage that Yigal could do to him when his meagre stock of patience was exhausted.

He got into the lift behind two women in expensive coats and stood in the corner. Nobody noticed him. In his new clothes, he fitted in. The women got out; he travelled to the top floor alone. The doors slid open. Everything was as he remembered: the ornamental fish tanks, the quietly clinking cutlery, the black-clad waitresses, the spectacular views over London. He hoped that the escape routes he had memorised last time were also still intact.

At the mention of Eve Klugman, the waiter’s eyebrows raised just a fraction and he took Uzi’s coat with special care. Then he vanished. Uzi wandered over to the massive window and looked out over the city. Millions of individual lives lay under his gaze. Births, deaths, dreams and frustrations, love and cruelty. Normal lives. How had he ended up like this, orbiting society, dipping in and out of violence and horror? He could feel his R9 digging into his back like a magnet, like a curse.

The waiter beckoned Uzi to follow him through the restaurant and out on to a private balcony. Uzi ordered a vodka tonic and the waiter melted away, leaving him alone. It was cold, but gas heaters burned into the night overhead. It was deserted. In his mind were scenes of a riot near Duheisha refugee camp two decades in the past. He made his way along the balcony, the city spreading out on one side, sparkling and cold and beautiful. He kept one hand in his pocket, ready to draw his R9. The balcony curved around the corner of the building. He followed it; there, leaning against the railing, was a figure. For a moment he thought it was a woman in a hijab. Then he saw it was Liberty, a cashmere stole drawn around her shoulders against the chill. Diamonds glinted at her throat, a small handbag was tucked under her arm, and what could only have been a Pernod and water glowed blueish in her hand. Once again she was the picture of elegance, but this time she looked different. More powerful, more mythical, and more dangerous.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Drink?’

‘I’ve ordered one already,’ he replied. ‘A vodka tonic.’

‘A vodka tonic,’ Liberty repeated, and laughed.

Uzi smiled in return, trying to decipher her mood.

‘You’ve had some trouble?’ she asked, gesturing towards his wounds.

‘I fell over in the shower.’

‘Ah, that’s a relief. I was worried it was domestic abuse.’

‘If you knew my wife, you wouldn’t say that.’

‘Why not? Is she very sweet?’

‘No, she’s a bitch.’

‘I bet she’s not a patch on me.’

‘You could be right.’

Liberty gave him an ambiguous look and beckoned him through a door on the far side of the building. Inside was a private dining room with a single table. Waiters emerged from the shadows and pulled out the chairs for them. A sommelier presented Uzi with a leather-bound wine list.

‘Any preferences?’ said Uzi.

‘Red,’ Liberty replied. ‘Let’s start with a red then go to white with the meal.’

‘South African?’

‘No. Something rich, fruity. Something deep.’

Uzi cast his eye down the list, ignoring the cheaper vintages. ‘How about a Primitivo?’ he said. ‘2005?’

With a nod, Liberty dismissed the sommelier and they were left alone. ‘You know your wines,’ she said, ‘and presumably your food as well. I’ve always been impressed by Israeli spies.’

‘We practise at the PM’s dining table.’

‘I know. I know all about the Mossad.’

She leaned closer, smiling at the expression that flicked across his face at her open use of the word. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘This room is completely clean. The waiters will only come when I call them. We can say whatever we want. Total privacy. It’s what we need – it’s what I can guarantee – if we’re going to work together.’

‘How do I know what your guarantees are worth?’

‘It’s clean. That’s all you need to know.’

‘I’m beyond caring, anyway.’

‘Of course.’ She sat back.

‘I was expecting you to have security,’ said Uzi.

‘Oh they’re here,’ said Liberty casually. ‘You just can’t see them.’

Uzi watched her face and still could not discern whether she was telling the truth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since we can talk openly here, I might as well say this. You seem to know all about me. But I also know about you.’ He had seized the initiative. He watched her face, looking for any telltale signs. There were none.

‘Am I supposed to be alarmed?’ she said.

‘Good,’ he said, pressing his advantage. ‘Then before we talk about working together, why don’t you tell me why a nice Jewish girl like you left the CIA?’

‘You know all about me, but you don’t know that?’

‘I asked you a question,’ said Uzi. ‘I want to hear the reply.’

‘What really happened to your face? These are nasty bruises.’

‘Never mind my bruises. Why did you leave the CIA?’

She sighed. ‘The same reason you left the Mossad.’

He shook his head. ‘You can do better than that.’

There was a pause.

‘Do you want the real reason, or the one I gave the Agency?’

‘Which do you think?’

‘Fine, I don’t mind playing kiss-and-tell.’

‘You approached me,’ said Uzi, blowing smoke into the air. ‘Remember?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded to the corner of the room. Instantly a waiter appeared, holding a bottle of wine like a baby. The bloody liquid slipped into the glass. Uzi considered the colour, the body; he smelled it, tasted it, aerated it in his mouth. He nodded. The waiter filled their glasses. They were alone again.

‘What do you make of it?’ said Liberty.

‘What?’

‘The wine.’

‘Lots of secondary flavours but still coherent. Typical of the region. Not bad at all.’

Liberty smiled. ‘Sometimes I think men are like robots. Especially spies.’

Uzi felt his temper rising. Then he realised that was precisely what Liberty was trying to achieve. ‘Remind me,’ he said evenly, ‘what were we talking about again? Before we were interrupted?’

‘You’re good,’ said Liberty, taking a sip of wine. ‘You’re good.’

They drank for a few moments. Then she began to speak.

‘OK. The reasons I left. Number one: Iraq. Is that not a good enough reason in itself? Oil, arms and drugs. Do you know how much American arms companies made out of the war? And American mercenaries? Do you? Billions of tax dollars going straight to private contractors. I gathered the intel, for Christ’s sake. Blackwater. I’d gladly shoot anybody who worked for Blackwater.’

‘Xe.’

‘Whatever. Different name, same evil. When I first joined, the CIA was the CIA. These days, the Agency recruits people from Blackwater, and vice versa. It goes both ways; there’s no difference between fighting for your country and fighting for a buck.’

‘OK. What else?’

‘Don’t dismiss what I’m saying, Adam.’

‘Uzi. Call me Uzi.’

‘OK, OK. But don’t dismiss what I’m saying. I’m serious. I worked in Iraq. I worked in Afghanistan. I know what’s happening on the ground. The more fighting we do, the more money is made by special interest groups. The more drone strikes we carry out, the more terrorists we create. A few hundred thousand people die – so what? It’s worth it to generate the cash. But al-Qaeda isn’t broken, even post-Bin Laden. It’s just moving its centre of gravity.’

‘Africa? Southeast Asia?’

‘Obvious, isn’t it? Obvious to everyone but the US fucking government. Or so it seems. In reality they know it only too well. For the people who count, war is much more lucrative than peace.’ A hardness was emerging in her, a coldness that he knew only too well. She broke off and took another sip of wine. ‘I knew it was a dirty job from the beginning, but I was idealistic when I started out. I was naive. I still thought there was something noble about it all – land of the free, home of the brave. National security, protecting our way of life. But America is the biggest bastard of them all, Uzi. We’re the bullies of the world. My eyes were opened, and what I saw left a bad taste in my mouth.’ She sipped her wine.

‘So you left.’

‘So I left.’

‘You got yourself pregnant, and you left.’

‘That was the official reason. Maternity leave.’

‘And you didn’t go back because your family were killed.’

Liberty lowered her eyes for the briefest of moments before replying. ‘I’d never intended to go back. I’d had enough of being the bully of the world.’

Uzi regarded her carefully. She sat, straight-backed, composed, not giving anything away. Her hand rested near her handbag. He consulted his instincts, his logic, his powers of observation. None of these were sending him any warning signs. The woman was telling the truth.

‘Almighty dollar,’ he said.

There was a note of bitterness in her laugh. ‘Shall we eat?’ She waved for the waiter and he appeared with the menu. Uzi ordered for both of them: a variety of seafood and a 1999 Chenin Blanc. The waiter brought them the wine and disappeared again. Uzi looked out at the vastness of the city. He thought about war, that moment in a battle when suddenly you find yourself no longer part of a mighty force. When you’ve achieved your objective, and you look round and find you’ve lost sight of your comrades. When the enemy fire, previously so random and ineffective, now unifies against you like something elemental. When you can no longer see your helicopters overhead, and you realise that you’re a nothing but a man, a solitary human being who could be killed as easily as a rat.

‘So,’ said Liberty at last, ‘what about you? Did you abandon your country or did your country abandon you?’