The Pure (17 page)

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Liberty. ‘You’re being inconsistent.’

‘I never said it made sense,’ Uzi replied. ‘I never claimed to be consistent.’ In the distance, the blinking lights of a plane moved in a slow arc above London. Uzi had talked more in the past hour than he had ever intended. It was a wholly new experience. It was reckless, and he knew it couldn’t last.

‘So,’ he said, ‘we haven’t spoken about business.’

‘Oh that,’ said Liberty. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’ She turned her back to the city and rested her elbows on the railing. Uzi continued to stare into the darkness. ‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘Since my husband died, I’ve been running his organisation. Russians, all of them. It suits me; I can speak their language, I know their mindset. I keep them at arm’s length – it’s safer that way. The power is in my hands alone. We supply the best stuff wholesale, to the top end of the market. Then we cut it with caffeine and so on, and sell it a bit cheaper to the main pushers on the estates.’

‘What’s your percentage of the market?’

‘Sixty, maybe sixty-five per cent.’

‘Sixty-five per cent?’

‘About that.’

‘Fuck.’

Uzi drained his glass. He was feeling a little drunk. It was difficult to imagine that this sophisticated woman had the ruthlessness to run such a major drugs cartel. But he knew from experience that this only indicated how dangerous a person really was.

‘My sources are ones I picked up while I was working in Afghanistan,’ Liberty went on. ‘I made my husband’s business into an empire. Nobody else has such a good supply line as me. I import the highest-quality substances on the market, by a long way. My problem is, I’ve heard a rumour that some of my employees have been trying to discover the source so they can siphon off the business themselves. I need to know how loyal my people are. That’s what I want you to help me with.’

‘So it’s a one-off thing?’

‘No, no. At the moment, it’s just me at the top. But I could make use of someone like yourself – with your skills – up there with me. Another member of the tribe, you know? This is just to get you started.’

‘What’s the pay?’

‘Four thousand pounds a month.’

‘That’s it?’

‘What did you expect?’

‘I want somewhere to live as well.’

‘Done.’

‘I want to move in tonight.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And I can quit at any time, with a ten thousand-pound bonus.’

‘Sure.’

Uzi paused. He had been expecting her to drive a harder bargain. ‘And I want eight thousand pounds a month.’

‘Six,’ said Liberty.

‘Seven.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Seven a month, somewhere to stay. Quit and you get a ten grand golden handshake. Do we have a deal?’

He turned to face her. He reminded himself of who he was. He was Uzi, and this was his chance to fight back against the Office – to change the course of history, as Avner put it. Through filtering sensitive information to the CIA through Liberty, he could put the Office on the back foot, give them something to worry about, soften them up for Operation Regime Change. In the end, of course, they would catch up with him; at best, he would be shot. But until that day, he would fight them. For a moment he became aware of himself and Liberty: their two weapons, his R9 pressing into his side, her Taurus revolver like a dark secret in her bag. Both fully loaded, both accessible in seconds. The night hung cold around them. He stretched out his hand, and she gripped it. Her palm was as cold as the night. They shook and the deal was done.

‘You did well,’ said the Kol quietly. ‘You’re believing in yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ said Uzi grudgingly.

‘And that jumbo you gave her won’t harm the Holy Land. It will just serve to instill fear into the hearts of the enemies of Israel.’

‘If you say so. I feel like I don’t know any more.’

‘Believe. Never stop believing. Believe.’

Despite everything, there was a lot Uzi had been proud of about the Office. One mission in particular he had always kept locked away in his memory as a resource, something to draw strength from when times were hard. Even now, as he mobilised himself against the organisation, he found himself returning to the memory; even now it was able to give him strength, despite his treachery.

The operation had been conceived when the Office received intel that the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat – the Syrian secret service – was on his way to Paris for a secret meeting with his French opposite number from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the DGSE. As ever, the key was in the detail. The Office had learned that while he was there, he planned to indulge in some shopping; in particular, he intended to purchase a Bohemian glass chandelier for his underground headquarters in Damascus. Everyone at the Paris Station was busy gaining intel on the substance of the meeting itself, but to Tel Aviv the shopping spree was an opportunity too good to miss. So the chandelier mission was given to Uzi, to carry out quietly while everyone was looking elsewhere.

Uzi, at the time, was positioned as a ‘hopper’. This meant that he was based in Tel Aviv and could be dispatched at short notice anywhere in the world to carry out swift, one-off operations. Being a hopper was not a popular role, and Uzi loathed it. He wanted to be outside Israel; he wanted to forget. Everything about the place reminded him of his parents, everything reminded him of Nehama, whom he hadn’t seen for two years. And everything reminded him of his son – his faceless son. So when the opportunity came to leave the country and go undercover again, he jumped at it.

Under the alias of David Moreau, a French businessman, Uzi departed Tel Aviv on an Air France flight and landed in Paris in the early morning. He spent the flight reading a file about luxury chandeliers that had been prepared for him by the research department. Nobody met him at the airport; contact with operatives from the Paris Station would be minimal, as they couldn’t risk being directly linked to an operation as audacious as Uzi’s. So he made his way, alone, to Le Meurice hotel on the rue de Rivoli in the centre of the city.

The Office planners in Tel Aviv had identified two key personnel who would prove vital to the success of Uzi’s mission. The first was Reem Al-Zou’bi, an aide to the Syrian Mukhabarat chief, whose responsibility it was to oversee the purchase of the chandelier. According to his Office file, he was a dedicated family man who, unusually, was faithful to his wife: no leverage there. But there was a glimmer of hope. Al-Zou’bi was sending his children to private schools, and his mother required expensive medical treatment. As a consequence, he had fallen badly into debt. To the Office psychologists, this presented an obvious weak point: avarice.

The second person was a man by the name of Pierre Tannenbaum, a red-headed interior designer who lived and worked in the trendy La Madeleine quartier of Paris. Tannenbaum was a dyed-in-the-wool Zionist and a trusted Sayan, who had proven his mettle several times in providing loans to Katsas at short notice. According to the Office psychologists, Tannenbaum would relish the opportunity to become more involved in an operation. Uzi invited him to the hotel, where together, over coffee, they devised a plan.

Within twenty-four hours Uzi and Tannenbaum had set up Lüp, a front company specialising in luxury interior lighting. The Office designers in Tel Aviv created a brochure and business cards, and Tannenbaum organised business premises with a young female Sayan posing as a secretary to answer enquiries. The stage was set. The Syrian delegation landed in Paris, and the eyes of the entire intelligence community in France, from all nationalities, turned towards the meeting. Uzi and Tannenbaum, meanwhile, focused their attention on Al-Zou’bi and his task of procuring a chandelier.

After twelve hours of surveillance, the time had come to make their move. Through tapping his phone line, they learned that Al-Zou’bi had an appointment at Perrin Antiques on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, not far from Tannenbaum’s penthouse. They also discovered that he had been given a budget of €35,000 for the purchase; that was the crack in which Uzi planned to insert his lever. He followed Al-Zou’bi to the antiques shop and sat in the window of a nearby brasserie, sipping black coffee; Tannenbaum, who knew the owner of the antiques shop, Monsieur Perrin, was sitting in his car around the corner, waiting for Uzi’s signal. Uzi watched as Al-Zou’bi got into conversation with Perrin and they went from chandelier to chandelier. After several minutes, when Al-Zou’bi seemed to be focusing on one chandelier in particular, Uzi dialled Tannenbaum’s number, allowed it to ring twice, and hung up.

He didn’t have to wait long. Within seconds Tannenbaum could be seen sauntering down the street and entering the antique shop. Uzi turned on his earpiece and listened as Tannenbaum greeted Perrin and fell easily into a conversation. They talked business for a while, and out of politeness Perrin introduced him to Al-Zou’bi. Tannenbaum made some general conversation about chandeliers and ascertained that Al-Zou’bi had developed an interest in a particularly fine Rococo revival piece. He then excused himself and left the shop, crossing the road to the brasserie and taking a seat at the table behind Uzi. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

When Al-Zou’bi left the shop, Uzi and Tannenbaum hailed a cab to a restaurant near the Place de la Concorde. They knew that the Syrian had made a reservation there for lunch, and Uzi had reserved the table opposite. Again, they didn’t have long to wait. When Al-Zou’bi entered, Tannenbaum caught his eye, greeted him, remarked on the coincidence, and asked him how the shopping was going. Then, seamlessly, Uzi commented that Perrin’s profit margins were exceptionally high and congratulated Al-Zou’bi for his good judgement in not having yet made a purchase. The Syrian visibly rallied at the compliment, and Tannenbaum chose that moment to invite him to join them for lunch. Al-Zou’bi accepted. The die was cast.

By the time the main course was concluded, Uzi and Tannenbaum had struck a deal with Al-Zou’bi. They presented him with a Lüp brochure, which showed some unusually cheap prices. All chandeliers were sourced directly, they said, avoiding retail overheads. Uzi waited for his moment, then offered to procure exactly the same Rococo chandelier that Al-Zou’bi had been admiring at a price that was some €10,000 lower. Then, delicately, he offered to provide a receipt for the full €35,000. There was a pause. Al-Zou’bi’s mind could almost be seen working through the possibilities: he could deliver a €35,000 chandelier to his boss, spend only €25,000, and pocket the difference. It was a no-brainer. The men shook on the deal, Al-Zou’bi wearing the expression of a man who believes himself to be very clever – and very lucky – indeed. He paid a deposit there and then, and went away happy.

Later that day, Uzi returned to Perrin Antiques and bought the chandelier on the Office account. Overnight it was shipped to Israel and fitted with tiny fibre-optic cameras and microphones. Thus, hours before the Syrian delegation was due to leave the country, Uzi and Tannenbaum delivered the chandelier to a delighted Al-Zou’bi. Before the week was out, it had been installed directly above the desk of the chief of the Syrian secret service, the most secure place in the country, from where it transmitted a continuous stream of footage to Tel Aviv. It had been a perfect operation: no blood spilt, no death, no torture. Just a little ingenuity combined with good old-fashioned chutzpah. It didn’t get any better than that.

‘Check this out,’ said Avner, holding up his iPhone. He tapped the screen and put it down on the ornate coffee table. ‘All bugging devices within a five-metre radius are hereby disabled.’

‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said Uzi.

‘Modified iPhone,’ Avner replied. ‘Standard issue.’

‘Technology moves fast.’

‘Faster than you, that’s for sure,’ said Avner, running his hand over a gilt griffin bedpost and looking around the room. ‘This is a nice place. A little tacky, but nice.’

‘What do you mean, a little tacky?’ said Uzi, lying back on the four-poster bed with his hands laced behind his neck. ‘This is luxury, my friend. Neoclassical luxury.’

‘Neoclassical?’

‘Yes, Neoclassical. Weren’t you concentrating during our British Culture lectures?’

‘That was a load of shit.’

‘You’re a load of shit.’

‘What’s with the aggression?’

Uzi smiled. He was in a good mood. The night before he had slept well, then spent the morning shopping for clothes using an advance on his first month’s salary from Liberty. Lunch had been brought to him by room service, and the afternoon had slipped away in a combination of spliffs, movies and naps. Now evening had fallen, and the adrenaline was flowing pleasantly. The WikiLeaks men would be arriving soon.

This was Home House, a private members’ club in Portman Square: Uzi’s new home. Liberty had chosen well. The major hotels were crawling with operatives from the Office and countless other agencies, so something more out of the way had been required. Home House, set behind the polished black doors of three Georgian townhouses, was perfect. The interior was opulent and the exterior discreet; it was outside the high-pressure world of diplomatic London, the sort of place where a man could hide away in comfort. Above all, it was the last place the Office would look.

‘You can’t be getting all this for nothing,’ said Avner. ‘This place is pricey. Has the woman asked you to do anything yet?’

‘Not yet. But it’s only been a day.’

‘Something isn’t right about this, my brother. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘You forget how much money there is in heroin, Avner. You underestimate the power of having exclusive suppliers. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

‘I hope so, my brother. I hope so.’ Avner parted the curtains and looked down at the rain-swept street. ‘They’re late.’

‘Only by a couple of minutes.’

‘It makes me jumpy when people are late.’

‘Relax. Have a drink.’

‘This woman is using you,’ said Avner. ‘I feel it in my gut.’

‘She’s using me; I’m using her,’ said Uzi. ‘It’s a working relationship. You should thank me.’