The Pure (18 page)

‘What for?’

Uzi took a breath. ‘I’m giving her jumbo.’

‘Jumbo?’

‘Why not? It’ll confuse the Office. Distract them. Make Operation Regime Change more effective.’

‘OK, but jumbo? Actual jumbo? You’ll get yourself killed.’

‘This is all or nothing, Avner. Total war. You know that.’

Avner studied his friend’s face. ‘Not KAMG?’ he said. Uzi didn’t reply. ‘You’ve told her about KAMG, haven’t you? Shit, my brother, shit.’

‘Look, are you serious about Operation Regime Change or not?’ said Uzi, irritated that Avner – as an old friend – had been able to read his mind.

‘You’ve just taken this to a whole new level,’ said Avner. ‘A whole new level.’

Uzi sat up and lit a cigarette. For once he felt strong, confident, comfortable in his own skin. The Office had no idea where he was, he was sure of that. Finally he was fighting back. And this time, with Liberty on his side, he had some protection. This was still reckless, of course; the whole thing was based on recklessness. But sometimes – just sometimes – recklessness can bring strength.

‘Get serious, Avner,’ he said through a curtain of cigarette smoke. ‘If we’re going to do this, we should do it properly.’

‘You’re allowed to smoke in this place?’

‘I’m with Liberty. I can do whatever the fuck I want.’

‘A match made in heaven.’

There was a knock at the door. They exchanged glances. Avner opened it, his hand hovering above his sidearm. Two men slouched in the doorway; one was holding a computer bag.

‘Who are you?’ said Avner.

‘We’re here for a data-gathering appointment,’ said one.

‘Where’s J?’

‘J doesn’t do these meetings himself.’

‘I thought he’d be here.’

‘It doesn’t work like that. J doesn’t have time to waste on every joker with a tale to tell and half a stolen document.’

Avner scowled. ‘Show me some ID,’ he said, ‘I’m not taking any chances.’

‘With pleasure.’

Avner took the ID and disappeared into the adjoining room of the suite to call J. Uzi flashed his R9, took the computer bag and shut the door, leaving the WikiLeaks men outside. He examined the bag, tossed it on the bed and began removing the equipment: a laptop, specialist cameras and recording devices. Sophisticated stuff, but no weapons. He could hear Avner raising his voice on the phone.

When the bag was empty, Uzi turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing came out at first; then a small grey object bounced on to the bed. He leaned over and picked it up. An encrypted USB drive. The sort that would wipe itself if the pass code were entered incorrectly. Uzi had used them countless times for the Office.

Avner came in from the next room, slightly flushed. ‘OK, J’s not coming. Lazy bastard. But he has vouched for these guys,’ he said. ‘Says they’re sharp as fuck. Let’s see if they are.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think we do it anyway. But it’s your call.’

‘OK. Let’s do it.’

While Uzi shoved the equipment back in the bag – keeping the USB – Avner ushered the two men in. Keeping an eye on Uzi and his pistol, they sat awkwardly, side by side, on the bed. Uzi scrutinised them. The first looked surprisingly young, barely out of his teens, and was dressed in a crumpled tracksuit and baseball cap. His skin had a sallow complexion, as if he rarely saw the sunlight. The other was older – thirties, perhaps – but no less scruffy. His body was embedded in folds of material, a baggy hoodie and jeans, like a fat man trying to disguise his weight, or a petty pusher concealing a weapon. His face was sharp and unshaven; a mischievous smile played around his lips.

‘I’m Johnson, from WikiLeaks Comms,’ he said. ‘This is Skid, one of our techies.’ The sallow-faced man nodded without smiling.

‘Johnson?’ said Uzi doubtfully.

‘What about it? It’s a common name.’

Uzi held up the USB. ‘Recognise this, Johnson?’

‘Shit,’ said Johnson, turning to Skid. ‘You kept that in your bag?’

‘Where else?’ Skid replied in a nasal voice. ‘Up my arse?’

‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ said Johnson, ‘but your finger is taking up all the space.’

‘Children, children,’ Uzi interrupted, raising his gun. The two men fell quiet. ‘Just tell me what’s on here. And where you got it from.’

‘It’s intel,’ said Johnson cagily. ‘If you’re nice, we’ll tell you what it is.’

Uzi walked towards him until the gun was several inches from his nose. ‘I don’t need to be nice.’

‘OK, OK. Whatever, right? I was going to tell you anyway. It’s a list of all the active assassins in the Office.’

‘The Kidonim?’ said Uzi. ‘How did you get that?’

‘We never discuss our sources,’ said Johnson loftily, ‘but we’ll need your help to break the encryption. J says the intel will add another, like, dimension to your story.’

‘It’s not a story,’ said Uzi.

‘Whatever. Testimony.’

Avner placed the USB carefully on the table. There was a pause. These men were clearly not spies; they were relying too much on posturing, and buckled under the slightest pressure. Yet they knew their stuff, J had vouched for them. Uzi holstered his weapon and lit a cigarette.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I suppose you two will be wanting a drink?’

‘OK,’ said Uzi once they were settled with beers and the sound equipment had been set up. ‘Roll the tape. I’ll tell you the story first, as it happened, and then show you the evidence.’

‘Roll the tape,’ chuckled Skid. ‘I haven’t heard that in a while.’

‘From now on, everything is on record,’ said Johnson. ‘OK?’ Uzi shrugged his acquiescence.

Skid turned on the table mic and spoke into it, stating the date, time and Uzi’s name – his real name. Then he gestured for Uzi to begin and put on a pair of headphones. Uzi cleared his throat, glanced at Avner, who was sitting beside the door cradling his gun. The microphone seemed ridiculously large. Uzi began to speak.

‘I’m going to give an account of Operation Cinnamon,’ he said, ‘the joint Mossad–Shabak operation to murder the interior minister, Ram Shalev.’

Johnson was taking notes on the laptop, his hands tapping away as if they had a life of their own. ‘Describe your involvement,’ he said, without looking up.

‘My role was to liaise with the Shabak and the Kidon, and to contribute towards the accomplishment of the objective,’ said Uzi. ‘From the start, it didn’t feel like a regular operation.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Johnson. ‘For the record: by “Shabak” you mean the Shin Bet, Israel’s domestic secret service. The Israeli MI5, so to speak. And by “Kidon” you mean a Mossad assassin.’

‘Right. Normally we would receive our orders in briefing sessions with the section commander. This time, I was called for a meeting with ROM himself – the director of the Mossad – on behalf of the PM.’

‘Hold on,’ said Johnson. ‘I just want to be absolutely clear about this. You’re saying that you were called into a meeting with the director of the Mossad on behalf of the Israeli prime minister?’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘How did you know it was on behalf of the prime minister? Did ROM say so explicitly?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were his exact words?’

‘He said, “I’m calling you into this meeting on behalf of the prime minister.”’

From across the room, Avner sniggered.

Johnson flushed. ‘Fine.’

‘Thanks,’ said Uzi drily. His throat was sore from the cigarettes and his lungs were tightening. ‘From the start, all orders were issued verbally. No documentation whatsoever.’

‘And that was unusual?’ said Johnson.

‘Yes, it was unusual. Now just shut up and listen. You’re driving me crazy.’ Johnson made no response. ‘The whole thing was very strange. It didn’t feel right. Operation Cinnamon was to be carried out within Israel’s borders. Ordinarily the Mossad only works abroad.’

‘The Mossad being the Israeli MI6.’

‘If you must make that comparison, yes.’

‘Why do you think the Mossad was being used domestically in this operation?’

‘Because ROM and the PM go back a long way. They are both kibbutzniks, both of the same political stripe. The PM knows he can trust the Mossad more than the Shabak or any other intelligence unit; they’re like his own family. And, of course, he chose us because of our expertise. In assassination.’ There was a silence. That word, with all its ugly sibilance, hung in the air horribly. ‘But I had been taught not to ask any questions. So I agreed to take on the operation.’

‘Did it bother you that the target of the assassination was an Israeli minister?’

‘Of course it bothered me, but I could only assume he was an enemy agent of some sort.’

‘ROM gave you no reason for the hit?’

‘None whatsoever. I found out later.’

‘I see.’

‘Look, by that point my career was unstable. I had been asking too many tricky questions, and was relying on my horses – powerful allies on the inside – to limit the damage. But I knew they couldn’t protect me forever. Cinnamon was a Priority One operation, and I was flattered that they offered it to me. You just don’t refuse a Priority One operation. I knew that I needed to carry it off in style if I was going to survive in the organisation.’

‘Why do you think ROM chose you?’

‘My horses had set it up that way. I’d promised them that I’d stop challenging authority, that I’d toe the line no matter what, and they wanted to give me a chance to get my career back on track.’

‘OK.’

‘So Operation Cinnamon began. The Shabak’s undercover Arabists had already infiltrated a cell of suicide bombers in Gaza. Myself and a Kidon were assigned to the Shabak unit. Our plan was to pose as Hamas terrorists, instruct one of the suicide bombers to kill Ram Shalev, and pass it off as a terrorist attack. This suited the government, by the way. Whenever there is an attack in Israel, public opinion swings to the right. Just the thing with an election coming up.’

‘Did you know the identity of the Kidon?’ said Johnson.

‘No,’ said Uzi coldly. ‘They’re the most secretive unit in existence. I did meet with him several times to discuss the operation but he only ever called himself K20.’ He lit another cigarette. Through the smoke that was leaking from his mouth, fogging his eyes, the world looked dream-like, mystical.

‘Everything went smoothly. The undercover Shabak operative made contact with a prospective suicide bomber, and we set up a meeting in Gaza. I posed as a high-ranking terrorist in Hamas who had arrived to give him a personal mission. He was a young boy, not more than sixteen, whose parents had been killed during Operation Cast Lead. Nadim Sam Qaaqour was his name. A lanky kid, wiry. He’d been brainwashed – totally brainwashed – as if somebody had removed everything inside him and filled him with . . . I don’t know . . . a sort of gas.’

‘Gas?’

‘Some kind of spirit, I don’t know. Anyway, we told him that Ram Shalev had been one of the main architects of Operation Cast Lead and that he was planning another offensive against the people of Gaza. The boy didn’t need any more than that. He agreed to do it there and then. We left it a week, then scheduled another meeting. Nadim was as keen as before, keener in fact. So we provided him with a suicide vest and instructions. The Kidon – K20 – arranged a meeting with Ram Shalev in the private garden of a hotel in downtown Jerusalem. The plan was to smuggle Nadim out of Gaza and drop him off in Jerusalem. Then he would make his way into the hotel garden via a side entrance. When K20 saw him coming, he would excuse himself and walk into the hotel, leaving Shalev alone in the garden. As soon as K20 was inside, Nadim was to run over and detonate the bomb. K20 would then return to the scene to make sure that both Shalev and the boy were dead. If not, he would finish them off with a miniature explosive charge to the head, made of the same substances as the suicide vest.

‘It was the sort of plan that only the Mossad could have come up with. The Shabak, well, they’re sophisticated operators but they don’t have the same flair.’

Uzi paused, got to his feet and walked over to the window. He parted the curtains. Outside it was dark and the rain was coming down in great flapping sheets. He saw his face reflected in the glass.

‘Do you want to stop the recording?’ said Johnson.

‘No, leave it. I’m fine,’ said Uzi. He returned to his seat, passed a hand over his brow, and resumed the narrative. ‘I was uncomfortable with the whole operation. I felt there was no doubt that Nadim would blow himself up sooner or later. In his mind, he’d already crossed to the other side. But using him as an instrument of assassination?’ He shook his head. ‘There was something I couldn’t put my finger on, something that wasn’t right.’

‘Do you normally trust your instincts?’

‘This operation was far from normal. Anyway, what really bothered me was the target: Ram Shalev. It didn’t add up. He just didn’t seem like the type to be an enemy agent; my gut was telling me it was all wrong. But I convinced myself that since it was a Priority One operation, it wouldn’t have been approved without good reason, especially at such a high level. Call me naive, but that’s what I wanted to believe. It’s what I wanted to be true; this operation was going to be very good for my career.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, K20 had instructed me to get Nadim to hand over all the money he possessed the week before the attack. This amounted to three thousand dollars; his parents had left it to him to be used as a dowry for his sister. K20 said that it was standard practice to take money off suicide bombers, as it made them more committed. If they didn’t have any money, it made them more determined to blow themselves up; they’d have nothing to go back to.’

‘Where did the money go?’

‘I remember K20’s face when I handed over the cash. There was a very slight change of expression, greed, I guess. And then I knew exactly where the money was going. I knew I was being played. But I let it slide.’

‘So the operation went according to plan?’

‘It did. It was the strangest thing, taking a suicide bomber to his target. That was Nadim’s last journey, and he seemed so calm, so otherworldly. I picked him up in Gaza, smuggled him out and drove him into Jerusalem. There was something eerie about the boy. He was praying constantly. I waited outside the hotel until the bomb went off. Then I drove away. Later I found out that Nadim had been killed instantly, but Ram Shalev had only been injured. K20 had finished him off.’