The Pure (19 page)

‘With the explosive charge to the head.’

‘With the explosive charge to the head. Then he disappeared.’

Uzi sat back, running his hands through his hair. He glanced at Avner, who gave him the slightest of nods.

‘So what made you investigate further?’ said Johnson.

Uzi sighed. ‘That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the faces of Ram Shalev, of Nadim. When the objective had been achieved and they were both dead, it really hit me. I didn’t know why, but the whole thing stank. The following morning, the PM called me personally to congratulate me and thank me for my dedication. It was when I put the phone down that I knew I had to find out what lay behind the operation. I needed to know what I’d done.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I was sure that K20 knew the truth. The Kidonim are the highest-ranking intelligence operatives in Israel; he had to know the full story. I managed to make contact with him by making a formal request for a one-to-one, intelligence-sharing session. Surprisingly enough, the authorities agreed. We met in downtown Tel Aviv, and I threatened to inform his superiors that he had extorted three thousand dollars from Nadim. This freaked him out. Don’t get me wrong, corruption is rife in the regular Mossad, but the Kidonim are held to a different standard. They’re not meant to be players like the rest of us. And if they break the rules, the penalties are high.’

‘How did K20 respond?’

‘He started to threaten me, but I told him that I’d left a letter containing this information with a friend, to be opened if I were killed or injured. I said I just wanted to know the nature of my crimes, that I had no intention of leaking any intelligence. That it wouldn’t be worth risking my life over. I distinctly remember telling him that I wasn’t that stupid.’ Uzi smiled to himself bitterly.

‘So K20 gave you the information?’

‘He did. We met the following week and he handed over a file of documents. I had them for only five minutes. I used a clamper – you’re familiar with a clamper?’

‘Yeah, that’s our stock in trade.’

‘OK, so using a clamper I photographed all of the documents. I read them through that evening. And what I saw shocked me.’

‘Do tell.’

Uzi took a deep breath. ‘Ram Shalev was assassinated on the orders of the PM because he had some information that he was going to make public. The information was this. The government was planning – is still planning – to carry out lightning air strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities, in an operation called Desert Rain. They say that the Iranians have enriched uranium and produced yellowcake. This yellowcake represents an existential threat to Israel, so if it existed, the attacks would be justified. But, in reality, according to Ram Shalev, the yellowcake is a paper tiger. It doesn’t exist. Operation Desert Rain is simply a publicity stunt to drum up some patriotic fervour in Israel, and swing the country in the run-up to the election.’

‘Talk about playing with fire,’ said Johnson. ‘If Iran were to retaliate, this would mean war.’

‘I know,’ Uzi replied. ‘This government is nothing if not arrogant.’

A silence fell, a tangible silence broken only by the tapping of keys as Johnson made feverish notes.

‘So let me just run through this again, for purposes of clarity,’ Johnson said, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. ‘The prime minister has authorised an attack on a bogus target in Iran in order to get the public on his side before the election.’

‘Right,’ said Uzi. ‘Operation Desert Rain.’

‘Ram Shalev, one of his own ministers, found out about the plan and intended to make it public.’

‘Correct.’

‘So the prime minister used the Mossad to assassinate him. He killed his own interior minister, and he used the Mossad to do it.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you personally were involved in this operation. Operation Cinnamon.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And this testimony is all completely true. Everything happened exactly as you said it.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Fuck,’ said Skid from the corner of the room. He stopped the recording and removed his headphones. ‘This is massive.’

Uzi reached into his inside pocket and drew out the buff envelope he had taken from the slick in his old apartment. He tossed it over to Johnson. ‘Here are copies of all the documents I photographed with the clamper. They confirm everything I’ve told you.’ Johnson took the envelope, with a forced casualness. ‘Leak them, Johnson, whatever your name is. Let the world know about Operation Cinnamon, Operation Desert Rain. Once the information is out there, the government can’t bomb Iran.’

‘That’s your motivation? To avert war?’ said Johnson.

‘That and the money,’ said Avner from beside the door.

‘What money?’

‘J didn’t tell you? Political donations,’ said Avner. ‘And speaking of money, we have agreed with J that you won’t make this information public until we’ve received a cash deposit in our accounts. Do you understand that?’

‘Whatever,’ said Johnson, slowly closing his laptop.

‘No, not whatever,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘Put it like this. If my colleague’s testimony leaks before we get our money, we will hunt you down and kill you. Not J, not anybody else, just you. Understand now?’

Johnson nodded, avoiding eye contact. The two WikiLeaks men hurriedly packed up their equipment and prepared to leave. Uzi took out Avner’s MacBook and turned it on. Skid came and watched over his shoulder as he inserted the Office’s USB and ran the de-encryption software. Then he opened the file.

The four men huddled around the glowing screen. Within seconds there appeared a gallery of head-and-shoulder photographs of the Mossad’s forty-eight Kidonim, all of whom looked young and serious, and six of whom were female. Uzi breathed in sharply. Just setting eyes on these pictures meant an instant death sentence.

‘Present from J,’ murmured Johnson.

‘Him,’ said Uzi, pointing to one of the images. ‘That’s K20.’ The picture showed a baby-faced man with longish black hair, pale green eyes and a high-bridged nose. Uzi opened his file, read his name. ‘There you are. Yakov Ben Zion. Aged twenty-six.’ He turned to Johnson. ‘You make this guy’s name public as well. Make sure of it.’

After the men had left, Uzi and Avner sat in silence for many minutes, lost in their thoughts. The rain could be heard pounding on the window with a renewed ferocity, heightening the stillness in the room. Then Avner took out his phone and dialled a number.

‘It’s Michael here,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s done. All went according to plan. We’re waiting for our money. When we receive it, we’ll give J the green light.’ And he hung up.

There was a pause.

‘Well,’ said Uzi, ‘that’s it. It’s done.’

‘It’s done,’ Avner repeated. ‘Doesn’t that feel good? We’re fucking the Office, preventing war with Iran, and making more money than we can spend in a lifetime. All at once.’

‘Yeah,’ said Uzi impassively, ‘feels good.’

‘I’m going to go home, have a hot bath, and start making the arrangements for my new life,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘I suggest you do the same. When the story breaks, we both want to be far away.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m staying right here,’ said Uzi. ‘I’ve got a good thing going here with Liberty. Good work, well paid. And I have protection.’

Avner looked at him as if he were about to say something. Then he changed his mind. He walked over and rested his hand on Uzi’s shoulder. Then he turned and left the room.

In a backstreet between Soho and Covent Garden, beneath a constantly flickering streetlight, lay an underground vodka dive. It had no official name, but was known to the people who knew about it as Pogreb – the Cellar. The place was subterranean; to enter you had to descend a flight of slippery stone steps, pass through a steel door – which was always closed, and manned by an armed bouncer – and go down a spiral staircase into a converted wine cellar. Its customers were pushers, pimps, money launderers, even the occasional arms dealer. All Russian.

In a shadowy corner, hunched over a bottle of flavoured vodka, cupping shot glasses in their hands, sat two men. One, an Afghan named Aasif Hamidi, was swarthy and sullen, with a black moustache and a jacket collar turned up in a low fan behind his neck. His companion, Alexey Mikhailovich Abelev, had tightly curled blond hair, thick white eyelashes and eyes that looked like marbles.

‘So,’ said Abelev, ‘this is your first time in London?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you like it?’

‘I was sent from Afghanistan to check on how the woman is selling our product,’ he said; his Russian was thick with an accent from the Afghan borderlands. ‘That is all.’

‘Your boss is losing confidence in her? That’s what I am hearing.’

Hamidi shrugged. ‘Business is business. We have to make sure we get the best price.’

At this, Abelev smiled in a crafty sort of way and sat back in his chair. Hamidi took a Mild-7 cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a Zippo. Then he offered one to Abelev, who declined.

‘I’m a serious man,’ said Abelev in a surprisingly soft voice. ‘I want you to know that before we talk any further.’ He took the vodka bottle and refilled their glasses.

‘That’s good,’ Hamidi said. ‘Then we’re both serious men. That’s a good start.’ He emptied his glass of vodka down his throat and winced.

‘In that case, I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Abelev. ‘I want to know what your boss’s terms are with the woman.’

‘Liberty?’

At the mention of her name, Abelev glanced around nervously. ‘Of course,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘Who else?’

‘Don’t piss your pants. We’re talking about a woman, not a goddess,’ said Hamidi drily.

‘You obviously don’t know her.’

‘Come on. You think Afghanistan is a playground?’ Hamidi refilled their glasses, exhaling a jet of smoke.

‘Do you have to puff on that thing? I’m allergic to smoke,’ said Abelev, coughing.

‘I’m allergic to lack of smoke,’ Hamidi responded.

There was a pause. Somebody at the bar dropped a glass, and everyone bristled for a fight. The barmaid cleared it up and things returned to normal.

‘So, you want to know the terms my boss has agreed with your boss,’ said Hamidi after a time. ‘That’s what you’re telling me?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

‘Let me try to understand. Liberty protects you, right? She pays you well. She looks after you. So why are you asking me a thing like that?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘Not to me it isn’t.’

Abelev took a swig of vodka and sighed. ‘You’re right, Liberty pays me. And she looks after me. But she keeps me on the street. I don’t want to be on the street. I want to be pulling the strings.’

‘Why don’t you just be patient? Be a good boy? Work your way up like everyone else?’

‘It’s impossible with her. Since her husband died she’s held all the power herself, made all the decisions. We don’t even know what decisions she’s making, it’s that bad. A lot of guys who work for her don’t even know each other. There’s a guy who’s been with her for years, and he’s still working the same estate. I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got plans.’

‘But she pays well.’

‘Yes, but I’m ambitious.’

‘So what are these plans?’

‘I have . . . other contacts.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind who. An organisation just as big as Liberty’s. An organisation that wants a piece of your product. There’s no reason you should only sell to Liberty. No reason at all.’

‘So you’re planning to offer my boss better terms than the bitch. Right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re planning to become the number one dealer.’

‘Eventually, yes. The other lot have promised to make me a partner if I can get you to sell to them.’

‘That’s your ticket off the streets.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re planning to avoid getting killed by Liberty.’

‘I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry about me.’

‘You look worried, if I may say so.’

‘This is business, Hamidi. Business.’

‘OK, then tell me something,’ said Hamidi in a hard voice. ‘Why aren’t you worried that I’ll go straight back to the bitch? Tell her you’re trying to stab her in the back?’

Abelev blanched. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘I wouldn’t?’

‘This is money we’re talking about. I know the rules of the game, Hamidi. Sell to me and your boss’ll be far richer. Liberty would be ancient history.’

‘The bitch won’t go out without a fight. You’ll have a battle on your hands, make no mistake.’

‘I’ll sort it. All you need to know is volume will be high, and it’ll increase by increments as time goes on. And we’ll pay you fifteen per cent more than Liberty.’

‘Fifteen?’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Abelev, holding the other man’s gaze.

The swarthy man smiled. ‘I like you, Abelev. You’re a straightforward man. A serious, straightforward man.’

‘I want to do business, to make money,’ the blond man said. ‘That’s all.’

Hamidi leaned forward in a cloud of cigarette smoke, his collar casting a shadow across his cheeks. ‘Let me tell you something, my friend. The goods we provide – they are the best quality. The very best quality. Direct from Afghanistan, one hundred per cent pure, mixed with absolutely nothing. Pure, potent and powerful. You won’t find better anywhere in London, anywhere in the world, my friend. The whole world. Our goods are –’ he kissed his fingers softly ‘– out of this world.’

‘I know,’ said Abelev. ‘That’s why I’m approaching you and no one else. Real money depends on a good reputation. And a good reputation depends on a high-quality product.’

‘Not just high quality. The best quality, Abelev. The best.’

‘The best. I know. The best.’

‘We don’t trust just anyone. So far, we’ve only trusted the bitch.’

‘But now your boss no longer trusts her. That’s why you’re here.’

‘Why should we trust you any more than her?’

‘Because I’m offering you a better price. It’s as simple as that.’

‘What is the name of this organisation you’re talking with?’

‘You wouldn’t know them. Only people in London know them.’