The Pure (24 page)

It must have been around six in the evening when there was a knock at the door. Uzi sat motionless for a few seconds, then got to his feet, gripped his R9 and turned out the light. He racked his weapon, the metallic double-crunch loud in the room. Through the peephole, nobody could be seen. His forehead clammy with sweat, he opened the door.

‘Hey,’ said Liberty, breezing past him into the room, ‘take it easy. Turn the light on. Why did you turn it off, anyway?’

‘What is this, an interrogation?’

‘I saw the light going out. Is that what the Mossad taught you? How to give yourself away?’

‘I wanted the advantage of being in the dark. I wasn’t going to pretend.’

‘Oh look at this,’ said Liberty, taking his gun in her hands. ‘Cocked and ready to rock.’ She ejected the bullet from the chamber. ‘What’s up, Uzi? You’re way too jumpy.’

‘Do you blame me?’

Uzi checked the corridor; so far as he could tell, she was alone. He closed the door behind her. Liberty sat on the bed. It was only then that he noticed how different she looked. Gone were the elegant clothes, the jewellery. Tonight she was wearing jeans, trainers, a hoodie. She looked younger, normal almost. And, curiously, more attractive.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Liberty. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘You look different,’ said Uzi, aware that he was stating the obvious. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she had come to shoot him.

‘I’m off duty tonight. This is a social call.’

‘Social?’

‘Look, I told you. Sit down. Actually, before you do that, get dressed.’

Uzi, who had been wearing nothing but his underwear, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Then he sat down, scowling.

‘Finally.’ Liberty pushed back her hood, shook out her hair. ‘Look, there’s something big coming up for you. Something nice on the horizon. Interesting job, fat bonus. So tonight, I figured we’d go out. Get away from it all. Forget our woes, you know? Then we can hit the ground running.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘I’m not going to discuss it tonight. Tonight is for relaxing. Clearing out the system.’

Uzi made no response. What did this mean? Was it a trap? She may have come to execute him, but that didn’t feel right. Why would she do it herself? Liberty laughed, her dark eyes flashing. ‘Come on, man, relax,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘Stop being so suspicious, all right? I’m just a fun-loving girl. All work and no play . . .’ Her words faded as she read a text on her phone. Then, once again, he had her full attention. ‘All work and no play,’ she repeated, and smiled.

‘Where are we going? Tonight?’

She leaned closer. ‘It’s a surprise.’

‘I hate surprises.’

‘Come on, Uzi, chill out. You’re not a spy any more. You’re your own man.’

‘Stop playing around, Liberty. Just tell me where we’re going. I can’t afford to take any risks.’

‘Look,’ said Liberty. ‘I’m worried about you, you know? I don’t want you freaking out on me. I need you.’

‘Freaking out?’

‘Yeah. Spy syndrome. I mean, just look at the way you answered the door. And look at the state of this place.’

‘My life expectancy’s not great,’ said Uzi, anger rising quickly through him. ‘You know that.’

Liberty shook her head dismissively. ‘We’ve got to get you out for a while, change of scenery. Get your energy back. Come on.’ She took his arm – her grip was surprisingly strong – and pulled him to his feet. For a moment they were close, half an arm’s length away, looking at each other. He pressed his gun into his waistband. And then they were out in the corridor, and she was leading him towards the lift.

Outside the air was black and crisp. Uzi’s lungs felt different, felt good. None of Liberty’s bodyguards could be seen, but Uzi doubted she was without some protection. She was good at blending in; they left Home House and nobody seemed to notice. He would have expected nothing else. Old habits kicked in, and Uzi too became grey, anonymous. She took his arm again and led him down the street, ghosting away from the underground car park.

‘We’re not walking, are we?’ he said.

‘Are you kidding? It’s much too far.’

They stopped in front of a long line of municipal bicycles, known as ‘Boris Bikes’ – after the city’s mayor.

‘You’re not serious?’ said Uzi as Liberty inserted her key fob into the docking station.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, ‘and I’m trying to make you less so.’

The bicycles were released from the docking station, Liberty adjusted her seat, and suddenly Uzi was pedalling, struggling to keep up. Liberty wound ahead through the rush-hour traffic, exhaust rising in plumes around her.

‘Come on,’ she called, looking over her shoulder, ‘you can do better than that.’

‘I haven’t ridden a bike for years,’ he shouted in response, and coughed. He stood on the pedals and the distance closed between them; he found that he was laughing. The bike was heavy, cumbersome, with a string of flashing white lights on the front. For a moment he saw himself on a donkey.

The ride was longer than he had expected, and with each rotation of the pedals a burden seemed to lift, something constrictive loosened, and his mind seemed to clear. He was still coughing. He had left his cigarettes in his room but he didn’t seem to care. Liberty jinked through the traffic and he was impressed by her agility; from time to time she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. They climbed a hill, his lungs ballooning, and freewheeled down the other side. Still she was ahead. Other people on Boris Bikes occasionally caught their eyes, acknowledging a bond of solidarity: us against the traffic, us against the world. Us and our ugly grey machines, our flashing headlights. Uzi liked that. Still he could see nobody following him or Liberty, no bodyguards. And then – for the first time in a long while – he stopped assessing everything for danger.

Eventually Liberty swung her leg over the bike, bounced it up on to the kerb and slotted it into a rack. Uzi followed, looking about him, trying to catch his breath. This part of the city was vibrant, dirty, teeming with life. East London. Brick Lane.

‘Do you like curry?’ said Liberty as they strolled through the hubbub like tourists.

‘Doesn’t everybody like curry.’

‘Spoken like a true curry lover.’

Uzi smiled. He felt as if he had stepped into a dream, become a brand new person. He could be walking to his death, he knew that. Liberty took his arm and they wound their way along the pavements, ignoring the suggestions from men in doorways to step inside their restaurants. Liberty was huddling up against his shoulder like a teenager on a date. He could feel the swell of her breast against his biceps, and occasionally the jab of the gun in her pocket.

‘You’ve got nobody protecting you, do you?’ he said.

‘I have you,’ Liberty replied. A tingling sensation passed across his scalp as he felt the weight of her breast against his arm. His R9 felt hard and hot against his lower back. His mind had begun to send him warnings: stay strong, stay centred. There has to be more to this than meets the eye. There must be. Don’t get drawn in. Stay ready. But his gut was telling him something different. This was exactly what he wanted. Something in him had wanted it for a long time.

Liberty drew him into a doorway and he followed her up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a strong smell of spices. And then they were in a restaurant, being seated. Pink napkins perched like origami birds in uniform patterns on the tables. Uzi was reminded of something he’d read once about origami – something about a paper bird foretelling a violent death.

‘Why here?’ said Uzi as they sat down.

‘It’s quiet, out of the way,’ Liberty replied. ‘Nobody would expect us to come here. No prying eyes. And they do a great Lamb Biryani.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. Uzi glanced, as casually as he could, around the room. Only one entrance; only one exit. The windows might be used in an emergency, but they were fairly high up. Risky. The waiting staff looked lethargic, unmotivated. He didn’t think they were hiding anything. Nevertheless, Liberty had led him into a situation known in the Office as a ‘bottle’.

They drank Cobra and ordered food. Uzi was beginning to need a cigarette. He drank deeply instead. Liberty settled herself in her chair like a cat.

‘So,’ she said, half serious, half in parody, ‘tell me about you.’

‘There are things you don’t know?’

‘Sure.’

‘Like what?’

‘Love life?’

‘That’s usually the first thing the CIA finds out.’

‘I’m not with the Agency any more, remember?’

‘You read their file.’

‘Tell me in your own words.’

Uzi drained his bottle and waved to the waiter for another. ‘I fuck girls from Hungary. Among others.’

Liberty smiled. ‘Fuck buddies, eh? For some reason I knew I’d get a cliché from you.’

‘It’s the truth. I don’t lie any more. I don’t have to.’

‘But it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? Just layers of stories with nothing underneath.’

Uzi shrugged. She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t do love either.’ She paused. ‘It shows too much . . . weakness. Nothing since my husband died.’

‘Killed?’

‘Careless. He was a man with a lot of enemies. But let’s not talk about him.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’ said Uzi.

‘Your wife’s Hungarian?’

‘Please. I’m a nice Jewish boy.’

Liberty laughed. ‘They don’t have Jews in Hungary?’

‘Not any more.’

Uzi’s second beer arrived and he took a long draught. He had known every detail about Nehama: the sound she made when she rolled over in the night, the expression she wore when she was concentrating, the way that her left heel always wore down quicker than her right, the voice she used when she was trying to impress people, her way of laughing – and crying – when you least expected it. How, although she was insecure about her strength of mind, she would fight like a lioness to protect the people she loved. The time she was angry with him and stormed out the house, only to find she had nowhere to go.

Liberty ordered a glass of house red.

‘No Pernod tonight?’ Uzi asked.

‘I hate that shit. It’s just for appearance’s sake. Mystique.’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘I’m not. It’s the little things, Uzi. They make a difference. The Maybach, the Pernod, the restaurants, the clothes.’

‘The murders.’

‘Like I said, it’s the little things. Actually I hate being called Liberty.’

‘What do you prefer?’

‘My name, for fuck’s sake. My name. Eve Klugman.’

Her wine arrived with the poppadoms, served by an unnecessary number of waiters. She leant over and broke one into quarters. For some reason, the cracking sound made him wince. He spooned some mango chutney on to his plate, tapping the end of the spoon on the china.

‘You see?’ said Liberty, biting into a poppadom. ‘We’re normal people really. Just out for a curry. Just normal.’

‘But we’re not,’ said Uzi. ‘We’re not, are we?’

‘Come on,’ said Liberty, frowning, ‘we can pretend. Just for tonight.’

‘Sure,’ he replied.

There was a pause as the main course arrived.

‘Do you ever wonder,’ said Liberty, ‘what you’d be doing if your life had gone a different way?’

‘A parallel universe?’

‘I guess.’

‘No.’

‘I thought you wouldn’t. I do. I know what I’d be doing. I’d be an attorney or something, living in Manhattan. With kids. Sometimes I wonder what I’d say if I met myself in the street.’

‘Nice thought,’ said Uzi. His curry was good.

‘You’d be a businessman. Travelling the world. The Mile High Club. All that.’

‘I’m already a member,’ said Uzi. ‘Everyone was, in the Office.’

‘Fucking Israelis,’ said Liberty, shaking her head.

They finished their meal and went in search of a local pub. Liberty was casting a pleasant spell over him, and he wanted to leak some more intel, something that would really hurt the government. He had a piece of jumbo connected to the Washington Station in mind, but he knew it wasn’t safe, not out here. It could wait. They found a dimly lit pub on the Whitechapel Road and sat in a secluded corner in a pair of ancient leather armchairs. There they got steadily more drunk; with the alcohol they talked more naturally, more effusively, like old friends. They all but forgot about their guns. From the outside, they began to look like lovers.

‘In our game,’ said Liberty, leaning back into the creaking seat, ‘you know you’re going to be lonely. That’s the nature of the job, right? The secrets. All that.’

Uzi shrugged in agreement and took a single gulp from his pint.

‘But what they don’t tell you,’ Liberty went on, ‘is that this is a life sentence. You can’t escape. Even when you quit the service, you can’t get away. You’re branded. For life.’

‘You didn’t think about that in the beginning?’ asked Uzi.

‘You did?’

‘That was the reason I joined,’ said Uzi wryly.

A man walked past them in the direction of the toilet; they fell silent until he had passed.

‘But don’t you get tired?’ said Liberty in an undertone, once they were alone again. ‘Isn’t it exhausting being alone? Just you against everyone else?’

‘I don’t know what it means to be tired. I’ve never known what it means to sleep.’

‘Oh come on, Uzi. You can’t have been always like this.’

‘As far back as I can remember.’

‘Well, I haven’t. I remember the person I used to be.’

‘And what would you say to her now?’

Liberty paused. ‘I would say I was sorry.’ She looked down at the table, tracing a small circle with a fingertip. Uzi watched his hand moving across the table and cupping hers. The spell was working. Two hands, so much blood. Their eyes met, their fingers tightened. Uzi hesitated, tried to pull his hand away, but she held on to it. She smiled, and his fingers relaxed. ‘Have another drink,’ she said. He shrugged, then nodded.

At closing time, they got a cab back to Home House. He still didn’t know where she lived. Liberty walked him to the door of his room, holding his arm, her breasts still touching his biceps; now he wanted to press her against the wall and fuck her. She thanked him, and he thought it was genuine. She said it had been the most normal evening she had had in a long time. Nobody was around. Both of them were light-headed, happy. Below them, music pounded. He wanted to give her the intel he had been mulling over all day; the words kept bubbling in his head to ask her into his room. But he didn’t trust himself. He was drunk. There was something seductive about her, in her hoodie and trainers. He had to protect himself. But on the other hand – there they were, they had had a normal evening, perhaps they should end it the way normal people would. Anyway, he was losing his self-control. His body was a Frankenstein’s monster, and this woman seemed suddenly vulnerable. He was drunk, he was happy. She had him.