The Pure (33 page)

For a moment neither of them moved; the sound of the engine filled the space between them. Then Leila grabbed him and pulled his mouth to hers, as if his soul were buried somewhere deep inside him and she was trying to devour it.

The stopover in Istanbul went smoothly and they were on the final leg of the flight. Everything was quiet. Lulled by the hum of the engine, Uzi tipped back his chair and tried to get some sleep. He was only hours away from the crescendo, yet he felt strangely at peace here at the tip of the aeroplane, with nothing but air and cloud for miles in every direction. The temperature in the cockpit was cool; the air felt fresh and pure. His mind drifted and settled, but did not succumb to sleep completely. Through the haze of semi-consciousness, he found himself winding back through his memories and arriving twenty years before, in the blackness of the pre-dawn night on the eastern edge of the Judean Desert, overlooking the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth. He was eighteen years old, and had just completed his Tironut, basic training. His unit had formed into single file, and each man carried a loaded weapon and backpack with full kit, and held a flaming torch aloft. He glanced up and saw his bolus of flame blazing into the eternity of the night above him, a single point in a chain of thirty torches; thirty soldiers trained and willing to die for their country. Through the darkness they marched hard up the impossibly steep Snake Path, sweat blooming on their foreheads; they were at the peak of physical fitness, both mental and physical, and their minds were set on reaching the top.

The string of flaming torches wound its way higher and higher up the mountain, every step filled with grinding determination. They were climbing the vast rock plateau of Masada, a place of potent symbolism for Israel. In 72
AD
, during the first Jewish–Roman war, a community of Jewish warriors known as the ‘Dagger Men’ had taken refuge in the fortress at the summit. Flavius Silva’s army laid siege, and by constructing a vast ramp of earth and stone they were able to march up to the fortress walls and penetrate them with a battering ram. But they found nothing but dead bodies. The Jews – 960 of them – had put themselves to the sword rather than fall prey to the enemy. Now every unit in the Israeli Army held a night-time passing-out ceremony in the ancient Masada fortress.

It was a long march, but Uzi and his comrades were so focused it seemed to pass in no time at all. This was their moment. Chests heaving, they formed into a square; the blue and white flag was raised; and the ceremony began.

Uzi would never forget the feeling of standing there in the orange flicker of the torches, shoulder-to-shoulder with his fellow men. Now, in the cockpit of the plane, he felt light, unfettered, free. Nothing was pulling him down, nothing was restricting him; his body felt almost translucent, as if it were formed of some sort of rainbow. But that night on the summit of Masada, with his boots on the ground where those Jewish warriors spilled their own blood centuries before, he had felt wholly rooted in the earth. No, not just rooted in the earth – more than that. He felt part of the earth. As if the great boulders and dust and silt of the Holy Land had thrown out a man-shaped Golem; as if the bloodstained earth of his forefathers had come alive in him. His skeleton was made of holy rock, packed over with Dead Sea mud; his eyeballs were crystallised globes of salt, and within the grooves of his veins flowed the lava of Jewish pride. For this was the land of his birthright, this was the substance of his inheritance, in equal parts cursed and blessed. And when the ceremony drew to its final, rousing conclusion, and he opened his mouth alongside all his brothers, their teeth glinting like chips of marble in the gloom, the sound that came out was the thunder of a thousand earthquakes:
Masada shall never fall again! Masada shall never fall again!

Uzi slipped towards the surface of consciousness, and found that the Kol was speaking to him. It was saying something about Qum and Natanz, something about Leila. It was telling him not to stop believing, not to forget who he was. Then he awoke, and found that he had been speaking aloud, saying I wish you would get out of my head, I can’t wait to get you out of my head. He glanced over at the pilot, who was avoiding his eyes, pretending not to have heard.

The engine was rumbling louder now; the plane was making its descent. The pilot, without looking at him, handed over his headset. ‘Look,’ he said in halting Arabic. ‘Look down there. Syria.’

Uzi looked. He was surprised to feel a pang of homecoming. This was, after all, the Middle East; Tel Aviv was only 130 miles south of Damascus. And yet he didn’t feel this sentimental when he flew into Tel Aviv. When he landed in Israel, his feelings were far more ambivalent. Especially on El Al flights, when groups of youngsters erupted in traditional songs, he would find himself not knowing how to feel. Syria was easier, somehow. Less complicated. For here he was free of the burden of loyalty, and could relate to who he really was.

The MIT operative landed smoothly, and Uzi and Leila disembarked with the cabin crew. As soon as the Mediterranean sun touched his skin, as soon as he breathed in the clean, spiced fug of the air and heard the energetic voices of the people, Uzi could feel his system adjusting to its default settings. The last time he was in Damascus, he had been undercover for the Mossad. But despite this, it was good to be back. Uzi and Leila went through customs without a hitch, and made the rendezvous point in good time.

The Syrian agents looked exactly as he had expected: black suits, dark glasses, no hint of subtlety. But in a strange way their overtness helped them to blend in. In a country like Syria, which was sustained and controlled by the secret police, men like these were not unusual. Uzi and Leila were ushered into the back seat of a saloon car and driven out into the afternoon Damascus traffic. Everywhere there were yellow taxi cabs, people jostling for position, women in hijabs and the occasional niqab, men carrying baskets of fruit. And everywhere there were placards displaying the faces of the president and other political figures. It was a good idea, in Syria, to demonstrate one’s loyalty to the regime, and the best way of doing this was to display a prominent image of one of its stalwarts.

The car, playing Al Medina FM loudly, made its way through the outskirts of the city and headed north. Nowhere could be seen any sign of unrest. The rough desert stretched out in great caramel plains on either side, and the road ahead shimmered in the late summer heat. Before long there were no billboards, no crash barriers, no road markings even. Just a long snake of tarmac flanked by endless desert. As the radio blared on, and Arabic jingles followed advertisements and sanitised discussions on politics, Uzi and Leila fell quiet, each looking out of their own window, absorbed in their private thoughts. To begin with, the agents in the front seats checked on them regularly, surreptitiously, in the rear-view mirror. Then Uzi gave them each a cigarette, and the three men smoked out the windows. This put them at ease, and before long they all settled down. An air of bored acceptance gradually filled the vehicle.

The light was bronzing as they drove down towards the coastal city of Al L
ā
dhiq
ī
yah. They threaded through the narrow streets and made their way down towards the fresher air that was coming from the sea. Before long, the ocean appeared on the horizon, revealing itself in the spaces between buildings and disappearing again. And then, there it was – the Mediterranean in all its splendour. The car turned north on the coastal road, past beaches, strips of hotels and restaurants, and cafés serving coffee and seafood. The sea stretched out to their left like a vast tongue. After a time they began to climb a ridge, and they arrived at a military checkpoint. There was only one way to play it, and Uzi and Leila played it the same way: with practised insouciance. The agents showed the soldiers their papers, and the soldiers waved them through.

The road broadened as it wound along the ridge, and the view of the ocean was spectacular. Nestling in the foliage of the road were luxury villas, built like marshmallow palaces into the rock. The car slowed; the radio was switched off as they turned off the main road and down a winding driveway towards an impressive villa complex surrounded by discreet yet formidable electric fences. A pair of plain-clothed men with sunglasses and AK-47s stood guard at the gates. The car stopped. With the muzzles of their guns, the men indicated that Uzi and Leila should leave the vehicle. They did so, stretching their legs and loosening their necks in the late afternoon sunshine. The two Syrian agents took their luggage from the boot and left it by the side of the track. Then, without a word of farewell, they reversed the saloon back along the driveway and disappeared.

‘Let me see your papers,’ said one of the men in Farsi. Leila handed over some documents – Uzi assumed they confirmed her identity as a MOIS operative. Upon inspecting them, the mood of the guards changed. ‘
Salaam alaykum
,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Syria. We have been expecting you. Does the man speak Farsi?’

‘I do,’ said Uzi, ‘and I thank you for your hospitality.’

‘We are poor hosts,’ the guard replied, following the elaborate
taarof
etiquette of Persia. ‘I am sure you are accustomed to far more extravagant surroundings.’

‘Not at all,’ said Uzi, replying in kind. ‘It is more than I deserve.’

One of the guards walked out of earshot and spoke into a walkie-talkie. Then he returned. ‘Come with me, please,’ he said, hitching his gun back over his shoulder. ‘Allow me to take your bags.’

The villa complex turned out to be larger than Uzi had expected. It wrapped around the coastal road in a network of interlocking buildings and walkways, all painted pale ochre, and capped with rust-coloured roofs. Balconies protruded like shelves, and people could be seen resting on them in their shirtsleeves, smoking and looking out to sea. Discretion seemed to be the watchword. Apart from the two guards Uzi and Leila had encountered at the fence, no other display of force was visible; the place might have been mistaken for a hotel hosting a conference. Rows of cars nosed up to the walls, and people walked briskly in business suits, carrying folders and briefcases. But when Uzi looked closer, he could see disguised dugouts and sentry posts stippling the area, nestling in the trees, standing discreetly in the shadows and corners. He noticed two soldiers in heavy camouflage disappearing around the side of a building. There was no lack of security here.

‘Little Tehran, eh?’ said Uzi as they were shown through the main doors. ‘This is a big set-up.’

‘It’s not usually so busy,’ Leila replied. ‘At the moment, this whole place is dedicated to countering Operation Desert Rain. Extra staff have been drafted from all over.’

The guard led them through a maze of corridors with whitewashed walls and terracotta paving. On the breeze from the round-topped windows came occasional bursts of mint and eucalyptus. Eventually Uzi was shown into a simple room with bars across the windows, containing nothing but a table and four chairs. Leila hung back, and with a salvo of apologies from the guard, he was left alone with his luggage. The door was locked.

Uzi walked to the window and almost took off his jacket. But then he remembered the plastic pistol in the inside pocket and stopped himself. They hadn’t searched him yet. It was hot, and the trousers of his uniform were tight around the crotch. He squirmed uncomfortably and rearranged them.

‘You’re nearly there,’ said the Kol suddenly. ‘Just hold your nerve, Uzi. Don’t forget who you are. Believe.’

The door opened and two men entered. One, a bodyguard, stood beside the door. The other sat down opposite Uzi. Leila was nowhere to be seen.

‘Welcome to Syria,’ said the man in eloquent Farsi. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sorry we do not meet in my own country, today. But I hope that next time we may welcome you there as an honoured guest.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing.’

‘No, no. You shall stay in my personal home. My home will be like your home. My name is Abdel Ghasem.’

‘A pleasure. I am Uzi, but of course you know that. Where is Leila?’

‘She is doing some paperwork, which is required when an operative brings in a prisoner. Technically, of course, you are our prisoner. But, in spirit, you are our guest.’

Insouciantly, instinctively, Uzi observed every detail of the man sitting opposite him. He was burly, and carried himself as if a great deal of weight was resting on his shoulders. He had bulging, fleshy lips – the lips, Uzi thought, of a liar – and hair that was coiffed and sleek. The sleeves of his shirt came to a stop some inches before his meaty hands, and from his left wrist dangled a loose-fitting Rolex watch that rattled as he moved. From his shoulder holster protruded the butt of a Walther P99 pistol.

‘Your Farsi is excellent, my friend,’ said Ghasem, in honeyed tones.

‘I am sure it cannot compare to your English.’

Ghasem waved the compliment away. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

‘Please, I insist. Have some tea.’

‘Really, I’m OK. I’m not thirsty.’

‘Our tea is not worthy of you, but please do have some.’ The
taarof
etiquette done with, the bodyguard opened the door a crack and motioned to somebody waiting outside. A silver tray of tea was brought in and placed on the table, together with a heavy bowl of fruit. There being no women present, the tea duties fell to Ghasem. He poured a little dark liquid into a glass and raised it to the light, assessing its colour and strength. Then he poured some into two small glasses rimmed with silver, diluting it with boiling water from a samovar. Following Persian custom, Uzi put a piece of sugar in his mouth and sipped the tea around it.

‘I know Leila has made this clear to you already,’ said Ghasem, exhaling through his nose, ‘but let me reiterate that we are all filled with admiration at your courage and principles. There are very few like you in the Zionist regime, very few. During the course of our surveillance you have shown yourself to be a man of great moral fibre. So for all this, I would like to salute you. The Islamic Republic of Iran is about to owe you a great debt.’ He raised his glass and Uzi inclined his own in acknowledgement. ‘It goes without saying,’ Ghasem continued, ‘that when this operation is complete you will not have to worry for the rest of your life. You will not develop even a single white hair. We guarantee that. You will have as much money as you could possibly desire, as well as constant protection from the MOIS. Anything you want we will provide, until your dying day.’ He raised his glass again, and Uzi raised his own in return.