The Pure (34 page)

‘Has Leila explained,’ said Uzi, ‘that she wishes to leave the MOIS once this is over? That we are going to find some corner of the world to make a life together, and leave this business behind? Start over as ordinary people?’

Ghasem paused for a moment. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My pledge applies to both of you. Leila Shirazi is a brilliant operative, and a fine woman. Congratulations.’ For the first time since arriving at Little Tehran, something didn’t feel right to Uzi. It was something about the way Ghasem had hesitated before replying; the way his face had frozen, like a seasoned spy disguising his emotions. Uzi sipped his tea through the last of the sugar in his mouth and picked up another piece.

‘Fruit?’ said Ghasem. ‘Please have some fruit. We have all sorts, but I can recommend the oranges. They are extremely succulent this time of year.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Uzi, ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Please, I insist. Have an orange. At least have an orange.’

‘No, thank you. Really, I’m fine.’

Ghasem placed an orange on a side plate and passed it to Uzi, along with a knife. His Rolex rattled as he moved. Uzi thanked him obligingly, and began to peel the fruit. A delicious citrus smell sifted into the air.

‘Now,’ said Ghasem, ‘you’ll forgive my rudeness if I get straight to the point; as you appreciate, time is of the essence. The Israeli air strikes are planned for just three hours from now.’ He sat back in his chair and rested one fist on each knee. ‘All we are going to need from you, my friend, is one word. In return for all the riches and protection I just described: one word. The name of the target that the Israelis are going to strike. We know everything else, but not that. We need to know whether they’re targeting Qum or Natanz.’

‘What intel do you have? Audio? Cable?’

‘Both. Whatever you want.’

‘Just one word?’

‘That’s right.’

Uzi did not hesitate. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Good,’ said Ghasem, stretching his lips into a smile. ‘But first, if you don’t mind, there is a formality we must attend to. Regulations.’

He gestured to his bodyguard who in turn opened the door and nodded to someone outside. A white-coated man with a neat beard came in, placed a handheld machine on the table. It looked like the sort of device that a courier would use to take a customer’s signature when delivering a package, but with an assortment of wires and clips dangling from one end.

‘Nothing but a formality, you understand,’ Ghasem repeated.

Uzi looked from the device to Ghasem and back again. ‘What’s this?’ he said carefully.

‘You haven’t seen one before?’

‘No.’

‘I hadn’t realised the Mossad was so behind the times,’ said Ghasem cheerfully. ‘This is an American made PCASS – a Preliminary Credibility Assessment Screening System. The newest generation of lie detectors, my friend. State of the art.’

‘You still believe in this polygraph stuff? It seems to me that the MOIS might be the ones who are behind the times.’

Ghasem smiled. ‘The PCASS has its limitations, of course, but we do not have enough time for a proper interview. I hope you’ll forgive us for that.’

Uzi shrugged. ‘Seems unnecessary to me,’ he said, ‘but like I said, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a long time.’

‘Keep calm,’ said the Kol gently. ‘Forget about everything. Clear your mind. Just believe in yourself, remember who you are. Count backwards from a thousand in the back of your head. That will prevent your measurements from fluctuating.’

With some difficulty, Uzi stifled his reply. The man in the white coat approached and rolled his left sleeve up to the elbow. A black box the shape of a bar of soap was strapped to his wrist with Velcro, two electrodes were adhered to his palm with sticky pads, and a pulse sensor was attached to his middle fingertip by way of a clip. With a grunt of satisfaction, the man sat back and booted up the handset; it made a quiet whining noise that gradually rose in pitch until it could no longer be heard.

‘This is an unrivalled lie-detection device,’ said the man, rubbing his fuzzy chin. ‘It is far more advanced than the traditional polygraph machines you may have seen before. This machine will register any increase in stress that you feel in response to our questions. The electrodes on your palm gauge the changes in the electrical conductivity of your skin; the pulse oximeter on your middle finger observes any changes in your cardiovascular activity. This data is processed through a complex algorithm that leads to a simple diagnosis: either you are lying, or you are telling the truth. The margin of error is very small indeed.’

‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Uzi.

The man in the white coat looked at him noncommittally. ‘So let us begin. I will ask some routine questions, then I will hand you over to my colleague. First of all, I would like you to tell me a lie. Are you a Mexican?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Are you a Mexican? Lie, please.’

‘Oh I see. Yes, I am a Mexican.’ The device beeped softly.

‘Are you bald?’

‘You want me to lie again?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Yes, I am bald.’ Another beep.

‘Now,’ said the man in the white coat, ‘please answer the following test questions truthfully. Were you ever a member of the Mossad?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a Katsa?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very good. I can confirm that we are getting accurate readings. I’ll now hand over to my colleague.’

Ghasem roused himself as if his thoughts had been far away. He smoothed his hand across his swell of hair and sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him.

‘Now, my friend,’ he said, ‘you are about to betray your country. Do you feel comfortable about this?’

‘I am not betraying my country. Not the way I see it.’

‘No?’

‘No, I am taking this action in pursuit of peace. It is in the best interests of my country, in my opinion.’

The PCASS device was bleeping crazily. ‘If we can stay with yes or no answers, if you please,’ interjected the man in the white coat.

There was a pause. Uzi and Ghasem regarded each other like gladiators. Finally Ghasem spoke again. ‘OK. Do you realise that once you have given us our information, you will never again be able to set foot in Israel?’

‘Yes, I realise that.’

‘Does it worry you?’

‘No.’

‘You will never be able to see your family or friends again. Are you telling me that doesn’t worry you?’

‘I don’t mind. My parents are dead. I will have Leila. She is my world now.’
999
,
998
,
997
. . .

‘Of course. Now, as I explained before, the MOIS will offer lifetime protection as well as financial rewards. Nevertheless, you will be top of the Mossad hit list until the day you die. Does this worry you?’

‘No. I am used to living with danger.’
992
,
991
,
990
. . .

‘Even that sort of danger?’

‘What other sort is there?’

‘Please,’ interrupted the man in the white coat, ‘yes or no questions only.’

‘Very well,’ said Ghasem, ‘I’ll get down to business. Are you doing this in all sincerity?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Do you have any ulterior motive?’

‘No.’

‘Are you secretly working for the Mossad, the CIA, SIS or any other intelligence agency?’

‘No, my only agency is my own conscience.’

‘When we give you the encrypted intel, will you provide us with the correct interpretation?’

‘I will.’

‘Let me ask that a second time. Will you decode this intel accurately, and to the best of your ability?’

‘Yes.’

‘And a third time. Will you be completely honest when you decode the intel?’

‘Yes. As I’ve said I want to obstruct the Israeli air strikes as much as you do.’

‘I doubt that, my friend, but I thank you. That will be all.’

Ghasem gestured to the man in the white coat to remove the machine from Uzi. Then both men left the room, taking the PCASS device with them. The bodyguard followed, locking the door.

Uzi’s right hand strayed casually across his ribcage and inside his jacket. The plastic gun bulged reassuringly against his knuckles; it was as if he was protecting it, like a baby bird. He got up and went to the window. A few slowly swaying trees obscured the lower third of the rectangle, but beyond that he could see the distant sea, the sky. Boats no bigger than fruit flies were drifting lazily offshore. He turned away and sat down again, just in time for the door to open. In silence, Ghasem, the man in the white coat, and the bodyguard took up their previous positions. Then the door was locked again. Ghasem was holding the PCASS device.

‘You’re lying to us,’ he said softly.

‘I’m not.’

‘The machine indicates that you have been lying,’ said Ghasem.

‘It must be malfunctioning,’ Uzi replied.

Ghasem’s face clouded over. ‘Do you realise that you are only a hair’s width away from death here? You are in Syria. You are in Little Tehran. Every man in this country, every man in this building – in this room – hates the Zionist regime more than you could ever imagine. Every man would gladly take you down to the basement and spend a long time bringing about your death. A long time. And now you are lying to us.’

The Kol was saying something, but Uzi wasn’t listening. He leaned forward suddenly, slamming his palms on the table. ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you trust that machine more than me? You know what I have given up to be here. You know what I have gone through. My death would be of no consequence to me any more, quick or slow. My only motivation is to bring peace to our countries. I have no other agenda. So do not accuse me of lying. Throw away that machine. You decide: trust me and let me help you, or do not trust me and kill me now. But do not allow my fate to rest in the hands of a machine.’

He sat back, fuming. To his surprise, Ghasem broke into a grin. ‘Well done, my friend,’ he said, ‘you have passed the lie detector test. The device indicated that you have been telling the truth all along. And now I have challenged you, and you have remained true. You are an impressive man, my friend. A man of honour. Welcome to our family.’ He got to his feet and offered Uzi his hand; Uzi hesitated then shook it vigorously, rising to his feet.

There was a knock at the door and the bodyguard opened it. Uzi’s heart skipped a beat. There was Leila. She had changed her clothes; now she was wearing a flowing skirt and a light embroidered blouse, together with a peach-coloured headscarf loosely framing her face. She looked more Persian than he could have imagined, and also more beautiful.

‘My sister,’ said Ghasem warmly, ‘the time has arrived at long last. After all of your toils. Come and sit down. Come and witness the fruit of your labours.’

For a moment Uzi and Leila caught eyes, and something wordless and powerful was exchanged between them. Then they all sat down, and the bearded man set about attaching the PCASS machine to Uzi once more. The bodyguard left the room and came in with another silver tray of tea; Leila began to brew it.

‘Now,’ said Ghasem magnanimously, ‘I apologise for subjecting you to the machine again when you have already passed all the tests. But you know how it is.’ He shrugged. ‘The bosses are paranoid.’ He opened a laptop on the table and began to boot it up.

‘First a lie, as before, please,’ said the man in the white coat. ‘Are you now in Syria?’

‘No,’ said Uzi, watching Leila make the tea, inwardly begging her to look up at him. The machine beeped.

‘Very good. And now please tell the truth. Are you an Israeli national?’

‘Yes,’ said Uzi, aware of the brief expression of triumph that flitted across the face of everyone in the room – even, he thought, Leila.

‘Very good,’ said the man again. Then he nodded to Ghasem, who turned the laptop slowly around to face Uzi. On the screen was a cable – an intercepted Mossad cable. Uzi could tell it was written in top-level code. Alongside it was the translation that the MOIS code breakers had produced. Uzi had to admit: they had done a very good job.

‘Look through the translation, please,’ said Ghasem quietly. ‘Take your time. You will see a recurring code word, each time in capitals, which we have been unable to break. This is the target of Operation Desert Rain. When you are ready, please tell us the real name of this target.’

‘A computer would usually do this,’ said Uzi. ‘Luckily I’ve been trained to do it manually as well.’

He pored over the document, drawing it close to his face, his movements made awkward by the wires connecting his hand to the PCASS device. Meditatively he lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in a lazy double helix towards the ceiling. An almost religious silence fell in the room as he concentrated. Even the Kol fell silent. Uzi noticed that a silver-lipped glass of tea had appeared by his elbow, together with two pieces of sugar. He glanced up at Leila and saw that she was gazing at him now, her eyes aflame.

‘Take your time, please,’ said Ghasem again.

The PCASS device was humming almost imperceptibly. A tiny fruit fly that nobody had noticed before crawled at a diagonal across the screen of the laptop, then spiralled up into the air. The man with the beard swatted his palm at it automatically. The soft scent of orange still hung gently in the air. Uzi took a long drag on his cigarette and concentrated.

‘Can I have a pencil and paper?’ he said. In an instant, one appeared beside him. He began to sketch out some tables, filling each cell with a syllable – scores of them – from memory. ‘The Mossad uses a phonetic, syllable-by-syllable code,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘and they wrap that within a sleeve code which is numeric.’ He didn’t look up from his work but was aware of his companions exchanging glances. ‘In the special case of target names, the sleeve code is encased once again within a phonetic code, and this is once again rendered into figures.’ He jotted down a column of numbers. ‘Has anybody got a calculator?’ Again, one appeared instantly. He noticed Ghasem sneaking a look at his watch. The air strikes were hours away; but if the yellowcake needed to be moved, there wouldn’t be very much time.

Uzi punched numbers into the calculator, his cigarette clamped between his teeth, eyes slitted against the stinging smoke. Then, slowly, he copied down the digits that were glowing on the screen and ran his finger down the table of syllables. A puzzled expression came over his face and he went through the calculations again, and again. Then he sat back, frowning. The atmosphere tightened. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, placed a piece of sugar on his tongue, and sipped from the small glass of tea, not removing his eyes from the piece of paper in front of him.