The Pure (6 page)

‘For how long?’

‘A weekend, sometimes longer.’

‘The pay?’

‘A little more than you presently receive.’

‘How much more?’

‘A little more, Colonel.’

More scratching from the man in the corner.

‘So tell me,’ said Yigal, placing a pen carefully, in parallel, on the desk. ‘Based on what I’ve told you so far, are you interested?’

‘Based on what you have told me so far? I might be, sir.’

‘Good.’

Suddenly shouts could be heard, men’s voices, outside the room. Adam looked from Yigal to the man in the corner; their eyes were fixed on the door behind him. As he turned, following their gaze, the door burst open and he was knocked from his chair to the floor. Everything went into slow motion. He saw it all in exquisite detail, a moving tableau. Maybe this was his time; if it was, he didn’t care. Shots rang out and he caught a glimpse of Yigal, half-standing, shuddering as several bullets hit him in the chest. Three masked figures were whirling like dancers, their submachine guns flashing. Adam turned to see the man in the corner being shot in the chest as well, and slumping over. A slim figure in a black ski mask, fragile hands – woman’s hands – aimed a weapon at Adam. He rolled to the side and scrabbled to his knees, groping for his Glock. The holster was empty. The woman kicked Adam hard against the wall. He had no chance. His head struck concrete and he was dazed. As quickly as they had appeared, the attackers were gone.

The room swam, then came into focus. Adam clambered to his feet and, shouting for a medic, ran over to Yigal. The man was half-standing, supporting himself on the desk, small flowers of blood peppering his chest.

‘Yigal,’ said Adam, ‘sit down. Apply pressure.’

Yigal stood upright and looked Adam full in the face. ‘Close the door and take a seat, Colonel.’ His voice was strong.

‘You’ve been injured, Yigal, listen to me. You’re in shock.’

Without a word, Yigal removed his shirt. Underneath he had a pale blue T-shirt, completely unmarked. ‘Close the door and take a seat,’ he repeated.

Adam looked over at the man in the corner. He too was removing his bloodied shirt, and picking up his notepad and pencil. Dumbstruck, Adam shut the door and sat down.

‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ said Yigal. ‘How many assailants were there?’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘How many men were there?’

Adam pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t remember. It was all a blur; he had to think. He was sweating, and adrenaline was rushing through him.

‘I want your answer,’ barked Yigal. ‘How many men? What were they wearing? What weapons were they using? How many shots did each man fire? Did they say anything to each other? Come on, come on. OK, write it on the pad. You have sixty seconds while I make myself a coffee.’

He left the room via a side door while the man in the corner continued to take notes, glancing up inscrutably from time to time. Adam clenched his fists on the table, imagined himself floating back to the scene, watching it playing out again, in slow motion, before him. Two men, one woman, black ski masks, combat fatigues. One in a black flak jacket. Two with micro Uzis. One with an M-16. Impossible to say how many shots were fired, their weapons were set to semi-automatic; come to think of it, each assailant shot two bursts, one at Yigal and one at the man in the corner. Had they said anything to each other? Had they? Adam put down the pen and looked up into space, reliving the experience vividly, ignoring his throbbing head. From the next room came the sound of a coffee machine. He’d have to be quick. The attackers had certainly shouted something, but what? What was it? He relaxed his mind. Yes . . . It was coming back. The word was ‘deception’.

Yigal came back into the room preceded by the smell of coffee, and looked at Adam’s sheet of paper. His face moved not a muscle. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo.

‘Deception,’ he said blowing smoke from his nose. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Adam, ‘I’m sure.’

‘A woman? One was a woman? Are you crazy?’

‘That’s what I saw.’

‘Maybe you were mistaken.’

‘No mistake.’

Yigal passed the sheet of paper to the man in the corner, who read it carefully and nodded.

‘Congratulations, Colonel,’ said Yigal suddenly, ‘you’ve passed the first stage. Now you must make a serious decision. From now on, there’s no backing out. This is hard and dangerous work, mostly abroad. Think about that. If you’re not interested, say so and we’ll never contact you again. If you are interested – seriously interested – come tomorrow to the address on this card. 0800 hours. Do not be late. After each round of tests we’ll call you with the results. If you’ve passed, we’ll give you the details of the next round. If you fail, that’s it. You have one chance only. OK?’

‘One question,’ said Adam as he rose to leave, ‘which organisation are you from?’

Yigal gave him a stony glare and sucked on his cigarette.

‘0800 hours,’ he said, ‘if you’re serious.’

With that he left the room, followed by his colleague. Adam was given back his Glock and escorted off the Shalishut complex, into the blazing sunshine. It was only when he was sitting on the bus on the way back to his base at Atlit, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, that he noticed that the hair on the back of his head was clogged with scabbing blood.

After what seemed like an age – a painful age – Uzi heaved himself in through the door of his flat. The pain from the knife wounds was sharp and unremitting. Even now, dizzy and trembling from the loss of blood, barely able to think, he was cursing himself for his foolishness. The humiliation was worse than the injury. He staggered into the sitting room, leaving half-footprints of blood on the carpet, and felt the weight of the table. It was heavy. His slick was secure. He lay down heavily on the sofa.

‘Uzi,’ said the Kol.

‘I – I’m OK.’

‘You know there is nothing I can do.’

‘I don’t expect anything. What could I expect from a voice in my head, right?’

‘Are you losing blood?’

‘I’m going to call a Sayan.’

‘You can’t.’

‘What else can I do? Go to hospital and answer all those questions? Bleed to death like a chicken? Now get out of my head – I’m starting to go crazy.’

‘Don’t forget who you are, Uzi.’

‘Yeah. And don’t worry, I’ll believe.’

‘I’m with you. Believe.’

Clenching his teeth against the pinch of the makeshift tourniquets he had tied around his arm and leg, Uzi picked up the phone and dialled a London number. It was midnight. The phone rang for a long time before somebody picked it up.

‘Hello?’ came a bleary male voice.

‘Roger Cooper calling for John Jackson,’ slurred Uzi. There was a pause. A woman could be heard sleepily asking questions. Then, finally, the answer:

‘There is nobody by that name here.’ The line went dead.

Following procedure, from memory Uzi dialled another number, a mobile number, and waited while it rang.

‘What do you want me to do?’ came the same voice.

‘Waxman. Are you alone?’ said Uzi.

‘Nobody can hear me.’

‘Good. I’m going to text you an address. Get here fast. Bring type O-negative blood.’

‘How much?’

‘As much as you have.’

‘In the ambulance?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll take half an hour.’

‘Twenty minutes.’ Uzi hung up. Wincing in pain but not making a sound, he sent the text to Waxman. Then he made his way into the kitchen, stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into a glass of water and forced it down. His main priority until Waxman arrived was to remain conscious. He sat at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands.

As the sugar entered his bloodstream and his dizziness subsided, an old mixture of fear and rage began to spread through him. He was going to give Squeal hell. What was he playing at? He’d sworn it would be nothing but a safe, straightforward sale. Or was he setting a trap? And then there would be the matter of the . . . the . . . His mind trailed off. There was a sudden jerk as his head slid from his palms towards the table and snapped upwards again. He was going down. There wasn’t much time. Dried blood had stiffened his jacket and trouser leg; the tourniquet was stemming the flow, but it wasn’t perfect. Waxman would be here soon. He just needed to hold on.

He got to his feet and stumbled into the sitting room. Waxman was a reliable Sayan, and a good doctor, but tended to get nervous when working with the Office. If Uzi passed out and was unable to open the front door, Waxman couldn’t be relied on to break in. In fact, he may not even be able – physically – to break in. Uzi put the door on the snib, left it ajar, and lowered himself to the carpet beside the table, the slick.

He shouldn’t be contacting Sayanim, and he knew it. If the Office found out, they may lose their patience. But he had no choice. He could still remember the phone numbers and contact protocols for dozens of Sayanim; it was the last resource he could draw on in an emergency. They were many and varied: doctors, estate agents, interior designers, bankers, lawyers, businessmen, IT technicians, local council workers, even refuse collectors. All Jewish. They made the work of the Office possible. Whether you needed a car, a room, a shop, a business, a stash of money – or medical attention – one phone call to a Sayan was usually all it took. No questions asked. On many occasions they were used to provide an ‘element of comfort’ for operatives. But Uzi wasn’t an operative now. He was an outcast. The room had begun to seem hazy and distant. He slumped back on his elbows, waiting for help to arrive.

It had been a strange thing, this journey from life as a respected naval commando to losing blood on the floor of a dilapidated flat in north London. Fifteen years was all it had taken. In that time the Office had plucked him from his world, taken his life force and spat him out. To begin with, he had been different. He had seen action countless times, knew the horrors of combat, but he had still believed that the State of Israel was in the hands of the righteous. He had trusted his superior officers, and the politicians above them. Mistakes happened from time to time, of course they did; this, after all, was war. But ultimately there had been no doubt in his mind. He was still under the influence of that heady mixture of idealism and testosterone, a blue-and-white ego. This was the exoskeleton that had remained in place even as his insides collapsed after his parents died; this was what had enabled his friends and comrades to feel like they still knew him. This was all he had had to cling to, and it was this that the Office tapped into and channelled, sucked out of him, until he became – almost – as cold-hearted and reptilian as the rest of them. Until he could take no more.

It was the special treatment, more than anything else, that seduced him. He had attended the next stage of the tests. How could he not have done? Already he was feeling special – one in fifteen thousand. The building itself, the Hadar Dafna office block on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv, was nondescript. A building-within-a-building: metal detectors, glass walls, desks, elevators. But from the moment the very first tests began, the very first medical examinations, the atmosphere was like nothing he had experienced before. Normally there would be hundreds of soldiers filing past one desk after another, getting measured, injected, examined. This time there was only him. He alone had to make his way along a corridor, going from one room to the next. In each room was a doctor, or a physiotherapist, or an optician, and each gave him their exclusive attention. They took their time. They were meticulous, and obviously highly qualified. It was eerily silent; even the traffic could not be heard. He felt unsure of himself, of course. But at the same time he felt like a king.

After the medical he had a three-hour interview with a psychologist, answering endless questions. Would you regard killing for your country as something negative? Do you believe freedom is important? Is there anything more important? What is the worst thing your parents ever did to you? Do you think revenge is justified? On a scale of one to ten, how honest are you with your wife? Do you have any Arab friends? Have you ever had a homosexual impulse? Do you trust your instincts? Do you have any regrets about anything you have done in the military? Do you think there are some orders that should not be followed? Do you sleep well at night? How do you feel about targeted assassinations? How often do you exercise? Can you remember the last time you fired your weapon in combat? How did it feel? What wouldn’t you sacrifice for your country? Do you respect Islam? Do you eat pork? Bacon? Do you? It was the attention to detail that sucked him in. He was special – treated like a precious commodity.

It was through the Office that he had discovered Nehama’s news. That’s when he knew it was over for him and his wife, and just starting for him and the Office. Yigal had told him casually in the car on the way to his induction weekend. He had passed all the preliminary tests, had met with a contact twice a week for four months. He had attended weekend examinations at the Country Club where he had to mingle with other candidates for hours, maintaining a cover identity and trying to expose theirs. He had followed people through the streets of Tel Aviv, had been arrested and withstood interrogation. He had been stripped, blindfolded and doused with cold water again and again, but he had never abandoned his cover story. Finally the phone call had come: you’re in. Friday, 0630 hours. A car will pick you up. Bring clothes for different occasions, to last you until Monday night. Then the line went dead.

So he found himself being driven through the city towards an undisclosed location in an anonymous white Mercedes. Dawn was breaking outside. Yigal was sitting in the passenger seat; Adam was in the back. The driver of the car was the psychologist, the note taker. Nobody spoke. Then, after about twenty minutes, with the pinkness still visible in the sky, Yigal broke the silence.

‘Mazal tov, my friend.’

‘For what?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Making it through the tests?’