The Pure (20 page)

‘I need to know. It’s a matter of trust.’

‘They’d kill me.’

‘And I wouldn’t? It’s a matter of trust.’

‘I can’t tell you. That’s also a matter of trust.’

Hamidi sat back, musing.

‘It makes sense,’ said Abelev quickly. ‘Business is business. Whichever way you look at it, it makes sense.’

‘So,’ said Hamidi, sucking on his cigarette, ‘how well do you know the goods? Do you know them in your brain, in your heart, in your veins? Do you know them from your own experience?’

‘I don’t take smack, if that’s what you mean.’

‘What about crack? Cocaine?’

‘No.’

‘What’s your poison, then? Cannabis?’ He wrapped his lips lethargically, mockingly, around the word.

‘No. I never sample the goods I sell.’

‘Don’t tell me: you’re a serious man.’

‘Don’t mock me, sir. I came here to do business. Not to drink vodka and be mocked.’

‘Tell me something,’ said Hamidi, stubbing his cigarette out with a square forefinger. ‘What would the bitch do to you if she found out about this conversation? What would she do to you?’

Abelev cringed, shifted in his chair, almost got to his feet. ‘She will not find out. The question is not a question.’

‘Of course,’ said Hamidi, ‘of course.’ He drained his glass and grabbed the bottle by the neck. ‘If you’re really serious about doing some business, we should get to know each other a little first.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You might not like drugs, but you like pussy.’

‘Well, who doesn’t?’

‘You like Polish slave girls?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘I want you to say you’ll fuck two little Polish girls at once.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘Then we’ll discuss terms, OK? When you’re a little more relaxed.’

For the first time that night, Abelev smiled.

‘Come on,’ said Hamidi. ‘Let’s drive.’

The two men made their way upstairs to the street. Beneath the streetlight lay a sleek, glistening car, a capsule of power. As Hamidi approached, the doors unlocked with a clunk.

‘Get in,’ said Hamidi, ‘and don’t make anything dirty.’

‘Is this one of the new Porsches?’

‘Of course. I chose white – you like white?’

‘White’s OK.’

‘And tinted windows.’

‘Not bad.’

‘Not bad,’ repeated Hamidi, turning the key. The car awoke instantly with a perfectly controlled growl. ‘You’re a funny man, Abelev, you know that? A funny, serious man.’ He steered out into the traffic and lit another cigarette. This time, Abelev did not protest.

‘What’s the music?’ said Abelev, swigging from the vodka bottle.

‘You don’t recognise it?’ said Hamidi, surprised. ‘It’s the most Russian of all Russian composers.’

‘Tolstoy?’

‘You fucking idiot. This is Mily Balakirev,’ Hamidi said, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘Remember that: Mily Balakirev.’

Without taking his eyes off the road, he raised his fist. For an instant, a hypodermic needle flashed; then he brought it down in an arc into Abelev’s leg. The man moaned once, slumped against the window. Hamidi reached over, shoved him down in the seat and opened the glove compartment. It illuminated automatically; inside was a packet of cigarettes, a Rohrbough R9 pistol, and a fresh roll of brown packing tape. He turned off the main road and headed towards a quiet alleyway, into the heart of the night.

The car had come as a complete surprise. Uzi had been at Home House for two days, and in that time he had replaced his wardrobe and personal effects, bought a laptop – a PC – and recuperated following the beating he had received at the hands of his own kind. He recovered quickly; he always did. His body had grown used to regenerating in the few hours permitted to it. Like a survivor making do with the limited resources available, he healed in the smallest windows of downtime.

It wasn’t until the evening of the second day, when Avner had left and the countdown to the maelstrom in Israel had begun, that Liberty first made an appearance. It was early evening, and Uzi had just extinguished a spliff. He was sitting in front of the television in a pair of Armani jeans, watching the Discovery channel. Automatically his mind was dwelling on his memories – while a documentary droned on unnoticed before his eyes, they were playing out in his head. The Lebanon war. The cry of the infantry as they mounted an attack, almost drowned out by shell bursts and gunfire. A fearsome noise, but also melancholy. As it drifted up to Uzi – he was holding a position on a rocky outcrop – it became the sound of souls calling to everything they loved, calling on their families to raise their heads from their pillows, to hear for the last time the voice of a father, a husband, a son, a brother. It was drowned out by the bombardment, and Uzi adjusted the sights on his weapon. Soon it would be time to move off behind enemy lines again, and his stomach was churning. So he sat between his memories and the Discovery channel, numb.

There was a knock at the door. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, racked his pistol and removed the safety catch. It was Liberty.

‘I see you’ve settled in,’ she said, easing her way into the room. ‘Can’t you open a window or something?’

Uzi obliged. A stream of cold air surrounded him as if trying to suck him out into the night. Liberty sat in an armchair.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ she said.

‘Pernod, isn’t it?’

‘And water.’

Uzi was surprised – then not surprised – to find a bottle of Pernod in the minibar. He opened a lager and sat opposite her on the bed.

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ said Liberty.

Uzi looked up woozily. ‘My favourite colour?’

‘That’s what I asked.’

‘I don’t know. Depends on the situation. Depends what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about a car.’

‘What sort of car?’

‘A Porsche. The new Turbo S.’

‘Oh. Well, white. It’s got to be white.’

Liberty laughed. ‘Why white?’

‘Red is too much like a cock. Black is too much like a dealer.’

‘Too much like a dealer? You’re hilarious, Uzi, you know that?’

‘So have you come to give me a job?’ said Uzi.

‘I haven’t finished talking about the car.’

‘The car?’

‘Your white Porsche.’

‘My white Porsche?’

Liberty smiled. ‘That intel you gave me over dinner – the KAMG intel?’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s about to make me a lot of money. I wanted to say thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘I’ll order the car tomorrow. Compliments of Liberty Inc.’

‘Thanks,’ said Uzi, listening to his own voice and finding it hollow.

‘We’re going to be good together, you and I,’ said Liberty. ‘I can tell.’

Uzi had always been bad at accepting gifts, particularly extravagant ones. Ever since he was a child, the bigger the present, the more depressed he became; he felt like he was being taken advantage of, lured into debt against his will. And this time, with the car, it was more complicated. He was forgetting who he was; his allegiance was shifting. Even the Kol didn’t understand. Liberty was winding him closer into her web, and it was dangerous. He wasn’t her victim, he was a victim of his own recklessness. That made him feel sick.

He pulled his Porsche into the wasteland around the back of a derelict pub within reach of the river. The wheels bounced uncomfortably over the uneven ground. Liberty’s Maybach was parked on the far side, next to a BMW saloon. He steered into the shadows and killed the engine. A strange part of London, he thought. Old gangland meets Docklands. Around him were abandoned building sites, burnt-out cars, buildings with boarded-up windows and doors covered in galvanised steel; in the distance towered the gleaming skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. A helicopter buzzed overhead.

He sat for a while in the shadows. No noise was coming from the boot; the drugs wouldn’t wear off for another half an hour. He peeled the moustache from his upper lip, wincing, and cursed under his breath. Normally he had no problem with the latex adhesive, but it was starting to itch. He pulled out his phone and called Liberty.

‘Have you got him?’ she said. There was a coldness in her voice that he hadn’t heard before.

‘In storage,’ he replied.

‘I’m in the building behind you, on the first floor. Bring him up.’

‘He’s heavy. I’m going to need some help.’

‘You haven’t killed him, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Then bring him up yourself. I need my men here.’ The line went dead.

Uzi thumped the steering wheel with his fist and cursed. He had been expecting this; deep down, he had sensed that Liberty was a ruthless woman, and now she thought he owed her something. Well, he didn’t. He wasn’t one of her pawns. He wasn’t under her command. He called back.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Send me someone to help carry him. Or I’m leaving him here.’

‘You won’t leave him there. You’ll bring him up here to me.’

‘He’s too heavy. Send me help or I’ll leave him here.’

‘You do that and it’s over. I mean it. It’s over.’

‘You’ve got five minutes, Liberty.’

He hung up and got out of the car. This was petty, but he knew he was doing the right thing. He cleared his head and listened to his gut. This was a test, he thought. She was testing him, trying to see how deeply she had come to possess him. He had to admit, butterflies were in his stomach. She almost had him. Almost. But nobody would ever have him completely. Fuck her luxury, her money. He had his slick on the East End Road, he had an escape route, and he was prepared to use it. His freedom would never be bought. He drew his gun, racked it, held it inside his jacket. The wasteland was deserted, long shadows clustered around broken walls and buildings. A pile of car tyres, overgrown with ivy, lay several feet away. His upper lip itched and his palms were clammy. He looked at his watch. Three minutes. The sky was overcast and he could hear the hum of the traffic, the sound of the city. Far off, a siren. Two minutes. He pressed the button on his car key and the boot hissed open, exposing the unconscious Abelev. The stakes were high: Liberty knew a lot about him that the Office would like to know. But he was gambling on the fact that he was too valuable to throw away. One minute. He reached into the glove compartment, took out his cigarettes, his Zippo. He thought about the children in Arab villages, how they run after foreigners in the street, hassling them for money. How they’ll never stop unless you stand up to them. Never. You had to beat them. Thirty seconds. Perhaps Liberty was planning to call his bluff. But there was no bluff. He tightened his grip on his pistol. He was ready to go.

Then, without warning, there was a grinding noise, and the metal door of the building behind him opened. Two burly Russians stepped out and approached the Porsche.

‘Aasif Hamidi?’ one said.

‘Yes,’ replied Uzi in Russian.

‘Liberty said you need some assistance.’

Uzi smiled to himself and gestured towards the boot, not removing his gun from his jacket.

‘That package needs to be delivered to her room,’ he said. ‘It’s fragile.’

The Russians, concealing their surprise at the glistening, mummified man-fish, hauled it out on to the gravel. Then, between them, they dragged Abelev into the building. Uzi followed them, buoyed by a sense of triumph. Fuck Liberty, he thought. He had called her bluff. Now they could work together.

‘Throw him in the bath and get out of here,’ said Liberty, flicking her revolver towards the broken bathroom door. Without a word, the two Russians heaved Abelev into the dilapidated apartment and rolled him into the rusty tub. Uzi had cut a hole in the packing tape around his nose; as he breathed, a little flap moved back and forth.

‘This is becoming your signature,’ said Liberty when the Russians had left, ‘this packing tape.’

Uzi scowled in response. ‘That little game you played just now. Don’t think you can fuck with me.’

‘Oh don’t be so uptight,’ said Liberty, brushing his arm with her hand.

‘I don’t like being fucked with,’ said Uzi. ‘I’ve been fucked with enough in my life.’

‘People like getting fucked,’ said Liberty, looking at him like a girl.

Uzi shook his head and bent over the bath. Abelev was starting to squirm more vigorously; the drugs had all but worn off.

‘For a professional, you’re not very professional,’ he said over his shoulder.

Liberty, inexplicably, laughed. Then she approached the tub. ‘Sit him up and uncover his face. Let’s see what he has to say.’

Uzi did as she asked, hauling Abelev to a sitting position and peeling the tape back from his face. He screamed, thrashed and fell on to his back; Uzi slapped him hard and propped him up again, a fat caterpillar in the gloom.

‘Where am I?’ he said, his voice breaking, his eyes swivelling in their sockets.

‘Tell me something, Alexey Mikhailovich Abelev,’ said Liberty in soft Russian. ‘Do you think you are a clever bastard? Do you have a fucking PhD in cleverness or something?’

The Russian said nothing. His marble eyes slid from side to side in his head, flicked all around. His breathing was shallow and sharp and sweat stippled his moon-like face. Liberty raised her revolver and struck him a resounding blow, startlingly powerful for her size. Abelev’s head bounced off the broken tiles behind him and an X-shaped incision appeared on his forehead, then immediately started to bleed. Within seconds, half his face was black with blood. He moaned, a high-pitched whine, like a cat.

‘Tell me who you’re working for,’ she hissed.

The man evidently knew his end had come and that nothing could be gained from holding out. ‘The Oswald Street Crew.’

‘The Oswald Street Crew,’ said Liberty. ‘You fucking double-crossing turncoat.’ She gripped him by the shoulder and his whine became a full-throated, animal scream.

‘Just don’t hurt me. Please,’ he moaned.

‘Get the fucker up,’ said Liberty. Uzi complied, dragging the man awkwardly to his feet. She grabbed a broken ladder that was leaning against the wall and together they strapped Abelev to it.

‘What I want to know,’ said Liberty as they leaned the ladder against the bathtub, ‘is who else in my organisation is a fucking grass like you.’