The Pure (8 page)

‘Ha,’ said Squeal, his mouth full, ‘there’s still some of yours left.’

Uzi looked at his plate, feeling slightly nauseous. He was right.

‘Fuck.’

‘That’s another point to me, then,’ crowed Squeal, displaying his own clean plate. ‘You’re only two ahead now.’

‘I told you, I’m not well. I’ve been cut, for fuck’s sake. By your friend.’

‘No excuses.’ Squeal’s burst of energy subsided and he slumped back on the sofa.

Uzi’s head drooped forwards, and once again he was standing on the edge of a cliff outside Beirut, watching a fireball consume a car below, the wind stripping him of his thoughts.

‘Fuck, man. What happened to you?’ said Avner, in French, as Uzi opened the door of his apartment.

‘I haven’t got the strength,’ Uzi replied in Hebrew. ‘Let’s just speak our own language like normal people, OK?’

‘Whatever you say,’ Avner said, in Hebrew this time. ‘So who did you piss off?’

Uzi shut the door, double-locked it, then, limping slightly, went into the kitchen.

‘You’ve got an infestation,’ said Avner, accepting a coffee and nodding to the worktop where a line of ants stretched to the window. ‘What are they, crabs? Pubic crabs?’

Without a word, Uzi took a cloth and swept the insects to their deaths. With the movement he winced slightly.

‘Looks bad,’ said Avner, ‘your shoulder.’

‘I got Waxman to patch it up.’

‘Waxman the Sayan?’

‘Waxman the Sayan.’

‘With the ambulance?’

‘With the ambulance.’

‘You cheeky bastard,’ said Avner, ‘you’d better be careful. The Office will have your balls.’ Avner’s phone rang. He allowed it to ring until it went silent.

‘Have you heard of Liberty?’ said Uzi.

‘Liberty?’

‘Liberty. American woman running a Russian drugs gang. You should know. You were stationed in London for long enough.’

‘Ah yes, Liberty. I remember now.’

‘I thought you might. What is she, CIA?’

‘Used to be. Her name is Eve Klugman. Served as a covert operations officer in Iraq and Afghanistan, then resigned when she had a child. A year later her husband and baby were killed in a traffic accident. She spun out, married a Russian drug dealer based in London. Then he was killed, too, and she took over his gang.’

‘I ran into her last night,’ said Uzi.

‘She can be pretty brutal. She’s got a reputation.’

‘Can you get me her file? From the Office?’

‘I can’t do that any more than you can, Adam. You know that.’

‘Stop bullshitting me. What about all these horses you keep talking about? You’re in London Station. Get me the file.’

‘Horses can only do so much. Why do you want to know, anyway? Did she do this to you?’

‘Don’t be stupid. It was some Poles, small-time. Only three of them.’

‘You’re losing your touch, Adam.’

‘The knife only needs to get through once.’

‘It’s never got through before. And you got cut twice.’

There was a pause. Uzi wondered when Avner was going to mention Operation Regime Change. But he said nothing.

‘I need your help,’ Uzi said.

‘I knew this was coming.’

‘I can’t just sit back and do nothing. It would kill my business.’

‘So this was about business?’

‘I’ve got to do something to show them I’m not someone they can fuck with. Otherwise they’ll all be at it. I’ll be dead by the end of the year.’

‘Why don’t you just give it all up? Come and work for me.’

‘It’s got to be proper, hard revenge. A real deterrent. This can’t happen again.’

‘I could use a man like you.’

‘I don’t want to work for you.’

‘You need to get a stable job, Adam. Something to give you some structure. Leave all this low-level stuff behind.’

‘I told you, I have a day job. I’m a protection operative.’

‘That’s too similar to the Office. Psychologically speaking.’

‘What are you, a fucking therapist?’

‘Come on.’ Avner turned his attention to his coffee.

‘Look, will you help me or not?’ said Uzi after a time.

‘You haven’t told me what you’re going to do yet.’

Without a word, Uzi went back into the sitting room, beckoning Avner to follow him. There he drew the curtains. He was sweating, the back of his neck was itching horribly and the cyst on his shoulder was aching.

‘Right,’ he said, and then couldn’t think of what to say. So he crouched on the floor and started prising the top layer of wood from the coffee table.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Avner. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still building slicks.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Uzi replied, not looking up.

‘It is a slick,’ said Avner. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re actually still doing this stuff.’

The panel came away and Uzi put it aside. In the table was a hollow cavity filled with canvas-wrapped objects.

‘I can’t watch this,’ said Avner. ‘You’ve got to move on, Adam. Seriously, I can’t watch.’ But he didn’t turn away.

With precise movements Uzi uncovered the first object. A 9mm Beretta 92F, steel through and through, the trademark weapon of the Office. Next was a 9mm Glock 17, the type he used to carry in Shayetet 13, light and tough. These were followed by several magazines of bullets.

‘Just like the old days,’ said Avner. He reached into the slick and pulled out a small rucksack. ‘You’ve got all the kit, haven’t you? You’ve got the lot.’

Uzi sat on the sofa, a sidearm in each hand, a half-smile playing across his lips. He watched as Avner reached into the bag, drawing out object after object. A matchbox filled with putty for taking impressions of keys. False number plates. Various listening devices. Miniature cameras. A dagger.

‘It’s all here,’ said Avner, shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing.’

Uzi offered him the Glock.

‘The Beretta,’ said Avner, ‘give me the Beretta.’ Uzi obliged and Avner aimed it into space, chuckling. Then he stood there, weighing it in his hands like a gold bar. ‘I can’t remember the last time I held one of these. I wonder what happened to mine?’

‘You probably sold it,’ said Uzi drily.

Avner looked him square in the face. ‘Look, I’m not going to kill anybody, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Nobody gets killed,’ Uzi replied. ‘I’m not stupid. Like I said, I’m talking about a deterrent.’

Avner sat next to him on the sofa. For a moment both men were silent, looking at the weapons in their hands, lost in the memories they evoked.

‘Have you thought about our conversation?’ said Avner suddenly.

‘What conversation?’

‘Operation Regime Change. Are you going to do it?’

‘I haven’t decided. I’ve been too busy getting knifed.’

‘It’s important, Adam.’

‘Why are we talking about this all of a sudden?’ said Uzi, suddenly annoyed. ‘All you can think about is one thing.’

‘Look, Adam. I’ll make you an offer.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I’ll do you a favour if you do me a favour. What you need to do is agree to Operation Regime Change.’

‘Anything else?’ said Uzi, sarcastically.

‘Nothing more than that. You do that and I’ll help you out with your Polish problem.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘What?’

‘I help change the course of history and you help me sort out a couple of Poles?’

‘That’s it.’

‘You’re something else, Avner.’

‘There’s a lot of money in it for you.’

‘Money,’ said Uzi, rolling the word in his mouth. ‘Money.’

He lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to his companion. ‘OK,’ he said at length, ‘what have I got to lose? I’m fucked as it is, right?’

‘Right,’ said Avner, a little too quickly. ‘So we’ve got a deal?’

‘We’ve almost got a deal,’ Uzi said. ‘But what you’re asking for is big. So I’m going to ask you to do a few more things for me.’

‘What?’

‘First, get me the file on Liberty.’ Uzi watched for Avner’s response, and read from his face that he could do it.

‘Second?’ said Avner, examining a fingernail.

‘Second, we go fifty-fifty. Not sixty-forty.’

Avner smiled tensely. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, one more thing. Stop calling me fucking Adam. It’s Uzi, get it? From now on, you call me Uzi. You agree to all of that, and we’ve got a deal.’

London was copper in the evening light as Uzi left his apartment and stepped into the street. Avner was waiting for him in a white van, his elbow on the open window like a side of meat. Already Uzi was sweating. He was wearing a new jacket, into which that afternoon he had sewn new weights. He was carrying a small rucksack.

‘You’re early,’ said Uzi.

‘Can’t wait to get going,’ Avner replied. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘You’ve changed your tune. Yesterday you were complaining like an old woman.’

Avner started the engine and started to reverse around a corner and down a narrow alleyway.

‘It’s true. We should have prepared better,’ he said, adjusting the steering wheel by increments and craning over his shoulder. ‘We haven’t done enough surveillance, we haven’t got good enough intelligence. We haven’t even got a backup plan.’

‘Relax,’ said Uzi. ‘We won’t need a backup plan. This is child’s play. It couldn’t get any easier.’

‘The knife only needs to get through once. Twice in your case.’

‘Fuck you.’

Uzi lit two cigarettes and passed one to his companion. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to wait until everything is perfect. I’ve got to do this now. Also, they won’t be expecting it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I got Waxman to make enquiries about a murder there. Posing as CID.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Straight up. They think I’m dead.’

‘And Waxman did that for you?’

‘He didn’t do it for me. He did it for his country.’

Avner laughed. ‘You’re a cunning bastard, Adam, you know that?’

‘Uzi.’

‘Ah, sorry. Uzi.’

‘I got Waxman to tell them the bar is under surveillance and anything out of the ordinary would be noted. So they won’t run. We’ll get them tonight.’

Avner was still chuckling as he parked the van in the shadows of the alleyway.

Uzi jumped down and fitted false number plates on to the van. Then Avner gunned the engine, routed his iPod through the van’s sound system and turned it up. Immediately Uzi recognised Hadag Nahash, the most famous – and left-wing – hip-hop band in Israel. People from the Office were into Subliminal, the rightist rapper famous for ‘The Light From Zion’. To listen to Hadag Nahash was tantamount to treachery. Uzi got into the van and turned the aggressive beat up louder. Avner drove to the end of the alleyway and turned on to the road. Uzi’s ear began to itch and he thought the Kol was going to make an appearance. But then the itch faded. He hadn’t heard from the voice in a while. Long may it continue, he thought. Nodding their heads to the rhythm, they set off in the direction of Camden.

When they arrived, Avner killed the music and parked the van in the shadows behind the Blue Peacock. The air was thick with exhaust and heat, and a cloud of birds was circling overhead. The sun was almost dead.

‘Right,’ said Avner, ‘let’s do it.’ He took from his pocket a small moisturiser tub and opened the lid to reveal a transparent, glue-like substance.

‘No,’ said Uzi, ‘no way. I’m not using that stuff.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Avner, dipping his fingertips in the tub.

‘It irritates my skin, you know that. Itches like fuck.’

‘So you’re going to put fingerprints everywhere?’

‘I’ll wear gloves or something.’

‘Gloves in a bar? In the middle of summer?’

‘I’ll worry about that.’

‘You brought some gloves?’

‘You were going to bring some.’

‘I brought this stuff instead. I forgot about your delicate skin.’

‘Give me that,’ growled Uzi, and began to apply the substance. For a few minutes they sat there in silence, hands in the air, waiting for their fingertips to dry.

Uzi got out of the van and listened for a moment. The dull throb of a bassline coming from the bar. Traffic. The whine of a distant motorbike. Nothing out of place.

Several square windows were set into the back wall of the building, and a fire escape zigzagged up to the roof. Uzi, limping slightly, climbed the fire escape until he was level with a first-floor window. The music obscured everything, no other sounds could be heard from the building. The window was blacked out, as he remembered it. His fingers were already beginning to itch. He rummaged in his rucksack for a tiny camera on adhesive pads, which he stuck to the glass. Then he returned to the van.

On Avner’s iPhone nothing could be seen but blackness, the opaque glass of the window. He pressed some buttons and the camera focused on the room. Gradually a scene emerged from the haze, in green monotone, but distinguishable nevertheless. Andrzej could be seen in his usual place at the table, and his two comrades lounged on sofas. Girls were moving around with drinks, smoking joints.

‘That’s the target?’ said Avner.

Uzi nodded. Suddenly he almost felt sorry for them, these small-time gangsters from Poland. But business was business. He put on a baseball cap and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Then, looking at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he peeled a moustache and goatee beard from a piece of waxed paper and fixed them both to his face. Without a word, both men got out of the van.

The Blue Peacock was noisy and filling up with people. Uzi’s disguise was thin but effective; he wasn’t recognised. They made their way to the bar and ordered two pints of Staropramen. Then, at a table in the corner, they sat, drinking, waiting. Uzi scratched his fingers against his jeans. ‘I’m desperate for a cigarette,’ he said. ‘This fucking country.’

‘You should thank them,’ Avner replied, ‘they’re saving you from yourself.’

They drank.

‘Come on, come on,’ said Uzi, his casual body language contrasting with the urgency in his voice. ‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Relax,’ said Avner. ‘You really have lost your touch, haven’t you?’ He took out his iPhone. ‘It’s OK, our friends aren’t going anywhere.’

Uzi gazed out onto the dance floor and, without warning, an image of a kill – his third, for the Office at least – flashed into his mind. It had been a simple one. A Hamas lynchpin on an arms-buying mission had made an unforeseen detour and ended up staying in the same hotel as Adam, in Paris. The opportunity was too good to miss. Adam’s original mission was put on hold. The kill order was given. Again, looking out at the dance floor, he felt the weight of the rifle in his hands. Again he saw, through his coin of glass, the man who was going to die, walking on the Pont de la Concorde, smiling, talking in a way that would be familiar to his mother, his friends. The cross-hairs touched his face. Now. And the living man became a corpse. This was Adam’s sorcery, the sorcery of the Office. How easy it was to make a ghost.