The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  ‘I’ll do it myself,’ Uzi replied as he stepped out of the ambulance into the breaking dawn. ‘Let’s hope I don’t call on you again.’

  Waxman smiled for the first time, openly relieved to have completed his mission.

  Suddenly, Uzi was overcome with a sense of recklessness. Fuck them, he thought. A gnat biting an elephant. Fuck them. ‘You’ve done a great job,’ he said casually. ‘How does fifty thousand sound?’

  Waxman gulped. ‘I’ve never been paid before . . . I’d donate it to charity. Well, most of it.’

  ‘Good. Who’s your contact at London Station?’

  ‘Arik.’

  ‘Well, speak to Arik and he’ll transfer the funds. You know the communication protocol?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m supposed to use it only in an emergency.’

  ‘Use it now. Tell Arik I authorised it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And Waxman?’

  ‘Yes, Daniel?’

  ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’ With that, Uzi slammed the ambulance door and made his way back to his apartment.

  8

  The painkillers had a limited effect, and Uzi knew he would be unable to sleep, so he decided not to try. Through a crack in the curtains he watched until Waxman’s ambulance disappeared down the road. In the bathroom he scraped out the inside of the showerhead with a spoon and washed as best he could, without getting the bandages wet. Then he rolled himself a spliff and sat in front of his two televisions. The softening hand of marijuana caressed his injuries, led him to a pleasing remove from the world. He almost didn’t notice when his ear began to itch.

  ‘That was cheeky,’ said the Kol, ‘that thing with Waxman.’ The voice was as cool and unemotional as ever.

  ‘Can’t we get back into our routine?’ he mumbled. ‘You were supposed to only come out at night.’

  ‘I am the Kol. I can come out whenever I please.’

  ‘You’re a heartless bitch, you know that?’ said Uzi.

  The Kol fell silent. Uzi squinted at the screen through the fragrant smoke. The heat of the day was beginning to fall into his apartment; he opened the window and sat down. Slowly but surely, his eyelids became leaden and his mind gently wandered. The picture of Ram Shalev – the one which had been on the front page of all the newspapers after he was killed by Operation Cinnamon – appeared his mind. Smiling in his garden with his two children, his wife. The trees behind, the vivid blue sky, the button-down shirt. Uzi tried not to hold on to the image. He knew it would only make things worse. Eventually it passed, and for a while images of the ambulance appeared, pleasant images, as if it had been a comfortable place to be. As if it were a womb.

  Then, memories of a kill sprang up, his second kill for the Office. Beirut, 2007. Lebanon was being rebuilt in the aftermath of the Israeli bombardment. A network of new roads and bridges was being constructed throughout the capital; Adam was posing as a building contractor, bribing local construction workers to build plastic cases into the infrastructure as they worked. Airtight plastic cases containing little Israeli-made bombs that could remain in a serviceable state for years, even decades, buried in bridges and motorways, to be detonated remotely at the push of a button. They would give Israel a great advantage if there was another war. But it was dangerous work. Not only was there a good chance that one of the construction workers would be caught in the act, but it was difficult to trust them. They were being paid handsomely, of course, but the operation had been put together in haste, and Adam hadn’t had time to build up a solid connection with these men; as a result their relationship was always poisoned by suspicion.

  One in particular – Walid Khaled, a wiry old labourer with the eyes of a beaten dog – had been spotted one night photographing the bridge with his mobile phone. No chances could be taken. A kill request was sent to Israel and the prime minister approved it within hours; an emergency closed-doors court case had ruled that the action was unavoidable. The only snag was that all the Kidonim – assassination units – were tied up elsewhere in the world. Adam would have to carry it out himself, despite his lack of expertise. The danger was too great; if Khaled reported him to the authorities, or, if he was clever enough, sold the information, the Office’s mission would be compromised and Adam would almost certainly be dead. There was a chance that Khaled was innocent, of course. But Adam had no choice.

  This was no time for a signature hit. The Office’s usual brand of audacious, broad daylight attack – a devastating volley of dum-dum bullets in a public place, followed by a single shot to the temple – was out of the question. The operation was in a delicate enough state as it was. So Adam armed himself with a newspaper and a bottle of vodka, and arranged a meeting with Khaled.

  He wasted no time. As soon as the labourer drove up in his dust-covered jalopy, Adam slid into the car and forced a Desflurane ether mask over the man’s face. Khaled struggled, but had been taken by surprise. His fingernails scratched Adam’s cheek; that was all. Adam drove north along the coast, with Khaled slumped in the back, until he found a stretch of secluded cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. He hauled the unconscious labourer into the driver’s seat, rolled the newspaper into a funnel – it was the Lebanese Daily Star, the ink rubbed off on his fingers, for some reason he remembered that – and poured half a bottle of vodka through the funnel and down the man’s throat. Vodka, which he knew Khaled drank in secret. Vodka, which burns easily. He poured the rest of the bottle over the front seats, threw in a match and watched it go up. When the fire was raging, he pushed the car over the cliff. Then, after a long hike to the nearest town, he took the train back to Beirut.

  It was this kill that floated back into his mind as he dozed; the rough scuff of the newspaper against his fingers, the lolling face of the labourer, vodka darkening his shirt like sweat; the vast, black Mediterranean sky and the indigo ocean, the flap of the flames as they burst into life in the car; the heat; the long, slow-motion tumble of the vehicle on to the rocks; the surf below. The feeling of it. The voice in the back of his mind – which he didn’t allow himself to hear – asking whether there couldn’t have been another way.

  He was awoken by a loud buzzing.

  ‘Tommy? It’s Squeal. Open up, I can smell you’re there. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff . . .’

  Uzi yanked the door open.

  ‘Just coming to see you, my man. To see how you’re doing. You flush now? Sale went well?’

  Uzi gripped Squeal by the biceps and brought him into the flat, his milk-coloured dreadlocks rasping as he looked around in bewilderment.

  ‘Hey man, what gives? What gives?’

  ‘What gives?’ Uzi repeated, shoving Squeal down on the sofa. ‘This is what gives.’ He showed him the bandages on his arm, his leg. ‘Your friend Andrzej did this. I thought you said he was safe.’

  ‘What? Tommy, no way. You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m fucking kidding you?’

  ‘Shit, man, shit,’ said Squeal. ‘What happened?’

  ‘That bastard tried to screw me. I was outnumbered. Butterfly knives.’

  ‘Jesus, man. Jesus. Do you think he’ll come after me?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck.’

  ‘Andrzej’s been jumpy recently,’ said Squeal. ‘I know he’s been jumpy. I should have warned you.’

  ‘Why has he been jumpy?’

  ‘He’s had a few run-ins with the Russians, you know? Liberty.’

  ‘Liberty?’

  ‘Yeah, Liberty. That American bird.’

  Uzi showed no sign that Squeal had got his attention. He started rolling a spliff, keeping his voice casual.

  ‘American bird?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve heard of her, yeah? American woman running a Russian gang. New on the scene, as far as I know. She’s big time. Not just dope and E: crack, smack, the lot. Cross her and she’ll fuck you good and proper.’

  ‘An American woman running a Russian gang?’ said Uzi, pretending to be one step behind, lightin
g the spliff.

  ‘Straight up,’ Squeal replied. ‘Apparently she’s got a way with them. Ruthless as fuck. Like I said, new on the scene. And you know what it’s like with Russians and Poles.’ He mimed a mushroom cloud with his hands and squealed.

  Uzi passed the spliff across and closed his eyes. The pain had been dulled into a jangling throb, pulsating through his nervous system at a regular pace. Squeal smoked until half the joint was gone. Uzi didn’t have the energy to ask for it back. Finally, leaving the remaining half smouldering in the ashtray, Squeal disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two strawberry mousses, two plates.

  ‘Not now, Squeal. Not now. I’ve been cut,’ said Uzi, shielding his eyes from the sight of the mousses.

  ‘Don’t be a pussy, Tommy. Come on. Pudding wars.’ Squeal peeled back the lids of both tubs and upended them on the plates. They stood there, two pink, quivering sandcastles.

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ said Uzi.

  ‘You are,’ said Squeal. He placed the mousses side by side on the table and crouched over one of them, his mouth slightly open, poised an inch from the slippery surface. He looked at Uzi expectantly. Reluctantly Uzi assumed the same position above his mousse.

  ‘On three,’ said Squeal. He thumped his hand on the table three times and both men slurped loudly. The puddings vanished, as if by magic.

  ‘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.

  9

  ‘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 an
ybody, 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.