The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  ‘What’s the pay?’

  ‘Four thousand pounds a month.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I want somewhere to live as well.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘I want to move in tonight.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘And I can quit at any time, with a ten thousand-pound bonus.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Uzi paused. He had been expecting her to drive a harder bargain. ‘And I want eight thousand pounds a month.’

  ‘Six,’ said Liberty.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Seven a month, somewhere to stay. Quit and you get a ten grand golden handshake. Do we have a deal?’

  He turned to face her. He reminded himself of who he was. He was Uzi, and this was his chance to fight back against the Office – to change the course of history, as Avner put it. Through filtering sensitive information to the CIA through Liberty, he could put the Office on the back foot, give them something to worry about, soften them up for Operation Regime Change. In the end, of course, they would catch up with him; at best, he would be shot. But until that day, he would fight them. For a moment he became aware of himself and Liberty: their two weapons, his R9 pressing into his side, her Taurus revolver like a dark secret in her bag. Both fully loaded, both accessible in seconds. The night hung cold around them. He stretched out his hand, and she gripped it. Her palm was as cold as the night. They shook and the deal was done.

  20

  ‘You did well,’ said the Kol quietly. ‘You’re believing in yourself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Uzi grudgingly.

  ‘And that jumbo you gave her won’t harm the Holy Land. It will just serve to instill fear into the hearts of the enemies of Israel.’

  ‘If you say so. I feel like I don’t know any more.’

  ‘Believe. Never stop believing. Believe.’

  Despite everything, there was a lot Uzi had been proud of about the Office. One mission in particular he had always kept locked away in his memory as a resource, something to draw strength from when times were hard. Even now, as he mobilised himself against the organisation, he found himself returning to the memory; even now it was able to give him strength, despite his treachery.

  The operation had been conceived when the Office received intel that the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat – the Syrian secret service – was on his way to Paris for a secret meeting with his French opposite number from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the DGSE. As ever, the key was in the detail. The Office had learned that while he was there, he planned to indulge in some shopping; in particular, he intended to purchase a Bohemian glass chandelier for his underground headquarters in Damascus. Everyone at the Paris Station was busy gaining intel on the substance of the meeting itself, but to Tel Aviv the shopping spree was an opportunity too good to miss. So the chandelier mission was given to Uzi, to carry out quietly while everyone was looking elsewhere.

  Uzi, at the time, was positioned as a ‘hopper’. This meant that he was based in Tel Aviv and could be dispatched at short notice anywhere in the world to carry out swift, one-off operations. Being a hopper was not a popular role, and Uzi loathed it. He wanted to be outside Israel; he wanted to forget. Everything about the place reminded him of his parents, everything reminded him of Nehama, whom he hadn’t seen for two years. And everything reminded him of his son – his faceless son. So when the opportunity came to leave the country and go undercover again, he jumped at it.

  Under the alias of David Moreau, a French businessman, Uzi departed Tel Aviv on an Air France flight and landed in Paris in the early morning. He spent the flight reading a file about luxury chandeliers that had been prepared for him by the research department. Nobody met him at the airport; contact with operatives from the Paris Station would be minimal, as they couldn’t risk being directly linked to an operation as audacious as Uzi’s. So he made his way, alone, to Le Meurice hotel on the rue de Rivoli in the centre of the city.

  The Office planners in Tel Aviv had identified two key personnel who would prove vital to the success of Uzi’s mission. The first was Reem Al-Zou’bi, an aide to the Syrian Mukhabarat chief, whose responsibility it was to oversee the purchase of the chandelier. According to his Office file, he was a dedicated family man who, unusually, was faithful to his wife: no leverage there. But there was a glimmer of hope. Al-Zou’bi was sending his children to private schools, and his mother required expensive medical treatment. As a consequence, he had fallen badly into debt. To the Office psychologists, this presented an obvious weak point: avarice.

  The second person was a man by the name of Pierre Tannenbaum, a red-headed interior designer who lived and worked in the trendy La Madeleine quartier of Paris. Tannenbaum was a dyed-in-the-wool Zionist and a trusted Sayan, who had proven his mettle several times in providing loans to Katsas at short notice. According to the Office psychologists, Tannenbaum would relish the opportunity to become more involved in an operation. Uzi invited him to the hotel, where together, over coffee, they devised a plan.

  Within twenty-four hours Uzi and Tannenbaum had set up Lüp, a front company specialising in luxury interior lighting. The Office designers in Tel Aviv created a brochure and business cards, and Tannenbaum organised business premises with a young female Sayan posing as a secretary to answer enquiries. The stage was set. The Syrian delegation landed in Paris, and the eyes of the entire intelligence community in France, from all nationalities, turned towards the meeting. Uzi and Tannenbaum, meanwhile, focused their attention on Al-Zou’bi and his task of procuring a chandelier.

  After twelve hours of surveillance, the time had come to make their move. Through tapping his phone line, they learned that Al-Zou’bi had an appointment at Perrin Antiques on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, not far from Tannenbaum’s penthouse. They also discovered that he had been given a budget of €35,000 for the purchase; that was the crack in which Uzi planned to insert his lever. He followed Al-Zou’bi to the antiques shop and sat in the window of a nearby brasserie, sipping black coffee; Tannenbaum, who knew the owner of the antiques shop, Monsieur Perrin, was sitting in his car around the corner, waiting for Uzi’s signal. Uzi watched as Al-Zou’bi got into conversation with Perrin and they went from chandelier to chandelier. After several minutes, when Al-Zou’bi seemed to be focusing on one chandelier in particular, Uzi dialled Tannenbaum’s number, allowed it to ring twice, and hung up.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Within seconds Tannenbaum could be seen sauntering down the street and entering the antique shop. Uzi turned on his earpiece and listened as Tannenbaum greeted Perrin and fell easily into a conversation. They talked business for a while, and out of politeness Perrin introduced him to Al-Zou’bi. Tannenbaum made some general conversation about chandeliers and ascertained that Al-Zou’bi had developed an interest in a particularly fine Rococo revival piece. He then excused himself and left the shop, crossing the road to the brasserie and taking a seat at the table behind Uzi. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

  When Al-Zou’bi left the shop, Uzi and Tannenbaum hailed a cab to a restaurant near the Place de la Concorde. They knew that the Syrian had made a reservation there for lunch, and Uzi had reserved the table opposite. Again, they didn’t have long to wait. When Al-Zou’bi entered, Tannenbaum caught his eye, greeted him, remarked on the coincidence, and asked him how the shopping was going. Then, seamlessly, Uzi commented that Perrin’s profit margins were exceptionally high and congratulated Al-Zou’bi for his good judgement in not having yet made a purchase. The Syrian visibly rallied at the compliment, and Tannenbaum chose that moment to invite him to join them for lunch. Al-Zou’bi accepted. The die was cast.

  By the time the main course was concluded, Uzi and Tannenbaum had struck a deal with Al-Zou’bi. They presented him with a Lüp brochure, which showed some unusually cheap prices. All chandeliers were sourced directly, they said, avoiding retail overheads. Uzi
waited for his moment, then offered to procure exactly the same Rococo chandelier that Al-Zou’bi had been admiring at a price that was some €10,000 lower. Then, delicately, he offered to provide a receipt for the full €35,000. There was a pause. Al-Zou’bi’s mind could almost be seen working through the possibilities: he could deliver a €35,000 chandelier to his boss, spend only €25,000, and pocket the difference. It was a no-brainer. The men shook on the deal, Al-Zou’bi wearing the expression of a man who believes himself to be very clever – and very lucky – indeed. He paid a deposit there and then, and went away happy.

  Later that day, Uzi returned to Perrin Antiques and bought the chandelier on the Office account. Overnight it was shipped to Israel and fitted with tiny fibre-optic cameras and microphones. Thus, hours before the Syrian delegation was due to leave the country, Uzi and Tannenbaum delivered the chandelier to a delighted Al-Zou’bi. Before the week was out, it had been installed directly above the desk of the chief of the Syrian secret service, the most secure place in the country, from where it transmitted a continuous stream of footage to Tel Aviv. It had been a perfect operation: no blood spilt, no death, no torture. Just a little ingenuity combined with good old-fashioned chutzpah. It didn’t get any better than that.

  21

  ‘Check this out,’ said Avner, holding up his iPhone. He tapped the screen and put it down on the ornate coffee table. ‘All bugging devices within a five-metre radius are hereby disabled.’

  ‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said Uzi.

  ‘Modified iPhone,’ Avner replied. ‘Standard issue.’

  ‘Technology moves fast.’

  ‘Faster than you, that’s for sure,’ said Avner, running his hand over a gilt griffin bedpost and looking around the room. ‘This is a nice place. A little tacky, but nice.’

  ‘What do you mean, a little tacky?’ said Uzi, lying back on the four-poster bed with his hands laced behind his neck. ‘This is luxury, my friend. Neoclassical luxury.’

  ‘Neoclassical?’

  ‘Yes, Neoclassical. Weren’t you concentrating during our British Culture lectures?’

  ‘That was a load of shit.’

  ‘You’re a load of shit.’

  ‘What’s with the aggression?’

  Uzi smiled. He was in a good mood. The night before he had slept well, then spent the morning shopping for clothes using an advance on his first month’s salary from Liberty. Lunch had been brought to him by room service, and the afternoon had slipped away in a combination of spliffs, movies and naps. Now evening had fallen, and the adrenaline was flowing pleasantly. The WikiLeaks men would be arriving soon.

  This was Home House, a private members’ club in Portman Square: Uzi’s new home. Liberty had chosen well. The major hotels were crawling with operatives from the Office and countless other agencies, so something more out of the way had been required. Home House, set behind the polished black doors of three Georgian townhouses, was perfect. The interior was opulent and the exterior discreet; it was outside the high-pressure world of diplomatic London, the sort of place where a man could hide away in comfort. Above all, it was the last place the Office would look.

  ‘You can’t be getting all this for nothing,’ said Avner. ‘This place is pricey. Has the woman asked you to do anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But it’s only been a day.’

  ‘Something isn’t right about this, my brother. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘You forget how much money there is in heroin, Avner. You underestimate the power of having exclusive suppliers. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘I hope so, my brother. I hope so.’ Avner parted the curtains and looked down at the rain-swept street. ‘They’re late.’

  ‘Only by a couple of minutes.’

  ‘It makes me jumpy when people are late.’

  ‘Relax. Have a drink.’

  ‘This woman is using you,’ said Avner. ‘I feel it in my gut.’

  ‘She’s using me; I’m using her,’ said Uzi. ‘It’s a working relationship. You should thank me.’

  ‘What for?’

  Uzi took a breath. ‘I’m giving her jumbo.’

  ‘Jumbo?’

  ‘Why not? It’ll confuse the Office. Distract them. Make Operation Regime Change more effective.’

  ‘OK, but jumbo? Actual jumbo? You’ll get yourself killed.’

  ‘This is all or nothing, Avner. Total war. You know that.’

  Avner studied his friend’s face. ‘Not KAMG?’ he said. Uzi didn’t reply. ‘You’ve told her about KAMG, haven’t you? Shit, my brother, shit.’

  ‘Look, are you serious about Operation Regime Change or not?’ said Uzi, irritated that Avner – as an old friend – had been able to read his mind.

  ‘You’ve just taken this to a whole new level,’ said Avner. ‘A whole new level.’

  Uzi sat up and lit a cigarette. For once he felt strong, confident, comfortable in his own skin. The Office had no idea where he was, he was sure of that. Finally he was fighting back. And this time, with Liberty on his side, he had some protection. This was still reckless, of course; the whole thing was based on recklessness. But sometimes – just sometimes – recklessness can bring strength.

  ‘Get serious, Avner,’ he said through a curtain of cigarette smoke. ‘If we’re going to do this, we should do it properly.’

  ‘You’re allowed to smoke in this place?’

  ‘I’m with Liberty. I can do whatever the fuck I want.’

  ‘A match made in heaven.’

  There was a knock at the door. They exchanged glances. Avner opened it, his hand hovering above his sidearm. Two men slouched in the doorway; one was holding a computer bag.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Avner.

  ‘We’re here for a data-gathering appointment,’ said one.

  ‘Where’s J?’

  ‘J doesn’t do these meetings himself.’

  ‘I thought he’d be here.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. J doesn’t have time to waste on every joker with a tale to tell and half a stolen document.’

  Avner scowled. ‘Show me some ID,’ he said, ‘I’m not taking any chances.’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  Avner took the ID and disappeared into the adjoining room of the suite to call J. Uzi flashed his R9, took the computer bag and shut the door, leaving the WikiLeaks men outside. He examined the bag, tossed it on the bed and began removing the equipment: a laptop, specialist cameras and recording devices. Sophisticated stuff, but no weapons. He could hear Avner raising his voice on the phone.

  When the bag was empty, Uzi turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing came out at first; then a small grey object bounced on to the bed. He leaned over and picked it up. An encrypted USB drive. The sort that would wipe itself if the pass code were entered incorrectly. Uzi had used them countless times for the Office.

  Avner came in from the next room, slightly flushed. ‘OK, J’s not coming. Lazy bastard. But he has vouched for these guys,’ he said. ‘Says they’re sharp as fuck. Let’s see if they are.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think we do it anyway. But it’s your call.’

  ‘OK. Let’s do it.’

  While Uzi shoved the equipment back in the bag – keeping the USB – Avner ushered the two men in. Keeping an eye on Uzi and his pistol, they sat awkwardly, side by side, on the bed. Uzi scrutinised them. The first looked surprisingly young, barely out of his teens, and was dressed in a crumpled tracksuit and baseball cap. His skin had a sallow complexion, as if he rarely saw the sunlight. The other was older – thirties, perhaps – but no less scruffy. His body was embedded in folds of material, a baggy hoodie and jeans, like a fat man trying to disguise his weight, or a petty pusher concealing a weapon. His face was sharp and unshaven; a mischievous smile played around his lips.

  ‘I’m Johnson, from WikiLeaks Comms,’ he said. ‘This is Skid, one of our techies.’ The sallow-faced man nodded without smiling.
<
br />   ‘Johnson?’ said Uzi doubtfully.

  ‘What about it? It’s a common name.’

  Uzi held up the USB. ‘Recognise this, Johnson?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Johnson, turning to Skid. ‘You kept that in your bag?’

  ‘Where else?’ Skid replied in a nasal voice. ‘Up my arse?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ said Johnson, ‘but your finger is taking up all the space.’

  ‘Children, children,’ Uzi interrupted, raising his gun. The two men fell quiet. ‘Just tell me what’s on here. And where you got it from.’

  ‘It’s intel,’ said Johnson cagily. ‘If you’re nice, we’ll tell you what it is.’

  Uzi walked towards him until the gun was several inches from his nose. ‘I don’t need to be nice.’

  ‘OK, OK. Whatever, right? I was going to tell you anyway. It’s a list of all the active assassins in the Office.’

  ‘The Kidonim?’ said Uzi. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘We never discuss our sources,’ said Johnson loftily, ‘but we’ll need your help to break the encryption. J says the intel will add another, like, dimension to your story.’

  ‘It’s not a story,’ said Uzi.

  ‘Whatever. Testimony.’

  Avner placed the USB carefully on the table. There was a pause. These men were clearly not spies; they were relying too much on posturing, and buckled under the slightest pressure. Yet they knew their stuff, J had vouched for them. Uzi holstered his weapon and lit a cigarette.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I suppose you two will be wanting a drink?’

  22

  ‘OK,’ said Uzi once they were settled with beers and the sound equipment had been set up. ‘Roll the tape. I’ll tell you the story first, as it happened, and then show you the evidence.’

  ‘Roll the tape,’ chuckled Skid. ‘I haven’t heard that in a while.’