The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  It was all connected, wasn’t it? The Holocaust, his parents, himself, all the operations he had ever done, the son he had never known. The religion. The winds of history had swept through his land, his people, for years, and he had been drawn into it as inevitably as everyone else. His time, of course, would pass, and history would continue, a relentless juggernaut, raising other people to take his place; this was a war of attrition, a life of no escape, a dead-end hell. He knew that Operation Regime Change would make no real difference. Even if it succeeded in its objectives, it wouldn’t be long before history interfered, sucked up all hope and kick-started the chaos. He was under no illusions. Yet at the same time he knew he could not do nothing; as an Israeli, even doing nothing meant doing something.

  Pink-skinned and warm, Uzi raised himself from the bath and put on a dressing gown, his hair glistening with moisture like steel wool. In the bedroom, he poured himself a large rum cocktail and lay on his bed. He opened his laptop again. Nothing on the Israeli news sites; the story hadn’t broken yet. He was rich. Suddenly he had a feeling that was familiar from his Navy days, the sense that he was sailing in the direction of rough weather, that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. He put down the laptop and lay on his back for a few minutes. He felt drained and warm, like a freshly bled carcass. He considered rolling a spliff, but changed his mind and sipped his rum cocktail. Then, although he rarely received anything, he decided to check his email.

  There was one new message, from ‘ORC4367’ – Avner. ORC stood for Operation Regime Change; 4367 was his combatant number backwards, and multiplied by two. It had been sent just twenty minutes earlier. Uzi hesitated, then opened it. It read: See attached. It turned up in the end. A bit late, I know. You don’t need to thank me. See you in another life. ORC4367.

  There was an attachment. Uzi ran it through his de-encryption software, and opened it. His heart missed a beat. It was Liberty’s file. But there was something wrong. As soon as Uzi saw it, his eyes widened and his rum cocktail slipped through his fingers to the floor, spreading and seeping into the carpet. He gripped the laptop with both hands, hoping that his eyes were deceiving him, feeling like he was going to be sick.

  At the top, as usual, was Liberty’s background information: date of birth, nationality, place of residence, physical description, languages spoken, threat category, known aliases, immediate family. Then there was the intel itself, compiled from various cables; at the end was a list of sources and the operatives who had provided it.

  If Uzi had read through the document, he would have found that everything corroborated what he already knew. It was all there: her upbringing, her CIA career, her disaffection, the deaths of her family, her marriage to a Russian drug dealer, her relocation to the UK and reinvention as a dealer herself. But he read none of this. He didn’t need to. His eyes had travelled no further than the photograph. It was a simple head-and-shoulders shot in black and white, like a passport photo, certified as authentic by a Mossad stamp. The woman in it was dressed in American military uniform, and half-smiling in a pleasant sort of way; her face was a clean oval, with an aquiline nose and widely spaced eyes. Uzi stared at the photo, unable to breathe, feeling as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs by some elemental force. He did not recognise this person. At first glance she looked similar to the Liberty he knew; but the bone structure, the composition of the face, was different. And you couldn’t alter the composition of a face. If this woman was Liberty, the person he had fallen in love with – the person who had saved his life – was an imposter.

  ‘Kol,’ said Uzi. ‘Kol.’

  There was a pause. Uzi could hear his own breath loud in his ears.

  ‘Uzi,’ came the voice in his head.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’

  ‘What can’t be happening, Uzi?’

  ‘The photograph on the file. It isn’t Liberty. The Office hasn’t updated their intel. They’ve missed it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No mistake.’

  ‘Mistake in London Station, perhaps. These things happen, even in the Office.’

  ‘And Liberty surely has spyware on my Internet connection. Before long she’ll know I have this file. If she doesn’t already.’

  ‘Don’t panic.’

  ‘I think this is the time, Kol. Everything rests on now . . .’

  ‘Just believe. Just believe.’

  The door bleeped. He hadn’t called room service, and only one other person had a key card. Uzi sprang to his feet; before he could reach his R9, the door had opened. Liberty closed it carefully behind her and stood in front of him, holding a cigar. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. He smelled expensive perfume.

  ‘Uzi,’ she said playfully, ‘I’m glad I caught you.’

  35

  Uzi felt himself pause for what felt like an age. The party was still going on downstairs; he could hear the muffled bass, the occasional bellow, burst of laughter. Anger was beginning to well up inside him, bitterness and fear and confusion. Liberty noticed the change in his manner at once.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’ But instead of moving towards him, she began to back away. She was good – her intuition was very good. ‘What’s happened? Has something happened?’

  ‘What’s with the cigar?’ asked Uzi, playing for time.

  ‘Oh this? I just thought we could have a small celebration.’

  ‘Celebration of what?’

  ‘I just sold some more of your intel.’

  ‘Rewarding?’

  ‘Yes, very. And I – I bought you some new wheels. The keys are waiting for you downstairs at reception.’

  The words hung in the air like a bad punchline. Uzi felt himself growing dark with rage. Liberty took another two steps back. He had no idea what should be done, but in a flash he knew how he should start. He lunged at Liberty and within seconds had pinned her to the floor, rolled her on to her stomach and twisted her arms behind her back. All the while she uttered not a single sound, and this made Uzi’s skin crawl. He took off his dressing-gown cord and used it to tie her hands; then he frisked her, found her revolver and lifted her on to the bed. Finally he sat on the armchair, panting, cradling her gun. Still neither of them had said a word.

  A different expression had come over her face, one that he had seen only once before. Her eyes hardened, flicked around the room as if noting every detail. Her mouth was taut, her chin raised in a display of haughtiness. A tendril of hair hung loosely down her cheek.

  Uzi broke the silence. ‘Simple question: who are you?’ His voice sounded too loud for the room.

  ‘What do you mean, who am I?’ she said carefully.

  ‘Come on, Liberty. We both know all the tricks, so save us both the hassle and tell me straight. How long did you think you could get away with it? Have you just been lying all this time?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

  Uzi, making an effort to restrain himself, turned the laptop to face her and pointed to the picture with the barrel of her gun.

  ‘Here we have exhibit one: the real Eve Klugman. AKA Liberty. This is a Mossad file. They don’t get these things wrong. But it’s not you, is it? It’s not you. So I return to my simple question: who the fuck are you?’

  Liberty continued to stare impassively at the screen.

  Uzi got to his feet. ‘I want answers, Liberty, or whatever your name is. I trusted you, I was falling in love with you. I need an answer.’

  Liberty answered with a ferocity that took him aback, her black eyes flashing. ‘I loved you too. And, believe me, I still love you. I love you more than life itself.’

  ‘Stop! Who are you? Tell me. Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I am telling you the truth and I will tell you the truth. But first untie me. Untie me now. Now.’

  ‘Not until you tell me who you are.’

  ‘Nobody is who they seem, Adam Feldman. Untie me.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’


  ‘Untie me.’

  ‘So you can alert your goons?’

  ‘So I can have a conversation without feeling like a hostage. If I’d wanted to destroy you I could have done so before now. Untie me. You’ve got my weapon, haven’t you? Untie me. Untie me. Untie me.’

  Her insistence swayed him; I have her weapon, he told himself, I am stronger than her, there is nothing to fear. As if hypnotised, he untied the dressing-gown cord and set her free. She sat there like a child, rubbing her wrists.

  ‘Now,’ said Uzi, raising the gun. ‘You have your freedom. So talk.’ He lit a cigarette; his fingers were trembling.

  ‘I am not Eve Klugman – not Liberty,’ she said. ‘I took the woman’s identity several years ago when she was killed, along with her family.’ The ghost of a smile flickered across her face and was gone. ‘My real name is Leila – Leila Shirazi. I am a Persian Jew.’

  ‘You weren’t in the CIA?’

  ‘No. I was never in the CIA.’

  For the first time, Uzi thought he could hear the trace of an accent in her voice. He got to his feet and paced to the window and back again, rubbing his thumb along the side of the gun. Believe in yourself. Believe.

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  The woman’s voice suddenly softened. ‘Uzi, I will tell you everything. Everything, I promise. But first I think we need a drink. Come on, there’s nothing to fear. We’re on the same side. We share the same principles. You know me well enough to know that.’

  Uzi hesitated and took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he poured two gin and tonics at the drinks cabinet, handed her one and sat down, resting the gun on his lap. His anger was fading and a strange new feeling was emerging – a sense, almost, of triumph.

  ‘Leila Shirazi,’ he said in Persian, ‘a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘You speak excellent Persian.’

  ‘I worked there.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Leila Shirazi. Not bad as a cover identity,’ said Uzi.

  ‘It’s my real name.’

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement on that. OK, we have our drinks. Now tell me your story.’

  She took from her pocket a small envelope and tossed it across to him. Inside were pictures of herself as a girl, as a teenager, as a young woman, all clearly in Iran. There was also a copy of her birth certificate. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘I came prepared. I was going to tell you this evening.’

  Uzi laid out all the photographs and documents in a long line across the desk, casting an eye over them for signs of forgery. They were genuine.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘Leila Shirazi. It will take some getting used to.’

  ‘Me too. I haven’t used the name in years.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. Give me a moment and I’ll tell you. You tied me up pretty tight, you know.’

  She massaged her wrists and sipped her gin and tonic. All at once, the music downstairs stopped. Somebody was laughing drunkenly, and someone else could be heard trying to move them on. The party was over.

  ‘I was born and brought up in Shiraz,’ said the woman he would learn to call Leila, ‘in a small community of Persian Jews. We’re protected by the constitution, you know; we have synagogues, kosher food, Jewish hospitals. As you know, Iran is not as it is often portrayed in the West.’

  Uzi nodded, smoked, said nothing.

  ‘My father was a war hero,’ she continued, ‘a colonel in the army, one of the founders of the Quds Force, the highest-ranking Jew in the Iranian military. He had no sons – only me. All his hopes and ambitions rested on my shoulders, from when I was a little girl. I went to university in Tehran to study political science, and that made him proud. But what he really wanted was for me to stand up for my country.’

  ‘What was the name of your first tutor at University?’ Uzi interjected.

  ‘Doctor Amir Arshan,’ she replied smoothly. ‘You can verify that yourself. See, I’m telling the truth, Uzi. No more, no less.’

  He nodded and gestured for her to continue.

  ‘After university, my father arranged an interview for me with the intelligence services.’

  ‘The MOIS?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not what you think.’

  ‘So you’re MOIS,’ said Uzi, a note of finality in his voice. He walked to the window and peered through the curtains, as if merely uttering the word would bring danger. Portman Square was all but deserted. He passed his hand over his face, sat down. It all began to slot together in his mind. ‘Played by the MOIS,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. Played by the fucking MOIS. I’m a dead man.’

  ‘No,’ said Leila, ‘you weren’t played. And you didn’t see it coming because you’re a good man. We share our principles, so what else matters? MOIS, Mossad – they’re just names. We are the same, you and I. We have the same heart.’

  Uzi sighed. ‘So your father arranged everything for you. And you accepted.’

  Leila sipped her drink and continued. ‘Sure I accepted. Of course I did. I’ve always been my father’s daughter. Look, I’m not a blind patriot. I object to the President’s rhetoric as much as you. I’m no supporter of the religious fanatics threatening to choke our country. My father and I were no supporters of the Shah, but we stand for old Persia, the proud civilisation that still exists beneath the layer of madness, the posturing, the sabre-rattling. That’s all bullshit. Iran is bigger than that. I wanted to make a difference. For the sake of my father.’

  ‘Israel didn’t worry you?’

  ‘Israel worries everybody.’

  Uzi laughed bitterly. ‘Where did you serve?’

  ‘My first tour was deep cover in America.’

  ‘Straight to deep cover? You must have been good.’

  ‘It was my father,’ she said, without any hesitation. ‘Anyway, I got top marks all the way. I loved the work. I was a sleeper in the States for ten years – until Eve Klugman was assassinated. That was when I found that my time had come.’

  ‘She was killed by you, I assume. Your organisation.’

  ‘She deserved to die, Uzi.’

  ‘You killed her?’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘Plausible deniability – that’s the CIA term, isn’t it? Not that you would know.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who killed her.’

  ‘You assassinated her family, too. Her children.’

  ‘That wasn’t my decision. The MOIS is much bigger than just me. But you have to understand: Klugman was cruel, Uzi. Some of the things she did . . .’

  ‘Let’s leave the dead in their graves. To cut a long story short, you took her place.’

  ‘I did. We shared many of the same physical characteristics. I learned how to dress like her, speak like her, act like her. I broke with all her old contacts and set myself up in a new place, using her identity. It was risky, but it worked.’

  ‘So what I’m hearing,’ said Uzi, ‘is that I’ve been groomed. You’re nothing but a honey-pot.’

  ‘Come on,’ Leila replied, ‘we both know it’s not as simple as that. I’m in love with you. That was never a pretence before, and it isn’t a pretence now.’ For an instant she looked like she might come over, embrace him, kiss him, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. He could almost smell her hair, feel her lips, the softness of her skin. But neither of them moved.

  ‘The MOIS have had you under close surveillance since you first arrived in England,’ she said. ‘Twenty-four-hour surveillance. Our people within the Mossad – yes, there are a few – have been following your career for a long time. We’ve seen you stand up for your principles, particularly over the killing of Ram Shalev. The Mossad tried to break you, but you couldn’t be broken. You’re a good man, Uzi. A brave man. Like I said, we share the same principles. And,’ she shifted closer towards him on the bed, ‘we know about you and Avner. We know about Operation Desert Rain. We know about Operation Regime Change.
And we are full of admiration.’

  Uzi stubbed his cigarette out, not knowing what to think, far less what to say, unable to look her in the eye.

  ‘I’ve wanted to say this for a long time,’ she went on. ‘You and Avner are heroes. Operation Regime Change is a courageous plan. You two are the only people in the entire Mossad actually concerned with peace. You’re even willing to sacrifice yourself for it. The entire MOIS is looking on in awe . . .’

  Uzi looked up. Their eyes met, and he knew – at least, he thought he did – that she was telling the truth. ‘Yeah,’ he said awkwardly, ‘thanks.’

  They finished their drinks and Uzi poured them each another. Neither spoke until they were settled again; this was the space where only small talk would fit, and this was no time for small talk.

  ‘I have the money,’ said Uzi at last. ‘Twenty million dollars. In my account right now. Tonight my testimony and documents go live on WikiLeaks. Then the shit will start.’

  ‘I know,’ said Leila, ‘but I have some intel for you.’

  ‘Intel?’

  ‘About Operation Regime Change.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘It will never work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sure, it will damage the Mossad, it will compromise the government, it will probably lose them the election, but it will never stop Operation Desert Rain. It will never stop them bombing our yellowcake.’

  ‘Why not? When the world finds out that it’s a false target . . .’

  ‘It’s not a false target, Uzi.’