The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  A pause.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Israelis are not planning the attack as a trumped-up PR exercise. No. Avner and his friends got it wrong. The Islamic Republic’s yellowcake is real. It exists.’

  ‘Real?’

  ‘That’s right. Our nuclear programme has been making good progress. We’ve reached the yellowcake stage. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

  Leila passed him her mobile phone, on which was a photograph of a line of white barrels, filled with a startlingly bright yellow powder. Yellowcake; it was unmistakably yellowcake. The barrels were in a warehouse with a distinctive pattern of interlocking girders across the roof. Uzi recognised it instantly from previous operations: the secret Iranian enrichment plant at Natanz.

  ‘That must be a doctored image,’ said Uzi, handing the phone back.

  ‘It isn’t. The Mossad’s intel was wrong. Our yellowcake is real.’

  ‘So Ram Shalev was wrong? There’s a genuine threat? Operation Desert Rain is not just a ploy to win the election?’

  ‘That’s right. Shalev was convinced the yellowcake was a paper tiger, and he was about to leak the details of Desert Rain. So he had to be killed. The yellowcake represents an existential threat to Israel. Destroying it is more important to your government than the life of one man.’

  ‘Fuck. This means I’m fucked too. When my testimony goes live, I’ll be fucked. Even more than I thought.’

  ‘You won’t be. You’ll be with me. Together we’ll be safe.’

  ‘If you knew all along, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t turn on me if I revealed my identity. Anyway, Operation Regime Change wasn’t a waste of time. It will still topple the government. With a different government in power, there will be a greater chance of peace. But it won’t stop them bombing the yellowcake. Nothing will. That’s why I need your help.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only someone from inside the Mossad – someone like you – can protect our yellowcake from the Israeli air strikes. That’s been the reason for my whole operation. That’s why the MOIS has sent me to make contact with you. You’re a man of principle. We need your help.’

  ‘I see,’ said Uzi slowly. ‘Now it’s starting to make sense.’

  ‘Help us, and you’ll be guaranteed protection for life. I’m not going to explain the details now – this is not the place – but think about it,’ said Leila. ‘The Mossad will hunt you; we can protect you.’ She paused before continuing. ‘And don’t forget your Doctrine of the Status Quo. You said yourself that a nuclear Iran would be in the interests of world peace. You know better than anyone that without a nuclear deterrent coming from the Arab world the Israelis and Americans will have no interest in negotiation or compromise. You’ve seen it from the inside. You know the game. If you really want to protect our yellowcake – if you want to stand up for a nuclear Persia – then join us. Help us to avoid the Israeli air strikes.’

  Uzi stared at Leila, speechless.

  ‘We’ll smuggle you out of the UK and take you to a secure location where we’ll do the job together. Nothing dangerous, no loss of life or bloodshed. Just remote intel work, decoding intercepted messages. Child’s play. You’ve done far more difficult jobs than that for me already. And when Operation Desert Rain has failed and our yellowcake is safe, you and I can leave the business once and for all. We’ll be given new identities, and guaranteed protection. We’ll get more money than we could spend in a lifetime. You have twenty million dollars already – we’ll be able to make a fresh start somewhere together. Leave everything behind.’

  ‘Where could we go?’

  ‘We’ll work it out. Somewhere nobody will find us, not the Mossad, not the MOIS, nobody. Meeting you has caused me to think about my life, Uzi. It’s a terrible way to live, isn’t it? All these secrets, all this danger, all this isolation. I’ve realised that for all these years, I’ve just been trying to please my father. My love for my country is really my love for him, which I’ve never been able to express.’ Uzi opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. ‘And now,’ continued Leila, ‘I’ve found somebody I love more than my country.’

  ‘You’ll give it all up for me?’

  ‘I’ll do anything you want. I’d give up everything for you. Let’s leave the whole mess behind.’

  Suddenly Uzi understood. ‘So this is the last big job you talked about.’

  ‘Of course. This is the last big job,’ said Leila. Tentatively she stretched out her hand and rested it on his knee. Uzi didn’t move away. ‘Take your time,’ she said gently. ‘Think about it.’

  36

  When the woman – Leila – had gone, Uzi poured himself a whisky and sat brooding. The Kol was silent. Outside the night was thick and black with no stars. The streetlights spread an orange wash over the cars whispering through Portman Square. Uzi thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. Almost without thinking – it had been drummed into him relentlessly during training – he typed the secret emergency protocol number for the Office. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. But he left it too long and the screen went dark. He laid the phone on the desk.

  Minutes passed. Then Uzi remembered the cigar that Leila had brought with her earlier. There it was, lying forgotten on the bed. He lit it, inhaled, coughed. The smoke was coarse and pungent, but it was an expensive cigar and better than nothing. Then he picked up his phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Franz Gruber.’

  ‘You answered. Thank fuck.’

  ‘I’m at the airport.’

  ‘I have to speak to you,’ said Uzi.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I have to speak to you. Have you checked in?’

  ‘I’m in the queue.’

  ‘Then wait. I’ll meet you. What terminal are you at?’

  ‘My flight leaves in two hours.’

  ‘What terminal?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at Café Rouge on the mezzanine level. Thirty minutes.’

  ‘This had better be important.’

  ‘Be there.’ Uzi hung up.

  He put on his jacket, checked that his R9 was loaded and pushed it into his waistband. Then, wondering whether this night would be his last, he stepped out into the corridor.

  It was late, and Home House was quiet. He padded along the deep-pile carpet and made his way down the staircase. The night porter was on duty, looking bleary-eyed and bored, but he made an effort to brighten himself up as Uzi approached.

  ‘Mr Hamidi,’ he said with a courteous nod, ‘good evening.’

  ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ said Uzi, cigar between his teeth.

  ‘I do, sir. Marlboro Reds. Do you want one?’

  ‘Give me the packet. I’ll pay you for it.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘Just give it to me.’

  Uzi took the cigarettes and thrust a ten-pound note into the porter’s top pocket. Then he turned to go.

  ‘Sir? The lady left something for you,’ the man called after him.

  He rummaged on his desk and placed a white envelope on the counter. Uzi took it, thanked him, and left the building. Out on the street he glanced about, exchanged the cigar for a cigarette, and seeing that there was nobody around, opened the envelope. Inside was a set of keys, to which was attached a plastic tag with a registration number on it. He examined the tag closer: the make of the vehicle was nowhere to be seen. What was going on? He had expected a decent ride, but maybe Liberty – Leila – had thought it was better for him to be less conspicuous. Perhaps she’d learned her lesson after what happened to the Porsche. Either way, at least he had wheels. Accompanying the keys was a brief note: ‘Underground car park – L’. That was all.

  For a moment Uzi reflected. The car was bound to be fitted with a tracking device, and he didn’t have the time to disable it. But did it matter now? The MOIS knew his every move anyway; they knew all about Operat
ion Regime Change and they surely knew Avner’s plans for fleeing the country. What difference could it make? And now, time was of the essence. He came to a decision and jogged down into the car park where he was greeted by the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes. A gleaming Mercedes slid past him and out on to the street. He held the keys in front of him, searching for a car with a number plate that matched the fob. Down aisle after aisle he strode, past Mercedes, Porsches, BMWs, the occasional TVR and Maserati, but nothing matched his registration number. Where was this damn car?

  And then he saw it, and stopped in surprise. The number plate matched. He shook his head in bewilderment, approached the vehicle in a state of something resembling awe. It was unique: sleek, black, dull and mean, made of lightweight carbon, titanium, aluminium and aircraft steel. He had read about yesterday while browsing the Internet aimlessly and had mentioned it to Liberty. She had remembered. This was ‘The One’, a one-off motorcycle developed by H. R. Erbacher. It looked like a cross between a Chopper, a Harley, a 1930s classic and a top-of-the-range Superbike. It was powered by a 110-horsepower modified Harley engine and could reach speeds of over 200mph. This was pure power, pure muscle, pure grace. He took the helmet off the handlebars, put it on, and pulled down the black visor. Then he slipped in the key, turned it: the beast sprang to life. He smiled: if he was going to be dancing with danger, he might as well do it in style. No mistake: the MOIS didn’t do things by halves.

  The motorbike snarled through London like a panther, the reflected streetlights streaking along Uzi’s helmet. The heart-stopping speed purified him; he felt a sense of release that he hadn’t experienced since his Navy days, the feeling of cutting through the elements like an animal, at once deadly and scared, at once hunter and prey. He accelerated away from the city and cut west in the direction of Heathrow. Few vehicles were on the road; the night was entering its darkest hour.

  He arrived at Terminal 4 and left the bike in a shadowy corner of the car park. Then he approached the terminal building on foot, his helmet under his arm. Perhaps due to the stress – or lack of sleep – he was taken by the impression that this was the last place on earth, that there had been a nuclear apocalypse. Here, he thought, were the last glowing remnants of civilisation, contained within this bleached-out, grimy terminal. He slipped up the stairs to the mezzanine level. He couldn’t see Avner at first but he hadn’t been expecting to. He knew that he would have sought out an out-of-the-way corner somewhere in the back. After a little searching, he found him.

  Avner looked different, older. He was wearing a pair of rimless glasses, his hair was flecked with grey, and he was sporting a wispy moustache. He had altered the shape of his face by inserting cotton wads in his cheeks; his back was hunched slightly, as well. Uzi was impressed – a nice touch.

  ‘Mr Gruber?’ said Uzi in English.

  Avner looked up. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, in a slight German accent. ‘You are alone?’

  Uzi sat down, took out a cigarette and tapped it nervously on the table, waiting for the waitress to approach.

  ‘Why don’t you just step outside and smoke that fucking thing?’ said Avner in a low voice. ‘You’re really annoying when you’re like this.’

  Uzi didn’t respond. The waitress came over and he ordered a Peroni; they sat in silence until it arrived. Avner eyed Uzi’s motorcycle helmet but said nothing. Then, when all seemed clear, Uzi leaned forward and began to speak quickly. ‘Things have changed.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Avner in German, ‘let’s switch languages. A small thing, but you never know.’

  Uzi scowled. ‘Things have changed,’ he began again, in German. ‘It’s Liberty. She’s working for the MOIS.’

  Avner’s expression didn’t falter; he had come prepared for something big. ‘The MOIS? I should have seen that coming. I told you that bitch was bad news. What did she want with you?’

  ‘She gave me the inside story,’ hissed Uzi urgently. ‘Listen, the yellowcake is real.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your intel is wrong. The yellowcake is no paper tiger. This is real. Operation Desert Rain will go ahead no matter what we do.’

  This time Avner couldn’t control his reaction. He took off his glasses, sat back in his chair, and scratched at his face as if it were covered in insects. Then he replaced his glasses and made an effort to compose himself. ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Why would she be lying?’

  ‘I don’t know. But this contradicts all my intel sources.’

  ‘She showed me a photograph. She showed me a fucking photo. I recognised it. Natanz.’

  ‘Could it have been a composite image?’

  ‘You never know. But it didn’t look like it. And my instinct . . .’

  ‘Fuck your instinct.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, each man searching his thoughts, his feelings, his intuition, as the world shifted around them.

  ‘So Shalev was killed because he was about to compromise a genuine operation on a genuine threat?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Avner again, and pulled his iPad out of his briefcase. Uzi watched as he connected to the Ha’aretz website. ‘Fuck,’ he said once more, handing the iPad to Uzi. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  The headline read: ‘Exclusive: Ram Shalev Killed By Mossad’. The reporter had done a good job. The whole story was there. All around it were links to analysis, related features, comments, editorial, opinion columns. Already the article had over three hundred comments; according to the website, it had been published just twenty minutes before.

  ‘Big splash,’ said Uzi pointlessly.

  ‘The ball is rolling now,’ said Avner, ‘and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We’ve got to think this through. We’ve got to work out how it’s going to affect things.’

  ‘For one thing, they’re going to be coming at us with a vengeance,’ said Uzi. ‘Especially me.’

  ‘You’ve got to run,’ said Avner. ‘You’ve got to leave the country. We’ve got in over our heads. Who knows how much damage we could be causing? The yellowcake’s real . . . fuck.’

  ‘Nobody escapes Israeli justice, as we know.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘We’ll never stop them bombing the yellowcake now,’ said Uzi.

  Avner glanced up and caught Uzi’s eye. In that moment, with the insight of an old friend and the astuteness of a veteran spy, he knew exactly what his friend was thinking. ‘She’s got you, hasn’t she? You’ve agreed to help the MOIS. You’ve agreed to help them stop the air strikes.’

  ‘I haven’t agreed to anything.’

  Avner clasped a hand to his forehead. ‘So that’s what all this has been about. She’s been targeting you all along. God, we’ve been so blind. It all makes perfect sense.’

  ‘I haven’t agreed to anything, I’m telling you,’ said Uzi again. ‘I haven’t committed to anything. I can still refuse.’

  ‘Do you really think the MOIS will let you walk away? After this? Come on, Uzi.’

  ‘It’s not the MOIS I’m dealing with. It’s Liberty.’

  ‘I thought she worked for the MOIS?’

  ‘She does. But – we also have a personal connection.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that you’re still in love with her?’

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is . . .’

  ‘Fuck, she’s got you good. She’s got you really good.’

  Uzi felt his temper rising. ‘Shut up and listen to me,’ he said, making an effort to control his voice. ‘We might be spies, but it doesn’t mean we’re not human beings. There’s always room for human emotions, even in a game like this.’

  ‘My god, she’s completely turned your head. The woman has turned your head. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Are you telling me that people from different cultures can’t . . .’

  ‘Listen to yourself, my brother. Just fucking listen to yourself. Listen to what you’re saying.’

  They fell into a morose silence.
/>   ‘My plane is leaving in an hour and a half,’ said Avner after a time. ‘I have to go.’

  Uzi didn’t answer.

  ‘Look,’ said Avner, ‘neither of us knew what we were getting ourselves into. So you want my advice? Cut loose. Find the slick I made you, take on a new identity, and fuck off out of the country. Run and keep running, my brother.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘If the MOIS are involved, who knows what’s going on behind the scenes? One wrong move and we could both be dead. You’re being played like a two-dollar whore. So just cut loose and run. We’ve done enough.’

  ‘But what about our principles?’ Uzi burst out. ‘We’ve come this far. We’ve got to see it through. If Iran went nuclear, there would finally be a deterrent. Israel and the US would be forced to stop throwing their weight around . . .’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘What about Russia? If they didn’t have a nuclear deterrent, fuck knows what would have happened.’

  Avner opened his palms and laid them in parallel on the table. ‘I know this is your pet theory,’ he said in a strained voice, ‘but what we’re dealing with now is reality. Real life. Real fucking life.’

  ‘Look, I believe in my convictions. I stand by my beliefs. I kept quiet for years in the Office, kept my head down, and look where it got me. I’m not going to waver again.’

  ‘But how do you know your precious Doctrine of the Status Quo is right? If you’re wrong, you could be personally responsible for a nuclear war.’

  ‘You didn’t work in Iran like I did. You don’t know the language, the culture. If you did, you would understand that a nuclear Iran is the region’s only hope. For as long as Iran is the underdog, the fighting will never end. Peace can only be made between equals. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong? Iran will use their yellowcake to start a nuclear war. Millions will die. And it will be your fault.’

  Uzi took an aggressive swig of his beer as if trying to extinguish something inside him. ‘I’m not responsible for the choices I’m given. I didn’t ask for this; it found me. I have to stand by my beliefs one way or the other – either help Iran go nuclear, or allow their yellowcake to be destroyed. There’s no third option, is there?’