The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  The engine was rumbling louder now; the plane was making its descent. The pilot, without looking at him, handed over his headset. ‘Look,’ he said in halting Arabic. ‘Look down there. Syria.’

  Uzi looked. He was surprised to feel a pang of homecoming. This was, after all, the Middle East; Tel Aviv was only 130 miles south of Damascus. And yet he didn’t feel this sentimental when he flew into Tel Aviv. When he landed in Israel, his feelings were far more ambivalent. Especially on El Al flights, when groups of youngsters erupted in traditional songs, he would find himself not knowing how to feel. Syria was easier, somehow. Less complicated. For here he was free of the burden of loyalty, and could relate to who he really was.

  The MIT operative landed smoothly, and Uzi and Leila disembarked with the cabin crew. As soon as the Mediterranean sun touched his skin, as soon as he breathed in the clean, spiced fug of the air and heard the energetic voices of the people, Uzi could feel his system adjusting to its default settings. The last time he was in Damascus, he had been undercover for the Mossad. But despite this, it was good to be back. Uzi and Leila went through customs without a hitch, and made the rendezvous point in good time.

  The Syrian agents looked exactly as he had expected: black suits, dark glasses, no hint of subtlety. But in a strange way their overtness helped them to blend in. In a country like Syria, which was sustained and controlled by the secret police, men like these were not unusual. Uzi and Leila were ushered into the back seat of a saloon car and driven out into the afternoon Damascus traffic. Everywhere there were yellow taxi cabs, people jostling for position, women in hijabs and the occasional niqab, men carrying baskets of fruit. And everywhere there were placards displaying the faces of the president and other political figures. It was a good idea, in Syria, to demonstrate one’s loyalty to the regime, and the best way of doing this was to display a prominent image of one of its stalwarts.

  The car, playing Al Medina FM loudly, made its way through the outskirts of the city and headed north. Nowhere could be seen any sign of unrest. The rough desert stretched out in great caramel plains on either side, and the road ahead shimmered in the late summer heat. Before long there were no billboards, no crash barriers, no road markings even. Just a long snake of tarmac flanked by endless desert. As the radio blared on, and Arabic jingles followed advertisements and sanitised discussions on politics, Uzi and Leila fell quiet, each looking out of their own window, absorbed in their private thoughts. To begin with, the agents in the front seats checked on them regularly, surreptitiously, in the rear-view mirror. Then Uzi gave them each a cigarette, and the three men smoked out the windows. This put them at ease, and before long they all settled down. An air of bored acceptance gradually filled the vehicle.

  The light was bronzing as they drove down towards the coastal city of Al Lādhiqīyah. They threaded through the narrow streets and made their way down towards the fresher air that was coming from the sea. Before long, the ocean appeared on the horizon, revealing itself in the spaces between buildings and disappearing again. And then, there it was – the Mediterranean in all its splendour. The car turned north on the coastal road, past beaches, strips of hotels and restaurants, and cafés serving coffee and seafood. The sea stretched out to their left like a vast tongue. After a time they began to climb a ridge, and they arrived at a military checkpoint. There was only one way to play it, and Uzi and Leila played it the same way: with practised insouciance. The agents showed the soldiers their papers, and the soldiers waved them through.

  The road broadened as it wound along the ridge, and the view of the ocean was spectacular. Nestling in the foliage of the road were luxury villas, built like marshmallow palaces into the rock. The car slowed; the radio was switched off as they turned off the main road and down a winding driveway towards an impressive villa complex surrounded by discreet yet formidable electric fences. A pair of plain-clothed men with sunglasses and AK-47s stood guard at the gates. The car stopped. With the muzzles of their guns, the men indicated that Uzi and Leila should leave the vehicle. They did so, stretching their legs and loosening their necks in the late afternoon sunshine. The two Syrian agents took their luggage from the boot and left it by the side of the track. Then, without a word of farewell, they reversed the saloon back along the driveway and disappeared.

  ‘Let me see your papers,’ said one of the men in Farsi. Leila handed over some documents – Uzi assumed they confirmed her identity as a MOIS operative. Upon inspecting them, the mood of the guards changed. ‘Salaam alaykum,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Syria. We have been expecting you. Does the man speak Farsi?’

  ‘I do,’ said Uzi, ‘and I thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘We are poor hosts,’ the guard replied, following the elaborate taarof etiquette of Persia. ‘I am sure you are accustomed to far more extravagant surroundings.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Uzi, replying in kind. ‘It is more than I deserve.’

  One of the guards walked out of earshot and spoke into a walkie-talkie. Then he returned. ‘Come with me, please,’ he said, hitching his gun back over his shoulder. ‘Allow me to take your bags.’

  The villa complex turned out to be larger than Uzi had expected. It wrapped around the coastal road in a network of interlocking buildings and walkways, all painted pale ochre, and capped with rust-coloured roofs. Balconies protruded like shelves, and people could be seen resting on them in their shirtsleeves, smoking and looking out to sea. Discretion seemed to be the watchword. Apart from the two guards Uzi and Leila had encountered at the fence, no other display of force was visible; the place might have been mistaken for a hotel hosting a conference. Rows of cars nosed up to the walls, and people walked briskly in business suits, carrying folders and briefcases. But when Uzi looked closer, he could see disguised dugouts and sentry posts stippling the area, nestling in the trees, standing discreetly in the shadows and corners. He noticed two soldiers in heavy camouflage disappearing around the side of a building. There was no lack of security here.

  ‘Little Tehran, eh?’ said Uzi as they were shown through the main doors. ‘This is a big set-up.’

  ‘It’s not usually so busy,’ Leila replied. ‘At the moment, this whole place is dedicated to countering Operation Desert Rain. Extra staff have been drafted from all over.’

  The guard led them through a maze of corridors with whitewashed walls and terracotta paving. On the breeze from the round-topped windows came occasional bursts of mint and eucalyptus. Eventually Uzi was shown into a simple room with bars across the windows, containing nothing but a table and four chairs. Leila hung back, and with a salvo of apologies from the guard, he was left alone with his luggage. The door was locked.

  Uzi walked to the window and almost took off his jacket. But then he remembered the plastic pistol in the inside pocket and stopped himself. They hadn’t searched him yet. It was hot, and the trousers of his uniform were tight around the crotch. He squirmed uncomfortably and rearranged them.

  ‘You’re nearly there,’ said the Kol suddenly. ‘Just hold your nerve, Uzi. Don’t forget who you are. Believe.’

  The door opened and two men entered. One, a bodyguard, stood beside the door. The other sat down opposite Uzi. Leila was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Welcome to Syria,’ said the man in eloquent Farsi. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sorry we do not meet in my own country, today. But I hope that next time we may welcome you there as an honoured guest.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing.’

  ‘No, no. You shall stay in my personal home. My home will be like your home. My name is Abdel Ghasem.’

  ‘A pleasure. I am Uzi, but of course you know that. Where is Leila?’

  ‘She is doing some paperwork, which is required when an operative brings in a prisoner. Technically, of course, you are our prisoner. But, in spirit, you are our guest.’

  Insouciantly, instinctively, Uzi observed every detail of the man sitting opposite him. He was burly, and carried himself as if a
great deal of weight was resting on his shoulders. He had bulging, fleshy lips – the lips, Uzi thought, of a liar – and hair that was coiffed and sleek. The sleeves of his shirt came to a stop some inches before his meaty hands, and from his left wrist dangled a loose-fitting Rolex watch that rattled as he moved. From his shoulder holster protruded the butt of a Walther P99 pistol.

  ‘Your Farsi is excellent, my friend,’ said Ghasem, in honeyed tones.

  ‘I am sure it cannot compare to your English.’

  Ghasem waved the compliment away. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

  ‘Please, I insist. Have some tea.’

  ‘Really, I’m OK. I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘Our tea is not worthy of you, but please do have some.’ The taarof etiquette done with, the bodyguard opened the door a crack and motioned to somebody waiting outside. A silver tray of tea was brought in and placed on the table, together with a heavy bowl of fruit. There being no women present, the tea duties fell to Ghasem. He poured a little dark liquid into a glass and raised it to the light, assessing its colour and strength. Then he poured some into two small glasses rimmed with silver, diluting it with boiling water from a samovar. Following Persian custom, Uzi put a piece of sugar in his mouth and sipped the tea around it.

  ‘I know Leila has made this clear to you already,’ said Ghasem, exhaling through his nose, ‘but let me reiterate that we are all filled with admiration at your courage and principles. There are very few like you in the Zionist regime, very few. During the course of our surveillance you have shown yourself to be a man of great moral fibre. So for all this, I would like to salute you. The Islamic Republic of Iran is about to owe you a great debt.’ He raised his glass and Uzi inclined his own in acknowledgement. ‘It goes without saying,’ Ghasem continued, ‘that when this operation is complete you will not have to worry for the rest of your life. You will not develop even a single white hair. We guarantee that. You will have as much money as you could possibly desire, as well as constant protection from the MOIS. Anything you want we will provide, until your dying day.’ He raised his glass again, and Uzi raised his own in return.

  ‘Has Leila explained,’ said Uzi, ‘that she wishes to leave the MOIS once this is over? That we are going to find some corner of the world to make a life together, and leave this business behind? Start over as ordinary people?’

  Ghasem paused for a moment. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My pledge applies to both of you. Leila Shirazi is a brilliant operative, and a fine woman. Congratulations.’ For the first time since arriving at Little Tehran, something didn’t feel right to Uzi. It was something about the way Ghasem had hesitated before replying; the way his face had frozen, like a seasoned spy disguising his emotions. Uzi sipped his tea through the last of the sugar in his mouth and picked up another piece.

  ‘Fruit?’ said Ghasem. ‘Please have some fruit. We have all sorts, but I can recommend the oranges. They are extremely succulent this time of year.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Uzi, ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Please, I insist. Have an orange. At least have an orange.’

  ‘No, thank you. Really, I’m fine.’

  Ghasem placed an orange on a side plate and passed it to Uzi, along with a knife. His Rolex rattled as he moved. Uzi thanked him obligingly, and began to peel the fruit. A delicious citrus smell sifted into the air.

  ‘Now,’ said Ghasem, ‘you’ll forgive my rudeness if I get straight to the point; as you appreciate, time is of the essence. The Israeli air strikes are planned for just three hours from now.’ He sat back in his chair and rested one fist on each knee. ‘All we are going to need from you, my friend, is one word. In return for all the riches and protection I just described: one word. The name of the target that the Israelis are going to strike. We know everything else, but not that. We need to know whether they’re targeting Qum or Natanz.’

  ‘What intel do you have? Audio? Cable?’

  ‘Both. Whatever you want.’

  ‘Just one word?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Uzi did not hesitate. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ghasem, stretching his lips into a smile. ‘But first, if you don’t mind, there is a formality we must attend to. Regulations.’

  He gestured to his bodyguard who in turn opened the door and nodded to someone outside. A white-coated man with a neat beard came in, placed a handheld machine on the table. It looked like the sort of device that a courier would use to take a customer’s signature when delivering a package, but with an assortment of wires and clips dangling from one end.

  ‘Nothing but a formality, you understand,’ Ghasem repeated.

  Uzi looked from the device to Ghasem and back again. ‘What’s this?’ he said carefully.

  ‘You haven’t seen one before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised the Mossad was so behind the times,’ said Ghasem cheerfully. ‘This is an American made PCASS – a Preliminary Credibility Assessment Screening System. The newest generation of lie detectors, my friend. State of the art.’

  ‘You still believe in this polygraph stuff? It seems to me that the MOIS might be the ones who are behind the times.’

  Ghasem smiled. ‘The PCASS has its limitations, of course, but we do not have enough time for a proper interview. I hope you’ll forgive us for that.’

  Uzi shrugged. ‘Seems unnecessary to me,’ he said, ‘but like I said, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a long time.’

  41

  ‘Keep calm,’ said the Kol gently. ‘Forget about everything. Clear your mind. Just believe in yourself, remember who you are. Count backwards from a thousand in the back of your head. That will prevent your measurements from fluctuating.’

  With some difficulty, Uzi stifled his reply. The man in the white coat approached and rolled his left sleeve up to the elbow. A black box the shape of a bar of soap was strapped to his wrist with Velcro, two electrodes were adhered to his palm with sticky pads, and a pulse sensor was attached to his middle fingertip by way of a clip. With a grunt of satisfaction, the man sat back and booted up the handset; it made a quiet whining noise that gradually rose in pitch until it could no longer be heard.

  ‘This is an unrivalled lie-detection device,’ said the man, rubbing his fuzzy chin. ‘It is far more advanced than the traditional polygraph machines you may have seen before. This machine will register any increase in stress that you feel in response to our questions. The electrodes on your palm gauge the changes in the electrical conductivity of your skin; the pulse oximeter on your middle finger observes any changes in your cardiovascular activity. This data is processed through a complex algorithm that leads to a simple diagnosis: either you are lying, or you are telling the truth. The margin of error is very small indeed.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Uzi.

  The man in the white coat looked at him noncommittally. ‘So let us begin. I will ask some routine questions, then I will hand you over to my colleague. First of all, I would like you to tell me a lie. Are you a Mexican?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you a Mexican? Lie, please.’

  ‘Oh I see. Yes, I am a Mexican.’ The device beeped softly.

  ‘Are you bald?’

  ‘You want me to lie again?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Yes, I am bald.’ Another beep.

  ‘Now,’ said the man in the white coat, ‘please answer the following test questions truthfully. Were you ever a member of the Mossad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As a Katsa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. I can confirm that we are getting accurate readings. I’ll now hand over to my colleague.’

  Ghasem roused himself as if his thoughts had been far away. He smoothed his hand across his swell of hair and sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him.

  ‘Now, my friend,’ he said, ‘you are about to betray yo
ur country. Do you feel comfortable about this?’

  ‘I am not betraying my country. Not the way I see it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, I am taking this action in pursuit of peace. It is in the best interests of my country, in my opinion.’

  The PCASS device was bleeping crazily. ‘If we can stay with yes or no answers, if you please,’ interjected the man in the white coat.

  There was a pause. Uzi and Ghasem regarded each other like gladiators. Finally Ghasem spoke again. ‘OK. Do you realise that once you have given us our information, you will never again be able to set foot in Israel?’

  ‘Yes, I realise that.’

  ‘Does it worry you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You will never be able to see your family or friends again. Are you telling me that doesn’t worry you?’

  ‘I don’t mind. My parents are dead. I will have Leila. She is my world now.’ 999, 998, 997 . . .

  ‘Of course. Now, as I explained before, the MOIS will offer lifetime protection as well as financial rewards. Nevertheless, you will be top of the Mossad hit list until the day you die. Does this worry you?’

  ‘No. I am used to living with danger.’ 992, 991, 990 . . .

  ‘Even that sort of danger?’

  ‘What other sort is there?’

  ‘Please,’ interrupted the man in the white coat, ‘yes or no questions only.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Ghasem, ‘I’ll get down to business. Are you doing this in all sincerity?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Do you have any ulterior motive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you secretly working for the Mossad, the CIA, SIS or any other intelligence agency?’

  ‘No, my only agency is my own conscience.’

  ‘When we give you the encrypted intel, will you provide us with the correct interpretation?’