The Pure

by Simons, Jake Wallis

  Suddenly there was the sound of a scuffle on the deck. Uzi turned to see Leila struggling with the frogmen; with a yell she gave one a stinging blow, and he almost toppled over the side of the ship. Dozens of men, all dressed in black, appeared as if from nowhere; Uzi lost sight of her as she was surrounded. He tried to shove his way through the crush. She’s biting, someone was shouting, she’s biting! Neutralise her! The mass of bodies parted for a moment and Uzi saw one of the frogmen thrusting something into Leila’s back; she let out a wild scream, which became a moan, which became a sigh, and crumpled lifelessly to the deck. Uzi fell to his knees beside her.

  ‘What did you do?’ he shouted.

  ‘She was resisting,’ said one of the frogmen, catching his breath. ‘She didn’t like me grabbing her. Fought like a fucking vixen.’

  Uzi ran his hand along her back and brought his hand to his face; he could see no blood. He felt her pulse: she was alive. ‘What did you do to her?’ he said, trying – and failing – to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Was it a knife?’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said the frogman, laughing nervously and holding up a syringe. ‘I gave her a shot of Haloperidol, that’s all. In two hours’ time, she’ll be as good as new. We should have disabled her in the first place.’

  Uzi breathed a sigh of relief. Then, trying to disguise his feelings, he stood up briskly. ‘We need this woman alive. She’s a high-value target. If anything happens to her, I’ll shoot you. Personally. Got it?’

  Gradually order was restored. The frogmen were directed below decks while Uzi was wrapped in an anti-hypothermia blanket. Leila’s mask was removed and she was placed on a stretcher, soaked and shivering, unconscious but alive. She was whisked away below decks; Uzi felt a tug as she disappeared from view, as if he were losing part of himself. He looked around and did not recognise any of the black-clad crew that were fussing on deck, removing his mask and scuba tank, patting him on the back, taking his temperature and blood pressure. He was ushered along the gangway and through a steel door into the ship. Framed aerial photographs of Israel were on the walls, uplit. Somebody was saying congratulations, Colonel Feldman, congratulations, let me be the first to congratulate you. Someone else was whispering how Colonel Feldman had not only completed the mission, he had brought in a MOIS operative – alive – for interrogation. He was a hero. And then he was standing in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors, the largest he had ever seen, like two colossal slabs of halva. Someone knocked twice and the doors swung open, revealing a long, low-ceilinged room decorated in soft colours. The place was filled with the scent of luxury. There were about ten people in the room. And all eyes were on him.

  Dreamlike, he stepped through the double doors, his wetsuit trailing drops of water on the deep-pile carpet. The doors swung closed noiselessly. He blinked, tried to take stock. To the left and right of him were six people, four men and two women, standing to attention in their uniforms. They were looking at him and smiling, without breaking their discipline. He recognised them like characters from a dream. Of course: these were his colleagues. These were the other members of the Tehorim, ‘The Pure’, the unit so elite that the rest of the Mossad didn’t even know it existed. The ultra-secret operatives that specialised in high-risk, deep cover operations. Nobody at London Station knew about the Tehorim; they had had no idea that Uzi, the man they had been pursuing, was risking his life for the State of Israel. Even his friend, Avner, hadn’t known. But Uzi was one of The Pure; and these were his colleagues.

  Ahead of him were four people standing side by side, their hands clasped in front of them. On the left, smiling in a grandfatherly way, was the unassuming figure of ROM – the director of the Mossad. On the right were two women that he did not recognise. One was older, the other younger. And in the middle, dressed as always in an immaculate suit and tie, was the most imposing figure of all: the prime minister of Israel.

  ‘Your timing is excellent,’ said the prime minister. ‘You are just in time to watch the show with us.’ From the ceiling behind him a projector screen slid down. The lights were dimmed and somebody placed a chair behind each of them. They sat.

  The screen flickered into life. A hazy black-and-white image appeared: an aerial view of an industrial installation on the outskirts of a city. At the bottom of the screen was a clock counting the split seconds as they passed. Alongside this were the words ‘live cockpit camera’ in Hebrew, along with the location: ‘Qum, Iran.’

  The prime minister looked at his watch. ‘I have just given the order to fire at will.’

  For several minutes nothing happened. The image of the city revolved and magnified as the pilot homed in on his target. A circle appeared on the screen, capturing a precise point on the installation. The pilot moved closer. Cars could be seen moving on the roads at the edge of the screen. Then, without warning, a chain of dark objects could be seen falling down towards the circle; seconds later a fireball spiralled upwards, devouring the image in a white light. Then it cleared. Flames could be seen blazing all around the installation, in the centre of which gaped a jagged, fiery crater.

  Words appeared across the screen: ‘awaiting confirmation’. They remained there, blinking, for what felt like a long time. Then, finally, they were replaced with two more words: ‘target destroyed’. The room erupted in applause. The lights came on; the prime minister leaned over and shook Uzi heartily by the hand.

  ‘A good job, Colonel Feldman, an excellent job,’ he said. ‘You should see the satellite images of Natanz. The Iranians put so much firepower there, you’d have thought we were sending in our entire Air Force. The whole Revolutionary Guard, as well as the Artesh, turned out.’ He chuckled. ‘But now there is no longer any such thing as Iranian yellowcake. Their nuclear programme is over. At least for another ten years.’

  Uzi – no, Uzi was dead now, Adam, Adam Feldman – smiled and turned away, but the prime minister hadn’t finished. ‘If it hadn’t been for your excellent work,’ he said, ‘within months Israel might have been facing a nuclear attack.’

  The chairs were removed and everybody got to their feet, returning to their original formation with a sense of great ceremony. Adam was starting to recognise his colleagues better now. There was Hannah, who had buddied with him in the early stages of training. There was Yoav, the ballistics expert. There was Eli, who could speak more languages than anyone he had ever met. Adam, understanding what was expected of him, clutched his blanket closer and walked towards ROM, the prime minister, the two women, flanked by his appreciative colleagues and surrounded by the sound of applause.

  ROM was the first to clasp him by the hand.

  ‘Well done, brother,’ he said. ‘An absolutely perfect operation. Absolutely perfect. And you brought back the MOIS operative, too! You even made her fall hopelessly in love with you. Flawless.’

  ‘Nice boat you’ve got here,’ Adam heard himself saying.

  ‘We borrowed it from a Sayan,’ ROM replied. ‘He doesn’t use it much these days. His new one is much bigger and fancier.’ He leaned closer. ‘It has a helipad. And a miniature submarine.’ ROM pumped his hand again and directed Adam to the two women.

  ‘You did it,’ said the older one happily. ‘You believed in yourself. You believed.’

  ‘You,’ said Adam. ‘You’re the one who’s been fucking with my head for months.’ Good-natured laughter rippled throughout the gathering as, despite the water still clinging to Adam’s wetsuit, they embraced.

  ‘You don’t have to say it,’ said the younger woman. ‘We know. You couldn’t have done it without us.’

  ‘Well,’ said Adam, ‘it’s good to put a face to a voice.’

  An aide stepped forward and handed the prime minister a glass display case. He shook Adam’s hand again, and presented the case to him. In the centre, on a backdrop of black velvet, was a stiletto dagger, the kind traditionally used by the Mossad. On the blade was engraved a passage from Psalms 121:4: ‘Behold, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor
sleeps.’ Adam felt dizzy, and shook his head to clear it. Beaming, the prime minister pulled him into a bear hug.

  ‘You’ve done your country proud,’ he said, ‘you’ve done us all proud.’

  ‘Careful,’ said Adam, ‘your suit is getting wet.’

  ‘Fuck the suit,’ replied the prime minister. ‘Under this suit beats the heart of a soldier, same as you.’

  ‘Look,’ said Adam, ‘Operation Regime Change . . .’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said the prime minister magnanimously. ‘I completely understand. You had to go along with that bastard Avner and the WikiLeaks scenario. You had no choice – the MOIS were watching you day and night. To refuse would have made them doubt your animosity towards the Mossad. Your first duty was to your operation, to maintain your cover. That is the nature of the Tehorim. I know that.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean Avner. Don’t hunt him down. He’s just a piss artist.’

  ‘I won’t be concerning myself with that fool. We’ll contain him, but we’ll let him keep his freedom. He has his money, so what the hell. He won’t be causing any more trouble.’

  ‘Did it make things difficult for you? Politically?’

  ‘WikiLeaks? Put it this way. For the last few days the whole world has been accusing me of assassinating my political opponents. It hasn’t been comfortable, to say the least. But the headlines tomorrow will be about the air strikes. We have arranged for an independent observer to confirm that the yellowcake existed, so it is clear that we had no choice but to strike preemptively. By tomorrow, your leak will discredited. We will win the election – for genuine reasons – and all will be well. And you will receive a new identity, as well as a generous reward for your troubles.’

  Adam felt dazed, as if he had just awoken from a long sleep. But at the same time, the pain hadn’t gone away; his bond with Leila had been violated. So far he had been reacting automatically, allowing platitudes to slip from his mouth without thinking. But now he thought he should try to verbalise the truth of his inner life. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. There was nothing he could say; no way he could make anybody understand. So instead he simply said: ‘This was my last operation. That was the arrangement.’

  ‘Come now,’ said ROM, taking his arm, ‘there will be lots of time to discuss these things.’

  ‘Can I get this thing out of my ear now,’ said Adam, ‘and out of my shoulder? It’s been driving me crazy.’

  The prime minister looked at ROM, who called to an aide. ‘Take Colonel Feldman to freshen up,’ he said. ‘Then take him to the sick bay to have the mic and receiver removed.’ He turned to Adam. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘you did well. Very well. I am indebted to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but with respect,’ said Adam, ‘this was my last mission. It really was my last mission.’

  ‘Of course,’ said ROM, giving him a packet of Noblesse cigarettes and a lighter from his inside pocket. ‘Of course it was. Have a smoke, relax. We have time.’

  Adam pocketed the cigarettes gratefully and found himself being shepherded out of the room and into the bowels of the yacht. The powerful engines were running now, he could hear them, he could feel their vibrations beneath his feet. The vessel was pulling away from hostile waters, he thought. Heading home. After he had showered – vigorously, as if trying to cleanse his soul – and changed into a dry set of clothes, Adam sat on the bed and waited for someone to escort him to the sick bay. His ear, the cyst in his shoulder, felt heavy and hot. Instinctively he expected the Kol to appear in his head, to encourage him to stay strong, to believe in himself. But he knew that would never happen again. It was over. He closed his eyes, tried to collect his thoughts. Then he took ROM’s cigarettes and left his cabin, carrying with him the dagger in its display case.

  The deck was deserted. It was a warm night, but a cool breeze was blowing across the face of the ocean. Adam leaned over the stern, listening to the hum of the engines, watching the tail of foam fade in the sea. The ocean was inky and so was the sky; stars spread out above his head like a canopy of luminous insects, frozen in time. He smoked one Noblesse after another, allowing the wind to tear the smoke from his mouth and disperse it in all directions. The tobacco was rough, potent, stronger than cigarettes outside Israel. It burned his throat and brought back light bulb flashes of memories.

  He wondered where Avner – Franz Gruber – was now. Avner, who always believed he was one step ahead. Avner, who would never have guessed, even for an instant, that Adam was really on an operation for a unit that he didn’t even know existed. This mission had pitted Adam against the Office many times; many times the Office had tried to capture him, kill him even, under the impression that he was a loose cannon at best, and working for the enemy at worst. But Adam had given as good as he’d got. He’d survived. There had been no alternative: to blow his cover, even to the Office, would have damaged Israel far more profoundly than the odd skirmish with them in London. After all, the Office had been infiltrated by the MOIS; there was no telling how deeply their roots were embedded.

  He turned to see the Kol, the older woman, leaning over the railing beside him. How long had she been there?

  ‘Are you OK?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know how to answer that question,’ he said.

  There was a pause. Adam offered her a cigarette. The flame from the lighter lit her face up for a second, then all was dark again.

  ‘Sometimes it can be dangerous to believe,’ she said.

  ‘Nice of you to say so,’ Adam replied bitterly. ‘But those were my instructions, right? To forget about my old identity, to bury myself, to allow Uzi to come alive. To become only Uzi, nothing but Uzi; to be the bait, to let the MOIS come to me. Not to allow Adam Feldman to draw a single breath. To think like Uzi, feel like Uzi, behave like Uzi, believe in him. Shit, I even passed a lie detector test.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were wrong. I just said to believe is dangerous. But in the end, it was only a mission. In time, with the help of our psychologists, you will readjust.’

  ‘But it’s not that simple, is it?’ said Adam. ‘Uzi was more than just a mask. That’s why I was chosen.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said the Kol. ‘You have always been a troublemaker. We knew that you made controversial statements and thought too much for yourself. Ram Shalev even advised his MOIS controllers that you were the most likely operative to be turned. We knew all that. But this is the philosophy of the Tehorim: to take a seed from inside the operative’s psyche and nurture it to create a watertight cover, to grow a new person, and for the duration of the mission, to have the operative inhabit him. To believe in him.’

  ‘You never worried that I would go off the rails? That I would become Uzi and never return?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Kol sighed. ‘Your psychological profile. We understand the depth of Israel’s hold on her children. For someone like you – the son of a war hero, the grandson of Zionist pioneers – to betray your country would be physically impossible, however politics sways you, whatever trauma you suffer. When Israel is in mortal danger, people like you are cleansed of any hesitation and fall four-square behind the State. This is the alchemy of a bloody history, the alchemy of nationhood. This is the alchemy of the Holy Land.’

  ‘Ram Shalev,’ said Adam dreamily. ‘Fucking Ram Shalev. I can see his face now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Ram Shalev. The man was a traitor of the worst kind. Ex-Mossad operative – and MOIS agent. For years, he was the lynchpin in a network of Iranian spies that had been grafted into the Office’s power structure.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I didn’t say but.’

  ‘The man deserved to die, Adam. By the time we discovered his identity, he had already given the Iranians intelligence on the whole of Operation Desert Rain. Apart from the target, that is. And he was trying like hell to find that out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He ha
d planned to tell WikiLeaks that the prime minister was going to bomb Iran’s nuclear facilities to gain pre-election popularity points. He wanted to put us on the back foot, use the media to force us to postpone Operation Desert Rain, to allow the Iranians a little more time – just a little more time – in which they would try to develop the bomb. Ram Shalev was a hair’s breadth away from causing Israel’s destruction. The only thing he didn’t know was the target of Operation Desert Rain. And thanks to you, we fooled them.’

  ‘What makes a man turn like that against his own people?’ said Adam broodingly. ‘What’s the trigger?’

  ‘Come on, Adam, don’t be naive. You know what motivates people. With Shalev it was mainly money. Money and sex. And revenge, too, we think. Like everyone else.’

  ‘I killed him. I played a part in killing him. I’ve killed so many people.’

  ‘You should be proud – proud of the difficult tasks you’ve carried out for our homeland, and proud of the fact that you’re a moral enough man to worry about it.’ She leaned closer, and Adam saw her face half illuminated by the moonlight. ‘You’re not Uzi,’ she said softly. ‘You’re Colonel Adam Feldman. You were always were Colonel Adam Feldman. You’re a red-blooded Zionist. That’s the truth.’