The Pure

Central Street and back on to the Marylebone Road, speeding past the idling rows of cars, buses, vans. In his mirror he could see the original four pursuers trying to catch them up – so they were still in the race. Uzi shot through a red light and careered across the intersection, avoiding a white van by inches. Then he headed down Baker Street, the red rider still uncomfortably close. More popping sounds came from behind. He needed to put some space between them; it was only a matter of time before one of those shots hit home. In the distance he heard some police sirens start up – the chase had evidently been reported. But it didn’t matter now. He was almost there.
    Halfway down Baker Street, the way was blocked. A skip was protruding into the street and two buses were trying to negotiate their way past it. Uzi’s fingers hovered over the brake – he was going too fast to stop and he would have to mount the pavement. There were lots of commuters about now, it would be difficult not to hit anybody. Then, in a flash, it came to him. Those endless afternoons as a teenager, messing around in the Negev desert with dirt bikes, racing them, jumping them, doing tricks, impressing the girls. The old stunts, the old knack, were just a memory away.
    Propped up against the lip of the skip was a plank of wood, used as a ramp by the builders. Already they had started work; a shop was being gutted by a gang of four or five men in high visibility jackets, who were ferrying rubble in wheelbarrows up the plank and into the skip. Years ago, Uzi had used ramps like this thousands of times. He knew he could still do it. Praying that the plank would hold his weight, he accelerated.
    In the mirror he saw the red rider hanging back, obviously confused; Uzi’s riding seemed suicidal. Hunching over the motorcycle, Uzi sped towards the skip. All at once his wheels were on the plank and it was carrying him upwards, upwards; then the bike was in the air, wheels spinning furiously, borne by nothing but its own momentum. For a moment, the world fell silent. The feeling of the Negev came back: the dust, the heat, the bottles of beer, the pre-Army freedom, the girls. The bikes. The plank fell away from the skip behind him, bouncing softly on to the road. On the street below, Uzi saw the workmen gazing upwards; office workers with cardboard coffee cups turning to stare; faces gaping in windows; people pointing. Then the ground approached, too fast, and the sound of the world returned all at once, dominated by the shriek of tyres on asphalt. This was London. The bike skidded on landing, snaked but didn’t fall. The impact sent a shock wave whipping through Uzi’s body and then he was in control again, speeding in the direction of Portman Square, scattering a cloud of pigeons that had been pecking along the gutters. In his mirror he saw the red rider on the pavement, negotiating his way round the skip and accelerating towards him. But Uzi had gained some all-important ground. Now all that remained was to lure the Office back to Home House, where everything was set up for the next phase of the plan.

 
38
    In the car park beneath Home House, life was stirring. Dawn had given way to a greyish morning, and from time to time gleaming luxury cars moved in or out, their velvety engines echoing against the concrete. Well-dressed men strode purposefully to and from their vehicles. A dark figure, adjusting the collar on his black leather jacket, wound his way through the vehicles, stopping on occasion to let them pass. He made his way up to the street and waited. In his earpiece, a comms device crackled.
    ‘Get ready,’ came a voice, ‘he’s almost here, over.’
    ‘Copy that,’ the man said in a thick accent. He pulled his helmet on, flexed his fingers and waited. He was unarmed, and this always made him jumpy. But that was the nature of this assignment; and he was being paid handsomely.
    Seconds later, he heard the roar of an engine and then a low-slung, black motorbike snarled around the corner. Its handlebars were evocative of a Harley but it was longer, more compact, with an oversized back wheel that seemed to be straining to break free. The rider was wearing a black helmet, black leather jacket, jeans and leather gloves; they were, in fact, identical.
    The motorbike skidded to a halt and the rider dismounted hastily, exchanging places with the other man. For a moment they looked at each other as if in the mirror. They were