The Pure

indistinguishable: the same helmet, the same clothes, the same build. A chorus of engines could be heard several streets away, getting louder by the second. The new rider glanced over his shoulder, gunned the engine and sped off.
    In the shadows of the car park, Uzi removed his helmet and slipped behind a pillar. In seconds, he saw the Office hunters speeding past after his imposter: the red rider first, followed by the others. His heart was thumping, and a cold layer of sweat lay on his brow. It had been a close thing – closer than he had intended. The noise of the engines faded. He hurried back towards the steel door. Before he could reach the handle, it opened.
    ‘Uzi,’ said Leila, removing her comms headset. ‘Thank god.’ They fell into a brief embrace. ‘All OK?’
    ‘More or less,’ said Uzi. ‘The main thing is they fell for it.’
    ‘The Mossad is about to be led a merry dance,’ said Leila. ‘I wouldn’t like to be Stefan when they catch up with him, but then again, I’m paying him enough.’ She steeled herself. ‘OK, are you ready to get out of here?’
    ‘Let’s do it.’
    They hurried up the spiral staircase at the back of the building and made their way to Uzi’s room, locking the door behind them. On the bed, two sets of clothes were laid out. For Leila there was a navy-blue suit and blouse, with a blue-and-white neckerchief; for Uzi a matching navy-blue uniform with brass buttons and gold trim around the sleeves, and a cap with a gold-edged peak. This was who they were now; these were their new identities. He was a commercial pilot; she was a senior flight attendant. The uniforms belonged to Turkish Airlines; ever since the flotilla debacle, the Turkish Intelligence Services had been more than willing to cooperate with the Iranians.
    Without a word, they dressed. Uzi transferred his plastic M9 into the pocket of his uniform. Leila took her time applying heavy make-up and pinning up her hair.
    ‘Before we go,’ said Leila, ‘I’m going to have to ask for your weapon. I’m sorry.’
    Uzi, his eyes cast into shadow by the peak of his pilot’s cap, regarded her for a moment. Reluctantly, he reached into his waistband and pulled out his R9.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Leila, slipping it into her handbag. ‘I’m glad you trust me.’
    ‘I don’t trust you,’ said Uzi. ‘I love you.’ They kissed once, briefly, on the lips. Then they took their suitcases and left the room for the last time.
    On the journey to Heathrow they barely spoke. Both stepped effortlessly into the shoes of their characters: Uzi, secretly wondering whether the Office had caught up with his doppelganger, read the Metro, checked his phone, gave up his seat for the elderly; Leila kept her eyes downcast, absorbed – it seemed – in a paperback, shyly acknowledging the lascivious glances she received from occasional men.
    They arrived at the airport in good time, and instantly blended in. Like all the other cabin crew, their passage through check-in and customs was cursory and without incident. They even found time for a little duty-free shopping; Leila bought herself a small bottle of perfume, and Uzi contemplated – but did not purchase – a box of expensive cigars. They made little eye contact, not wanting to give away the fact that they were romantically involved. They were colleagues, nothing more than that. In the quiet minutes, as they sat in the departure lounge sipping last-minute coffees, Leila apparently still absorbed in her book, Uzi found himself imagining the final stages of planning that would have been underway in Tel Aviv at that very moment. He knew the level of care and attention to detail that preceded an operation like Operation Desert Rain. This was a ‘no zero’ operation if ever there was one. If a pinpoint attack on the Iranian nuclear facilities went wrong, the repercussions would be instant – and dire. Not only would there be a political maelstrom both at home and abroad, but it would give the Islamic Republic an indisputable casus belli. Should they choose to take it, it would mean regional – even worldwide – conflagration. So at that moment the Tel Aviv planners would be hunched over their planning tables, referring to overhead computerised maps and running endless simulations, looking at contingency plan after contingency plan. The atmosphere would be tense, charged with the importance of the mission, and the participants would be wired on caffeine, smoking endless