The Pure

Leila. It was telling him not to stop believing, not to forget who he was. Then he awoke, and found that he had been speaking aloud, saying I wish you would get out of my head, I can’t wait to get you out of my head. He glanced over at the pilot, who was avoiding his eyes, pretending not to have heard.
    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 L ā dhiq ī yah. 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