The Pure

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