The Pure

was coiffed and sleek. The sleeves of his shirt came to a stop some inches before his meaty hands, and from his left wrist dangled a loose-fitting Rolex watch that rattled as he moved. From his shoulder holster protruded the butt of a Walther P99 pistol.
    ‘Your Farsi is excellent, my friend,’ said Ghasem, in honeyed tones.
    ‘I am sure it cannot compare to your English.’
    Ghasem waved the compliment away. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’
    ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
    ‘Please, I insist. Have some tea.’
    ‘Really, I’m OK. I’m not thirsty.’
    ‘Our tea is not worthy of you, but please do have some.’ The taarof etiquette done with, the bodyguard opened the door a crack and motioned to somebody waiting outside. A silver tray of tea was brought in and placed on the table, together with a heavy bowl of fruit. There being no women present, the tea duties fell to Ghasem. He poured a little dark liquid into a glass and raised it to the light, assessing its colour and strength. Then he poured some into two small glasses rimmed with silver, diluting it with boiling water from a samovar. Following Persian custom, Uzi put a piece of sugar in his mouth and sipped the tea around it.
    ‘I know Leila has made this clear to you already,’ said Ghasem, exhaling through his nose, ‘but let me reiterate that we are all filled with admiration at your courage and principles. There are very few like you in the Zionist regime, very few. During the course of our surveillance you have shown yourself to be a man of great moral fibre. So for all this, I would like to salute you. The Islamic Republic of Iran is about to owe you a great debt.’ He raised his glass and Uzi inclined his own in acknowledgement. ‘It goes without saying,’ Ghasem continued, ‘that when this operation is complete you will not have to worry for the rest of your life. You will not develop even a single white hair. We guarantee that. You will have as much money as you could possibly desire, as well as constant protection from the MOIS. Anything you want we will provide, until your dying day.’ He raised his glass again, and Uzi raised his own in return.
    ‘Has Leila explained,’ said Uzi, ‘that she wishes to leave the MOIS once this is over? That we are going to find some corner of the world to make a life together, and leave this business behind? Start over as ordinary people?’
    Ghasem paused for a moment. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My pledge applies to both of you. Leila Shirazi is a brilliant operative, and a fine woman. Congratulations.’ For the first time since arriving at Little Tehran, something didn’t feel right to Uzi. It was something about the way Ghasem had hesitated before replying; the way his face had frozen, like a seasoned spy disguising his emotions. Uzi sipped his tea through the last of the sugar in his mouth and picked up another piece.
    ‘Fruit?’ said Ghasem. ‘Please have some fruit. We have all sorts, but I can recommend the oranges. They are extremely succulent this time of year.’
    ‘No, thank you,’ said Uzi, ‘I’m not hungry.’
    ‘Please, I insist. Have an orange. At least have an orange.’
    ‘No, thank you. Really, I’m fine.’
    Ghasem placed an orange on a side plate and passed it to Uzi, along with a knife. His Rolex rattled as he moved. Uzi thanked him obligingly, and began to peel the fruit. A delicious citrus smell sifted into the air.
    ‘Now,’ said Ghasem, ‘you’ll forgive my rudeness if I get straight to the point; as you appreciate, time is of the essence. The Israeli air strikes are planned for just three hours from now.’ He sat back in his chair and rested one fist on each knee. ‘All we are going to need from you, my friend, is one word. In return for all the riches and protection I just described: one word. The name of the target that the Israelis are going to strike. We know everything else, but not that. We need to know whether they’re targeting Qum or Natanz.’
    ‘What intel do you have? Audio? Cable?’
    ‘Both. Whatever you want.’
    ‘Just one word?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    Uzi did not hesitate. ‘I’m ready.’
    ‘Good,’ said Ghasem, stretching his lips into a smile. ‘But first, if you don’t mind, there is a formality we must attend to. Regulations.’
    He gestured to his bodyguard who in turn opened the door and nodded to someone outside. A white-coated man with a neat beard came in, placed a handheld machine on the table. It looked like