The Pure

sigh and smiled. He flipped the pad on to a new page and wrote out a single word in block capitals. Then he turned the pad around, and the Iranians saw what was on it. A single word: NATANZ.
    There was a pause; everybody seemed to be holding their breath. Ghasem exchanged glances with the man in the white coat, who nodded.
    ‘This is the target?’ said Ghasem.
    ‘Yes,’ Uzi replied.
    ‘You have been completely honest with us?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ghasem looked at the man in the white coat again and saw that he was grinning broadly. All at once, a ripple of relief flowed through the room, and then the Iranians were all on their feet, embracing each other and smiling. Uzi knew that there could only be one reason for this display of jubilation: the yellowcake wouldn’t need to be moved. The Israelis had the wrong target.
    He sat there in a daze until Leila walked deliberately around the table and raised him to his feet. They were both gripped by an impulse to fall into each other’s arms, but in the present company they had to resist. They held hands; Leila’s was trembling. When she raised her face to him, he thought that her eyes were filling with tears. But he couldn’t be sure.
    ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘thank you.’
    Ghasem strode over and clasped him heartily by the hand as the bearded man removed the PCASS device.
    ‘This should be a day of national celebration,’ he said, ‘in honour of you, my friend.’
    ‘I am flattered,’ Uzi replied. ‘Really I have not done much.’
    Ghasem waved his protestations away, Rolex rattling. ‘You have saved our nuclear weapons programme,’ he said. ‘That is not something to dismiss.’ He rubbed his hands together like a salesman. ‘Now you two go and relax,’ he said, addressing Uzi and Leila together. ‘You deserve to – what do they call it? – decompress. We will take care of everything. We will move our forces into position and await the Israeli jets. And, finally, may I add this: congratulations on your engagement.’
    Uzi looked quizzically at Leila, who smiled up at him. Instantly he understood that marriage was the only way they could be together. A smile spread across his face like the rising sun. But then he glanced over at Ghasem – and something didn’t fit. For a brief moment he saw the Iranian exchanging a glance with a bodyguard, giving him the smallest of nods. It was a businesslike nod, one that was obviously intended for the bodyguard only. But something in Ghasem’s steely expression – and in the bodyguard’s barely perceptible acknowledgement – made Uzi’s blood run cold.
    Then, before he knew it, they were being bustled out of the room arm-in-arm, and Leila was clinging to him as if she would never let go. The bodyguard was carrying their luggage behind them; someone else was leading them on at a brisk pace down corridor after airy corridor. All at once they were outside, in the evening light, amid long shadows, being steered across a flagstoned courtyard lined with lemon trees, in the direction of a whitewashed cottage in the grounds of the villa. Leila was whispering in his ear: I’ll do anything you want, my love, I’ll do anything you want. And then they were inside, and their luggage was stacked neatly in the corner. The doors were closed, and the bodyguard took up a position outside. Laughing with sudden abandon, Leila flung herself on to the scented bed. Uzi joined her. They had done it. Operation Desert Rain was doomed. The yellowcake would lie undisturbed many miles beneath the earth at Qum, while the fury of Israel fell on Natanz, many kilometres away. And in a matter of months – only months – a nuclear Iran would be a reality, bringing balance to the Middle East, to the world. Uzi removed his jacket and hung it carefully in the wardrobe, leaving the M9 in the pocket. Then he returned to the bed and received kisses that were more passionate and uninhibited than he had ever received before. The bodyguard – the one who had received the nod from Ghasem – was still outside.

 
42
    When Uzi awoke, night had fallen. He snaked his arm from under Leila’s head and looked at his watch. But the luminous hands were not glowing brightly enough; he couldn’t read the time in the darkness. His ear began to itch.
    ‘Uzi,’ said the Kol firmly. It was the older voice.
    ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Air strikes will commence in sixty minutes. Sixty minutes. You need to move.’
    Fuzzy-headed, Uzi slipped out of