The Pure

put on her full equipment, beckoned her over. Then, with her permission, he handcuffed her to his wrist. The hatred between her and the frogmen was palpable, and Uzi tried to stop her glancing at them. For what seemed like eternity, he looked into her eyes. The whole universe was reflected in those two silent globes; the ancient struggle of humanity against itself. Uzi and Leila did not kiss. They pulled their masks over their eyes.
    When the four of them reached the waterline, they put on their fins, placed their regulators in their mouths and slipped into the water like turtles. Uzi began to swim out after the frogmen, pulling Leila after him. Just before he went under, he looked at her. She was floating on the surface, bobbing gently; water was lapping at her face. What could be seen of her skin was marble in the moonlight, and the mask was reflecting the stars. Behind her, on the beach, he could just make out the dead bodyguard, the AK-47, and two crumpled piles of clothes. The time had come. He dived, pulling Leila behind him into the depths, without even the slightest splash.

 
43
    The four divers clung to the wet sub, tunnelling like an eel through the black depths of the Syrian Mediterranean. In this watery alter ego of the world, the conflicts between men and countries seemed irrelevant. From time to time Uzi looked at Leila, but he couldn’t see her eyes behind her mask, in the murky water, in the darkness. They rode the wet sub for what seemed like hours. Then, several miles off the coast, they cut the engine and guided the machine towards the surface. From beneath the shimmering face of the water they could see the hull of a large yacht, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The wet sub gradually rose through the water until it was directly below the vessel. They activated its electromagnets and, with a dull clang, the sub adhered to the hull; they finned around the side of the boat before silently breaking the surface.
    The ship towered above them into the star-speckled sky. Its engine was idling quietly and all the curtains were drawn across the windows; here and there some dim light could be seen spilling through the cracks. This was more than just a ship. Uzi recognised it at once. This was the Minerva , a 377-foot vision of luxury, a billionaire’s plaything, with a helipad, a luxury spa, a swimming pool and a miniature escape-submarine. To the casual observer, it would seem as if a powerful oligarch was taking a discreet pleasure cruise in the warm waters between Cyprus and Syria. To the coastguard, this was the sort of ship that should be left well alone. But to Uzi it meant something else. It meant he was free, and that sent a frisson of emotion through him like a sudden storm. One of the frogmen made a radio transmission and within seconds a rope ladder was flung over the side and landed with a splash in the water. It was impossible for Uzi and Leila to climb the ladder while still cuffed together; Uzi opened the handcuffs and went ahead, while the frogmen kept a close eye on Leila. At the top, friendly hands helped him over the railing and into the yacht itself. Then they hauled the prisoner up and into the vessel.
    Suddenly there was the sound of a scuffle on the deck. Uzi turned to see Leila struggling with the frogmen; with a yell she gave one a stinging blow, and he almost toppled over the side of the ship. Dozens of men, all dressed in black, appeared as if from nowhere; Uzi lost sight of her as she was surrounded. He tried to shove his way through the crush. She’s biting, someone was shouting, she’s biting! Neutralise her! The mass of bodies parted for a moment and Uzi saw one of the frogmen thrusting something into Leila’s back; she let out a wild scream, which became a moan, which became a sigh, and crumpled lifelessly to the deck. Uzi fell to his knees beside her.
    ‘What did you do?’ he shouted.
    ‘She was resisting,’ said one of the frogmen, catching his breath. ‘She didn’t like me grabbing her. Fought like a fucking vixen.’
    Uzi ran his hand along her back and brought his hand to his face; he could see no blood. He felt her pulse: she was alive. ‘What did you do to her?’ he said, trying – and failing – to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Was it a knife?’
    ‘She’ll be fine,’ said the frogman, laughing nervously and holding up a syringe. ‘I gave her a shot of Haloperidol, that’s all. In two hours’ time, she’ll be as good as new. We