The Pure

should have disabled her in the first place.’
    Uzi breathed a sigh of relief. Then, trying to disguise his feelings, he stood up briskly. ‘We need this woman alive. She’s a high-value target. If anything happens to her, I’ll shoot you. Personally. Got it?’
    Gradually order was restored. The frogmen were directed below decks while Uzi was wrapped in an anti-hypothermia blanket. Leila’s mask was removed and she was placed on a stretcher, soaked and shivering, unconscious but alive. She was whisked away below decks; Uzi felt a tug as she disappeared from view, as if he were losing part of himself. He looked around and did not recognise any of the black-clad crew that were fussing on deck, removing his mask and scuba tank, patting him on the back, taking his temperature and blood pressure. He was ushered along the gangway and through a steel door into the ship. Framed aerial photographs of Israel were on the walls, uplit. Somebody was saying congratulations, Colonel Feldman, congratulations, let me be the first to congratulate you. Someone else was whispering how Colonel Feldman had not only completed the mission, he had brought in a MOIS operative – alive – for interrogation. He was a hero. And then he was standing in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors, the largest he had ever seen, like two colossal slabs of halva. Someone knocked twice and the doors swung open, revealing a long, low-ceilinged room decorated in soft colours. The place was filled with the scent of luxury. There were about ten people in the room. And all eyes were on him.
    Dreamlike, he stepped through the double doors, his wetsuit trailing drops of water on the deep-pile carpet. The doors swung closed noiselessly. He blinked, tried to take stock. To the left and right of him were six people, four men and two women, standing to attention in their uniforms. They were looking at him and smiling, without breaking their discipline. He recognised them like characters from a dream. Of course: these were his colleagues. These were the other members of the Tehorim, ‘The Pure’, the unit so elite that the rest of the Mossad didn’t even know it existed. The ultra-secret operatives that specialised in high-risk, deep cover operations. Nobody at London Station knew about the Tehorim; they had had no idea that Uzi, the man they had been pursuing, was risking his life for the State of Israel. Even his friend, Avner, hadn’t known. But Uzi was one of The Pure; and these were his colleagues.
    Ahead of him were four people standing side by side, their hands clasped in front of them. On the left, smiling in a grandfatherly way, was the unassuming figure of ROM – the director of the Mossad. On the right were two women that he did not recognise. One was older, the other younger. And in the middle, dressed as always in an immaculate suit and tie, was the most imposing figure of all: the prime minister of Israel.
    ‘Your timing is excellent,’ said the prime minister. ‘You are just in time to watch the show with us.’ From the ceiling behind him a projector screen slid down. The lights were dimmed and somebody placed a chair behind each of them. They sat.
    The screen flickered into life. A hazy black-and-white image appeared: an aerial view of an industrial installation on the outskirts of a city. At the bottom of the screen was a clock counting the split seconds as they passed. Alongside this were the words ‘live cockpit camera’ in Hebrew, along with the location: ‘Qum, Iran.’
    The prime minister looked at his watch. ‘I have just given the order to fire at will.’
    For several minutes nothing happened. The image of the city revolved and magnified as the pilot homed in on his target. A circle appeared on the screen, capturing a precise point on the installation. The pilot moved closer. Cars could be seen moving on the roads at the edge of the screen. Then, without warning, a chain of dark objects could be seen falling down towards the circle; seconds later a fireball spiralled upwards, devouring the image in a white light. Then it cleared. Flames could be seen blazing all around the installation, in the centre of which gaped a jagged, fiery crater.
    Words appeared across the screen: ‘awaiting confirmation’. They remained there, blinking, for what felt like a long time. Then, finally, they were replaced with two more words: ‘target destroyed’. The room erupted in applause. The lights came on; the prime minister leaned over and