The Pure

uncomfortable in the early summer humidity, with heat raging through him, caught two buses and arrived at Shalishut in good time.
    He was met by a young soldier who showed him to a nondescript door in the bowels of the base. Before knocking, the soldier asked Adam for his sidearm; Adam refused, but the soldier was adamant, so in the end Adam drew the weapon and handed it over, butt first. He always felt nervous unarmed, but it was a military base, after all. The soldier knocked, and opened the door for Adam as if he were important. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
    In the room Adam saluted reflexively, only to be surprised by a middle-aged man in civilian dress: open-necked shirt, polyester trousers, something of the kibbutznik about him. Another man was sitting silently in the corner, peering over his spectacles, taking notes.
    ‘Welcome, Colonel,’ said the first man.
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Adam replied.
    ‘I am sorry about your parents.’
    ‘It has been a year, sir.’
    ‘A year is not very long.’
    ‘It will be longer.’
    The man smiled and gestured for Adam to sit down. ‘I can see from your file that you have been promoted quickly, Colonel. You are serving your country well. Would you say that is correct?’
    ‘Shayetet 13 is not a holiday camp, sir,’ said Adam, suddenly rather irritated.
    ‘Of course,’ said the man, ‘but I am going to tell you how you can serve your country better. Would you be open to suggestions?’
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘My name is Yigal.’
    ‘From where? NID? Shabak?’
    Yigal waved away his questions like smoke. ‘So, would you be open to suggestions?’
    ‘I might, sir,’ said Adam.
    ‘What about Nehama?’
    ‘Nehama, my wife?’
    ‘Who else?’
    ‘What about my wife?’
    ‘Would she be open to suggestions?’
    ‘What kind of suggestions?’
    Yigal sighed.
    ‘Try to relax, Colonel,’ he said slowly, as if to a child. ‘Do you want a coffee? Cigarette perhaps?’
    Adam shook his head, although he wanted both. There was a pause. He thought about getting up, walking out, but he didn’t. The man in the corner was writing in pencil, the scratching was loud in the room.
    ‘The computer picked out your name,’ said Yigal. ‘Your profile fits our criteria. You were selected out of fifteen thousand possible candidates.’ He looked up as if gauging the impact of this on his interviewee, then continued. ‘Our primary objective is to defend Jews all over the world. We’re like a family, and we think you might fit in. Of course, if you are interested, this would only be the beginning. You would need to go through our tests and so on. Not many people succeed.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Adam, failing to keep the customary irony out of his voice.
    Yigal looked up sharply, then continued. ‘Training would be in Israel, but you wouldn’t be able to live at home. You would be given leave to see your family every three weeks. If – if – you pass all the tests and complete the training, you may have to work abroad. Your family would not accompany you. You would see them every other month.’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘A weekend, sometimes longer.’
    ‘The pay?’
    ‘A little more than you presently receive.’
    ‘How much more?’
    ‘A little more, Colonel.’
    More scratching from the man in the corner.
    ‘So tell me,’ said Yigal, placing a pen carefully, in parallel, on the desk. ‘Based on what I’ve told you so far, are you interested?’
    ‘Based on what you have told me so far? I might be, sir.’
    ‘Good.’
    Suddenly shouts could be heard, men’s voices, outside the room. Adam looked from Yigal to the man in the corner; their eyes were fixed on the door behind him. As he turned, following their gaze, the door burst open and he was knocked from his chair to the floor. Everything went into slow motion. He saw it all in exquisite detail, a moving tableau. Maybe this was his time; if it was, he didn’t care. Shots rang out and he caught a glimpse of Yigal, half-standing, shuddering as several bullets hit him in the chest. Three masked figures were whirling like dancers, their submachine guns flashing. Adam turned to see the man in the corner being shot in the chest as well, and slumping over. A slim figure in a black ski mask, fragile hands – woman’s hands – aimed a weapon at Adam. He rolled to the side and scrabbled to his knees, groping for his Glock. The holster was empty. The woman kicked Adam hard against the wall. He had no