The Pure

chance. His head struck concrete and he was dazed. As quickly as they had appeared, the attackers were gone.
    The room swam, then came into focus. Adam clambered to his feet and, shouting for a medic, ran over to Yigal. The man was half-standing, supporting himself on the desk, small flowers of blood peppering his chest.
    ‘Yigal,’ said Adam, ‘sit down. Apply pressure.’
    Yigal stood upright and looked Adam full in the face. ‘Close the door and take a seat, Colonel.’ His voice was strong.
    ‘You’ve been injured, Yigal, listen to me. You’re in shock.’
    Without a word, Yigal removed his shirt. Underneath he had a pale blue T-shirt, completely unmarked. ‘Close the door and take a seat,’ he repeated.
    Adam looked over at the man in the corner. He too was removing his bloodied shirt, and picking up his notepad and pencil. Dumbstruck, Adam shut the door and sat down.
    ‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ said Yigal. ‘How many assailants were there?’
    ‘Is this a joke?’
    ‘How many men were there?’
    Adam pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t remember. It was all a blur; he had to think. He was sweating, and adrenaline was rushing through him.
    ‘I want your answer,’ barked Yigal. ‘How many men? What were they wearing? What weapons were they using? How many shots did each man fire? Did they say anything to each other? Come on, come on. OK, write it on the pad. You have sixty seconds while I make myself a coffee.’
    He left the room via a side door while the man in the corner continued to take notes, glancing up inscrutably from time to time. Adam clenched his fists on the table, imagined himself floating back to the scene, watching it playing out again, in slow motion, before him. Two men, one woman, black ski masks, combat fatigues. One in a black flak jacket. Two with micro Uzis. One with an M-16. Impossible to say how many shots were fired, their weapons were set to semi-automatic; come to think of it, each assailant shot two bursts, one at Yigal and one at the man in the corner. Had they said anything to each other? Had they? Adam put down the pen and looked up into space, reliving the experience vividly, ignoring his throbbing head. From the next room came the sound of a coffee machine. He’d have to be quick. The attackers had certainly shouted something, but what? What was it? He relaxed his mind. Yes . . . It was coming back. The word was ‘deception’.
    Yigal came back into the room preceded by the smell of coffee, and looked at Adam’s sheet of paper. His face moved not a muscle. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo.
    ‘Deception,’ he said blowing smoke from his nose. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Adam, ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘A woman? One was a woman? Are you crazy?’
    ‘That’s what I saw.’
    ‘Maybe you were mistaken.’
    ‘No mistake.’
    Yigal passed the sheet of paper to the man in the corner, who read it carefully and nodded.
    ‘Congratulations, Colonel,’ said Yigal suddenly, ‘you’ve passed the first stage. Now you must make a serious decision. From now on, there’s no backing out. This is hard and dangerous work, mostly abroad. Think about that. If you’re not interested, say so and we’ll never contact you again. If you are interested – seriously interested – come tomorrow to the address on this card. 0800 hours. Do not be late. After each round of tests we’ll call you with the results. If you’ve passed, we’ll give you the details of the next round. If you fail, that’s it. You have one chance only. OK?’
    ‘One question,’ said Adam as he rose to leave, ‘which organisation are you from?’
    Yigal gave him a stony glare and sucked on his cigarette.
    ‘0800 hours,’ he said, ‘if you’re serious.’
    With that he left the room, followed by his colleague. Adam was given back his Glock and escorted off the Shalishut complex, into the blazing sunshine. It was only when he was sitting on the bus on the way back to his base at Atlit, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, that he noticed that the hair on the back of his head was clogged with scabbing blood.

 
7
    After what seemed like an age – a painful age – Uzi heaved himself in through the door of his flat. The pain from the knife wounds was sharp and unremitting. Even now, dizzy and trembling from the loss of blood, barely able to think, he was cursing himself for his foolishness. The humiliation was worse