The Pure

than the injury. He staggered into the sitting room, leaving half-footprints of blood on the carpet, and felt the weight of the table. It was heavy. His slick was secure. He lay down heavily on the sofa.
    ‘Uzi,’ said the Kol.
    ‘I – I’m OK.’
    ‘You know there is nothing I can do.’
    ‘I don’t expect anything. What could I expect from a voice in my head, right?’
    ‘Are you losing blood?’
    ‘I’m going to call a Sayan.’
    ‘You can’t.’
    ‘What else can I do? Go to hospital and answer all those questions? Bleed to death like a chicken? Now get out of my head – I’m starting to go crazy.’
    ‘Don’t forget who you are, Uzi.’
    ‘Yeah. And don’t worry, I’ll believe.’
    ‘I’m with you. Believe.’
    Clenching his teeth against the pinch of the makeshift tourniquets he had tied around his arm and leg, Uzi picked up the phone and dialled a London number. It was midnight. The phone rang for a long time before somebody picked it up.
    ‘Hello?’ came a bleary male voice.
    ‘Roger Cooper calling for John Jackson,’ slurred Uzi. There was a pause. A woman could be heard sleepily asking questions. Then, finally, the answer:
    ‘There is nobody by that name here.’ The line went dead.
    Following procedure, from memory Uzi dialled another number, a mobile number, and waited while it rang.
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ came the same voice.
    ‘Waxman. Are you alone?’ said Uzi.
    ‘Nobody can hear me.’
    ‘Good. I’m going to text you an address. Get here fast. Bring type O-negative blood.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘As much as you have.’
    ‘In the ambulance?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’ll take half an hour.’
    ‘Twenty minutes.’ Uzi hung up. Wincing in pain but not making a sound, he sent the text to Waxman. Then he made his way into the kitchen, stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into a glass of water and forced it down. His main priority until Waxman arrived was to remain conscious. He sat at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands.
    As the sugar entered his bloodstream and his dizziness subsided, an old mixture of fear and rage began to spread through him. He was going to give Squeal hell. What was he playing at? He’d sworn it would be nothing but a safe, straightforward sale. Or was he setting a trap? And then there would be the matter of the . . . the . . . His mind trailed off. There was a sudden jerk as his head slid from his palms towards the table and snapped upwards again. He was going down. There wasn’t much time. Dried blood had stiffened his jacket and trouser leg; the tourniquet was stemming the flow, but it wasn’t perfect. Waxman would be here soon. He just needed to hold on.
    He got to his feet and stumbled into the sitting room. Waxman was a reliable Sayan, and a good doctor, but tended to get nervous when working with the Office. If Uzi passed out and was unable to open the front door, Waxman couldn’t be relied on to break in. In fact, he may not even be able – physically – to break in. Uzi put the door on the snib, left it ajar, and lowered himself to the carpet beside the table, the slick.
    He shouldn’t be contacting Sayanim, and he knew it. If the Office found out, they may lose their patience. But he had no choice. He could still remember the phone numbers and contact protocols for dozens of Sayanim; it was the last resource he could draw on in an emergency. They were many and varied: doctors, estate agents, interior designers, bankers, lawyers, businessmen, IT technicians, local council workers, even refuse collectors. All Jewish. They made the work of the Office possible. Whether you needed a car, a room, a shop, a business, a stash of money – or medical attention – one phone call to a Sayan was usually all it took. No questions asked. On many occasions they were used to provide an ‘element of comfort’ for operatives. But Uzi wasn’t an operative now. He was an outcast. The room had begun to seem hazy and distant. He slumped back on his elbows, waiting for help to arrive.
    It had been a strange thing, this journey from life as a respected naval commando to losing blood on the floor of a dilapidated flat in north London. Fifteen years was all it had taken. In that time the Office had plucked him from his world, taken his life force and spat him out. To begin with, he had been different. He had seen action countless times, knew the horrors of combat, but he had still believed that the State of Israel was in the hands of the