The Pure

righteous. He had trusted his superior officers, and the politicians above them. Mistakes happened from time to time, of course they did; this, after all, was war. But ultimately there had been no doubt in his mind. He was still under the influence of that heady mixture of idealism and testosterone, a blue-and-white ego. This was the exoskeleton that had remained in place even as his insides collapsed after his parents died; this was what had enabled his friends and comrades to feel like they still knew him. This was all he had had to cling to, and it was this that the Office tapped into and channelled, sucked out of him, until he became – almost – as cold-hearted and reptilian as the rest of them. Until he could take no more.
    It was the special treatment, more than anything else, that seduced him. He had attended the next stage of the tests. How could he not have done? Already he was feeling special – one in fifteen thousand. The building itself, the Hadar Dafna office block on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv, was nondescript. A building-within-a-building: metal detectors, glass walls, desks, elevators. But from the moment the very first tests began, the very first medical examinations, the atmosphere was like nothing he had experienced before. Normally there would be hundreds of soldiers filing past one desk after another, getting measured, injected, examined. This time there was only him. He alone had to make his way along a corridor, going from one room to the next. In each room was a doctor, or a physiotherapist, or an optician, and each gave him their exclusive attention. They took their time. They were meticulous, and obviously highly qualified. It was eerily silent; even the traffic could not be heard. He felt unsure of himself, of course. But at the same time he felt like a king.
    After the medical he had a three-hour interview with a psychologist, answering endless questions. Would you regard killing for your country as something negative? Do you believe freedom is important? Is there anything more important? What is the worst thing your parents ever did to you? Do you think revenge is justified? On a scale of one to ten, how honest are you with your wife? Do you have any Arab friends? Have you ever had a homosexual impulse? Do you trust your instincts? Do you have any regrets about anything you have done in the military? Do you think there are some orders that should not be followed? Do you sleep well at night? How do you feel about targeted assassinations? How often do you exercise? Can you remember the last time you fired your weapon in combat? How did it feel? What wouldn’t you sacrifice for your country? Do you respect Islam? Do you eat pork? Bacon? Do you? It was the attention to detail that sucked him in. He was special – treated like a precious commodity.
    It was through the Office that he had discovered Nehama’s news. That’s when he knew it was over for him and his wife, and just starting for him and the Office. Yigal had told him casually in the car on the way to his induction weekend. He had passed all the preliminary tests, had met with a contact twice a week for four months. He had attended weekend examinations at the Country Club where he had to mingle with other candidates for hours, maintaining a cover identity and trying to expose theirs. He had followed people through the streets of Tel Aviv, had been arrested and withstood interrogation. He had been stripped, blindfolded and doused with cold water again and again, but he had never abandoned his cover story. Finally the phone call had come: you’re in. Friday, 0630 hours. A car will pick you up. Bring clothes for different occasions, to last you until Monday night. Then the line went dead.
    So he found himself being driven through the city towards an undisclosed location in an anonymous white Mercedes. Dawn was breaking outside. Yigal was sitting in the passenger seat; Adam was in the back. The driver of the car was the psychologist, the note taker. Nobody spoke. Then, after about twenty minutes, with the pinkness still visible in the sky, Yigal broke the silence.
    ‘Mazal tov, my friend.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Making it through the tests?’
    ‘Yes, of course. You’re in. But you could still fail the training, don’t forget.’
    ‘That would be a shame.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it? Anyway, mazal tov. I can see you’re going to be a great father.’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘Mazal tov again.’ Yigal