The Pure

great; if Khaled reported him to the authorities, or, if he was clever enough, sold the information, the Office’s mission would be compromised and Adam would almost certainly be dead. There was a chance that Khaled was innocent, of course. But Adam had no choice.
    This was no time for a signature hit. The Office’s usual brand of audacious, broad daylight attack – a devastating volley of dum-dum bullets in a public place, followed by a single shot to the temple – was out of the question. The operation was in a delicate enough state as it was. So Adam armed himself with a newspaper and a bottle of vodka, and arranged a meeting with Khaled.
    He wasted no time. As soon as the labourer drove up in his dust-covered jalopy, Adam slid into the car and forced a Desflurane ether mask over the man’s face. Khaled struggled, but had been taken by surprise. His fingernails scratched Adam’s cheek; that was all. Adam drove north along the coast, with Khaled slumped in the back, until he found a stretch of secluded cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. He hauled the unconscious labourer into the driver’s seat, rolled the newspaper into a funnel – it was the Lebanese Daily Star , the ink rubbed off on his fingers, for some reason he remembered that – and poured half a bottle of vodka through the funnel and down the man’s throat. Vodka, which he knew Khaled drank in secret. Vodka, which burns easily. He poured the rest of the bottle over the front seats, threw in a match and watched it go up. When the fire was raging, he pushed the car over the cliff. Then, after a long hike to the nearest town, he took the train back to Beirut.
    It was this kill that floated back into his mind as he dozed; the rough scuff of the newspaper against his fingers, the lolling face of the labourer, vodka darkening his shirt like sweat; the vast, black Mediterranean sky and the indigo ocean, the flap of the flames as they burst into life in the car; the heat; the long, slow-motion tumble of the vehicle on to the rocks; the surf below. The feeling of it. The voice in the back of his mind – which he didn’t allow himself to hear – asking whether there couldn’t have been another way.
    He was awoken by a loud buzzing.
    ‘Tommy? It’s Squeal. Open up, I can smell you’re there. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff . . .’
    Uzi yanked the door open.
    ‘Just coming to see you, my man. To see how you’re doing. You flush now? Sale went well?’
    Uzi gripped Squeal by the biceps and brought him into the flat, his milk-coloured dreadlocks rasping as he looked around in bewilderment.
    ‘Hey man, what gives? What gives?’
    ‘What gives?’ Uzi repeated, shoving Squeal down on the sofa. ‘This is what gives.’ He showed him the bandages on his arm, his leg. ‘Your friend Andrzej did this. I thought you said he was safe.’
    ‘What? Tommy, no way. You’re kidding me.’
    ‘Do I look like I’m fucking kidding you?’
    ‘Shit, man, shit,’ said Squeal. ‘What happened?’
    ‘That bastard tried to screw me. I was outnumbered. Butterfly knives.’
    ‘Jesus, man. Jesus. Do you think he’ll come after me?’
    ‘I couldn’t give a fuck.’
    ‘Andrzej’s been jumpy recently,’ said Squeal. ‘I know he’s been jumpy. I should have warned you.’
    ‘Why has he been jumpy?’
    ‘He’s had a few run-ins with the Russians, you know? Liberty.’
    ‘Liberty?’
    ‘Yeah, Liberty. That American bird.’
    Uzi showed no sign that Squeal had got his attention. He started rolling a spliff, keeping his voice casual.
    ‘American bird?’ he asked.
    ‘You’ve heard of her, yeah? American woman running a Russian gang. New on the scene, as far as I know. She’s big time. Not just dope and E: crack, smack, the lot. Cross her and she’ll fuck you good and proper.’
    ‘An American woman running a Russian gang?’ said Uzi, pretending to be one step behind, lighting the spliff.
    ‘Straight up,’ Squeal replied. ‘Apparently she’s got a way with them. Ruthless as fuck. Like I said, new on the scene. And you know what it’s like with Russians and Poles.’ He mimed a mushroom cloud with his hands and squealed.
    Uzi passed the spliff across and closed his eyes. The pain had been dulled into a jangling throb, pulsating through his nervous system at a regular pace. Squeal smoked until half the joint was gone. Uzi didn’t have the energy to ask for it back. Finally, leaving the remaining half smouldering in the ashtray, Squeal disappeared