The Pure

rucksack for a tiny camera on adhesive pads, which he stuck to the glass. Then he returned to the van.
    On Avner’s iPhone nothing could be seen but blackness, the opaque glass of the window. He pressed some buttons and the camera focused on the room. Gradually a scene emerged from the haze, in green monotone, but distinguishable nevertheless. Andrzej could be seen in his usual place at the table, and his two comrades lounged on sofas. Girls were moving around with drinks, smoking joints.
    ‘That’s the target?’ said Avner.
    Uzi nodded. Suddenly he almost felt sorry for them, these small-time gangsters from Poland. But business was business. He put on a baseball cap and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Then, looking at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he peeled a moustache and goatee beard from a piece of waxed paper and fixed them both to his face. Without a word, both men got out of the van.
    The Blue Peacock was noisy and filling up with people. Uzi’s disguise was thin but effective; he wasn’t recognised. They made their way to the bar and ordered two pints of Staropramen. Then, at a table in the corner, they sat, drinking, waiting. Uzi scratched his fingers against his jeans. ‘I’m desperate for a cigarette,’ he said. ‘This fucking country.’
    ‘You should thank them,’ Avner replied, ‘they’re saving you from yourself.’
    They drank.
    ‘Come on, come on,’ said Uzi, his casual body language contrasting with the urgency in his voice. ‘What are they waiting for?’
    ‘Relax,’ said Avner. ‘You really have lost your touch, haven’t you?’ He took out his iPhone. ‘It’s OK, our friends aren’t going anywhere.’
    Uzi gazed out onto the dance floor and, without warning, an image of a kill – his third, for the Office at least – flashed into his mind. It had been a simple one. A Hamas lynchpin on an arms-buying mission had made an unforeseen detour and ended up staying in the same hotel as Adam, in Paris. The opportunity was too good to miss. Adam’s original mission was put on hold. The kill order was given. Again, looking out at the dance floor, he felt the weight of the rifle in his hands. Again he saw, through his coin of glass, the man who was going to die, walking on the Pont de la Concorde, smiling, talking in a way that would be familiar to his mother, his friends. The cross-hairs touched his face. Now. And the living man became a corpse. This was Adam’s sorcery, the sorcery of the Office. How easy it was to make a ghost.
    ‘Drink up,’ said Avner, ‘it’s almost time.’
    A barmaid turned up the music. That was what they had been waiting for: cover. Avner was watching Uzi keenly, his face illuminated from below by the light of the iPhone. He passed it over. There was Andrzej on the screen, there were his two sidekicks, sitting around the table. Andrzej was waving the girls away; the men were getting down to business.
    From his inside pocket Avner took out what looked like a phial of eye drops, and with a quick movement squeezed two squirts into each of their half-full pint glasses. There was a slight fizz; the beer settled. They got to their feet and made their way across the bar. The girls who had been in the room, who had appeared on Avner’s iPhone, emerged and crossed to the dance floor. In the next moment, while everyone was looking the other way, Uzi and Avner slipped up the stairs.
    The corridor was narrow, forcing them to go up single file. There was a stifling smell of beer and marijuana. Uzi followed Avner, holding his pint glass tight and grinding his teeth. His footsteps felt loud in his ears, echoing in the confined space, though the music was loud. They arrived at the door. Avner knocked loudly, and the door opened a fraction. Immediately he snaked his hand into the gap and flung his beer into the man’s face. There was a howl. Avner pushed his way into the room, aiming his Beretta. Uzi followed, drawing his Glock and throwing beer across the faces of the two other men who were getting up from the table. They crumpled, also howling now, clawing at their faces as if they were wrapped in flames. Andrzej himself, blinded by the beer, careened across the room like a bull, arms flailing, bellowing; Uzi sidestepped and struck him a heavy blow with the butt of his Glock. He went down awkwardly, making a strange coughing noise. Uzi placed a foot on the back of his head, pushed his burning face into the floor.
    Avner rammed a chair under the door