The Pure

afterwards. But they had both felt some pity for Anne-Marie in the dealings they had had with her. She was a mother, they knew that, of two small children, and lived a life of drugs-addled squalor which – amazingly enough – hadn’t succeeded in extinguishing her sense of humour. This was not an easy task. Not that they questioned the fact she had to be eliminated. There was a bigger picture at work, and they were both convinced that if the Office gave them such an order, it was for the sake of saving many lives. It was for the defence of Israel, for the good of the world. They still thought like that, back then.
    It had been Avner’s idea to spread the responsibility for the hit. He had been reading about execution systems in America, and was inspired by the fact that electric chairs are hooked up to multiple levers, so nobody knows who is actually responsible for delivering the fatal current. They could kill Anne-Marie, he suggested, by the same principle. Between them, they worked out the details. Through a car dealer Sayan they sourced two identical, unregistered black Mercedes saloons and fitted them with false number plates. When Anne-Marie went to work, as she always did, in the eerie shadows of the Boulevard Adolphe Max, Adam drove up and posed as a client. She knew him anyway; he had used her services once or twice, so there was no distrust. He called her over to his window, beckoning her round the car and into the road. Avner, who had parked half a block behind, gunned his engine and raced towards them; at the last minute, as Anne-Marie bent towards him, Adam shoved her into the path of Avner’s Mercedes. His hand like a pale trident. The cold slap of his palm against her sternum. Her terrified face; her hair unwinding into the night. Her head hitting the windscreen. The single cry. And they both sped away.
    On the one hand, someone can’t be killed by a push. If it hadn’t been for Avner hurtling along the road, she would still be alive today. On the other, Avner was simply driving his car; if it hadn’t been for Adam, no kill could have taken place either. This was the puzzle they devised for themselves, a conundrum of guilt to prevent their souls from being permanently stained. But not knowing was worse than knowing. It haunted Uzi at the time. More than a decade later, as he sat in a fog of boredom in a cramped shed outside a girls’ school in Hendon, it haunted him still.
    Preceded by an itch, the Kol spoke up. ‘Uzi.’
    ‘It’s not night-time.’
    ‘You need to get the Liberty file. Just a reminder.’
    ‘It’s still not night-time.’
    ‘I’m not omniscient, you know. I’m just a voice. You need the file, you need to read her information, see her picture.’
    The school phone rang. The Kol said, ‘Believe,’ and the itch faded.
    ‘Yes?’ said Uzi, picking up the phone.
    ‘It’s me.’
    ‘Hi, Avner.’
    ‘I need you to do this, Uzi.’
    ‘I will do it.’
    ‘When? It’s been three weeks.’
    ‘When you’ve given me the Liberty file, I’ll do it.’
    ‘The Liberty file? I’ve told you, for fuck’s sake, I’m working on it. But the election’s approaching. We don’t have much time.’
    ‘Tell that to your horse at London Station, not me.’
    ‘Just agree to do it.’
    ‘A deal’s a deal.’
    ‘This is pissing me off.’
    ‘I should care? We have a deal.’
    ‘Look, I need to arrange the meeting,’ said Avner.
    ‘OK, OK.’
    ‘I’ll call you tonight.’
    ‘I’m busy tonight.’
    ‘What are you doing that you’re so busy?’
    ‘Never mind what I’m doing. I’m busy.’
    ‘Let’s arrange the meeting now then.’
    ‘I’ve told you, not without the Liberty file.’
    ‘Why are you so obsessed with her anyway? What are you planning?’
    ‘Nothing. Look, I’ve got to go. There’s someone here.’
    Uzi hung up and blew out his cheeks. He needed a cigarette. He went to the door of the shed and opened it. There stood a girl dangling a schoolbag from her elbow as if she’d never in her life cared about anything.
    ‘You the security guard?’ she said rudely.
    ‘No, I’m Mickey Mouse.’
    ‘Israeli?’
    ‘How could you tell?’
    ‘Your accent. I’m Israeli, too,’ she said, switching to Hebrew. ‘Where are you from in Israel?’
    ‘Tel Aviv.’
    ‘I grew up in Petach Tikva.’
    ‘Small world, kid,’ he said impatiently. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘You’re in a bad mood. Do you need a cigarette or something?’
    ‘How can you