The Pure

WikiLeaks, just to get it over with. But he stopped himself. He wanted that Liberty file first; it was his bargaining chip. He needed to see the file on the woman who had saved his life.
    Uzi walked the streets. Autumn had a blustery grip on the world, and leaves stuck to the pavement. He needed some action, any action. In a moment he decided that the time had come to return to Camden, to revisit the crime scene. But this time he was going with his Glock. He’d been steering clear of the place since the stabbing, lying low. But he wanted to carry on with business soon, and he needed to know where he stood. Had his deterrent worked? Hopefully it had sparked off rumours; hopefully other dealers would be scared of him now, would give him a wide birth. Soon he would know.
    When he arrived in Camden it was dusk, and he could smell a bonfire burning. He was hungry and bought a piece of desiccated pizza from a dirty stall on the High Street. There was one club, Meteor, just behind the Market, which was frequented by the local pushers. It was labyrinthine, sprawling over three floors, with countless dark niches and corners in which to do deals and have private conversations. It was to Meteor, then, that Uzi went, his Glock strapped under his armpit.
    The music was loud and Uzi felt good to be back. The bassline vibrated in his bones. At the bar he ordered a Coke and poured whisky from his hip flask into it. Then he found a table on the balcony, overlooking the dance floor, and sat there drinking, thinking of cigarettes, keeping an eye out for dealers. When he’d drunk half the Coke, he poured in more whisky and carried on. He became lightheaded as the alcohol entered his bloodstream, and the flashing lights of the club made him feel somehow at peace, as if he was sitting deep inside himself, as if he was overlooking Hades. He noticed some activity in the shadows, some transactions taking place, but nobody seemed to have spotted him. It was as if he had become invisible. He drank.
    The dry ice machine was turned up high, and clouds of it moved slowly across the dance floor. Through this mist Uzi saw four men making their way up the stairs to the balcony. They seemed polite and inconspicuous, and didn’t look even once in his direction; because of this he knew they were coming for him. The mist clung to their legs, slipping away as they climbed the stairs. If he got to his feet, it would inflame the situation. He shifted round in his chair, feeling strangely calm, and folded his arms across his chest so that the fingers of his right hand nestled under his armpit, on his Glock. The Office had taught him how to fall back on his chair, kick the table over and shoot with one movement; he had found the technique easy in training, though he had rarely used it in the field. Ironic. It looked like it might come in useful now he was an exile.
    The four men split up and approached him separately, from different angles. Uzi took a cigarette from his packet and put it between his lips. The strange feeling of calmness could not be shaken, and he wondered if it meant he was about to die. He didn’t recognise any of the men. They didn’t look English. Closely cropped hair, pale skin, rough movements. Polish perhaps.
    In seconds, all four were standing around his table. One of them spoke in a thick Eastern European accent, loudly, over the noise of the music.
    ‘Adam Feldman?’ he said. His real name. The Office, he thought. It could only be the Office. He tightened his grip on the gun under his armpit.
    ‘Who are you?’ he replied.
    ‘Our boss wants to speak to you.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    ‘She.’
    ‘She?’
    ‘She says you know her. From Camden.’
    ‘What is her name?’
    ‘She says you know her name. She is waiting for you.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Come this way, please.’
    The men did not seem expert, but they certainly were not amateurs. And there were four of them. Uzi had little choice. He got to his feet and followed them through the noise and flashing lights, past the gyrating bodies, through the clouds of dry ice, along corridors, down echoing spiral staircases, and finally out through a fire exit. Outside, the music sounded muffled and atavistic. A fine rain was falling in great, soaking sheets. There, engine snarling, lights off, squatting in the water-sliced shadows, was a sleek, black Maybach 62. The back door was open; through the rain, a woman could be seen sitting on the seat of soft cream