The Pure

The footsteps got louder, the sound of breathing, the jangle of keys. Then a man appeared and, unaware that a gun was aimed at his head, entered the door opposite. Uzi concealed his Glock in his pocket again and carried on up to the second floor.
    Everything looked normal. The door of his flat was closed, a newspaper still on the mat, angled as he’d left it. He ran his finger along the door; his piece of chewing gum was still there, bridging the door and the frame. He relaxed slightly. He rang Squeal’s bell, and rang it again; nobody answered. But the smell of dope was strong. Through the letterbox he could see him lying on the sofa in a stupor, a burnt-out spliff in his fingers, his mobile on the floor. He cursed under his breath. Squeal just smoked too much and got paranoid, he thought. There’s no danger.
    He broke the piece of gum and let himself into his apartment, still holding his Glock in his pocket. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place. His computer desk, his slick, his sofa and TV. His fridge. He turned the lights on. Everything exactly as he’d left it. He made his way through to the kitchen.
    As he was opening the fridge, he heard a sound. He was unsure what it was; a click, an echo, the pipes maybe, or a mouse. But he was on edge, and ready for anything. He drew his gun and removed the safety-catch. Then he prowled through the flat, rehearsing what he would have done if there had really been an intruder, going through the procedure in his mind. He went from the sitting room to the bathroom, parted the shower curtain with his gun, then on into his bedroom. Bed, desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers. Nobody was there.
    Just as he turned to leave the room, he became aware of somebody standing behind him. He half-turned and saw a figure almost within reach, and another directly behind. Time seemed to stand still. He shouted, tried to spin, to aim his gun, but it was too late. The men were there, arms outstretched. Their hands were on him. His arm was twisted and the Glock ripped from his grasp in a single expert move. As he fought he felt a scratch to his neck. Chemicals entered his bloodstream and suddenly his legs felt like rubber. He bellowed, stumbled, and crashed into the wardrobe. The rubberiness turned to numbness, spreading throughout his body. Within seconds he had fallen to the floor, feeling like he was open to the wind. He knew what had happened. He had been disarmed using a straightforward Krav Maga technique then given a neuromuscular blocker. He had done this countless times himself.
    His vision blurred, then sharpened. Two men, nondescript, casually dressed. Neither had made any effort to disguise their identity: Shilo and Laufer, old hands from London Station, both with nasty reputations. One of them closed the curtains. He knew what would come next, and cursed himself for making it easy for them. Without speaking, they dragged him through to the sitting room, tied him to a chair, then opened his trousers and pulled out his penis. Standard procedure all the way.
    ‘So, Feldman,’ said Shilo, resting his foot on Uzi’s chair, between his legs. ‘It’s been a long time. Are you glad to see us? No? That’s disappointing. I thought you’d be filled with joy.’
    Slowly, casually, he lit a cigarette. Then he weighed Uzi’s Glock in his hands, exhaling thoughtfully. Inside, Uzi was screaming, trying to force himself to move, to struggle against the paralysis. But it was hopeless. He couldn’t even speak. He was at their mercy.
    ‘Thank you for taking such good care of weapons and equipment that belong to the Office,’ Shilo continued. ‘We thought we’d come and remind you that you’ve left the Office now. So we’d like our equipment back.’
    Uzi drew on his training, tried to quell his mounting panic by accepting the situation, to build up a reservoir of strength, as he’d been taught. How strange, using the Office’s own training against their interrogation techniques. He saw Laufer leaning against the wall, arms folded. As usual, he was letting Shilo do the talking. That was what how they worked.
    ‘Thank you also for using our Sayanim,’ Shilo went on, ‘and promising them large sums of money on our behalf. Thank you for that.’
    Laufer turned on the television and cranked up the volume. Shilo approached the coffee table and brought his heel smashing down on it, again and again, breaking through the false top until the slick was exposed. Then he plucked out Uzi’s