The Pure

Fuck them.’
    ‘You’re definitely in?’
    ‘Definitely.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘What about the file I need?’
    A pause. ‘My contact says he’s pulled it up from the archive,’ said Avner. ‘He’s going to transmit as soon as it’s safe.’
    ‘What, wait till everyone’s looking the other way?’
    ‘More or less.’
    ‘You’re a hoot.’
    ‘Just don’t back out on me.’
    ‘I won’t.’
    ‘I’ll get you the file, don’t worry.’
    ‘Listen, don’t hang up yet.’
    ‘What?’
    Suddenly Uzi found himself unable to speak. He held the phone against his chest and looked up at the tarry sky, breathing deeply. Then he sucked the last flicker of life from his cigarette, stubbed it out and put the phone to his ear again. He cleared his throat. ‘Are you still there?’
    ‘Still here.’
    ‘Listen, I need you to do something for me.’
    ‘What?’
    Uzi took another deep breath. ‘I’ve had a visit from the Office.’
    ‘Shit. Oh, shit. Do they know about us?’
    ‘No. They know nothing. I’ll explain when we’re in four eyes. But I need you to make me a slick. Nothing elaborate, just a grab bag.’
    ‘What, passport? Money?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘You need a gun in there?’
    ‘If you can.’
    ‘Shit. Fucking shit. Shit.’
    ‘Look, it’s nothing. I just need an escape route. In case anything happens.’
    ‘Fine. Remember this. 83 East End Road, London. The house is owned by a Sayan, a businessman. Outside is a green electricity box. The slick will be in there from midnight tonight. The passport – I’ve got a Canadian one ready for you already.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘The electricity box will be locked. You need to lift the whole thing upwards and it will come away. Inside will be a double-locked suitcase. The codes are 9826 and 2034. OK?’
    ‘OK,’ said Uzi, committing the numbers to memory.
    ‘And don’t back out on me. Please. We’re running out of time. The yellowcake operation . . .’
    ‘I know, it’s happening soon. Don’t worry, I’m in.’
    ‘When can we meet in four eyes?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’ll call you.’
    ‘Good luck.’ The line went dead.
    Uzi dismantled the phone to prevent it being traced, and put it back in his pocket. Then he took several more deep breaths, trying to settle his nerves. He was hungry. He needed a spliff. He went underground.
    The tube was busy and he couldn’t get a seat. His right knee was stiffening up, and his back was badly bruised. His head – well, his head. He caught sight of his reflection in the window as the train jolted along. At least the face was not too bad. Shilo and Laufer must have had specific orders to damage him only within certain limits. Otherwise, knowing them, he would barely be alive. Perhaps it was Moskovitz working for him behind the scenes. Or Rothem. Perhaps his old horses hadn’t completely forgotten him.
    He arrived at Sloane Square and made his way through the windswept streets, past the news stands and groups of well-heeled Londoners to a boutique at the top of the King’s Road. There he bought a new set of clothes: grey suit, blue shirt, black shoes. Stylish and well fitting, the most expensive available, yet inconspicuous, at least in this part of town. After leaving the shop he went into a café and, in the toilet, fixed his lead weights into the corners of the jacket. Then the suit was his.
    At another shop he purchased a black cashmere coat; a wallet; and a briefcase for his ammunition and cash. As an afterthought, he bought a silver-plated Zippo and cigarette case. He transferred his cash and cards to his new wallet and loaded the case with cigarettes. Then, in the privacy of the changing room, he put the mobile phone together, loaded his R9 and concealed it in his waistband. Back on the street, he gave his old clothes, bag and wallet to a tramp. There was a possibility they contained minute listening or tracking devices. He needed a clean start.
    Uzi had reduced one of his cash-rolls significantly now, but his briefcase held many more. He couldn’t even remember how many. He was clean – untracked and not followed – and filled with primal rage, a bull bleeding in a stadium. Feeling his old power seeping back, he hailed a black cab and instructed the driver to take him to Kensington Roof Gardens. Now he was ready for Liberty.

 
19
    Uzi had been to Kensington Roof Gardens once before, when he was still a Katsa for the Office. He had been undercover as a Russian arms dealer, trying