The Pure

new experience. It was reckless, and he knew it couldn’t last.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘we haven’t spoken about business.’
    ‘Oh that,’ said Liberty. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’ She turned her back to the city and rested her elbows on the railing. Uzi continued to stare into the darkness. ‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘Since my husband died, I’ve been running his organisation. Russians, all of them. It suits me; I can speak their language, I know their mindset. I keep them at arm’s length – it’s safer that way. The power is in my hands alone. We supply the best stuff wholesale, to the top end of the market. Then we cut it with caffeine and so on, and sell it a bit cheaper to the main pushers on the estates.’
    ‘What’s your percentage of the market?’
    ‘Sixty, maybe sixty-five per cent.’
    ‘Sixty-five per cent?’
    ‘About that.’
    ‘Fuck.’
    Uzi drained his glass. He was feeling a little drunk. It was difficult to imagine that this sophisticated woman had the ruthlessness to run such a major drugs cartel. But he knew from experience that this only indicated how dangerous a person really was.
    ‘My sources are ones I picked up while I was working in Afghanistan,’ Liberty went on. ‘I made my husband’s business into an empire. Nobody else has such a good supply line as me. I import the highest-quality substances on the market, by a long way. My problem is, I’ve heard a rumour that some of my employees have been trying to discover the source so they can siphon off the business themselves. I need to know how loyal my people are. That’s what I want you to help me with.’
    ‘So it’s a one-off thing?’
    ‘No, no. At the moment, it’s just me at the top. But I could make use of someone like yourself – with your skills – up there with me. Another member of the tribe, you know? This is just to get you started.’
    ‘What’s the pay?’
    ‘Four thousand pounds a month.’
    ‘That’s it?’
    ‘What did you expect?’
    ‘I want somewhere to live as well.’
    ‘Done.’
    ‘I want to move in tonight.’
    ‘Not a problem.’
    ‘And I can quit at any time, with a ten thousand-pound bonus.’
    ‘Sure.’
    Uzi paused. He had been expecting her to drive a harder bargain. ‘And I want eight thousand pounds a month.’
    ‘Six,’ said Liberty.
    ‘Seven.’
    ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Seven a month, somewhere to stay. Quit and you get a ten grand golden handshake. Do we have a deal?’
    He turned to face her. He reminded himself of who he was. He was Uzi, and this was his chance to fight back against the Office – to change the course of history, as Avner put it. Through filtering sensitive information to the CIA through Liberty, he could put the Office on the back foot, give them something to worry about, soften them up for Operation Regime Change. In the end, of course, they would catch up with him; at best, he would be shot. But until that day, he would fight them. For a moment he became aware of himself and Liberty: their two weapons, his R9 pressing into his side, her Taurus revolver like a dark secret in her bag. Both fully loaded, both accessible in seconds. The night hung cold around them. He stretched out his hand, and she gripped it. Her palm was as cold as the night. They shook and the deal was done.

 
20
    ‘You did well,’ said the Kol quietly. ‘You’re believing in yourself.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Uzi grudgingly.
    ‘And that jumbo you gave her won’t harm the Holy Land. It will just serve to instill fear into the hearts of the enemies of Israel.’
    ‘If you say so. I feel like I don’t know any more.’
    ‘Believe. Never stop believing. Believe.’
    Despite everything, there was a lot Uzi had been proud of about the Office. One mission in particular he had always kept locked away in his memory as a resource, something to draw strength from when times were hard. Even now, as he mobilised himself against the organisation, he found himself returning to the memory; even now it was able to give him strength, despite his treachery.
    The operation had been conceived when the Office received intel that the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat – the Syrian secret service – was on his way to Paris for a secret meeting with his French opposite number from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the DGSE. As ever, the key was in the detail. The Office had learned that while he was there, he planned to indulge in some shopping; in particular, he