The Pure

Tannenbaum made some general conversation about chandeliers and ascertained that Al-Zou’bi had developed an interest in a particularly fine Rococo revival piece. He then excused himself and left the shop, crossing the road to the brasserie and taking a seat at the table behind Uzi. So far, everything had gone according to plan.
    When Al-Zou’bi left the shop, Uzi and Tannenbaum hailed a cab to a restaurant near the Place de la Concorde. They knew that the Syrian had made a reservation there for lunch, and Uzi had reserved the table opposite. Again, they didn’t have long to wait. When Al-Zou’bi entered, Tannenbaum caught his eye, greeted him, remarked on the coincidence, and asked him how the shopping was going. Then, seamlessly, Uzi commented that Perrin’s profit margins were exceptionally high and congratulated Al-Zou’bi for his good judgement in not having yet made a purchase. The Syrian visibly rallied at the compliment, and Tannenbaum chose that moment to invite him to join them for lunch. Al-Zou’bi accepted. The die was cast.
    By the time the main course was concluded, Uzi and Tannenbaum had struck a deal with Al-Zou’bi. They presented him with a Lüp brochure, which showed some unusually cheap prices. All chandeliers were sourced directly, they said, avoiding retail overheads. Uzi waited for his moment, then offered to procure exactly the same Rococo chandelier that Al-Zou’bi had been admiring at a price that was some €10,000 lower. Then, delicately, he offered to provide a receipt for the full €35,000. There was a pause. Al-Zou’bi’s mind could almost be seen working through the possibilities: he could deliver a €35,000 chandelier to his boss, spend only €25,000, and pocket the difference. It was a no-brainer. The men shook on the deal, Al-Zou’bi wearing the expression of a man who believes himself to be very clever – and very lucky – indeed. He paid a deposit there and then, and went away happy.
    Later that day, Uzi returned to Perrin Antiques and bought the chandelier on the Office account. Overnight it was shipped to Israel and fitted with tiny fibre-optic cameras and microphones. Thus, hours before the Syrian delegation was due to leave the country, Uzi and Tannenbaum delivered the chandelier to a delighted Al-Zou’bi. Before the week was out, it had been installed directly above the desk of the chief of the Syrian secret service, the most secure place in the country, from where it transmitted a continuous stream of footage to Tel Aviv. It had been a perfect operation: no blood spilt, no death, no torture. Just a little ingenuity combined with good old-fashioned chutzpah. It didn’t get any better than that.

 
21
    ‘Check this out,’ said Avner, holding up his iPhone. He tapped the screen and put it down on the ornate coffee table. ‘All bugging devices within a five-metre radius are hereby disabled.’
    ‘I’ve never seen that before,’ said Uzi.
    ‘Modified iPhone,’ Avner replied. ‘Standard issue.’
    ‘Technology moves fast.’
    ‘Faster than you, that’s for sure,’ said Avner, running his hand over a gilt griffin bedpost and looking around the room. ‘This is a nice place. A little tacky, but nice.’
    ‘What do you mean, a little tacky?’ said Uzi, lying back on the four-poster bed with his hands laced behind his neck. ‘This is luxury, my friend. Neoclassical luxury.’
    ‘Neoclassical?’
    ‘Yes, Neoclassical. Weren’t you concentrating during our British Culture lectures?’
    ‘That was a load of shit.’
    ‘You’re a load of shit.’
    ‘What’s with the aggression?’
    Uzi smiled. He was in a good mood. The night before he had slept well, then spent the morning shopping for clothes using an advance on his first month’s salary from Liberty. Lunch had been brought to him by room service, and the afternoon had slipped away in a combination of spliffs, movies and naps. Now evening had fallen, and the adrenaline was flowing pleasantly. The WikiLeaks men would be arriving soon.
    This was Home House, a private members’ club in Portman Square: Uzi’s new home. Liberty had chosen well. The major hotels were crawling with operatives from the Office and countless other agencies, so something more out of the way had been required. Home House, set behind the polished black doors of three Georgian townhouses, was perfect. The interior was opulent and the exterior discreet; it was outside the high-pressure world of diplomatic London, the sort