The Pure

stock in trade.’
    ‘OK, so using a clamper I photographed all of the documents. I read them through that evening. And what I saw shocked me.’
    ‘Do tell.’
    Uzi took a deep breath. ‘Ram Shalev was assassinated on the orders of the PM because he had some information that he was going to make public. The information was this. The government was planning – is still planning – to carry out lightning air strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities, in an operation called Desert Rain. They say that the Iranians have enriched uranium and produced yellowcake. This yellowcake represents an existential threat to Israel, so if it existed, the attacks would be justified. But, in reality, according to Ram Shalev, the yellowcake is a paper tiger. It doesn’t exist. Operation Desert Rain is simply a publicity stunt to drum up some patriotic fervour in Israel, and swing the country in the run-up to the election.’
    ‘Talk about playing with fire,’ said Johnson. ‘If Iran were to retaliate, this would mean war.’
    ‘I know,’ Uzi replied. ‘This government is nothing if not arrogant.’
    A silence fell, a tangible silence broken only by the tapping of keys as Johnson made feverish notes.
    ‘So let me just run through this again, for purposes of clarity,’ Johnson said, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. ‘The prime minister has authorised an attack on a bogus target in Iran in order to get the public on his side before the election.’
    ‘Right,’ said Uzi. ‘Operation Desert Rain.’
    ‘Ram Shalev, one of his own ministers, found out about the plan and intended to make it public.’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘So the prime minister used the Mossad to assassinate him. He killed his own interior minister, and he used the Mossad to do it.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘And you personally were involved in this operation. Operation Cinnamon.’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘And this testimony is all completely true. Everything happened exactly as you said it.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Fuck,’ said Skid from the corner of the room. He stopped the recording and removed his headphones. ‘This is massive.’
    Uzi reached into his inside pocket and drew out the buff envelope he had taken from the slick in his old apartment. He tossed it over to Johnson. ‘Here are copies of all the documents I photographed with the clamper. They confirm everything I’ve told you.’ Johnson took the envelope, with a forced casualness. ‘Leak them, Johnson, whatever your name is. Let the world know about Operation Cinnamon, Operation Desert Rain. Once the information is out there, the government can’t bomb Iran.’
    ‘That’s your motivation? To avert war?’ said Johnson.
    ‘That and the money,’ said Avner from beside the door.
    ‘What money?’
    ‘J didn’t tell you? Political donations,’ said Avner. ‘And speaking of money, we have agreed with J that you won’t make this information public until we’ve received a cash deposit in our accounts. Do you understand that?’
    ‘Whatever,’ said Johnson, slowly closing his laptop.
    ‘No, not whatever,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘Put it like this. If my colleague’s testimony leaks before we get our money, we will hunt you down and kill you. Not J, not anybody else, just you. Understand now?’
    Johnson nodded, avoiding eye contact. The two WikiLeaks men hurriedly packed up their equipment and prepared to leave. Uzi took out Avner’s MacBook and turned it on. Skid came and watched over his shoulder as he inserted the Office’s USB and ran the de-encryption software. Then he opened the file.
    The four men huddled around the glowing screen. Within seconds there appeared a gallery of head-and-shoulder photographs of the Mossad’s forty-eight Kidonim, all of whom looked young and serious, and six of whom were female. Uzi breathed in sharply. Just setting eyes on these pictures meant an instant death sentence.
    ‘Present from J,’ murmured Johnson.
    ‘Him,’ said Uzi, pointing to one of the images. ‘That’s K20.’ The picture showed a baby-faced man with longish black hair, pale green eyes and a high-bridged nose. Uzi opened his file, read his name. ‘There you are. Yakov Ben Zion. Aged twenty-six.’ He turned to Johnson. ‘You make this guy’s name public as well. Make sure of it.’
    After the men had left, Uzi and Avner sat in silence for many minutes, lost in their thoughts. The rain could be heard pounding on the window with a renewed ferocity,