The Pure

heightening the stillness in the room. Then Avner took out his phone and dialled a number.
    ‘It’s Michael here,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s done. All went according to plan. We’re waiting for our money. When we receive it, we’ll give J the green light.’ And he hung up.
    There was a pause.
    ‘Well,’ said Uzi, ‘that’s it. It’s done.’
    ‘It’s done,’ Avner repeated. ‘Doesn’t that feel good? We’re fucking the Office, preventing war with Iran, and making more money than we can spend in a lifetime. All at once.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Uzi impassively, ‘feels good.’
    ‘I’m going to go home, have a hot bath, and start making the arrangements for my new life,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘I suggest you do the same. When the story breaks, we both want to be far away.’
    ‘I’ve told you, I’m staying right here,’ said Uzi. ‘I’ve got a good thing going here with Liberty. Good work, well paid. And I have protection.’
    Avner looked at him as if he were about to say something. Then he changed his mind. He walked over and rested his hand on Uzi’s shoulder. Then he turned and left the room.

 
23
    In a backstreet between Soho and Covent Garden, beneath a constantly flickering streetlight, lay an underground vodka dive. It had no official name, but was known to the people who knew about it as Pogreb – the Cellar. The place was subterranean; to enter you had to descend a flight of slippery stone steps, pass through a steel door – which was always closed, and manned by an armed bouncer – and go down a spiral staircase into a converted wine cellar. Its customers were pushers, pimps, money launderers, even the occasional arms dealer. All Russian.
    In a shadowy corner, hunched over a bottle of flavoured vodka, cupping shot glasses in their hands, sat two men. One, an Afghan named Aasif Hamidi, was swarthy and sullen, with a black moustache and a jacket collar turned up in a low fan behind his neck. His companion, Alexey Mikhailovich Abelev, had tightly curled blond hair, thick white eyelashes and eyes that looked like marbles.
    ‘So,’ said Abelev, ‘this is your first time in London?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How do you like it?’
    ‘I was sent from Afghanistan to check on how the woman is selling our product,’ he said; his Russian was thick with an accent from the Afghan borderlands. ‘That is all.’
    ‘Your boss is losing confidence in her? That’s what I am hearing.’
    Hamidi shrugged. ‘Business is business. We have to make sure we get the best price.’
    At this, Abelev smiled in a crafty sort of way and sat back in his chair. Hamidi took a Mild-7 cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a Zippo. Then he offered one to Abelev, who declined.
    ‘I’m a serious man,’ said Abelev in a surprisingly soft voice. ‘I want you to know that before we talk any further.’ He took the vodka bottle and refilled their glasses.
    ‘That’s good,’ Hamidi said. ‘Then we’re both serious men. That’s a good start.’ He emptied his glass of vodka down his throat and winced.
    ‘In that case, I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Abelev. ‘I want to know what your boss’s terms are with the woman.’
    ‘Liberty?’
    At the mention of her name, Abelev glanced around nervously. ‘Of course,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘Who else?’
    ‘Don’t piss your pants. We’re talking about a woman, not a goddess,’ said Hamidi drily.
    ‘You obviously don’t know her.’
    ‘Come on. You think Afghanistan is a playground?’ Hamidi refilled their glasses, exhaling a jet of smoke.
    ‘Do you have to puff on that thing? I’m allergic to smoke,’ said Abelev, coughing.
    ‘I’m allergic to lack of smoke,’ Hamidi responded.
    There was a pause. Somebody at the bar dropped a glass, and everyone bristled for a fight. The barmaid cleared it up and things returned to normal.
    ‘So, you want to know the terms my boss has agreed with your boss,’ said Hamidi after a time. ‘That’s what you’re telling me?’
    ‘That’s what I’m telling you.’
    ‘Let me try to understand. Liberty protects you, right? She pays you well. She looks after you. So why are you asking me a thing like that?’
    ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
    ‘Not to me it isn’t.’
    Abelev took a swig of vodka and sighed. ‘You’re right, Liberty pays me. And she looks after me. But she keeps me on the street. I don’t want to be on the street. I want to be pulling the strings.’
    ‘Why