The Pure

out with a square forefinger. ‘What would the bitch do to you if she found out about this conversation? What would she do to you?’
    Abelev cringed, shifted in his chair, almost got to his feet. ‘She will not find out. The question is not a question.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Hamidi, ‘of course.’ He drained his glass and grabbed the bottle by the neck. ‘If you’re really serious about doing some business, we should get to know each other a little first.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You might not like drugs, but you like pussy.’
    ‘Well, who doesn’t?’
    ‘You like Polish slave girls?’
    ‘What do you want me to say?’
    ‘I want you to say you’ll fuck two little Polish girls at once.’
    ‘Who wouldn’t?’
    ‘Then we’ll discuss terms, OK? When you’re a little more relaxed.’
    For the first time that night, Abelev smiled.
    ‘Come on,’ said Hamidi. ‘Let’s drive.’
    The two men made their way upstairs to the street. Beneath the streetlight lay a sleek, glistening car, a capsule of power. As Hamidi approached, the doors unlocked with a clunk.
    ‘Get in,’ said Hamidi, ‘and don’t make anything dirty.’
    ‘Is this one of the new Porsches?’
    ‘Of course. I chose white – you like white?’
    ‘White’s OK.’
    ‘And tinted windows.’
    ‘Not bad.’
    ‘Not bad,’ repeated Hamidi, turning the key. The car awoke instantly with a perfectly controlled growl. ‘You’re a funny man, Abelev, you know that? A funny, serious man.’ He steered out into the traffic and lit another cigarette. This time, Abelev did not protest.
    ‘What’s the music?’ said Abelev, swigging from the vodka bottle.
    ‘You don’t recognise it?’ said Hamidi, surprised. ‘It’s the most Russian of all Russian composers.’
    ‘Tolstoy?’
    ‘You fucking idiot. This is Mily Balakirev,’ Hamidi said, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘Remember that: Mily Balakirev.’
    Without taking his eyes off the road, he raised his fist. For an instant, a hypodermic needle flashed; then he brought it down in an arc into Abelev’s leg. The man moaned once, slumped against the window. Hamidi reached over, shoved him down in the seat and opened the glove compartment. It illuminated automatically; inside was a packet of cigarettes, a Rohrbough R9 pistol, and a fresh roll of brown packing tape. He turned off the main road and headed towards a quiet alleyway, into the heart of the night.

 
24
    The car had come as a complete surprise. Uzi had been at Home House for two days, and in that time he had replaced his wardrobe and personal effects, bought a laptop – a PC – and recuperated following the beating he had received at the hands of his own kind. He recovered quickly; he always did. His body had grown used to regenerating in the few hours permitted to it. Like a survivor making do with the limited resources available, he healed in the smallest windows of downtime.
    It wasn’t until the evening of the second day, when Avner had left and the countdown to the maelstrom in Israel had begun, that Liberty first made an appearance. It was early evening, and Uzi had just extinguished a spliff. He was sitting in front of the television in a pair of Armani jeans, watching the Discovery channel. Automatically his mind was dwelling on his memories – while a documentary droned on unnoticed before his eyes, they were playing out in his head. The Lebanon war. The cry of the infantry as they mounted an attack, almost drowned out by shell bursts and gunfire. A fearsome noise, but also melancholy. As it drifted up to Uzi – he was holding a position on a rocky outcrop – it became the sound of souls calling to everything they loved, calling on their families to raise their heads from their pillows, to hear for the last time the voice of a father, a husband, a son, a brother. It was drowned out by the bombardment, and Uzi adjusted the sights on his weapon. Soon it would be time to move off behind enemy lines again, and his stomach was churning. So he sat between his memories and the Discovery channel, numb.
    There was a knock at the door. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, racked his pistol and removed the safety catch. It was Liberty.
    ‘I see you’ve settled in,’ she said, easing her way into the room. ‘Can’t you open a window or something?’
    Uzi obliged. A stream of cold air surrounded him as if trying to suck him out into the night. Liberty sat in an armchair.
    ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a