The Pure

‘is who else in my organisation is a fucking grass like you.’
    ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘I promise. Nobody. It’s just me.’
    Liberty brought her face close to his. ‘You’re lying,’ she said. His blond eyelashes fluttered, twin moths. ‘I can smell it. Can you taste your own blood? Can you taste it? And now you’re lying to me?’
    She tied a towel around his face and Uzi knew what she was going to do. There was a single muffled shriek. The packing tape crackled horribly, like snapping twigs, as Abelev struggled. Liberty filled a jug with water from the stuttering tap; Uzi tilted Abelev backwards until his head was below the level of his feet. Then Liberty poured water into the towel – once, twice, three times. There was a choking, coughing sound from beneath it, followed by a strangled cry. Liberty repeated it again, and again, until a stream of muffled words started. She gave Uzi a signal and he tilted the Russian back upright.
    Liberty tore the towel from his face. The man was weeping. ‘I’m telling the truth,’ he said, ‘I’m working alone. I’m working alone. I’m working alone.’
    ‘Liar!’ screamed Liberty, suddenly all-powerful and terrifying, and struck him again with her gun. Blood filled his mouth, spilled over his jaw. Despite himself, Uzi shuddered. She tied the towel back around his face, and at her signal Uzi tilted the man back again, an old feeling of discomfort twisting his gut.
    More water. More. And more. Liberty was smiling – was she smiling? Abelev was coughing, choking, spluttering. A gargling moan, then silence. Uzi heaved the man back upright and removed the bloodstained towel. His skin was pale, clammy; his eyes were closed. Vomit threaded in a web across his face. But he was breathing. Liberty paced the room like an animal.
    ‘I’ve never seen anybody hold out against that before,’ said Uzi. ‘Maybe he really is working alone.’
    ‘He isn’t,’ Liberty replied. ‘He’s part of a network, I know it. He’s just a stubborn fuck. Pity he didn’t stay on my side. I can always use stubborn fucks. As you know.’
    ‘But he told you about the Oswald Street Crew. Why would he lie?’
    Without warning she raised her gun and fired. Abelev’s head was thrown backwards then he nodded enthusiastically, like a doll. A dark cloud appeared across the mildewed tiles behind him. Fragments of brick and cement spiralled into the air and pattered around their feet, followed by a cloud of dust. There was a silence.
    ‘Fuck,’ said Uzi wearily. ‘Fuck.’
    ‘He wasn’t going to break, the bastard,’ said Liberty, checking the chamber of her weapon.
    ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
    ‘Everything matters, Uzi.’
    ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to kill him.’
    ‘You didn’t tell me he was a stubborn bastard.’
    Liberty turned away and took out her phone. Uzi watched the corpse. The mangled head. How easily a man becomes a body. How easy it is to make a ghost. He was doomed, he knew that; he could never again be clean.
    ‘Business is business,’ said Liberty over her shoulder, as if she had read his mind. ‘We had to do it. Are you going to tear your fucking clothes and cover yourself in ashes?’
    ‘What you mean “we”? You did it.’
    She gestured for him to be quiet and spoke into her phone: ‘Get in here. Mr Abelev needs to be disposed of . . . I don’t know, the river. The old Kingsway tram tunnel. I couldn’t give a shit. Just get in here.’ She hung up, shaking her head.
    For a while, they stood side by side in silence. Then the two Russians appeared at the door. Liberty nodded to the corpse and left the room; Uzi followed her into the night air.
    ‘He wasn’t working alone,’ she said without looking at him. ‘Nobody ever works alone. Not even you. Not even me.’
    ‘Then how did he resist?’
    ‘Some people are just made that way. Weak, but stubborn.’
    ‘No. He was telling the truth. Anyway, what’s done is done. He won’t tell us anything now. Do you have any other leads?’
    ‘I have six names, all from one informant.’
    ‘That’s easy, then.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Uzi looked up at the silhouettes of Canary Wharf sparkling against the night sky. Israel was so far away. ‘Let me tell you a story I heard from a friend in the Shabak,’ he said, without looking at Liberty. ‘Once upon a time, when Hamas still roamed freely in Bethlehem, three terrorists arrived in the Duheisha refugee camp carrying a stash of