The Pure

groin, starting to overtake his thoughts. How old was this girl? Seventeen? Would the Office really recruit a girl of seventeen? Perhaps she was older, posing as a schoolgirl. But age was very difficult to disguise. What if she were innocent? An image of Anne-Marie flicked into his mind, followed by the other Office assassinations, followed by Nadim Sam Qaaqour and Ram Shalev, followed by the battered death mask of the Russian, Abelev, a bullet hole gaping in his forehead. What if he were wrong about Gal – was it worth taking her life just to make his own safer by several degrees? His mission was more important than hers could ever be, and she was getting in the way. But did she really deserve this?
    He paused for what seemed like an age, caught between two worlds; then he put the needle back in the glove compartment. The Porsche was cruising at a hundred. I’ve saved her life, he thought. I’ve saved her life. His whole body was tingling now, the pressure becoming unbearable. Gal was making little noises in the back of her throat and for some reason this aroused him unbearably. With a low moan he came into her mouth, his body convulsing in wave after wave, the girl pressing him deep into her throat, receiving him. The car, the night, the darkness, hummed on and on around them.

 
27
    ‘Adam? Adam?’
    Suzi Feldman rested her hand gently on her son’s shoulder, expecting him to react at once. But he continued to stare into the bowl of ice cream in front of him. Then, as if experiencing a delayed reaction, he gave a small start and looked up at her.
    ‘Darling, you’re miles away,’ she said. She was about to say something else but stopped herself. ‘Eat your ice cream, before it melts.’
    Adam mustered a smile, dipped his spoon into the snowy peaks and ate. His tongue tingled with cold, awakening his senses, as if life itself were being infused into his system. He swallowed another spoonful, and another, imagining that each one was transporting him step by step into the past; when the bowl was empty, he would be fully awake, a child again.
    ‘Well,’ said his father, breaking the silence that had crept into the room, ‘needless to say, we are both very proud of you. We are all very proud of you, the whole family. But we didn’t want to make a song and dance about it. It’s classified, right? We thought it best to celebrate quietly, just us.’
    ‘Yes,’ said his mother, ‘we wanted to celebrate since you first got the news, but you’ve just been so busy.’
    The glass doors on to the balcony were open and a cool breeze was blowing in from the Mediterranean. The floor tiles, too, were cool against Adam’s bare feet. But the air itself was hot and still and humid. He wiped a glassy layer of sweat from his brow and moved uncomfortably in his chair. Then he ate another spoonful of ice cream.
    ‘What I don’t understand,’ his mother continued, ‘is why they don’t give you more leave. Every military unit is supposed to give proper leave. We haven’t seen you since you started at Shayetet 13. It’s been months.’
    ‘The boy’s been training,’ said his father in a gravelly voice. ‘The Navy does what it needs to do.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Adam. ‘Training, then my first operation. They don’t give you leave until you’ve completed your first operation.’
    ‘You’re doing a wonderful thing for us, for your people, for the land,’ said his mother. ‘I just wish we could see more of you. It can’t be good for you, to work every day for weeks on end. Coffee?’
    Adam looked out the window, out to sea. It all looked so beautiful from this distance. By the time he turned back, his ice cream had melted; he hadn’t managed to finish it in time. He turned a spoon in the painty sweetness. His mother disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pot of coffee. Then she went back for the cups; then, as if remembering for the first time, went back for the spoons and sugar. Beside the open window was an easel displaying her latest painting, a seascape in luminous turquoises.
    ‘You look tired,’ she said as she poured the coffee. ‘Look at the colour of that. A perfect brown. A shame to spoil it with milk.’
    ‘Of course he’s tired, Suzi,’ said his father, ‘he’s just got back from operations.’
    ‘I know,’ his mother retorted sharply, ‘I was just saying. A woman can say things, can’t she?’
    Haim shook his head and slurped up the dregs of his coffee. ‘Come,