The Pure

my boy, let’s talk in the garden. I want to hear all about it.’
    ‘But I want to spend time with my Adam,’ said Suzi.
    ‘You have something to say about soldiering?’ said Haim.
    ‘What do you think the housework is?’ she replied. ‘The cleaning, the cooking, the washing? It’s worse than any battle.’
    ‘A war of attrition,’ said Haim.
    ‘Exactly,’ said his wife, ‘a war of attrition. I’m an artist. I’m a slave.’
    ‘Come,’ said Haim, ushering his son to his feet. ‘There’s still an hour of sunlight left. Mother will leave you the washing-up. You can do it later.’
    ‘My son is not doing the washing-up tonight. He’s exhausted. Haim?’
    He beckoned his son out of the apartment and closed the door behind them.
    It had been only three days since the completion of Adam’s latest mission, off the coast of Libya. The objective had been simple enough: to blow up a ship carrying a cache of weapons. He had not been told where the shipment had originated from, or where it was headed. He did not need to know. The Office lay several years in the future; now he was nothing but a fresh-faced commando, and his only responsibility was his missions. Intelligence was not yet his concern.
    This was Adam’s virgin operation for Shayetet 13, and he was anxious to prove himself. He set off as part of a team of four at dusk, in a SAAR-5 missile vessel, wearing diving gear and night-vision equipment, and armed with limpet-mines. The sun sank into a bloody pool on the Mediterranean horizon, and before long they were cutting through the darkness, through the water, in silence, each man concentrating on the job in hand as the regular crew worked the ship around them. They had all been fully briefed before setting sail. Now they needed to go through the plan in their minds, repeatedly, so that when the time came to act, they would do so as second nature.
    The black Egyptian shoreline melted into the rocky coast of Libya, and the tension on board increased. All the lights were killed, then the engine, and the vessel drifted the last few miles with the current. Finally they reached the drop-off point, several miles perpendicular to the small port of Darna in eastern Libya. Through a pair of binoculars, Adam could see strings of lights twinkling in the hills beyond. The harbour itself was quiet, as it was only open during the hours of daylight. Nevertheless, patrol boats could be seen churning through the black waves, their cockpits illuminated in a yellow light. A disproportionate number of patrol boats. For a moment he caught sight of an unshaven, tired-looking Libyan soldier at a helm, smoking a cigarette. He could see the acne scars on his cheeks.
    They waited, drifting, bobbing, for what seemed like an age, hoping they would not be spotted. Listening. Finally a succession of explosions could be heard, and the boat bucked in the shock-waves in the ocean. That was the signal. The Libyan forces had thrown hand grenades into the water to mitigate the risk of hostile frogmen; according to the intel, they did this at two-hourly intervals. Now the grenades had exploded, and the clock was ticking. It was time for the commandos to act.
    Adam and his ‘buddy’ pulled down their masks, pressed the regulators into their mouths and slipped into the shadowy water, followed by the other pair. As the new world pressed in on him, and a liquid chill crept across his skin, Adam began to feel safe. The water had always had that effect, ever since he was a child. His feet dragged pleasantly in their fins against the salty weight of the ocean. A torpedo-shaped object plunged over the side of the boat, bejewelled with bubbles and strings of foam. The frogmen swam after it, took hold of it, strapped themselves on. Then the engine fired, the propeller spun and the ‘wet sub’, with its saboteurs, bored through the murky water in the direction of the Libyan port.
    To begin with, all went according to plan. It took forty-three minutes to reach the whale-like hulls of the ships, and the target vessel was located in another nineteen. From time to time patrol boats appeared overhead; the Israeli frogmen were using ‘rebreathers’, which recycled the air they exhaled, meaning no giveaway trails of bubbles. So the patrol boats didn’t spot them. Periodically searchlights cut into the water, but still they remained unseen. Luck was on their side tonight. So far.
    The plan had been so ingrained into their minds that the frogmen