The Pure

recovery.’
    ‘Seriously?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘That’s great.’
    Squeal attempted an awkward smile.
    ‘You did go to see her,’ said Uzi.
    ‘Sure. Yeah, thanks for that. The money and stuff.’
    ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
    Squeal pursed his lips. ‘I’m not living here any more, Tommy. I moved out. I just came back to pick up my post.’
    His front door swung open behind him. He caught it with his heel and pulled it closed, but not before Uzi had caught sight of the interior. It was new, brand spanking new. Neat, untouched, anonymous. And identical to Uzi’s old flat, even down to the furniture. Squeal closed the door and began to say something, but Uzi was no longer listening. Instead he was looking at the envelopes he was holding: gas bills, phone bills, circulars, and a single unmarked envelope. Without a word, Uzi snatched it, opened it, knowing what he would find. Squeal tried to grab it back, but Uzi shoved him away and pulled out the contents of the envelope. A bundle of notes held together with a blue rubber band. But it wasn’t pounds, or euros, or dollars. It was Israeli currency.
    Uzi looked up and saw Squeal edging towards the top of the stairs; in his hand was his mobile phone, glowing with an orange light. He had just finished writing a text message. Before Uzi could stop him, he pressed ‘send’. Uzi lunged forward but he spun away and leaped down the stairs. He drew his gun, had him for a moment in his sights, but didn’t pull the trigger. Squeal disappeared from view; for a few seconds his footsteps could be heard spiralling down the stairs. The downstairs door slammed and he was gone.
    So the Office had Squeal. They had been keeping tabs on him all along. They had even been taking his rent money! He had stumbled into a trap, and now, just as a shred of hope had entered his life, he had walked straight back into their clutches. He slammed his fist against the wall, cursing his stupidity. Then he tried to collect his thoughts. Squeal’s text message. They knew where he was. He needed to get out of there, fast. This building had no other exit. He had no choice. Aiming his gun in front of him, he hurried down the stairs, feeling once more that death could be close.

 
32
    Uzi knew how quickly the Office could move, and when he left the apartment building, tucking his gun-hand inside his jacket, he was expecting them to be waiting. But the streets were deserted; Squeal was nowhere to be seen. He slipped down the road and back to his Porsche. Behind the wheel, he felt better. He steered towards the High Road.
    Three minutes passed before he saw it for the first time: a dark blue Audi, expensive but not flashy, high-performance but not a car that would attract attention. He didn’t know why it caught his eye. It had been instinctive. He couldn’t see the occupants clearly, but there were two of them, and the driver was wearing a hooded top.
    He turned down a side-road, intending to loop back on himself. There was a queue of cars, and the blue Audi passed him. As it did so, for the briefest of moments, the driver’s eyes flicked up, allowing Uzi to see straight into his soul. And he knew.
    His heart began to beat faster as he turned down the side-road at a normal speed and tried to cut through to the High Road. Speed bumps. Again and again the undercarriage of the Porsche crunched against the tarmac as he sped over them, faster and faster each time. His chances of escape – of survival, perhaps – were slim. The blue Audi was nowhere to be seen, but the Office were on to him now; he knew it. With the amount of technology at their disposal, they could be observing him at this moment, even in this deserted street. But what were his options? Should he get out of the car and lie down on the road, his hands behind his head, and wait for them to pick him up? No. He was going to fight them all the way. Maybe, even with all their gadgets, their superior numbers and their firepower, he could find a way to outwit them.
    Heading for home was out of the question. He couldn’t risk giving his safe house away. So Uzi wound his way through London, plotting figure-of-eights and diamonds, doubling back on himself, speeding up and slowing down, waiting for the Office to make their move. He would have to confront them today, outmanoeuvre them, outwit them and leave them behind. Otherwise they would lock on to him with their surveillance and call in their dues. There was no doubt: in the