The Pure

shoulder, off the road, through a gap in the barrier and on to a dirt track that led into a wood.
    The Porsche growled bad-temperedly as he pressed it along the bumpy track, mud spraying from the wheels. In his mirror he saw the Audi pulling over to the side of the road, and two men casually getting out. He remembered his training: there was no reason for him to stay in the vehicle. A foot pursuit may be more to his advantage. He forced the Porsche on as far as he could until the track became too uneven and the trees were good and thick. Then he killed the engine, grabbed his gun and his cigarettes and jumped out. Liberty had told him that the vehicle had been cleaned of identifying marks, and he could only hope she had done a good job. From the glove compartment he took a spray can, and turned it on the number plates; instantly the letters and numbers dissolved. Then he sprayed the steering wheel, the dashboard, the seats, eroding them with acid and destroying his fingerprints. A hurried job, but better than nothing. Setting the car alight would attract attention, and he couldn’t risk that. But at least now the police would have nothing to go on. Breathing hard, he slipped off into the trees.
    The sun was setting, and the trees were cast in bronze highlights and ochre shadows. The clouds sat low and heavy in the sky. The noise of the traffic was incessant, masking the sound of his movements, and those of any pursuers. He jogged along in parallel to the road, weaving between the trees, then began to double back.
    He made his way to the brow of a small hill, then climbed into the branches of a tree and surveyed the wood around him. It was still; empty. A cloud of rooks flew into the air to his left, and a spider crept down the gnarled bark beside him. In the distance police lights were flashing at the roundabout. If they found the bullet hole there would be trouble; a manhunt would make things difficult for him but the implications would be far worse for the Office. He smiled. Whatever happened to him, it would be worth it.
    He tried to predict the actions of the men who were hunting him. If he had been the driver of the Audi, what would he be doing? There were two of them. They would have got out of the car and entered the wood, then split up, number one following the tracks of the Porsche, number two looping around. If number two had chosen to plot his course to the east, Uzi would be a safe distance away. But if he had gone to the west . . .
    There was a noise. Uzi raised his R9 and scanned the woodland below. Another noise. Cracking twigs, rustling leaves, sounds that didn’t fit. Not the unthinking movement of an animal through the undergrowth, but the stop-start progress of a human being trying to remain undetected. It had to be number two: he had to have gone west. Uzi strained his eyes, peering into the wood, trying to catch a sign of movement, opening his ears to all sounds. There it was again, that same cracking noise. And then: there was the man.
    He was wearing a pair of Oakleys with golden lenses. His movements were stiff, almost mechanical, and in the dying sunlight he looked as though he were made of bronze. His hand was tucked inside his jacket, and even from this distance Uzi could see the flush on his face. He remained squatting, motionless, in the tree, as the man’s eyes flicked from side to side. At one point Uzi thought he was looking straight at him, but then his eyes moved away, still searching. The first thing the human eye looks for is movement. If you remain utterly still, a person can look straight at you without really seeing you. The man blew his nose in his hand, flicked it into the undergrowth. Then he continued his path through the trees, twigs and branches cracking beneath his feet, and disappeared back into the wood.
    Uzi waited for ninety seconds, then slid down the tree to the ground. The blue lights were still flashing at the roundabout, but the police did not seem to be searching the area. Now was a good time to escape. The Porsche, however, was a write-off – and without a car, he wouldn’t make it. A crazy plan began to form in his mind. The two Office operatives would be deep in the wood by now. From their perspective, he was on the run and they were the predators. They were the deadly ones; he was running scared. No huntsmen in their right minds expect their prey to act with audacity, even if they know he used to be one of them. They wouldn’t be expecting him to steal