The Pure

A tendril of hair hung loosely down her cheek.
    Uzi broke the silence. ‘Simple question: who are you?’ His voice sounded too loud for the room.
    ‘What do you mean, who am I?’ she said carefully.
    ‘Come on, Liberty. We both know all the tricks, so save us both the hassle and tell me straight. How long did you think you could get away with it? Have you just been lying all this time?’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
    Uzi, making an effort to restrain himself, turned the laptop to face her and pointed to the picture with the barrel of her gun.
    ‘Here we have exhibit one: the real Eve Klugman. AKA Liberty. This is a Mossad file. They don’t get these things wrong. But it’s not you, is it? It’s not you. So I return to my simple question: who the fuck are you?’
    Liberty continued to stare impassively at the screen.
    Uzi got to his feet. ‘I want answers, Liberty, or whatever your name is. I trusted you, I was falling in love with you. I need an answer.’
    Liberty answered with a ferocity that took him aback, her black eyes flashing. ‘I loved you too. And, believe me, I still love you. I love you more than life itself.’
    ‘Stop! Who are you? Tell me. Tell me the truth.’
    ‘I am telling you the truth and I will tell you the truth. But first untie me. Untie me now. Now.’
    ‘Not until you tell me who you are.’
    ‘Nobody is who they seem, Adam Feldman. Untie me.’
    ‘Don’t call me that.’
    ‘Untie me.’
    ‘So you can alert your goons?’
    ‘So I can have a conversation without feeling like a hostage. If I’d wanted to destroy you I could have done so before now. Untie me. You’ve got my weapon, haven’t you? Untie me. Untie me. Untie me.’
    Her insistence swayed him; I have her weapon, he told himself, I am stronger than her, there is nothing to fear. As if hypnotised, he untied the dressing-gown cord and set her free. She sat there like a child, rubbing her wrists.
    ‘Now,’ said Uzi, raising the gun. ‘You have your freedom. So talk.’ He lit a cigarette; his fingers were trembling.
    ‘I am not Eve Klugman – not Liberty,’ she said. ‘I took the woman’s identity several years ago when she was killed, along with her family.’ The ghost of a smile flickered across her face and was gone. ‘My real name is Leila – Leila Shirazi. I am a Persian Jew.’
    ‘You weren’t in the CIA?’
    ‘No. I was never in the CIA.’
    For the first time, Uzi thought he could hear the trace of an accent in her voice. He got to his feet and paced to the window and back again, rubbing his thumb along the side of the gun. Believe in yourself. Believe.
    ‘Who are you working for?’
    The woman’s voice suddenly softened. ‘Uzi, I will tell you everything. Everything, I promise. But first I think we need a drink. Come on, there’s nothing to fear. We’re on the same side. We share the same principles. You know me well enough to know that.’
    Uzi hesitated and took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he poured two gin and tonics at the drinks cabinet, handed her one and sat down, resting the gun on his lap. His anger was fading and a strange new feeling was emerging – a sense, almost, of triumph.
    ‘Leila Shirazi,’ he said in Persian, ‘a pleasure to meet you.’
    ‘You speak excellent Persian.’
    ‘I worked there.’
    ‘I know.’
    There was a pause.
    ‘Leila Shirazi. Not bad as a cover identity,’ said Uzi.
    ‘It’s my real name.’
    ‘I’ll reserve judgement on that. OK, we have our drinks. Now tell me your story.’
    She took from her pocket a small envelope and tossed it across to him. Inside were pictures of herself as a girl, as a teenager, as a young woman, all clearly in Iran. There was also a copy of her birth certificate. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘I came prepared. I was going to tell you this evening.’
    Uzi laid out all the photographs and documents in a long line across the desk, casting an eye over them for signs of forgery. They were genuine.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘Leila Shirazi. It will take some getting used to.’
    ‘Me too. I haven’t used the name in years.’
    ‘Who do you work for?’
    ‘I’ll tell you. Give me a moment and I’ll tell you. You tied me up pretty tight, you know.’
    She massaged her wrists and sipped her gin and tonic. All at once, the music downstairs stopped. Somebody was laughing drunkenly, and someone else could be heard trying to move them on. The party was over.
    ‘I was born and brought up in