The Pure

nuclear Iran would be in the interests of world peace. You know better than anyone that without a nuclear deterrent coming from the Arab world the Israelis and Americans will have no interest in negotiation or compromise. You’ve seen it from the inside. You know the game. If you really want to protect our yellowcake – if you want to stand up for a nuclear Persia – then join us. Help us to avoid the Israeli air strikes.’
    Uzi stared at Leila, speechless.
    ‘We’ll smuggle you out of the UK and take you to a secure location where we’ll do the job together. Nothing dangerous, no loss of life or bloodshed. Just remote intel work, decoding intercepted messages. Child’s play. You’ve done far more difficult jobs than that for me already. And when Operation Desert Rain has failed and our yellowcake is safe, you and I can leave the business once and for all. We’ll be given new identities, and guaranteed protection. We’ll get more money than we could spend in a lifetime. You have twenty million dollars already – we’ll be able to make a fresh start somewhere together. Leave everything behind.’
    ‘Where could we go?’
    ‘We’ll work it out. Somewhere nobody will find us, not the Mossad, not the MOIS, nobody. Meeting you has caused me to think about my life, Uzi. It’s a terrible way to live, isn’t it? All these secrets, all this danger, all this isolation. I’ve realised that for all these years, I’ve just been trying to please my father. My love for my country is really my love for him, which I’ve never been able to express.’ Uzi opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. ‘And now,’ continued Leila, ‘I’ve found somebody I love more than my country.’
    ‘You’ll give it all up for me?’
    ‘I’ll do anything you want. I’d give up everything for you. Let’s leave the whole mess behind.’
    Suddenly Uzi understood. ‘So this is the last big job you talked about.’
    ‘Of course. This is the last big job,’ said Leila. Tentatively she stretched out her hand and rested it on his knee. Uzi didn’t move away. ‘Take your time,’ she said gently. ‘Think about it.’

 
36
    When the woman – Leila – had gone, Uzi poured himself a whisky and sat brooding. The Kol was silent. Outside the night was thick and black with no stars. The streetlights spread an orange wash over the cars whispering through Portman Square. Uzi thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. Almost without thinking – it had been drummed into him relentlessly during training – he typed the secret emergency protocol number for the Office. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. But he left it too long and the screen went dark. He laid the phone on the desk.
    Minutes passed. Then Uzi remembered the cigar that Leila had brought with her earlier. There it was, lying forgotten on the bed. He lit it, inhaled, coughed. The smoke was coarse and pungent, but it was an expensive cigar and better than nothing. Then he picked up his phone and dialled a number.
    ‘Franz Gruber.’
    ‘You answered. Thank fuck.’
    ‘I’m at the airport.’
    ‘I have to speak to you,’ said Uzi.
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘I have to speak to you. Have you checked in?’
    ‘I’m in the queue.’
    ‘Then wait. I’ll meet you. What terminal are you at?’
    ‘My flight leaves in two hours.’
    ‘What terminal?’
    ‘Four.’
    ‘I’ll meet you at Café Rouge on the mezzanine level. Thirty minutes.’
    ‘This had better be important.’
    ‘Be there.’ Uzi hung up.
    He put on his jacket, checked that his R9 was loaded and pushed it into his waistband. Then, wondering whether this night would be his last, he stepped out into the corridor.
    It was late, and Home House was quiet. He padded along the deep-pile carpet and made his way down the staircase. The night porter was on duty, looking bleary-eyed and bored, but he made an effort to brighten himself up as Uzi approached.
    ‘Mr Hamidi,’ he said with a courteous nod, ‘good evening.’
    ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ said Uzi, cigar between his teeth.
    ‘I do, sir. Marlboro Reds. Do you want one?’
    ‘Give me the packet. I’ll pay you for it.’
    ‘But, sir . . .’
    ‘Just give it to me.’
    Uzi took the cigarettes and thrust a ten-pound note into the porter’s top pocket. Then he turned to go.
    ‘Sir? The lady left something for you,’ the man called after him.
    He rummaged on his desk and placed a white envelope on the