The Pure

counter. Uzi took it, thanked him, and left the building. Out on the street he glanced about, exchanged the cigar for a cigarette, and seeing that there was nobody around, opened the envelope. Inside was a set of keys, to which was attached a plastic tag with a registration number on it. He examined the tag closer: the make of the vehicle was nowhere to be seen. What was going on? He had expected a decent ride, but maybe Liberty – Leila – had thought it was better for him to be less conspicuous. Perhaps she’d learned her lesson after what happened to the Porsche. Either way, at least he had wheels. Accompanying the keys was a brief note: ‘Underground car park – L’. That was all.
    For a moment Uzi reflected. The car was bound to be fitted with a tracking device, and he didn’t have the time to disable it. But did it matter now? The MOIS knew his every move anyway; they knew all about Operation Regime Change and they surely knew Avner’s plans for fleeing the country. What difference could it make? And now, time was of the essence. He came to a decision and jogged down into the car park where he was greeted by the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes. A gleaming Mercedes slid past him and out on to the street. He held the keys in front of him, searching for a car with a number plate that matched the fob. Down aisle after aisle he strode, past Mercedes, Porsches, BMWs, the occasional TVR and Maserati, but nothing matched his registration number. Where was this damn car?
    And then he saw it, and stopped in surprise. The number plate matched. He shook his head in bewilderment, approached the vehicle in a state of something resembling awe. It was unique: sleek, black, dull and mean, made of lightweight carbon, titanium, aluminium and aircraft steel. He had read about yesterday while browsing the Internet aimlessly and had mentioned it to Liberty. She had remembered. This was ‘The One’, a one-off motorcycle developed by H. R. Erbacher. It looked like a cross between a Chopper, a Harley, a 1930s classic and a top-of-the-range Superbike. It was powered by a 110-horsepower modified Harley engine and could reach speeds of over 200mph. This was pure power, pure muscle, pure grace. He took the helmet off the handlebars, put it on, and pulled down the black visor. Then he slipped in the key, turned it: the beast sprang to life. He smiled: if he was going to be dancing with danger, he might as well do it in style. No mistake: the MOIS didn’t do things by halves.
    The motorbike snarled through London like a panther, the reflected streetlights streaking along Uzi’s helmet. The heart-stopping speed purified him; he felt a sense of release that he hadn’t experienced since his Navy days, the feeling of cutting through the elements like an animal, at once deadly and scared, at once hunter and prey. He accelerated away from the city and cut west in the direction of Heathrow. Few vehicles were on the road; the night was entering its darkest hour.
    He arrived at Terminal 4 and left the bike in a shadowy corner of the car park. Then he approached the terminal building on foot, his helmet under his arm. Perhaps due to the stress – or lack of sleep – he was taken by the impression that this was the last place on earth, that there had been a nuclear apocalypse. Here, he thought, were the last glowing remnants of civilisation, contained within this bleached-out, grimy terminal. He slipped up the stairs to the mezzanine level. He couldn’t see Avner at first but he hadn’t been expecting to. He knew that he would have sought out an out-of-the-way corner somewhere in the back. After a little searching, he found him.
    Avner looked different, older. He was wearing a pair of rimless glasses, his hair was flecked with grey, and he was sporting a wispy moustache. He had altered the shape of his face by inserting cotton wads in his cheeks; his back was hunched slightly, as well. Uzi was impressed – a nice touch.
    ‘Mr Gruber?’ said Uzi in English.
    Avner looked up. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, in a slight German accent. ‘You are alone?’
    Uzi sat down, took out a cigarette and tapped it nervously on the table, waiting for the waitress to approach.
    ‘Why don’t you just step outside and smoke that fucking thing?’ said Avner in a low voice. ‘You’re really annoying when you’re like this.’
    Uzi didn’t respond. The waitress came over and he ordered a Peroni; they sat in silence until it arrived. Avner eyed