The Pure

Uzi’s motorcycle helmet but said nothing. Then, when all seemed clear, Uzi leaned forward and began to speak quickly. ‘Things have changed.’
    ‘Stop,’ said Avner in German, ‘let’s switch languages. A small thing, but you never know.’
    Uzi scowled. ‘Things have changed,’ he began again, in German. ‘It’s Liberty. She’s working for the MOIS.’
    Avner’s expression didn’t falter; he had come prepared for something big. ‘The MOIS? I should have seen that coming. I told you that bitch was bad news. What did she want with you?’
    ‘She gave me the inside story,’ hissed Uzi urgently. ‘Listen, the yellowcake is real.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Your intel is wrong. The yellowcake is no paper tiger. This is real. Operation Desert Rain will go ahead no matter what we do.’
    This time Avner couldn’t control his reaction. He took off his glasses, sat back in his chair, and scratched at his face as if it were covered in insects. Then he replaced his glasses and made an effort to compose himself. ‘She’s lying.’
    ‘Why would she be lying?’
    ‘I don’t know. But this contradicts all my intel sources.’
    ‘She showed me a photograph. She showed me a fucking photo. I recognised it. Natanz.’
    ‘Could it have been a composite image?’
    ‘You never know. But it didn’t look like it. And my instinct . . .’
    ‘Fuck your instinct.’
    They sat in silence for a moment, each man searching his thoughts, his feelings, his intuition, as the world shifted around them.
    ‘So Shalev was killed because he was about to compromise a genuine operation on a genuine threat?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Fuck,’ said Avner again, and pulled his iPad out of his briefcase. Uzi watched as he connected to the Ha’aretz website. ‘Fuck,’ he said once more, handing the iPad to Uzi. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
    The headline read: ‘Exclusive: Ram Shalev Killed By Mossad’. The reporter had done a good job. The whole story was there. All around it were links to analysis, related features, comments, editorial, opinion columns. Already the article had over three hundred comments; according to the website, it had been published just twenty minutes before.
    ‘Big splash,’ said Uzi pointlessly.
    ‘The ball is rolling now,’ said Avner, ‘and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We’ve got to think this through. We’ve got to work out how it’s going to affect things.’
    ‘For one thing, they’re going to be coming at us with a vengeance,’ said Uzi. ‘Especially me.’
    ‘You’ve got to run,’ said Avner. ‘You’ve got to leave the country. We’ve got in over our heads. Who knows how much damage we could be causing? The yellowcake’s real . . . fuck.’
    ‘Nobody escapes Israeli justice, as we know.’
    ‘Fuck.’
    ‘We’ll never stop them bombing the yellowcake now,’ said Uzi.
    Avner glanced up and caught Uzi’s eye. In that moment, with the insight of an old friend and the astuteness of a veteran spy, he knew exactly what his friend was thinking. ‘She’s got you, hasn’t she? You’ve agreed to help the MOIS. You’ve agreed to help them stop the air strikes.’
    ‘I haven’t agreed to anything.’
    Avner clasped a hand to his forehead. ‘So that’s what all this has been about. She’s been targeting you all along. God, we’ve been so blind. It all makes perfect sense.’
    ‘I haven’t agreed to anything, I’m telling you,’ said Uzi again. ‘I haven’t committed to anything. I can still refuse.’
    ‘Do you really think the MOIS will let you walk away? After this? Come on, Uzi.’
    ‘It’s not the MOIS I’m dealing with. It’s Liberty.’
    ‘I thought she worked for the MOIS?’
    ‘She does. But – we also have a personal connection.’
    ‘You’re not going to tell me that you’re still in love with her?’
    ‘Look, all I’m saying is . . .’
    ‘Fuck, she’s got you good. She’s got you really good.’
    Uzi felt his temper rising. ‘Shut up and listen to me,’ he said, making an effort to control his voice. ‘We might be spies, but it doesn’t mean we’re not human beings. There’s always room for human emotions, even in a game like this.’
    ‘My god, she’s completely turned your head. The woman has turned your head. What’s wrong with you?’
    ‘Are you telling me that people from different cultures can’t . . .’
    ‘Listen to yourself, my brother. Just fucking listen to yourself. Listen to what you’re saying.’
    They fell into a morose