The Pure (29 page)

‘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 Shiraz,’ said the woman he would learn to call Leila, ‘in a small community of Persian Jews. We’re protected by the constitution, you know; we have synagogues, kosher food, Jewish hospitals. As you know, Iran is not as it is often portrayed in the West.’

Uzi nodded, smoked, said nothing.

‘My father was a war hero,’ she continued, ‘a colonel in the army, one of the founders of the Quds Force, the highest-ranking Jew in the Iranian military. He had no sons – only me. All his hopes and ambitions rested on my shoulders, from when I was a little girl. I went to university in Tehran to study political science, and that made him proud. But what he really wanted was for me to stand up for my country.’

‘What was the name of your first tutor at University?’ Uzi interjected.

‘Doctor Amir Arshan,’ she replied smoothly. ‘You can verify that yourself. See, I’m telling the truth, Uzi. No more, no less.’

He nodded and gestured for her to continue.

‘After university, my father arranged an interview for me with the intelligence services.’

‘The MOIS?’

‘Yes, but it’s not what you think.’

‘So you’re MOIS,’ said Uzi, a note of finality in his voice. He walked to the window and peered through the curtains, as if merely uttering the word would bring danger. Portman Square was all but deserted. He passed his hand over his face, sat down. It all began to slot together in his mind. ‘Played by the MOIS,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. Played by the fucking MOIS. I’m a dead man.’

‘No,’ said Leila, ‘you weren’t played. And you didn’t see it coming because you’re a good man. We share our principles, so what else matters? MOIS, Mossad – they’re just names. We are the same, you and I. We have the same heart.’

Uzi sighed. ‘So your father arranged everything for you. And you accepted.’

Leila sipped her drink and continued. ‘Sure I accepted. Of course I did. I’ve always been my father’s daughter. Look, I’m not a blind patriot. I object to the President’s rhetoric as much as you. I’m no supporter of the religious fanatics threatening to choke our country. My father and I were no supporters of the Shah, but we stand for old Persia, the proud civilisation that still exists beneath the layer of madness, the posturing, the sabre-rattling. That’s all bullshit. Iran is bigger than that. I wanted to make a difference. For the sake of my father.’

‘Israel didn’t worry you?’

‘Israel worries everybody.’

Uzi laughed bitterly. ‘Where did you serve?’

‘My first tour was deep cover in America.’

‘Straight to deep cover? You must have been good.’

‘It was my father,’ she said, without any hesitation. ‘Anyway, I got top marks all the way. I loved the work. I was a sleeper in the States for ten years – until Eve Klugman was assassinated. That was when I found that my time had come.’

‘She was killed by you, I assume. Your organisation.’

‘She deserved to die, Uzi.’

‘You killed her?’

‘Not personally.’

‘Plausible deniability – that’s the CIA term, isn’t it? Not that you would know.’

‘It wasn’t me who killed her.’

‘You assassinated her family, too. Her children.’

‘That wasn’t my decision. The MOIS is much bigger than just me. But you have to understand: Klugman was cruel, Uzi. Some of the things she did . . .’

‘Let’s leave the dead in their graves. To cut a long story short, you took her place.’

‘I did. We shared many of the same physical characteristics. I learned how to dress like her, speak like her, act like her. I broke with all her old contacts and set myself up in a new place, using her identity. It was risky, but it worked.’

‘So what I’m hearing,’ said Uzi, ‘is that I’ve been groomed. You’re nothing but a honey-pot.’

‘Come on,’ Leila replied, ‘we both know it’s not as simple as that. I’m in love with you. That was never a pretence before, and it isn’t a pretence now.’ For an instant she looked like she might come over, embrace him, kiss him, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. He could almost smell her hair, feel her lips, the softness of her skin. But neither of them moved.

‘The MOIS have had you under close surveillance since you first arrived in England,’ she said. ‘Twenty-four-hour surveillance. Our people within the Mossad – yes, there are a few – have been following your career for a long time. We’ve seen you stand up for your principles, particularly over the killing of Ram Shalev. The Mossad tried to break you, but you couldn’t be broken. You’re a good man, Uzi. A brave man. Like I said, we share the same principles. And,’ she shifted closer towards him on the bed, ‘we know about you and Avner. We know about Operation Desert Rain. We know about Operation Regime Change. And we are full of admiration.’

Uzi stubbed his cigarette out, not knowing what to think, far less what to say, unable to look her in the eye.

‘I’ve wanted to say this for a long time,’ she went on. ‘You and Avner are heroes. Operation Regime Change is a courageous plan. You two are the only people in the entire Mossad actually concerned with peace. You’re even willing to sacrifice yourself for it. The entire MOIS is looking on in awe . . .’

Uzi looked up. Their eyes met, and he knew – at least, he thought he did – that she was telling the truth. ‘Yeah,’ he said awkwardly, ‘thanks.’

They finished their drinks and Uzi poured them each another. Neither spoke until they were settled again; this was the space where only small talk would fit, and this was no time for small talk.

‘I have the money,’ said Uzi at last. ‘Twenty million dollars. In my account right now. Tonight my testimony and documents go live on WikiLeaks. Then the shit will start.’

‘I know,’ said Leila, ‘but I have some intel for you.’

‘Intel?’

‘About Operation Regime Change.’

‘OK . . .’

‘It will never work.’

‘Why?’

‘Sure, it will damage the Mossad, it will compromise the government, it will probably lose them the election, but it will never stop Operation Desert Rain. It will never stop them bombing our yellowcake.’

‘Why not? When the world finds out that it’s a false target . . .’

‘It’s not a false target, Uzi.’

A pause.

‘What?’

‘The Israelis are not planning the attack as a trumped-up PR exercise. No. Avner and his friends got it wrong. The Islamic Republic’s yellowcake is real. It exists.’

‘Real?’

‘That’s right. Our nuclear programme has been making good progress. We’ve reached the yellowcake stage. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

Leila passed him her mobile phone, on which was a photograph of a line of white barrels, filled with a startlingly bright yellow powder. Yellowcake; it was unmistakably yellowcake. The barrels were in a warehouse with a distinctive pattern of interlocking girders across the roof. Uzi recognised it instantly from previous operations: the secret Iranian enrichment plant at Natanz.

‘That must be a doctored image,’ said Uzi, handing the phone back.

‘It isn’t. The Mossad’s intel was wrong. Our yellowcake is real.’

‘So Ram Shalev was wrong? There’s a genuine threat? Operation Desert Rain is not just a ploy to win the election?’

‘That’s right. Shalev was convinced the yellowcake was a paper tiger, and he was about to leak the details of Desert Rain. So he had to be killed. The yellowcake represents an existential threat to Israel. Destroying it is more important to your government than the life of one man.’

‘Fuck. This means I’m fucked too. When my testimony goes live, I’ll be fucked. Even more than I thought.’

‘You won’t be. You’ll be with me. Together we’ll be safe.’

‘If you knew all along, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t turn on me if I revealed my identity. Anyway, Operation Regime Change wasn’t a waste of time. It will still topple the government. With a different government in power, there will be a greater chance of peace. But it won’t stop them bombing the yellowcake. Nothing will. That’s why I need your help.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only someone from inside the Mossad – someone like you – can protect our yellowcake from the Israeli air strikes. That’s been the reason for my whole operation. That’s why the MOIS has sent me to make contact with you. You’re a man of principle. We need your help.’

‘I see,’ said Uzi slowly. ‘Now it’s starting to make sense.’

‘Help us, and you’ll be guaranteed protection for life. I’m not going to explain the details now – this is not the place – but think about it,’ said Leila. ‘The Mossad will hunt you; we can protect you.’ She paused before continuing. ‘And don’t forget your Doctrine of the Status Quo. You said yourself that a 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.’

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.