The Pure

speaking in French – taking the corner of Uzi’s jacket in his fingers. ‘Paranoid as ever.’
    Uzi snatched his jacket away. Sewn into the corners were little lead weights, making it possible to swing it open with a twist of the body and draw your weapon in a single movement. They had both perfected the movement years ago in training: swing draw, swing draw, swing draw. (The famous ‘Israeli draw’, where the sidearm was snatched from the holster with an empty cartridge and racked at the same time, was slower. For the Office, it had to be quick: swing draw.)
    ‘This jacket suits me fine,’ said Uzi, replying also in French. ‘You’re the one who won’t speak on the phone. Who always wants to meet in four eyes.’
    ‘Meet in four eyes? You’re still using the jargon, my brother. It’s over for you now, don’t you get it? You’ve quit. Now you’ve got to let it go.’
    ‘A man can’t let go of himself. You know that.’
    ‘A man can, Adam. A man can let go of his old self.’
    ‘Uzi. Call me Uzi.’
    ‘You’re embarrassed to use the name your mother gave you?’
    ‘Fuck you.’
    ‘We can’t play those games any more, I’m telling you. This is real life.’
    There was a pause as they both, instinctively, scanned the room, with practised casualness.
    ‘You look well, Avner.’
    ‘I am well. Wish I could say the same about you.’
    ‘You could,’ said Uzi testily.
    ‘Your French is as good as ever.’
    ‘Yeah, thanks.’
    ‘I thought French would be nice for today. A creative language.’
    Uzi shrugged and fingered his cigarette packet. Avner’s iPhone bleeped.
    ‘Why can’t you stop using these children’s toys?’ said Uzi. ‘With you it’s always Apple this, Apple that. Always the latest one.’
    ‘I’ve ordered you a double espresso,’ said Avner.
    ‘Do you have a light?’
    ‘This is England, remember?’
    ‘Shit.’
    Uzi, riled and hot, put away his cigarettes. The waitress arrived with his coffee. She was surly, beautiful, with a pencil in her hair. Uzi imagined her in an army uniform; she glanced at him and looked away. He stirred a sugar cube in, drank it in a single draught. It burned his tongue and he liked that. Steadied, he turned back to his companion.
    Avner Golan had the air and physique of a paratrooper. His prominent nose and teeth, coupled with his rather narrow face, gave him a deceptive air of friendliness. He and Uzi had joined the Office in the same cohort; fifteen people were recruited every three years, if enough good candidates could be found (for each of the fifteen, five thousand had been rejected). Seven of their contemporaries had failed the final tests for one reason or another; two had been assigned to the Shiklut department, as audio intel analysts; two, Uzi and Avner, had become Katsas, operational in the field; and rumour had it that Golding, the most religious of the group, had become a Kidon – an assassin.
    ‘We’re brothers, Adam,’ said Avner. ‘You should come and work with me. I’m running a business now.’
    ‘You’re no longer shovelling shit for London Station?’
    ‘Sure, I’m still doing that. But the money stinks, and I’ve got debts. So on the side I have a legitimate business.’
    ‘Legitimate,’ Uzi repeated sardonically. ‘Sure. You’ve been a bastard ever since I’ve known you.’
    ‘What about you? Are you still making money how I think you’re making money?’ asked Avner.
    ‘Very little changes,’ said Uzi, ‘even when everything’s different.’
    ‘You’re small fry, Adam. You’ve become small fry.’
    ‘That’s all I want right now. Small money. Nothing big.’
    ‘I’ll get some off you before you leave,’ said Avner.
    ‘Thirty pounds for an eighth.’
    ‘Bullshit.’ Avner dug with a long-handled spoon into the bottom of the glass and slipped some froth between his lips. ‘You wouldn’t ask me for money, brother.’
    Uzi shrugged.
    ‘No wonder you’ve still got the jacket weights,’ said Avner, dismissively. ‘I’m being serious. Come and work for me.’
    ‘I already have a day job,’ said Uzi.
    ‘As what?’
    ‘Protection operative.’
    ‘Security guard?’
    ‘Protection operative.’
    ‘What’s behind the front?’ said Avner suspiciously.
    ‘I told you, it’s a day job. Just a day job.’
    ‘Bullshit. Who do you guard?’
    ‘Schools, synagogues,’ said Uzi wearily. ‘You know the sort of thing.’
    ‘Like I said, security guard.’
    ‘Like I said, protection