Free The Pure by Jake Wallis Simons Page B

Not sixty-forty.’
    Avner smiled tensely. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Yeah, one more thing. Stop calling me fucking Adam. It’s Uzi, get it? From now on, you call me Uzi. You agree to all of that, and we’ve got a deal.’

 
10
    London was copper in the evening light as Uzi left his apartment and stepped into the street. Avner was waiting for him in a white van, his elbow on the open window like a side of meat. Already Uzi was sweating. He was wearing a new jacket, into which that afternoon he had sewn new weights. He was carrying a small rucksack.
    ‘You’re early,’ said Uzi.
    ‘Can’t wait to get going,’ Avner replied. ‘It’s been a long time.’
    ‘You’ve changed your tune. Yesterday you were complaining like an old woman.’
    Avner started the engine and started to reverse around a corner and down a narrow alleyway.
    ‘It’s true. We should have prepared better,’ he said, adjusting the steering wheel by increments and craning over his shoulder. ‘We haven’t done enough surveillance, we haven’t got good enough intelligence. We haven’t even got a backup plan.’
    ‘Relax,’ said Uzi. ‘We won’t need a backup plan. This is child’s play. It couldn’t get any easier.’
    ‘The knife only needs to get through once. Twice in your case.’
    ‘Fuck you.’
    Uzi lit two cigarettes and passed one to his companion. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to wait until everything is perfect. I’ve got to do this now. Also, they won’t be expecting it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I got Waxman to make enquiries about a murder there. Posing as CID.’
    ‘You’re kidding.’
    ‘Straight up. They think I’m dead.’
    ‘And Waxman did that for you?’
    ‘He didn’t do it for me. He did it for his country.’
    Avner laughed. ‘You’re a cunning bastard, Adam, you know that?’
    ‘Uzi.’
    ‘Ah, sorry. Uzi.’
    ‘I got Waxman to tell them the bar is under surveillance and anything out of the ordinary would be noted. So they won’t run. We’ll get them tonight.’
    Avner was still chuckling as he parked the van in the shadows of the alleyway.
    Uzi jumped down and fitted false number plates on to the van. Then Avner gunned the engine, routed his iPod through the van’s sound system and turned it up. Immediately Uzi recognised Hadag Nahash, the most famous – and left-wing – hip-hop band in Israel. People from the Office were into Subliminal, the rightist rapper famous for ‘The Light From Zion’. To listen to Hadag Nahash was tantamount to treachery. Uzi got into the van and turned the aggressive beat up louder. Avner drove to the end of the alleyway and turned on to the road. Uzi’s ear began to itch and he thought the Kol was going to make an appearance. But then the itch faded. He hadn’t heard from the voice in a while. Long may it continue, he thought. Nodding their heads to the rhythm, they set off in the direction of Camden.
    When they arrived, Avner killed the music and parked the van in the shadows behind the Blue Peacock. The air was thick with exhaust and heat, and a cloud of birds was circling overhead. The sun was almost dead.
    ‘Right,’ said Avner, ‘let’s do it.’ He took from his pocket a small moisturiser tub and opened the lid to reveal a transparent, glue-like substance.
    ‘No,’ said Uzi, ‘no way. I’m not using that stuff.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ said Avner, dipping his fingertips in the tub.
    ‘It irritates my skin, you know that. Itches like fuck.’
    ‘So you’re going to put fingerprints everywhere?’
    ‘I’ll wear gloves or something.’
    ‘Gloves in a bar? In the middle of summer?’
    ‘I’ll worry about that.’
    ‘You brought some gloves?’
    ‘You were going to bring some.’
    ‘I brought this stuff instead. I forgot about your delicate skin.’
    ‘Give me that,’ growled Uzi, and began to apply the substance. For a few minutes they sat there in silence, hands in the air, waiting for their fingertips to dry.
    Uzi got