‘No, you’re not obliged,’ Oren contradicted her. ‘You children have the right to refuse the lie detector. Which gives me the right to shoot you.’
Somebody cleared his throat into the silence.
‘Lastly,’ said Bar-Tov, ‘you must never talk about work over the phone, or at home, or in any other unauthorised situation. Anyone who does this will be severely punished. Don’t ask me how I will know. I am the head of internal security. I will know everything.’
She paused and looked around the room, scrutinising every face, every expression, every movement of every eyelid, every shuffle. Adam stole a glance left and right. His fellow recruits looked tough, battle-hardened and wily in their own ways. But none of them dared move, let alone speak.
‘Children,’ said Oren, drawing himself up to his full height, ‘enjoy your last few minutes as blind people. Today we start to open your eyes.’
After that, the morning passed with various inductions. In silence the recruits filed through the technology room, the listening department, the library of passports and documents, the armoury, the recreation area. They would be given training in five areas: intelligence gathering, communications protocol, general military knowledge, covert and secret technology, and undercover operations. And Adam, like the other recruits, was impatient for it all to begin.
He didn’t have to wait for long. After a sumptuous lunch in the prime minister’s dining room, with menus sourced from the best restaurants in the world – Office operatives would have to be comfortable in such environments, and this would form part of their training – they were ordered to hand in their identity cards and driven in groups of three to downtown Tel Aviv. Adam was once again placed in the charge of Yigal, who was as taciturn on the drive back into the city as he had been on the way out of it. The hottest part of the day had given way to the scorching closeness of the mid-afternoon, when heat seems to rise from everything: the tarmac, the pavement, the cars. Adam began to feel drowsy as the Mercedes hummed gently through the traffic. The psychologist was driving; Adam’s eyes rested on the hair on top of his head until it blurred, and he dozed.
But it was thoughts of Nehama, still his Nehama, that prevented him from losing consciousness completely. Had she planned to tell him she was pregnant? Was she intending to leave him? Was she afraid of what he might say, of what he might do? He checked his phone: nothing. The dumb inanimateness of a tool not being used. He turned it off.
Eventually the psychologist parked somewhere in the HaRakevet district, north-west of the LaGuardia Interchange. They got out, and Adam followed him and Yigal through the streets, feeling naked and vulnerable without his ID card. If he were caught there would be trouble, especially given his standing in the military. They reached the Yad Harutzim, a street famous for its cafés and bars. They bought coffees and stood on the corner, in the shade.
At length, Yigal spoke. ‘Look over there,’ he said, gesturing into the sun. ‘See that police officer across the road? Here’s your task. Find out his first name and his last name. Find out where he’s from. Sit with him in his car and have a drink of water. Then come back.’
‘What shall I do if he asks for my ID? I was told to hand it in.’
‘Then what do you want me to say? Think of a cover story and stick to it.’
‘I’ll be arrested.’
‘Stick to your cover story. You have seven minutes.’
Adam drained his coffee, crumpled the paper cup and dropped it in the bin. Then he walked as casually as possible across the baking tarmac. The police officer was leaning on his squad car, surveying the street.
He was an imposing figure, almost a full head taller than Adam. For some reason he reminded him of the legendary Golem, the statue that was brought to life by a mystic seventeenth-century Rabbi and oath-bound to protect the Jews. His hand was resting on the butt of his handgun as if he were ready to use it; his sunglasses reflected his badge, his squad car, the street. A rookie, Adam thought. Only a rookie caresses his weapon like that. As he approached, the officer watched him, sensing that he wanted to talk. The man seemed nervy, probably just out of the army. This was not an easy assignment.
‘Officer, hello,’ said Adam in his best American drawl. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘A little,’ stumbled the officer in a heavy accent, taken off-guard.
‘I wanted to ask you a question,’ said Adam. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
The policeman nodded stiffly.
‘I’m a film-maker,’ Adam said. ‘From America. You know? I make films.’
The officer looked confused. ‘Film?’
‘Yes, you know. Movies. Terminator? Die Hard? Batman?’
‘OK,’ said the officer, without breaking a smile. ‘So?’
‘I’m making a film set in Tel Aviv, and I need a police officer to act in it.’
‘Police?’
‘Yes, like you. Turn to the side?’
The officer hesitated then offered his profile. And that was when Adam knew he had him.
‘Yes, you’d be perfect,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yaakov Riff.’
‘From where?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, where are you from?’
‘Giv’atayim.’
‘Do you have a number where I can contact your superior officers to ask their permission, Riff?’
This level of English was beyond the officer, and it took some time for him to understand. The minutes were slipping away, but Adam couldn’t take any chances; one wrong move could ruin everything. At length, the officer took out a piece of paper and wrote a number down, leaning on his squad car. Adam decided to go in for the kill.
‘We pay one thousand dollars a day,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not much, but we’re talking about a small part. How does that sound?’
When, through repetition and gesticulation, the officer understood what Adam was saying, he nodded like a schoolboy. His hand, for the first time, left his sidearm. It was now or never.
‘This car,’ said Adam, ‘you can drive it fast?’
The officer nodded.
‘You are good at driving fast?’
Another nod. A small smile now. Adam walked around the car, looking at it from different angles through fingers squared to mimic a camera.
‘You want I should get in?’ asked the officer. Adam’s heart took a leap. He shrugged nonchalantly.
From then on, it was easy. The officer posed. Adam asked to see the perspective from the front seat of the car; the officer welcomed him in. The vehicle smelled so strongly of Magic Tree that Adam’s subsequent coughing fit was only partially faked. Either way, it wasn’t long before the officer offered him some water. Adam glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Seven minutes exactly. He asked the officer to turn to the side again so he could see his profile against the light. He caught eyes with Yigal across the street, and raised his cup in salute.
People are there to be used, Adam realised. You don’t need a gun to make them do what you want. Find the right opening – money, sex, revenge, vanity – and they’re yours. No question about it. This was superhuman. All in the name of freedom, democracy, his people. This was special.
12
‘I can’t wait to fuck the Office,’ said Avner, ‘those bastards.’
They were sitting in the van, parked in the shadows under a broken streetlight in a Tesco car park.
‘Sure, sure, they’re all sons of whores,’ said Uzi, scratching his fingers, ‘but is it really worth it?’
‘Worth what?’
‘Going into hiding. Spending the rest of our lives on the run.’
‘Getting nervous?’
‘Who said anything about nervous?’
‘Look, Uzi, you’ve agreed already. If you’re going to let me down, just tell me. I can bail out of this operation now.’
‘Don’t go mad, Avner. Of course I’ll do it.’
‘Don’t even think about it, then.’
‘OK, OK. Trust me.’
‘I trust you just like you trust me,’ said Avner.
They both smiled, and Uzi cleared his throat. The hot night sat heavily around them.
‘Do you think we should check on the Poles?’ said Uzi. ‘They’ve been quiet for almost an hour.’
‘You’ve gone soft,’ said Avner. ‘Check on them if you want.’
Uzi snorted and sat back. For a while he looked out of the window into the darkness. Then he got out and went round to the back of the van. Just as he was about to open the door, he heard a voice.
‘Uzi.’ His ear hadn’t itched this time.
‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘It’s night-time. We arranged to speak in the night-time.’
‘If there’s nothing to speak about, we don’t need to speak,’ said Uzi under his breath, glancing warily around.
‘But there is something to speak about. There is a lot to speak about.’
‘I’m sure there is. But I’m busy right now, OK? I’m on an operation.’
‘You didn’t tell me anything about an operation.’
‘I don’t have to tell you everything. You’re not my mother. This is a personal operation, it has nothing to do with you. You’re going to drive me crazy, you know that? You’re going to drive me crazy.’
There was a silence and Uzi thought the Kol had gone. But then, just as he was reaching out to the door handle, the voice spoke again.
‘Believe in yourself, Uzi,’ it said calmly.
Uzi shook his head and sighed. Avner’s face could be seen watching him quizzically in the wing mirror. Uzi made a gesture that all was well. Then – tentatively – he opened the door of the van.
There were the three men, like felled logs in the half-light. It was as silent as a morgue. His fingers were itching and he cursed. He climbed inside, closed the door and squatted among them, holding a cigarette lighter aloft. A chill came over him despite the heat. He couldn’t account for this feeling of dread; in the past, this never would have bothered him. Before doing anything further, he lit a cigarette from the flame of the lighter and inhaled deeply. One of the men coughed and let out a low moan. At least he was alive. The other two did not move.
He stretched out his free hand and rested it lightly on the shiny chest of the man nearest to him. It might have been anybody; they were covered in tape from head to foot, there was nothing individual about them. The chest was rising and falling normally. He removed his hand and shuffled on his haunches over to the third man. His chest seemed still. Uzi flattened his hand on the chest and applied a little pressure. Nothing. The cigarette lighter flickered out, plunging the world into blackness; only the red glow of the cigarette remained. Silence sat tangibly inside the van. Uzi sparked the lighter and looked again. He turned his face to the side and lowered his ear to the man’s nose. Nothing – nothing. The lighter went out.
Just as Uzi was about to light it again, there was a crackling, jolting sound and something collided against his face. This was followed by a muffled moan, and a muffled shriek, which was joined by another, lower voice, all the more unnerving for its lack of volume. Uzi was knocked again, and overbalanced on to his back. The parcelled men were bucking and rearing in the darkness all around him, making unearthly noises. He got to his hands and knees and scrabbled on the floor, trying to find his lighter. The van was bouncing on its suspension, creaking. He knew he should call out, but he couldn’t. Pride or terror, perhaps both. His eyes opened wide, then wider, he couldn’t see a thing. The weird cacophony continued all around him, these alien sounds, the crackling of packing tape, bodies wriggling and jack-knifing like fish.
The door was flung open, the overhead light came on, and there stood Avner, Beretta drawn. With a succession of sharp blows with the butt of his weapon, together with a stream of Russian curses, he subdued the chaos. Then he helped Uzi climb down.
‘Look at you,’ laughed Avner, closing the door. ‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Fuck you,’ Uzi replied, ‘just fuck off.’
He got back into the van and put another cigarette between his trembling teeth. He had no lighter. He cursed, beat his fists against the dashboard.
The door opened and Avner climbed in, still chuckling.
‘What’s so fucking funny?’ said Uzi.
‘Relax, my friend, relax,’ Avner said. ‘You’ve had a hard night.’
Uzi punched the dashboard once more and they fell silent. He lit his cigarette from Avner’s lighter, and smoked aggressively. When the cigarette was finished he took some cannabis from his pocket and started to roll a joint.
‘Come on,’ said Avner, ‘we’re on an operation. Take it easy.’
‘This isn’t a fucking operation.’ Uzi growled. ‘I left the Office, remember? There aren’t any more operations.’
‘Look, just put the joint down. If you’re stoned and something goes wrong, we’ll both be fucked. I saw you talking to yourself out there.’
‘What’s your problem? It’s just a spliff.’
‘Not when we’re on an operation. Not when I’m on your side.’
‘But are you on my side? You’re still working for the Office, if only as a shit shoveller.’
‘What are you talking about? I’m doing you a favour.’
‘You call this a favour? This isn’t a favour. It’s a two-way street. I’m helping you with your political hocus-pocus as well, don’t forget. Getting you your money.’
‘Whatever. I just don’t want a stoner with me on an operation, that’s all.’
‘Fuck you.’
Uzi lit the spliff and began to smoke. There was a pause. He looked through the windscreen at the supermarket. The last of the customers had left the shop long ago, and inside the staff could be seen moving to and fro, stacking shelves, cleaning floors. Soon it would be time to end this thing and go home for a few hours’ sleep. He was feeling mellower now. He looked over at Avner, who was resting his head on the side window.
‘Want some?’ he said, holding out the spliff.
‘Oh fuck it,’ said Avner, and took a long drag.
The moon shone and the Tesco staff started to leave.
‘Let’s do it now,’ said Uzi.
‘Not yet,’ Avner replied. ‘It’s still too busy.’
The air was close and still. Avner opened the sun roof. There was a pause.
‘I think we’re being watched,’ said Uzi.
‘We’re not being watched.’
‘I can feel it.’
Avner shook his head. ‘Already you’re getting spy syndrome? You’ve got to kick the dope habit. You’re not the man you used to be.’
‘None of us are.’
‘But with you it’s because of the dope.’
‘What are you, a therapist?’
‘You’ve got to give it up, you know. This habit.’
‘Whatever.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you have any idea where you might go?’ said Avner.
‘When?’
‘After our operation. When we start over.’
‘I told you, I’m staying here in London. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother building my business. I wouldn’t be bothering with these jokers in the back.’
‘You can ruin your life if you want. I’m going somewhere nice.’
‘You should try Greece. It’s cheap over there at the moment.’
‘I can’t speak Greek,’ said Avner.
‘You could learn.’
They stopped talking as a car swept past them, headlights sweeping the road, heading for home.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Uzi. ‘What we’ve become.’
‘Funny?’ said Avner.
‘A year ago we were gods. Now look at us. Taking petty revenge on some small-time losers. Funny, eh?’
‘Yeah, hilarious.’
They watched the supermarket for a while longer. More staff left. Then it was time. Avne
r released the handbrake and the van rolled silently out of the shadows towards the bottle bank. They pulled ski masks over their faces, then Uzi used a pair of bolt cutters to open the lid. Avner hauled the three parcels out and laid them out on the tarmac. They were breathing, but otherwise not making a sound.
‘Now, children,’ said Uzi in Russian, ‘your eyes will be feeling better by now. Who wants to see again?’ He reached down to the first of the men and pulled away the tape from around his eyes. A pair of pupils flicked from side to side.
‘Like Arab women,’ said Avner, restoring the gift of sight to the second man. Uzi laughed and did the same to the third. Then he laughed louder to show he was not afraid. There they were: three wrinkled mummies with eyes.
‘Now, my Polish children,’ he said, ‘we are about to start our lesson for today. We’re learning not to fuck with Tomislav Kasheyev. Concentrate, children, because you’ll have an exam on it later.’
Widening eyes. The occasional scuff against the ground. Uzi was sick to the stomach but he didn’t admit it, even to himself. His wounds were hurting. But business was business.
‘Get on with it,’ said Avner under his breath.
‘See behind me?’ said Uzi. ‘Recycling. They only empty it every two weeks.’
The first two men struggled and made muffled cries as Uzi and Avner hoisted them on to their shoulders and slid them down into the bottle bank. The third was limp, resigned, and sobbing. The bottles clashed and clattered as the men struggled in the dark, panicking.
‘Study hard,’ said Uzi into the echoing space. ‘Don’t forget there’s an exam coming. Be careful of falling bottles. And remember: next time, don’t fuck with Tomislav Kasheyev.’
He slammed the lid and, without looking back, climbed into the van and lit a cigarette. Avner joined him and rolled the vehicle back into the shadows, away from the CCTV. There he prised off the remaining false number plates before revving the engine and driving off into the night.
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