The Marsh Angel by Hagai Dagan (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

Is this some sort of Iranian mind-game? Tamir thought to himself. So… Who is it? he asked.

Amir Rajai. At least, I think that’s him.

What else do we know about him?

What do you mean, what else? I didn’t tell you anything yet.

Right. So, what do we know about him? Tamir corrected himself.

He was injured in the Iran-Iraq War. We think he’s the Iranian liaison in Lebanon, in charge of coordinating affairs with all the different organizations. He’s supposed to be working in conjunction with Syrian intelligence in Lebanon, but there’s no evidence to suggest he’s actually doing that. The Iranians play by their own rules, you know…

Yes, Tamir said, feeling that was what was expected of him to say at that point.

In short, we gather that he’s important from sources… Never mind, we gather from our sources that the leadership in Tehran puts a lot of trust in him. He could be pretty well connected there. On the other hand, there were rumors…

Yes?

There were rumors that he’s a bit naughty.

Naughty?

Yes, women. Usually very young women. It’s plausible he might’ve put so much distance between himself and Iran in order to have more freedom.

How do you know this?

We picked up a call… I don’t know if I can tell you this. It’s highly classified.

Don’t tell me the source, just who the speakers were and what was said.

Two Iranian diplomats stationed abroad that allow themselves to badmouth senior functionaries because they’re certain no one can tap their means of communication. He snickered to himself.

And what did they say?

That he likes women and girls, and that Tehran turns a blind eye to it because he’s considered to be a prodigious talent and is quite valuable to the regime. They highly value their position in Lebanon, you know…

Yes, Tamir responded the same way again.

The soldier nodded his head and fell silent again. It seemed like that was all he was going to say. Tamir thanked him and left the office, absorbed in his thoughts. He lost his bearings and wandered around the hallways a bit before finding his department again. He looked for Nissenbaum, but he was nowhere to be seen. Over the following days, Tamir saw less and less of Nissenbaum who, on the infrequent occasions when he did come into the office, seemed distant, like his gaze was cast on places far beyond the unit, the department, and the base. His eyes reflected majestic faraway lands, offices laden with neatly-arranged folders containing minute details of insurance companies and banks, important business customers, and dedicated lawyers stationed behind shining bureaus, straightening their silk ties. When Tamir consulted him, he answered thoroughly— but somewhat absently. On one occasion, he told Tamir that he felt he was losing touch with the material, that he no longer mastered it to the degree that he previously had, as if he had switched frequencies in his mind.

Tamir realized he needed to get a grip on things fast, with Nissenbaum’s help or without it. He sat hunched at his desk, trying to block out the outside world and focus solely on a microcosm of communications data, operative deployment, and dialogues conducted within one small Palestinian organization. His labor quickly bore fruit, as he formed an increasingly lucid picture of the organization and its extensions in his mind. His assignment was to recognize emergent trends, changes, and dynamics, and to issue evaluations and summaries to notify the relevant research and security bodies— known collectively and simply as consumers. At the end of the day, Nissenbaum said on one of his increasingly rare cameos, it’s quite relaxed work. At the bases, they work frantically under constant pressure. That’s not for me, no sir, he added. Here, we work nine-to-five. Some people really dedicate themselves, you know, they come in at 6 a.m. and stay until nighttime. But that was never me. And despite that, as you can see, I managed quite fine. If you’re not looking to make a career out of this, there’s no reason why you… he paused to consider his words. Moti’s probably told you already that he expects you to put in the extra graft. That’s your business. I’m telling you, you can do your job well without having to… go overboard. You can call it bourgeois intelligence.

d. Illusory Chill

The following day, Yaki called Tamir to inform him that ‘Ali had made contact. He doesn’t have anything interesting to say, Yaki said. That is, not as far as the system is concerned…

I’m listening, Tamir said.

Remember the story about the guy from preventive-security, the one who picked up on her dialect?

Of course.

Well, ‘Ali’s a tricky bastard. He took that guy out to a whorehouse in east Beirut, his treat. Well, our treat, really. And believe me, it doesn’t come cheap. We pay, and the son a bitch has the time of his life.

Okay, and?

What are you so antsy about? Don’t you appreciate a good whorehouse story?

No, I just… Tamir fell awkwardly silent.

I’m just messing with you, take it easy. Anyway, they’re sitting there with all the girls, drinking cognac, when the guy from preventive-security tells him that they followed the girl for a while, but that he got orders from above to drop it, sort of.

Sort of?

Someone came in from the organization’s headquarters in Damascus— came in physically, because he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone or the radio…

Interesting.

He said that officially, they had to drop the case, effective immediately.

And, unofficially?

Unofficially, if they do keep tabs on her, they absolutely couldn’t be discovered. So, they kept her on their watch and saw her entering a very high-class hotel in Beirut, going up to one of the suites. They waited for a while in the car outside the hotel. She came out first, and a shortly after she was followed by someone they know very well.

Amir Rajai, Tamir said.

How the hell did you know that?!

See? We don’t slack on our end… But it’s good that you can confirm it on your end, as well.

Yes…