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

left the room and came back a couple of minutes later with a coffee from the machine down the hallway.

It’s shitty coffee, but I haven’t quite settled in here yet, he said affably. He pulled out a writing block and pen from his bag and placed them on the table before him. Tamir thought to himself that if this was really his office, he would have pulled the writing block and pen out of a drawer, not from his bag. He must be a guest here, like I am, he thought. He didn’t notice anyone else there when they came in. Could they be there by themselves?

Gabi, if that was his real name, started off with some personal details— Tamir’s name, his address, and date of birth. He then asked some questions about the kibbutz, about his childhood and adolescence. Intertwined with these mundane questions were questions Tamir recalled from the security clearance investigations he underwent prior to enlisting: he was asked about any relations he might have with foreigners or with Arabs; he was asked about drug use, probably just for the record; he was asked a question about relations with foreign volunteers in the kibbutz; and he was asked about family members who immigrated from foreign countries or who currently live abroad. It was evident by his questions that Gabi had familiarized himself with Tamir’s biography, but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he started probing at length about Tamir’s political stances. Tamir was prepared. He said he voted for the Israeli Labor Party, but that he supported its hardline right wing, the Tabenkin faction. That was untrue, however: in the previous elections, Tamir voted for the United Workers Party, but had recently started feeling that even their strand of kibbutz-oriented socialism was not progressive enough for his liking. But he told none of this to Gabi.

Gabi asked his opinion about the right of return.

For Palestinians? Tamir played dumb.

Yes, for Palestinians.

I think that not only is it impractical, but that it poses a genuine threat to Zionism and should be rejected out of hand, Tamir declared with slightly exaggerated pomp.

Your work revolves around Palestinian organizations.

Correct.

It’s a well-known phenomenon that, on occasions, while conducting intelligence work, a researcher might develop a certain bond or empathy towards the object of their research.

Yes… Tamir said.

Have you ever felt such a bond or empathy stirring in you?

That’s a pretty good question, he thought to himself. No, he said. I’ve never felt such emotions. And if I ever will, I know very well how to differentiate fleeting subjective feelings from my rational position.

It’s okay, Gabi insisted, if you’ve even felt something like that. You can tell me. It’s perfectly normal.

No, I don’t recall anything like that. These people, to the extent I can make out from the materials, are not very nice people. Besides, I never forget what their ideology is, what their intentions are. He hoped his words didn’t sound contrived. It’s difficult to move by the beat of someone else’s drum.

Gabi gave him a measured look, like he was weighing something up in his mind. Finally, he leaned over, got close to Tamir’s face, and asked sharply and loudly: What were you doing in 12 Gordon Street on the twenty-first of November?

Tamir was taken by surprise, and at the same time was surprised at himself that he had allowed himself to be taken by surprise. How did I not see that this is what all of this is about? But how do they know? Were they following me? Tapping my phone? Nonsense. So, what does that leave? Well, it’s obvious: the Al-Shajara Foundation is under surveillance. Who would’ve thought? Actually, that’s not so hard to believe. Anyway, if that’s really the case, then it’s hard to say how much they already know. They could just be monitoring the comings and goings into the office, but they could just as easily have bugged the office. If that’s the case, there’s no point in lying. The question is, which of the options to assume.

Well?! Gabbi demanded.

You’re not a child, Tamir told himself, you’re not defending the flag and he is not Ronen Schwartz. You’re not ‘Ali the Yellow, either. Stay in control. Keep cool. Think. He looked square into his interrogator’s eyes. I went over there looking for information that might help me in my work, he said.

What information?!

I’m not sure you have the security clearing to know.

I have clearing for everything! Don’t play games with me.

You haven’t shown me your ID, and you’ve only introduced yourself by your first name. For all I know, you could be a KGB agent.

You know, you’re not doing yourself any favors here! Gabi snapped at him and pounded the table with his fist.

Suddenly, Tamir heard a sound coming from behind the slit in the wall. Seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and two men in civilian clothes entered the room. Okay Gabi, said one of them— a mustached, puffy-cheeked man with a receding hairline who wore a black short-sleeved polo shirt, despite the chilly weather— we’ve got it from here.

Gabi started at him momentarily before reluctantly rising to his feet, collecting his writing block and pen, and swiftly exiting the room. Tamir assumed he will be viewing the conversation from behind the slit.

I’m Menashe, the man in the polo shirt said. The other man stood silently beside the table. The small red yarmulke on his head flashed like a warning light in the cramped space of the room. The mustached man fixed his gaze on Tamir. You’re not supposed to be conducting investigations outside of the intelligence framework you’re assigned to. You know that, right? he said.

Yes.

And still, you chose to go there.

Yes. I didn’t have enough information in the intelligence framework I am assigned to.

That’s clear. But this is the reality we live in.

Yes.

Listen, I’ll be clear and to the point. It’s very important to me that you confirm that you understand what I’m about to say, okay? The girl? Drop it. That