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

How, exactly? Oz wondered. He was sitting on the edge of the vermilion sofa in Tamir’s apartment, seeming very out of place. He should only be sitting on dull office furniture, Tamir thought, eating crappy sandwiches with drab yellow cheese and soggy, sad lettuce, drinking black coffee from disposable paper cups.

After you blew the lid off the coded poems, we informed the prime minister and requested that he doesn’t share any sensitive information with his cabinet, Musa said. Problem is, the day before we informed him, they held a cabinet meeting in which some very sensitive information was disclosed. It’s an operation of ours in Iran, something pretty complex… It’s not something that we can cancel at the drop of a hat. It’s been building for a very long time, and has reached its final stages now. That’s why we absolutely can’t afford to have this information falling into Rajai’s hands.

And I guess tackling this at the level… Tamir paused. At the level of the minister of the interior and his wife, that’s off the table?

Integrity of the coalition, Oz replied flatly.

At least for now, Musa said, we have to work under these constrictions.

But still, Tamir said, the only way she can pass this intelligence on is by publishing a poem. At least, that’s how they did it so far. Only if Raspberry warns her… He preferred calling her Raspberry, or the stint, when talking to Musa, but never Dallal. He felt that helped protect her, in some mysterious way.

Why would she warn her? Musa asked abruptly. Does she know anything? Do you know something I don’t?

No, she doesn’t know anything, Tamir quickly reassured. So, as long as Sa’ira doesn’t publish a poem…

She has, Musa said. Believe it or not, since you cracked this thing, we’ve been sitting on every goddamn literary journal in the world, no matter how obscure. If someone’s publishing some shitty volume once a year on recycled paper at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, we’re on it. Yesterday, a poem by Flamingo Reed was published in a journal called Blue Diaspora, published in Edinburgh. Again, Acadians and Sumerians. It included a lot of details about the operation. We might not have even understood everything, be we understood enough. It looks bad. Very bad.

Shit… Yaki said, downing a hefty portion of Scotch whiskey he had brought with him to Tamir’s apartment.

This guy, Ben Amram, does he walk around with body guards? Oz hissed through clenched teeth.

Several hours after the poem was published, the Americans informed us that Rajai cleared his schedule for the following afternoon. My bet is he’s going to meet her. Let’s hope he leaves the embassy. We can track him from there. We might get lucky.

The wind outside picked up. Hail pounded on the windowpanes.

So, they are going to deliver sensitive intelligence during this meeting, Oz concluded.

We can’t allow that to happen, Musa said. From the moment he sets foot outside the embassy, we can’t lose him for even a second. As soon as he meets up with the stint, we need to get a clear view of them. Once we have a clear view of both of them, we take them out. If we can’t get a clear view, then we have to get in there and put an end to this.

So, both of them? Yaki repeated.

Both of them.

Do we have clearance?

That’s a direct order from me. That should be enough for you.

Got it, Yaki said.

Prepare for anything with everything at your disposal. Cars, equipment… Go over every possible scenario. You know.

Yes.

t. Zwickel

Everyone’s up to speed, I just have to tie up the loose ends with you, Yaki said. Besides, I had to go out and get a drink. That Oz, he’s no fun. He’s like a goddamn monk.

The waitress placed their beers on the table. She had bright purple hair and humorous eyes.

You know why they call it zwickel beer? Yaki asked, glancing at Tamir’s opaque, golden beverage.

I can guess… Zwicken means ‘to pinch’. Because it pinches your palate?

You should’ve stayed some kind of analyst, Yaki said. You’d come here, and we could chase all sorts of mysterious terrorists, drink beers, have a ball. Instead, you’re stuck in… Where are you stuck?

Shikma Stream College.

Sounds very…

Pastoral?

No.

Southern?

No. Sounds like a shithole. Doesn’t sound like a place one can apply his analytical skills.

Yeah, Tamir sighed. How’s your beer?

You should try it. How do you say Hefeweizen in Hebrew?

Yeast beer? Wheat-yeast beer?

Something like that, Yaki said, his eyes locked on two women passing by their table. What can I say, he sighed, Austrian chicks are pretty mediocre. Good thing there’s a lot of immigrants in this city. You have Turks, Arabs…

Not very wise of you to a be involved with Turkish and Arab women.

Be involved with… What are you, a Shin-Beit interrogator? Since when do I ‘get involved’? A couple of shots, mix around a bit… Come morning, I don’t even know her.

Yes, maybe I should learn that craft from you, Tamir muttered. The monotonous hum of unintelligible chatter and loud laughter pervaded the room. The pub— called Das Kauzchen, ‘The Owl’— evoked a sense of warm, nocturnal gaiety. The young men and women toasting their drinks seemed almost happy.

Are you hungry? Yaki asked. The food here is terrible. We could grab a sausage in the stand by Hummel. There’s a nice Turkish woman there who sells those sausages, käsekrainer, pork stuffed with cheese. It’s very nutritious.

Say, Yaki, were you per chance raised in a religious house?

We’re sort of traditional, but it’s different for Iraqis like us. Our God… he doesn’t interfere with our lives for the most part.

You’re Iraqi?

Half Iraqi.

What’s the other half?

Bulgarian.

Winning combo.

I’ll say…

Yaki, what about Musa’s instruction?

I don’t understand the question.

I think you do.

It doesn’t concern you. You know, Oz objected to having you out there in the field, but I’m the team leader, not him. If we can get eyes on that meeting, I want you there— but in a rear position. Actually, you’ll be with him.