The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  I’m… thinking about it.

  I wouldn’t trade this for anything, Jonny gestured to his surroundings. I think I’ll stay here until I discharge.

  Tamir didn’t say a thing. He knew that the search for Nissenbaum’s replacement was going on full speed. Nissenbaum told Tamir that there were candidates with much more experience than him, including officers who had performed several roles in the unit already. Still, he said, I could mention you to the department head. I have a good feeling about you. The question is, are you interested?

  Tamir was aware that the position entailed more relaxed, research-oriented work, relocating to Tel-Aviv, and going home at the end of the day. He told Nissenbaum that he was interested. Nissenbaum must have said something to Harel, who started giving Tamir the cold shoulder. He told him that it doesn’t reflect well on him that he’s only just arrived and already wants to leave. He should strive to excel and progress where he is. Progress where? Tamir asked. You could hang around here for another year or so and then go to officer training like I did and come back as an IAO, Harel said in his nasal voice, which sounded a bit whiny now. When he uttered the words officer training and IAO, his shoulders pulled back and his chest swelled. He said that it’s silly that now, when it looks like Tamir is finally getting a handle on things here, he should go somewhere else. It doesn’t serve the system in any way, he said. His cheeks puffed out when he said the word system, and his perpetually red face glowed with an air of self-importance.

  Jonny left and Ophira emerged from the reception room, holding a summary in her hand. Tamir smiled a somewhat forced smile at her. She asked him if he enjoyed his leave.

  It was fine…

  You don’t sound excited.

  I’m never excited.

  Really? Never??

  Well, except maybe…

  Except what?

  You know.

  Oh… it seemed like her eyes were dimming. He couldn’t decide whether something was flickering there, in the dark. She placed the summary on his desk. I don’t think it’s anything interesting, she said, and turned on her heels. He tried not to swallow her up with his gaze as one gulps down a cold beer on a hot summer’s day. He failed. She disappeared, and he picked up the summary. A routine report from the Democratic Front’s network about a meeting between the Palestinian factions (nicknamed ‘the resistance factions’) in the Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp in Beirut. Tamir yawned. He knew that he should get up to speed about the previous week’s intelligence activity and that he had plenty of reading to do, but before he got started, he went to fix himself a cup of coffee in the kitchenette by the translators. When he got back to his seat, he saw that Ophira had placed another summary on his desk. He picked it up.

  From: A/U BB

  To: I/S al-Mazra‘a

  (E/C)

  The rest of the message was a sequence of numbers. Tamir passed the encrypted code to Department 453 at headquarters and mentioned in his annotation that the encrypted content was sent from the airborne unit to the Front/Jibril internal security unit. He knew the unit was contacted whenever there was fear of an information leak or an infiltration to the organization’s ranks by a foreign agent. He also knew that organizations like Front/Jibril were highly paranoid, and were prone to suspect the presence of subversive actors amid their ranks. All that was left to do now was wait for the e/c to be deciphered. Palestinian encrypted codes were relatively easily-decipherable, so he knew it shouldn’t take long. He turned his mind back to the previous week’s activity, and started catching up.

  The red phone rang. It was someone from Department 453 at headquarters.

  We deciphered the e/c you sent, he said. I’d pass it on as usual, but this looks different. Are you writing?

  Writing.

  The man dictated in Arabic with a thick Ashkenazi accent, and Tamir wrote down what he said. The more he wrote, the more his breath grew shorter.

  Seems pretty important, doesn’t it? the man said.

  Yeah.

  It looks like black material, doesn’t it?

  Tamir muttered something, thanked him, and hung up the phone. He stared at the text resting before him. It was perfectly clear, but he still decided to go over to Mika, to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Mika translated briskly and efficiently, and placed the translation before him:

  From: A/U BB

  To: I/S al-Mazra‘a, Damascus

  Suspicion the pretty bird is a spy. Have the Yellow see if the other side sent her. Top priority.

  Jihad.

  Who’s Jihad? Mika asked.

  Ahmed Jibril’s son, commander of their airborne unit.

  The ones who just carried out that attack?

  Yes.

  It was quite impressive, wasn’t it?

  Yes.

  And who’s the pretty bird?

  I… don’t know.

  We already had a bird with them a while ago, didn’t we?

  Yes.

  al-Darija, Mika recalled. The stint.

  There’s nothing to suggest it’s the same case, Tamir dodged.

  But it’s a possibility, isn’t it? Mika insisted.

  I need to make a call, Tamir said and hurried away from Mika’s station. He took a couple of steps before stopping in his tracks and turning back.

  Mika…

  Yes?

  Don’t talk to anyone about this. It looks like black material.

  Okay, she said in a solemn voice.

  Black material was material that indicated a connection between its content and factors on the Israeli side. There was a special procedure for handling that kind of material. As soon as it became clear a communication qualified as black material, the intelligence analyst was to transfer it in special sealed envelopes to particular recipients whom Tamir knew were either Shin-Beit factors or mediators to the Shin-Beit. He was strictly forbidden to involve any other factor in the process. Tamir considered the matter for a moment, and decided to call Nissenbaum first, even though it would constitute a breach of protocol. He used the amethyst to call Department 195. To his relief, Nissenbaum was there. Tamir relayed the content of the message.

  Do you think this pretty bird is…?

  The same one from the Northern Command report? Tamir said, partly asking, partly asserting.

  Not necessarily, Nissenbaum said. It could be a code name for something we don’t know.

  It’s definitely a person that they fear is working for the other side.

  Yes, it seems so.

  And the other side is us?

  Not necessarily, either. It could be Lebanese intelligence factors, for example, or rival Palestinian organizations like the PLO. But that’s much less likely.

  And who’s the Yellow?

  I’m not sure, but I have a hunch. I’d call someone I know at 504, but there’s a problem.

  What’s the problem? Tamir asked, even though he knew the answer.

  It looks like black material.

  Okay, but I already called you.

  Right. You shouldn’t have called me.

  But I did.

  And by doing so… Nissenbaum started, but stopped mid-sentence. Tamir knew what he was going to say: You got me embroiled in this mess.

  Nissenbaum, Tamir said, almost begging, we need to understand what’s going on here, don’t we?

  Could be. But I’m not going to make that call now, Nissenbaum said, and Tamir thought he slightly accentuated the word now. Send it out as black material and let the people in charge do their jobs. We’ll talk soon, he said and hung up.

  From that point on, Tamir followed the black material protocol to the letter, but still made a copy of the deciphered content for himself, against protocol. After passing the envelope, he noticed in the corner of his eye Ophira leaving the reception room. He followed her, obeying
his legs which seemed to move of their own volition. He followed her footsteps until she noticed, turned around, and stared at him in surprise, waiting for him to say something.

  He didn’t know what to say. His words reverted back to their pre-creation chaotic state. God retreated to his embryonic corner, and the world grew dark again. The only thing that could be heard was the playful rolling-over of hippos and crocodiles in the black, sweet mud.

  Tamir? her wonderful lips, dark violet night flowers, parted in the depths.

  Yes?

  You wanted to say something? she looked at him with silent, almost absolving wonder.

  Yeah, that e/c you gave me?

  Yes…?

  It was black material.

  Really?

  Yes.

  But… if it’s black material, I’m not supposed to know about it, am I?

  No, you’re not. Nevertheless, I told you.

  Okay… Thanks. Good night. She turned and walked away with her magnificent slow strut, like a line from an ancient song no one understands any longer, all the more magnificent for its very ancientness and strangeness.

  After sending out the black material, Tamir remained at his desk for a few more hours to catch up. He read everything that went on while he was away, going over shift logs, and then started to navigate his way through the sea of material sent to the analysis room from every corner of the far-reaching realm of intelligence. He occasionally reviewed the summaries sporadically sent his way from the reception room. Nothing interesting was going on. He drank more and more coffee and read more and more material, until his eyes started glazing over and his brain could no longer process what it was reading. He felt slightly dizzy. He let out a sigh and staggered to his feet. It was 2:30 a.m. He peeked into the reception room. Anything going on? he asked the producer nearest to him, a curly haired guy with a tired expression on his face.

  Nothing, they all went to bed a long time ago, except for these two. He gestured over to his panel. Tamir knew the frequency it was set on. It was the Amal Movement network in the Nabatiyeh area. He looked at the producer quizzically.

  Top priority intelligence, the producer said sarcastically, you don’t want to miss this. He changed the audio from headset to speaker. Amid the creaks and cracks of the other panels, Quran verses billowed through the room in a sweet, poignant melody.

  Ah, Tamir smiled, so this is how Shi‘ites entertain themselves at this hour?

  Crazy nightlife they lead, huh? the producer snarked. Not that ours is any better, to be honest, he said and looked around the empty reception room.

  You said there were two? Tamir recalled.

  Yeah, there’s this guy, too, the producer said and turned the frequency scan dial. Tamir recognized this frequency as well. It was a Lebanon Army network. Tamir heard a male voice singing in Arabic. He could only understand a few words here and there.

  Do you recognize the song? The producer asked. Tamir heard a hint of ridicule in his voice.

  No.

  It’s Farid al-Atrash. Kuli Li Eh Akul Lek. You don’t know it?

  No.

  You Ashkenazis. You know about intelligence analysis, but music? You don’t know shit.

  Tamir nodded. He wasn’t thinking about Farid al-Atrash, but about the music he had listened to until recently, how he would lie in his room in the kibbutz, on the floor, with earphones plugged into his small stereo system, listing to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd… Recently, when he went home on leave, he had tried listening to that music again, but felt it was drifting away from him. No other music had taken its place.

  How are you going to understand Arabs if you don’t know Farid al-Atrash? the producer looked out from his panel, his headset covering one of his ears, his hand fiddling with the silver dog tag necklace.

  You’re right, Tamir said, wished him a pleasant shift, and told him to send someone to wake him if something urgent comes up. He reminded him to scan other frequencies and not spend the entire night listening to Farid al-Atrash, earning him a scornful look. He ignored it, left the reception room, exited the bunker, and aimlessly wandered the winding paths of the base. The calm, indifferent night, dotted with glowing streetlights, always surprised him, like it was a second, parallel reality to the one below. Above him was a plain army night, regimented by the bland architecture of military barracks. Only the dull drone emerging from the antenna field connected the two worlds— the one above and the one below. Tamir walked around the fence. A soldier on patrol emerged and asked him if he had a cigarette. Tamir said he didn’t and kept on walking, the soldier following his movement with a look of deep disappointment. He ambled on, slowly making his way towards the living quarters.

  d. Tulip

  The following day, Tamir arrived at the bunker later than usual. He slowly made his way to his desk, courteously nodded at the Syrian IAO and translators, and went over the hefty mound of summaries that had already accumulated on his desk. He saw that there was nothing of note, turned his computer on, and started reading last night’s dispatches.

  The red phone rang. It was the head of Department 195. He asked Tamir how he felt in his position, if he was managing the workload, and how he got along with Harel and Jonny. Tamir tried to sound positive, but was hardly enthusiastic. The department head reiterated the positive impression Tamir had left on him following the airborne attack. He emphasized that his performance that night compensated for the first impression he had made when he sent that alarming dispatch about the unusual radio silence. Tamir asked himself what was the actual purpose of this call. The department head told him that he believed people should spend at least one year stationed in bases before considering transferring to headquarters. In fact, he said, he prefers having competent, experienced people at the bases who know how to do their work, ideally even remaining there throughout their service, but sometimes unusual circumstances arise. You probably know that Eli Nissenbaum is discharging soon, he said. It’s never easy replacing someone who has amassed such a wealth of knowledge and expertise on a particular organization. That’s also why his recommendation carries a lot of weight, and we factor that into our considerations.

  Tamir remained silent. He waited.

  You’ll probably be glad to hear the Eli recommended you for the position, the department head said.

  Yes, Tamir mumbled.

  You don’t sound very excited.

  No, yes, of course, I’m very flattered.

  Okay, so my question is whether you’re interested in the position of head of the Front/Jibril unit. Obviously, there hasn’t been any decision made yet, but I need to know if you’re interested at all, because if you tell me that you absolutely love serving in Kidonit and want to stay there, I’ll respect your enthusiasm and won’t force you to come down here.

  Tamir felt entrapped. He inhaled and paused for a long moment before replying. My service here means a lot to me and I’m very committed to it, he said, but I know that serving as unit head in headquarters is a challenging and important role, especially now that the organization is more active than ever. It would be a privilege for me to be part of the effort to thwart its efforts.

  A diplomat as well, huh? Where did you learn to talk like that? the department head said. Tamir wondered if he was hearing an undertone of ridicule in his voice, or the opposite, appreciation. He knew that army men generally tended to dislike overly eloquent speech, so he tried to dial down his articulacy. He wasn’t certain he succeeded this time.

  Okay, I understand, the department head said. I’ll let you know my decision soon. One more thing, I got a call from 504. They’re bringing in a source for questioning. Do you know what I’m talking about?

  Tamir confirmed. He knew the protocol. Occasionally, if possible, they’d bring in agents from Lebanon and question them in hideout apartments. The point of the questioning was to compile a complete pictu
re of the information the source had gathered— something that was difficult to do through the usual means of communications while the source was in Lebanon— but also to test their credibility, especially in sources whose credibility was uncertain. They would create a cover story for the source, like a business trip to Syria, and then smuggle them through one of the border crossings. In the apartment, the source would be treated to lavish hospitality, such as the unit’s limited budget allowed for.

  This is someone who is connected to Front/Jibril, the department head said. Hypothetically, they are only supposed to bring in MID-RD elements to question him, but everyone knows that we know these organizations better than them, so they want us there as well. I’d send Nissenbaum, but he’s half way out the door already, and regardless, he has some important exam at the university that day. This could be a good trial-by-fire for you. Talk to Nissenbaum, he’ll fill you in. Prepare for the questioning together. I want this to go off without a hitch. You need to realize that when you go there, you’re representing the department and the unit before other Military Intelligence Directorate factors. So you need to come prepared. Is that clear?

  Clear.

  Okay.

  Sir…

  Tamir, you don’t have to call me sir. Call me Moti.

  Moti? Really? He’d be better off going as sir, Tamir thought.

  What did you want to ask?

  Who’s the source?

  Uh, its name is… Tamir heard the sound of paper rustling and assumed the department head was sifting through his notes. Ah, there it is. Its code name in the system is Tulip.

  Tamir remembered having seeing dispatches from that source, but couldn’t recall what they were about.

  So, talk to Nissenbaum. And I want a full report after the questioning. Don’t mess this up!

  Tamir promised he would do his very best, and hung up the phone. He logged into the system and searched for dispatches from Tulip/504. Several hundred dispatches popped up. Tamir started going over them. They dealt mainly with recruiting youths to the organization in Palestinian refugee camps. Occasionally, they concerned procuring equipment such as radios or binoculars, but almost always to rear units rather than combat forces like the seaborne or airborne units. He read and read, but could hardly find anything of operational value. Some dispatches reported about the activities of functionaries: the secretary of some committee of Beirut refugee camps went for a meeting in Sidon, a demolition expert completed a training course in Syria and was sent to instruct cadets (location unspecified). The dispatch containing the most valuable operational information concerned a plan to relocate the Front’s headquarters in Lebanon from Na‘ameh to the Baalbek region. Tamir stared at the dispatch and its date— from last year— and thought it was very strange, since the station identified as headquarters still broadcasts from Na‘ameh. Maybe there was a plan that fell though, he thought, and tried to recall whether he saw any other dispatch from a different source about the plan. He clicked on another dispatch. This one concerned the source itself: