The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Because they also realized that he loves his daughter, so they told him they’d kill her. What could he have done? I don’t blame him. It’s completely plausible that after another session with them, he’ll betray us again. We have to take that into consideration.

  I have a feeling about that girl, Tamir returned to the matter of al-Darija, but it’s just an intuition.

  Where would we be without intuition, Yaki uttered, slowly chewing a mouthful of tabbouleh salad.

  The story sounds strange. Arrived from Cyprus, already had airborne training, streamlined into the organization’s most elite unit… It sounds… too good. Like someone planned it.

  I hoped you hadn’t noticed. I thought all you guys knew about were antennas and communications.

  So, what do you plan to do about this?

  What can I do? I’m just an operator. All I can do is report what he said to my supervisors. What they’ll do with the information, who they’ll pass it on to, what the top brass will decide among themselves… That’s way above my pay grade. I’m not that girl’s operator. I’m that poor son of a bitch, ‘Ali the Yellow’s operator. He wiped the hummus from his plate with increasingly aggressive, sharp motions.

  I see. Anyway, I’d like to know everything there is to know about her.

  Is this something personal for you? It sounds that way…

  What? No, of course not.

  Okay then. I was worried there for a minute. Personal business is strictly off limits in our line of work. Anyway, I’ll try to pass you any information I get, whether through accepted channels or through not-so-accept channels. You earned it. If a report on her favorite color of underwear comes in, you’ll be the first to know about it.

  And probably the last, Tamir said.

  I don’t think so. Everyone’s gonna want to know everything there is to know about her now.

  I’m just thinking to myself, Tamir muttered into his pita— laden with eggplant salad and tahini, and exuding pleasant charred and lemon-zesty aromas— that with all due respect to Jibril’s organization, and to the need to prevent terrorist attacks and all, they’re not that important…

  Not that important?

  You know, if someone thinks it’s very important to slip an agent into Lebanon, why would they choose that organization? It’s a small, negligible organization, not exactly a strategic enemy or an existential threat.

  Yaki opened his mouth to say something, but clamed up. The owner of the restaurant placed a plate of succulent kebabs on their table, emitting an intoxicating and familiar aroma of grilled lamb. He asked if everything was to their liking, and whether they wanted anything else. Yaki thanked him with a smile.

  You understand what I’m saying? Tamir continued. This can’t be the whole story.

  Yaki looked at him with a penetrating gaze. Tamir thought to himself that those eyes have probably seen a thing or two. During his training course in Bahad 15, stories, rumors, and legends had circulated about Unit 504. The same eyes which were surveying him now quite possibly had done the same to mukhtars with conflicting loyalties, drug dealers required to spy in return for safe passage, priests intimidated into hiding ammunition and radio equipment in their churches, and prostitutes forced to give a free night to a regional Amal commander so that he could be photographed and blackmailed.

  Yes, Yaki finally said, I believe that’s not the whole story.

  You know who else came from Cyprus?

  No.

  Aphrodite.

  The goddess?

  Yes, she was born from the foam of the waves in Cyprus.

  I see you have spare time for hobbies…

  Tamir sat in silence. His thoughts scattered. The tumult of the sea swelled in his mind. Foam and fog condensed in the dark. He thought he saw something in the distance, a faded figure, among the waves, within the gloom.

  h. Neta the Intelligence Analyst

  At the end of that week, Tamir headed out to Efroni Base, a small collection of buildings located in the towering heights of the Adamit range overlooking south-west Lebanon, housing a spotters-unit, an artillery-corps unit, and a small infantry force. Tucked away behind the unremarkable buildings was a yellow-gray structure with an array of antennas clustered together haphazardly on its roof. The head of Department 195 asked Tamir to fill in for one of the two intelligence analysts stationed there. There was one intelligence analyst and one IAO stationed at Efroni, and the IAO had fallen ill. The department head thought it would be good for Tamir to get to know other bases related to the department before transferring to headquarters, anyway.

  From the outside, the place struck Tamir as being in a state of disarray, an impression which was significantly reinforced once he entered the small structure. Inside, there was no trace of military discipline and regimentation: most soldiers walked around in civilian clothes, or some kind of military-civilian clothing hybrid. He noticed an abundance of slippers, flip-flops, sweatpants, and beanies in a wide array of colors. The most common articles of clothing, especially among the girls, were hoodies. That came as no surprise to Tamir— not only were hoodies comfortable, they were particularly effective in combating the perpetual frost of aggressive air-conditioning. A warning letter from the master sergeant of the base hung on one of the walls, demanding that military dress regulations be followed, threatening that anyone who would be caught violating said regulations would be severely punished. No one seemed to take the warning seriously, though; someone had painted a pair of luscious red lips blowing a kiss next to the master sergeant’s signature, and added an appropriate biblical quote in curly pink letters: All that the Lord hath spoken will we do, and obey.

  Are you Tamir? A curly-haired girl wearing a purple t-shirt, military coat, and cerulean slippers approached him and asked. I’m Neta. I’m the intelligence analyst.

  Tamir nodded, a cautious smile on his face.

  I went over the materials of the attack you had recently. Awesome! Pretty cool operation, right? Front/Jibril, who’d have thought! I thought they weren’t even into carrying out attacks. We get nothing here other than Hezbollah. No one really bothers with the Palestinians any longer.

  Well, there you go, Tamir replied, an improbable comeback.

  It’s just an isolated event for now, she said, reflecting for a moment. Anyway, even if they do try something else, they operate mainly in the eastern sector, so that doesn’t really concern us. Okay, I need to brief you on how we do it down here, so let me show you our station and the reception room. Afterwards, we can go get lunch, go over some materials, and then, when I feel certain I’m leaving the house in good hands, I can go home.

  The house?

  Yeah. For us, it’s like our home here. Is it not like that for you guys?

  Not quite…

  Honestly, I’ve been to Kidonit once. Seems a bit depressing. I’d never switch with you guys. Okay, let’s go. She started skipping— literally, skipping— through the narrow paths between the structures, her head full of curls bouncing and bobbing after her.

  Tamir quickly realized why they called the place their home. The atmosphere was casual and affable. There were no physical barriers or distinctions between the reception stations and the intelligence analysis desk. The whole place was a curious amalgam, a small cramped space expertly navigated by soldiers speaking to each other without deference to rank or stature. Tamir had never actually seen a commune, but he imagined it probably looks a lot like that.

  Next to the intelligence analysis desk, a translator and transcriber who presumably had no work to do at that moment were sat deeply absorbed in a game of chess. Tamir thought that he could definitely feel at home in a place where they played chess. Everyone greeted him with a friendly nod of their heads, accompanied by a look of certain wonderment. After showing him all of the stations and going over a couple summaries and logs of the various networks they monitored, Neta
took him to the mess-hall to get something to eat. Tamir was surprised by the order, cleanliness, and aesthetics of the long rectangular table, set with white china crockery instead of the plastic plates and cutlery he had gotten used to in other bases. There aren’t a lot of us here, Neta explained having noticed the incredulous look on Tamir’s face, so we decided we could afford to spring for something a bit fancier. The dishes served to their table were also nice and carefully assembled. When Tamir tasted the food, his jaw dropped. Neta snuck a glance from the corner of her eye, and smiled. Our cooks are soldiers on reserve duty, she said. The cook here now is the chef of a hotel in Nahariya. Our base-commander cares deeply about what he eats, so he pulled some strings.

  Tamir said the food here was significantly better than the food served in his kibbutz’s mess-hall.

  Well, kibbutzes and military bases, they’re pretty similar, aren’t they? Neta said. My family’s of Austrian descent. We take food very seriously. Just preparing goulash, for example, is an art in and of itself.

  My kibbutz was established by Hungarians, Tamir said, but honestly, the goulash in our mess-hall isn’t anything to write home about. Where do you live?

  In Denia.

  In Mount Carmel?

  Yup.

  Tamir recalled the neighborhood, its spacious villas tucked away behind fences and private gardens. He glanced at Neta from the corner of his eye. Her nose was cheeky, slightly upturned in irreverence, and for some reason made Tamir think of different sexual positions. Her eyes were narrow and a bit slanted. Her eyebrows were thick and light-colored. Her curls kept bobbing of their own volition, as if inertia kept them in a state of perpetuum-mobile.

  After they finished eating, Neta cordially said goodbye to her friends at the table, briefly exchanging banter, and the two turned back to the intelligence analysis building. Everything was a very short distance away from everything else. Tamir asked if it doesn’t feel a bit claustrophobic at times. Sometimes, maybe, she said, but that she then simply goes outside and walks along the base’s fence overlooking Lebanon. Do you wanna go out and see the antennas?

  Do you mind if we just skip it?

  She looked at him quizzingly. Do you have a problem with antennas?

  We’re not on the best of terms.

  She laughed. So, you don’t want to go out at all?

  We can go look at Lebanon.

  Right, we can, she said. They left the building and walked towards the fence. The sun lowered over the sea near Achziv, casting a soft, dim light over the mountains. They found an elevated lookout point and stood there. Neta extended her hand and gestured over to the mountainous landscape sprawling to their north. That’s Beit Lahia, she said, it’s become a hotbed of Hezbollah activity recently. There, see that truck? See the yellow flag? That’s them. It could be Hallal, or Hussam, one of the mobile stations in the Lahia area. And there, follow my hand, a bit further north-west, that’s ‘Alma al-Sha‘ab. The road continues west all the way to Naqoura. Well, you know the map. Now, follow the road to the east, that’s Btaichiye, then Matmoura and Dhayra. You see? We’re not like you guys. In Kidonit, you guys are far away from the action, but we’re practically a part of the Lebanese landscape. Hezbollah and us?— we’re this close. You can practically feel them.

  Is it nice?

  What?

  To feel them.

  She laughed. He turned his eyes back from the Lebanese villages to look at her. One last ray of sunshine refracted over the mountain tops, enveloping Neta’s curly locks in a bronze halo. Honestly? she said, sometimes I feel like they’re my friends. I know them very well, their mannerisms over the radio, their nicknames, their banter, all their little schticks… I’ve spent the last year of my life in their company. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a long-term relationship.

  I agree.

  And do you feel close to them as well?

  I’m more interested in someone who let an Acre dialect slip.

  What?!

  It’s a long story.

  It sounds interesting, perhaps you’d like to tell me sometime. For now, I think I’ll head home. I’m trying to time it so that I’ll arrive precisely when the strudel comes out of the over.

  i. The Great Infidel

  The Hezbollah networks monitored in Efroni were different to those they monitored on in Kidonit, but the activity was similar and Tamir got it easily under control. The producers were amicable, helping him identify the frequencies and operatives. There was no trace of the underlying tension between producers and intelligence analysts so prevalent in Kidonit. It’s like a fraternity here, he thought to himself. The networks were very active and the volume of communications passing through them was substantial, but the activity itself was routine. Around midnight, the networks fell silent. One station played recitations of Quranic verses, reminding Tamir that it was Friday. Three producers and a signal operator passed by and asked him if he wanted to come along with them to the pub in Adamit. He said he was manning the station alone; they replied that intelligence analysts are always alone, but that they also sleep and eat and if something happens, they are called back to the desk. He hesitated for a bit, before finally agreeing.

  The five of them stepped out into the cold night air. Tamir took a deep breath. Had it not been for the incessant metallic drone of the antennas perched on the roof of the building and the inevitable ambient rustle of the military base, the place would be almost pastoral, he mused. But you could actually say that about the kibbutz, too, or almost anywhere else in the country— after all, we traversed the length and breadth of it in field-trips with the youth movement. The landscape is always regimented by some kind of military or pre-conscription elements— Palladium shoes, work boots, water trailers, tent camps. We travelled across it yearning to unveil a hidden serenity, to encounter some beauty, some grace, but by the mere act of our traversing, by the manner in which we walked—what we were and how we approached it— we stripped it of the possibility of tranquility, beauty, grace— stripped it for good.

  The atmosphere in the pub in Adamit was relaxed and chatty. There was no dancing, just people sitting around drinking beers, cracking sunflower seeds, and pleasantly conversing. There were soldiers from the base, a couple of kibbutzniks sporting an unkempt hippie look, and a couple of straw-haired girls who appeared to be foreign volunteers.14 Tamir ordered a beer and slumped down in one of the corners. The signal operator, whose light-colored hair appeared darker in the dimly-lit pub, slumped down next to him. So, what’s your story? she asked. Someone changed the music. U2’s Sunday, Bloody Sunday played in the background. A volunteer with a punk hairdo got up on one of the tables and swayed her body to the rhythm of the song as if she were praying to some ancient Celtic god. The beer bottle in her hand looked like a staff of prophecy and divine rage.

  I’m from a different story, he said.

  He observed her. Are her eyes green? He wasn’t certain. Her lips seemed sensual for a moment, but he wasn’t sure about that either.

  A good story? she asked.

  Not a bad story, he said and felt like a liar.

  Doesn’t sound great. But it’s not too late to turn it around, is it?

  No, I guess not, he replied, and felt he sounded quite ungainly.

  Would you like to try? she smiled. He assumed it was meant as a seductive smile. It’s been a while since he had last touched anyone. A long while.

  We can try, he said. He didn’t understand what she saw in him or why she lusted after him. For a long time, he had felt himself to be transparent and decayed. Maybe it’s because of the whole affair with ‘Ali the Yellow. Maybe he really had grown ten feet tall, catlike, and lethal.

  She leaned over to him. Her lips weren’t sensual, after all. There was something a bit tense about them, like she pursed her lips rather then spread them. He had no idea why she was doing that. Perhaps she didn’t really enjoy kissing?
Tamir enjoyed kissing very much. He probed gently with his tongue, but her tongue burst out of her mouth, like an animal springing out of a trap, and wrestled his tongue in a single repetitive urgent motion. He forced himself not to recoil. Her hands slipped down his neck and chest. Their touch felt adept, but lacked tenderness. My roommates are away, she whispered, one’s at home and the other one is working a shift. Shall we go?

  He rose heavily to his feet, deliberating. Yes, he decided, he’ll go with her. He is in need of touch. Any kind of touch. Anything the world is prepared to offer him, at this point.

  You’re the intelligence analyst, right?

  He turned his head. A small dark-skinned soldier stared at him intently. He nodded carefully.

  I was sent from the reception room. They’ve got something you need to see.

  He mumbled a semblance of an apology to the signal operator and headed back to the base. When he got there, the producer showed him a conversation picked up on one of the networks. An operative named Zulfiqar was speaking to an operative named Hitler.

  Hitler? Tamir asked in surprise.

  Yes, that’s what he calls himself. I guess he thinks it’s cool, the producer said.

  Tamir perused the summary of their conversation. They mentioned moving ‘things’ from Tyre to a place that was hard to decipher because of the poor audio quality. It didn’t say which ‘things.’ Then, Zulfiqar asked if it had to be done tonight, and Hitler answered something unintelligible. Tamir sent someone to wake the transcriber. In the meantime, he deliberated but ultimately decided not to issue a warning at that point. He settled for calling Jonny at Kidonit. Jonny said that he agrees it would be better to wait. Tamir asked him what he was doing at the bunker at such an hour. Where else would I be? Jonny snickered.

  The dozy transcriber trudged his way in, asked that someone fix him a coffee, and sat down to listen to the conversation. Shit, the reception’s terrible, he said after a couple of seconds. He leaned forward in concentration, closed his eyes, and played the reel back and forth over and over again. Finally, he sat up, sighed in satisfaction, and handed Tamir the result: