The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  What’s the address?

  12 Gordon St., ground floor.

  Tamir took a bus to Ibn Gabirol street, crossed Kings of Israel Square, and entered Gordon Street. The slanted ficus trees lining the cool and pleasant street imbued him with a sense of urban serenity. For a moment, he contemplated simply finding a bench to sit on, instead of going to find the Al-Shajara office, instead of going back to the base in a couple of days, instead of… anything. He could just sit there. Why shouldn’t he just sit there? Nevertheless, he kept on walking, rang the door-buzzer, and went up to the second floor.

  Amalia wore a mocha-colored skirt and a yellow sweater this time. Tamir thought of late-summer earth and first rain. She looked at him with friendly eyes. He was ushered into a small, sparsely-furnished office. Gray files were stacked on the shelves, and a few old photographs were hung on the walls. He slowly glanced over them. Villages, fields, stone houses, women carrying earthenware making their way back from water wells, children riding donkeys, old men sat on stoops drinking coffee, an olive press, a donkey turning a millstone, terraces, olive trees, prickly-pair hedgerows. Absentmindedly, he found himself reciting Tchernichovsky’s words: Oh my land, my birthplace, clay roofs on houses… The olive rests near the olive, his lips moved silently, land, land of my inheritance, many-fronded palm, cruel cacti-lined border, stream of little water…

  Almost against his will, he conjured up the sight of the scant few ruins remaining of Damun village on the banks of the Hilazon stream. As a child, he was reared on stories of the pioneers who had established the kibbutzes of Kfar Masaryk and Ein HaMifratz, who had bravely and determinedly dried the marshes of the Western Galilee. He imagined them as strange marsh-dwellers, amphibian creatures with gills and fins and wings of coots and stints. When he met Dallal and Sa’ira, he gazed at them in wonder. They had no wings, gills, or fins. Just sweet, intoxicating voices, and eyes to lose oneself in.

  An entire world, Amalia said quietly, following his gaze over the pictures.

  Yes.

  So, how can I help you?

  Do you remember the story about the Arab al-Ghawarneh?

  Yes, the Bedouins near Acre.

  Remember I asked you about two twins, Dallal and Sa’ira Zaidani?

  Oh… Right. Yes.

  You said you’d try to find out.

  I did find out, but you didn’t leave me any contact details so I couldn’t reach you. Hold on a minute. She opened a file cabinet and skimmed through a few files before pulling one out. She flipped through it, and finally pulled out a newspaper clipping. Yes, here it is. The article about the demolition of the settlement featuring Sai’ra. Besides that, I found something else. She showed him another newspaper clipping from 1975. The headline in Maariv reported in blood-red letters about a seaborne terrorist attack by al-Sa‘iqa at the beach near Acre. It was reported that the terrorists reached the estuary of the Na‘aman just before evening time in Zodiac boats. They killed and wounded several bathers along with two Bedouins, a young couple, Samir and Jamila Zaidani of the Arab al-Ghawarneh tribe that was located by the estuary, near the beach. They found a fishing pole by their bodies. They left behind two twins.

  Tamir looked at the report and recalled what his Arabic teacher had said. He remembered seeing that attack by al-Sa‘iqa when he studied the histories of the different organizations. He didn’t make the connection back then. Sloppy of him. He couldn’t understand why Dallal would go to a Palestinian youth movement in Acre if al-Sa‘iqa had killed her parents.

  Anything beyond paper clippings? he asked Amalia.

  Well, this is where it gets weird.

  How so?

  I checked in the civil registry office, and also spoke to a couple of friends at the Supreme Monitoring Committee for Arab Affairs in Israel. Back at the time, they tried to stir up a fuss about the settlement’s demolition, and make some political gains along the way…

  And…?

  And nothing.

  What do you mean nothing?

  Nothing. There’s no trace of the twins. Nothing.

  That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Sa’ira is interviewed in the article!

  Yes, she interviewed for the article and disappeared. I even tried to probe around with some friends at UNRWA, in civil rights organizations, Palestinian diaspora organizations… Nothing. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if…

  As if someone made them disappear?

  Yes.

  The plot thickens, Tamir muttered under his breath.

  Yes, but that’s life here, isn’t it? she cast her wise eyes upon him. We live in one great convoluted plot. So convoluted that it sometimes feels like there’s no point even dreaming about unraveling it.

  Could be. He wasn’t in poetic mood.

  Remind me, why are you so interested in her?

  She pulled me out of the thicket once.

  What thicket? It that a metaphor?

  Thicket…

  She looked at him intently. You have the expression of someone who’s a bit…

  A bit what?

  In love.

  b. Sacrifice, Return, Liberation

  As Tamir made his way towards headquarters, from afar it reminded him of the fortified castles he saw years before in the British science-fiction television series Thunderbirds. All he could remember about the show was an assortment of futuristic aircrafts launching from elaborate, multi-storied, towered castles. Therefore, when he entered the giant structure, his eyes scoured the building in search of launch-pads and aircrafts, but alas, found none. All he could see were long corridors lined with rows of identical doors.

  Each door led to a different department. The departments looked like offices for all intents and purposes. In his department, Department 195, a number of people were sat in front of computer stations. Tamir knew that all these people, to whom he was now being introduced, were unit heads, but he thought they looked more like physics students. Not that he knew what physics students were supposed to look like, but he felt they probably looked something like that. Their uniforms were casually unkempt; they seemed kind-hearted, astute, and at the same time absentminded. They lacked any sort of strict military regimentation. Tamir went over one by one and each of them briefly explained what their unit does, the organizations it monitors, and their means of communications: the Democratic Front unit, the Fatah unit, the Popular Front unit, the al-Sa‘iqa unit, Fatah/Abu Musa… He got the feeling that the people he was speaking with viewed their work as academic endeavors. That made him feel very good. He felt he had arrived at a place which perfectly suited his temperament. On their part, they viewed him with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation. He hadn’t picked up on that sentiment until the head of the Popular Front unit said to him that she hopes he won’t be bored in the department. He asked her why he should feel bored, and she replied that they mostly just go over paperwork, that they don’t usually expose double-agents. He said he had no idea how that story had made the rounds so quickly.

  Don’t you know there are no secrets in intelligence? she laughed.

  I thought there’s been compartmentalization since 1973, he said.

  No amount of compartmentalization could stop a juicy story getting around, she chuckled. Her name was Keren. She wore her uniform demonstratively, as if saying: I’m not wearing uniform. She somehow made military clothes seem civilian, like she had extricated them from their context. She wore black Dr. Martens boots with an orange seam, and a medium-sized amber stone dangled from her neck. She had wheat-colored braids and chestnut eyes. Based on her looks, Tamir decided she was of Hungarian descent. There were plenty of girls with similar hair color in Sufit. None of them knew Hungarian, but they had mastered imitating the Hungarian-accented Hebrew of their grandparents.

  I don’t think I’ll get bored here, Tamir said to Keren, allowing his eyes to rest momentarily on her whea
t braids.

  Only Moti, the department head, looked like he was cut from a different cloth. His dress uniform was finely pressed and kempt, and he was clean shaven; he expressed himself in a way that seemed to oscillate between the tortuous excess of military speech and the mellifluent and articulate academic style of his coworkers in the department— ultimately being neither here nor there. His back was unnaturally erect, almost strenuously so; every couple of seconds, his hand reached up to fix his shirt collar like some conditioned reflex, lightly brushing against his platoon-commander pin and then straightening his rank insignias, his fingers dwelling ever so slightly over the reddish relief of his chief-captain insignia. He was fair-skinned with watery blue eyes. His shoulders were broad, but there was something slack, almost flaccid about him despite his rigidity. Moti’s insistence on employing military jargon made his briefing more labored and much less to the point than the other briefings Tamir had heard that day. In fact, the only thing Tamir learned from Moti was that if an attack were to take place in central Israel— that is, the geographic sector headquarters was responsible for— the department would send out a vehicle called the Mole. In such a case, Moti explained, the vehicle— equipped to scan frequencies and listen to operational communications by the attacking force— would be under the command of one of the unit-heads. Tamir said he thought the name was a bit ironic.

  Ironic how? Moti asked.

  Because moles are blind.

  That’s just it, said Eli Nissenbaum, who had just walked into the department head’s office to place something on his table. We are blind, and thus our hearing is augmented, like the mole’s. But what do I know? I don’t even know what a mole looks like. Does a mole have good hearing?

  Eli Nissenbaum was bearded, bespectacled, and slightly slouched. Despite his uniform, he managed to look like a clerk in a low-level government office. The folder-laden shelf above his head looked like a natural and adequate backdrop for him. He told Tamir that he has already started studying Law and Political Science at Tel-Aviv University, and recommended that Tamir started studying during his final year there, as well. The work will be second nature to you by then, you won’t have any problem taking on other stuff at the same time, and you should take advantage of the fact you’re already in Tel-Aviv, he said.

  Don’t you want to take a break? Travel South America, or India, or something? Tamir asked.

  Nah, that’s not for me, Nissenbaum casually dismissed the suggestion. Too hot. I prefer air-conditioned rooms.

  He gestured towards a file cabinet packed with files and booklets and told Tamir he has to go over all of it. It’s documentation of everything we know about the organization. But the most important part of the unit is this, he exclaimed jubilantly and pointed at a tray next to the computer on his desk. The tray holds the summaries of all communications regarding the organization picked up in the different bases scattered around the northern border and sent here via the unit’s internal mailing system. You, as the unit head, go over the summaries and classify them according to their subject. At the same time, you document everything with any intelligence importance. And this is the Hall of Documentation, Nissenbaum announced and slid open a couple of huge drawers from the large metal card cabinet behind the desk. Inside the drawers were rows and rows of index cards arranged in impeccable order. The cards were indexed alphabetically according to different topics, such as armament, communications, deployment, political, seaborne, vehicle, and more. Nissenbaum glanced at the enormous card cabinet, and Tamir thought he detected a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. If there’s anything I’ll truly miss about this place, he said, it’s this. I started this card cabinet practically from scratch. It’s my life’s work… he stared silently at the cabinet for a moment. Anyway, you’re going to have to really go over this cabinet, know it like the back of your hand. I’m certain that by the time your stint here ends, you’ll have filled another card cabinet like this.

  Tamir nodded. Nice poster, he said, and gestured over to the wall behind the unit-head’s chair. On the wall hung a large photo of the organization’s emblem: a united Palestine depicted in green, overlain with two crossed rifles, and the slogan: Sacrifice, Return, Liberation.

  Yes, well, Nissenbaum smiled, after all, it’s our flag, isn’t it?

  c. Bourgeois Intelligence

  During his second day on the job, Tamir visited Department 143, where he found three people completely immersed in their computer stations. He approached one of them, a soldier with an alert countenance whose uniform shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, and asked him about a question that was referred to them a while back regarding a prominent Iranian functionary operating in Lebanon who had lost an eye in the Iran-Iraq War. The soldier gave Tamir a measured look and said that yes, they think they know who it is, although it hasn’t been confirmed. Tamir waited. The soldier waited as well, as if weighing the matter in his head. Remind me please, who are you? he said finally.

  Department 195, Jibril unit.

  Wasn’t that someone else?

  I replaced him. Life’s dynamic, Tamir said.

  Yes… the soldier seemed displeased.

  So, are you going to tell me who it is?

  Yes, he said, and stared silently at Tamir.

  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 shini
ng 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.