by Hagai Dagan
Yes, he said. I know what that is.
Good, because I don’t want to get into it now over the phone, the deputy director bellowed, not even on the amethyst. So, we received word of a conversation. I’m not supposed to pass this on to you, but in my age and position, I can bend the rules a bit. I thought this could help you. You’re working on our thing, right?
Yes, of course.
You better write this down.
Tamir grabbed a pen and turned over a sheet of paper lying on his desk. I’m writing, he said.
We don’t know who’s doing the talking. That is, maybe the Americans know, but they weren’t kind enough to tell us.
Okay.
But they did say that the conversation was in Farsi. We only received the translation. They said Speaker A was in Iran and Speaker B was in Hamburg.
I see.
Here’s the interesting bit:
Speaker A: The people at Mohammad’s got the engines. They’re fast enough to reach their destination. They’ll link up with Big Mother on the agreed date if everything goes according to plan. How’s the paperwork coming along?
Speaker B: No glitches.
Speaker A: The identity, the affiliation, the whole nine yards?
Speaker B: Everything’s fine. What about the gnats?
Speaker A: Fine. No glitches reported.
That’s it, the deputy director said. What do you say?
Tamir put down his pen, trying to think clearly. So, two Iranians, he said, one of whom is in Iran, overseeing liaisons with certain factors… who are at Muhammad’s. Who is Muhammad?
There’s quite a large pool to pick from, isn’t there? the deputy director chuckled.
Yes, Tamir said. But if we assume, for now, that the thing about the engines is the story we already know of…
Which is completely uncertain at this point, the deputy director emphasized.
Right, Tamir concurred, and still, if that’s the case, then who is Muhammad?
You’d have expected them to say Ahmed, right? Ahmed Jibril.
What’s the thing that ties the Iranians to Lebanon? Tamir thought aloud.
The Revolutionary Guard.
Right… And Hezbollah. Mohammad… Mohammad! Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah.
I’ll be… the deputy director mumbled. But, he quickly added, that is still begging the question.
Right, Tamir agreed, surprised to hear philosophical terminology employed by a veteran army man such as the deputy director.
Well, even if we assume that the Iranians are collaborating with the seaborne unit, the deputy director said, then who are the gnats? How did gnats come into this story all of a sudden?
I’d say they are probably some sort of airborne factors, Tamir replied. Do you remember that thing Raspberry said, about a collaboration between brothers? We thought it might have referred to Jibril’s two sons— the commanders of the airborne and seaborne units. We don’t know how credible that report is, but…
I see. Do you know of any previous collaboration between them?
No.
In short, we still don’t know what the hell is going on. And what do you make of Big Mother?
A bigger ship? Iranian?
You mean a link-up? A joint Iranian-Palestinian attack? The Iranians attacking Israel from the sea? With what, missiles? That sounds a bit far-fetched, even for them. That would mean all-out war. What do they need a war with Israel now, after the Iran-Iraq War? They’re still licking their wounds. It doesn’t stand to reason.
No, Tamir admitted. He rarely raised his nose up from the scattering about of Palestinian and Shi‘ite organizations in Lebanon, and was new to such sweeping strategic reasoning.
So, we don’t get it, the deputy director repeated. Anyway, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. Okay, we’ll issue another notice of priority for intelligence and a general warning about the possibility of Iranian activity in the area with an emphasis on support of a Palestinian organization, specifically Front/Jibril. All in all, not much progress from where we were before, eh?
Tamir remained silent.
Binder!
Yes.
Stay on your toes, eh?
Yes.
We don’t want this thing blowing up in our faces.
No.
Okay, if any idea pops into your head, don’t be a stranger.
Tamir put down the red receiver and stared at the jittery letters he had scribbled down on the sheet of paper. He asked himself if he should report this to Moti. If he reports this, it’ll probably score him some loyalty points. On the other hand, if Moti’s supposed to know, he’ll know. That’s none of Tamir’s business. Why should he pass on a report from Brass Serpent that he received in confidence?
You seem perturbed, Ilay remarked.
Yes, it’s just thoughts cluttered in my head, that’s all.
Try to think about it like a Buddhist, Ilay said. All these clutters revolve around the ego. But what is the ego, really? An illusion, a fictitious construction.
And what’s all this around us? Tamir gestured indignantly to the halls sprawling around them, to the building, to the base— what’s all this? What exactly are we protecting here? The homeland? Where exactly is this homeland? Isn’t that a fictitious construction?
Could be, Ilay replied unmoved, but keep it down. You don’t want Moti to hear you talking like that. He’s already certain that we’re just a bunch of disloyal leftists as it is.
k. A Kite Aflame
Yes? Tamir answered the phone.
Hi, uh… I was put through to you…
Who is this?
Meital Schuster from Hatzav.
Hatzav? Tamir wondered.
Yes, open-source intelligence…
I know what Hatzav is.
We received a notice of priority for intelligence about a matter concerning aircrafts and watercrafts in regards to Palestinian and Lebanese factors?
Yes, Tamir said, remembering that he had asked that the notice of priority for intelligence be applied to open-source intelligence as well.
So, I’m not sure this will be of interest to you, Meital from Hatzav continued, but there was a poem published in the literature section of the Lebanese newspaper Al-Hadaf.
A poem?
Yes, a poem. Is that irrelevant?
No, it might be relevant, Tamir replied, remembering what Haim Gouri once said about a conversation he had had with the Egyptian intellectual Dr. Hussein Fawzi. Fawzi had told him that the biggest mistake Israeli intelligence made after the Six Day War was not reading poetry written by the other side. If you had read our poetry, he said, you wouldn’t have been taken by surprise during the Yom Kippur War.
It’s a poem about a kite, Meital Schuster said, but the word tayyara, means both kite and…
Airplane, Tamir finished her sentence.
Right, that’s why I thought it might be interesting. Is there any way I can send it directly to you, or should I send it out to the usual distribution list?
No, fax it to me, he said, and gave her his fax number.
Alright. How’s your literary Arabic?
Not bad.
You guys at army intelligence usually aren’t great at it.
I actually wanted to serve in Hatzav.
Really?
Yeah. It seemed like a very relaxed place to be.
Do you regret not having come here?
Uh… I don’t know. I’m not sure.
I believe that the most important thing is trying to take the positives out of whatever situation we are in, and not get hung up on what-ifs, Meital Schuster phrased a sentence which sounded to Tamir like she had read it in her weekly horoscope, but nevertheless rang momentarily in his ears as insightful.
About a minute later, the fax machine
beeped and printed out the excerpt from the literary section of Al-Hadaf. Tamir read the poem and wrote the translation down on a piece of continuous form paper he tore from the fax machine, trying to overcome the shaking that gripped his hand as soon as he saw the author’s penname:
al-Darija
A Kite Aflame
When I was a little girl, I used to love kites.
The breeze from the sea was meager, they could hardly take flight
and when I ran to gain momentum, my feet plodded through the mud.
There was always mud.
I was always sunk.
And still I ran, scraping my body on tamarisk branches.
Scared birds flew the thicket. How I wanted
to fly as they did. But even my kite
butterfly, made of paper
perforated. Our declaration of independence. Declaration of destitution.
So I passed my days in the stagnant water, my hand clutching a ragged
kite, gazing up at the sky, at the distant sun. How
I yearned for burning.
One day, I knew, I’d fly to it, far off into the distance,
riding a kite
aflame.
l. Where Were You?
You look a little pale, Keren observed worriedly. Her wheat-colored braids were wrapped around her head in a manner that reminded Tamir of period films, of courtly women and sixteenth-century maidens, of intrigue and betrayal in immaculate English.
I-I’m fine. I just read a poem.
A poem?! Come on, I’ll fix you a cup of tea. Do you get enough sleep? You need to be strong to protect the homeland! Here, I’ll even sacrifice some of my Assam blend, so don’t say I don’t love you. From the foothills of the Himalaya, straight to your cup. How ‘bout that, huh? Milk?
Yes, please.
She carefully poured milk into his cup. He took a sip of the tea, and a feeling of serenity pervaded his body.
By the look on your face, I see you know your tea. How’s my intelligence work?
I come from a kibbutz of Hungarians and English people.
Ah, that explains it. I’m from a settlement of Belarussians, where everyone drinks strong black tea and eats spoonfuls of cherry marmalade. Goes great with the tea.
Like in War and Peace, he mumbled.
Never read it. I’m waiting for the movie adaptation.
Cherry marmalade in silver utensils, Tamir recalled, Natacha’s rolling laughter, the unbridled joy, as if the war were far away, like it was nothing but an improbable dream, a bedtime fairytale, nothing more. Because who could even believe such a thing, anyway? He took the cup of supremely-brewed pungent tea back to his desk and turned on his computer. He started with the regular round of dispatches from the bases. A short conversation conducted on the Front’s network, intercepted at Kidonit, immediately caught his attention:
a. A/U, BB
b. S/U, Tr.
a. Where were you this whole time?
b. The device was broken. We just got a new one today.
a. Are all the details with the new friends done on your end?
b. Yes, almost. And yours?
a. Shouldn’t be any problem. They promised us that the distance [missing]. Let’s hope for clouds.
b. You talk too much over the radio. If you have anything important to say, use e/c.
a. Okay. Salutations.
Tamir sipped his tea and looked at the conversation almost in awe. He saw that it was intercepted the day before, at noontime. Why didn’t anyone contact him? He called Kidonit. Harel picked up the phone. Tamir asked his former IAO why no one had reported the conversation to him. Harel said that to the best of his knowledge, they had called but couldn’t reach him. They asked that the matter be brought to Moti’s attention. What else would you have us do, he asked in indignation.
No, that’s fine, Tamir muttered.
Looks like something really is going down, Harel said.
Yeah, this conversation is incredible. What’s the missing part?
They couldn’t make it out.
Not even the transcriber?
No.
Who was it?
Adika.
Where’s Sasson?
At home.
Tamir hesitated for a minute. Call him in, he said.
Are you serious?
Yes, it could be that important.
Listen here, Binder, are you trying to teach me how to do my job?
No, but there’s a terrorist attack unfolding before our eyes, we need to know what they’re saying there.
Adika said there’s no way to make it out.
Harel— get Sasson, he said in the most authoritative voice he could muster. He knew that at Kidonit, they don’t like to call in veteran transcribers on leave, and he knew that Harel was a bit scared of Sasson. He also knew that at that moment, Harel hated his guts. Technically, Tamir did not have the authority to issue orders to Harel. That was Moti’s job. Harel remained silent. Listen, Harel, Tamir said, I really don’t want to go to Moti with this thing…
Alright, fine, Harel agreed begrudgingly. I’ll call him in. But it better be worth it, for your sake. He hung up the phone.
Tamir went to see Moti in his office, but he wasn’t there. He went back to his own office and called the office of the deputy director of the MID-RD. He was told by his secretary that the deputy director was in a meeting. The secretary asked who she was speaking with.
Just make sure he sees the conversation intercepted from Sironit.
From where?
The Sironit network. It’s at Kidonit.
What?! she asked, perplexed.
He’ll know.
She hung up. Okay, what now? Tamir jotted down an evaluation and issued an internal notice of priority for intelligence regarding a collaboration between the Front’s airborne and seaborne units, most likely in conjunction to some extent with the Iranians, with an emphasis on logistical support. He didn’t have a clue what that logistical support could be. The tone of the conversation didn’t add up, either: logistical support isn’t something that requires details to be done. They wouldn’t phrase it like that. He added a couple of lines about a low probability of operational collaboration of an unknown nature with the Iranians, and stressed the need to establish the timetable, operational framework, and participatory factors. He sent the notice of priority for intelligence to the bases, feeling slightly foolish for stating the obvious. Still, he forwarded a copy to the office of the deputy director of the MID-RD.
An hour later, an urgent notice of priority for intelligence was issued from the office of the director of the Military Intelligence Directorate, repeating Tamir’s notice almost verbatim. A few sentences which must have been deemed too academic were rephrased into labored and cumbersome military speech. Why do they think that’s in any way clearer? he wondered. His phrasings were much more succinct and incisive.
Nissenbaum walked in.
Nissenbaum! Tamir called in surprise, with something approximating genuine happiness.
I’m doing the rounds and signing out of the base for good. I came by to say goodbye.
Did you hear about what’s going on?
A bit…
I could use your experience here.
Yeah…
Don’t you want to take a look?
Honestly? No.
Why?
It’s your show now.
I see.
From the safe shores of civilian life, all I can do is confer revolutionary blessings upon you, as you navigate the waves by yourself. He seemed pleased with himself.
Tamir smiled in acquiescence, trying to hide his disappointment. He understood how Nissenbaum felt, though, and could imagine himself feeling the same, were he in his shoes.
Nissenbaum
turned around and left. For a moment, Tamir felt overwhelmingly lonely, as if his humble office ruptured into a gaping, all-consuming abyss.
An hour later, Harel called and asked him to take a look at his incoming dispatches. Tamir saw a new dispatch from Kidonit— an updated version of the previous conversation:
a. A/U, BB
b. S/U, Tr.
a. Where were you this whole time?
b. The device was broken. We just got a new one today.
a. Are the details with the new friends done on your end?
b. Yes, almost. And yours?
a. Shouldn’t be any problem. They promised us that the distance isn’t great. Let’s hope for clouds.
b. You talk too much over the radio. If you have anything important to say, use e/c.
a. Okay. Salutations.
Well? was that so important? Harel asked resentfully.
Quite possibly, Tamir replied. If this is going to turn out to be a joint attack, meaning airborne, too, and if he’s saying that the distance isn’t great, that could mean that they’re planning to take off from around Naqoura or somewhere in the vicinity of the security strip border, perhaps even from within the security strip itself.
Harel muttered something under his breath and hung up the phone.
m. Chariot of Fire
That night, Tamir dreamt he was swimming in a black viscous sea. The thick cold waters percolate through his body, into his bones, dragging him further and further down, until he can no longer distinguish the waters without from the waters within. The water is opaque, muddy, and bitter, oh so bitter, he cannot see a thing. His eyes are caulked by the black murky substance, and he is sinking, drowning. He draws upon the dying embers of his will to force his arm up as high as he can. They are too numb for him to feel, but he knows that his fingers are protruding from the face of the black waters. Here, something is clutching them, something is pulling him out with tremendous effort, snatching him from the engulfing treacly black mass, pulling and pulling. He feels heat enveloping his fingers which have started to grow interdigital webbing, a soothing sensation, no, it’s unpleasant, a searing sensation, a deep burn, his hand is scorched, scalded; he screams as he is being drawn from the water, who is it who’s pulling him up? Daughter of Pharaoh? No, it’s Polnochi— Polnochi ablaze in the eternal white flame; Polnochi the winged; Polnochi, rider of the Chariot of Fire; Polnochi who is burning him.