The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  n. The Brains Lottery

  A day went by. And another. Clouds gathered over the futuristic fort, condensed, showered down, and dispersed. In Sufit, the fields were being plowed; at the Barometer pub, beer glasses were being filled to the brim; and in Tamir Binder’s unassuming room in Department 195, nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The period of time known as life stretched into a kind of jejune sprawling present, cast in the mold of an uninspired office with dark, luminous clouds menacing through its windows.

  Communications which usually would not find their way to Tamir’s computer were now being routed to him— reports by the Naval Intelligence Division on the movement of Iranian watercrafts in the area. Ever since the notice of priority for intelligence regarding such movements had been issued, all the relevant bodies started receiving a steady stream of reports regarding Iranian watercrafts roaming the Mediterranean Sea, the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, and the Suez Canal. Tamir received several of these reports a day. He read through them all, searching for something out of the ordinary— but found nothing. One day, he received a report about an Iranian tanker which passed through the Suez Canal. There was nothing unusual about the tanker, and the Egyptians let it pass without delay. The NID reported that its destination was Tripoli in northern Lebanon, where it was intended to offload its cargo of oil.

  Tripoli, Tamir mused. His hand hovered over the reddish telephone receiver for a few seconds, before settling it back down on his wooden desk. He got up from his seat and took the stairs down to the floor below, momentarily losing his bearings in the maze of cyclical hallways before finally arriving at the door of Department 143. He found the same soldier with his uniform shirt neatly buttoned all the way to the top, as if he hadn’t moved from his seat since the last time Tamir visited the office. Tamir amused himself with the thought that maybe he really hadn’t moved since then. He asked the soldier if he knows something about Iranian oil supplies to Lebanon.

  Something, he smugly confirmed.

  Tamir asked how many tankers arrive at Tripoli. The soldier replied that an Iranian tanker arrives about once a week.

  So, it’s routine?

  Yes.

  Tamir thanked him, went back up to his department, and called Naval Intelligence Division. He spoke with someone named Arieh and requested that they try to follow the tanker to Tripoli, even though it’s probably just a routine cruise.

  We don’t take orders from you, Arieh emphatically asserted.

  I know. Listen, Arieh, I can take the long route through the usual channels, have a notice of priority for intelligence issued…

  So do that. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.

  Do you have anything against the idea of collaboration between intelligence collection bodies?

  There’s a way to go about these things.

  Let’s put it this way— if you wanted to, could you track this vessel?

  If we really wanted to, we could surveil the boat, I suppose. We could send out an aircraft…

  Tamir loosely thanked him and went to see Moti. After hearing Tamir’s case, Moti replied that there was standard protocol, and that he sees no reason to make a fuss. Everyone received the same report as us, he said. If someone sees fit to send out a surveillance flight, they’ll do it. We don’t need to be smarter than everyone. We didn’t win the brains lottery.

  What does that even mean, that idiotic sentence? Tamir thought to himself bitterly. And what’s so bad about being smarter than everyone? He gazed into Moti’s vexed eyes. His countenance was even harsher than his words— his face said get the hell out of my sight. Tamir went back to his room and tried calling the deputy director of the MID-RD. He’s in a meeting, he was told. The man sure goes to a lot of meetings, Tamir thought. What do I do now? Chances are that this really is just a routine oil run. Maybe I really shouldn’t make a fuss about it. Ugh, goddamnit. He called Yaki.

  How’re things at the center of the universe? Yaki asked teasingly.

  Say, Yaki, do you have a way to reach the Yellow immediately?

  Perhaps.

  There’s an oil tanker on its way to Tripoli. I need eyes on that tanker.

  You need…?

  Everyone needs, but they’re moving too slow.

  I see. You think this could be serious?

  Perhaps.

  What are we talking about?

  We don’t know exactly. They could be smuggling weapons to the Front’s seaborne unit.

  Got it. Okay, let me see what I can do.

  o. What’s Going on in Tripoli?

  That night, Tamir sat by himself at the Barometer pub. He took a bite of his grilled-cheese sandwich and sipped his beer, but he was too distracted to savor the flavor. Two women walked by him, one wearing a black fedora hat and the other a crimson newsboy cap, chatting loudly. He pointed out to himself as if annotating his own observation, that there was something flamboyant and arrogant about their clamor, yet at the same time pleasant and flirtatious. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t make out a single word they were saying, as if the part of his brain in charge of comprehension was temporarily shut down. The pub plunged around him, receding into the background, pushed into the adjacent Dizengoff Street like theater-set walls ushered out of a scene, sacrificing a vulnerable interior for a gluttonous exterior. He paid his bill and left the place; he wandered out into the quiet space between Nordau Street and Ussishkin Street, trudging along the serene alleys of northern Tel-Aviv; he crossed the streets named after the biblical prophets Zechariah and Haggai, before traversing the Hasmonaean kings Simon Thassi and John Hyrcanus, who ironically found their final abode here, at the outskirts of a desperately Hellenized city.

  As he walked into his apartment, the phone rang.

  I was looking for you, Yaki’s voice sounded through the receiver.

  I went out to get a drink.

  Really? So you’re human, after all?

  Tamir smiled. What’s up?

  Our friend took a trip to the beach above, Yaki said.

  I’m listening.

  You should know, this form of communication puts him at risk.

  I understand. What did he see?

  He didn’t see any oil cargo being unloaded.

  No?

  No. But they might have done that before he arrived.

  Right.

  He didn’t see anything else unloaded either— or loaded, for that matter.

  Uh huh… Tamir said, disappointed.

  But he didn’t stick around until nighttime. He felt unsafe there.

  I see. Is that all?

  Not exactly.

  What else?

  He thinks he saw something unusual. He’s not certain. He had a pair of binoculars, but it was getting dark.

  What does he think he saw?

  He thinks he saw them dismantling the pipes.

  The pipes…?

  Yeah, you know. There are pipes on top of the deck, right? Like, a whole intricate system.

  Oh, right… Tamir recalled.

  Well, he thinks they dismantled it.

  And that’s not something they usually do?

  I don’t think so. Why would they do that?

  Why, indeed? What do they gain from it?

  Ask someone who knows about these things.

  Right.

  Okay. Have a ball.

  Yaki…

  Yes?

  I appreciate it.

  Oh, sure thing. I’m always happy to provide private intelligence services and bend the system to accommodate the capricious whims of special-interest factors. Hey, come visit me in jail, will you?

  Haha, very funny, Tamir said and hung up.

  He paced back and forth in his kitchen before finally calling Keren, remembering that she owns a car. He asked her for a ride to the
base.

  Absolutely not.

  What do I need to do to get you to take me?

  Take a cab.

  It’s too expensive.

  Just call the duty IAO. It’s gonna be morning soon, anyway.

  I’ll get you a supply of high-quality Assam team.

  That’ll cost you more than the cab ride.

  Are you into massages?

  Yes, but I don’t think that’s…

  A happy-ending massage?

  No way.

  A happy-ending massage and dinner?

  No.

  A 10 oz. sirloin steak dinner at the Dixie?

  Fine, fine, I’ll give you a ride. I’ll think about the dinner, but I’ll pass on the massage.

  On the way over to the base, Keren asked him what was the hurry. He said he didn’t know. That it was mainly a hunch. Hunches are important, she said, but it was clear she wasn’t taking the whole thing very seriously. Something of that academic equanimity bordering on sarcasm that Tamir sensed when he first arrived at the department had stuck to her irrevocably, he thought to himself. He wondered whether he would inevitably become that way as well.

  The red lights at the top of the antennas installed on the roof of the fortified building radiated in the dark, ripping through the starless dusky sky. The corridors inside were lit by pale, sickly florescent lights. Keren went to fix a cup of tea while Tamir walked into the department and called NID to ask the duty officer about the standard procedure of oil tankers. This time, he was lucky enough to have reached someone nicer, who was probably a bit bored and was eager to chat. He told Tamir that as soon as they finished constructing the tanker, the pipe system was fixed in place. At most, a particular length of pipe or joint was replaced, but no more than that.

  So, why would anyone dismantle it?

  Beats me. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, it landed just to unload a cargo of oil, right? There aren’t any dockyards there, or anything like that. They’re not there to give it a tune-up or to repurpose it.

  You tell me— Iranian tanker in Tripoli?

  Strictly offloading, the NID duty officer said decisively.

  So, what then?

  So, maybe your source didn’t understand what he saw.

  Maybe, Tamir sighed, lost in thought. He thanked the duty officer and slumped into his blue office chair. What the hell’s going on it Tripoli? He called the NID again and asked what had to happen for someone to issue an order to surveil that tanker.

  Something with a bit more substance than a source standing on the beach in the dark thinking he might have seen some pipes being dismantled.

  If it’s finished unloading the oil, how long before it sails off?

  A day. Two, at most. They don’t want to keep it just floating around there. It’s time wasted.

  And then, how long until it faces our shore?

  What difference does it make?

  I don’t know…

  It’ll sail outside of our territorial water back to the Suez Canal. That’ll take about a day, a day-and-a-half.

  Okay. Tamir hung up the phone. He started going over his incoming dispatches, but nothing caught his eye. He called Kidonit and Efroni, but they had nothing to report. Neta told him she’s thinking about coming to Tel-Aviv the following day and asked if he wants to get together. Haifa’s starting to cramp my style, she laughed. They agreed tentatively to meet in the evening. He stared blankly at the screen for a while, before finally getting up to call Keren who had spent her time going over some incoming dispatches of her own.

  Well, did you save the homeland?

  No.

  So your hunch was wrong?

  I’m not sure.

  She stared at him with something approximating compassion. That’s okay, she said, we took a ride, broke our routine. Too bad no one was here to appreciate us putting in the extra effort. We would have gotten a bonus.

  Really?

  Ya’ think…?

  p. The Cage is in Motion

  The following day, Tamir tried to find someone to take an interest in the tanker story, but that proved easier said than done, as he couldn’t disclose to anyone what ‘Ali the Yellow claimed to have seen without compromising Yaki. Not only that, but following his conversation with the NID duty officer, he himself was no longer certain that ‘Ali even saw what he claimed he had seen. He spoke with Moti and the NID again, but to no avail. Iranian tankers offload oil cargo in Lebanon all the time, they told him. Right, he said, but the timing— there’s something unfolding now. Moti brushed Tamir off by saying he’d look into it. Tamir finally got hold of the deputy director of MID-RD and shared his hunch with him. Hunches are important, the deputy director said, but do you know how much it would cost to send a plane to surveil that ship? Do you know how much one hour of flight costs? I need more substance than what you’re offering me at the moment to justify that.

  Tamir was getting tired of everyone telling him that hunches were important. It started to sound like some kind of blank mantra people were simply repeating after having been so resoundingly caught out during the Yom Kippur War. He deliberated whether to hint at ‘Ali the Yellow’s revelation, but decided it would be too complicated. He gave up, asked Moti to issue a clarification notice, and went home.

  While he was having dinner, Neta called and said she was meeting some friends and might not make it to his place in time. She asked until what time he thinks he’ll stay up. He replied that he wasn’t sure if he was going to get any sleep at all. You take work way too seriously, she said, you need to relax. I’ll come over to soothe you.

  He opened a bottle of beer and put a Bob Dylan cassette in the cassette player. Dylan had left all womankind behind and set off to traverse the open, inexhaustible expanses of America. Tamir looked lamentedly at his cramped, sparsely-furnished Tel-Aviv apartment. He was filled with an urge to drop everything and disappear into the open planes of America. He must have fallen asleep at some point, as he was awoken by the doorbell.

  Neta, her eyes shimmering, her curls glowing like an incandescent heap of dusky coal. Wanna catch a movie?

  He looked at his watch. It was 11:30 p.m.

  Where? Paris Cinema? He recalled they run late shows.

  No, let’s go to the drive-in.

  What’s on now?

  What planet do you live on? Every day at midnight they play a skin flick.

  Really?

  Yeah. It’ll be a hoot. C’mon, let’s go.

  I was planning to stay available, he hesitated.

  Oh, no problem, she said and pulled out a large khaki-colored cellular phone.

  Tamir looked incredulously at the device. Where did you get one of those? he asked.

  I’m a very important person, she said. Because our roster in Efroni is so short, there’s always the chance they’ll have to call in someone on leave.

  Tamir called the civilian line at Kidonit’s intelligence analysis post, hoping they haven’t gone to sleep yet. Luckily, Jonny was still there. Tamir instructed him to call Neta’s army phone should something unusual pop up on one of the networks, and gave him her number. He then put on his blue suede jacket, and the two headed out to the drive-in.

  The movie, staring Nina Hartley and Ron Jeremy, started a couple of minutes after Neta parked her car. Neta thought that Nina Hartley was cute and sexy, and appreciated her joie de vivre. Regarding Ron Jeremy, she said she was glad she didn’t have to have that thing inside her. A short while later, she turned to Tamir and said she believed that the whole point here was active viewing; she pulled down his pants and underwear in one purposeful swoop and sat on top of him, facing the screen with her back to him.

  This way you can look at my ass and Nina’s as well, she said. It’s nice, isn’t it?

  Very nice, Tamir replied. Just then, Neta’s army phone rang.

&nbs
p; Get it, he whispered.

  Yeah? she panted into the receiver, and immediately handed him the phone. It’s for you.

  Tamir tried to sound collected when he asked who this was.

  It’s Jonny. I hope I’m not interrupting.

  It’s fine.

  Something interesting just came through. Do you wanna hear it? I’d rather not do this over the phone, but this could be urgent.

  Talk in hints.

  It came through encrypted. Kh’s guys to J’s.

  Okay. And the content?

  Link-up complete. The cage is in motion.

  Tamir held his breath. Neta let out a sigh and sat down beside him. His eyes followed her movement lamentedly. He asked Jonny if the message explicitly said what he just told him.

  Word for word, Jonny said.

  So there it is, Tamir said. This is it. He instructed Jonny to alarm everyone he possibly could, and hung up the phone. He asked Neta if she had an emergency contact list.

  No, she said.

  Okay, so let’s go to headquarters, he said.

  You wanna see me haul ass?

  Absolutely.

  She really did drive fast. She stopped at traffic lights, but otherwise recklessly veered and swerved around cars, going 85 mph down Bnei Efraim Boulevard. They reached the base a couple of minutes before Moti, and ran into him in the parking lot. He looked at them slightly bemused. Tamir cut straight to the chase. Listen, Moti, they said link-up. I think that means the seaborne unit linked up with that Iranian oil tanker. That might be what they’re referring to as cage. The question is, why are they reporting it to the airborne unit station? This could be the collaboration we’ve been suspecting…

  How can you be certain it’s that tanker?

  I can’t. Never mind though, the navy should search for it, or for something else out at sea— but we have to get the Mole out. There could be an attack unfolding as we speak.