The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  As you saw yourself, we were able to extract her after she landed. The helicopter fire towards the Ultralight was a blunder. At that point, we couldn’t tell which of the two gliders she was in. It’s hard to control such things in real-time.

  But her glider was hit as well.

  Yes, ground-unit fire. The forces weren’t sufficiently coordinated. But still, she wasn’t killed. It’s true that we didn’t expect you to appear there.

  Tamir remained silent. For so many nights after that, he could still see her before his eyes: in his sleep, in daydreams, and in twilight, the fire in those dark eyes, the proud, erect posture, a hand clutching a gun pointed directly at him, choosing him. With time, the memory faded, becoming less and less tangible, seeming more like a legend, like a dream.

  Why didn’t she shoot you? Oz suddenly hurled a question at him.

  Tamir recalled the tamarisk thicket, the wonderous awe he felt towards that girl, the hand that washed and bandaged his head; the sweet, hot tea; the receding sound of dogs barking outside; the swelling, soft silence inside, like a heart of chocolate in a fresh-baked babka; her lips whispering something in a primordial language, the language of marshes, deserts, and seas.

  I have no idea, he said.

  Oz stared at him prolongedly. Tamir saw nothing in his eyes but suspicion and contempt. He assumed it wasn’t personal, that this was his general outlook on the world.

  We held on to her for a while, debriefed her, Musa said.

  Why didn’t you call me? I knew the organization better than any of you.

  We didn’t care about the organization. We cared about Rajai, about the Revolutionary Guard.

  Tamir thought to himself that if he had questioned her about the organization and someone like the guy from Department 143 had questioned her about the Revolutionary Guard, they would have done a lot better than the people sitting in front of him now. He remembered the underwhelming performance of the Mossad representative at the meeting with the deputy director of the MID-RD, as well as ‘Ali the Yellow’s questioning. But at the same time, he thought that had he been invited to participate in Dallal’s questioning, he could have…

  We didn’t trust you, either, Oz added. And for good reason. What the hell were you doing there when she landed, anyway? Why didn’t you just stay in that surveillance van, the mouse?

  Mole.

  What did you think would happen? She could have killed you. Not that I would have given a shit…

  What could he have…?

  Anyway, we didn’t learn much, Musa said. We didn’t want to apply too much pressure, because there was still a chance we could use her again. So, we didn’t debrief her like we would a foreign agent, but like you would a source. And honestly… we didn’t make much headway.

  We should have broken her, Oz muttered.

  He could have saved her. Like she saved him then. From the thicket, from the night, from Ronen Schwartz, from the cruel kids, from the kibbutz.

  Oz is Beit Shammai, Musa smiled. But for now at least, we rule by Beit Hillel.23 Anyway, I don’t think she knew much more than she told us.

  Tamir waited in silence. Assaf typed in something on his laptop. Oz stared grimly at the table before him.

  Then, we found ourselves in a problem, Musa said. We couldn’t send her back to Lebanon. How could we explain that she had survived the attack? She escaped and made it back across the border? Not very likely. Your guys would never have bought it, and Rajai even less so. She would have ended up in some filthy Revolutionary Guard interrogation facility in Tehran. Eventually, we decided to go for something creative and a bit dangerous. We set her up in an apartment in Paris and told her to contact Rajai. Her cover story was that we offered her to work for us but that she wanted to stay loyal to him and provide him with information about us. She was to make him believe that she was a double agent working for him.

  What if that was her actual intention?

  Of course, we knew that was always a possibility, but keep in mind— the knife hanging over her sister’s head was still very much there. We told her that we were going to scrutinize and verify every bit of intelligence she provided us, so she’d better not try and pull a fast one. We didn’t tell her we were going to bug her apartment in Paris, but she’s a smart enough girl to have figured it out by herself.

  I see. And did you bug the apartment?

  Yes. But she only met him in hotel rooms. He never agreed to meet her at her place. He suspected her. It was unwise of him to continue seeing her regardless, but I guess she really had him under her spell.

  Tamir sat in silence. That’s understandable, he thought to himself.

  The man lives on the edge, Oz remarked.

  On our part, we had very little at stake, because we told her practically nothing, Musa said. The only thing she knew was how we operated, that is, what she learned simply by the way we conducted our relationship with her. But there’s no way around that. She knows our faces, which of course is less than ideal, but she doesn’t know our names.

  I see. So, what happened?

  She was in Paris for about a year. We knew for a fact that she did indeed renew her ties with him, but her reports remained pretty vague, and didn’t contain enough solid intelligence. They always met in hotel rooms on short notice, and we never had a chance to get a bug or a camera in there.

  You could’ve put a wire on her.

  Too risky, Musa said, especially if she was going to take her clothes off. Besides, if we had put something on her, it would’ve been like saying we don’t trust her. That’s not healthy for a relationship. So, we stuck with what she reported from the meetings. A few things she told us were actually verified, but they weren’t of any real consequence. That’s not necessarily her fault, though. It’s reasonable to believe that he suspected her throughout, so he didn’t reveal a lot of information.

  Musa lit a cigarette. Tamir wasn’t used to people smoking in offices anymore. You can smoke in here? he asked, almost instinctively.

  I can, Musa said. He took a long drag and put out his cigarette. About a year or so in, we started to get the feeling that she might be too shaky an asset, or even that her allegiance might be called into question. In the beginning, we thought she would turn out to be a real gem, but she had enough opportunities to prove herself, which she never did. It’s true that you can retain such an asset for years without getting anything from them, and then all of a sudden they pick up on something priceless. But in her case, as time passed, we felt it was getting too dangerous to leave her there in this kind of limbo. And besides, we needed some kind of solid proof she was truly with us, but never got it. We held a meeting to assess the situation, and decided to give her six more months.

  Were you then going to kill her?

  There were several options on the table, Musa closed the lid on that question.

  Leaving her there in Paris, Oz said, would have been like stepping out of your car to take a piss by a Bedouin village and leaving the keys in the ignition.

  Tamir turned his head to look at him. He was surprised to hear such an elaborate metaphor by the Mossad man, and decided to not even think about its social and political meaning.

  But about a month later, she went off the radar, Musa said.

  She left Paris?

  Probably.

  Weren’t you tracking her?

  Just sampling. She wasn’t under tight surveillance. There’s a limit to our resources. Obviously, her cellphone was tapped, but she left it in her apartment, which she probably left in disguise, and never returned again. We checked every airport, seaport, hospital, and car rental agency. Nothing. Maybe someone rented a car for her, maybe someone from the Palestinian community in Paris drove her somewhere. Or maybe she just took the train. It’s easy to avoid the cameras on a train, and you don’t have to identify yourself when you buy a ticket. We didn’t know
where she went. Believe me, it’s not easy to go truly off the grid— be she did just that. The project failed. It was disappointing, but nothing more than that. A lot of projects fail. It’s part of the job.

  Okay, but I guess that’s not the end of it, Tamir said, and thought to himself: boy, what a story…

  No, Musa said. He got up from his seat and walked over to the window. There was nothing outside but a gloomy Tel-Aviv evening, and some faded lights in the distance. Oz, take it from here, he said and lit another cigarette.

  We track all the Iranian embassies in the world, or at least we try to, Oz said in quiet, dry voice which Tamir couldn’t quite decipher. Amir Rajai arrived about a month ago in Vienna. He was stationed in Europe before, but only briefly. Now, he popped up in Vienna as the economic attaché of the embassy. Obviously, that sparked our interest. Two weeks after he arrives, we see his car leaving the embassy. After a while, he steps out of the car, walks a couple of blocks, and goes into some Turkish café or something…

  Nâzım Hikmet Café in the 8th district, Assaf raised his head from his laptop. A place that hosts cultural events, poetry readings…

  Not just any poetry reading, Oz said. That evening, they held a Palestinian poetry reading. We got one of our people in, and guess who we see there?

  Did she read a poem? Tamir asked, recalling the poem published in Al-Hadaf.

  Yes, she did, our agent even recorded it. Something about… Assaf, what’s that bird’s name?

  Maglan, Assaf said.

  Ibis… Tamir mumbled.

  What’s that?

  That’s its Latin name.

  I didn’t know you were an ornithology fan, Musa said.

  I’m not. How was she introduced?

  How do you say it, Assaf?

  Alma Strandläufer.

  Sounds very German, doesn’t it? Oz sneered.

  Strandläufer, literally meaning someone who walks along the shore… Tamir pondered out loud.

  Right, and we checked it, Assaf said, Zwergstrandläufer is the German word for stint.

  I’ll be… Tamir muttered.

  Alma just has a nice ring to it, Musa said.

  In German, it just sounds like a common name, Tamir said. That was Mahler’s wife’s name…

  Who? Oz asked.

  Gustav Mahler, the composer.

  Not something you should concern yourself with, Musa snickered.

  But… Wait, Tamir said. A spark went off in his mind.

  What? Musa asked.

  Alma, Alma… Oh! Of course, Tamir smiled.

  What?!

  Think about it in Arabic. al-Ma’. The water.

  Wow… Musa mumbled. See? You should always keep an intelligence analyst lying around.

  Long story short, Oz continued, after the moving poetry reading, they went back together to an apartment in the 8th district. We put a watch on the house. Nice place, nice area, looks like she’s done well for herself. Every Thursday, she hosts Arab intellectuals at her house.

  A literary saloon, Tamir quietly remarked.

  I don’t think she works. She just sits around in cafés a lot. She meets Rajai, as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he set her up there and she’s just living off of him. The problem is, they always meet in loud bars. That makes things difficult for us, Musa said. He’s paranoid, so that makes it very hard to get close to him, and it’s too loud to bug the place, so we don’t know what they’re talking about.

  He’s an Iranian diplomat, and he sits around in bars? Tamir wondered.

  He doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of it.

  I don’t think she’s connected to anything or has anything of value to tell him, Musa said, but it could be that he’s telling her interesting things.

  They only meet in bars? So, she’s not sleeping with him anymore? Tamir asked.

  Probably not, which makes it even more interesting. The whole thing is unclear. She wouldn’t be a source for him by this point…

  Tamir sat in silent, trying to process the wealth of information he just received.

  Do you have any more insights? Musa asked. He was smoking again, but didn’t bother opening the window. The windowpane is probably fixed anyway, Tamir thought.

  Not at this point, Tamir said. I need to think about it.

  Well, you’re going to have to think on the move. You’re flying out to Vienna.

  Really?

  Yes, tonight. Don’t get your hopes up, though— you’re flying coach.

  That’s fine.

  Oz snarled something under his breath, Assaf didn’t even raise his head from his laptop.

  I might regret asking this, but— why do you need me there?

  We don’t, Oz said.

  You tracked that organization and knew it better than anyone else, Musa said.

  That was a long time ago, Tamir replied.

  True, but that was her time there, Musa insisted, and we know you took a special interest in her. Moreover, I have a sneaking suspicious that you know more about her than you’re telling us. Or, at the very least, that you have a hunch about her. An intuition. Don’t get me wrong— I hope you do. I don’t look down on those things.

  I feel you know more about her than you’re telling me, too, Tamir remarked.

  Our people will do the ground work, Musa disregarded his remark, but we could use another ear. We never managed to figure her out, right to the very end. Now, we need to know what’s going on with her, and we could use an outside consultant. Worst-case scenario— you have nothing to contribute. No big deal. You get a free trip to Vienna and then go back to your college…

  To your glorious academic career, Oz scoffed.

  Oz, Musa said.

  What?

  Enough.

  Listen, Oz turned to Tamir, you have no operational training. Our people there will brief you, but I’m telling you right now— you don’t go out to the field, you don’t do anything on your own initiative. You just sit tight like a good boy in the apartment they set you up in, and you stay there. At most, you go down to a café by your apartment to grab a latte.

  They call it a melange in Vienna, Tamir remarked.

  Be a tourist. But mainly— don’t do anything you’re not instructed to do. If you blow this operation for us, I swear to God, I’ll…

  Oz! Musa reprimanded him again.

  Alright, alright.

  Listen, Musa said to Tamir, he has a point. It might be more sensible to just have you here, like an IAO, feeding you reports from our surveillance, and if you have any insights, you tell us.

  So, why are you flying me out, then?

  Because our team leader insisted that he wanted you there with him. He said that based on his previous experience with you, he trusts your instincts. He’s one of the reasons we called you in in the first place.

  You’ve got someone who has previous experience working with me?

  Yes.

  May I ask who that is?

  Yaki. You knew him when he was an SRO at 504, but he’s been with us for a long time now.

  You’re kidding… Tamir mumbled.

  Now, let’s go over a few emphases, Musa said.

  You never asked me if I agree, Tamir said.

  You’re right, we didn’t, Musa said. Do you agree?

  Yes, Tamir said.

  Good, now let’s go over a few things, then you can go back to your apartment to pack.

  Do I have a cover story?

  You’re a tourist. If you need any more than that— you’re having a bit of a hard time at the college, so you took a vacation.

  That’s not really a cover story, it’s pretty close to the truth.

  Good, then you won’t have any problem selling it. Your flight leaves at 6:45 a.m. Assaf will give you the rest of the details in a minut
e. Welcome to the team.

  c. Forgotten Frequency

  On the flight over, Tamir read the transcript of the poem Alma Strandläufer had read at the Nâzım Hikmet Café in the 8th district. He felt that the translation appended to the text was too literal, crass, and inaccurate, so he tried to translate the Arabic for himself. It took him a long time. It had been years since he last read or heard Arabic, aside from the occasional Arabic program over the radio during his commute to the college. He gave his mind time to acclimatize, to readjust, like an old reception panel slowly rebooting, groping in the dark for a primordial, forgotten frequency:

  The marsh angel slowly ascends. Its wings

  saturated in cold mud, boggy forgetfulness. Slowly

  and steadily, it bats its pinions.

  Silence over the earth. It falters,

  pierces, and rises. It sees

  destitute streams, inula-covered ruins,

  and salt.

  Darkness whispers its lifeless

  name.

  Where to shall it fly now?

  d. Cautious Joy

  Outside the window of the cab, a huge complex of petrochemical plants sprawled, the size of a small city. Tamir ruminated on futuristic cities, metal birds, and mechanized ships. The Sikh taxi driver seemed to be absorbed in his own lofty contemplation. Under normal circumstances, Tamir would have taken the train, especially in a city with such a highly-developed public transportation system as Vienna, but Assaf had told him that he would be reimbursed for expenses such as taxis, restaurants, and cafés upon presenting receipts, so, why not? he thought. Why the hell not?

  He packed lightly, assuming he’d only be gone for a couple of days. Some warm clothes, two or three books. His phone made a faint buzzing sound. He looked at the incoming message. The coordinator of the philosophy department at the college wanted to know why he hadn’t arrived to his meeting the day before, and wanted to reschedule. Tamir replied that he was feeling under the weather, and that he’d call soon to set a new date. He put his phone back in his pocket. He knew he wasn’t the only one reading these messages. Assaf made it clear to him that the app he was sent wasn’t merely a means to upload GPS directions. We are connected to your phone now, he explained. We know your location, and can see what you see. This is important, because if you get in any kind of trouble, we’ll know where you are and come help you. It’s very important you keep your phone on you at all times. It’s your insurance policy.