The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Her apartment was dark and pleasant. After he had told her all he wanted was for her to stand over him, she said they could meet in her apartment rather than her studio, since there was no need for all the props and fixtures in her studio. She kept a mini-studio in her apartment, she said, for intimate clients. That was how she put it. She led him down a dark corridor to a room whose walls were painted a deep ruby red. In the center of the room was a bed covered in black latex. The cold light descending on the room through the broad windows was softened by long drapes the color of the northern night skies. In this scant light she stood before him. She wore dark leather pants and a black corset, regal, laced with thin silver laces. The blue color of her eyes was magnificent, like icy lakes atop snow covered mountains. She smiled and offered him to sit on a velvet couch. Tamir always felt comfortable on couches like that. She glanced at him amiably from a distance. Shall we take care of the financial matters first? Of course, of course. He paid. She placed the money in a drawer and suggested he take his clothes off and lie on the black bed. Does he like a little pain? Some roughhousing? No, he doesn’t want her to hurt him; he prefers gentleness to roughness. Gentle authoritativeness, he said. He thought for a moment. Maybe…

  Yes? she asked.

  Maybe something a bit maternal. Maternal but authoritative.

  I think I understand, she said. Let’s try.

  He took his clothes off slowly, pensively, and lied on his back. The latex felt cold against his naked skin, aggressive. He shivered. She sat next to him and caressed him lightly. It’s been a while since anyone had caressed him. Afik… How is Afik? Suddenly, the Slovenian dominatrix sitting beside him on the latex bed appeared real, while Afik seemed like a distant memory. She slid her hand down his belly. Her touch was steady, safe. Her hands revealed reserved power. They pinned him to the latex mattress. She rolled him over on his stomach, lightly spanked and then kneaded his buttocks. He rolled over and curled up on his side. She understood; she leaned over him, her velvet-bound breasts suspended over his face. He quivered slightly. He asked if he could see her naked. Maybe just a little, she obliged, I usually work in a CFNM environment— you know, clothed female, naked male— but I occasionally allow exceptions.

  She stood over him, undid her leather pants, and dropped them over his face. He thought of the steely blue in her eyes, far above him, walls of ice and mist; he gazed at her pale, superb thighs, unsheathed from those leather pants, her soft, noble curves; a milky light penetrated the window, above which hovered very narrow silk panties lined with lace, alternatingly shiny and concealed, a work of art, like northern clouds of divine glory interwoven with arctic glow. He felt he saw a cryptic language inscribed in the lace, an e/c in need of deciphering, black material, words of poems intended for those who see in the dark, knoweth of the occult. Again, tales of Sumerians and Acadians appeared in his mind like a primordial incantation. He sat up in the bed, raising his head from the black latex and lifting it up to reach her panties. She let him. He pressed his face to the gentle blue velvet and inhaled the scent of lilies floating on icy lakes. He took in the frosted, resuscitating air as deep as he could, closed his eyes and saw letters, letters of poems, letters of earth and sea. The tribes of the desert surround the fortified Sumerian cities like the army of Joshua son of Nun had encircled the walls of Jericho, enclosing them with magic, incantations, blowing of the shofar, sorcery and deception, deception… He opened his eyes. He understood.

  m. Who is Flamingo Reed?

  Back at his apartment, both his phones screamed bloody murder. He called Yaki. Where the hell have you been? Yaki yelled. What the hell were you doing in Alserstrasse?

  How do you know I was in Alserstrasse?

  You used your credit card there. Twice.

  Never mind where I was. You need to get me on the line with Musa.

  Start with me, and then we’ll see about Musa.

  The poems are a code.

  Are you serious?

  Yes. She said a couple of odd things during her conversation with the American editor. First, she told him, you’re lucky I understood it. Why would she say that if she wrote it herself?

  So, it wasn’t her who wrote it?

  I don’t think it was. Secondly, she rebukes him in the end, saying that it’s irresponsible to publish with him. Irresponsible? Doesn’t that sound a bit strange? It’s a poem in a literary journal. What does that have to do with responsibility?

  So, it’s a code? Who’s talking to who? A code for what?

  Hold on. She’s published poems herself under the name Alma Strandläufer. There are other poems published under the name Flamingo Reed. They are written in a different style, and always deal with the same matter— Acadian raids on Sumerian cities. I suspect only Flamingo Reed’s poems are a code. The code was written for her, but she’s not the final addressee.

  Yaki remained silent. What does the code say? he finally asked. Do you have any idea?

  I went over the poems several times. I think the Sumerian cities represent contemporary places. I think the poems provide information about possible attacks on those places. In the last poem she got upset about, it was said Lagash would be attacked in a couple of days, and that it would be attacked by sorcery and deception. I would pose this question: has anyone attacked anything over the past few days, or is about to attack something in the next few days? Obviously, that’s too broad a question, so let’s narrow it down: have we attacked something or are about to attack something anytime soon? But since we’re talking about deception, perhaps we can focus the question even further: are we about to attack something soon, not directly, but…

  Cyber… Yaki whispered.

  Yes, I think that might be the meaning.

  Cunt… Yaki mumbled.

  Who? Do you have any idea who’s writing these poems? Who is Flamingo Reed?

  We need to get Musa on the line, Yaki said solemnly.

  n. Literature Lesson

  Tamir wandered around the inner courtyard of the municipality building. The rows of black columns towering over his head brought to mind complex thoughts. He didn’t understand those thoughts. Maybe they weren’t his thoughts at all, he mused. Black vultures circled overhead in the frosted skies. Starless nights overwhelmed desolate cities. Refugees moved through barren roads, silent, detached. In the distance, beyond speculative hills, lay the ruins of ancient cities. Tadmor? Palmyra? Atil? Lachish? A naked woman, pale as a night heron, stood on a rock, her black hair motionless in the night sky. The refugees cast their eyes to her as devotees in a gaping, borderless temple. The night shook. The woman spread her arms to her sides. The crowd expected her to turn into a bird, to soar, but instead she dropped and fell silently from the cliff.

  Tamir entered the municipality building compound, went up a flight of stairs covered in regal crimson carpets, leaned on cool marble pillars decorated with Doric and Ionic embellishments, passed through vacant halls and crossed broad porticos, spacious and silent, as if waiting in expectation. He tried to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, taking walks helped him clear his mind: his thoughts would scatter, wash away like waves being pulled back into the ocean, and then rearrange, as if of their own volition. But this time, it didn’t work. He left the municipality building, went up Josefstädterstrasse, and stopped in front of a shop selling assorted wallets. He looked at a wallet with an interweaving floral pattern, and suddenly thought Afik might like it. He went into the shop, but his phone vibrated. Yaki wrote: 45 Mariahilferstrasse, 20 minutes from now. Take a taxi. Tamir sighed. He left the store and hailed a cab. The driver explained that he couldn’t drive all the way across Mariahilferstrasse. He took him as far as he could, and Tamir swiftly walked the rest of the way. Flakes of frost were suspended in the air. He shivered, feeling more invigorated and alive than he had for years. He didn’t dwell on the thought.

  Yaki waited for him there, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigaret
te. He stomped out the butt and signaled to Tamir to follow him. They entered a narrow cobblestone passage, between houses with viridian colored window frames. On both sides of the narrow passage were small boutiques, bars, and cafés. Yaki strode purposefully, occasionally glancing to his sides. It was clear he wasn’t interested in taking in the quaint view, even though the passage was what tour-guides would call ‘enchanting’. Yaki stopped in a courtyard enclosed by stone arches. On both sides were large green wooden doors. Beer tables stood in the court, orphaned, as if awaiting warmer days. Yaki wiped the condensation off one of the chairs and sat down. He signaled to Tamir to do the same.

  We’ll freeze to death here, Tamir protested.

  Don’t get spoiled on me now.

  What are we even doing here?

  Talking to Musa.

  Here?!

  Yes, it’s safe here. Yaki glanced quickly to his sides. Only then did Tamir notice the girl who said he could call her Marina. She leaned on a wall on the far end of the courtyard, wearing a long light-colored jacket which blended seamlessly with her surroundings. A white woolen hat was pulled down over her eyes. She smoked a cigarette. Her eyes were concealed behind the dark lenses of a pair of frameless glasses.

  Say, Yaki, what’s the deal here? Why is the operation run like this?

  Like how?

  You’re an organized and official intelligence body, aren’t you? So, why aren’t we meeting at the embassy? Why aren’t we working from the embassy? Why are we sitting here now, as if this were some crappy spy film?

  Yaki glanced sideways at him. Maybe this is a crappy spy film.

  It’s all very odd, Tamir said. I mean, why is it so hard to get clearance to bug her apartment?

  You’d be better off asking Musa these questions, though I wouldn’t recommend it. He won’t like it.

  That’s why I’m asking you.

  And I’m referring you to Musa, Yaki smiled. He took out his smartphone and started fiddling with it. Tamir shivered from the cold, expecting to see Musa’s face pop up on the screen through some encoded video-call app, but nothing happened. A couple of minutes later, an ungainly figure emerged from the other side of the passage and sat in front of them. Musa’s doughy face appeared from behind a thick gray scarf. His bald head was covered by a black woolen hat which made him look a bit ridiculous.

  We’ve given your theory some thought, he said.

  Uh…

  First of all, it’s good you came up with it. Perhaps we need to recruit some literary scholars to the organization.

  Tamir conjured something approximating a smile. He could barely move his lips from the cold.

  We think the Sumerian cities might be cities in Iran. We checked the poems according to their dates of publication and cross-referenced them with what we know of our activities in Iran. It appears that Ur is Tehran, Uruk is Qom, and so forth.

  And Lagash? Tamir asked, forgetting about the cold for a moment.

  Natanz.

  Is anything planned for Natanz soon?

  Musa hesitated for a moment. Yes, he finally said.

  Cyber?

  Musa nodded.

  Sorcery and deception, Tamir mumbled. That’s not even an encryption, that’s simply poeticism. Someone simply assumed that no one was reading poetry, or maybe that no one even knows how to read poetry. It’s simply a case of two people talking in poems… he fell silent. Musa stared at him. Something intruded into Tamir’s thoughts, a distant memory. Reeds, bitter olives, greasy confectionary, sweet, strong, dark tea, Dallal’s eyes, Sa’ira’s voice; the taste of bitter olives intensified in his mouth, filled his insides, biting, strange; Sa’ira’s voice faded, receded, made way for Dallal’s voice. We have a special language, she said, a language of poems.

  Dear god, he turned to Musa.

  What?

  Her sister, Sa’ira…

  Her name is Sarah now. Sarah Ben Amram. Wife of Rabbi Ben Amram.

  He became a rabbi?

  Yes, he’s done quite well for himself…

  And… are you still keeping tabs?

  Not really. She hasn’t given us any reason for concern since. Why? Do you think…

  I think she’s the one writing these poems.

  Musa stared at him with an almost wild ferocity. In the frosty gray air, his eyes looked like those of a rabid wolf. Based on what?! he growled.

  Nothing, a hunch, Tamir lied. He had no intention to impart his life story on Musa.

  A hunch?! That’s not enough, Musa said, but looked very perturbed.

  Why don’t you check it? But you know what? Forget it. It doesn’t make sense, anyway. If she’s just a rabbi’s wife from Acre, if that’s all that she is, how would she know to inform her about secret plans to attack Iran?

  Musa looked at Yaki. Yaki shrugged his shoulders.

  Musa looked back at Tamir. He sighed. He’s not just a rabbi.

  Her husband?

  Yes. His name is Jacob Ben Amram.

  Tamir’s jaw dropped. The cold air pervaded his mouth and throat. You don’t mean… the minister?

  Yes, from Shas. The minister of interior.

  Tamir didn’t speak. He eyes stared forward in disbelief.

  When he became a minister, we gathered the team again, after the project had been shelved for years. We went to the prime minister, told him we had to get the Shin-Beit involved. He objected. He said he’d keep a close watch on things. I still went to speak with Sa’ira. She promised me all of that’s behind her, that she’s Israeli now, god-fearing… That she had nothing to do with her sister. The only way to verify that was to have the Shin-Beit track her. Be we didn’t get clearance for that. So, we decided to drop the matter.

  We got played, the bastards, Yaki snickered.

  Once Raspberry had reemerged, we went back to the prime minister, but he said he was certain there was no need to worry about Sarah, that he had just seen her recently in an inauguration of a Torah scroll ceremony… somewhere… Still, we insisted that he couldn’t take that risk. He agreed in the end, but requested that due to the sensitive nature of the matter, we should work as an independent team, keep it low-key, and report directly to him.

  Tamir glanced over at Yaki. Yaki snickered. What’s for sure, he said, is that the rabbi’s wife is upholding family values.

  All those years, Musa mumbled, poems, fucking journals…

  They gave us a literature lesson, Yaki said.

  Musa thought out loud, his voice restrained, curbed. So, every time that asshole sat in a cabinet meeting, he would spill everything to his wife, and if there was any juice about Iran, or Syria, she wrote a poem about it to her sister. That makes sense. That’s much safer than calling her or writing an email. They knew we could intercept anything channeled through any kind of media on earth. But poems… If the cabinet discussed any operation, it would reach Rajai who could then move to prevent it and gain credit in the internal political game in Tehran. And on the occasions these matters weren’t discussed in the cabinet, the operation succeeded. I really did notice that all the operations alluded to in the poems had failed.

  That’s quite a successful operation, Tamir remarked.

  Two sisters, that’s it, Yaki mumbled, just two sisters writing poems.

  I’m going to kill her, Musa said.

  It started snowing. Tiny flakes, luminescent in the gray air. It could almost be festive, Tamir thought. Yaki pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He offered them both a cigarette. They both declined. Two tall women, draped in long elegant coats, passed by their table. Tamir saw the girl by the wall tensing momentarily before relaxing again.

  Musa stared at Tamir. That wasn’t just a hunch, was it? How did you know it was the sister?

  Call it female intuition, Tamir said.

  Are there other things you know that might help our investiga
tion? Musa drew his face, pale from rage and the cold gray air, close to Tamir’s. A snowflake landed on his nose and melted. He wiped it off angrily.

  Tamir held his nerve. Looks like both of us are releasing information at our own pace and as we see fit, he replied calmly.

  Musa shot a darting glance over at Yaki. He got up from his seat, turned and headed towards Mariahilferstrasse.

  He’s frustrated, Yaki said, but you did a good job, even though you’re not exactly playing by the rules. He nodded courteously to Tamir, got up, and went the same way as Musa. The girl against the wall waited another moment before following in his tracks. Tamir went in the opposite direction.

  o. Anta min Arab al-Ghawarneh?

  He walked down a colorful flight of stairs, occasionally leaning against the black rail beside him in the thickening darkness, before reaching Gumpendorferstrasse. He turned left, passed by an immense beer store which he thought was worthy of a thorough examination, but did not stop; he strode onward purposefully, feeling the need to walk, to walk and think. Cold, horizontal rain started coming down, and a glacial easterly wind descended on the streets. He found the wind to be pleasant, in a masochistic kind of way, but the rain intensified and he felt himself getting soaked. He decided to hail a taxi and go back to his apartment; he had already raised his arm, but then lowered it back down. To his right was a charming small square, above which hung a sign, yellow letters against a brown backdrop, which read: Café Sperl. Tamir pushed the door open and entered.

  He discovered a large space, teeming and animated. Inside were dilapidated couches covered in a faded red-white weave of cloth, faintly echoing the heraldic colors of the Austrian half of the sinking Austro-Hungarian monarchy, on which were seated Japanese tourists, American students, Indian businessmen, and locals, losing themselves in lively conversations, eating cakes, and drinking melange, mocha, bauner, schwarzer, franziskaner, kapuziner. Tamir found a small couch at the back of the café, facing the green pool table laid out with newspapers. A waiter approached him, measuring him with a gracious and inquisitive look. Tamir asked for a double espresso with warm milk on the side, a glass of brandy, and a cheese strudel.