The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Yes and no, she smiled. I’m… helping his promotion.

  Why?

  First of all, he’s done a lot to protect me and support me. So, I need to show a little gratitude. Secondly, if people like Amir reach positions of genuine power in Iran, what do you think would happen?

  I don’t know, they’d drop an atom bomb on us?

  What is it with you Israelis and this atom bomb thing? When did you become such cowards? Is it that whole holocaust thing? Come on… All we had were some tin shacks by the sea, and we were much more relaxed than you— until you demolished them, that is. No, he won’t drop a bomb on you. I actually feel like dropping something on you sometimes, but he… he won’t drop anything. He doesn’t even care about you. All he wants is power. The Zionists, the Americans… only the Ayatollahs care about that. Men like Amir… they only care about power. Oh, and women.

  Young women, Tamir added.

  She looked at him for a moment. Something murky dimmed in her. I see you’re up to date.

  But you and him…

  Oh, that was a long time ago.

  But did you…

  I see this is bothering you. She smiled. Listen, it’s not very complicated. He was my intelligence assignment, and he was quite charming. There’s a kind of Iranian charm… Amir is a cynic, and I doubt he has anything even resembling a conscience, but he has charm. Apparently, that’s not a contradiction in terms. And besides, his tendencies…

  His what?

  He likes being roughhoused. It’s not surprising, really. It’s common among strong people. I was into it at the time. I wanted to hit somebody. Sometimes, I even took it a bit too far. But that was a long time ago. Now… I guess even someone like Amir needs a friend, someone he can really talk to. And there’s the intelligence thing, of course.

  But… Which side are you on? I mean, al-Sa‘iqa killed your… Something threatening flashed in her eyes. He fell silent.

  You finished the job with al-Sa‘iqa, even without my having asked, she smiled sardonically.

  Yes, he said, he knew the history. The head of the organization, Zuheir Mohsen, was assassinated in Cannes by operatives of the Mossad’s Kidon Unit in 1979. A year later, a navy commando force raided the organization’s base in South Lebanon, killing ten combatants and destroying the base. The two operations desperately weakened the organization. In Department 195, they called the organization al-Sa‘iqa Allah yerhamo— al-Sa‘iqa RIP.

  So you’ve always wanted to take revenge against the Palestinians?

  Don’t be so facile. You said you’re a philosophy teacher, aren’t you? You should know better. I wanted to take revenge against al-Sa‘iqa. Regarding the Palestinians as a whole, it’s more complicated than that.

  Right, complicated, he repeated.

  You know, we al-Ghawarneh, the Bedouin of the marsh, we’re neither here nor there. We have a different story, a completely different story… Even the marshes, you took away from us. You dried them. What do we have left? We don’t have a flag, we don’t have a homeland… No story fits us. Like an oversized suit. Ugh, what am I going on about…? I’m not good with words.

  But you’re a poet.

  Poems, yes, but not tedious tirades like these. These kinds of monologues always sound phony.

  But Tamir insisted. There were things he had to understand. So, you had two enemies, al-Sa‘iqa and us. We took out al-Sa‘iqa, and now you’re helping the Iranians take us out?

  The thing about the Iranians is interesting, she said. For decades, no regional power could face off with you to create a balance of terror in the Middle East. A balance of terror was actually your idea. That’s what you tried to do with Dimona.

  Is a balance of terror a good thing?

  You’ve become a dangerous, hostile force. Someone has to keep you in check.

  All Zionists have ever wanted was to simply live in peace, to stand on steady ground! Tamir suddenly flared up.

  Ah, there’s the little Zionist in you rearing its head, she smiled. I was wondering when it was going to come out. Safe ground beneath your feet? Why don’t you tell that to my tribe. To stop your bulldozers, there has to be a balance of terror. On the other hand, it’s dangerous to have the bomb at the fingertips of some Ayatollah. That’s why people like Amir are so important. He’s pragmatic. He just wants to fuck and rule. He doesn’t believe in anything besides the divine thighs of… she stopped.

  Milena?

  Ah, I see you’ve left no stone unturned. She sighed. Well, I’ve gotten used to it by now. But leave Milena alone. She doesn’t know anything.

  Tamir pictured in his head Rajai lying under the silk blue panties of the icy, beautiful Slovenian, just as he recently did.

  People like Amir are good for you, she said, but you don’t realize it.

  Maybe instead of chasing you around Vienna, we should invite you to sit in cabinet meetings, he said sarcastically.

  Considering who you have sitting there now, that might not be such a bad idea, she replied wryly.

  So, the only reason you’re giving him intelligence is for intricate geopolitical reasons? Not because you’re getting something from him in return?

  You mean, besides the fact he funds an apartment, an easy life, and a bodyguard for me?

  Yes. You don’t strike me as the type to settle for that.

  Why? The 8th district is a long way from a shanty village by Acre, don’t you think?

  And yet.

  The truth is, I did ask him for something.

  What?

  To send an assassin to kill the former mayor of Acre and the former head of the Green Patrol.

  From when your settlement was demolished.

  Yes.

  That makes sense, Tamir said. He couldn’t make out from her sealed expression whether she was joking or not. Did he agree?

  I’m not going to tell you.

  Okay.

  What was going through your mind then, when the Ultralight landed? she asked.

  I don’t know if anything crossed my mind at all.

  What were you waiting for? You were waiting for something, right?

  He looked at her. She appeared different every time he looked. He couldn’t figure her out. He needed to penetrate some kind of hard exterior, he thought to himself, marshland that dried and hardened in the sirocco.

  You said you’re not good with words, he said.

  So?

  Your sister, she was the one who was good with words, wasn’t she?

  She fell silent. She waited.

  We know about Flamingo, he said.

  Her face remained sealed, but two tears stole quietly down her cheeks. She did not wipe them. She suddenly pounced. Her movement was so swift he could barely see her. By the time he’d realized what was happening, her hands were wrapped tightly around his neck. He struggled to breathe, he couldn’t breathe, yet he did not resist, her fingers felt warm against his neck, warm and penetrative, black, charred angel-feathers, searing the hungry flesh, iron claws piercing, piercing, she was so close, a rush of heat rose from her face and enveloped him like a blanket of darkness, like that time when he crawled out of the thicket right into her arms. He closed his eyes, imagining he could hear the sweet murmur of mothers in Arabic, the cries of jackals, and the winds of the sea. He thought it would be a bit odd to die in this church. The sound of the organ intensified, but there was a strange gaiety to it now. So, this is how it ends, he thought. This is it.

  All of a sudden, her fingers relaxed their grip, remaining softly on his neck like a tender caress.

  Dallal, he whispered, gulping sweet oxygen.

  She leaned back to her wooden bench. Her beret had fallen to the ground, her hair scattered and covered her face. It was streaked with thin silver rays. Leave Sa’ira alone, she said, a faint trace of pleading in her voice.
/>   Did you drag her into this?

  No one can drag Sa’ira into anything. She wanted to do it. It was important to her.

  I see.

  Will you help me?

  He looked at her. When I was standing there, he said, when the Ultralight landed, I was waiting for Polnochi.

  Who’s Polnochi?

  A beautiful Russian princess who descends from the skies and rescues young dreamy children.

  She looked at him as if she were reevaluating him. He tried to decipher her expression. What was he seeing? Grace and truth? Unyielding justice? Tenderness and mercy? Ground water? Stones of chaos? What was he seeing?

  We’ve been here for too long, she said, her voice expressing a renewed matter-of-factness. You should know that’s dangerous. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go off the radar again, but who knows, maybe we’ll see each other again. And maybe not. Perhaps it’s best for the both of us that we don’t. Bekhatrak, she voiced the lovely Arabic expression— With your permission, I’ll leave. She got up.

  Wait, he rose to his feet.

  What?

  You have to give me something.

  I don’t have to anything.

  You’re going to change all of your phone numbers, I know, but you have to give me a number, something.

  Why?

  Because I’m your only hope at the moment.

  She hesitated. Finally, she reached into her small, simple handbag and pulled out a pen and notepad. She opened the notepad, and scribbled something down; she hesitated momentarily, glanced at Tamir, and scribbled another thing down. She ripped the piece of paper and handed it to him. He took the paper and stared at her. She turned her back and left.

  Tamir was left standing alone, immersed in the dying sounds of the organ. He reached up to touch his neck. A drop of blood smeared on his hand, a result of Dallal’s nails piercing his skin. The burning sensation was gentle and pleasant, very pleasant. He stood there for a couple of seconds, in a daze, and then, suddenly remembering, raised the note he held in his hands to his eyes. She had jotted a phone number down. It was a Viennese landline. On the left corner of the page he saw the unmistakable emblem of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine - General Command. At the bottom of the page, she wrote in the poised Arabic cursive of a diligent schoolgirl:

  Perhaps one day we’ll meet on the banks of the Na‘aman.

  Dallal

  r. Cremeschnitte

  What happened to your neck? Yaki asked, observing him suspiciously.

  I went to Milena.

  No shit… Well, no one said you can’t have a good time.

  Yes. I needed to blow off some steam.

  It’s pretty depressive at the moment, isn’t it? Yaki moaned. The girl’s gone… But there’s a limit to how depressed one can feel in Vienna. Look around you, how can you be down in a place where all the girls wear pink skirts? They sat in a branch of the pastry shop Aida, opposite the opera house. The furnishing was pink, matching the waitress’ uniforms. Actually, Tamir thought, one certainly can be depressed in a place like this. Yaki had an apricot strudel and Tamir had a cremeschnitte. Cremeschnitte is the type of pastry that sends you back home, he thought, even if you’ve never really had a home.

  I don’t understand how she slipped us, Yaki said. We saw her get in the cab, but the cab was empty when it reached the apartment. That can only mean she knew she was being followed. What I would like to know is, how did she know? Common sense says she was on to one of our people, but these are highly professional individuals. To do so, she’d have to be really, really good herself. Or, someone could’ve tipped her off… There are plenty of possibilities. Syrian intelligence? Iranian? Someone else? Is anyone else tracking her? We actually looked into that, but couldn’t find anything.

  She probably has quite a lot of experience herself after all these years, Tamir proposed with a mouthful of cremeschnitte, his eyes lowered.

  I guess, Yaki snarled skeptically, his eyes fixed on Tamir. I wanna kill someone, he mumbled, lazily chewing his pastry.

  It really is frustrating, Tamir said, dodging Yaki’s gaze.

  You sound a bit off today, Yaki assessed.

  Maybe I’m coming down with something, Tamir replied. In fact, marching through the cold streets the night before with nothing but his blazer did indeed exact a toll on him.

  Anyway, Musa laid into me today. He was livid. I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. He said I screwed up big time. Let’s just say, I’m not expecting to get promoted anytime soon.

  That sucks.

  You really do sound off today. Anyway, your place at five, conference call with Musa.

  This cremeschnitte, it’s like… like I missed it without knowing I was missing it.

  Are you a yekke?

  No.

  Then how… Never mind, it doesn’t matter.

  No.

  s. Direct Order

  Musa’s disgruntled face peered from Tamir’s laptop screen. The curtains were drawn and the light in the room was dim. Outside, the wind bellowed over the streets of the 8th district, sounding like sighs. There is something restless here, Tamir thought, uncomforting.

  I take it you haven’t found her, then, Musa said. What about her phone?

  No signal, Yaki said. She must have flushed it down the toilet when she realized she was being tracked.

  Or thrown it to the Danube, Tamir said, earning him a bewildered look by Yaki.

  No activity in the apartment? Musa asked.

  Nothing. She never went back.

  Alright, we might manage to find her again, anyway.

  How, exactly? Oz wondered. He was sitting on the edge of the vermilion sofa in Tamir’s apartment, seeming very out of place. He should only be sitting on dull office furniture, Tamir thought, eating crappy sandwiches with drab yellow cheese and soggy, sad lettuce, drinking black coffee from disposable paper cups.

  After you blew the lid off the coded poems, we informed the prime minister and requested that he doesn’t share any sensitive information with his cabinet, Musa said. Problem is, the day before we informed him, they held a cabinet meeting in which some very sensitive information was disclosed. It’s an operation of ours in Iran, something pretty complex… It’s not something that we can cancel at the drop of a hat. It’s been building for a very long time, and has reached its final stages now. That’s why we absolutely can’t afford to have this information falling into Rajai’s hands.

  And I guess tackling this at the level… Tamir paused. At the level of the minister of the interior and his wife, that’s off the table?

  Integrity of the coalition, Oz replied flatly.

  At least for now, Musa said, we have to work under these constrictions.

  But still, Tamir said, the only way she can pass this intelligence on is by publishing a poem. At least, that’s how they did it so far. Only if Raspberry warns her… He preferred calling her Raspberry, or the stint, when talking to Musa, but never Dallal. He felt that helped protect her, in some mysterious way.

  Why would she warn her? Musa asked abruptly. Does she know anything? Do you know something I don’t?

  No, she doesn’t know anything, Tamir quickly reassured. So, as long as Sa’ira doesn’t publish a poem…

  She has, Musa said. Believe it or not, since you cracked this thing, we’ve been sitting on every goddamn literary journal in the world, no matter how obscure. If someone’s publishing some shitty volume once a year on recycled paper at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, we’re on it. Yesterday, a poem by Flamingo Reed was published in a journal called Blue Diaspora, published in Edinburgh. Again, Acadians and Sumerians. It included a lot of details about the operation. We might not have even understood everything, be we understood enough. It looks bad. Very bad.

  Shit… Yaki said, downing a hefty portion of Scotch whisk
ey he had brought with him to Tamir’s apartment.

  This guy, Ben Amram, does he walk around with body guards? Oz hissed through clenched teeth.

  Several hours after the poem was published, the Americans informed us that Rajai cleared his schedule for the following afternoon. My bet is he’s going to meet her. Let’s hope he leaves the embassy. We can track him from there. We might get lucky.

  The wind outside picked up. Hail pounded on the windowpanes.

  So, they are going to deliver sensitive intelligence during this meeting, Oz concluded.

  We can’t allow that to happen, Musa said. From the moment he sets foot outside the embassy, we can’t lose him for even a second. As soon as he meets up with the stint, we need to get a clear view of them. Once we have a clear view of both of them, we take them out. If we can’t get a clear view, then we have to get in there and put an end to this.

  So, both of them? Yaki repeated.

  Both of them.

  Do we have clearance?

  That’s a direct order from me. That should be enough for you.

  Got it, Yaki said.

  Prepare for anything with everything at your disposal. Cars, equipment… Go over every possible scenario. You know.

  Yes.

  t. Zwickel

  Everyone’s up to speed, I just have to tie up the loose ends with you, Yaki said. Besides, I had to go out and get a drink. That Oz, he’s no fun. He’s like a goddamn monk.

  The waitress placed their beers on the table. She had bright purple hair and humorous eyes.

  You know why they call it zwickel beer? Yaki asked, glancing at Tamir’s opaque, golden beverage.

  I can guess… Zwicken means ‘to pinch’. Because it pinches your palate?

  You should’ve stayed some kind of analyst, Yaki said. You’d come here, and we could chase all sorts of mysterious terrorists, drink beers, have a ball. Instead, you’re stuck in… Where are you stuck?

  Shikma Stream College.

  Sounds very…

  Pastoral?

  No.

  Southern?

  No. Sounds like a shithole. Doesn’t sound like a place one can apply his analytical skills.