The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  Yeah, Tamir sighed. How’s your beer?

  You should try it. How do you say Hefeweizen in Hebrew?

  Yeast beer? Wheat-yeast beer?

  Something like that, Yaki said, his eyes locked on two women passing by their table. What can I say, he sighed, Austrian chicks are pretty mediocre. Good thing there’s a lot of immigrants in this city. You have Turks, Arabs…

  Not very wise of you to a be involved with Turkish and Arab women.

  Be involved with… What are you, a Shin-Beit interrogator? Since when do I ‘get involved’? A couple of shots, mix around a bit… Come morning, I don’t even know her.

  Yes, maybe I should learn that craft from you, Tamir muttered. The monotonous hum of unintelligible chatter and loud laughter pervaded the room. The pub— called Das Kauzchen, ‘The Owl’— evoked a sense of warm, nocturnal gaiety. The young men and women toasting their drinks seemed almost happy.

  Are you hungry? Yaki asked. The food here is terrible. We could grab a sausage in the stand by Hummel. There’s a nice Turkish woman there who sells those sausages, käsekrainer, pork stuffed with cheese. It’s very nutritious.

  Say, Yaki, were you per chance raised in a religious house?

  We’re sort of traditional, but it’s different for Iraqis like us. Our God… he doesn’t interfere with our lives for the most part.

  You’re Iraqi?

  Half Iraqi.

  What’s the other half?

  Bulgarian.

  Winning combo.

  I’ll say…

  Yaki, what about Musa’s instruction?

  I don’t understand the question.

  I think you do.

  It doesn’t concern you. You know, Oz objected to having you out there in the field, but I’m the team leader, not him. If we can get eyes on that meeting, I want you there— but in a rear position. Actually, you’ll be with him. I don’t want him too close. As far as I’m concerned, he’s here as a consultant, no more. He’s not part of the operative team. So, I keep my consultants in the rear. You’ll have a screen in the van and you’ll see the visual, if we even have visual. If you have anything important to say, you can tell me over the radio. That’s it.

  Tamir looked at him in silence. Thoughts raced through his head. Okay, he finally said.

  Sleep well tonight. I need you on top of your game tomorrow. C’mon, let’s go get a sausage. Slum it a bit. There’re always all sorts of weirdos hanging out by that stand. I once almost broke some Austrian nationalist’s nose there for talking shit about Muslims.

  u. Saving Polnochi

  Lightning pierced the black sky over the Wienerwald. The thunder that followed rolled in Tamir’s ears. He was sitting in the back seat of a dark-colored Volkswagen van, observing the screen of the laptop computer attentively. The stakeout of Amir Rajai went off without a hitch. He drove fast and took some sharp turns, but presumably more out of habit than out of caution. According to Yaki, Rajai didn’t look like he suspects anything. He didn’t change cars, switch between tram lines, or anything of the sort. He simply arrived in the same black Audi with a diplomatic license plate that he had left the embassy in. It seemed that years of uninterrupted rendezvousing with Dallal have turned him complacent. And now he was here, at an attractive villa at 265 Wilhelminenstrasse, right on the edge of the city, bordering the Wienerwald. Luckily, the two were sat in a room with two large glass doors facing a spacious patio overlooking the street. Dallal took the precaution of drawing the curtains over the large glass windows, but the curtains were sheer and Yaki’s surveillance equipment provided a decent— albeit a bit dark— image of the room.

  I wonder if he’s paying her rent here, too, Yaki said.

  Of course he is, Oz responded, who else would? The Acre Fishermen Association?

  The rain intensified. On his screen, Tamir could only see Rajai. The video image was transmitted from Yaki’s surveillance equipment. Tamir knew Yaki was lying on the roof of an adjacent house, in the rain, covered in a sheet of plastic intended both to conceal him and to keep him dry, with a sniper rifle fitted with a sound suppressor. The surveillance equipment was operated by the girl whose name was not Marina, lying beside him. Yaki had told Tamir that initially, they wanted to fly someone out, a sharpshooter, but because of the compartmentalized nature of the operation, Musa decided that Yaki was going to be the marksman. Apparently, Yaki was a pretty good shot. He told Tamir that before transferring to 504, he had served in Shaldag, the air-force commando unit, and that he has made it a point to keep his operation skills fresh. How, exactly? Tamir asked. Somethings are better left to the imagination, he replied.

  Rajai was a man with an athletic physique. He was lean, and wore a well-tailored suit, as far as Tamir could make out from the video image. He wore a trimmed, comely beard. In short, a well-kempt individual, Tamir mused. Rajai was speaking, but the video was inaudible. He was smiling and sipping a drink, perhaps a whiskey, by the shape of the glass. But where was she?

  Where is she? Oz asked impatiently.

  I’m waiting for her to get in my frame, Yaki said. She might be in the kitchen, preparing something. I don’t know.

  Okay, but once she gets in your frame, don’t hesitate, Oz said. Start with him.

  Oz, don’t run my operation for me, will you?

  He’s right, Oz, Musa’s discontented voice sounded over the radio from the command post in Tel-Aviv. Total radio silence, starting now.

  Rajai walked across the room with his drink and chatted. He seemed to Tamir to be in an uplifted mood. Tamir desperately tried to think. For a moment, he felt he was back in the Mole, waiting to hear her voice, that it was all up to him and his resourcefulness. A moment from now, she’ll appear, Yaki will squeeze the trigger twice, and it’ll all be over. He desperately tried to think. Fragments of ideas and shards of images floated through his head. Angels with mud-soaked wings fluttered in the air before dropping down to black swamps. Suddenly, he thought of something. Musa, can you hear me? he asked.

  Affirmative, Musa answered irritably.

  Did you ever stop to think that maybe, if we know how this information passes— through the cabinet meeting, the minister of the interior, Sa’ira, the stint, that whole chain— we could take advantage of it? Plant whatever information we like, manipulate their perception of us… Why kill them? We can use them.

  Tamir, get off the radio. Now’s not the time.

  What the hell do you think you’re doing? Oz turned threateningly towards Tamir. I swear to God, you do that one more time, I’m taking you out.

  The image of Ronen Schwartz surfaced in Tamir’s mind.

  Rajai moved to the edge of the room. Only one of his shoulders and an arm was visible now. Dallal entered the frame. She carried a tray with some glasses, a pitcher, and a bowl filled with something, confectionary perhaps. She placed the tray on the table, poured the pitcher into the glasses, placed one of the glasses on a small plate, and carried it over to where Rajai was standing. He took the glass from her. She appeared to be smiling. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

  Yaki, is she in your line of fire? Why aren’t you shooting?! Oz yelled.

  Yaki, think about what I said, you don’t have to shoot, Tamir said.

  Oz turned furiously and punched him in the face. Tamir was violently thrust back against his seat. For a moment, he couldn’t see nor hear a thing. He felt the taste of blood in his mouth. A fire burned dimly in the fog clouding his head. He could vaguely hear Yaki’s voice, off in the distance. I don’t have eyes on both targets, he said.

  Then shoot her and wound him! Oz snarled.

  I’m waiting for him to get in my frame, Yaki answered. His voice sounded alert, yet collected.

  They’re both going to be out of your frame in a second! Oz flared up.

  Yaki didn’t answer, and didn’t shoot.

  Alright, Oz said
and threw his earpiece to the ground angrily, I’m going in. He put on a black woolen hat, fixed a silencer on the gun placed beside him, shoved it into the back of his pants and stormed out of the van. Stay here! he ordered Tamir. And tell Yaki to cover for me.

  Tamir didn’t tell Yaki a thing. Suddenly, he saw everything clearly. He realized that it wasn’t Polnochi who needed to save him, it was he who needed to save Polnochi. He muted the microphone on his earpiece, took out the phone he bought in Alserstrasse, pulled out the note Dallal gave him in the church, and dialed the number. He could see Dallal saying something to Rajai on the screen, seemingly apologizing, and picking up the receiver of a telephone by the couch.

  It’s me, he said, get out of there now! He saw her get up, say something, and disappear from the picture. A few seconds later, Rajai came into the frame with a pistol drawn. Tamir figured he must have heard Oz trying to break the door down, or perhaps Dallal had warned him. Oz appeared, the sound of a gunshot resonated all the way to Tamir in the van, and Oz dropped to the ground. Tamir heard Yaki swearing through his earpiece. He heard the sound of Yaki’s rifle going off, whose resonance was muffled by the sound suppressor. Rajai was cast violently to the ground as if he’d been hit by a car. Meanwhile, Oz slowly staggered back up to his feet. Tamir knew he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. He steadied the gun in his hand and left the frame.

  It was clear to Tamir that he was going after Dallal. He threw away his earpiece, got out of the van and cast his eyes on the red-brick house down the street. The van was parked up the street in an elevated position vis-à-vis the house, which was almost completely hidden behind trees. From his vantagepoint, Tamir could only see part of the patio and of the roof. The roof was broad and flat, and a garage-like structure a was erected on top of it. The cold rain pounding down on Tamir mixed with the blood still flowing from his nose and mouth. He didn’t stop to put on his jacket before leaving the van. He staggered down the street, trying to get a better view of the house.

  Dark clouds loomed above him. Lightning ripped through the sky. A deafening thunder roared, shaking the tranquil neighborhood. For a moment, Tamir felt as if he had lost his hearing. He started running towards the house, but stopped in his tracks a few steps later. Something stirred on the roof. He wiped the rain from his eyes. Yes, on the roof. The wall. No, it’s not a wall, it’s a door, the kind that tilts up and back across the ceiling. The door slowly opened. What’s going on there? Tamir strained his wet eyes to see through the curtain of rain. His heart anticipated what his eye were about to see, but still, he could not believe it.

  The Ultralight glider emerged from the structure on the roof like a fetus from an unexpected pregnancy. It was shimmering, its body made of sleek, silver metal, its wings painted gray and green, perhaps the colors of the marsh, Tamir thought. The glider rolled along the roof like a short launching pad, and took off into the dense, ashen winter sky. At that moment, Oz appeared on the roof and started firing at the glider. It was hard to tell whether he had hit it. Probably not. Tamir heard several more shots fired from the roof Yaki was lying on, but the glider soared to the sky, directly above Tamir. The Ultralight batted its wing once, perhaps mockingly, perhaps as an honest farewell. Something flashed from it, falling to the earth not far from where Tamir was standing. The glider flew higher and higher, disappearing into the clouds above the Viennese forest.

  Tamir approached the spot where the tiny flash landed, and bent over the side of the road. Something was shimmering on the ground. He reached down and picked up a silver necklace from the mud. He wiped the mud on the sleeve of his shirt and read the refined, spiraling Arabic letters of the pendant:

  The stint remembers.

  Goodbye, Dallal, Tamir muttered, his eyes wet from the rain.

  * * *

  22. Shas — An ultra-Orthodox political party, representing primarily the traditionalist and ultra-Orthodox Mizrahi-Jewish population.

  23. Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai — Two schools of thought operating in the Land of Israel during the first century C.E., named after the Jewish scholars Hillel and Shammai. The schools were divided on matters of ritual practice, ethics, and theology: the House of Shammai tended to be stringent and severe, while the House of Hillel tended to be more lenient and tolerant. Jewish law for the most part accepted the views of the House of Hillel, thereby producing the expression, “rule by Beit Hillel”.

  24. Anta min Arab al-Ghawarneh? — The sentence can be understood in two ways: (a) “Are you from the Bedouin tribe of Arab al-Ghawarneh?”; (b) “Are you from a settlement called Arab al-Ghawarneh?”

  EPILOGUE

  After Vienna, the Tel-Aviv winter seemed pale, faltering, unfocused, a cheap imitation of winter, a second-hand winter in decent condition. Tamir climbed up the stairs of the building on Berdichevsky Street and knocked on the door.

  You look good, Afik said as she opened the door.

  So do you, he replied, almost as a matter of course, but he then studied her and thought to himself that she really did look good. A little reserved, a bit skinnier, but there was a lucidity to her eyes.

  Afik opened two bottles of Goldstar beer and placed two glasses on the table. He sipped his beverage and thought to himself he’d rather have an Austrian zwickel. It was raining outside, the thin drops tapping lightly on the windows. It was as if Tel-Aviv was washed out, tired and gray, flushed out in the turbid water running down the curbs towards the gutter.

  I brought you something, he said, and pulled out of his bag a bright-colored wallet embellished with an intricate floral pattern.

  She took it from him and observed it intently. It’s pretty, she said. Interesting. Soothing.

  I thought of you when I saw it, he said. I can’t even say why.

  It’s very… vegetative.

  Earthy, he said.

  Yes.

  I’ve missed you, he said, and was all of a sudden struck by just how truly he had missed her.

  She looked at him, as if getting his measure, and smiled cautiously.

  Say, he said, you’re going to finish your studies here soon, right?

  Yes.

  And what are you planning to do after?

  I don’t know yet, but I’ll probably look for something in the Weizmann Institute, or at a university.

  How do you think your chances are?

  It’s very competitive, but I think I have a decent chance.

  And if you were to look for something abroad, say, Germany, or Austria? Your field is pretty in demand abroad, isn’t it?

  Yes, I’d say so. It would probably be easier to find something there.

  The pay’s better as well. And the language barrier isn’t as significant as in the humanities, since all you write are equations, anyway.

  I’m not sure I see where you’re going with this.

  Say I’d relocate to work abroad, and say I’d propose that you come with me…

  She stared at him in surprise. He had entertained the idea during the flight back, but never got around to thinking about it seriously. It was all happening spontaneously. He wasn’t sure he could find a job abroad, but he knew his chances were good: Yaki told him that he’d ask to add him to his team. They of course never found out that it was he who helped Dallal escape. He threw the phone that he had used to call her down a watery shaft in a nearby construction site. Oz suspected him, but he was instructed to return home and the special task-force was disbanded. The prime minister received a detailed report about what had happened, that the double agent Raspberry managed to escape. The events in Vienna convinced the prime minister to pull the plug on the operation which was underway in Iran. He promised the director of the Mossad and the director of the Shin-Beit that he would stop sharing operation plans and covert activities with the cabinet. He did not fire the minister of the interior, Jacob Ben Amram.

  Is that your way of asking me
to get back with you? Afik asked.

  Maybe.

  Maybe, or definitely? insisted Afik who, unlike lieutenant colonel Shalom Abuhab, did not like ambiguities.

  Uh, definitely.

  Uh, and are you leaving the country?

  Perhaps.

  So, you want us to live together in Europe?

  I think so.

  Where in Europe?

  Vienna. What do you think?

  I need to think about it. It’s all very out of the blue. I thought we broke up.

  We could rent a private house at the edge of the city, bordering the forest, with a plot of land at the back, he said, thinking of Dallal’s villa in Wilhelminenstrasse. It’s not as expensive as it sounds. It’s about a fifteen minutes’ tram ride to the city center, I think… We could plant some fruit trees there. And we could have a porch to sit on in the evenings, drinking wine. Or beer. The Austrians have excellent beers.

  Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought.

  He hadn’t. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that this was a good idea, but the image was suddenly clear in his mind. If you had to answer now, gut reaction, without thinking, what would you say?

  I’m not a gut-reaction type.

  Suddenly, he was overcome by an uncontrollable urge to touch her, like a cascade of something warm, dissolving, like volcanic mud or chocolate fondu, an urge washed over him and swept him towards her. He extended his hand and carefully stroked her cheek. He brushed her hair with his other hand. She stood still. He pulled his hand back.

  So, you want my gut reaction?

  Yes.

  Okay. Then maybe.

  Maybe?

  Yes.

  He looked at her. She seemed beautiful to him. He thought he was feeling happiness, or something approximating it.

  But what, we’ll be living together? Like, all the time?

  He hesitated. That would be a bit much, wouldn’t it?