The Marsh Angel, Hagai Dagan [free e reader .TXT] 📗

containing the most valuable operational information concerned a plan to relocate the Front’s headquarters in Lebanon from Na‘ameh to the Baalbek region. Tamir stared at the dispatch and its date— from last year— and thought it was very strange, since the station identified as headquarters still broadcasts from Na‘ameh. Maybe there was a plan that fell though, he thought, and tried to recall whether he saw any other dispatch from a different source about the plan. He clicked on another dispatch. This one concerned the source itself:

I went to al-Mazra‘a for a meeting attended by several senior members of the organization. We were briefed on political affairs, and heard surveys of military and state affairs. Everyone reported on their own sector. The focus was on youth recruitment from the refugee camps. Talal Naji awarded me the organization’s decoration of excellence. He joked and said that from now on they’d give new recruits a yellow badge.

Yellow badges? … Something didn’t sit right with Tamir. He called Nissenbaum and asked him who the source they were about to question was.

Tulip, Nissenbaum replied.

Yes, but what’s its real name? Do you know?

Yeah, ‘Ali Numiri.

The name didn’t ring any bell. He told Nissenbaum Talal Naji’s joke about the yellow badge and said he didn’t get it.

Ah, yes, Nissenbaum said, they call him ‘Ali al-Asfar.

al-Asfar, Tamir said, the Yellow.

Yes, Nissenbaum confirmed, ‘Ali the Yellow.

e. Memory and Forgetfulness

Tamir scheduled to meet the guy from 504 at the bus station near the Rosh Pina intersection. He wore civilian clothes, as he was instructed to do. The guy came in a brown Ford sedan. His face was slightly pale, his gaze purposeful and restless, and his hairline receding despite appearing to be in his early thirties. He wore a pair of black jeans, Palladium boots, and a blue short-leaved Polo shirt. He drove with an urgency which stood out in the sluggish streets of Rosh Pina. Tamir asked half-jokingly whether he should cover his eyes.

No, it’s fine, said the guy who introduced himself as Yaki the SRO, Special Roles Officer. We trust the people 8200 send us.

Really?

No. We asked the Shin-Beit to run your name through their system. You came out clean.

Really?

No.

The two of them sat in silence. They drove by rows of basalt-stone houses. Tamir suddenly conjured up the image of Ophira’s dark neck and her deep, dark cleavage, parting her bright uniform. The word volcanic sprang to his mind, spelled out in black block letters.

Yaki’s voice suddenly reached him, as if from afar. He stirred. Yaki said he’s ‘Ali the Yellow’s operator. He explained the protocol: he would introduce Tamir as an intelligence expert. ‘Ali doesn’t need to know which unit you’re from. Actually, he doesn’t need to know anything about Israeli intelligence, or anything about our side. The questions need to be phrased so that they give away as little information as possible. Tamir said that was clear. Yaki asked how his Arabic was, and whether he needs him to translate. Tamir replied that he hasn’t spoken Arabic since his training course, but that he was pretty good at it then. In terms of comprehension, he thinks it’ll be fine. If he’ll need help with translation, he’ll ask.

Did you prepare a lot of questions? Yaki asked and peeked at his watch.

Not too many, Tamir said and touched the yellow writing block he toiled over when preparing for the questioning with Nissenbaum. His heart was racing. He tried to look calm.

It’s okay if you’re a bit nervous, Yaki turned to look at him. It’s your first interrogation. But try to sound calm when you speak. It’s important that he feels we’re the ones in control.

Tamir nodded.

I’ll introduce you as Eran. There’s no reason for him to know your real name.

The car ascended up the hills above Rosh Pina and stopped at a street corner in front of a dense thicket of tall bushes. They walked through a narrow path between the bushes and found themselves in front of a faded red door. Tamir thought Yaki would use the door buzzer and identify using a password, but he simply looked into the camera fixed on the wall above them, took a key out of his pocket, and opened the door. Two men came towards them in the hall, one tall and lanky, the other short and portly. Golden eyeglass frames slid down the bridge of the portly man’s nose. He’s watching TV, the lanky man said. Yaki introduced the portly man to Tamir: Doron from the Lebanon Branch at MID-RD, who’s also here to question ‘Ali the Yellow. Tamir felt intently alert, his anxiety diminished to a small, manageable size.

They went into a broad room furnished with black leather couches, a large glass table with a black metal frame, and a large television set. A lone picture hung on the wall, an oil painting of an olive grove in a mountainous landscape. Tamir thought it wasn’t very good. The window was shut. A man of average height dressed in gray pants and a light-colored button-down shirt got up to greet them. His slightly pudgy face donned an expression that seemed part convivial and part cautious. He and Yaki hugged. Tamir couldn’t determine how cordial the two actually were. Yaki made the introductions: Eran and Yossi, intelligence experts; ‘Ali Numiri, a senior member of the Popular Front – General Command. Tamir knew that ‘Ali wasn’t a senior member of the organization, and he knew that Yaki knew as well, that he’s introducing him this way only to flatter him.

I’m honored, Tamir said and extended his hand. He wasn’t going to kiss ‘Ali’s cheek.

‘Ali shook the hand extended towards him and looked deeply into Tamir’s eyes. He didn’t say a thing.

They sat down. There were bowls of cookies and peanuts laid out on the table. Is everything okay? Yaki asked ‘Ali, is there anything you need?

Everything is fine. What about the trip to Tel-Aviv you promised?

‘Ali, you know we always keep our word. After we finish this debriefing, we’ll drive