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

i. The Great Infidel

The Hezbollah networks monitored in Efroni were different to those they monitored on in Kidonit, but the activity was similar and Tamir got it easily under control. The producers were amicable, helping him identify the frequencies and operatives. There was no trace of the underlying tension between producers and intelligence analysts so prevalent in Kidonit. It’s like a fraternity here, he thought to himself. The networks were very active and the volume of communications passing through them was substantial, but the activity itself was routine. Around midnight, the networks fell silent. One station played recitations of Quranic verses, reminding Tamir that it was Friday. Three producers and a signal operator passed by and asked him if he wanted to come along with them to the pub in Adamit. He said he was manning the station alone; they replied that intelligence analysts are always alone, but that they also sleep and eat and if something happens, they are called back to the desk. He hesitated for a bit, before finally agreeing.

The five of them stepped out into the cold night air. Tamir took a deep breath. Had it not been for the incessant metallic drone of the antennas perched on the roof of the building and the inevitable ambient rustle of the military base, the place would be almost pastoral, he mused. But you could actually say that about the kibbutz, too, or almost anywhere else in the country— after all, we traversed the length and breadth of it in field-trips with the youth movement. The landscape is always regimented by some kind of military or pre-conscription elements— Palladium shoes, work boots, water trailers, tent camps. We travelled across it yearning to unveil a hidden serenity, to encounter some beauty, some grace, but by the mere act of our traversing, by the manner in which we walked—what we were and how we approached it— we stripped it of the possibility of tranquility, beauty, grace— stripped it for good.

The atmosphere in the pub in Adamit was relaxed and chatty. There was no dancing, just people sitting around drinking beers, cracking sunflower seeds, and pleasantly conversing. There were soldiers from the base, a couple of kibbutzniks sporting an unkempt hippie look, and a couple of straw-haired girls who appeared to be foreign volunteers.14 Tamir ordered a beer and slumped down in one of the corners. The signal operator, whose light-colored hair appeared darker in the dimly-lit pub, slumped down next to him. So, what’s your story? she asked. Someone changed the music. U2’s Sunday, Bloody Sunday played in the background. A volunteer with a punk hairdo got up on one of the tables and swayed her body to the rhythm of the song as if she were praying to some ancient Celtic god. The beer bottle in her hand looked like a staff of prophecy and divine rage.

I’m from a different story, he said.

He observed her. Are her eyes green? He wasn’t certain. Her lips seemed sensual for a moment, but he wasn’t sure about that either.

A good story? she asked.

Not a bad story, he said and felt like a liar.

Doesn’t sound great. But it’s not too late to turn it around, is it?

No, I guess not, he replied, and felt he sounded quite ungainly.

Would you like to try? she smiled. He assumed it was meant as a seductive smile. It’s been a while since he had last touched anyone. A long while.

We can try, he said. He didn’t understand what she saw in him or why she lusted after him. For a long time, he had felt himself to be transparent and decayed. Maybe it’s because of the whole affair with ‘Ali the Yellow. Maybe he really had grown ten feet tall, catlike, and lethal.

She leaned over to him. Her lips weren’t sensual, after all. There was something a bit tense about them, like she pursed her lips rather then spread them. He had no idea why she was doing that. Perhaps she didn’t really enjoy kissing? Tamir enjoyed kissing very much. He probed gently with his tongue, but her tongue burst out of her mouth, like an animal springing out of a trap, and wrestled his tongue in a single repetitive urgent motion. He forced himself not to recoil. Her hands slipped down his neck and chest. Their touch felt adept, but lacked tenderness. My roommates are away, she whispered, one’s at home and the other one is working a shift. Shall we go?

He rose heavily to his feet, deliberating. Yes, he decided, he’ll go with her. He is in need of touch. Any kind of touch. Anything the world is prepared to offer him, at this point.

You’re the intelligence analyst, right?

He turned his head. A small dark-skinned soldier stared at him intently. He nodded carefully.

I was sent from the reception room. They’ve got something you need to see.

He mumbled a semblance of an apology to the signal operator and headed back to the base. When he got there, the producer showed him a conversation picked up on one of the networks. An operative named Zulfiqar was speaking to an operative named Hitler.

Hitler? Tamir asked in surprise.

Yes, that’s what he calls himself. I guess he thinks it’s cool, the producer said.

Tamir perused the summary of their conversation. They mentioned moving ‘things’ from Tyre to a place that was hard to decipher because of the poor audio quality. It didn’t say which ‘things.’ Then, Zulfiqar asked if it had to be done tonight, and Hitler answered something unintelligible. Tamir sent someone to wake the transcriber. In the meantime, he deliberated but ultimately decided not to issue a warning at that point. He settled for calling Jonny at Kidonit. Jonny said that he agrees it would be better to wait. Tamir asked him what he was doing at the bunker at such an hour. Where else would I be? Jonny snickered.

The dozy transcriber trudged his way in, asked that someone fix him a coffee, and