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

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 investigation? 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.

Israeli? the waiter asked in