The Marsh Angel by Hagai Dagan (best thriller books to read .TXT) 📕

kind that Kinsey, Masters, and Johnson never knew existed.

Who? Tamir asked, bemused.

She pulled him up, gently and firmly rolled him over on his back, and started stroking his member which had gone slightly flaccid. As soon as it regained its sturdiness, standing proud and primed to her satisfaction, she sat on top of it.

You just lie there. You don’t need to move.

He didn’t. She rode him expertly, slowing down and speeding up, gyrating and coiling, firming and loosening. The whole affair didn’t take long. She was completely focused and concentrated. A couple of moments later she tightened her grip, her body tensing up, firm and collected; she quivered momentarily, before crashing down beside him with a sigh of satisfaction.

That was very fulfilling, she said.

I didn’t do anything, he said.

I think you could call my style autonomous sex, she said.

But I literally didn’t do anything. I mean… what’s the difference between me or anyone else who would’ve lain here?

Your personality, she smiled. Besides, what are you complaining about? You can’t say sleeping with me isn’t convenient.

Yeah, convenient…

Good. And hey, don’t peg me as self-centered. Come on, get on your back, I’ll finish you off. You can think about the Popular Front – General Command, if that helps you. I won’t be offended. Any hot girls there?

Could be, he mumbled, observing the profusion of curls engulfing his loins. His thoughts drifted. He thought about dragonfly wings vibrating over black waters; about crossed rifles; ibises in a thicket; words embroidered in red over white; sacrifice, return, liberation.

j. Gnats

Since the meeting at the deputy director’s office, Moti grew cold towards Tamir. During department meetings, he would stare him down with short, cantankerous looks, and when Tamir spoke, he berated him to cut his words short. Even though it was clear that whatever it was that the Front/Jibril was brewing was the most pressing and important of all the department’s affairs, Moti relegated and trivialized the matter, addressing it briefly in the closing minutes of meetings, if at all. Intelligence is one thing, but when his ego is wounded… Keren whispered to Tamir as they were leaving one such meeting. Supposedly, Tamir could have simply ignored Moti’s behavior and gone on monitoring the affair, all the more so now that he knew that the ears of the Research Department were attuned to his evaluations; but he also knew that if there were commanding decisions to be made, such as the decision to reinforce producers in the bases, Moti’s cooperation would be vital. He also knew that were he forced to go over Moti’s head, that would only come back to hurt him later.

Tamir put those thoughts to rest for the time being, and somewhat reluctantly turned to look at his computer screen. There was nothing interesting to see. It was beginning to seem like another routine, dull day. He stretched, and considered making his usual round of phone calls to IAOs in bases, to make himself feel like he’s on top of things, or simply to chat with Neta a bit. He was about to reach over to the amethyst, when the device suddenly sounded its subtle, hushed ring. Tamir waited a moment before picking up the receiver.

Tamir Binder?

Speaking.

Hello there, said an unfamiliar female voice, I’m speaking from the office of the deputy director of the MID-RD. I’m putting you through.

Tamir waited. A few seconds later, the deputy director’s booming voice thundered through the receiver.

Binder?

Yes… Should he have said yes, sir? He wasn’t sure.

Why do you sound like that?

Like how?

Like you just downed a bottle of cough syrup. Listen, I’ve got something for you.

Really?

Yes. We got something from Brass Serpent. You know what that is?

Tamir tried to quickly sift through the mounds of information he had crammed into his mind over the past few weeks. Brass Serpent, Brass Serpent… Yes, he remembered: the NSA. American line tapping. They send Israeli intelligence material as part of the intelligence sharing agreement between the two countries. He recalled that such an exchange happens quite rarely— that Israeli intelligence only receives information related to specific notices of priority for intelligence sent to the NSA and only when the latter feels that the information does not disclose too much about its technologies and modes of operation. He also recalled that the information does not filter through the usual channels of communications, that he would never see it pop up on his screen, as it is channeled to only a select few senior recipients, under the heading ‘Brass Serpent – Classified – For Your Eyes Only.’

Yes, he said. I know what that is.

Good, because I don’t want to get into it now over the phone, the deputy director bellowed, not even on the amethyst. So, we received word of a conversation. I’m not supposed to pass this on to you, but in my age and position, I can bend the rules a bit. I thought this could help you. You’re working on our thing, right?

Yes, of course.

You better write this down.

Tamir grabbed a pen and turned over a sheet of paper lying on his desk. I’m writing, he said.

We don’t know who’s doing the talking. That is, maybe the Americans know, but they weren’t kind enough to tell us.

Okay.

But they did say that the conversation was in Farsi. We only received the translation. They said Speaker A was in Iran and Speaker B was in Hamburg.

I see.

Here’s the interesting bit:

Speaker A: The people at Mohammad’s got the engines. They’re fast enough to reach their destination. They’ll link up with Big Mother on the agreed date if everything goes according to plan. How’s the paperwork coming along?

Speaker B: No glitches.

Speaker A: The identity, the affiliation, the whole nine yards?

Speaker B: Everything’s fine. What about the gnats?

Speaker A: Fine. No glitches reported.

That’s it, the deputy director said. What do you say?

Tamir put down his pen, trying to think clearly. So, two Iranians, he said, one of whom is in Iran, overseeing liaisons with certain factors… who are at Muhammad’s. Who is Muhammad?

There’s quite