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

the rounds and signing out of the base for good. I came by to say goodbye.

Did you hear about what’s going on?

A bit…

I could use your experience here.

Yeah…

Don’t you want to take a look?

Honestly? No.

Why?

It’s your show now.

I see.

From the safe shores of civilian life, all I can do is confer revolutionary blessings upon you, as you navigate the waves by yourself. He seemed pleased with himself.

Tamir smiled in acquiescence, trying to hide his disappointment. He understood how Nissenbaum felt, though, and could imagine himself feeling the same, were he in his shoes.

Nissenbaum turned around and left. For a moment, Tamir felt overwhelmingly lonely, as if his humble office ruptured into a gaping, all-consuming abyss.

An hour later, Harel called and asked him to take a look at his incoming dispatches. Tamir saw a new dispatch from Kidonit— an updated version of the previous conversation:

a. A/U, BB

b. S/U, Tr.

a. Where were you this whole time?

b. The device was broken. We just got a new one today.

a. Are the details with the new friends done on your end?

b. Yes, almost. And yours?

a. Shouldn’t be any problem. They promised us that the distance isn’t great. Let’s hope for clouds.

b. You talk too much over the radio. If you have anything important to say, use e/c.

a. Okay. Salutations.

Well? was that so important? Harel asked resentfully.

Quite possibly, Tamir replied. If this is going to turn out to be a joint attack, meaning airborne, too, and if he’s saying that the distance isn’t great, that could mean that they’re planning to take off from around Naqoura or somewhere in the vicinity of the security strip border, perhaps even from within the security strip itself.

Harel muttered something under his breath and hung up the phone.

m. Chariot of Fire

That night, Tamir dreamt he was swimming in a black viscous sea. The thick cold waters percolate through his body, into his bones, dragging him further and further down, until he can no longer distinguish the waters without from the waters within. The water is opaque, muddy, and bitter, oh so bitter, he cannot see a thing. His eyes are caulked by the black murky substance, and he is sinking, drowning. He draws upon the dying embers of his will to force his arm up as high as he can. They are too numb for him to feel, but he knows that his fingers are protruding from the face of the black waters. Here, something is clutching them, something is pulling him out with tremendous effort, snatching him from the engulfing treacly black mass, pulling and pulling. He feels heat enveloping his fingers which have started to grow interdigital webbing, a soothing sensation, no, it’s unpleasant, a searing sensation, a deep burn, his hand is scorched, scalded; he screams as he is being drawn from the water, who is it who’s pulling him up? Daughter of Pharaoh? No, it’s Polnochi— Polnochi ablaze in the eternal white flame; Polnochi the winged; Polnochi, rider of the Chariot of Fire; Polnochi who is burning him.

n. The Brains Lottery

A day went by. And another. Clouds gathered over the futuristic fort, condensed, showered down, and dispersed. In Sufit, the fields were being plowed; at the Barometer pub, beer glasses were being filled to the brim; and in Tamir Binder’s unassuming room in Department 195, nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The period of time known as life stretched into a kind of jejune sprawling present, cast in the mold of an uninspired office with dark, luminous clouds menacing through its windows.

Communications which usually would not find their way to Tamir’s computer were now being routed to him— reports by the Naval Intelligence Division on the movement of Iranian watercrafts in the area. Ever since the notice of priority for intelligence regarding such movements had been issued, all the relevant bodies started receiving a steady stream of reports regarding Iranian watercrafts roaming the Mediterranean Sea, the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, and the Suez Canal. Tamir received several of these reports a day. He read through them all, searching for something out of the ordinary— but found nothing. One day, he received a report about an Iranian tanker which passed through the Suez Canal. There was nothing unusual about the tanker, and the Egyptians let it pass without delay. The NID reported that its destination was Tripoli in northern Lebanon, where it was intended to offload its cargo of oil.

Tripoli, Tamir mused. His hand hovered over the reddish telephone receiver for a few seconds, before settling it back down on his wooden desk. He got up from his seat and took the stairs down to the floor below, momentarily losing his bearings in the maze of cyclical hallways before finally arriving at the door of Department 143. He found the same soldier with his uniform shirt neatly buttoned all the way to the top, as if he hadn’t moved from his seat since the last time Tamir visited the office. Tamir amused himself with the thought that maybe he really hadn’t moved since then. He asked the soldier if he knows something about Iranian oil supplies to Lebanon.

Something, he smugly confirmed.

Tamir asked how many tankers arrive at Tripoli. The soldier replied that an Iranian tanker arrives about once a week.

So, it’s routine?

Yes.

Tamir thanked him, went back up to his department, and called Naval Intelligence Division. He spoke with someone named Arieh and requested that they try to follow the tanker to Tripoli, even though it’s probably just a routine cruise.

We don’t take orders from you, Arieh emphatically asserted.

I know. Listen, Arieh, I can take the long route through the usual channels, have a notice of priority for intelligence issued…

So do that. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.

Do you have anything against the idea of collaboration between intelligence collection bodies?

There’s a way to go about these things.

Let’s put it this way— if you wanted to, could you track this vessel?

If we really wanted to, we could surveil the boat,