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

right one and slumping down on his bed. I’ll shower in the morning, he thought. He would gladly have read something before bed, but two other soldiers shared his room. He closed his eyes. An obscure European city— he couldn’t tell which— appeared underneath his eyelids. It was gray and rainy; people sat in cafés drinking mocha with cognac, tranquilly perusing newspapers. Tamir fell asleep.

Are you the reserve intelligence analyst? someone stirred him.

Y-Yes, he answered groggily. A stale flavor pervaded his mouth. He asked himself what mocha was. He knew cognac, but mocha?

You were hard to find.

What time is it?

Six. Something happened.

What?

They told me to tell you to get down to the bunker.

Tamir deliberated for a few seconds, before making up his mind to brush his teeth before heading out. He found a faucet, brushed hastily, sprayed his face with cold water, and left for the bunker.

He opened the computer, went over recent communications, and immediately understood what had happened. At 5:30 a.m., a Fagot missile was fired at an IDF patrol near ‘Ayta al-Sha‘b. The pinpointed location was wrong. The APC took a direct hit. Three dead, four wounded. Tamir got up to fix a cup of coffee. Shit, he thought to himself. He sunk into his chair with his cup of coffee, staring blankly at the screen. The coffee’s repulsive taste felt befitting of his mood.

A tall man with an ascetic look walked in. I heard things got messy again, he remarked to Tamir.

Tamir lifted his heavy eyes to look at the stranger. And you are?

Shaul. I’m from Owl Team. I wanted to know if there was any mention over the radio last night of a collaboration with the Revolutionary Guard. The intelligence analysts usually forward that stuff to us, but I was told you’re on reserve duty, so I figured you might not know that.

What’s Owl Team?

Oh, right, it wasn’t around in your day… We track Iranian communications in Lebanon.

I see… No, I didn’t come across any mention of the Revolutionary Guard.

Okay. Thanks, the man turned his skinny back to Tamir.

Hey, Shaul…

Yeah?

Tell me, does the name Amir Rajai mean anything to you?

Sure, he was a high-level functionary in the Revolutionary Guard.

Was?

Yeah, he’s not in Lebanon anymore.

Why?

Shaul observed him curiously. Why do you ask?

Out of curiosity, Tamir answered frankly. He was connected to something I was working on when I was unit head in the department.

I see. I don’t know what your clearance is now…

You can just tell me generally, without going into detail.

Yeah… I don’t know. Anyway, he’s out of Lebanon now. They sent him back to Iran and then… he was stationed in a different post.

Not in Lebanon and not in Iran?

That’s right.

Syria?

Uh… no.

Then where?

Somewhere else.

Is it that sensitive?

It’s a matter of source confidentiality.

Can I bribe you?

No, Shaul replied seriously, without so much as cracking a smile.

Okay. What about a source named Raspberry? Does that ring a bell?

No.

So you’ve never come across it?

No. What is it?

Never mind. Is there anything else you want to tell me about Amir Rajai, or any other matter?

No.

c. Strive for Clarity

Reserve duty dissipated like an unpleasant fog, and Tamir was back to his university life. He sat in his apartment to write and in the library and read; he sat alone in the Barometer to have a beer, alone in Cinema Paris, alone in Hummus Akshara on Jeremiah Street. He felt he was spending most of his time in a state of suspension, just staring— staring out of his balcony in Simon Thassi Street, staring from the corner table at the Gilman cafeteria, staring at female students, staring at the Tel-Aviv landscape which never inspired him, writing only when he could no longer stare, only when he ran out of ideas how to waste his time, when the pale light in the window finally faded, when all other options expended themselves besides sliding in an Einstein floppy disk into his computer drive.

Still, he must have written a substantial amount, because within a few short years, he had obtained a doctorate in philosophy. After binding all two hundred and eighty-seven pages— printed in font Merriam type size 12— between two sheets of bluish Bristol paper, he placed his dissertation on the department secretary’s desk, who spouted a terse congratulatory wish at him and returned to what she was doing. Tamir, in turn, returned to his apartment. Perhaps this is a time to celebrate, he thought to himself. He wasn’t the celebrating type, and in fact wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to do so.

He stared at the walls of his apartment, which he had grown sick of. The light on his answering-machine flashed. He pressed it. A familiar voice from the past sounded— Neta was back in the country for a visit. She’s in Tel-Aviv, visiting friends. Perhaps he’d like to have a coffee and reminisce about the good ol’ days. He called her back, they scheduled to meet at the Siegel pub.

When he saw her, Neta looked older to him— her face had become fuller and her curls seemed flatter, no longer bouncing vivaciously. She sipped her Kir Royale and told him she had just graduated from law school at Columbia University, and was now working as an attorney in Boston. She said that she was married, living a comfortable, bourgeois life.

How have the mighty fallen… he mumbled into his beer.

Would you believe it?

I’m still waiting for the plot twist, he replied. Your husband doesn’t happen to be a sleeper KGB agent, does he?

Could be, I should ask him.

Tamir wanted to ask if she was having autonomous sex with him as well, but refrained.

And you?

Me…? He cautiously told her that he had just finished his PhD.

Wow, so you’re going to be an actual doctor?

Yeah, I guess, eventually…

Awesome! She sat up and asked the bartender for two ice-cold shots of Stolichnaya vodka.

Tamir asked if she really thought it was awesome.

What, you’re not happy?

Not really… I guess I’m… I dunno, I feel mostly numb.

But isn’t this something you’ve always wanted? You once