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

at the opening between the dangling clothes, she was no longer there, nor was the opening. He turned away, found the passage back to the C&A store and went back out to the street. But he didn’t head back to Café Cinema, not yet. He headed back to the 7th district where he had come from, but took a slightly different route and reached Café Nil from Neubaugasse.

The place was spacious and nearly empty. The walls were colored white and green, and green wooden beams supported the ceiling. The wooden chairs were simple. They were tucked under heavy stone and metal tables. Arabesque latticed brass lamps and glass lamps decorated in Arabic calligraphy hung from the ceiling. Despite the stylized lamps, the place was not overborne by the usual heavy, ornate aesthetics of Moroccan restaurants. Potted plants rested on the windowsills instead of large metal finjans or gold-plated plates. Tamir leaned back and absorbed the pleasant simplicity. He understood why she might like this place. He couldn’t ascertain the origins of the waiting staff. Perhaps from the Southern Sahara— Niger, or Chad. They chatted amongst themselves in French. One of them approached him with a smile. He ordered tea, took out the poems he copied at the library, and laid them out on the table before him.

Tamir sipped his tea and perused the poems. Sumerians and Acadians, he mumbled, Sumerians and Acadians… And the tone is always elegiac, despondent. The threat of calamity always hovers above. Cities will be destroyed, civilizations will collapse, the desert will overrun everything… But actually, she herself is from a desert tribe. On which side of the battle is she on? He sighed, paid, and went back to Café Cinema, even though what he really wanted to do was to stay there longer, a lot longer, at Café Nil with his tea and mysterious poems pervaded with an undeciphered antiquity. He could imagine himself sitting there for days on end, weeks, months.

I was starting to think you weren’t coming back, the disinterested waitress at Café Cinema said.

You’d have two new phones, then, Tamir said.

Several angry messages from Yaki appeared on his screen— Where are you? What’s going on? Where’d you disappear off to? Tamir concluded that no bug was planted on his clothes. In fact, he had realized that back at the lingerie shop already; they’d never have let him roam around freely like that. I’m here, everything’s fine, he wrote. I had some pea soup with bacon which did not agree with me. I didn’t take the phone with me to the bathroom.

That’s quite a long time to be in the bathroom, Yaki replied.

Like I said, it didn’t agree with me.

Fine. Next time, take it with you everywhere. Nothing interesting happened here. She spoke to someone in the lingerie shop. We don’t know who it was, but the girl from my team think it was random. I’m not so sure. She’s heading home now, anyway.

i. Distance

Which landscaping style is this? French? English? Tamir didn’t know much about landscaping. He strolled along a handsome artificial stream, passed by an elegant wooden bridge, and stopped in front of a pond in which ducks were wading in plump indifference. He envied their trouble-free existence. Being a Viennese duck, living in a Viennese public garden, flying further south when the pond freezes over, somewhere warm, say, Italy. Not a bad life at all. He kept on walking. When he reached the edge of the park, he crossed the park-ring and noticed a sign for a café. He almost missed the white letterings against the pristine-white backdrop of the building. Tamir read the sign: Café Prückel. He went in. The place was also bright inside— tall whitewashed walls, slightly worn out cream-colored furniture. The place was bustling and lively, and he struggled to find an empty table. Finally, he found one that suited him perfectly, by one of the café’s large windows, under a faded yellow reading lamp.

Tamir plumped down on the couch. A waiter pranced over to take his order; he asked for a rot gespritzt— red wine with sparkling water— and beef soup with a liver dumpling. He got up, walked over to the newspaper rack, and picked out a copy of the Austrian Der Standart. He returned to his table and flipped through its pages. The prime minister of Israel visits Hungary, a headline in page three read. Tamir read on unenthusiastically. He learned that the prime minister had met his Hungarian counterpart and announced that now, more than ever, European countries must support Israel and the United States in their struggle against Iran. It is a battle of the entire Western world against dark and dangerous regimes, the prime minister told reporters. It’s weird seeing that familiar narrative written in German, Tamir thought as he sipped his gespritzter.

The soup arrived. Tamir drew a spoonful of the thick, piping-hot liquid to his mouth. It resonated with a deep sweet flavor, Tamir thought, and mocked himself for thinking like some kind of restaurant critic. The liver dumpling melted in his mouth. What’s there to say, he thought to himself and sighed, what’s there to say. His phone vibrated in his pocket, as if to answer his question. She’s sitting in Café Merkur, Yaki reported. Alone, for now. I don’t need you very close, but you’re too far now. Come to Café Eiles and wait for instructions.

Tamir reluctantly parted with his soup, paid, and left the café. He hailed a taxi and headed for Café Eiles. He decided that he would follow instructions this time. When the taxi passed by the opera house, Yaki wrote him that an unidentified woman has joined her. He instructed him to come to the corner of Florianigasse and Buchfeldgasse. Someone will be waiting for him there. Tamir updated the driver about his new destination. The cab driver repeated the address, and added wie der Herr wünscht. Tamir thought the literal translation would be something like, we will do, and obey. The taxi