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

considered low priority. If she hadn’t met Rajai, no one would’ve so much as pissed in her direction, but we still don’t have any proof she’s anything more than just his lover. Or ex-lover. We’re in touch with the Americans on this, without keeping them too much in the know. They have a source in the embassy here. As you’ve seen, we’ve managed to have her phone tapped, but I suspect she keeps more than one. Anyway, she hasn’t said anything interesting on this phone. including the conversation you heard.

What’s the good news, then?

Well, it’s nothing of too much intelligence value…

And yet?

Marina tailed the girl from Café Merkur… By the way, Café Merkur makes decent hummus.

So, her name really is Marina?

No.

Alright, so who’s the girl?

Her name’s Milena. She’s part Slovenian, part Hungarian.

Uh huh.

She studied psychology and sexology in Ljubljana, then lived and worked in Bratislava, and now she’s in Vienna. 33 Zieglergasse.

Fascinating. I see you’ve done some serious collection work.

Not really. Marina saw the name on her mailbox and I googled it. She has a website.

Really? Why does she have a website?

She’s a dominatrix. I hope you know what that is.

Tamir knew very well what that was. So, you think she’s using her services?

Or they’re just friends. Anyway, it’s not very interesting.

Right, Tamir nodded, but thought it was actually quite interesting.

k. Light of Reason

That evening, Tamir sat in a bar named Torberg on Strozzigasse. He drank a beer from the Bavarian Traunstein brewery, then had a Hendricks Gin and tonic infused with a decoratively-sliced fresh cucumber. Its taste was purifying. He laid out before him another poem by Alma Strandläufer. He figured out that Flamingo Reed writes about Sumerians and Acadians, while Alma Strandläufer writes about a different set of topics. The gin cleansed the walls of his mind, and the poem was received like a guest of honor in a spic-and-span lounge:

The house is empty. Souls wander aimlessly inside

like ghosts.

The house is dead. Souls retire from it

to the dried, bone-strewn lake,

to the great Phoenician sea,

where wrecks of ships float in the Cypriote foam,

Aphrodite drowns again

and again.

Only you, among the ruins, like scutch grass,

await the rain.

Who awaits the rain? Tamir asked himself. Is she writing about herself? Yes, she has to be…

Tamir sipped his gin. His mind felt illuminated, clear as an emerald. Perhaps when Descartes spoke about the natural light of reason, he was drinking gin. Tamir knew what he had to do.

l. Letters

The Viennese afternoon stretched leisurely. A grayish glow sizzled through the window of Tamir’s apartment. He left both his phones at home, walked out to the street, and looked both ways. He was aware that he didn’t possess the means to ascertain if he was being followed, but assumed that he wasn’t. The Viennese chill easily penetrated his clothes, revitalizing him and imbuing him with a sense of vagrancy. He went north on Lederergasse until Skodagasse, turned right and reached Alserstrasse. He quickly spotted a corner shop, one among many, that sells cellphones and assorted accessories. He bought a simple Nokia phone and a SIM card, and purchased a small amount of credit. He asked the Turkish vendor where he could find an internet café. The vendor directed him to a café nearby. He reached the place five minutes later, walked in, picked a free computer station in the far corner of the café, logged onto Google and found Milena’s website. He scrolled through the picture gallery. Yes, that’s her. She was clad in black and red leather clothes in one of the images, purple latex in another, a long Gestapo leather jacket and black panties in another. She held whips while men whose faces were covered in black leather masks crawled at her feet, stood bound to crucifixes, or sat spread-eagle on gynecological examination chairs.

Tamir dialed the number on the screen using his Nokia phone. She answered in a benevolent, metallic voice. He asked if he could set an appointment for today. Now, even. She said it’s his lucky day— she’s free from now until 7 p.m. She asked if he saw the rates on her site. Yes, he did. No one would reimburse him for this, of course, receipt or not. 270 euros an hour. Steep. Does he have any special requests? He said he wasn’t sure. Basically, he just wants to lie back and see her displayed above him. He didn’t know how to say displayed in German. Or towering. Or looming. He settled for standing— standing above me. She said yes, gladly, and that she’s curious to meet him. He said he’d be there in thirty minutes. He paid for his time in the computer station, left the café, found an ATM and withdrew money. A lot of money. As he was doing so, as a kind of conditioned reflex, he expected to see a message on the screen informing him that he’s exceeded his credit. But no such message popped up. Only then did he recall the inheritance money recently credited to his account. The matters had dragged on for a long time, since his father left no will before he died. Well then, he thought to himself, I’m going to pay a Viennese dominatrix with German reparation money. He contemplated the matter while shoving the handsome stash of notes into his wallet. His father was dead, but here he was, very much alive, living a slightly peculiar life, but a life nonetheless, breathing the cold, foreign Viennese air. He hailed a cab and rode to 33 Zieglergasse.

Her apartment was dark and pleasant. After he had told her all he wanted was for her to stand over him, she said they could meet in her apartment rather than her studio, since there was no need for all the props and fixtures in her studio. She kept a mini-studio in her apartment, she said, for intimate clients. That was how she put it. She led him down a dark corridor to a room whose walls were painted a deep ruby red. In