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

the center of the room was a bed covered in black latex. The cold light descending on the room through the broad windows was softened by long drapes the color of the northern night skies. In this scant light she stood before him. She wore dark leather pants and a black corset, regal, laced with thin silver laces. The blue color of her eyes was magnificent, like icy lakes atop snow covered mountains. She smiled and offered him to sit on a velvet couch. Tamir always felt comfortable on couches like that. She glanced at him amiably from a distance. Shall we take care of the financial matters first? Of course, of course. He paid. She placed the money in a drawer and suggested he take his clothes off and lie on the black bed. Does he like a little pain? Some roughhousing? No, he doesn’t want her to hurt him; he prefers gentleness to roughness. Gentle authoritativeness, he said. He thought for a moment. Maybe…

Yes? she asked.

Maybe something a bit maternal. Maternal but authoritative.

I think I understand, she said. Let’s try.

He took his clothes off slowly, pensively, and lied on his back. The latex felt cold against his naked skin, aggressive. He shivered. She sat next to him and caressed him lightly. It’s been a while since anyone had caressed him. Afik… How is Afik? Suddenly, the Slovenian dominatrix sitting beside him on the latex bed appeared real, while Afik seemed like a distant memory. She slid her hand down his belly. Her touch was steady, safe. Her hands revealed reserved power. They pinned him to the latex mattress. She rolled him over on his stomach, lightly spanked and then kneaded his buttocks. He rolled over and curled up on his side. She understood; she leaned over him, her velvet-bound breasts suspended over his face. He quivered slightly. He asked if he could see her naked. Maybe just a little, she obliged, I usually work in a CFNM environment— you know, clothed female, naked male— but I occasionally allow exceptions.

She stood over him, undid her leather pants, and dropped them over his face. He thought of the steely blue in her eyes, far above him, walls of ice and mist; he gazed at her pale, superb thighs, unsheathed from those leather pants, her soft, noble curves; a milky light penetrated the window, above which hovered very narrow silk panties lined with lace, alternatingly shiny and concealed, a work of art, like northern clouds of divine glory interwoven with arctic glow. He felt he saw a cryptic language inscribed in the lace, an e/c in need of deciphering, black material, words of poems intended for those who see in the dark, knoweth of the occult. Again, tales of Sumerians and Acadians appeared in his mind like a primordial incantation. He sat up in the bed, raising his head from the black latex and lifting it up to reach her panties. She let him. He pressed his face to the gentle blue velvet and inhaled the scent of lilies floating on icy lakes. He took in the frosted, resuscitating air as deep as he could, closed his eyes and saw letters, letters of poems, letters of earth and sea. The tribes of the desert surround the fortified Sumerian cities like the army of Joshua son of Nun had encircled the walls of Jericho, enclosing them with magic, incantations, blowing of the shofar, sorcery and deception, deception… He opened his eyes. He understood.

m. Who is Flamingo Reed?

Back at his apartment, both his phones screamed bloody murder. He called Yaki. Where the hell have you been? Yaki yelled. What the hell were you doing in Alserstrasse?

How do you know I was in Alserstrasse?

You used your credit card there. Twice.

Never mind where I was. You need to get me on the line with Musa.

Start with me, and then we’ll see about Musa.

The poems are a code.

Are you serious?

Yes. She said a couple of odd things during her conversation with the American editor. First, she told him, you’re lucky I understood it. Why would she say that if she wrote it herself?

So, it wasn’t her who wrote it?

I don’t think it was. Secondly, she rebukes him in the end, saying that it’s irresponsible to publish with him. Irresponsible? Doesn’t that sound a bit strange? It’s a poem in a literary journal. What does that have to do with responsibility?

So, it’s a code? Who’s talking to who? A code for what?

Hold on. She’s published poems herself under the name Alma Strandläufer. There are other poems published under the name Flamingo Reed. They are written in a different style, and always deal with the same matter— Acadian raids on Sumerian cities. I suspect only Flamingo Reed’s poems are a code. The code was written for her, but she’s not the final addressee.

Yaki remained silent. What does the code say? he finally asked. Do you have any idea?

I went over the poems several times. I think the Sumerian cities represent contemporary places. I think the poems provide information about possible attacks on those places. In the last poem she got upset about, it was said Lagash would be attacked in a couple of days, and that it would be attacked by sorcery and deception. I would pose this question: has anyone attacked anything over the past few days, or is about to attack something in the next few days? Obviously, that’s too broad a question, so let’s narrow it down: have we attacked something or are about to attack something anytime soon? But since we’re talking about deception, perhaps we can focus the question even further: are we about to attack something soon, not directly, but…

Cyber… Yaki whispered.

Yes, I think that might be the meaning.

Cunt… Yaki mumbled.

Who? Do you have any idea who’s writing these poems? Who is Flamingo Reed?

We need to get Musa on the line, Yaki said solemnly.

n. Literature Lesson

Tamir wandered around the inner courtyard of the municipality building. The rows of black columns towering over