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

They waited. It’s cold, Oz said, looking around sourly at the empty square; he didn’t look like he was particularly bothered by the cold.

How’s your German? Tamir asked.

I don’t know a single word. Don’t wanna know, either.

It’ll probably help you blend in.

I don’t need to blend in. I’m a businessman on a business trip.

What are you selling?

Fromage blanc. Their low-fat cheeses are crap.

I’m more into fatty cheeses.

I can tell.

She’s sitting in a place called Fromme Helene, Yaki said.

Helene the Pious, Tamir translated for Oz who contorted his face.

Yaki smiled. I ate there once, he said, the food’s mediocre, but the place itself is nice.

I’m sure it is, Oz said dismissively.

I’m going to use the restroom, Tamir said, got up and walked over to the inn, accompanied by Oz’s distrusting gaze. It was very warm. The floor and walls were covered in chestnut wood panels. The chairs were dark brown, as well. The tables were covered by fresh-pressed white tablecloths. Only one of the tables was occupied; two people dressed in suits sat and drank beer. Their eyes rested on Tamir momentarily, before quickly losing interest. Tamir took out his phone— he was careful not to mistake his own with the phone Yaki had given him— opened a browser and googled the Fromme Helene restaurant. He saw its location. He figured that even if Assaf would see that he conducted this search, it would seem innocent enough: he just wanted to be informed and know where it was that she was sitting. He took out his Nokia phone which he had purchased on Alserstrasse and dialed the number on the restaurant’s website.

A polite female voice answered. Tamir asked to speak with a woman sitting in the restaurant. He said her name was Alma Strandläufer. The woman asked what she looked like; Tamir tried his best to describe her without sounding too poetic. She’s very sensual, he said, thinking to himself that Austrian women could hardly ever be described as sensual, so she’d be easy to recognize. The woman on the phone laughed and said she thinks she knows who he’s talking about. A few moments later, the voice Tamir had remembered from the audio recording sounded in his hear, but while the voice in the recording was angry, the voice he heard now was measured, probing. He felt he was hearing that distant voice which had washed over him once at the edge of the thicket.

Hello, who am I speaking with?

Mrs. Strandläufer?

Who’s asking? her German sounded finely honed, but her accent was German, not Austrian.

Or al-Darija, perhaps?

She fell silent, but didn’t hang up the phone. He could hear her breathe on the other side of the line, and imagined he could hear her heart beating, as well.

Who are you?

Tamir didn’t know how to answer the question, but his lips moved involuntarily. I am the one who reads forgotten languages, Sumerian, Acadian…

She fell silent again. For a moment, he thought she would never utter another word ever again. What do you want? she finally asked.

Wait there for another hour or so. When you leave, tell your taxi driver to turn from Josefstädterstrasse right onto Piaristengasse. After he turns, tell the driver to stop for a moment. Get out, stand up against the wall…

I know how to lose a tail.

Okay. Then, have the driver continue to your apartment. After another car passes, walk down Piaristengasse until you see the Maria Treu Church.

I know it.

Excellent. Go inside, and sit on one of the benches. I have to hang up.

He went back out to the square.

That took a while, Oz said.

Is she still there? Tamir asked.

Yes, Yaki answered.

Okay. I’m going to Hummel, if you two don’t mind. It’s right around the block. You two are tough guys, but I had a desk job in the army. It wouldn’t help anyone if I caught pneumonia. If anything interesting happens, text me.

Yaki nodded. Oz seemed preoccupied and didn’t even raise his eyes to look at Tamir. Tamir went down Bennogasse, turned left on Josefstädterstrasse, reached Hummel, put both his tracked phones into the pocket of his jacket, hung it on a coatrack, and left the place. He knew that if he went back to Josefstädterstrasse he might enter the field of vision of whoever was staking out Fromme Helene, probably the taciturn girl from Yaki’s team. Instead, he turned left on Albertgasse, then right on Florianigasse, walked down to Lederergasse, and turned right. He was cold without his coat on, very cold. When he reached the back entrance of the church, he stopped for a moment, observing this crude and dark blight on the city’s refined urban landscape, before slipping inside.

The church was not heated, but was still much warmer than the bleak outside. It was empty, except for a woman in a gray sweater who was kneeling before one of the frontmost benches and seemed to be absorbed in prayer. Tamir walked slowly along the church’s wall before reaching one of the brown-marble columns towering on either side of the alter. He wedged in and tucked himself behind the column. The marble was as cold as ice. The prayer muttered by the woman in gray reached his ears faintly and disrupted. Scrubbing sounded above him. He looked up and saw someone polishing the pipes of the organ. A moment later, the first notes reverberated through the spacious church. He seemed to have arrived exactly on time for organ rehearsal. Tamir didn’t recognize the piece that was playing. It sounded Baroque, but rather dark. He lost himself for a moment. His gaze lingered on the silver organ, and by the time he had turned his eyes back to the main hall of the church, she was already there, sitting on the edge of one of the benches.

Her head was covered by a slanted reddish, wooly beret. She wore a dark wool coat. He couldn’t make out her eyes. He strode over carefully. Suddenly, a man appeared beside him, stealthy as a leopard. Tamir didn’t