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

I don’t want him too close. As far as I’m concerned, he’s here as a consultant, no more. He’s not part of the operative team. So, I keep my consultants in the rear. You’ll have a screen in the van and you’ll see the visual, if we even have visual. If you have anything important to say, you can tell me over the radio. That’s it.

Tamir looked at him in silence. Thoughts raced through his head. Okay, he finally said.

Sleep well tonight. I need you on top of your game tomorrow. C’mon, let’s go get a sausage. Slum it a bit. There’re always all sorts of weirdos hanging out by that stand. I once almost broke some Austrian nationalist’s nose there for talking shit about Muslims.

u. Saving Polnochi

Lightning pierced the black sky over the Wienerwald. The thunder that followed rolled in Tamir’s ears. He was sitting in the back seat of a dark-colored Volkswagen van, observing the screen of the laptop computer attentively. The stakeout of Amir Rajai went off without a hitch. He drove fast and took some sharp turns, but presumably more out of habit than out of caution. According to Yaki, Rajai didn’t look like he suspects anything. He didn’t change cars, switch between tram lines, or anything of the sort. He simply arrived in the same black Audi with a diplomatic license plate that he had left the embassy in. It seemed that years of uninterrupted rendezvousing with Dallal have turned him complacent. And now he was here, at an attractive villa at 265 Wilhelminenstrasse, right on the edge of the city, bordering the Wienerwald. Luckily, the two were sat in a room with two large glass doors facing a spacious patio overlooking the street. Dallal took the precaution of drawing the curtains over the large glass windows, but the curtains were sheer and Yaki’s surveillance equipment provided a decent— albeit a bit dark— image of the room.

I wonder if he’s paying her rent here, too, Yaki said.

Of course he is, Oz responded, who else would? The Acre Fishermen Association?

The rain intensified. On his screen, Tamir could only see Rajai. The video image was transmitted from Yaki’s surveillance equipment. Tamir knew Yaki was lying on the roof of an adjacent house, in the rain, covered in a sheet of plastic intended both to conceal him and to keep him dry, with a sniper rifle fitted with a sound suppressor. The surveillance equipment was operated by the girl whose name was not Marina, lying beside him. Yaki had told Tamir that initially, they wanted to fly someone out, a sharpshooter, but because of the compartmentalized nature of the operation, Musa decided that Yaki was going to be the marksman. Apparently, Yaki was a pretty good shot. He told Tamir that before transferring to 504, he had served in Shaldag, the air-force commando unit, and that he has made it a point to keep his operation skills fresh. How, exactly? Tamir asked. Somethings are better left to the imagination, he replied.

Rajai was a man with an athletic physique. He was lean, and wore a well-tailored suit, as far as Tamir could make out from the video image. He wore a trimmed, comely beard. In short, a well-kempt individual, Tamir mused. Rajai was speaking, but the video was inaudible. He was smiling and sipping a drink, perhaps a whiskey, by the shape of the glass. But where was she?

Where is she? Oz asked impatiently.

I’m waiting for her to get in my frame, Yaki said. She might be in the kitchen, preparing something. I don’t know.

Okay, but once she gets in your frame, don’t hesitate, Oz said. Start with him.

Oz, don’t run my operation for me, will you?

He’s right, Oz, Musa’s discontented voice sounded over the radio from the command post in Tel-Aviv. Total radio silence, starting now.

Rajai walked across the room with his drink and chatted. He seemed to Tamir to be in an uplifted mood. Tamir desperately tried to think. For a moment, he felt he was back in the Mole, waiting to hear her voice, that it was all up to him and his resourcefulness. A moment from now, she’ll appear, Yaki will squeeze the trigger twice, and it’ll all be over. He desperately tried to think. Fragments of ideas and shards of images floated through his head. Angels with mud-soaked wings fluttered in the air before dropping down to black swamps. Suddenly, he thought of something. Musa, can you hear me? he asked.

Affirmative, Musa answered irritably.

Did you ever stop to think that maybe, if we know how this information passes— through the cabinet meeting, the minister of the interior, Sa’ira, the stint, that whole chain— we could take advantage of it? Plant whatever information we like, manipulate their perception of us… Why kill them? We can use them.

Tamir, get off the radio. Now’s not the time.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? Oz turned threateningly towards Tamir. I swear to God, you do that one more time, I’m taking you out.

The image of Ronen Schwartz surfaced in Tamir’s mind.

Rajai moved to the edge of the room. Only one of his shoulders and an arm was visible now. Dallal entered the frame. She carried a tray with some glasses, a pitcher, and a bowl filled with something, confectionary perhaps. She placed the tray on the table, poured the pitcher into the glasses, placed one of the glasses on a small plate, and carried it over to where Rajai was standing. He took the glass from her. She appeared to be smiling. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

Yaki, is she in your line of fire? Why aren’t you shooting?! Oz yelled.

Yaki, think about what I said, you don’t have to shoot, Tamir said.

Oz turned furiously and punched him in the face. Tamir was violently thrust back against his seat. For a moment, he couldn’t see nor hear a thing. He felt the taste of blood in his mouth. A fire burned dimly in the fog clouding