The Marsh Angel Hagai Dagan (kiss me liar novel english .txt) 📖

I suppose. We could send out an aircraft…

Tamir loosely thanked him and went to see Moti. After hearing Tamir’s case, Moti replied that there was standard protocol, and that he sees no reason to make a fuss. Everyone received the same report as us, he said. If someone sees fit to send out a surveillance flight, they’ll do it. We don’t need to be smarter than everyone. We didn’t win the brains lottery.

What does that even mean, that idiotic sentence? Tamir thought to himself bitterly. And what’s so bad about being smarter than everyone? He gazed into Moti’s vexed eyes. His countenance was even harsher than his words— his face said get the hell out of my sight. Tamir went back to his room and tried calling the deputy director of the MID-RD. He’s in a meeting, he was told. The man sure goes to a lot of meetings, Tamir thought. What do I do now? Chances are that this really is just a routine oil run. Maybe I really shouldn’t make a fuss about it. Ugh, goddamnit. He called Yaki.

How’re things at the center of the universe? Yaki asked teasingly.

Say, Yaki, do you have a way to reach the Yellow immediately?

Perhaps.

There’s an oil tanker on its way to Tripoli. I need eyes on that tanker.

You need…?

Everyone needs, but they’re moving too slow.

I see. You think this could be serious?

Perhaps.

What are we talking about?

We don’t know exactly. They could be smuggling weapons to the Front’s seaborne unit.

Got it. Okay, let me see what I can do.

o. What’s Going on in Tripoli?

That night, Tamir sat by himself at the Barometer pub. He took a bite of his grilled-cheese sandwich and sipped his beer, but he was too distracted to savor the flavor. Two women walked by him, one wearing a black fedora hat and the other a crimson newsboy cap, chatting loudly. He pointed out to himself as if annotating his own observation, that there was something flamboyant and arrogant about their clamor, yet at the same time pleasant and flirtatious. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t make out a single word they were saying, as if the part of his brain in charge of comprehension was temporarily shut down. The pub plunged around him, receding into the background, pushed into the adjacent Dizengoff Street like theater-set walls ushered out of a scene, sacrificing a vulnerable interior for a gluttonous exterior. He paid his bill and left the place; he wandered out into the quiet space between Nordau Street and Ussishkin Street, trudging along the serene alleys of northern Tel-Aviv; he crossed the streets named after the biblical prophets Zechariah and Haggai, before traversing the Hasmonaean kings Simon Thassi and John Hyrcanus, who ironically found their final abode here, at the outskirts of a desperately Hellenized city.

As he walked into his apartment, the phone rang.

I was looking for you, Yaki’s voice sounded through the receiver.

I went out to get a drink.

Really? So you’re human, after all?

Tamir smiled. What’s up?

Our friend took a trip to the beach above, Yaki said.

I’m listening.

You should know, this form of communication puts him at risk.

I understand. What did he see?

He didn’t see any oil cargo being unloaded.

No?

No. But they might have done that before he arrived.

Right.

He didn’t see anything else unloaded either— or loaded, for that matter.

Uh huh… Tamir said, disappointed.

But he didn’t stick around until nighttime. He felt unsafe there.

I see. Is that all?

Not exactly.

What else?

He thinks he saw something unusual. He’s not certain. He had a pair of binoculars, but it was getting dark.

What does he think he saw?

He thinks he saw them dismantling the pipes.

The pipes…?

Yeah, you know. There are pipes on top of the deck, right? Like, a whole intricate system.

Oh, right… Tamir recalled.

Well, he thinks they dismantled it.

And that’s not something they usually do?

I don’t think so. Why would they do that?

Why, indeed? What do they gain from it?

Ask someone who knows about these things.

Right.

Okay. Have a ball.

Yaki…

Yes?

I appreciate it.

Oh, sure thing. I’m always happy to provide private intelligence services and bend the system to accommodate the capricious whims of special-interest factors. Hey, come visit me in jail, will you?

Haha, very funny, Tamir said and hung up.

He paced back and forth in his kitchen before finally calling Keren, remembering that she owns a car. He asked her for a ride to the base.

Absolutely not.

What do I need to do to get you to take me?

Take a cab.

It’s too expensive.

Just call the duty IAO. It’s gonna be morning soon, anyway.

I’ll get you a supply of high-quality Assam team.

That’ll cost you more than the cab ride.

Are you into massages?

Yes, but I don’t think that’s…

A happy-ending massage?

No way.

A happy-ending massage and dinner?

No.

A 10 oz. sirloin steak dinner at the Dixie?

Fine, fine, I’ll give you a ride. I’ll think about the dinner, but I’ll pass on the massage.

On the way over to the base, Keren asked him what was the hurry. He said he didn’t know. That it was mainly a hunch. Hunches are important, she said, but it was clear she wasn’t taking the whole thing very seriously. Something of that academic equanimity bordering on sarcasm that Tamir sensed when he first arrived at the department had stuck to her irrevocably, he thought to himself. He wondered whether he would inevitably become that way as well.

The red lights at the top of the antennas installed on the roof of the fortified building radiated in the dark, ripping through the starless dusky sky. The corridors inside were lit by pale, sickly florescent lights. Keren went to fix a cup of tea while Tamir walked into the department and called NID to ask the duty officer about the standard procedure of oil tankers. This time, he was lucky enough to have reached someone nicer, who was probably a bit bored and was eager to chat. He told Tamir that as soon as they finished constructing the tanker, the pipe system was fixed in place. At most, a particular length of pipe or joint was replaced, but