Y-Yes sir, Tamir mumbled, even though Harel had told him that there’s no need for such formalities. Only with a head-of-sector and above, give or take, he said. Tamir trudged his way back to his desk. Several new summaries concerning routine radio checks awaited him there. He looked at them gloomily. The department head was probably right, and he just got worked up over nothing, panicking a system that was tightly-wound as it was. He got up to fix himself a coffee. He’ll have one more coffee, read a few incoming dispatches and dubious reports from untrustworthy Mossad and Unit 504 sources, relaying what one PLO/Abu Musa operative had to say about another PLO operative in some café around Shatila refugee camp— a cheap substitute for good bedtime reading— and retire to his room.
He started fixing his coffee in the corner kitchenette, when he saw Ophira coming over from the reception room. Her casual strut was both invigorating and soothing at the same time. Her light-colored pants stretched tightly over her lower body. Her skin was as dark as her pants were light; Tamir sought to conjure up a line to capture that contrast, but words failed him. There were no poetic sentences nor epigrams left in him, just radio checks and bits of information about Druze force deployment in the Chouf Mountains from the last intelligence survey he read. A few translators and transcribers, including a translator named Mika, raised their heads from their desks and delightedly followed Ophira with their eyes as she purposefully strode from the reception room to the HTA intelligence analysis desk. Her movement was sober and determined, yet gentle and pacifying. Tamir tore his eyes away from her hips and fixed them on her eyes. He thought he noticed a certain urgency in them. When she saw he wasn’t at his desk she looked around. All the heads promptly dropped back to their desks, as if caught in the act. When she spotted him in the kitchenette, she approached him.
I wanted you to see this, she said as she handed him a summary she was holding.
He thought he sensed a trace of a grudge from their previous conversation, but it was concealed under a blanket of matter-of-fact professionalism. He seized the opportunity and gazed into her eyes, briefly reveling in reflections of lightnings piercing through the night sky, casting a somber light on the heavy, muddy earth, and then promptly took the summary from her hand. He was called into immediate attention when he saw it was the Front/Jibril network, which wasn’t usually active this late.
(conversation)
a: A/U, BB
b: ?
a: Is everything ready?
b: Yes.
(Bad reception, unintelligible speech)
Tamir looked at her with grave seriousness and asked if she didn’t recognize the second speaker by his voice. No, she said, it’s an unfamiliar station. The frequency wasn’t the network’s usual frequency, either, it was picked up in a scan, but she recognized the voice of the speaker from the airborne unit in Baalbek. She said she’s spent so many months monitoring the network, that she has no doubt it’s him. Tamir said that he trusts her. He asked her to send it to be transcribed immediately, went over to his desk, and reached over to the communications device called Old Faithful which was used to send urgent dispatches to a predefined group of recipients. He hesitated for a moment. The licking he took from the head of Department 195 was still rang in his ears. He also recalled that Harel once told him it’s better to wait until you’re absolutely certain before springing the system into action, and that it’s better to wait for the transcription first. He even considered calling Harel at home to consult him, but ultimately decided to follow his gut feeling. He quickly typed in ‘initial report’ and relayed the details of the summary. He stressed that it was subject to change after transcription, and that it mostly likely involved operatives of the Front’s airborne unit. After sending the report, he picked up the SB phone, relayed the frequency noted in the summary, and requested that the other station be pinpointed. He noted that there’s a good chance it’s a mobile station.
A few seconds later, the phones on his desk started furiously ringing in unison. Northern Command called, as well as headquarters, and other units. They all asked for more details and he replied to all of them that he didn’t have any at the moment, and that he’d let them know as soon as he had something to report. At the same time, summaries were landing on his desk with increasing frequency. The Hezbollah networks came alive with a torrent of radio checks. He reported an increased volume of communication and requested more pinpoints. The pinpoints started coming in and were, as usual, practically useless in an operational sense, but they divulged that the center of activity was a small area directly south-east of Marj Ayyun. The pinpoints were transmitted to the entire system, prompting a further onslaught of tense phone calls, since this area was disconcertingly close to Astra, Balut, and Gladiola—Israeli outposts, rather than the South Lebanon Army outposts usually targeted by Hezbollah.
Tamir got up from his seat and went over to the transcription station. There was only one transcriber there, Sasson the Legend. It was said that Sasson’s so good, that he could even transcribe a burp, if it were burped in a Syrian dialect. Tamir could see that Sasson was working on something. He carefully leaned over his shoulder, and saw that it was a long dialogue. It was clearly something for the Syrianists, not for him. He tapped
