Agents of Innocence (18 page)

“So where do I begin?”

“If it were me,” said Hoffman, “I would begin with our esteemed colleague in the Lebanese Deuxième Bureau, General Fadi Jezzine.”

“Why him?” asked Rogers. His image of General Jezzine, from dinner at the ambassador’s house months ago, was of an elegant, austere man in a tuxedo who seemed, to Rogers, to typify the political and economic system that was strangling Lebanon.

“Because the general knows where all the bodies are buried on the Christian side,” said Hoffman.

“Who owns a piece of him?”

“Everybody,” answered Hoffman. “And nobody. The good general sells information to us, the Israelis, the Syrians, the Egyptians. He’s a regular supermarket. He’s got something for everyone. Which means he’s never completely in the bag for any one customer. What’s more, he understands the first rule of the intelligence business.”

“Which is?”

“Which is: Don’t give anything away for free. When you have a piece of information, sell it, or trade it. But don’t give it away.”

“How am I going to get anything new out of him?”

“That’s your problem,” said Hoffman. “By the way, if you strike out with the general, try his wife. She’s a firecracker.”

“I know.”

“You know the lady?”

“Slightly,” said Rogers. “I sat next to her one night at a dinner party when she got drunk and denounced the Palestinians.”

“Excellent.”

Rogers turned and began to walk out of the office.

“Guadeamus igitur!” called out Hoffman.

“What does that mean?” asked Rogers.

“Let us make merry.”

East Beirut; July 1970

Rogers embraced the new assignment as if he was starting a new life. He spent his days in East Beirut, among the Christian elite, making new contacts and renewing old ones. Several weeks after his conversation with Hoffman, he had wangled an invitation to lunch at the Jezzines’ house in the mountains northeast of Beirut.

The luncheon took place on a bright summer day that seemed hot when Rogers left his apartment in West Beirut. He was dressed casually, in a light summer suit and open-necked shirt, and his cowboy boots. When he reached the mountains near the Jezzines’ village, the air was chillier and Rogers wished he had brought a sweater.

The village, on the slopes of Mount Lebanon, had been tidied up for the arrival of a special visitor. There was a string of lights across the main street, shining dully and almost invisibly at midday, and Lebanese flags were fluttering from many of the stone houses. As Rogers drove down the road, he noticed that in the windows of some of the houses were faces, staring silently at him.

The village was the ancestral home of the Jezzine clan. Their villa sat atop the highest hill, sheltered in a grove of cedar trees. As Rogers neared the house, he saw a barricade ahead in the road. It was manned by peasant boys dressed in black and carrying automatic weapons. They stopped him, asked to see his passport. When they had established that he was the important American vistor who was expected that day, the gunmen insisted on driving Rogers the remaining one hundred yards to the house.

The Jezzines kept him waiting, inevitably. Rogers amused himself smoking cigarettes and reading the magazines from Paris on the table in the salon. Eventually, precisely thirty minutes after Rogers had arrived, General Jezzine emerged from the private quarters of the mansion to greet him. The general was dressed in a white linen suit and smoking a Havana cigar.

“How good of you to come,” said Jezzine. “It is an honor to have a distinguished member of your organization in my home.” His voice was precise and measured. He had a way of talking that allowed his mouth to form words while the rest of his face remained utterly immobile. Especially his eyes, which seemed to stare at Rogers without blinking.

They made small talk for a few minutes. Jezzine showed Rogers his collection of guns, mounted in a case on the wall. Then he strolled to the large picture window that dominated the salon and pointed out, in the distance, the valley where he had hunted with his father when he was a boy, and where he now hunted with his own sons. The general glanced momentarily at Rogers’s boots and looked away in disdain.

A servant eventually arrived with tea, served in small glass cups that were half-full with sugar.

“Have you ever heard of ‘Le Dactylo,’ Mr. Rogers?” asked the general, sipping his tea.

Rogers shook his head.

“It means ‘The Typewriter’ in French. But here in my country it has a special meaning. Do you perhaps know what that is?”

“I do not,” said Rogers.

“It is a nickname that Lebanese journalists have for the Deuxième Bureau. The name has a certain logic. Sometimes, you see, I will summon the owner of one of the Lebanese newspapers to my office in Yarze, and I will give him a bit of information. I will say that the bank owned by Mr. So-and-so, the Palestinian millionaire, is in trouble, or that a particular ministry has exceeded its budget because of financial irregularities. The newspaper owner, if he is a sensible man, will take this information to his editor and tell him to run it in the newspaper. If the editor asks where it came from, the owner will say: ‘Le Dactylo.’ ”

“From ‘The Typewriter,’ ” said Rogers.

“Yes. Precisely. Everyone knows what that means. It means the story comes from me, from army intelligence, from the secret police. And that will be that. The story will run, praising one politician who is acting in the interest of the nation, condemning another one who is not.”

Rogers nodded. He wasn’t sure where Jezzine’s recitation was leading.

“Sometimes,” continued the general, “The Typewriter will supply the newspapers with information that originated, not with us, but with the American Embassy. Le Dactylo types it out, just the same, and it appears in the Beirut papers. And from here, it can be sent by news services around the world.”

“An efficient system,” said Rogers.

“Indeed it is. And one that is possible, I would immodestly add, only because of the efficiency and skill of the Lebanese intelligence service.”

“And the pliancy of Lebanese editors,” said Rogers.

General Jezzine’s mouth smiled. The rest of his face remained frozen. “That also reflects the efficiency of the Deuxième Bureau,” he said.

“How?”

“Because Le Dactylo understands its clientele. We know that all Lebanese have a common weakness. To put it bluntly, they can be bought. It is a fact of life. We are a small, poor country with few resources. Our people live by their wits. They sell their most valuable asset, which is their loyalty, to the highest bidder. It is not our most admirable trait, perhaps, but it is understandable.

“Unfortunately we in the Deuxiène Bureau cannot afford to buy the loyalty of all our citizens. But we have learned a little secret: You do not have to bribe someone yourself, so long as you know the identity of the person who
is
bribing him. Do you understand what I am saying? Knowledge truly is power. This is our technique, and in this way we can control nearly everyone.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Rogers untruthfully. In fact, he understood the bureau’s methods perfectly well. It rigged elections, manipulated newspapers, and tapped telephones. It ran Lebanon.

“I will give you an example,” said Jezzine. “Several years ago, the president of the republic held a meeting with the editors of all the major newspapers. He gathered them around the table and turned to them one by one, addressing them by the names of the Arab rulers who sent them money.

“ ‘How is President Nasser?’ he said to the editor of the paper that received a secret bribe from the Egyptians. ‘How is President Assad?’ he said to the editor who received a stipend from Syria. ‘How is King Faisal?’ he said to the editor whose payoffs came from Riyadh. And then he came to the editor of our most respected and incorruptible newspaper.”

“And what did he say?” asked Rogers.

“He said, ‘How is the whole bloody world?’ ”

Rogers laughed at the joke. Jezzine smiled and squinted his eyes, which for him was the equivalent of a belly laugh.

“So you see,” continued Jezzine, “as long as we know who is paying whom in our corrupt little country, we have a handle on nearly everyone.”

“But not everyone?” queried Rogers.

“Alas, there are fanatics among us whose motives are not so clean. They hunger for something other than money. They want dignity, justice, things that are difficult to provide on this earth. They are a more difficult problem.”

“Forgive me for asking an impolite question,” interrupted Rogers. “But why are you telling me all this?”

“You are aware, no doubt, that we have a presidential election coming soon,” said the general.

“I am indeed aware of that,” said Rogers.

“In our view, this election will determine the future of Lebanon. It will be a contest between the bloc we call the ‘
Nahj
’—a term that refers to the ‘method’ of our president, which has guided this country successfully for twelve years—and the forces of corruption and anarchy that would succeed him. If we lose, the forces of anarchy will assume power—the corrupt bureaucrats and traders, the Moslem hooligans, the Palestinians. We stand for stability and order. Our opponents stand for change and disorder. It is appalling to imagine what might happen if they win.”

The general looked to Rogers for a nod of agreement or support but received none.

“Perhaps you do not understand,” said the general. “We in the Deuxième Bureau have devised a formula for governing this riotous little country. We propose to run it like the army. The generals are Christians, yes, it is true. But many of the other officers are Sunni Moslems and Druse Moslems. And for soldiers, we have the Shiite Moslems, who ask only to be led. In an army, who thinks about religion? We are all Lebanese in the army, with one common purpose.”

The general again looked for a nod of encouragement from Rogers. But still there was none.

“Do you know what our president calls these little men of the opposition who propose to take the country away from us?”

“What?” asked Rogers.

“The
fromagistes—
the cheesemen. That is what you will have if they win the election. A nation run by the cheesemen.”

Rogers smiled. So it’s the cheesemen versus the rats, he told himself.

“What do you want from us?” asked Rogers.

The general sighed.

“Support. Encouragement. Money. I have already explained the details of what we need to Mr. Hoffman.”

“And what has he told you?” asked Rogers.

“That it is the policy of the United States to remain neutral in the election.”

“That is also my understanding of our policy.”

General Jezzine clucked his tongue in exasperation.

“You cannot expect me to believe that.”

“But it is true,” said Rogers. “We are neutral. We aren’t providing money to either side, I assure you.”

“Then I am offended,” said the general icily. “I am perturbed that you care so little about us.”

Rogers cocked his head.

“Wait a minute,” said the American. “Are you telling me that you are disappointed in America because we aren’t trying to fix your election?”

“Precisely,” said the general. He looked genuinely hurt.

Rogers wanted to laugh out loud but feared that he would offend his host even more.

“Do you know what your Mr. Hoffman told me when I raised these issues with him?” asked the general.

“No,” said Rogers, wondering what pearl of wisdom the station chief had offered.

“He said: ‘Take a walk, Charlie.’ Those were his precise words. Tell me, please, what does that mean?”

“It means no,” said Rogers. “It’s an emphatic way of saying no.”

There was an awkward silence.

“When you called me and suggested that you pay a visit,” continued the general, “I hoped that perhaps it was Mr. Hoffman’s way of apologizing and showing that he had changed his mind. But I gather that is not the case. You are not coming to offer support in the election?”

“No, I am not.”

“Pity,” said the general.

He stood and walked to his gun case, took out a shotgun, and pointed it toward the valley.

“I have come here for a different reason,” said Rogers.

“What is that?” responded the general diffidently from the window, aiming his gun at unseen targets.

“I will explain,” said Rogers. He rose from the couch and walked over to where the general was standing. He spoke carefully, in a confidential voice.

“Sir,” began Rogers. “The embassy is worried about the growth of underground militias among the Christians. We are worried that these organizations are part of a cycle of violence in Lebanon that may eventually become impossible to control. We assume that you know about these organizations.”

“Of course I do,” said the general. “That is my job.”

“We hope that you share our concern.”

“That is a different matter,” said Jezzine. “My concern is for the future of Lebanon.”

“May I ask you a question?” said Rogers.

The general nodded his head.

“Why do these organizations exist?” pressed Rogers. “What is their purpose?”

“They exist because of the dangerous prospect I spoke of a moment ago. The prospect that the power of the army, represented by the Deuxième Bureau, will be destroyed in the next election, leaving this country at the mercy of its enemies. In that event, it will be necessary to supplement the power of the army with private groups. Groups that can do things that the army, in a divided country like ours, cannot do.”

“What things?” pressed Rogers.

“I will leave that to your imagination. Let us simply say: things that are part of the reality of warfare, but cannot be publicly admitted.”

“That sounds dangerous to me.”

“You are not a Lebanese.”

“Let me put my cards on the table,” said Rogers. “The embassy wants to know more about these Christian underground groups. I have come to make a request: that you share with us whatever information you have on this subject.”

“Why don’t you just steal it from us?” asked the general. “We know you have your own agents inside our service. You won’t even need to steal it. We’ll probably give it away free.”

“I’m not talking about what we can get from file clerks,” said Rogers. “We don’t need any more telephone taps or stolen documents. We want what isn’t in the files. The things that people won’t talk about on the phone or put in writing but will tell you privately, because they trust you.”

“Impossible,” said the general.

“Why?” asked Rogers.

“Because I don’t agree with what you are doing. Why should I help you analyze the symptoms when I want to cure the disease?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you want to prevent the growth of underground terrorist organizations among the Christians, then help our side in the election. We are the alternative to that sort of anarchy.”

“We cannot do that,” said Rogers. “I have already explained that our policy is to remain neutral.”

“Then I refuse to help you destroy the secret weapons that we may need someday to protect Lebanon.”

Rogers began to speak again, making the same request in a different way, but General Jezzine cut him off.

“We will not speak about this subject again,” said the general coldly. His manner changed, as quickly and completely as if he had changed his clothes.

“I believe it is time for lunch,” said the Lebanese intelligence officer, leading Rogers through two large oak doors into a formal dining room.

Rogers took his place at the long dining table, which was set with the heaviest silver knives and forks he had ever hoisted. On his right was Madame Jezzine. She was wearing a black dress with a plunging neckline and a heavy gold necklace. The gold ornament gleamed above her bosom like a mark of ownership.