Agents of Innocence (31 page)

Washington/Beirut; May 1972

The CIA attacked the problem systematically. They compiled a list of known Palestinian operatives who might fit the profile of “Nabil” next they prepared an audio analysis of the tape recording, so that the voice could be matched with others on file as neatly as if it were a fingerprint. Then, with help from the NSA, they compared the voice of Nabil to tape recordings of various Palestinian suspects.

In less than a week, it was obvious to agency officials that the CIA had an embarrassing problem on its hands. The voice matched identically with that of someone who was well known to the agency. A Palestinian whose conversations had been recorded at various CIA safehouses for more than two years, and who had nearly been recruited by the agency a year earlier. The files showed that the Palestinian had even been assigned a cryptonym:
PECOCK
.

Edward Stone interrupted a spring yachting weekend to deal with the “Nabil” crisis. The situation was a nightmare, as far as Stone was concerned. He arrived at his office on a Sunday dressed in white flannel trousers, well-worn Topsiders, and a frayed sweater. The Middle East Division chief pulled the files, read and reread them, and turned the possibilities over in his mind. Was the Palestinian seeking revenge because of the humiliating incident with Marsh? Was Fatah striking back at the United States because of American complicity in the destruction of the fedayeen in Jordan? Were the commandos simply lashing out blindly at the ultimate symbol of American power? The questions went on and on. A threat to assassinate the president was a serious problem in itself. But when the assassin was a former CIA asset—a man who had spurned a recruitment effort—then it was positively a disaster.

Stone saw the Director first thing Monday morning. The Director was in his private dining room, eating his breakfast, when Stone arrived. He was picking the soft doughy bread out of the middle of a hard roll. That was one of the Director’s eccentricities, the taste for soft bread from inside hard rolls. Like many well-bred men, he had invented his own version of table manners.

Stone summarized the intelligence reports. The man on the tape was unquestionably Jamal Ramlawi. There was no reason to doubt the Libyan’s statement that he had provided weapons and explosives to the Palestinian. It was a case that contained the most worrying possibilities, Stone said.

“What in the hell is going on?” grumbled the Director. “This fellow is our man in Fatah, isn’t he?”

“Yes and no,” said Stone. “We tried to recruit him but failed.”

“So he has a motive.”

“It would appear so.”

“Oh shit,” said the Director. He stood up from the table and walked to the window. Stone noticed that the legs of his gray pinstripe trousers were covered with tiny flakes of bread crust.

“What connection does this business have with Black September?” asked the Director.

“I don’t know,” said Stone. “Perhaps none.”

“Well, find out. Because if we’re walking into a terrorist war between Black September and the United States of America, I would like to know about it. To be more precise, I would like to avoid it. Understood?”

“Yes, Director.”

“You must solve this problem. Immediately. We will not have Palestinians out there shooting at the president. Or at any other American, for that matter. This is an election year. We don’t need terrorists killing American citizens anywhere. And certainly not this year. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Solve it!” repeated the Director.

Stone nodded.

“There is the question of the Italians and the other liaison services. What should they be told?”

“Don’t tell anybody anything,” answered the Director emphatically. He added that he didn’t, for the moment, plan to share information about the identity of Nabil with the White House, let alone foreign governments.

The Director sent Stone packing for Beirut that same Monday. A military jet was placed at his disposal.

During the long plane ride to Beirut, Stone struggled to think through a plan of action that would put out this fire, and perhaps prevent the next one from igniting, as well.

Stone was exhausted when he arrived in Beirut. He had arranged a brief stopover in Europe, for several hours, but not long enough to sleep. When he landed in Lebanon, he went immediately into a meeting with Hoffman and Rogers.

The meeting was held in the bubble, the soundproof room deep inside the embassy that the CIA used for its most sensitive meetings. It was all white and lined with so much acoustic-damping material that words seemed to die in the air as soon as they were spoken.

Stone outlined the intelligence from Rome and the subsequent process of investigation that had convinced the CIA—beyond any doubt—that the Nabil who was allegedly plotting to kill the President of the United States was the same person as
PECOCK
, whose case was already well known to the Beirut station.

“What do you gentlemen think?” asked Stone, when he had finished with his briefing.

“I think that somebody’s dicking us around,” said Hoffman gruffly.

“And who might that be, Frank?”

“I’m not sure who yet, but somebody is. I mean, why would a Palestinian commando whose main interest in life is fucking white girls suddenly decide to kill the President of the United States? It doesn’t make sense. Golda Meir, maybe. The King of Jordan, maybe. But not the President of the United States, for Christ’s sake. Even Palestinians aren’t that dumb.”

Stone looked away from Hoffman. His face was impassive.

“Tom?” asked Stone, nodding toward Rogers.

“I don’t know,” said Rogers. “
PECOCK
has a motive for going after us. He certainly felt betrayed after the Rome meeting. But not to the point that he would do something stupid. I agree with Frank. The assassination plot sounds a little far-fetched.”

“That makes it unanimous,” said Stone.

“I have another thought,” said Rogers. He was thinking, at that moment, about a message he had received several months ago from Fuad, noting the changed personality of Jamal Ramlawi.

“Please,” said Stone. He was rubbing his eyeballs.

“It’s simple, really. If we can believe what ‘Nabil’ said on the tape about obtaining guns and explosives, then it follows that he is building a network in Europe. Otherwise, he would just buy the stuff here in Beirut, which would be much easier. He’s buying it in Europe because he intends to use it in Europe. For terrorist attacks against Fatah’s enemies.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that perhaps we have blundered into the fringes of Black September. And that our Palestinian friend is one of its leaders.”

“That thought has unfortunately also occurred to the Director,” said Stone. “It makes this case rather awkward.”

“Awkward, my ass,” said Hoffman. “It makes this case fucked up. Let’s not mince words. What happened in this case was that a certain Mr. John Marsh made an inept attempt to buy a Palestinian, who got pissed off and became a major league terrorist, and is now turning his guns on us. That sounds like a fuck-up to me.”

“It isn’t helpful to personalize this, Frank,” said Stone.

“Isn’t it?” said Hoffman. “Because it seems to me that if the geniuses back at headquarters had listened to Rogers a year ago and not put the screws on this Palestinian kid, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Stone was rubbing his eyeballs again.

“Do you know what this reminds me of, Frank?”

Hoffman grunted a no.

“It reminds me of the old days in Germany after the war, when we were running our crew of Abwehr agents. Do you recall, for example, the unfortunate Czech agent from Prague? The one I was so enthusiastic about, whom you correctly pegged as a stinker.”

“I remember.”

“Tom, did I ever tell you the story?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rogers, remembering Stone’s account that night at the Athenian Club and the moral: If your intuition tells you an agent is unreliable, dump him.

“Doesn’t this case remind you a bit of the man from Prague?” asked Stone again.

“Slightly,” said Hoffman. “But it reminds me even more of the agent from Budapest. Willy, I think his name was. Do you remember Willy?”

“Who’s Willy?” interjected Rogers.

“Ask Mr. Stone to tell you about Willy some time,” said Hoffman.

Stone looked even more tired than before.

“Poor dumb Willy,” continued Hoffman. “He learned one of the little secrets of the spy business, which is that sometimes we burn our agents. The people who have trusted us with their lives. We may not like it, but we do it. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stone?”

“I’m going to get some sleep,” said Stone, rising from his chair abruptly. The three men exited the surveillance-proof conference room in silence.

When the meeting broke, Rogers sent an urgent message to Fuad. He ignored the usual security rules and delivered the message orally, by telephone. The message was simple: Find our old Palestinian friend, no matter where he is. Tell him we need to meet him as soon as possible, within forty-eight hours at the very latest. Warn him that if he refuses the meeting, he faces the most serious consequences. Rogers spoke loudly throughout the conversation and by the time he finished, he was almost shouting. His tone left no doubt that this was a crisis.

The Americans were lucky. The Palestinian was in Beirut that week. He had arrived from Europe two days earlier and was leaving again the next Monday. Fuad found him in Fakhani, walking near the Arab University campus toward one of the Fatah offices. He hailed him like a long-lost brother and embraced him on the street. As he kissed the Palestinian on the cheek, Fuad whispered in his ear: “I must see you urgently.”

Jamal said he was busy.

“It can’t wait!” said the Lebanese. His voice was sharp and clipped. Fuad steered the Palestinian toward a large open area on the way to the new stadium, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“The Americans say they must see you within forty-eight hours on a matter of the highest importance,” Fuad said. “They make threats about what will happen if you do not meet with them.”

Jamal clucked his tongue. He muttered an Arabic expression that means: So what?

Fuad took Jamal by the elbow and tried to talk to him as a friend.

“This is serious,” he said. “Do you remember the first American that you met? The one who called himself Reilly? I have never heard him so upset. He is always the calm one. You must come to the meeting. The Americans don’t make threats unless they are serious.”

“I will think about it,” said Jamal.

“No,” pressed Fuad. “They need an answer now.”

“Impossible. I need to talk to someone.”

“I will wait here in Fakhani for the answer,” said Fuad.

“Go back to Hamra.”

“I will wait here.”

The Palestinian gave up. He left Fuad standing near a lamppost on the road outside the stadium.

If the decision had been left to Jamal, he would not have attended the meeting with the Americans. Rome had soured him on dealing with the United States. But the decision, in the end, wasn’t his to make. It was the Old Man’s. Jamal sent a message to the Old Man’s personal secretary requesting a quick audience. It was granted late that afternoon. The Fatah leader refused his young protégé nothing.

Jamal explained that the Americans had made an urgent request. He quoted Fuad. A matter of the highest importance. A threat of retaliation.

The Old Man smiled as he listened to Jamal. An odd smile of satisfaction.

“I don’t want to meet with them,” said Jamal. “The Americans are not trustworthy. It is too sensitive a moment. My work is too delicate right now, too dangerous.”

The Old Man was still smiling.

Jamal explained his reluctance with various circumlocutions. He was vulnerable. He knew sensitive information. There were operations that could be compromised. He didn’t say what he really meant: that he was one of a tiny handful of people who knew the secret of Black September; that the Americans might try to force him to divulge the secret. But he said none of that. The rules of the game required that no one even mention the words “Black September” in the presence of the Old Man. Jamal noticed, as he talked, that the Old Man wasn’t really listening. His eyes were wide with what appeared to be—how could it be?—a look of hope.

“I think we have won,” said the Old Man, when Jamal had finally finished.

“What, Father?” asked Jamal.

“We have won! The Americans are frightened. They have come to talk peace. That is why they want to see you. They understand that they need our help. You must see them.”

“I think you are wrong, Father,” said Jamal.

“I am right!” said the Old Man, beaming with the optimism that coursed through his veins like water through a rushing river. “We have won. Thanks be to Allah! You will see the Americans. That is an order.”

Jamal rejoined Fuad that evening. Yes, he would see the Americans. Fuad was overjoyed. He outlined the details. They would all meet in Fuad’s apartment in Ras Beirut the next afternoon. That was as close as they could come to neutral ground. Fuad pledged on his honor as an Arab and a Moslem that no harm would come to Jamal.

“If the Americans try any tricks, I will shoot them myself,” said Fuad. He patted a bulging object under his jacket. It was the first time Jamal had ever seen Fuad carrying a gun.

Fuad’s apartment was on a side street off Hamra. The street teemed with life. Sidewalk vendors noisily advertised lottery tickets and bootlegged cassette tapes. The neighborhood butcher hacked away at a carcass of beef hanging in his doorway. And a Turkish restaurant filled the air with smoke and the smell of charcoal and spices.

Stone, Hoffman, and Rogers made their way through this commotion and were waiting in Fuad’s apartment when Jamal arrived. The Palestinian was dressed in his usual defiant outfit: leather jacket, silk shirt open at the neck, and black leather boots.