Agents of Innocence (36 page)

“I rather like this place,” said the Director.

The Director waved at the girl and walked on. He and Stone looked decidedly odd. Two men in business suits walking on the beach, one of them carrying a portable radio.

“Edward,” said the Director, resuming the conversation. “Is there any reason to doubt that they’re right?”

“About what?”

“About Ramlawi being involved in Black September and Munich and all that?”

“No,” said Stone. “Probably not.”

“Well, then, why not burn him?” said the Director. “He’s expendable, isn’t he?”

“Excuse me,” said Stone. “I didn’t get that.”

“Burn him! Dump him. Give the Israelis what they want.”

“Betray Ramlawi?”

“Absolutely,” said the Director. “Why not? He sounds like a bloody bastard.”

“Perhaps,” said Stone. “But he’s our bastard.”

“What has he done for us?”

“Not much, yet. But we’re only beginning.”

“He’s a big boy,” said the Director. “Let him fend for himself. Need I remind you that this is an election year?”

The Director was looking at a young Israeli maiden emerging, dripping wet, from the sea.

“I would add,” said Stone, “that the Palestinian has placed his trust in us. He’s our man.”

“Not any more,” said the Director.

“Director,” said Stone gently. “I suspect that the Beirut station may have some reservations about this course of action. They have developed a relationship with Ramlawi. Perhaps we should discuss this with them before throwing him overboard.”

“Sure,” said the Director. “I am quite happy to talk to anybody. But I’m not likely to change my mind.”

Ahead on the beach, another stunning, dark-haired woman in a tiny bikini was approaching. The Director tipped an imaginary hat. The woman smiled.

“Time for a swim,” said the Director.

The Director made the grand tour of Israel. He visited the Wailing Wall and put a cardboard yarmulke on his head. He toured the Israeli nuclear facility at Dimona. He visited the Holocaust Memorial at Yad Vashem. He sat by the pool in Tel Aviv with his sun reflector, looking at pretty girls.

Porat was the perfect host. Helpful, congenial, undemanding. He and his wife Naomi, a psychiatrist, gave a charming dinner party for the Director and his wife. Somehow, despite the presence of many Israeli officials, the party had the feel of an evening at home with the family, including several loud family quarrels.

Nothing more was said about the Israeli request for help in the war against terrorism. Nothing more needed to be said. The Americans were on notice.

Beirut; October 1972

“I hate babysitting,” said Hoffman to the members of the Beirut station. “But when the baby in question is your boss, what can you do?” Hoffman was holding a morning staff meeting, making final plans for the arrival of the Director in Beirut that afternoon. He looked harried.

As Hoffman talked, he was munching on a jelly donut. Hoffman was very fond of jelly donuts, especially a particular overstuffed version made by a company in New Jersey called Tast-EEE-Kreme. He had considered it a major coup several months ago when he found an old Air America contact who was willing to drop off a case of donuts in Beirut every month on his way to Oman. Hoffman was holding the jelly donut in his right hand, unaware that when he gesticulated to make a point, jelly was oozing out of the half-eaten donut onto the conference table.

“If they had asked me,” Hoffman continued, “I would have told the Director that the trip was a waste of time. But they did not ask me, so here we are.” A code clerk discreetly rose from her chair and scooped up the jelly with a napkin, before Hoffman could put his elbow in it.

“Seriously,” said Hoffman to no one in particular. “It’s one thing to entertain some asshole congressman from Illinois who wants to tell you how to solve the problems of the Middle East. That I can handle. The conversation is about my speed. Yes sir. No sir. My goodness, that’s an interesting idea. No, indeed, we hadn’t thought of that one.

“But the Director is different, boys and girls. When he shows up, it’s time to turn off the bubble machine. If he asks you a question, you better answer it honestly. Anybody who tries to bullshit the Director should look for another job, starting tomorrow.”

Hoffman’s administrative deputy took over a discussion of the logistical arrangements, while Hoffman went to his office, unlocked the safe, and retrieved another jelly donut.

Hoffman, for all his grumbling, had done all the right things to prepare for the Director’s arrival. He had repainted the rooms of the CIA station a pleasant off-white. He had arranged a dog-and-pony show with the new head of the Deuxième Bureau. He had asked Ambassador and Mrs. Wigg to host a small dinner party for the Director that evening. And, prodded by the Wiggs, he had scheduled a day trip to the mountains, stopping for lunch at the birthplace of Khalil Gibran.

Hoffman, responding to an urgent cable received the previous day from Stone, had also set aside several hours that afternoon for a private meeting with the Director in the bug-proof conference room at the embassy. Hoffman didn’t know who was supposed to attend the meeting or what it was about. Details would follow, Stone’s cable said.

The Director’s plane arrived at the Lebanese Air Force base in Rayak, in the Bekaa Valley, rather than at Beirut Airport. Security worries. The experts from Langley thought it was too dangerous to fly the 707 in over the Palestinian refugee camps at Sabra and Shatilla that adjoined the northern edge of the airport. The experts seemed to imagine that Palestinian camp dwellers were in the habit of firing surface-to-air missiles, willy-nilly, at passing airplanes.

Hoffman went to the airport to meet the VIPs. He was dressed in his best gray suit, which unfortunately was fifteen years old and no longer fit very well. He buttoned the trousers below his stomach, leaving an abundant expanse of white shirt that was not quite covered by his suit jacket. To make matters worse, the collar button of Hoffman’s white shirt popped as he was trying to close it just before the plane touched down.

The Director stood at the top of the stairs and looked out at the massed limousines, the bus for lower-ranking aides, the official greeters with pasted-on smiles, and the crocodillic faces of the American ambassador and his wife, poised in a welcoming tableau.

“Frank, come on up here,” bellowed the Director to Hoffman. Hoffman loyally bounded up the ramp to his boss.

“No more tours!” said the Director.

“What?” said Hoffman.

“
No more tours
, God-damn it!” said the Director. “I’ve had enough sightseeing this week to last a lifetime. If I see another Roman ruin I’m going to call in artillery and close air support. Understand? My wife is even sicker of touring than I am, aren’t you, dear?” The Director’s wife nodded.

“Okay,” said Hoffman. “But would you mind telling that to the ambassador yourself?”

“Yes, I would mind,” said the Director. “You do it. That’s part of your job. Tell him whatever you like. But
no more tours!
”

Hoffman led the Director and his wife down the stairs and over to the Wiggs, who were waiting stiffly, smiles affixed. There was the usual round of handshakes and pleasantries. How was the trip? Isn’t the weather lovely? As the Director and his wife prepared to head for their car, the ambassador spoke up again. He seemed to want to discuss the schedule.

“We are
so
looking forward to the round of visits we have planned for you, Director,” said Ambassador Wigg.

“And we’re
so
eager to show you our Lebanon,” said Mrs. Wigg, clasping the Director’s wife gently on the arm. “This is quite a country, you know. Skiing in the morning and swimming in the afternoon. And the nightlife is magnificent. They call it ‘The Paris of the Orient.’ Did you know that? It will be such fun.”

The Director coughed, not very convincingly.

“The Director is feeling a little, uh, sick,” said Hoffman.

“What a nuisance,” said Mrs. Wigg. “I hope that won’t spoil our plans.”

“Uh, actually, the Director’s wife is also feeling a little under the weather. Quite sick, actually.”

The Director’s wife coughed on cue.

“Afraid so,” said the Director. “We’re feeling a bit of a chill right now. If you’ll excuse us.”

The Director took his wife by the arm and together they followed Stone and a bodyguard toward a waiting limousine.

“What a shame!” said the ambassador to Hoffman. He sounded crestfallen. Mrs. Wigg was fuming, too angry for the moment to protest.

“I hope it isn’t serious,” said Ambassador Wigg. “What sort of illness do they have, exactly?”

“We’ll get back to you on that,” called out Hoffman as he opened the door of the limousine and prepared to depart.

“Gun it!” said Hoffman to the driver, and off they roared, leaving behind the befuddled ambassador and his wife, the motorcycle outriders, and the secretaries, code clerks, and hangers-on.

“So what’s the big deal?” asked Hoffman later that day when the Director and Stone arrived in the bubble, the bug-proof room within a room where the station held its most secret discussions. Rogers was also there, at Stone’s request.

“Just the usual skulduggery,” said the Director. “Before we start, Frank, I wonder if I could have a Tab?”

“What’s a Tab?” asked Hoffman.

“It’s a soft drink,” said the Director. “A dietetic soft drink.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any of those in Lebanon, sir,” said Hoffman. “I can check, but I kind of doubt that we can find any.”

“Don’t bother,” said the Director. “How about a Sprite?”

Hoffman looked at Rogers quizzically. Evidently he didn’t know what a Sprite was, either.

“Tom,” said Hoffman. “See if you can find a Sprite for the Director.”

Rogers left the room. He returned a few moments later with a bottle of Seven-Up and a straw.

“That’s just fine,” said the Director. “Thank you, Tom.”

“So what’s up?” asked Hoffman.

“I think we have an opportunity to do a favor for our Israeli friends,” said the Director.

“Oh yeah?” said Hoffman, already slightly on guard. “What’s that?”

“I understand you’re running a Palestinian agent who is a member of Black September. Is that right?”

“What our boys do on their own time is up to them,” said Hoffman.

The Director didn’t laugh.

“Is he a member of Black September?”

“Beats me,” said Hoffman. “Tom?”

“Yes, probably he is,” said Rogers.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Stone?” said Hoffman. “He knows this case as well as we do. He was in the room when the little pecker agreed to work with us. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stone? In fact, if memory serves, Mr. Stone was not entirely uninvolved in the recruitment.”

“I’m quite aware of Edward’s involvement, Frank, and I don’t question what anyone has done up to this point.”

“You don’t?” asked Hoffman warily.

“No,” said the Director.

“Good,” said Hoffman. “Because we haven’t done anything wrong. Least of all Tom Rogers, who has done a first-rate job on this case from the beginning.”

“Of course. The point is that now we have an opportunity to do something useful with the leverage we have acquired through our contacts with this fellow.”

“Such as?”

“Edward,” said the Director, turning to Stone. “Why don’t you explain the interesting discussion we had in Tel Aviv?”

“Yes, Director,” said Stone. He looked embarrassed.

“The Israelis seem to have stumbled onto the fact that we have a relationship with Ramlawi.”

“So what?” said Hoffman. “Who we talk to is none of their fucking business.”

“Perhaps, but in this case, they believe that we’re dealing with someone who is planning terrorist operations against Israel. They even seem to think that Ramlawi was behind the Munich hostage incident.”

“Tough shit,” said Hoffman.

Stone shot a glance at Hoffman, as if to say: Calm down, boy. But it did little good. Hoffman was angry. Rogers watched the conversation unfold with a sense of dread. Another station chief might have tried to duck the issue, say what was politically sensible, cover his ass. But not Hoffman.

The Director spoke up.

“The Israelis have asked for our help in dealing with Black September. They have implied, but not said directly, that they would like us to do one of two things: either provide them with some of the intelligence we’re getting from Ramlawi, or help them find him.”

“And suppose we tell them to fuck off?” said Hoffman.

“They have made it clear that they intend to kill the leaders of Black September, including Ramlawi.”

“What did you tell them, Director, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I told them that we would get back to them.”

“I trust, sir, that you didn’t in any way confirm their speculation that we have been in contact with Ramlawi?”

“Of course not,” said the Director. “That would be unprofessional.”

“You’re God-damned right it would be, sir,” said Hoffman.

The Director narrowed his eyes. He was a man who prided himself on his composure. He displayed emotion rarely, and only when he was very angry.

“Easy, Frank,” said Stone gently.

“I apologize, Director. But this whole conversation makes me very uneasy, to be honest.”

“And why is that?” asked the Director.

“Because what the Israelis are proposing is totally outrageous. We should be telling them to take a walk, instead of driving ourselves crazy like this. Ramlawi may be the biggest shit who ever lived. But he met with us in good faith. We shouldn’t throw him to the wolves now, just because it may be expedient. When we decide to work with someone, we make an implicit promise that we’re not going to shop him to the next guy that comes along.”

“Oh come now,” said the Director. “Let’s grow up. We shop people every day. That’s part of our business.”

That remark seemed to touch an especially raw nerve in Hoffman. He grew red in the face.

“I don’t need any lectures about the real world, Director. I may not have gone to Yale, it’s true. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the way the world works. I’ve been running agents for nearly thirty years. In that time, I have screwed enough people simply because someone from Yale told me to. I don’t want to do it again.”

“Don’t press your luck, Mr. Hoffman,” said the Director.

Hoffman ignored the warning.

“We used to have a saying in the FBI,” he said. “It was very simple: ‘Protect your sources.’ Even the dumbest FBI agent understands that. He knows that when someone trusts you, you don’t knife him in the back. But I guess we’re too smart for that in the agency.”

The Director, who had regained his own composure, affected a weary look.

“Frank, we needn’t turn this into group therapy. It’s very simple. The Israelis have asked for our help. I have decided that we should respond positively. The only question you need to think about is how to carry it out.”

“Carry what out?”

“Provide the Israelis the information they want about Ramlawi.”

“So they can kill our agent?”

“I have no idea what they will do with the information.” That’s their problem.”

“Let them get their own fucking information.”

“Frank,” said the Director. “This isn’t a debating topic. It is an order.”

Hoffman stood up from the conference table. His tie was hanging loose in his collar because of the popped shirt button, and his belly had pushed out even farther over the tops of his trousers. He looked exhausted. He strolled to the translucent wall of the bubble, deep in thought, while Rogers, Stone, and the Director watched in silence. All of them were dreading what they knew was coming next.

“I’m sorry to sound like a troublemaker, Director,” said Hoffman slowly. “But what you’re proposing to me just doesn’t sound right. I wish I could just tell you what you want to hear. But just this morning I was telling my staff that anyone who lies to the Director ought to be fired, on the spot. So I have to tell you the truth, which is that I don’t feel comfortable about shopping Ramlawi to the Israelis. Even if it is an order.”

Rogers took a deep breath. He felt as if he had just heard someone dictate his resignation letter.

“What about you, Tom?” said the Director to Rogers. “You’re Ramlawi’s case officer. Do you feel the same way as Frank?”

“Can’t we keep the kid out of it?” asked Hoffman.

“I’d like to answer the question,” said Rogers.

“Don’t,” said Hoffman. “You have a good career. Don’t screw it up.”

Rogers ignored Hoffman’s advice and turned to the Director. His voice was calm and even.