David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

As an appendix to his cable, the station chief included the text of a recent communique issued by the radical Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, titled “Final Warning to the World to Stay Away from Israel.” The document contained an unsubtle threat of airplane hijackings. It announced: “Don’t Travel to Israel! Stay Neutral! Be Safe! Keep Away!”

“The DDP says he doesn’t understand what he’s being asked to approve,” said Hoffman, when he had read the response to his cable. “Normally, I would tell him to go screw himself. But in this case, he has a point.

“To be frank, I’m not even sure I understand what we’re asking him to approve, and I wrote the fucking cable! So bear with me while I belabor the obvious.”

Rogers nodded.

“Is this an agent recruitment?” demanded Hoffman.

“No,” said Rogers. “Not yet.”

“Then what is it?”

“Our source is calling it ‘liaison.’

“Oh yeah? Well that’s bullshit, and you can tell him I said so. In the meantime, what are we supposed to tell Langley we’re doing out here?”

Rogers thought a moment.

“Tell them,” said Rogers, “that we are in the development phase of what we expect will be a penetration of the senior leadership of the Fatah guerrilla organization. For now, we are using a Lebanese agent as talent spotter.”

“Not bad,” said Hoffman. “It sounds almost plausible.”

And that was exactly what the DDP approved in early December 1969.

Beirut; December 1969

Christmas was only a few weeks away. Half the embassy, it seemed, was planning to take home leave for the holidays. The other half was scheming to take trips to Paris and London on embassy business.

Ambassador Wigg gave a lavish Christmas party the first week of December. It was a bit early, but the Wiggs were among the many who were leaving the country for vacation. Mrs. Wigg also organized some of the embassy wives and their children to go caroling in early December. They mistakenly did so in a part of West Beirut that was entirely Moslem, so the reception was less enthusiastic than hoped.

Jane made an appointment several days after the Wiggs’ party to see the ambassador’s wife. She had come up with an idea, and she wanted Mrs. Wigg’s blessing. Jane wore her best silk dress to the ambassador’s residence and tried very hard to make a good impression.

It was a modest proposal, really. Wouldn’t it be a fine thing, Jane suggested, if some of the embassy wives-rather than staying cloistered in the wealthy foreign sections of West Beirut every day-could play a more useful role in the community? Perhaps they could arrange to do some volunteer work. Something like the Junior League back home.

“Where were you thinking of, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wigg.

“The Makassed Hospital,” said Jane. “I’m told that they desperately need help.”

“Where is that, exactly?” asked Mrs. Wigg.

“In West Beirut,” said Jane, adding in a quieter voice. “Near the Sabra refugee camp.”

Mrs. Wigg didn’t seem to hear.

“Isn’t that a Moslem hospital?” asked Mrs. Wigg.

“Yes, I think it is.”

“And who are the patients?”

“Moslems,” said Jane. “Palestinians for the most part. They are the ones who can’t afford private hospitals, you see, and are dependent on charity hospitals like the Makassed.”

“Did you say Palestinians?” asked Mrs. Wigg, her voice rising.

“Yes, although I’m not sure why that matters.”

“It’s out of the question, my dear,” said Mrs. Wigg with finality. “You should know better. Really.”

Jane paused. She looked at Mrs. Wigg, deliberated a moment, and then spoke.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“Why?” thundered Mrs. Wigg. “Why? I’m surprised you have to ask. Need I remind you that we are here at the sufferance of the Lebanese government. The Palestinian refugee problem is their affair, not ours. For all I know, the Lebanese government would rather not encourage these refugees to settle in Lebanon by providing them with free medical care at the Manhasset Hospital.”

“Makassed,” corrected Jane.

“Whatever.”

“Forgive me,” said Jane. “But that’s just the point. The Palestinians have nowhere else to go. Their mothers and babies need medical care now, no matter what country they belong to.”

“ Not another word! ” said Mrs. Wigg, cutting her off. “The answer is no.”

Jane picked up her handbag.

“I hope you will reconsider,” said Jane.

“I will not,” said Mrs. Wigg. “Please do not raise the subject again. I would hate for this to interfere with your husband’s career. But you have been warned.”

“Bullshit!” said Rogers that evening when Jane recounted the conversation. “I’m glad you told the old bag off.” As for Mrs. Wigg’s veiled threat to his career, Rogers assured his wife that it wasn’t to be taken seriously. The only person in Beirut whose opinion mattered to Rogers’s future in the agency was Frank Hoffman. And he detested Mrs. Wigg.

That was the end, however, of the Rogers’s social career in Beirut. Thereafter, the Wiggs invited them to embassy functions only when it was absolutely necessary to do so. And if Mrs. Wigg learned about Jane’s subsequent gifts of food and money to the Makassed Hospital, she said nothing about them.

Rogers spent the first week of December reviewing everything he could find in the files about Fatah, Jamal, the Old Man, Mideast politics, the history of the Palestinian guerrilla organizations. He was looking haggard: staying late at the office and going in early. Jane was wise enough not to ask him what was wrong. That was precisely the question that Rogers was driving himself so hard to answer.

Nothing was wrong, at least nothing that Rogers could see. But he kept looking and probing for the hidden flaw.

Late one afternoon, when Rogers had worked the problems through for what seemed like the hundredth time, he stopped by Hoffman’s office. The secretary, mercifully, had left for the day.

“What can I do for you?” asked Hoffman. The onset of winter made his cheeks look almost merry.

“I have a question for you,” said Rogers. “How do we know we can trust Fuad?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Hoffman. “He’s your agent.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t recruit him, I didn’t run him in Egypt, and I’ve only worked with him for two months.”

Hoffman, who could see that Rogers wasn’t in the mood for the usual sparring, moderated his sarcasm slightly.

“Okay. Fair question. How can we trust Fuad?”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” said Rogers. “I have no particular reason to suspect him. So far he has been a model agent. But there is something I don’t quite understand about him. Something enigmatic, as if he is operating behind a mask.”

“That’s because he’s an Arab,” said Hoffman. “These people are born with masks on.”

“Just the same,” said Rogers, “I’d like to know more about him before we get in any deeper.”

“When was the last time he was fluttered?” asked the station chief.

“According to the file, it was four years ago, before he went to Egypt.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! That’s a long time. A lot can happen in four years.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Rogers.

“Well, fuck him. Flutter him again.”

The next morning Rogers invited the Lebanese agent to join him for dinner at the station’s most lavish safehouse, a villa in the mountains overlooking Beirut and the sea.

The villa stood like an eagle’s nest atop a steep road that ascended, in hairpin turns, the slopes of Mount Lebanon. Rogers drove himself in an embassy sedan. The car climbed the hills and ridges like the steps of a ladder, each one offering a broader and more picturesque view of Beirut, twinkling below in the darkness. As the vehicle climbed higher and higher, the air became moist and sweet with the fragrance of moss and pine trees.