David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

“Sooooo?” said Hoffman.

“So we shouldn’t shed any tears for the old gang.”

“That’s very touching,” said Hoffman. “I’m ashamed that I’ve been so insensitive.”

Rogers ignored Hoffman’s sarcasm and pressed ahead.

“The problem is polarization,” Rogers continued. “If extremism continues among Christians and Moslems, the whole country will begin to unravel. Harding is right. The only hope lies in some kind of middle ground. What we should be discussing is whether we-the embassy-are ready to get serious about creating an alternative to extremism.”

“I can answer that for you right now, boys and girls,” said Hoffman. The answer is No. N-O. No fucking way.”

“Then that makes it simple,” said Rogers. “If we aren’t going to intervene to help the good guys, then we should at least try to keep track of the bad guys-the militias, terrorist cells, secret organizations. Find out what they’re doing, and to whom.”

“Motion proposed,” said Hoffman. Without waiting for anyone to respond, he pounded the table with his fist.

“Agreed!”

Hoffman turned to other subjects: details of the station’s operations; plans for making contact with members of the new government; guesses about who the new president would appoint to run the Deuxieme Bureau; discussion of what Hoffman should tell headquarters in the cable he had to send later that day; and finally, a new scheme that Hoffman had devised for conducting surveillance in crowded areas that would, in theory, eliminate one person from each surveillance team. Eventually the station chief pushed his over-stuffed chair back from the table and adjourned the meeting.

“Thank you very much, boys and girls,” said Hoffman. “Class dismissed.”

The Squirrel, as Hoffman called him, took office in September and immediately began a purge of the Deuxieme Bureau. The first thing he did was change its name. It was no longer the Deuxieme Bureau, simply the Military Intelligence Office.

A symbolic house-cleaning came several months later when the new prime minister, a moon-faced Sunni Moslem who smoked big Cuban cigars and wore a fresh carnation in his lapel every day, led a raid on the Deuxieme Bureau’s telephone-tapping facility. The tappers, housed in the central PTT building in downtown Beirut, had run a notorious operation that regularly monitored several thousand telephones. It was an outrageous violation of civil liberties, everyone agreed. Dismantle it! In the enthusiasm of the new regime, nobody thought to mention that the government was losing its best means of keeping track of the deadly political germs that were infecting Lebanon.

At the end of the year, the Squirrel took the inevitable last step. He replaced General Jezzine as head of the Lebanese intelligence service and quietly (though not so quietly that it wasn’t the talk of Beirut) instructed the Ministry of Justice to begin investigating whether the general had violated the law in certain practices of the Deuxieme Bureau.

General Jezzine, whatever his faults, was not stupid. He left the country a week after he was fired for what was described as a vacation in Geneva. Since it was well known that he maintained a house there and a large bank account, it was assumed that the general wouldn’t be back any time soon. Rogers visited General Jezzine in his village the day before he left. He came to make a simple request. The American Embassy wanted access to Jezzine’s files.

The general was curt and evasive. His files had all been confiscated by the new head of the intelligence service, the president’s man, he said. Jezzine himself couldn’t even get access to them now. He had taken a few personal papers with him, to be sure. Nothing of any importance. And those already had been shipped to Geneva. So there was nothing, alas, that he could do to help his dear friends, the Americans.

“I am touched by your concern,” said the general sardonically as he ushered Rogers to the door. “Pity that it did not come a bit sooner.”

The Squirrel’s regime soon became mired in corruption. It was the revenge of what the former president had called “the cheese-men.” A health minister who tried to reduce drug prices ran into a wall of opposition from friends of the president who monopolized the drug trade. The pharmaceutical magnates simply withheld drugs from the market-public health be damned!-until the minister gave up and resigned.

A public works minister who attempted to rebuild the country’s primitive road system lasted only fifteen weeks. A finance minister who advanced the novel theory that the government should collect taxes and audit its books was rebuffed. The president’s own son was installed as telecommunications minister and began soliciting bribes that were enormous, even by Lebanese standards.

It was get-rich-quick time in Lebanon. Rapid inflation turned peasants into land speculators and created a new class of overnight millionaires. The government became a free-for-all. In this climate of ambition and avarice, the Lebanese lost what little respect they still had in public institutions. The public stopped believing that what was left of the Deuxieme Bureau would maintain order, or that the army would keep the Palestinian commandos in check. Instead, the Lebanese turned increasingly toward the private militias that were forming ranks throughout the country.

Beirut; April 1971

Jane Rogers was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room with her daughter when she noticed a familiar face. The attractive Lebanese woman on the next couch, wearing an expensive silk dress, looked very much like a woman she had met at a party many months ago.

Jane was on the verge of introducing herself, but then thought better of it. The woman was wearing dark glasses and reading a magazine. The French edition of Vogue. Perhaps she didn’t want to be disturbed. Better not to pry, especially not at the doctor’s office.

Jane turned instead to her daughter Amy, who was playing with trinkets from her mother’s purse. The child had recovered dramatically during the last few months. The worms had disappeared entirely, their Lebanese pediatrician assured them. So had the symptoms of neurological distress. Amy was cured.

Jane glanced again at the Lebanese woman and noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Perhaps it wasn’t the same woman, after all.

“Madame Jezzine,” called out the nurse. The attractive Lebanese woman closed her magazine and rose from her seat.

I was right, thought Jane. She watched Madame Jezzine walk into the doctor’s office. The elegant woman emerged five minutes later folding a piece of paper on which the doctor had written a prescription. She slipped it into her purse.

“Mrs. Rogers,” called out the nurse. Jane, holding her daughter by the hand, began walking toward the doctor’s office. She had gone only a few steps when the Lebanese woman approached her.

“Jane,” said Solange Jezzine with a warm smile. “I am sorry that I did not recognize you before. How pretty you look.”

“Hello, Solange,” said Jane.

The Lebanese woman greeted Jane fondly, kissing her on both cheeks. Jane felt slightly awkward at her transformation, in the space of several minutes, from total stranger to dear friend. But never mind. She kissed the Lebanese woman warmly. As she did so, Jane could smell the scent of an expensive perfume behind each ear.

“And what a lovely little girl,” said Solange, patting Amy on the head.

“Will you be long in there?” asked Solange, nodding toward the doctor’s office.

“Only a minute,” said Jane. “I’m just getting a prescription refilled.”

“Good,” said the Lebanese woman. “Then I’ll wait. We’ll have lunch together, my dear.”