David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

“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.”