David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

“Fatah is a military organization,” answered Jamal. “We are in a state of war with Israel. That is not a secret. We say it in every statement, every speech, with every breath we take. Also, it is not a secret that we are engaged in a struggle with other Arab regimes that want to destroy the Palestinian Revolution. Every military organization needs weapons. I won’t discuss the issue further. It is not your concern.”

“Young man!” said Stone sharply. “You needn’t lecture me. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the logistical requirements of military combat. But I fail to see what that has to do with a cache of weapons and explosives in Rome, and a plot to kill the President of the United States.”

“There is no plot to kill the President of the United States,” said Jamal again.

“Yes, of course.” Stone smiled solicitously. He had the look of a bridge player, watching the cards fall just as they should, each one dropping to the table despite the best efforts of the other side to resist.

“Mr. Ramlawi,” said Stone, using Jamal’s real name for the first time. “There are many questions that I could ask you. I could ask you about the organization called Black September and your own connection to it. I could ask you about the role that Fatah intelligence has had in establishing this organization. I could ask you where you were several months ago when an oil depot blew up in Rotterdam. Or where you were when an electronics plant in Hamburg was attacked. And I am quite sure that I would, in time, obtain the answers to such questions.”

Jamal was looking at the door, at the windows, obviously wondering whether he could escape.

“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” said Hoffman. “One move from that chair and you’re a dead man.”

The Palestinian settled back uneasily in his chair.

“The point I wanted to make,” continued Stone, “is that I could ask you those-shall we say, awkward-questions. But I will not, for the moment.”

“Good,” said Jamal. “It’s none of your business.”

“Let us assume, for the moment, that you are right. The military operations of Fatah are no business of the United States. None whatsoever. Let us go further and assume, for the moment, that the organization that calls itself Black September is none of our business, either. Now, you are a clever young man. Perhaps you can tell me what would allow me to make such assumptions, that Fatah and Black September are of no concern to the United States?”

“I don’t know,” said Jamal.

“The answer is quite obvious, really. What would allow us to make such assumptions is the certain knowledge that the United States and its citizens are in no way threatened by Fatah and Black September. Do you follow me?”

Jamal cocked his head and looked at Stone curiously.

“I know nothing of Black September,” said Jamal.

“Of course not,” said Stone.

“But I can tell you,” said Jamal, “that Americans are not targets of Fatah.”

“You don’t say,” said Stone. “Ah, how I wish I could simply take your word. But the problem, you see, is that there is no bond of trust between us. We have no reason whatsoever to believe your assurances. None. Now, how can we remedy that? I see only one way, and that is for you to make a gesture to demonstrate that you are telling me the truth. A gesture of good faith. Shall I proceed?”

“Yes,” said Jamal.

“The question is, what sort of a gesture would be appropriate? Do you have any ideas?”

“No.”

“Then I will make a suggestion. I would like you to order your men in Rome to dispose of the equipment obtained from the Libyan-the guns and explosives-in a place where we can monitor the disposal and confirm that it has taken place. Your people needn’t know why you are taking this action. You can tell them that the equipment is defective, if you like.”

Jamal studied the American.

“What difference would it make if we did throw away the guns and explosives?” he asked. “We could always get more weapons from some other source.”

“Yes, of course,” said Stone. “Quite right. As I say, this is simply a gesture of good faith.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then we will go and get the weapons ourselves.”

“Is that your proposal? That we turn over the guns and explosives in Italy?”

“Well, no” said Stone. “Not entirely. There is one other thing I have in mind. It’s the most important part, really. It would be a sort of agreement between us as gentlemen, summarizing the outcome of our conversation today.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Palestinian.

“It is what we in America would call an ‘understanding.’ ”

Jamal leaned forward, wanting to be sure that he heard every word.

“I would like your assurance that neither you nor your organization will conduct terrorist attacks against American citizens or facilities. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. As you can see from my presence here in Beirut, we take such matters very seriously.”

Jamal nodded. The Old Man was right, he thought to himself. They are scared.

“In return,” continued Stone, “I give you my assurance that my organization will regard your conflict with Israel as a state of war in which the United States is not a combatant. We will not interfere with your operations, so long as they don’t jeopardize American property, citizens, or interests. We will not interfere with the Israelis, either. We will leave them free to do whatever they can to destroy you. We may even applaud some of their actions. But we will not become involved directly. It is not our fight.”

Stone paused and smiled. “Can we reach such an understanding?”

“I cannot give you an answer,” said Jamal. “These are very important questions. I am not the one to decide them.”

“Of course not,” said Stone. “I quite understand. But perhaps you can relay our message to the appropriate person.”

“Perhaps I can do that,” said Jamal. His head was spinning. He was remembering what the Old Man had said more than two years ago, when he had first authorized contact with the Americans. We need a door to the West. Now that door seemed to be opening at last.

“What should I tell the one who makes decisions?” asked Jamal.

“Exactly what I have told you.”

“That the Americans are proposing a non-aggression pact?”

“Nothing quite so grand as that,” responded Stone. “We are simply saying that the United States is not a belligerent in the Arab-Israeli conflict. That is, and has traditionally been, the basic premise of our policy in the Middle East. We are asking you, in recognition of that fact, to avoid targeting Americans.”

“When do you need an answer?” asked Jamal.

“Tonight,” said Stone. “By midnight.”

“What if that is not possible?”

“Then we have a very serious problem on our hands.”

“I will do my best,” said Jamal.

“Good,” said the division chief. “We’ll be here waiting for you.”

Stone rose and shook the young Palestinian’s hand. Rogers returned his automatic pistol and escorted him to the door.

They spent the late afternoon and early evening playing poker. Hoffman won $400. His luck was uncanny.

Hoffman, exhilarated by his winnings, offered to make dinner. He sent Fuad out to buy food and two six-packs of beer. When Fuad returned with the groceries, Hoffman made a makeshift apron out of a bath towel, entered the kitchen, and prepared a dinner of spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, and ice cream with hot fudge sauce. The meal was excellent. The hot fudge sauce was especially good, made from melted squares of bittersweet chocolate. After dinner, Hoffman suggested more poker. There were no takers, so Hoffman played solitaire.