David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

“That’s crazy,” said the little man with bushy eyebrows. “Completely crazy. Why would our friends the Americans do this? Tell us the evidence for this crazy theory.”

“The evidence is complicated,” said Levi.

“Soooo?” said the fat man with the knitted yarmulke. “Do we look stupid?”

“First, we know that Ramlawi is impulsive. We know that in Beirut he led a wild life. Chasing women. Dozens of women. We think that he even had an affair with the wife of a French diplomat.”

“Very nice,” said the tall, thin man by the window. “They deserve each other.”

“We know Ramlawi is a pet of the Fatah leadership,” continued Levi. “We know that he was one of the Fatah men who was sent to Egypt for a special training course in intelligence. We know that he speaks many languages, including English, French, Italian, and German. We know that he has travelled extensively.”

“Sooooo?” queried the fat man. “What does this have to do with the CIA.”

“I’m coming to that,” said Levi. “In Beirut, we collected the travel histories of everyone flying in and out of Beirut International Airport.”

“We know. We know,” said the man with the bushy eyebrows. “Whose idea do you think that was? Eh?”

“I’m coming to the important part,” said Levi testily. “In analyzing the travel records, we find two instances in which Jamal Ramlawi was out of Lebanon in 1970 at the same time as a CIA case officer working under diplomatic cover at the American Embassy in Beirut.”

The law school professor rapped his pen against his glass.

“Mr. Levi,” said the law school professor quietly. “What is the name of this CIA officer?”

“Rogers. Thomas Rogers.”

“And where did they go, the terrorist and the CIA man?”

“To Kuwait in March 1970, and to Egypt in May 1970. We cannot confirm that they actually met. But we are sure that they went to those countries at the same time.”

“It could be a coincidence, of course,” said the button-down profesor. “Even twice in one year. But it is interesting, I must admit.”

“Yes,” said the little man with the bushy eyebrows.

“Yes,” said the fat man in the yarmulke.

“Continue,” said the professor.

“The second important piece of evidence is an agent report in the files about a visit to Rome in July 1970 by an American intelligence officer. I wouldn’t have found it at all, since it never went into the Fatah file. I noticed it when I was researching the background of the Italian general in Rome who provided us with the tape.”

“Go on, go on,” said the little man. “Spare us the details.”

“According to this agent in Rome, the American intelligence man had flown in specially to meet with an Arab agent, a Palestinian perhaps. The Italians never figured out who he was supposed to meet. Neither did we. But last week I had one of our friends do a travel check to see if anyone interesting had travelled from Beirut to Rome in July 1970. And guess who popped out from one of the MEA passenger lists, travelling with a phony Algerian passport that he has used several times since then?”

“Ramlawi,” said several voices around the table.

“Correct,” said Levi, beaming.

“And who was this American who came to Rome?” asked the button-down professor.

“Marsh. John Marsh.”

“And why did Mr. Marsh come, and not Mr. Rogers?”

Levi thought for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually.

“Good,” said the professor. “If you had answered that question, I would have suspected that you were making everything up. Sometimes the correct answer is that we don’t know what the correct answer is.”

Heads around the table nodded sagely. Levi nodded too.

“Go on!” barked the little man with bushy eyebrows. “What are you waiting for?”

“After Rome, everything gets a little fuzzy,” said Levi. “We have a report from an agent in Lebanon. I know a little about him, since I used to collect his reports from dead drops. He is a priest, and something of an amateur detective in his spare time. This may be a little hard to understand, so bear with me. The priest had received from his Mossad case officer in Europe a list of people in whom we had some intelligence interest. One of them was Jamal Ramlawi. So he took it upon himself to put a question to Rogers, the CIA man, about Ramlawi.”

“He did what?” asked the fat man with the knitted yarmulke.

“He asked Rogers, the CIA man, for information about Ramlawi.”

“What an idiot!” said the fat man. “And what did Rogers say?”

“He told the priest to ask the Israelis.”

“Ach!” said the fat man. “What an idiot we have for an agent.”

“What else?” asked the professor.

“One last thing. An agent’s report that I carried out of Syria myself. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was a report from a Palestinian inside the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”

“Yes, yes. We know the name of the group,” said the little man with bushy eyebrows. “What did the report say?”

“It said that the leadership of the PFLP was convinced that there was an American agent inside Fatah. The PFLP leadership wasn’t sure about the identity of the agent, but they suspected that it was Ramlawi.”

“Well, well, well,” said the little man. As he talked, he inserted a pipe cleaner in the stem of his pipe and withdrew a wad of wet brown goo. “So, now we are getting our intelligence from the lunatics in the PLO, is that what you are telling me?”

“We take it wherever we can get it,” said Levi.

“Correct,” said the law school professor with the clear plastic glasses. “And since you understand that fact of life so well, perhaps you can answer the big question.”

“What is that?” said Levi.

“The big question is what should we do about all of this?”

“You want my recommendation?”

“Why not?”

“Let me think.”

“Not too long,” said the professor. “If you think too long, you will become like the rest of us. Don’t think. Just say.”

“We could try to use Ramlawi ourselves. Threaten to expose his contacts with the Americans if he doesn’t agree to work with us.”

“Wrong,” said the professor. “Interesting, but wrong. The Palestinian would just assume that the Americans had told everything to their Israeli friends. Trying to blackmail him would accomplish nothing. It would only cut off the American connection. Any more ideas?”

“We could make an approach to Rogers, the CIA officer. Or to Marsh, the one who was in Rome.”

“Wrong again. Too risky. We do not want to start recruiting CIA officers. We don’t need the aggravation. Do you want to know the correct answer?”

“Of course,” said Levi.

“Don’t do anything. At first, that is always the best thing to do. Nothing. Just watch and wait. Don’t make the water muddy by stirring it up. Be patient.”

“Yes, sir,” said Levi.

That was it. People began rising from their seats. Levi felt deflated, somehow, to have travelled this far, assembled all this material, only to be told to do nothing. Perhaps it showed, because as the group was filing out of the room, the button-down professor and the diminutive man with the bushy eyebrows both walked over to Levi.

Levi watched them approach and wondered, which one is the boss? Which one is the true face of Mossad? The wily little man with the sardonic sense of humor or the clipped, carefully controlled analyst? The man in the button-down shirt approached Levi first and shook his hand.

“My name is Natan Porat,” said the man in the clear glasses. “I am the chief of the service. You did a fine job today. Keep up the good work.”