David Ignatius - Agents of Innocence

The Director cocked his head and looked at Porat out of one eye. “But you haven’t told me yet how you want us to help you,” said the Director.

“This is the Middle East,” said Porat, smiling. “A merchant does not name his price. So let us leave the question of how you might help us to the imagination.”

“Very well,” said the Director. “Let us leave it to the imagination. We’ll get back to you.”

There was another pause.

“Say, Director,” said Cohen. “Listening to you talk about agreeing with Natan reminds me of the story about the rabbi and the two suitors. Have you heard that one?”

“I suspect not,” said the Director.

“Okay. There was this rabbi from Lublin who tried to resolve a quarrel between two men who both wanted to marry the same woman. Are you sure you haven’t heard this one?”

“Quite sure,” said the Director.

“Okay. The rabbi asks the first suitor to come and make his case, and the young man says he should get the girl because he has money, a good job, a handsome face. When he finishes, the rabbi says, ‘You’re right, I agree with you.’

“Then the second suitor arrives and argues his case. And he also has a long list of reasons why the woman should marry him. Fame, fortune, eternal bliss. The rabbi hears him out and says: ‘You’re right. I agree with you.’

“Now the rabbi’s wife, who has been listening to all this, goes over to the poor rabbi from Lublin and says he is crazy to be telling both of the suitors he agrees with them. She tells him he has to make up his mind and choose.

“ ‘You’re right,’ says the rabbi. ‘I agree with you.’

This time everyone laughed.

The Director repeated the punch line to himself several times.

The meeting turned from serious business to ceremony. Glasses of vodka were poured, Polish-style, and toasts were drunk to friendship and cooperation. Stone took Cohen aside as they were leaving and said that it might be a week or so before the Director would have a response to Porat’s request for American help in dealing with Black September.

“What are they up to?” the Director asked Stone several hours later.

They were walking along the beach. The Director didn’t dare discuss sensitive business with Stone in his hotel room, or even in the American Embassy. That was asking for trouble, given Israeli surveillance technology. Even on the beach, Stone was carrying a small portable radio to mask the conversation from the ears of any long-range antennae.

“It’s a squeeze play,” said Stone.

“Explain what that means for an old friend who never played baseball.”

“The Israelis want us to give up Ramlawi,” said Stone. “It couldn’t be more obvious. They know we won’t admit openly that we’re running him as an agent, but they evidently suspect it. Putting his picture in with the other Palestinian mug shots was a clear tip-off.”

“Obviously,” said the Director. “But of what?”

“That he’s on their hit list,” answered Stone. “They probably mean what they said. They seem convinced that he’s part of Black September. Apparently they also suspect he was behind the Munich operation. And they probably do suspect that Ramlawi is planning to attack Americans. Maybe they’ve even heard about ‘Nabil’s’ supposed plot to kill the president. But that’s not really the message, the simple fact that they regard Ramlawi as dangerous to American and Israeli interests.”

“Then what is the message?”

“The message is that they are onto us. They know that we have contact with Ramlawi. And they are planning to kill him.”

“And?”

“And they want our help, either by passing on the intelligence take from Ramlawi, or in finding him.”

“And killing him.”

“Yes.”

They were walking toward a more crowded area of the beach. Several girls were out frolicking in the late afternoon sun. They were dressed in tiny bikinis, little more than string and loose triangles of fabric. The Director, still dressed in his gray pinstripe suit, looked appreciatively at one of the girls. Though only a teenager, she had the largest breasts the Director could ever remember seeing. They were so firm that they barely seemed to move, even when she was running. The girl smiled back flirtatiously. Apparently men in pinstripe suits were exotic on the beach at Tel Aviv.

“I rather like this place,” said the Director.

The Director waved at the girl and walked on. He and Stone looked decidedly odd. Two men in business suits walking on the beach, one of them carrying a portable radio.

“Edward,” said the Director, resuming the conversation. “Is there any reason to doubt that they’re right?”

“About what?”

“About Ramlawi being involved in Black September and Munich and all that?”

“No,” said Stone. “Probably not.”

“Well, then, why not burn him?” said the Director. “He’s expendable, isn’t he?”

“Excuse me,” said Stone. “I didn’t get that.”

“Burn him! Dump him. Give the Israelis what they want.”

“Betray Ramlawi?”

“Absolutely,” said the Director. “Why not? He sounds like a bloody bastard.”

“Perhaps,” said Stone. “But he’s our bastard.”

“What has he done for us?”

“Not much, yet. But we’re only beginning.”

“He’s a big boy,” said the Director. “Let him fend for himself. Need I remind you that this is an election year?”

The Director was looking at a young Israeli maiden emerging, dripping wet, from the sea.

“I would add,” said Stone, “that the Palestinian has placed his trust in us. He’s our man.”

“Not any more,” said the Director.

“Director,” said Stone gently. “I suspect that the Beirut station may have some reservations about this course of action. They have developed a relationship with Ramlawi. Perhaps we should discuss this with them before throwing him overboard.”

“Sure,” said the Director. “I am quite happy to talk to anybody. But I’m not likely to change my mind.”

Ahead on the beach, another stunning, dark-haired woman in a tiny bikini was approaching. The Director tipped an imaginary hat. The woman smiled.

“Time for a swim,” said the Director.

The Director made the grand tour of Israel. He visited the Wailing Wall and put a cardboard yarmulke on his head. He toured the Israeli nuclear facility at Dimona. He visited the Holocaust Memorial at Yad Vashem. He sat by the pool in Tel Aviv with his sun reflector, looking at pretty girls.

Porat was the perfect host. Helpful, congenial, undemanding. He and his wife Naomi, a psychiatrist, gave a charming dinner party for the Director and his wife. Somehow, despite the presence of many Israeli officials, the party had the feel of an evening at home with the family, including several loud family quarrels.

Nothing more was said about the Israeli request for help in the war against terrorism. Nothing more needed to be said. The Americans were on notice.

Beirut; October 1972

“I hate babysitting,” said Hoffman to the members of the Beirut station. “But when the baby in question is your boss, what can you do?” Hoffman was holding a morning staff meeting, making final plans for the arrival of the Director in Beirut that afternoon. He looked harried.

As Hoffman talked, he was munching on a jelly donut. Hoffman was very fond of jelly donuts, especially a particular overstuffed version made by a company in New Jersey called Tast-EEE-Kreme. He had considered it a major coup several months ago when he found an old Air America contact who was willing to drop off a case of donuts in Beirut every month on his way to Oman. Hoffman was holding the jelly donut in his right hand, unaware that when he gesticulated to make a point, jelly was oozing out of the half-eaten donut onto the conference table.