David Ignatius: Agents of Innocence

“What should I do?”

“I’m sending someone to visit you tonight. He’ll tell you what he knows. You can trust him. He is discreet. But don’t tell him who we are trying to protect. That’s none of his business. That’s nobody’s business but ours.”

“Okay,” said Fuad. “Should I ask the people at your old office for help?”

“No,” said Rogers. “They’re useless.”

Fuad was silent.

“Good luck,” said Rogers. He put the phone down.

“Goodbye, Effendi,” said Fuad.

Fares arrived at Fuad’s hotel just before dawn. When Fuad opened the door of his room there was a look of surprise and recognition on each man’s face. Each one knew the other by reputation, but neither knew until that moment that they both shared a link with Rogers.

Fares described the intelligence reports. A Christian militia leader had been warned by an Israeli to stay out of West Beirut. Another Christian had complained that someone new was in the car-bomb business. A rental-car agency in East Beirut had received reservations from a nonexistent travel agency in Paris. Somebody, said Fares, was being set up for a hit, and he wanted to know who.

“Are they trying to kill one of Rogers’s people?” demanded Fares.

“I cannot tell you that, General,” said Fuad.

Rogers is protecting an agent, thought Fares. A Moslem agent in West Beirut.

“I am ordering you to tell me,” said Fares.

“I still cannot tell you.”

“I can have you arrested.”

“I hope you will not do that,” said Fuad coolly.

Fares decided that he liked Fuad. He was a worthy agent for Rogers.

“No. Of course I won’t arrest you,” replied Fares. He relit his pipe. He thought about who the target might be, surveyed a mental list of the people the Israelis would want to kill and the Americans would want to protect. And suddenly it was obvious to him who the agent was. And just as obvious why Fuad was on orders not to give his name to the head of a Lebanese intelligence service that was thoroughly penetrated by the Israelis.

“How can I help you?” asked Fares.

“Do you have the license numbers of the cars that were rented by the travel agency in Paris?”

“Yes,” said Fares. He gave Fuad a piece of paper with the numbers written on it. There were three cars-a Ford, a Volkswagen, and a Mercedes-each with a license number.

“We must find these cars,” said Fuad. “If we find the car with the bomb, then we don’t have to worry about the target.”

“I will send out a team of men this morning,” said Fares.

Fuad said he would join in the search.

“How soon are the Israelis likely to move?” asked Fuad.

“I got this information a week ago,” answered Fares. “It could be very soon.”

When Fares had left, Fuad called Jamal’s apartment. His wife answered. Jamal wasn’t there, she said. He hadn’t come home the previous night. He must be working. Then Fuad called Jamal’s office. A bodyguard answered. No, Jamal wasn’t there. No, he didn’t know where he was. Fuad tried the health club where Jamal sometimes went in the morning. No, he hadn’t been in. He called two women who he thought might know Jamal’s whereabouts. When he asked if Jamal was there, one of them hung up. The other one laughed.

It was already nine-thirty. It was getting late. Fuad left his hotel, looking for a needle in the haystack of Beirut.

Fuad tried to put himself in the mind of an Israeli intelligence officer. If I was trying to kill Jamal Ramlawi with a car bomb, Fuad asked himself, where would I put it? Not near his office. That area was too heavily guarded by the fedayeen. The chance of getting caught was too great.

No, thought Fuad. If I was trying to kill Jamal, I would put the bomb near the Palestinian’s apartment. Or on the route between his apartment and his office. Or on the route between his apartment and his health club. Or on the route between the health club and his office.

Fuad took a taxi to the area where Jamal lived, in a district of West Beirut known as Verdun. The area was packed with cars, some parked, some honking their horns and pushing their way slowly through the morning traffic. They were going nowhere. There were thousands of cars to check and Fuad was stopped in a traffic jam. He decided it was better to leave the cab and explore the area on foot. In the crush of West Beirut, he would be able to move more quickly that way.

Fuad searched first along Rue Verdun, between Jamal’s apartment and his office. He grasped the piece of paper with the license numbers on it, by now ragged and dirty with sweat. It didn’t matter. A Ford, a Volkswagen, and a Mercedes. The license numbers of each were engraved on his brain after a few minutes. He moved as quickly as he could along Rue Verdun, checking every Ford, Volkswagen, and Mercedes he could find. Though it was January, he was sweating profusely. The check of Verdun Street took him an hour. He found nothing. None of the tags matched the ones on his list.

He ducked into a small appliance store on Rue Verdun and called Jamal’s office again. Yes, he had finally arrived, but he had left again. No, he didn’t say where he was going. Perhaps to his apartment. Perhaps to the health club.

Fuad took a taxi back to Jamal’s apartment and checked that area once again for cars. New cars had arrived, dozens of them. Especially Mercedes. He glared at them, hating them-every car an enemy, every one a potential killer. There were too many cars to check. He had already checked Verdun once. What about the health club?

Fuad was feeling increasingly desperate. He made his way along Rue Abdallah al-Sabbah, toward the health club. He passed the cars in a run so that they seemed almost a blur. Pedestrians stopped to look at him. People do not run in the streets in Beirut unless something is wrong. A policeman stopped him and asked to see his papers. Fuad had to give him 20 Lebanese pounds and invoke the name of the head of the Surete before the policeman let him go. He was losing time. The clock was ticking. There was nothing on Rue Abdallah either.

Where, then?

Shit, thought Fuad. What does Jamal do in the morning, on days when he has been out the previous night? He goes first to the office, to inquire about business, then to his apartment to sleep, to change clothes, to see his wife. My God! It must be Rue Verdun!

Fuad looked for a taxi. He waited. No taxis. Where were they all? Finally one appeared. It already had a passenger, but he flagged it down anyway. The driver said he was going to Corniche Mazraa. Verdun! shouted Fuad. The driver said he would let him off at the bottom of the street.

“Y’allah!” said Fuad. Let’s go.

When they got to Verdun, the driver wanted to haggle over the fare. Fuad threw a ten-pound note at him and began running up Rue Verdun, looking at more newly arrived Mercedes, Fords, and Volkswagens. His head was spinning. He passed Rue Bechir Qassar, Rue Anis Nsouli, Rue Hassan Kamel. Shit! Where is the car? Where is the car? The road curved right, past Rue Habib Srour, past Rue Nobel. He was nearing Jamal’s apartment. It was a quarter-mile away. He was running along the sidewalk, head down, looking at license plates, when he heard a loud honking noise. He ignored it at first and turned his head finally just as the car was passing at high speed, trailed by a Land-Rover full of armed men.

It was Jamal’s Chevrolet, honking other cars out of the way, racing up the street toward his apartment. Fuad heard the roar of the engine and the din of the horn. He screamed as loud as he could but the car was gone.

Fuad stopped dead in his tracks and held his breath. He counted ten seconds. Then fifteen.

Then he heard the explosion, several blocks away. A crack and then a rumble like thunder in his ears, echoing through the crowded streets. Then the screaming of so many people and the wailing of sirens.