Agents of Innocence

34

Washington/Beirut; May 1972

The CIA attacked the problem systematically. They compiled a list of known Palestinian operatives who might fit the profile of “Nabil” next they prepared an audio analysis of the tape recording, so that the voice could be matched with others on file as neatly as if it were a fingerprint. Then, with help from the NSA, they compared the voice of Nabil to tape recordings of various Palestinian suspects.

In less than a week, it was obvious to agency officials that the CIA had an embarrassing problem on its hands. The voice matched identically with that of someone who was well known to the agency. A Palestinian whose conversations had been recorded at various CIA safehouses for more than two years, and who had nearly been recruited by the agency a year earlier. The files showed that the Palestinian had even been assigned a cryptonym: PECOCK.

Edward Stone interrupted a spring yachting weekend to deal with the “Nabil” crisis. The situation was a nightmare, as far as Stone was concerned. He arrived at his office on a Sunday dressed in white flannel trousers, well-worn Topsiders, and a frayed sweater. The Middle East Division chief pulled the files, read and reread them, and turned the possibilities over in his mind. Was the Palestinian seeking revenge because of the humiliating incident with Marsh? Was Fatah striking back at the United States because of American complicity in the destruction of the fedayeen in Jordan? Were the commandos simply lashing out blindly at the ultimate symbol of American power? The questions went on and on. A threat to assassinate the president was a serious problem in itself. But when the assassin was a former CIA asset-a man who had spurned a recruitment effort-then it was positively a disaster.

Stone saw the Director first thing Monday morning. The Director was in his private dining room, eating his breakfast, when Stone arrived. He was picking the soft doughy bread out of the middle of a hard roll. That was one of the Director’s eccentricities, the taste for soft bread from inside hard rolls. Like many well-bred men, he had invented his own version of table manners.

Stone summarized the intelligence reports. The man on the tape was unquestionably Jamal Ramlawi. There was no reason to doubt the Libyan’s statement that he had provided weapons and explosives to the Palestinian. It was a case that contained the most worrying possibilities, Stone said.

“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.”

Jamal clucked his tongue. He muttered an Arabic expression that means: So what?

Fuad took Jamal by the elbow and tried to talk to him as a friend.

“This is serious,” he said. “Do you remember the first American that you met? The one who called himself Reilly? I have never heard him so upset. He is always the calm one. You must come to the meeting. The Americans don’t make threats unless they are serious.”

“I will think about it,” said Jamal.

“No,” pressed Fuad. “They need an answer now.”

“Impossible. I need to talk to someone.”

“I will wait here in Fakhani for the answer,” said Fuad.

“Go back to Hamra.”

“I will wait here.”

The Palestinian gave up. He left Fuad standing near a lamppost on the road outside the stadium.

If the decision had been left to Jamal, he would not have attended the meeting with the Americans. Rome had soured him on dealing with the United States. But the decision, in the end, wasn’t his to make. It was the Old Man’s. Jamal sent a message to the Old Man’s personal secretary requesting a quick audience. It was granted late that afternoon. The Fatah leader refused his young protege nothing.

Jamal explained that the Americans had made an urgent request. He quoted Fuad. A matter of the highest importance. A threat of retaliation.

The Old Man smiled as he listened to Jamal. An odd smile of satisfaction.

“I don’t want to meet with them,” said Jamal. “The Americans are not trustworthy. It is too sensitive a moment. My work is too delicate right now, too dangerous.”

The Old Man was still smiling.

Jamal explained his reluctance with various circumlocutions. He was vulnerable. He knew sensitive information. There were operations that could be compromised. He didn’t say what he really meant: that he was one of a tiny handful of people who knew the secret of Black September; that the Americans might try to force him to divulge the secret. But he said none of that. The rules of the game required that no one even mention the words “Black September” in the presence of the Old Man. Jamal noticed, as he talked, that the Old Man wasn’t really listening. His eyes were wide with what appeared to be-how could it be?-a look of hope.

“I think we have won,” said the Old Man, when Jamal had finally finished.

“What, Father?” asked Jamal.

“We have won! The Americans are frightened. They have come to talk peace. That is why they want to see you. They understand that they need our help. You must see them.”

“I think you are wrong, Father,” said Jamal.

“I am right!” said the Old Man, beaming with the optimism that coursed through his veins like water through a rushing river. “We have won. Thanks be to Allah! You will see the Americans. That is an order.”

Jamal rejoined Fuad that evening. Yes, he would see the Americans. Fuad was overjoyed. He outlined the details. They would all meet in Fuad’s apartment in Ras Beirut the next afternoon. That was as close as they could come to neutral ground. Fuad pledged on his honor as an Arab and a Moslem that no harm would come to Jamal.

“If the Americans try any tricks, I will shoot them myself,” said Fuad. He patted a bulging object under his jacket. It was the first time Jamal had ever seen Fuad carrying a gun.

Fuad’s apartment was on a side street off Hamra. The street teemed with life. Sidewalk vendors noisily advertised lottery tickets and bootlegged cassette tapes. The neighborhood butcher hacked away at a carcass of beef hanging in his doorway. And a Turkish restaurant filled the air with smoke and the smell of charcoal and spices.

Stone, Hoffman, and Rogers made their way through this commotion and were waiting in Fuad’s apartment when Jamal arrived. The Palestinian was dressed in his usual defiant outfit: leather jacket, silk shirt open at the neck, and black leather boots.

Rogers met Jamal at the door.

“No guns,” said Rogers.

Jamal removed an automatic pistol from a shoulder holster.

“Sorry, but I’ll also have to frisk you.” He did so quickly and found nothing. He then escorted Jamal into the living room.

Rogers made the introductions, calling Stone “Mr. Green” and Hoffman “Mr. Brown.” Jamal regarded the three Americans warily. None of them had the self-importance of the man he had met in Rome. “Mr. Green” looked like an Englishman. As for “Mr. Brown,” he was overweight, his shirt was sticking out of his trousers, and he had a soup stain on his tie.

Stone took charge of the meeting. He had a military man’s way of asserting command naturally and spontaneously, through simple changes in his voice and posture.

“I have come urgently from Washington because of a matter of the highest importance to the United States government,” Stone began.

Jamal nodded. He pushed his hair back off his forehead.

“I would like you to listen to something,” said the American, turning to a large reel-to-reel tape recorder on the table next to him.

Jamal nodded again.

Stone flipped the switch on the tape recorder. The division chief watched Jamal’s face carefully as the recorder played the conversation between him and Omar Mumtazz. Throughout the conversation, even during the exchange about suits and shoes, Jamal’s face was impassive.

“We have absolutely no doubt that this is your voice,” said Stone, after turning off the machine. “I won’t trouble you with an explanation of the technical methods of analysis that allow us to be so confident that it is you. We also understand the meaning of the coded message. It is a request by you for guns and explosives.”

Jamal blinked. He took out a Marlboro cigarette. Stone continued.

“There is only one thing that concerns me. We have been told that you are planning to kill the President of the United States. If this is true, I must warn that you have embarked on a most dangerous course. One that will have ruinous consequences for you and your organization.”

Stone bowed his head gently, like a priest who has just given a condemned man the last rites.

“Is there anything you would like to say?” asked Stone.

“Yes,” said Jamal, his eyes flashing with anger. “The Libyan is a liar. If you believe him you are a fool.”

“The Libyan?” asked Stone blankly.

“Yes, of course, the Libyan! The Libyan named Omar Mumtazz, who smuggles guns and drugs. The Libyan who knows me as Nabil. The Libyan who has taped my phone calls. The Libyan who has made up a tale about me killing the president.”

“Ah yes,” said Stone.

Jamal relaxed slightly.

“Without of course confirming that this fellow-Omar, did you say?-was the source of our information, let me ask you a question. Why would someone invent a tale like that about an assassination plot?”

“To make himself important,” answered Jamal. “To give himself something to bargain with. I don’t know why. You tell me. Why do people sell false information to intelligence services? It happens every day.”

“Well, you’re quite right there,” said Stone. “Yes indeed. People do peddle false information. Quite right.”

“Of course they do,” said Jamal.

“But let me ask you another question. Why would you want to purchase this little arsenal of equipment? I believe the list included four pistols with silencers, one hundred kilos of high-velocity explosives. Why would you want to acquire these items?”

“That isn’t any concern of the United States!” said Jamal.

Hoffman, who had been listening in silence, leaned forward in his chair toward the Palestinian.

“Bullshit,” he said. “It’s our business now.”

Stone smiled genially at Hoffman and then turned back to Jamal.

“Perhaps you would like to tell us why this isn’t any concern of the United States.”

“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.

Jamal returned just before midnight. He was red-faced and out of breath. Rogers put him through the same drill as before, collecting his pistol and frisking him. The room smelled of garlic and chocolate.

Jamal sat down in a chair. He had tidied up his clothes since the earlier visit and was now wearing a business suit. It was almost as if he felt he were present at an historic occasion, like the signing of a treaty that ended a war.

“I have an answer,” said Jamal.

“Very good,” said Stone.

Jamal was still puffing slightly. He seemed to have trouble actually saying the words.

“So what is it?” demanded Hoffman. “What’s the answer?”

“Yes,” said Jamal. “The answer is yes. I bring you that word from the highest authority of Fatah.”

“And what is it that Fatah is saying yes to?” asked Stone.

“Fatah will not attack American citizens or property, on the understanding that the United States will take no side in our conflict with Israel. And we will dispose of the weapons in Italy.”

“One small point,” said Stone. “It goes without saying that I cannot speak for Congress, or for our various politicians. I speak only for my agency.”

“What is more powerful than the CIA?” asked Jamal.

“What indeed?” answered Stone. “Do we have an understanding, then?”

“Yes,” said the Palestinian.

“Excellent!” Stone turned to Rogers.

“You work out the details with Tom here. I trust that the two of you can meet from time to time to compare notes on the matters we have discussed. That won’t pose any problem for you, I hope.”

“We have met before,” said Jamal. “We can meet again.”

Stone put his hand on Jamal’s elbow and walked with him slowly to the door of the apartment.

“I am so pleased to have met you,” said the American. He said it like a headmaster bidding farewell to a guest at a tea dance.

Rogers was still savoring the evening’s events several hours later over drinks in a bar on Hamra Street. Hoffman had suggested the Black Cat, but Rogers had talked him out of it. Somehow, that didn’t seem like the right place for Stone, so they went to the St. Georges instead.

Rogers was awed by Stone’s performance and told him so. The division chief had manipulated the Palestinian as gently and precisely as if he had controlled him with invisible wires. He had led the Fatah man through a maze of options and decisions, convinced him that what served the agency’s interests equally served his own, and allowed him, in effect, to recruit himself. And he had worked this miracle with a man suspected of planning to kill the President of the United States!

“There is one thing that I should tell you in all candor,” said Stone, downing his second martini.

“What’s that?” asked Rogers.

“I don’t believe I mentioned to you earlier that on my way here from Washington, I stopped off in Rome for several hours. I had one of the boys from the Office of Security give this Libyan fellow-Mr. Mumtazz-a polygraph test.”

“What happened?”

“Generally, he did fine. But on that absurd business about the assassination plot, he flunked.”

Hoffman raised his glass in a toast.

“You did a swell job,” said Hoffman. “No bullshit. It’s a pleasure to watch a real pro at work. But I gotta tell you, my friends, that the fun in this case is just beginning.”

The glasses clinked. There was an interlude of silence as they drank and reflected on the extraordinary events of the past few days. Rogers remembered something Hoffman had said the previous day.

“Tell me about Willy, the agent from Budapest,” said Rogers.

“Naw, you don’t want me to tell that old story now,” said Hoffman. “Not when we’re celebrating.”

“Yes I do,” said Rogers.

Hoffman looked at Stone. The division chief nodded yes. Tell him the story.

“Okay, but it doesn’t have a very happy ending.”

“Just tell me the damn story,” said Rogers, who was slightly drunk.

“All right. We were running a string of agents in Eastern Europe after the war. A lot of them had worked for the Germans. They were tough little men. They hated the Russians and were eager to work for Uncle Sam. But they were also scared shitless that we would sell them out.”

“Why?”

“Because they weren’t stupid. You said you wanted to hear the story, so shut up.”

“Sorry,” said Rogers.

“Willy was the one I liked the best,” continued Hoffman. “He was a Hungarian, about forty years old. His whole family had been killed in the war. Blown to smithereens. At first I thought he was trying to atone, or get revenge, or something. Later on it occurred to me that he was probably just trying to make some money. Who knows? Anyway, we were running him in Hungary and he was doing jim-dandy work for us. He had a friend in the Hungarian security service who let him photograph documents. It was a nice little operation.”

“What went wrong?”

“One day the Brits approached us. They said they had evidence that our little man was a crook. Supposedly he was smuggling American cigarettes into Budapest to make a little extra dough. It was stupid of him and made him a security risk. So we were pissed. We called in our man for a crash meeting. We did it in an insecure way. Sent him a letter at his home address. Nobody gave a shit. We thought the guy had screwed us. In any event, this poor little fucker came to the meeting with me and Stone shaking like a leaf. He was a mess. He didn’t have good answers to any of our questions.

“I still kind of liked him. Felt sorry for him. I don’t know why. But the Brits said he was bad news. Mr. Stone agreed, and I agreed. Everybody agreed. So we told him sayonara.”

“Did you ever corroborate what the Brits said?” asked Rogers.

“No,” said Hoffman. “I told you. Nobody gave a shit.”

“What happened to Willy?”

“He was dead within six months,” said Hoffman. “Served him right, in a way”

“Why?” asked Rogers.

“Because he was a fool, to have trusted us.”

Stone stopped by Rogers’s office the next morning on his way to the airport. The older man looked fit and pink-cheeked. He was dressed in what, for him, were casual clothes: a bow tie, tweed jacket, gray trousers, and ancient but well-shined brown Oxfords. Stone closed the door behind him, looked for the couch, and when he realized there wasn’t one, sat down in a chair beside the desk.

“You are couchless,” observed Stone.

“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.

“What rank are you these days?”

“I’m an R-6,” said Rogers.

“And when will you receive your leather couch and cherry-wood credenza?”

“R-3.”

“Ah well, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?” said Stone sardonically. “Sometimes I marvel at the pettiness of the United States government. Do they really imagine that people are motivated by the desire to obtain additional office furnishings?”

“Some people probably are,” said Rogers.

“Would you like a couch?” queried Stone. “I’ll get you one.”

“I don’t really care, to be honest.”

“No, of course you don’t.”

Stone adjusted his bow tie so that the two ends were precisely even and then got down to business.

“I want to discuss details,” said Stone.

“About handling the Palestinian?”

“Precisely,” said Stone. “God is in the details.”

Rogers nodded. Where is the Devil? he wondered.

“Now then,” said Stone. “I think that you should meet with PECOCK every few months, you or one of your agents. Keep him on a long leash. Don’t inquire too much about what he does. You’re not his nursemaid.”

“What do we do about the Israelis?” asked Rogers.

“Nothing.”

“But won’t they try to do something about Jamal?”

“I have no idea,” said Stone. “I can’t predict what anyone will do. Not the Israelis. Not us. Not our Palestinian friend.”

“What is he, exactly?” asked Rogers.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, is PECOCK an agent? An asset? A contact? What sort of relationship do we have with him?”

“Ah, yes,” said Stone. “Sticky wicket. What is this all about? Strictly for bookkeeping purposes, we will treat what took place yesterday as a recruitment, even though it wasn’t one in the usual sense. We will enroll this fellow immediately as an active agent, assuming that he follows through in Rome. The fact that he doesn’t consider himself an agent is fine.”

“That doesn’t pose any problem?” asked Rogers, remembering all the consternation this same question had provoked two years earlier in the discussions with Marsh and Stone.

“No problem whatsoever,” replied Stone serenely.

“Forgive me for asking, but does that mean the Palestinian won the argument?”

“Nobody won,” said Stone. “It simply means that we have learned our lesson and will not insist on control. In essence, we are accepting his definition of the relationship. If he asks, you should encourage him to believe that we have embarked on a sort of ‘liaison’ with him as a senior inteligence officer of Fatah. We have such arrangements with all sorts of disagreeable people. As I say, it isn’t a problem.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.

“Good,” said Stone, rising from his chair.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think that the Palestinian is involved in Black September?”

“Possibly.” said Stone. “Quite probably.”

“Does that bother you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it bother you that we are working with a terrorist?”

“Oh,” said Stone.

He turned and gazed out the window.

“Let me answer your question frankly, and you will forget that I ever said these words. Morality in the abstract is too large a problem for me to get my arms around. I leave it to moral philosophers. What I do understand is the practical matter of protecting the lives of American citizens. I have no doubt-none whatsoever-that the relationship we are embarking on will serve that goal. The rest is too complicated.”