Agents of Innocence

37

Tel Aviv; October 1972

The Director of Central Intelligence travelled to the Middle East in October, a month after Munich. The trip had been planned long ago, but the terrorism problem gave it a sharper focus. So did a White House announcement in mid-September that the president had decided on a tough new anti-terrorism program. The Director wasn’t sure what that was all about. He wasn’t aware that there actually was any new presidential policy on terrorism, or indeed any policy at all. Nevertheless, he sensibly delivered to the president, Eyes Only, a copy of his itinerary with the notation: “Hope to gather support for our new anti-terrorism program during the trip.”

The trip marked the first visit ever by a sitting DCI to Israel. A stopover in Tel Aviv had never before seemed advisable, given the sensitivities, not to say paranoia, of the Arab intelligence services. The Director had decided, to hell with Arab sensitivities, and scheduled a trip that would include stops in Jordan, Israel and Lebanon. That seemed safe enough. All three countries were regarded in the Arab world as wholly-owned subsidiaries of the CIA anyway.

The Director travelled in style. He brought his wife, his tennis racket, his tuxedo, his smoking jacket, his golf clubs, and a sun reflector for poolside. He also brought several secretaries, code clerks, bodyguards, and, to help with the locals, the chief of the Near East Division of the clandestine service, Mr. Edward Stone.

They all piled into a comfortable Air Force 707, one of the fleet of planes that is available for top government officials when they travel abroad. This particular plane was known as “the Tube” because it had no windows, and for that reason it was shunned by most of the big shots. But it was the Director’s favorite. He thought it cozy. The plane was laid out inside like a small apartment, with a bed, a sitting room, a kitchen, a lounge, and, in the forward section, an elaborate, state-of-the-art communications system.

The Israelis were delighted that the Director was coming and seemed eager to use the trip to taunt the Arabs. The Israeli air traffic control tower near Tel Aviv took the bold step of communicating directly with the Director’s plane while it was still on the ground at Amman and suggesting a flight plan that would take the plane due west, across the Jordan River. The Jordanians were outraged by this violation of their airwaves and sent up several fighters as a gesture of protest. The Jordanian fighters circled the Amman airport for a few minutes and then returned meekly to the ground when the Israelis scrambled a squadron of F-4 Phantoms.

The pilot of the Director’s 707 rejected the Israeli flight plan, on the ground that Palestinian guerrillas on either side of the river might try to shoot the plane down. He opted for a slightly longer, and considerably safer, route that passed over Syria and Lebanon, headed out toward Cyprus, and then circled back over the Mediterranean to Israel.

The Mossad chief, Natan Porat, met the Director’s plane when it landed at a military airport near Tel Aviv. So did the CIA station chief from the embassy. There was a brief confusion over whose car the Director would ride in: one provided by the Mossad or one provided by the station. The Israelis had brought a shiny new Mercedes, the CIA a somewhat dilapidated Lincoln Continental. The Director reluctantly opted for the Lincoln.

The Director checked into the Tel Aviv Sheraton on the beach, sent his wife off shopping with the ambassador’s wife, trounced Stone in a set of tennis, showered and shaved, and headed off to a formal meeting with the Israelis. He was dressed in his usual gray pinstripe suit, which in Tel Aviv made him stand out like a visitor from another planet.

“It is a pleasure to welcome our friends into our midst,” said Natan Porat.

He was seated in a small conference room in the Mossad headquarters building near the railroad station. With him were the Director, Stone, and the deputy chief of the Mossad, Avraham Cohen.

Porat looked, in his way, even more American than the Director. He was dressed in a blue suit, a striped tie, black shoes. He might have been a high-class undertaker, except for the clear plastic glasses. Porat was the new Israel. Born in America, he had emigrated to Palestine as a teenager in 1946 and fought in the war of independence. He had entered the Israeli security service before he was twenty.

Porat, sharp as a razor, had brought along the perfect foil in Avraham Cohen: short, genial, avuncular, reassuring.

“Welcome to our friends,” said Cohen, echoing Porat. “That is what we call the CIA. ‘The Friends.’ Did you know that?”

“I did not,” said the Director.

“It’s true. The British call you ‘the Cousins.’ But we think of you as ‘the Friends.’ ”

“Well then,” said the Director, looking for something to toast with and, finding nothing, putting his hand over his heart. “It’s good to be among friends.”

“I hope that we can talk as friends, about the problems that we must face together,” said Porat.

The Director nodded.

“We don’t always agree, as you know, about events in the Middle East. We compete at times for attention and support. Some of your Arab acquaintances, such as Jordan, are our enemies. But for all that, we are friends.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the Director. “We don’t always agree. But we want the same things in the long run, I’m sure.”

There was a pause. The meeting was off to a proper, if somewhat stilted, beginning.

“Say,” spoke up Cohen. The tendrils of his eyebrows reached nearly to his hairline. He had a merry look on his face that was quite at odds with the somber tone of the gathering.

“Speaking of competition reminds me of the story about the two Hassidic Jews who wanted to be as rich as Rockefeller. Have you heard that story?”

“I don’t believe so,” said the Director. He looked toward Porat dubiously.

“Ah good,” said Cohen. “Two Hassidic Jews are talking one day. One of them says, ‘Imagine what it would be like if you could be as rich as Rockefeller.’

“ ‘Let me tell you something,’ says the second one. ‘If I was as rich as Rockefeller, then I’d be richer than Rockefeller.’

“ ‘How can you be richer than Rockefeller?’ says the first.

“ ‘Because even if I was as rich as Rockefeller, I’d still teach a little Talmud on the side.’ ”

The Director laughed vigorously. Porat looked at him with a bemused expression that seemed to say: Can it be that this man has never heard a Yiddish dialect joke before? Are we the first Jews he has ever met?

“We have prepared quite a program for you,” said Porat. “Tomorrow we’d like to give you some briefings on how we look at the Middle East, and explain how our service operates. But before your official program begins, I hoped that we could talk informally here about some matters of mutual interest.”

“Delighted,” said the Director. “What can we do for you?”

“Actually,” said Porat, “it is we who would like to do something for you.”

The Mossad chief picked up a brown envelope from the table next to his chair and handed it to the Director. Inside were three documents in Russian, along with several dozen photographs and technical drawings.

“Your Soviet analysts may find these useful,” said Porat. “They explain some recent changes in Soviet design requirements for missile guidance systems. Our specialists tell me they’re quite interesting.”

“I thought the Soviet had rolled up all your networks,” said the Director.

“That’s what the Soviets think, too,” replied Porat with a wink.

The Director, who had learned a little Russian years ago, leafed through the collection and nodded appreciatively.

“Coin of the realm. Any more where this came from?”

“We’ll see,” said Porat.

The Mossad chief withdrew another brown envelope from the table and handed it to the Director.

“More goodies?” said the Director, opening the second envelope. This one contained the names, photographs, and passport numbers of a dozen Arabs.

“These gentlemen are Palestinian terrorists,” said Porat. “Most of them are members of the PFLP, although some also maintain contact with Fatah. Several are connected with Black September. We have reason to believe that they are planning attacks against American targets over the next six to twelve months. We thought you would be interested.”

“Indeed we are,” said the Director. He handed the packet to Stone, who began leafing casually through the dozen photographs. Porat watched Stone intently as he thumbed through the packet. Stone paused for an instant when he saw the face of Jamal Ramlawi.

“We like to help our friends,” said Porat crisply. “And we hope that our friends will help us.”

“What can we do for you?” asked the Director once again.

“Israel has a terrorism problem. That is no secret to you. What you may not realize is that we have decided to take the most aggressive measures to deal with the problem.”

“What does that mean?” asked the Director. As he spoke, he was picking pieces of lint off the legs of his gray pinstripe trousers.

“I will tell you exactly what it means,” said Porat. “We are going to war with Black September. We intend to eliminate its leaders-every one of them-before they kill any more of our people. And we will punish those who planned the Munich massacre in the only way that is appropriate.”

“I don’t think I need any more details, thank you,” said the Director.

“Good.”

“I have a question, Nathan…”

“Natan,” said Porat, correcting him.

“What I’m not clear about, Natan, is what you want us to do?”

“Let us talk frankly,” said Porat. “When we ask for your help in fighting terrorism, we have in mind something quite specific. We assume that the United States tries, just as we do, to develop contacts within the terrorist organizations.”

“No comment,” said the Director.

“Of course not. But you asked me what we want and so I am telling you. We don’t know what contacts you may or may not have. That is none of our business. But we do want your help, whatever it might be, in destroying the Fatah terrorist arm that calls itself Black September. We will destroy this organization-and its leadership-whether you help us or not. But we would prefer to do it with your help.”

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.