Agents of Innocence

45

Beirut; January 1979

The Israeli special-operations team entered Lebanon mostly through the Beirut International Airport. They came one by one, as businessmen travelling on various European passports. They were well trained and intensely motivated. Among them was the cousin of one of the Israeli athletes who had been killed at Munich.

Their mission was to finish once and for all a job that had been started years ago-and to make no mistakes. But even professionals make mistakes.

There were little hints, tipoffs, bits of evidence. The first came from the Mossad officer in East Beirut who was responsible for liaison with the Lebanese Christian militia. He paid a visit to the Christian militia’s chief of intelligence one day in early January and said that he would be away for several weeks. He added that it would be wise to stay out of West Beirut for a while. When the Lebanese Christian pressed for details, the Mossad man just winked.

What the Israeli didn’t say was that most of the Mossad station was quietly slipping out of Beirut. There was no sense in leaving them there, vulnerable and without good alibis, while the special-operations team did its work.

The incident seemed odd to the Christian militiaman. So he sent his own agents to check the logs of Beirut hotels and car-rental agencies and the records of arriving airline passengers to see if there were any unusual developments. It took him a week to gather all the information, and most of it was useless. But he did eventually notice one peculiar detail. Three cars had been rented by foreign passport holders from a particular car-rental agency in East Beirut that week. That seemed strange. Foreign visitors didn’t usually rent cars in Lebanon. They took taxis. Stranger still was the fact that all three cars had been reserved by the same travel agent in Paris. When the militiaman called the number of the Parisian travel agency, it had been disconnected.

The Christian intelligence man wasn’t sure what to do with the information, so he did what intelligence officers usually do. He traded it. As it happened, he owed a favor to the head of Lebanese military intelligence, Samir Fares, who had recently helped his men obtain some American-made electronic-surveillance equipment. So he simply passed along to Fares his scanty evidence that the Israelis might be up to something.

Fares was busy that month with an escalating war in the streets of West Beirut between Syrian, Iraqi, and Libyan agents. So he didn’t pay any real attention to the militiaman’s tip until he got another piece of information-this time from an agent in a small and very secret Christian underground group called Al-Jabha, which was said to have close ties to the Israelis.

Someone was trying to monopolize the group’s bombmaking business, the agent complained. Al-Jabha’s workshop in the mountains had been commandeered by one member who was especially close to the Israelis. The man had brought special welding equipment to the garage, along with sheets of heavy steel plate. That was state-of-the-art for car bombs, the agent explained. The sheets of steel were welded under the car, around three sides of the bomb, so that the force of the explosion would blow out in a particular direction.

It wasn’t fair, the agent said. Lebanon was a country of entrepreneurs. Nobody should try to monopolize the bombmaking business.

The intelligence reports made Fares nervous. Somebody-apparently connected with the Israelis-was planning to hit an important target in West Beirut. But Fares had no idea who or why. He made a mental list of the possible targets: the Sunni prime minister, the Shiite speaker of parliament, several Druse members of the cabinet. The security of these Lebanese officials was Fares’s responsibility. He called in the officers who were responsible for protecting them and issued an alert: The Lebanese Moslem officials should alter their normal travel routines until further notice-and stay off the streets of West Beirut.

Fares thought of other possible targets. There were various Druse, Sunni, and Shiite religious and political leaders, of course. But the most likely targets were among the Palestinians. The Old Man was planning to travel that week to Damascus, along with many of the other Fatah leaders. But Jamal Ramlawi, the Fatah chief of intelligence, was still in town. Fares wondered whether he should send Ramlawi a warning.

Fares did one other thing. He sent a brief report to the new station chief at the American Embassy, a man named Bert Jorgenson who had recently arrived from Kuwait, with a request that a copy be sent to Tom Rogers in Washington.

None of these tips and hints would have come to Rogers’s attention if Father Maroun Lubnani hadn’t panicked.

The Maronite priest had gone off to meet with his Israeli case officer, as he did once a month. The Israelis were meeting much more openly with their agents in Christian East Beirut now, ever since the civil war and the partition of Beirut. Why not? The Israelis were in open alliance with the Christians. They were the new kings of East Beirut!

Father Maroun had gone, as usual, to an apartment building on the beach south of Jounie. He had dressed in his bathing costume, as he did each month, and sat by the indoor pool waiting for the Israeli to meet him there. He had waited and waited. But his Israeli contact hadn’t arrived. So he had followed orders. He had come back to the beach apartments the next day, at the same time, and sat by the pool again, feeling increasingly embarrassed as he watched the nubile Christian girls in their bikinis parade past him.

The Israelis never made mistakes, Father Maroun told himself. But the hours passed that second day, and the Israeli contact still didn’t arrive. Finally, after waiting too long by poolside in an ill-fitting swim suit, Father Maroun panicked.

Father Maroun’s case officer had made a simple and forgivable mistake. In his haste to get out of Beirut, the Mossad officer had forgotten to notify his contact in the Maronite clergy that their meeting that month would be postponed.

Father Maroun was worried. The Israeli officer would not miss a meeting unless something was very, very wrong! So he did what he had been told to do in an emergency. He called the Israeli Embassy in Paris and asked for his special emergency contact there by name.

A voice came on the line.

“What is happening?” said Father Maroun, his voice trembling. “I went to meet my friend, but he has disappeared!”

“Calm down,” said the voice. “Your friend is busy. Something important has come up that requires him to miss his meeting. Everything is fine. Your friend will contact you in several weeks in the normal way.”

“Very well,” said Father Maroun, much relieved.

“Please do not call this number again,” said the voice. The line went dead.

A brief intelligence report on the conversation came across Rogers’s desk two days later, in the midst of a thick pile of other reports from around the world, with a note from the watch officer: “FYI.” After his visit to London and Beirut the previous September, Rogers had asked to see as much of the raw intelligence from Lebanon as he could.

The call had, in fact, been monitored by American intelligence, which tapped all calls going in and out of the Israeli Embassy in Paris, as well as much of the telephone traffic in and out of Lebanon. The intelligence report noted the basic details: the caller was a Maronite priest named Maroun Lubnani. The person he called was a Mossad officer in Paris who, it was thought, handled some Lebanese accounts.

What caught Rogers’s eye was the name of Maroun Lubnani, which brought to mind the figure of a stout Lebanese cleric dressed in lederhosen. But as he read the intelligence report, he found it intriguing. Why the panic? What were the Israelis up to? Why were they breaking off meetings with agents?

Rogers felt his stomach churning. He pulled from a file another recent SIGINT report from Lebanon that had come across his desk several days earlier. The signals people had captured a transmission from Lebanon by a high-speed transmitter, which sent coded communications in rapid bursts. It was state-of-the-art equipment and only used for sensitive jobs. Rogers had assumed, when he first saw the report, that the Soviets were up to something.

Now he suspected that it was the Israelis. And he thought he knew what they were doing.

It was late. Nearly 5:00 P.M. in Washington. First, Rogers sent a cable to Jorgenson, the new station chief in Beirut. Jorgenson wasn’t a genius, but he would have to do. “Request your help urgently on a sensitive matter,” the cable said. Jorgenson called back from his home on an unsecure line. That was a bad sign.

“Can’t help you, my friend,” said Jorgenson. “We’re mighty tight this week. Big project going.”

“I have a feeling this may be more important,” said Rogers. Jorgenson’s last big project had been a conference on Arab folk art.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” said Jorgenson. “But if you’re talking about something sensitive, then I’m going to need some paperwork. A finding. A memo from the general counsel. A note saying you’ve briefed the appropriate committees.”

“But we don’t have time for that, Bert. Somebody could be dead by then.”

“Sorry, Tom. But rules are rules. The days of the rogue elephant are over!”

“For Christ’s sake!” said Rogers. He was almost shouting.

“Sorry, pal,” said Jorgenson amiably. “Can’t help. Maybe you can scare up a little local talent. Some of your old pals. We don’t see much of them any more. Be my guest.”

Rogers cursed. Jorgenson rang off.

Rogers’s next call was to Fares. It was past midnight in Beirut when he reached him.

Rogers apologized for waking the Lebanese chief of intelligence. He wouldn’t have called at all, Rogers said, except that he had a tip that somebody might be planning a major operation in Lebanon.

“Didn’t you get my message?” asked Fares sleepily.

“What message?”

“I sent a message to the embassy nearly a week ago passing along some interesting information that had come our way. I asked the embassy to forward it to you. Didn’t you get it?”

“No,” said Rogers. He was fuming. Calm down, he told himself.

Rogers thought for a moment. He was in trouble. His options were all bad. There wasn’t time for him to go to Beirut. The CIA station there wouldn’t help. Time was running out. There was only one alternative.

“Samir,” said Rogers. “A few months ago I promised I wouldn’t ask for your help again. But I need a favor. Will you do something for me?”

“Of course,” said Fares. “Tell me what it is.”

“Can you send someone you trust to an address I will give you. When your man gets there, a friend of mine named Fuad will be waiting for him. Could you have your man tell Fuad the information that you sent to me via the embassy.”

“I will go myself,” said Fares.

Rogers gave him Fuad’s address and room number in West Beirut and thanked him, haltingly.

“It is nothing,” said Fares. “We are friends.”

Finally Rogers called Fuad. He talked carefully.

“Marhaba,” said Fuad groggily in Arabic when he picked up the phone.

“This is your old friend,” said Rogers. “The man who first met you on the beach.”

“Yes,” said Fuad. “I know who you are.”

“I think that someone is trying to make trouble for another friend of ours.”

“Who?”

“The man I met in Amman.”

“The man in black?”

“Yes,” said Rogers.

“Bad trouble?”

“The worst.”

“When will it happen?”

“I don’t know. Maybe soon.”

“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.

Fuad sat down in the street and sobbed.

It was a large and well-designed bomb, detonated by remote control, containing the equivalent of 50 kilos of TNT. The explosion was very powerful, even by Beirut standards. It killed twelve people and injured seventeen.

Fuad eventually got up off the street and went back to his hotel. He could not bear to pass near the scene of the bombing. The Verdun area was swarming with people now. Fatah security men, policemen, Lebanese security men, journalists, curious thrillseekers. Fuad wanted to be anywhere else. He stayed in his room and closed the curtains so that it was dark at midday.

When the radio announced several hours later that Jamal Ramlawi had died on his way to the hospital, Fuad slashed his wrist. He watched it bleed for ten minutes and then applied a tourniquet. Even his grief was useless.