Agents of Innocence

16

Beirut; March 1970

Rogers returned home from Kuwait to find Hoffman in an especially cranky mood. A few days earlier, a crisis had erupted in Lebanon between the Christian militia and the Palestinian commandos.

Like so much else in Lebanon, it was a game of tit for tat. Christian gunmen had ambushed a Palestinian funeral procession as it passed through the village of Kahhaleh along the Beirut-Damascus highway. The Christians claimed that the mourners were carrying weapons illegally. Palestinian commandos in the Tal Zaatar refugee camp retaliated by attacking a neighboring Christian suburb. Gunfire had spread to other parts of the city and there were fears that the fighting would escalate.

The lights were still on in Hoffman’s office when Rogers stopped by the embassy on his way in from the airport. The station chief looked exhausted. He was sweaty and unshaven, with a cigarette in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand and a telephone in the other.

“How nice of you to join us,” said Hoffman with elaborate politeness when he got off the phone.

Rogers sensed that he was in the doghouse, but he wasn’t sure why.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” continued Hoffman, “perhaps you could help us with a little intelligence collection, before this whole fucking country goes up in smoke!”

Rogers began to apologize, but the station chief cut him off.

“Save it for the chaplain,” said Hoffman.

“What in the world is going on?” asked Rogers.

“That, my dear boy, depends on who you talk to. If you ask the Ministry of Interior, there are ‘unreliable rumors of civil disturbances in certain areas.’ If you ask people in Dikwana, there’s a God-damn war going on. So, take your pick.”

“Need some help?” asked Rogers.

“How thoughtful of you to ask,” said Hoffman, reverting to his earlier tone of sarcasm. “If it’s not too taxing after your travels, maybe you could contact your little friend in Fatah and find out what in the name of Jesus is going on over there. Seeing as how we’re on the verge of a civil war. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is.”

“Consider it done,” said Rogers. “As soon as I can reach him.”

“There’s one more thing, hotshot,” growled Hoffman. “Headquarters is complaining about a smart-aleck cable that you supposedly sent from Kuwait. Stone has written both of us a polite note in agency-ese. Here’s a brief translation: If you ever pull a stunt like that again, he’ll have your ass! Got it?”

Rogers obediently nodded. So that’s why Hoffman is so agitated, he thought to himself.

“By the way,” called out Hoffman as Rogers was halfway down the hall. “How was your trip?”

Jane Rogers was sitting in the living room, reading to the children, when her husband returned home. She was wearing a tweed skirt and a pullover sweater. In the light of the reading lamp, her face had the stark contrast of a chiaroscuro: the hair black and deep in shadow, the skin white and luminous.

Jane was overjoyed to see her husband. Rogers hadn’t called to tell her when he would be coming home. He usually didn’t, for security reasons. She gave him a long hug and, when it was time to let go, she hugged him again.

“We were a little nervous the last few days,” she said when the children were out of earshot.

“I gather from Frank you’ve had some fireworks,” said Rogers, already beginning to feel guilty.

“We heard gunfire on the Corniche two days ago. The bawab downstairs said it was just a wedding party, but they always say that. Then Binky Garrett from the embassy came by and warned that we should stay indoors at night and stock up on food.”

“Binky is an idiot,” said Rogers.

Rogers noticed then that the apartment had the look of an air-raid shelter. The curtains were drawn tight and the pantry was piled high with canned goods. Stacked in the hall were three cases of mineral water.

“I probably overreacted,” said Jane.

Rogers tried to say that he was sorry, but no words came out. He was mute, silenced by remorse for leaving his family alone and in danger.

“Kids okay?” asked Rogers eventually.

“Fine,” said Jane.

“Mark?”

“He’s fine. He missed his daddy.”

“And Amy? How is Amy?”

Rogers’s heart was racing as he asked the question. The one thing on earth that truly frightened him was the health of his two-year-old daughter.

“She’s better,” said Jane. “The doctor says she’s doing much better.”

“Thank God!” said Rogers. He felt for a moment a sense of lightness, as if a weight had been lifted from his body. But he couldn’t quite believe the good news, and his doubt showed on his face.

“She’s in the other room,” said Jane. “Go see for yourself.”

Rogers walked toward the children’s playroom, brightly painted and cluttered with toys. He carried with him a bag of gifts he had brought from Kuwait.

“Daddy’s home,” called out Rogers in the direction of the play room.

“What did you bring us?” shouted Mark.

The boy raced toward his father. He was dressed in a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and a T-shirt that said “Amherst 198?”

Amy followed, more slowly. She was a beautiful child: curly blond hair, an easy smile, red cheeks, wearing a white summer dress embroidered with flowers. She ran with the choppy, bowlegged steps of a toddler. Halfway to Daddy, she tumbled on the carpet.

Rogers winced. He picked her up and gave her a hug.

“She’s not perfect yet,” explained Jane. “But better.”

“Amy,” said Rogers. “Here’s a present for you.”

He reached into the bag and gave her a handmade doll he had bought in Kuwait, dressed Arab-style in harem pants and a veil. The baby took the doll in her hands and began to remove its clothes. As she was removing the pants, the doll slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor.

Rogers picked up the doll from the floor and handed it back to his daughter gently.

“You’ll see,” said Jane. “She’s really much steadier.”

Rogers gave his son a poster advertising the Kuwait national soccer team. It showed a camel kicking a soccer ball and bore the legend: “Our Camel Is a Winner!”

“Wow!” said Mark, who was already something of a soccer buff.

Rogers hadn’t the heart to tell his son that the 1970 Kuwait soccer team was one of the worst in the world. Bad even by the modest standards of the Persian Gulf. Their camel, in point of fact, was not a winner.

“So who’s leading the Lebanese Soccer League?” Rogers asked his son, who studied the league tables every morning in the paper.

“The Druse!” said the boy. “By one point.”

“What about the Shiites?” asked Rogers. When he left they had been leading the league.

“Third place,” said his son.

What a country, thought Rogers. Religion was so embedded in the life of the nation that it even dominated athletics. If you asked any soccer fan-even one in grade school, like Mark-he would break down the first division of the Lebanese Soccer League by religious sects: a Druse Moslem team; a Shiite Moslem team; two Sunni Moslem teams from West Beirut; three Maronite Christian teams from East Beirut; a Greek Orthodox team; a Sunni team from Tripoli; a Maronite team from Zgharta; and two Armenian teams, one leftist and one rightist.

Mark looked at his father apprehensively.

“Daddy, will they keep playing soccer if there is a war?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Rogers. “There isn’t going to be a war in Lebanon. Who put that idea in your head?”

“Nobody,” said Mark. He looked relieved.

When the children had gone to bed, Rogers gave Jane a bracelet he had bought in the gold souk in Kuwait. He put it on her wrist as tenderly as he could.

“Let’s have a drink,” said Jane.

Rogers returned with a glass of vodka and orange juice for his wife and a tumbler of whisky for himself. He sat down on the couch. Jane curled up next to him.

“I feel guilty about leaving you alone,” said Rogers.

“That’s good. You should. You were a shit to leave us alone.”

She frowned, and then kissed her husband gently on the cheek.

“Where did Mark pick up all this war talk?” asked Rogers.

“It’s everywhere. At school. In the market. That was the scary part, actually. As soon as the fighting started, everybody automatically seemed to think things would get much worse.”

“What did people say?”

“Rumors, gossip. You know the Arabs, how they’re always talking. Well, this time they really had something to gossip about, and they couldn’t stop. The flower man on Sadat Street said the Moslems in the Lebanese Army wouldn’t fire on the Palestinians if it came to a fight. He said they would refuse to obey orders from Christian officers. I asked him how he knew and he just winked. And the Christian ladies at Smith’s grocery were the same way. They all claimed to have friends in East Beirut who knew someone in the Christian militia. When I asked what was going to happen, they would cluck their tongues. What does that mean?”

“It depends,” said Rogers. “In this case, it probably meant they didn’t know anything but didn’t want to admit it.”

“They say the crisis isn’t over yet,” said Jane.

“Who says?”

“The ladies in Smith’s.”

“Ahhhh.” Rogers laughed. “Reliable sources.”

“It’s strange,” she continued. “I think of this country as so calm and friendly and modern. I didn’t realize there was so much tension under the surface, until these last few days.”

Rogers hugged her. This seemed to be a night for hugging.

“Let’s go to bed,” said Jane.

They made love tenderly, Rogers trying to express in bed the things he had wanted to say, but couldn’t. They were nearly asleep when Rogers spoke.

“What did the doctor say about Amy?”

“I told you,” said Jane drowsily. “She’s getting better. And in a few months she’ll be as good as new.”

“Do you believe him?” asked Rogers.

“This time I think I really do,” said Jane. She was warm against Rogers’s side, like a cat.

Rogers lit a cigarette and thought about Amy.

“Do you forgive me for what happened?” asked Rogers. There was no answer. Jane had fallen asleep.

For Rogers, what had happened to Amy was a metaphor for what was worst and most frightening about the Middle East. It started as a mysterious disease that nobody seemed to understand or know how to treat. Rogers had never in his life felt more helpless or scared.

It began one day in Oman, when Amy was nearly eighteen months old. She had been having trouble walking-she was much slower at it than Mark had been-and was only gradually learning to creep around the room. And then one day she fell down. She picked herself up, and fell down again. At first it seemed funny-helpless and cute-but it happened over and over again, and by the next day it was obvious to Rogers and his wife that something was wrong. Then Amy started to drop things. Cookies, toys, her bottle.

They went to see their pediatrician. His name was Dr. Abdel-Salaam Fawzi. He was an Egyptian who had been living in Muscat for many years. All the wealthy Arab and European families took their children to him.

Rogers remembered every detail of the awful day when they had gone to Dr. Fawzi’s clinic and heard his diagnosis. It was hot and the waiting room smelled of garlic and cigarette smoke. The nurse had called Rogers and his wife into the doctor’s office as if they were prisoners awaiting their sentences. On Dr. Fawzi’s wall, Rogers had noticed, was a medical degree from the American University of Beirut, along with plaques from various Omani medical organizations and a personal testimonial from the Emir of Abu Dhabi.

“Please sit down,” said the doctor. He was a stiff man, dressed in a three-piece suit despite the summer heat. He reminded Rogers of old pictures of Ottoman officials at the turn of the century: dignified and proper, wearing their fine clothes like uniforms of respectability, at once ennobled and embarrassed by their Arab roots. The doctor needed only a red fez to complete the picture.

“I have conducted a series of neurological tests on your daughter,” Dr. Fawzi said solemnly. “Let me explain to you the range of possibilities that could account for her difficulties.

“The simplest explanation is that she is having a slowdown in development. This occasionally happens with children. Some do not walk until they are three or four, but they do quite well as adults. Quite well. So this could be a temporary problem that will disappear.”

Jane took a deep breath. Rogers tried to steel himself for what was coming.

“There are other possibilities,” said Dr. Fawzi.

“What are they?” asked Rogers.

“Well, let me see,” the doctor said, stalling. Like many Arabs, he disliked giving bad news.

“The possibilities are several. They include polio. Which, of course, these days, is curable.”

“Amy has been vaccinated,” said Rogers.

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “That rules out polio.”

“What else?” asked Rogers.

“Well, in cases like this, where there are unexplained motor difficulties, we cannot rule out some of the more serious diseases.”

“Such as?” pressed Rogers.

“Muscular dystrophy,” said the doctor. Jane shuddered.

“What else?” said Rogers.

“A tumor,” said the doctor.

“A brain tumor?”

“Yes, it could be a brain tumor. Possibly.”

Jane looked as if she was going to faint.

“What about something infectious?” asked Rogers. “Or something that she ate?”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” said the doctor quickly. “Not in the Middle East today. That sort of thing is really much more prevalent in Asia or Africa than in the Arab world.”

Remembering the doctor’s vain and defensive manner, Rogers became angry all over again.

Amy got worse. Dr. Fawzi’s demeanor grew more and more solemn. The symptoms, he said, suggested that there was a serious neurological problem. They asked friends at the embassy what to do and nobody had good suggestions. Dr. Fawzi was, after all, everybody’s favorite pediatrician.

It was about then that Rogers began to think: This is my fault. I brought my family here, put them in this miserable place while I played at saving the world. My work will come to nothing, and my little daughter is going to die.

In desperation, Rogers had gone to the local hospital in Muscat. He looked at the names of the residents, and asked where they had done their training. He eventually found a young Omani, Dr. Tayib, who had gone to medical school in America, at Boston University. He went to see the young man, introduced himself as an official at the American Embassy, and explained what was happening to his daughter. Would he be willing to come back to the house and take a look at her, Rogers asked.

Dr. Tayib came that night. He was a reserved young man, the son of an Omani army officer, who had done well at medical school. It was difficult to practice medicine in the Arab world, he said, because people so often were dishonest about their symptoms.

He examined the baby. There were neurological problems, without doubt, he said. But there was a relatively simple possibility. Had the other doctor mentioned it?

“What’s that?” said Rogers.

“Visceral larva migrans,” said the doctor.

“What is that?” asked Jane.

“Roundworms,” said Dr. Tayib. “That is the common name for them. They invade tissues and can remain alive for months. Even for years. If they aren’t treated, they can go to the brain. That may be happening to your daughter.”

Rogers wanted to vomit.

“How could she have gotten them?” asked Jane.

“By eating dirt, usually,” said the doctor.

“Dirt?” asked Rogers.

Dirt. The dirt of the Middle East, of the barren, benighted region of the globe where Rogers had chosen to spend his life.

“Does she play outside?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” said Jane.

“And do dogs frequent the areas where she plays?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “She goes looking for them. She loves dogs.”

“And is it possible that the dogs have defecated where she plays?”

“I guess so,” said Jane.

“It is possible that this is the explanation,” said the Omani doctor. “Visceral larva migrans. We will have to run tests, of course. A biopsy of the liver. That will be a nuisance, but I would strongly suggest it.”

“Yes, please,” said Rogers.

“I can arrange for your regular doctor to supervise the tests,” said the Omani.

“No!” said Rogers. “Absolutely not. I want you to treat my daughter.”

The Omani protested that transferring the case would be awkward. But Rogers pressed him and he eventually agreed.

“Doctor,” said Jane warily. “Can roundworms be cured?”

“Oh yes,” said the doctor. “Quite often there is a complete recovery within six to twelve months.”

Jane Rogers collapsed into her husband’s arms. Rogers was still too scared to let himself believe the good news.

The Omani doctor’s diagnosis proved right. Amy was suffering from roundworms. The doctor prescribed the appropriate medicine, and she began to respond to the treatment.

But there were complications, of a political sort. Dr. Fawzi, the Egyptian, was furious at the young Omani doctor for interfering in his case. He petitioned the local medical society to withdraw the young doctor’s license. Later, as the Rogers were leaving Oman for Beirut, they heard that Dr. Fawzi was bringing pressure on the local hospital, through some of his wealthy patients, to have the young doctor removed from his residency.

Rogers was enraged. But the American Ambassador in Muscat insisted that he shouldn’t get involved any more deeply. It was a local matter.

Now, in Beirut, Amy was getting better. It was like a reprieve. Like one of the Old Testament stories where God devises a terrible punishment but in the end, for reasons that are unfathomable, relents.

The next morning Rogers left early for the office to send a message to Jamal. He showed a draft to Hoffman, who in turn showed it to the ambassador, who cabled the State Department desk officer. When the brief message had been cleared by the various layers of the bureaucracy, Rogers typed it on a blank sheet of paper and put it in a plain white envelope.

The message read: “The United States is urging the leaders of the Lebanese Christian militia to show restraint in the current crisis. The United States urges Fatah to show similar restraint.”

Rogers attached a cover note to Fuad, instructing him to pass the message to Jamal for delivery to the Old Man. He also asked Fuad to press Jamal for details on the military situation in Beirut.

The message was simple but the processs of delivering it was complicated by security procedures. An embassy courier took the letter and dropped it in the mailbox of “Trans-Mediterranean Forwarding Agents,” a fictitious company that maintained a one-room office in the Starco Building downtown. A Lebanese contract agent carried it from there to a dead drop in an alleyway in the Souk Tawile. The courier then called Fuad from a public telephone and, using a prearranged code, told him that a message was waiting.

Fuad retrieved the message and called Jamal. Using another prearranged code, he set up a meeting an hour later at a crowded cafe. Three layers had been interposed between the American case officer and the Palestinian. If the system worked, the links in the chain were invisible.

Fuad reported back to Rogers twenty-four hours later. They met in an apartment off Hamra Street, entering the building fifteen minutes apart through different doors. Fuad handed Rogers a brief message from Jamal written in neat Arabic script, quoting the text of an Arabic proverb that was unfamiliar to Rogers.

The message read, in its entirety: “They came to milk the goat. He broke wind.”

“What in the hell is this supposed to mean?” demanded Rogers.

Fuad looked reproachfully at his case officer. He removed his sunglasses.

“I assume it means that this particular goat has no milk for you.”

“I still don’t get it,” said Rogers. “Translate for your American friend.”

“I believe Jamal means that you asked the wrong person for information about the Kahhaleh incident, and so you are getting a rude reply,” Fuad said gently.

“Great!” said Rogers. “That’s very helpful. Anything else?”

“We talked for a few minutes about the situation,” answered Fuad.

“What did Jamal say?”

“He said that he talked to the Fatah military leaders after he returned to Beirut. They told him that Fatah wasn’t to blame. The Christians provoked the crisis. He said that Fatah has shown restraint from the beginning and doesn’t need advice from the Americans.”

“That’s the party line,” said Rogers. “I could have read that in the newspaper.”

“Jamal says it’s true. He said one other thing. One of the PLO splinter groups is trying to exploit the situation. They fired mortar rounds on Christian areas of the city last night and they will try to do it again. He said that the Old Man is opposed to the extremists, and that they are the ones you should worry about, not Fatah.”

“If it’s just the crazies, this will die down,” said Rogers.

“Probably,” agreed Fuad.

“Was Jamal angry at my message?”

“He was until he thought of the proverb about the goat. Then he stopped being angry. He said that you should add it to your collection.”

Rogers briefed Hoffman on the intelligence report and drafted a cable for Langley. The crisis in Lebanon would blow over, the cable said. The PLO group with the most firepower, Fatah, didn’t want a confrontation. Other Palestinian factions were trying to exploit the situation, but without Fatah’s support they could be contained easily by the Lebanese authorities.

“Not bad,” said Hoffman. “Maybe your little operation isn’t entirely worthless, after all. But loverboy had better be right about this one. Because if he isn’t, we are in very serious trouble. There are people on the Christian side screaming bloody murder. They want to pound the refugee camps into rubble, and we’re telling them to cool it.”

“I trust our man,” said Rogers. “Besides, he’s all we’ve got.”

“Send the cable,” said Hoffman.

The Beirut station looked good the next day when the gunfire around the Tal Zaatar refugee camp stopped and the Lebanese prime minister, a Moslem, issued a statement declaring that the crisis was over.