Agents of Innocence

38

Beirut; October 1972

“I hate babysitting,” said Hoffman to the members of the Beirut station. “But when the baby in question is your boss, what can you do?” Hoffman was holding a morning staff meeting, making final plans for the arrival of the Director in Beirut that afternoon. He looked harried.

As Hoffman talked, he was munching on a jelly donut. Hoffman was very fond of jelly donuts, especially a particular overstuffed version made by a company in New Jersey called Tast-EEE-Kreme. He had considered it a major coup several months ago when he found an old Air America contact who was willing to drop off a case of donuts in Beirut every month on his way to Oman. Hoffman was holding the jelly donut in his right hand, unaware that when he gesticulated to make a point, jelly was oozing out of the half-eaten donut onto the conference table.

“If they had asked me,” Hoffman continued, “I would have told the Director that the trip was a waste of time. But they did not ask me, so here we are.” A code clerk discreetly rose from her chair and scooped up the jelly with a napkin, before Hoffman could put his elbow in it.

“Seriously,” said Hoffman to no one in particular. “It’s one thing to entertain some asshole congressman from Illinois who wants to tell you how to solve the problems of the Middle East. That I can handle. The conversation is about my speed. Yes sir. No sir. My goodness, that’s an interesting idea. No, indeed, we hadn’t thought of that one.

“But the Director is different, boys and girls. When he shows up, it’s time to turn off the bubble machine. If he asks you a question, you better answer it honestly. Anybody who tries to bullshit the Director should look for another job, starting tomorrow.”

Hoffman’s administrative deputy took over a discussion of the logistical arrangements, while Hoffman went to his office, unlocked the safe, and retrieved another jelly donut.

Hoffman, for all his grumbling, had done all the right things to prepare for the Director’s arrival. He had repainted the rooms of the CIA station a pleasant off-white. He had arranged a dog-and-pony show with the new head of the Deuxieme Bureau. He had asked Ambassador and Mrs. Wigg to host a small dinner party for the Director that evening. And, prodded by the Wiggs, he had scheduled a day trip to the mountains, stopping for lunch at the birthplace of Khalil Gibran.

Hoffman, responding to an urgent cable received the previous day from Stone, had also set aside several hours that afternoon for a private meeting with the Director in the bug-proof conference room at the embassy. Hoffman didn’t know who was supposed to attend the meeting or what it was about. Details would follow, Stone’s cable said.

The Director’s plane arrived at the Lebanese Air Force base in Rayak, in the Bekaa Valley, rather than at Beirut Airport. Security worries. The experts from Langley thought it was too dangerous to fly the 707 in over the Palestinian refugee camps at Sabra and Shatilla that adjoined the northern edge of the airport. The experts seemed to imagine that Palestinian camp dwellers were in the habit of firing surface-to-air missiles, willy-nilly, at passing airplanes.

Hoffman went to the airport to meet the VIPs. He was dressed in his best gray suit, which unfortunately was fifteen years old and no longer fit very well. He buttoned the trousers below his stomach, leaving an abundant expanse of white shirt that was not quite covered by his suit jacket. To make matters worse, the collar button of Hoffman’s white shirt popped as he was trying to close it just before the plane touched down.

The Director stood at the top of the stairs and looked out at the massed limousines, the bus for lower-ranking aides, the official greeters with pasted-on smiles, and the crocodillic faces of the American ambassador and his wife, poised in a welcoming tableau.

“Frank, come on up here,” bellowed the Director to Hoffman. Hoffman loyally bounded up the ramp to his boss.

“No more tours!” said the Director.

“What?” said Hoffman.

“ No more tours, God-damn it!” said the Director. “I’ve had enough sightseeing this week to last a lifetime. If I see another Roman ruin I’m going to call in artillery and close air support. Understand? My wife is even sicker of touring than I am, aren’t you, dear?” The Director’s wife nodded.

“Okay,” said Hoffman. “But would you mind telling that to the ambassador yourself?”

“Yes, I would mind,” said the Director. “You do it. That’s part of your job. Tell him whatever you like. But no more tours! ”

Hoffman led the Director and his wife down the stairs and over to the Wiggs, who were waiting stiffly, smiles affixed. There was the usual round of handshakes and pleasantries. How was the trip? Isn’t the weather lovely? As the Director and his wife prepared to head for their car, the ambassador spoke up again. He seemed to want to discuss the schedule.

“We are so looking forward to the round of visits we have planned for you, Director,” said Ambassador Wigg.

“And we’re so eager to show you our Lebanon,” said Mrs. Wigg, clasping the Director’s wife gently on the arm. “This is quite a country, you know. Skiing in the morning and swimming in the afternoon. And the nightlife is magnificent. They call it ‘The Paris of the Orient.’ Did you know that? It will be such fun.”

The Director coughed, not very convincingly.

“The Director is feeling a little, uh, sick,” said Hoffman.

“What a nuisance,” said Mrs. Wigg. “I hope that won’t spoil our plans.”

“Uh, actually, the Director’s wife is also feeling a little under the weather. Quite sick, actually.”

The Director’s wife coughed on cue.

“Afraid so,” said the Director. “We’re feeling a bit of a chill right now. If you’ll excuse us.”

The Director took his wife by the arm and together they followed Stone and a bodyguard toward a waiting limousine.

“What a shame!” said the ambassador to Hoffman. He sounded crestfallen. Mrs. Wigg was fuming, too angry for the moment to protest.

“I hope it isn’t serious,” said Ambassador Wigg. “What sort of illness do they have, exactly?”

“We’ll get back to you on that,” called out Hoffman as he opened the door of the limousine and prepared to depart.

“Gun it!” said Hoffman to the driver, and off they roared, leaving behind the befuddled ambassador and his wife, the motorcycle outriders, and the secretaries, code clerks, and hangers-on.

“So what’s the big deal?” asked Hoffman later that day when the Director and Stone arrived in the bubble, the bug-proof room within a room where the station held its most secret discussions. Rogers was also there, at Stone’s request.

“Just the usual skulduggery,” said the Director. “Before we start, Frank, I wonder if I could have a Tab?”

“What’s a Tab?” asked Hoffman.

“It’s a soft drink,” said the Director. “A dietetic soft drink.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any of those in Lebanon, sir,” said Hoffman. “I can check, but I kind of doubt that we can find any.”

“Don’t bother,” said the Director. “How about a Sprite?”

Hoffman looked at Rogers quizzically. Evidently he didn’t know what a Sprite was, either.

“Tom,” said Hoffman. “See if you can find a Sprite for the Director.”

Rogers left the room. He returned a few moments later with a bottle of Seven-Up and a straw.

“That’s just fine,” said the Director. “Thank you, Tom.”

“So what’s up?” asked Hoffman.

“I think we have an opportunity to do a favor for our Israeli friends,” said the Director.

“Oh yeah?” said Hoffman, already slightly on guard. “What’s that?”

“I understand you’re running a Palestinian agent who is a member of Black September. Is that right?”

“What our boys do on their own time is up to them,” said Hoffman.

The Director didn’t laugh.

“Is he a member of Black September?”

“Beats me,” said Hoffman. “Tom?”

“Yes, probably he is,” said Rogers.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Stone?” said Hoffman. “He knows this case as well as we do. He was in the room when the little pecker agreed to work with us. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stone? In fact, if memory serves, Mr. Stone was not entirely uninvolved in the recruitment.”

“I’m quite aware of Edward’s involvement, Frank, and I don’t question what anyone has done up to this point.”

“You don’t?” asked Hoffman warily.

“No,” said the Director.

“Good,” said Hoffman. “Because we haven’t done anything wrong. Least of all Tom Rogers, who has done a first-rate job on this case from the beginning.”

“Of course. The point is that now we have an opportunity to do something useful with the leverage we have acquired through our contacts with this fellow.”

“Such as?”

“Edward,” said the Director, turning to Stone. “Why don’t you explain the interesting discussion we had in Tel Aviv?”

“Yes, Director,” said Stone. He looked embarrassed.

“The Israelis seem to have stumbled onto the fact that we have a relationship with Ramlawi.”

“So what?” said Hoffman. “Who we talk to is none of their fucking business.”

“Perhaps, but in this case, they believe that we’re dealing with someone who is planning terrorist operations against Israel. They even seem to think that Ramlawi was behind the Munich hostage incident.”

“Tough shit,” said Hoffman.

Stone shot a glance at Hoffman, as if to say: Calm down, boy. But it did little good. Hoffman was angry. Rogers watched the conversation unfold with a sense of dread. Another station chief might have tried to duck the issue, say what was politically sensible, cover his ass. But not Hoffman.

The Director spoke up.

“The Israelis have asked for our help in dealing with Black September. They have implied, but not said directly, that they would like us to do one of two things: either provide them with some of the intelligence we’re getting from Ramlawi, or help them find him.”

“And suppose we tell them to fuck off?” said Hoffman.

“They have made it clear that they intend to kill the leaders of Black September, including Ramlawi.”

“What did you tell them, Director, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I told them that we would get back to them.”

“I trust, sir, that you didn’t in any way confirm their speculation that we have been in contact with Ramlawi?”

“Of course not,” said the Director. “That would be unprofessional.”

“You’re God-damned right it would be, sir,” said Hoffman.

The Director narrowed his eyes. He was a man who prided himself on his composure. He displayed emotion rarely, and only when he was very angry.

“Easy, Frank,” said Stone gently.

“I apologize, Director. But this whole conversation makes me very uneasy, to be honest.”

“And why is that?” asked the Director.

“Because what the Israelis are proposing is totally outrageous. We should be telling them to take a walk, instead of driving ourselves crazy like this. Ramlawi may be the biggest shit who ever lived. But he met with us in good faith. We shouldn’t throw him to the wolves now, just because it may be expedient. When we decide to work with someone, we make an implicit promise that we’re not going to shop him to the next guy that comes along.”

“Oh come now,” said the Director. “Let’s grow up. We shop people every day. That’s part of our business.”

That remark seemed to touch an especially raw nerve in Hoffman. He grew red in the face.

“I don’t need any lectures about the real world, Director. I may not have gone to Yale, it’s true. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the way the world works. I’ve been running agents for nearly thirty years. In that time, I have screwed enough people simply because someone from Yale told me to. I don’t want to do it again.”

“Don’t press your luck, Mr. Hoffman,” said the Director.

Hoffman ignored the warning.

“We used to have a saying in the FBI,” he said. “It was very simple: ‘Protect your sources.’ Even the dumbest FBI agent understands that. He knows that when someone trusts you, you don’t knife him in the back. But I guess we’re too smart for that in the agency.”

The Director, who had regained his own composure, affected a weary look.

“Frank, we needn’t turn this into group therapy. It’s very simple. The Israelis have asked for our help. I have decided that we should respond positively. The only question you need to think about is how to carry it out.”

“Carry what out?”

“Provide the Israelis the information they want about Ramlawi.”

“So they can kill our agent?”

“I have no idea what they will do with the information.” That’s their problem.”

“Let them get their own fucking information.”

“Frank,” said the Director. “This isn’t a debating topic. It is an order.”

Hoffman stood up from the conference table. His tie was hanging loose in his collar because of the popped shirt button, and his belly had pushed out even farther over the tops of his trousers. He looked exhausted. He strolled to the translucent wall of the bubble, deep in thought, while Rogers, Stone, and the Director watched in silence. All of them were dreading what they knew was coming next.

“I’m sorry to sound like a troublemaker, Director,” said Hoffman slowly. “But what you’re proposing to me just doesn’t sound right. I wish I could just tell you what you want to hear. But just this morning I was telling my staff that anyone who lies to the Director ought to be fired, on the spot. So I have to tell you the truth, which is that I don’t feel comfortable about shopping Ramlawi to the Israelis. Even if it is an order.”

Rogers took a deep breath. He felt as if he had just heard someone dictate his resignation letter.

“What about you, Tom?” said the Director to Rogers. “You’re Ramlawi’s case officer. Do you feel the same way as Frank?”

“Can’t we keep the kid out of it?” asked Hoffman.

“I’d like to answer the question,” said Rogers.

“Don’t,” said Hoffman. “You have a good career. Don’t screw it up.”

Rogers ignored Hoffman’s advice and turned to the Director. His voice was calm and even.

“I agree with Frank,” said Rogers. “I don’t think we should betray Ramlawi. I think the Israelis will understand. They don’t betray their agents, even to help their friends. And we shouldn’t either.”

Stone, who had watched the confrontation develop during the last few minutes and move nearer and nearer to an irrevocable break, decided at this point to intervene.

“Perhaps we should take a breather for a few moments,” he suggested, “Cool off a bit.”

“Very well,” said the Director.

“With your permission,” said Stone quietly to the Director, “I would like to have a few words with you privately.”

The Director nodded. Hoffman and Rogers left the room.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong with Frank Hoffman?” asked the Director when he and Stone were alone. “That was virtual insubordination a few moments ago.”

“Yes, sir,” said Stone. “I know.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?”

“Director,” said Stone gently, “we are on the verge of losing two very fine men. Before we get to that point, I think you ought to listen to what they’re saying. Frank gets a little emotional sometimes, but he means well. And Rogers is one of our best young officers.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. I was inclined to agree until about five minutes ago.”

“Maybe Rogers has a point.”

“What?”

“Maybe he has a point. The Israelis certainly don’t tell us who their agents are. They might lose respect for us if we betray one of ours.”

“Lose respect?” said the Director. “I doubt that very much. People don’t lose respect when you help them. They’re grateful.”

“Not always. Not if you’re doing something questionable.”

“Edward,” said the Director sharply. “Aren’t you losing sight of the fact that we are running an agent who may be the world’s leading terrorist? Doesn’t that make you a little squeamish?”

“A little,” said Stone. “But that’s water over the dam.”

“Not over my dam.”

“We made the decision to deal with him, on the assumption that it would help save American lives. Already he has given us some useful information, and we stand to get far more. Whether the decision to work with him was right or wrong, we made it. And I’m not sure that we should go back on it.”

“The rebellion in the ranks appears to be growing,” said the Director.

“Let’s look at the practical side of this.”

“Yes, let’s.”

“If you order Hoffman to turn over intelligence on Ramlawi, he’ll quit.”

“Evidently. Fine old fellow. Gone to seed a bit in Beirut. Sorry to see him go. Next.”

“If you order Rogers to turn over intelligence on Ramlawi, I suspect that he will also quit.”

“Pity. A fine career ahead of him. He would be foolish to do so. But I can’t stop him. So that’s the end of it.”

Stone swallowed hard. He had hoped the discussion would not reach this point. He thought, momentarily, about his pension, his friends, his career ambitions, and then plunged ahead. There was no stopping now.

“There is one final item, Director.”

“What is that?”

“If you order me to turn over the intelligence on Ramlawi, I will also quit. With great sadness and reluctance. But I will not carry out an order that I think you will have cause to regret later.”

The Director was dumbstruck.

“You can’t be serious,” he said after a moment’s reflection.

“I am.”

“But I don’t want you to leave. I trust your judgment. I depend on you.”

“Then listen to me.”

“Very well,” said the Director.

“I think I can suggest a sensible compromise.”

The Director’s demeanor changed at the mention of the word “compromise.” His face perked up, and you could almost see him adjusting and refiguring his mental calculus of the Ramlawi problem.

“I’m listening,” said the Director.

“The compromise is very simple. We won’t help the Israelis kill Ramlawi. But we won’t help Ramlawi stay alive, either. We will do our best to stay neutral in this war.”

“What do we tell the Israelis?”

“We tell them that of course we’ll help them. They are our friends and allies. And then we give them something that has nothing to do with Ramlawi. COMINT. Or satellite photos. They’re always asking for satellite photos.”

“And if they ask specifically about Ramlawi?”

“Tell them you don’t know what they’re talking about. We never met the man.”

The Director looked at his nails, examining them for dirt.

“That is not unreasonable,” he said eventually.

There was a knock at the door.

“Let them in,” said the Director.

“Stone and I have come up with a plan,” said the Director. “Something that will be responsive to our Israeli friends without offending the delicate sensibilities of the Beirut station. Edward, why don’t you explain what we intend to do?”

Stone gave a brief explanation of his plan. The only thing that was clear when he had finished was that the crisis of a few minutes ago was over. Rogers relaxed and smiled with relief. But Hoffman looked more taciturn, and spent much of the rest of the meeting staring at the walls.