Agents of Innocence

40

Washington; June 1978

“The most competent intelligence service in the world today is the Mossad,” proclaimed John Marsh from the podium of a small conference hall in Arlington, Virginia. “It pains me to say that after all these years, but it’s true.”

There was a burst of applause from the audience of conservative intellectuals, Republican congressional aides, trusted diplomats, and former intelligence officers who had gathered for a conference hosted by the Center for the Study of Responsive Intelligence. The Center was a sort of organized cheerleading section for the old-boy network of the Central Intelligence Agency. It seemed to exist chiefly for the purpose of holding conferences to excoriate the current CIA management, especially the new Director, Charles “Chuck” Hinkle.

The topic of this particular gathering was “Rebuilding the CIA: How and Why.” John Marsh-recently retired from the agency-was the featured speaker. Dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, his hair slicked back against his head, Marsh looked slightly like a gangster. He wagged a finger at his audience as he continued with his lecture.

“You all know what has happened to CIA,” Marsh admonished them. “The agency has been raked over the coals by its critics. Its secrets have been exposed for all the world to see. It is the laughing stock of the other Western intelligence agencies. It is a sad, sad story.

“Certainly there were misdeeds in the past. Certainly there were some overzealous officers and unwise operations. And certainly there are things that need to be corrected. Nobody questions that. There is always room for improvement. But can’t we all agree that there are limits to responsible criticism? Shouldn’t our critics in Congress and the press remember that without a strong intelligence agency, they wouldn’t have the freedom to be so critical?”

There was more applause from the audience. A twenty-five-year-old congressional aide, dressed in a green Dartmouth blazer, shouted “Hear! Hear!” Marsh realized that he was rather enjoying his new life as a public speaker.

“I would like to share a little secret of my own with this group,” said Marsh. “Nothing classified, of course. I wouldn’t do that, not even for a gathering of friends. But I would like to tell you, in my own words, why I left the CIA several months ago after nearly twenty years with the agency.

“As many of you know, I spent most of the 1970s working on congressional liaison for the agency. Our office tried to keep Congress from opening Pandora’s box, and I must admit to you that we failed. They asked for our dirty linen and, despite the efforts of some of us, the agency gave it to them. Do you know what bothered me most? The fact that we lacked political leadership-in Congress, in the White House, and yes, even at the CIA-that was willing to say no.”

There was more applause.

“So after watching this process of self-flagellation, I decided that enough was enough, and I got out.”

More applause. Marsh nodded his head in gratitude.

What Marsh said was not precisely true, at least not the part about leaving the agency. It was true that he had spent the 1970s in the backwater of congressional liaison after he was dumped as operations chief of the Near East Division. But he had done poorly even at that modest job. His colleagues complained that he was successful only in dealing with the most conservative members of the House and Senate-preaching, as it were, to the converted. So Marsh was removed from congressional liaison, brought back to Langley in a dead-end desk job in the Office of Security. And finally, when he neared the twenty-year mark, Marsh was offered early retirement with a generous pension, and took it.

“What we see at the CIA is just another example of our national disorder,” continued Marsh. “We see it in every area of our national life. There is a lack of discipline in our schools, on college campuses, in the news media. There is a lack of control. A feeling of drift and uncertainty. A feeling that we’re being pushed around at home and abroad.”

Marsh was nearing the end of his speech. He put his hands on either side of the lectern, like a sea captain holding the wheel steady in rough seas. Though his audience didn’t know it, he-John Marsh-knew what he was talking about when he spoke of the anarchy of the times. His own family was in chaos. His daughter had dropped out of college to join a commune. His son had been expelled from private school because he was caught using drugs.

But John Marsh wasn’t talking about his own problems that day, he was talking about America’s.

“We need to stand firm,” said Marsh. “We need to stop the decay. And the place to begin is with our intelligence agencies, which are the sword and shield that protect our freedoms.”

There was loud and sustained applause, followed by many congratulatory remarks from people who gathered around the podium. A conservative newspaper columnist asked Marsh for a copy of the speech. The director of the Center for the Study of Responsive Intelligence suggested the possibility of Marsh joining his staff. A professor approached Marsh and asked for his help with a book he was writing about Soviet intelligence operations.

The scene testified to one truth about Washington in the late 1970s. The conservatives had learned the arts of leaking and self-promotion. And in the process, some of the old discipline had gone. The conservative intelligence officers who had spent their careers protecting the nation’s secrets were now, in retirement, spending their days taking journalists to lunch, issuing learned reports on intelligence matters for friendly think tanks, writing position papers for political candidates. Something had come unstuck.

As the meeting began to disperse, a short, balding man approached Marsh. He had a face that was slightly reddish and freckled, and eyes as sharp as a hawk’s.

“What an interesting speech,” said the man in a voice that had a trace of a European accent. “But I think maybe you flatter us Israelis too much.”

He handed Marsh a card.

“My name is Shuval,” said the man. “I work at the Israeli Embassy.”

Marsh shook his hand.

“Perhaps we could have lunch sometime,” said Shuval. Marsh, basking in the attention, accepted the offer, and he was pleased when several days later, Shuval called and suggested a time and place.

Ze’ev Shuval was the chief of the Mossad station in Washington. In contacting Marsh, he had a particular purpose in mind, one assigned to him by the terrorism adviser to the new Israeli prime minister. The task was to reopen a matter that had lain dormant for the last few years-the question of American penetration of the PLO-and find out as much as he could about a particular suspected agent.

The new Israeli government was considering reviving an old plan, the terrorism adviser had explained to Shuval. They wanted to finish the job that had been started six years ago-of punishing those who were responsible for the Munich massacre. There was one man still alive-the man who had planned the operation, in fact-and that was deeply troubling to the new Israeli government.

“We need to know whether this man is still under CIA control,” the adviser told Shuval. “We aren’t afraid of offending the Americans if we have to. But we want to give them a chance to say no. And maybe it is not so bad for us if this contact between the Americans and the PLO is broken.”

The terrorism adviser gave Shuval a list of people who might know details of the case. At the top of the list was the name of John Marsh.

They met at an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant off Wisconsin Avenue, in Bethesda. Only one other table was filled.

“We admired your work very much,” said Shuval quietly when they had been seated. “Especially when you were handling the Near East. We were shocked when you changed jobs.”

Marsh was flattered. It had been many years since another intelligence officer had praised his work.

“I tried to do what I thought was right. But others disagreed with my views.”

“So I gather,” said Shuval. He didn’t push the point. He didn’t push anything.

The waiter arrived and took their orders. Marsh deliberated between Szechuan beef and Hunan beef and then decided to have duck with orange sauce. Shuval ordered egg foo yung.

“I don’t suppose that you would be interested in doing some consulting work?” asked Shuval.

“I’m afraid not,” said Marsh. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Of course. I simply wanted to ask you the question.”

“Just so we understand each other,” said Marsh. “You ask and I answer. That’s the way I like things. Straightforward, on the table, yes or no. I think we get into trouble in our business when we forget the basics.”

“We look at things the same way,” replied Shuval. “That is what frightens us about our dealings with America. Often, they are not businesslike. We never know exactly where we stand.”

Marsh nodded earnestly. He felt that he had found a soulmate. This is why the Israelis are the best, he told himself. Because they understand that intelligence is a business, a business in which control is paramount.

“We worry,” continued Shuval, “that in the end the United States will betray us. They will keep assuring us until the last moment that they will never abandon us to make a deal with the Arabs. And then they will abandon us and make the deal.”

“Not if your friends have anything to say about it.”

“You are kind,” said Shuval. “But I will give you an example of what worries us.” He leaned forward over the table.

“We think that in the end you will make a deal with the Palestinians. You will get tired of terrorism and the threat of an oil embargo and so you will make a deal with the PLO. We see signs of it already.”

“What signs?”

“I will give you one example,” said Shuval matter-of-factly. “We have assumed for some years now that you have an agent at the top of Fatah named Jamal Ramlawi.”

“No comment,” said Marsh.

“It makes us very nervous, this relationship.”

“No comment,” repeated Marsh.

“You know that we tried to kill this fellow Ramlawi more than once? Not because he was working for you, but because he was a terrorist.”

“I am aware that you tried to kill him, yes.”

“And we may try again. But we have a question that troubles us. Is this man actually an American agent? And if he is, why can’t you control him? Why does he seem able to do as he likes?”

“Control him?” asked Marsh. “Did you say, control him?”

“Yes. Control.”

“That’s the problem,” said Marsh, almost inaudibly. “We never had control.”

“I see,” said Shuval. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then opened them and smiled.

“You understand of course that I am not at liberty to discuss the case,” said Marsh.

“Of course I understand,” said Shuval. “And I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Good,” said Marsh. He was relieved. Relieved to have hinted to someone, at last, what had gone so wrong that day in Rome long ago. And relieved that he had not “said anything.”

They finished the meal in pleasant conversation and agreed to meet again.

“It is a pleasure to deal with a professional,” said Shuval, knowing precisely the right button to push with John Marsh.

Shuval filed a cable for the prime minister’s office that afternoon. The cable advised that a CIA source with first-hand knowledge of the Ramlawi operation had suggested that Ramlawi was not a controlled American agent, after all, but something different. The implication of that was obvious: Go ahead. Do it! Kill him! The prime minister’s terrorism adviser certainly took that view. But the chief of Mossad, Natan Porat, was more cautious. He wanted to take another pass at the Americans. In particular, one specific American.