Agents of Innocence

44

Beirut; October 1978

Rogers waited for Jamal in a safehouse in the West Beirut neighborhood of Ramlet el-Baida. When he entered the apartment, he had an eerie feeling that he had been there before. There were the same flowers, the same bottle of whisky on the sideboard, the same packs of cigarettes on the table. The same tape recorder in the wall, no doubt.

Rogers looked at his watch. Jamal was late. As he waited, Rogers thought back eight years to another meeting with Jamal, in another safehouse on the beach in Kuwait. And how, in closing his recruitment pitch, he had made Jamal a promise. We don’t make mistakes, Rogers had said. We will keep the fact of our relationship with you secret. And how he had added: “I haven’t lost an agent in ten years.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by the exchange of code words. In walked Jamal. Rogers didn’t bother to ask him if he was carrying a weapon. West Beirut was Fatah’s town now. They had the guns.

“Ahlan, Reilly-Bey,” said Jamal.

“Hello, Jamal,” answered Rogers.

Jamal looked older. Still fit, still handsome, but with signs of age and stress. The wild black hair was now combed neatly in place. The face had the doughy look of clay that has been kneaded and packed and massaged into place one too many times. The black leather jacket was gone, replaced by a brown one. Rogers noticed something else. For the first time he could remember, he saw a look of sadness in Jamal’s eyes.

“You have a lot of nerve coming to see me now,” said Jamal.

“What do you mean?”

“After Camp David! The Old Man is furious. He says you have betrayed him. After all our fine talk in secret about solving the Palestinian problem, after our conversations in 1976 when I went to Washington to meet the great Director of Central Intelligence. After all that, what do you do? You let the Israelis and the Egyptians sign a separate peace treaty that leaves us in the cold.”

“It wasn’t my doing. Talk to the president.”

“We would like to do that very much,” said Jamal. “But we can’t.”

Jamal’s manner was aggressive and insistent. That much hadn’t changed. He spoke earnestly, like a former student who wants to convince his old professor how well he has done in life. Who wants to show that he is a serious person now and not someone to be trifled with.

“Camp David is not the end of the story,” said Rogers. “There is more to come.”

“You have been saying that for eight years. We are getting tired of hearing it.”

This was not the conversation Rogers wanted to have. Not at all. He changed gears.

“I bring you greetings from the new Director, Mr. Hinkle,” said Rogers. “He sends you his personal thanks for your help in protecting our diplomats and citizens. He says that the American people owe you a debt of gratitude that can only be expressed, for now, in secret.”

Jamal touched his heart. Was it the politeness of the Arabs, or an example of the inexplicable, mesmerizing power held by whoever happened to hold the position of Director of Central Intelligence?

“That is kind of the Director,” said Jamal. “Please give him my regards. Tell him that whatever our differences on the political level, we will continue to abide by our promise to protect American citizens.”

“He will be pleased,” said Rogers.

Jamal nodded. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“Jamal,” said Rogers. “I have something that I want to tell you.” But Jamal wasn’t listening. The mention of the Director and security cooperation had sent him off on a new tangent.

“I have a spy story for you,” said Jamal. “You can tell the new Director when you get home.”

“I’m not sure that he likes spy stories. And there is something important I have to tell you.”

“He will like this one,” said Jamal. “Do you remember the man they called the Snake?”

“The man from the PFLP?” said Rogers. “The super-terrorist.”

“Yes. You read that he died, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Rogers. “Of leukemia. In a hospital in East Germany.”

“That is not how he died,” said Jamal with a thin smile.

“It isn’t?”

“No. He was murdered.”

“How?”

“He was radiated to death.”

“What in the hell are you talking about? Where was he radiated to death?”

“In Baghdad.”

“How?”

“Aha. Now you are interested. I will explain. The Snake was working then for the Iraqi Moukhabarat. Whenever he went to see the chief of the Moukhabarat, he would be received in a special waiting room, which had been constructed just for him and shielded with lead.”

“Lead?”

“Yes, lead. The Iraqi would make the Snake sit there in that waiting room for thirty minutes, maybe an hour. The Snake thought nothing of it. You know how the Arabs are. They always keep you waiting. But all the time he was in that room, they were pointing an X-ray machine at him, beaming it through a hole in the wall.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got sicker and sicker. Just as all the newspaper stories said at the time. But he didn’t know why. He went to Algeria for treatment. And then finally to East Germany.”

“Where the diagnosis was leukemia.”

“Yes,” said Jamal. “But when he died finally in East Germany, they made an autopsy. And that East German autopsy report was very interesting. It spoke of ‘unnatural complications’ in the case. We have a copy of the autopsy report, if you are interested.”

“Of course I am interested,” said Rogers.

“Would you like to know what the payoff was for the Iraqis?”

Rogers nodded.

“Look at the oil production totals for the OPEC countries in the months before and after the Snake’s death. You will notice a large increase in Iraqi production and a roughly equal decrease in production by Saudi Arabia.”

“That’s the damnedest story I’ve ever heard,” said Rogers. “Why don’t we know about this?”

“Because you are slipping,” said Jamal with a wicked smile.

There was silence.

“Jamal,” said Rogers again, more insistently. “I asked for this meeting because there is something I have to tell you.”

“Very well,” said the Palestinian. “What is it?”

“I want you to be very careful,” said Rogers slowly. “Your life is in danger.”

The Palestinian laughed.

“You came all the way to Beirut to tell me that? That is hardly news to me, my dear Mr. Reilly.”

“Your life is in danger,” Rogers repeated, “from the Israelis.”

“The Israelis have given up on me! They know that I am invulnerable.”

“Don’t be so sure that they have given up,” said Rogers. “Remember that there is a new Israeli government, and there are old plans that can be dusted off.”

“What of it? Our fates are all in the hands of Allah.”

“Let’s cut the crap,” said Rogers. “I am trying to save your life. So listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“I want to tell the Israelis that you have been working for us. That you are off limits.”

“No.”

“Why not? I think they suspect as much already.”

“No,” repeated Jamal.

“But why not?”

“Because what you said is false. I don’t work for you. I work for my people.”

“Yes, of course. But you’re in danger…”

Jamal cut him off.

“My answer is no. I will not depend on the charity of the Israelis. I would rather be dead.”

Rogers realized that he was getting nowhere.

“I have another proposal,” said the American.

“What is it?”

“I want you to leave Beirut.”

“Maybe you did not hear me before,” said Jamal, his voice rising. “I am not yours to command. You don’t tell me where to go.”

“I know. I understand. I’m only suggesting that perhaps now, for a little while, you might think about going somewhere safer than Beirut.”

“For me, there is nowhere safer.”

“You are impossible!”

Jamal smiled for the first time.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

“Look,” said Rogers. “If you won’t listen to reason, there isn’t much we can do for you. But there are a few things. What kind of car are you driving?”

“Chevrolet,” said Jamal.

“Bullet-proof?”

“Yes.”

“We can get you a better one.”

“All right,” said the Palestinian. “I accept.”

“What kind of radios do your bodyguards use?”

“East German.”

“They’re junk,” said Rogers. “The Israelis can easily intercept the signals. We’ll get you new radios. Fuad will bring them to you.”

“Fine,” said the Palestinian.

“What else?”

“That is enough,” said Jamal.

“No, it isn’t,” said Rogers. “What else, God-damn it!”

“Mr. Reilly,” said Jamal, putting his hand on Rogers’s shoulder. “If the United States cannot keep its friends in the Middle East alive, then it is the United States that has serious problems, not me. So I will trust in your good offices.”

“I told you once in Kuwait that I had never lost an agent,” said Rogers. “And I don’t intend to start now.”

“Yes,” answered Jamal. “You did tell me that. And do you remember what I answered? I told you that I was not your agent.”

They talked for a few minutes more and then Jamal excused himself. He had a meeting with a visiting intelligence officer from Japan. It was getting to be an industry, Jamal said, this business of security cooperation.

After Jamal left, Rogers sat for a while in the apartment, thinking of what Jamal had said. “I am not your agent.” Rogers had to admit that he wasn’t sure what Jamal was. He wasn’t a CIA agent. He certainly wasn’t an ally of the United States. He was something awkward, in between. The American relationship with him was, in that sense, out of control.