“They are right,” said Solange. “They probably will.”
“Yes. But what happens when Arab culture becomes modern enough that the women have more sex, too? Or at least begin to think about it. I’m not sure that Arab men will be able to handle that part of modern life very well, because they’re so afraid of women to begin with. What will happen then?”
“They will go the other way,” said Solange.
“What do you mean?”
“Back into the dark ages,” said Madame Jezzine. “The Arabs will embrace just enough of the modern world to become terrified by it, and then they’ll run the other way.”
Jane finished the last bites of her sole. The busboy arrived from nowhere and cleared away the dishes. Solange offered Jane a cigarette. She took it and inhaled deeply and pleasurably.
“Tell me about your husband,” said Solange.
“Oh my goodness,” said Jane. “What can I tell you? It will sound so sentimental. He is a good man. A strong man. He loves his work. He adores the Middle East, but he also loves his family.”
What am I saying? thought Jane. Am I going too far?
“And do you think,” asked Madame Jezzine delicately, “that your husband has ever had an affair?”
Jane put her hand to her forehead. She had said too much. She had drunk too much wine. She had allowed the conversation to stray into the forbidden zone.
“No,” said Jane brightly, raising her head and smiling. “I don’t think that he ever has.”
“Lucky girl,” said Solange Jezzine. “Lucky girl.”
Jane excused herself and went to the bathroom. She tidied herself up, applied new lipstick, brushed her hair, and returned to the table. When she got back, Solange had gone. Jane peered down the room and saw that she was seated in one of the other booths, talking to a handsome Frenchman. Though the Frenchman was seated across from a younger blonde, he had his arm around Madame Jezzine.
Solange returned in a few minutes. They talked some more, about less exotic topics, and eventually drank their coffee and paid the bill. Solange insisted that they should meet again in several weeks.
“Next time,” she said, “I want to hear more about your husband. He is the only attractive man in Beirut.”
Jane felt flattered at this praise of her husband and nodded politely. Later that day, she wondered if there was anything in Madame Jezzine’s manner that should cause concern. Anything that she should mention to her husband. No, she concluded. She is simply a charming, gossipy Lebanese woman who is mad for sex.
27
Beirut; April 1971
As the Deuxième Bureau crumbled, the CIA station tried to pick up useful pieces of the debris. There were so many angry and frustrated officers that the hardest problem for Hoffman and his colleagues was deciding which of them was worth trying to recruit.
Hoffman ignored most of them. He had a rule about buying members of another intelligence service: Don’t recruit the ten people in the field who are gathering information. Recruit the one man at the top who runs the network. With the surge of walk-ins, Hoffman added another rule: No more Lebanese agents at all, unless they had vital information or access to it.
For Rogers, the top priority was getting access to the Christian militias. He focused his attention on a bright young army officer named Samir Fares. Though only in his mid-thirties, Fares had gained a reputation as one of the Deuxième Bureau’s ablest intelligence officers. He had the look of an intellectual: balding, smoking a pipe rather than the ubiquitous Lebanese cigarettes. But he was a tough operator. His current assignment, Rogers had learned, was to recruit agents from among the militias and secret political organizations of Christian East Beirut.
Rogers decided to set up a meeting with Fares. He asked Elias Arslani, a retired history professor who had been Fares’s mentor at AUB, to arrange a meeting at his country home in the mountains near Jezzine, in southern Lebanon. Dr. Arslani was the sort of person the American Embassy called on to make discreet introductions: a distinguished academic, a pillar of the Greek Orthodox community, a man who believed in the establishment of a modern and liberal Arab world. He was not an agent, not even an “asset.” He was simply and forthrightly a friend of the United States.
Rogers drove south on a spring day, navigating the hairpin turns that looped up and down the steep hills like thin strands of yarn, till he reached the village of Watani and the professor’s large, red-roofed villa. The professor, known to the villagers as “Sheik Elias,” greeted Rogers at the door. He was a gaunt, erect old man, dressed in the uniform of a Levantine gentleman: a crisp white shirt, a well-tailored gray suit, and a red fez. Standing next to him was Samir Fares, dressed in a baggy seersucker suit and looking more than a little uncomfortable.
Dr. Arslani apologized to his guests for making them travel to the mountains. He rarely went to Beirut anymore, he said. He found it too depressing. His goal as a professor had been to help train a modern civil service in Lebanon, the old man explained. But when he went to Beirut now and saw what had become of the Lebanese bureaucracy, he felt that his life’s work had been a failure.
“They are pickpockets,” Dr. Arslani said scornfully.
In his lapel, the old man still wore the fading emblem of the Order of Lebanon, awarded years earlier for his services to the republic. Looking at him, Rogers felt he was seeing a remnant of a vanishing era. Dr. Arslani excused himself after a few minutes and left Rogers and Fares alone to talk.
The conversation began awkwardly, since neither man wanted to admit, at this early stage of their discussion, what they had come so far to talk about.
“How is the new regime treating you?” asked Rogers.
“Well enough,” said the Lebanese Army officer. “They pay my salary.”
“Is it much different from the old?”
“We do the same things,” said Fares. “But we have stopped believing in them.”
“Why?”
“Because our job has become absurd,” said Fares. “We are charged with protecting the security of a state whose citizens no longer trust the state to do anything. So we are protecting something that is, in reality, nothing.”
“Why is this country unravelling?” asked Rogers, posing the question as much to himself as to the other man.
“Ask Dr. Arslani,” answered the young Lebanese. “He’s the professor.”
“You were his student,” continued Rogers patiently. “What do you think he would say?”
“He gave me a book once, years ago,” answered Fares. “It was a history of the Weimar Republic in Germany. It tried to explain how democracy collapsed in Germany. Inflation, demoralization, the growth of extremism. It was a story of how a country lost its center and collapsed from within. When Dr. Arslani gave me that book fifteen years ago, I wondered why. What could this possibly have to do with Lebanon? Now I’m beginning to understand.”
“What should a sensible German have done?” asked Rogers.
“If he had known what was coming?”
“Yes.”
Fares smiled thinly, almost grimly. He could see where Rogers was leading.
“He would have worked to strengthen the political institutions of his country,” said Fares.
“And if that was hopeless?” pressed Rogers.
“He would have left.”
“Where, do you suppose?”
Fares laughed.
“To America,” he said.
“Yes,” said Rogers. “I agree. That is what a sensible German would have done.”
Rogers decided then that he liked the young Lebanese and, what was considerably more, that he trusted him. The two men talked for another hour, still in vague and general terms, before emerging from the closed drawing room and joining Dr. Arslani for a pleasant lunch on a terrace overlooking the mountains and the sea far beyond.
Rogers and Fares met twice more before they concluded an arrangement. Fares was a professional, and he had no illusions about what he was doing. It was treaso
n. The only mitigating factor, he told Rogers, was that the way things were going, in a few more years there wouldn’t be a Lebanese nation left to betray.
Rogers explained what he wanted: access to the underground movement that was developing among the Christians of Lebanon.
“Let’s be clear on one thing,” said Fares. “All I can do for you is to make introductions. I have my own network of agents in East and West Beirut, and I hope that they can help me to penetrate these organizations. But it won’t be easy. The militias are very secretive and their members are intensely loyal to each other. It is like trying to recruit one member of a family to provide information about his brothers. So don’t get your hopes up.”
“We need to see inside the cave,” said Rogers. “We’re seeing shadows on the wall, but we don’t know whether they are made by a giant or a dwarf.”
“I know what you want,” said Fares. “You want to know who makes the bombs.”
“Yes,” said Rogers. “But I also want to understand why he is doing it.”
“Those are good questions,” said Fares.
To Rogers, that sounded like a deal.
“I insist on two things,” said Fares, when they were down to the final bargaining. He was puffing on his pipe, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air with each puff.
“First,” said Fares, “I want an annuity that will allow my wife to live comfortably abroad and my children to complete their studies in America if anything happens to me. And I want it done in a way that neither my wife nor my children ever know that you are providing the money.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Rogers. “We do this more often than you might imagine. We have accountants who can buy the annuity and establish a trust fund for your children, and brokers who can manage the money, all very quietly. We even have our own offshore banks and mutual funds in the Caribbean to handle the paperwork. What’s the second request?”
“It’s more complicated,” said Fares. “You may find this strange, given what I am doing, but I still love my country.”
“I don’t find that strange,” said Rogers.
“Good, because then you will understand what I am asking,” said Fares. “Several years ago, my commanding officer told me that someday I would run the Deuxième Bureau.”
“I hope he’s right,” said Rogers.
“Personally, I doubt it. But if it should ever happen, I want your promise that the agency will terminate me immediately as a controlled agent and allow me to serve my country honorably.”
Rogers thought a moment.
“I can make you that promise,” said Rogers. “What matters is that you believe me.”
Fares looked at him warily.
“We’ve been down this road before,” Rogers said matter of factly. He explained that the issue came up surprisingly often. People recruited by the agency when they were young men, studying in the United States or serving in junior positions in their governments, inevitably rose in the ranks. Some of them rose to the very top. The agency had dealt with the problem often enough that it even had a phrase for agents who did so well that it became embarrassing. They called it “the prime minister syndrome.”
“So you will never betray me,” said Fares.
“That’s right.” said Rogers.
“I suppose I should find that reassuring,” said Fares, extending his hand toward Rogers. “But even America cannot suspend the laws of human nature. Let us say that you will never betray me unless it is absolutely necessary.”
28
Beirut; May 1971
“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Fares told Rogers a month later over lunch at Le Pêcheur restaurant near the port. Rogers had finished eating and was smoking a cigarette as he gazed out across St. Georges Bay at the tramp steamers lying at anchor and the small boats used by the smugglers and fishermen. He had removed his tie and his open shirt was blowing in the sea breeze.
“Who’s that?” asked Rogers, turning to Fares. The Lebanese intelligence officer was wearing a tweed coat, which made him look all the more like a junior professor.
“He is a young agent I have recruited from a secret organization in East Beirut. He came to me because he is troubled about something. He won’t tell me the details, and he refuses to meet with anyone else from the Deuxième Bureau. He says that we’re penetrated by his people from top to bottom, and I suspect he’s right. But he is willing to meet with an American. I think he regards it as a sort of insurance policy. Any interest?”
“Definitely,” responded Rogers. “But I’m not putting any militiamen on the payroll.”
“I don’t think this fellow is interested in money,” said Fares. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“What kind of a Lebanese is he?”
“Confused,” said Fares. “He’s a bright young man, one of the top students at the Université de St. Joseph, who has seen something that terrifies him. His name is Amin Shartouni.”
“How did you meet him?” asked Rogers.
“His brother is married to my wife’s sister,” said Fares.
“How Lebanese,” said Rogers.
“I can arrange a meeting in a week or so,” said Fares. “But I warn you, he’s an odd fellow.”
“La puissance occulte!” whispered the tormented-looking young man. “They never teach us about it in school, but it is the secret history of the Middle East!”
Amin Shartouni spoke in a raspy, breathless voice—as if in a fever—at an apartment in Ashrafiyeh. He was a thin man with short curly hair and a look of intense concentration. His skin was the color of parchment and was drawn tightly across his face. As he talked, he wagged his finger at Rogers and Fares.
“What do you mean by ‘la puissance occulte’?” asked Rogers cautiously. “Is that some sort of organization?”
“No, no, no! Of course not!” said Amin in exasperation. “Are you a fool? It is not a single group. It is the hidden power behind all of the groups and leaders.”
“I’m still not sure I understand,” said Rogers gently, not yet certain whether he was talking to a lunatic or a useful intelligence asset. He prodded the young man. “Perhaps you could explain what you mean in more detail.”
“Very well,” said Amin. “I will give you an example. A new leader named Hafez Assad came to power in Syria last year. There is a story about the name. Should I tell it?”
Fares nodded.
“Very well. The name of his family was ‘al-Wahash,’ which means ‘the Beast.’ So he was Hafez the Beast. But he changed it to Assad, which means ‘the Lion.’ So now he is Hafez the Lion.”
“What about la puissance occulte?” said Rogers.
“I’m coming to that,” said Amin. “The question is, who is the real power behind Hafez the Lion? Is it the Syrian Arab Baath Party? No, of course not! Preposterous!” He snorted at the absurdity of the thought.
“The real power lies elsewhere, shrouded in mystery and deceit: Assad is an Alawite, and the hidden force behind him is the Alawite tribal council. Officially, there is no such council. Any Alawite will tell you that it does not exist. In Arabic, we even have a word for the lies we tell to protect such secrets. We call it taqiyya. But here is the truth. Assad’s father was a member of the Alawite council, and it was this council that selected Hafez as leader of the Alawites and ultimately as president of Syria! Do you understand?” He looked hopefully toward the American.
“Continue,” said Rogers.
“Ahaaa!” said Amin, pleased to have an audience. “Next, consider the Druse. Everyone assumes that the Jumblatt family controls the Druse, yes? But that is an illusion! The real power is not Kamal Jumblatt, but the secret council of Druse notables that chose him as leader. This council includes the Sheik al-Aql and others and maintains secret relations with the Druse of Israel and Syria. It is another example of la puissance occulte.”
“Tell me more,” said Rogers. He was becoming fascinated by this little dervish of a man.
/> “Yes, certainly,” said Amin. “Consider the Shiites. People imagine that the most powerful Shiite leader in the world is the Shah of Iran. Why not? He is the Shah of Shahs! He has money and palaces and tanks! But the reality is entirely different. The Shah rules at the sufferance of a humble man in Najf, who is the highest authority in Shiite Islam. He leads the ayatollahs of the Ulema, the Shiite religious council. If the ayatollahs ever decide to make trouble for the Shah, then poof! He is finished. Do you begin to understand what I mean by occult power?”
“I’m beginning to,” said Rogers. “But I would like another example. What about the Lebanese Christians? What is the hidden power that guides their decisions?”
An uneasy look came over Amin’s face. Rogers immediately wished he hadn’t asked the question. The young man’s hands fidgeted on the table and his eyes darted back and forth between Rogers and Fares.
“I cannot talk about that,” he said, shaking his head.
The meeting lasted thirty more minutes, but the young man had become wary. Rogers played for time by asking him simple questions: Where was he from? Where had he gone to school? Where did he work? Amin gave polite, cautious answers. When he opened his clenched palms, they were covered with sweat.
“We’ve talked enough for today,” said Fares. He suggested that the three get together again in two weeks. Amin nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
Before the next session, Fares spent several hours alone with Amin. Calming him, reassuring him, coaxing him. Fares felt like a doctor treating a patient who has been so traumatized by an event that he can’t bear to discuss it. They arrived together at the safe-house, doctor and patient.
Agents of Innocence Page 23
