Agents of Innocence

by David Ignatius

“Let us talk frankly,” said Porat. “When we ask for your help in fighting terrorism, we have in mind something quite specific. We assume that the United States tries, just as we do, to develop contacts within the terrorist organizations.”

  “No comment,” said the Director.

  “Of course not. But you asked me what we want and so I am telling you. We don’t know what contacts you may or may not have. That is none of our business. But we do want your help, whatever it might be, in destroying the Fatah terrorist arm that calls itself Black September. We will destroy this organization—and its leadership—whether you help us or not. But we would prefer to do it with your help.”

  The Director cocked his head and looked at Porat out of one eye. “But you haven’t told me yet how you want us to help you,” said the Director.

  “This is the Middle East,” said Porat, smiling. “A merchant does not name his price. So let us leave the question of how you might help us to the imagination.”

  “Very well,” said the Director. “Let us leave it to the imagination. We’ll get back to you.”

  There was another pause.

  “Say, Director,” said Cohen. “Listening to you talk about agreeing with Natan reminds me of the story about the rabbi and the two suitors. Have you heard that one?”

  “I suspect not,” said the Director.

  “Okay. There was this rabbi from Lublin who tried to resolve a quarrel between two men who both wanted to marry the same woman. Are you sure you haven’t heard this one?”

  “Quite sure,” said the Director.

  “Okay. The rabbi asks the first suitor to come and make his case, and the young man says he should get the girl because he has money, a good job, a handsome face. When he finishes, the rabbi says, ‘You’re right, I agree with you.’

  “Then the second suitor arrives and argues his case. And he also has a long list of reasons why the woman should marry him. Fame, fortune, eternal bliss. The rabbi hears him out and says: ‘You’re right. I agree with you.’

  “Now the rabbi’s wife, who has been listening to all this, goes over to the poor rabbi from Lublin and says he is crazy to be telling both of the suitors he agrees with them. She tells him he has to make up his mind and choose.

  “ ‘You’re right,’ says the rabbi. ‘I agree with you.’

  This time everyone laughed.

  The Director repeated the punch line to himself several times.

  The meeting turned from serious business to ceremony. Glasses of vodka were poured, Polish-style, and toasts were drunk to friendship and cooperation. Stone took Cohen aside as they were leaving and said that it might be a week or so before the Director would have a response to Porat’s request for American help in dealing with Black September.

  “What are they up to?” the Director asked Stone several hours later.

  They were walking along the beach. The Director didn’t dare discuss sensitive business with Stone in his hotel room, or even in the American Embassy. That was asking for trouble, given Israeli surveillance technology. Even on the beach, Stone was carrying a small portable radio to mask the conversation from the ears of any long-range antennae.

  “It’s a squeeze play,” said Stone.

  “Explain what that means for an old friend who never played baseball.”

  “The Israelis want us to give up Ramlawi,” said Stone. “It couldn’t be more obvious. They know we won’t admit openly that we’re running him as an agent, but they evidently suspect it. Putting his picture in with the other Palestinian mug shots was a clear tip-off.”

  “Obviously,” said the Director. “But of what?”

  “That he’s on their hit list,” answered Stone. “They probably mean what they said. They seem convinced that he’s part of Black September. Apparently they also suspect he was behind the Munich operation. And they probably do suspect that Ramlawi is planning to attack Americans. Maybe they’ve even heard about ‘Nabil’s’ supposed plot to kill the president. But that’s not really the message, the simple fact that they regard Ramlawi as dangerous to American and Israeli interests.”

  “Then what is the message?”

  “The message is that they are onto us. They know that we have contact with Ramlawi. And they are planning to kill him.”

  “And?”

  “And they want our help, either by passing on the intelligence take from Ramlawi, or in finding him.”

  “And killing him.”

  “Yes.”

  They were walking toward a more crowded area of the beach. Several girls were out frolicking in the late afternoon sun. They were dressed in tiny bikinis, little more than string and loose triangles of fabric. The Director, still dressed in his gray pinstripe suit, looked appreciatively at one of the girls. Though only a teenager, she had the largest breasts the Director could ever remember seeing. They were so firm that they barely seemed to move, even when she was running. The girl smiled back flirtatiously. Apparently men in pinstripe suits were exotic on the beach at Tel Aviv.

  “I rather like this place,” said the Director.

  The Director waved at the girl and walked on. He and Stone looked decidedly odd. Two men in business suits walking on the beach, one of them carrying a portable radio.

  “Edward,” said the Director, resuming the conversation. “Is there any reason to doubt that they’re right?”

  “About what?”

  “About Ramlawi being involved in Black September and Munich and all that?”

  “No,” said Stone. “Probably not.”

  “Well, then, why not burn him?” said the Director. “He’s expendable, isn’t he?”

  “Excuse me,” said Stone. “I didn’t get that.”

  “Burn him! Dump him. Give the Israelis what they want.”

  “Betray Ramlawi?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Director. “Why not? He sounds like a bloody bastard.”

  “Perhaps,” said Stone. “But he’s our bastard.”

  “What has he done for us?”

  “Not much, yet. But we’re only beginning.”

  “He’s a big boy,” said the Director. “Let him fend for himself. Need I remind you that this is an election year?”

  The Director was looking at a young Israeli maiden emerging, dripping wet, from the sea.

  “I would add,” said Stone, “that the Palestinian has placed his trust in us. He’s our man.”

  “Not any more,” said the Director.

  “Director,” said Stone gently. “I suspect that the Beirut station may have some reservations about this course of action. They have developed a relationship with Ramlawi. Perhaps we should discuss this with them before throwing him overboard.”

  “Sure,” said the Director. “I am quite happy to talk to anybody. But I’m not likely to change my mind.”

  Ahead on the beach, another stunning, dark-haired woman in a tiny bikini was approaching. The Director tipped an imaginary hat. The woman smiled.

  “Time for a swim,” said the Director.

  The Director made the grand tour of Israel. He visited the Wailing Wall and put a cardboard yarmulke on his head. He toured the Israeli nuclear facility at Dimona. He visited the Holocaust Memorial at Yad Vashem. He sat by the pool in Tel Aviv with his sun reflector, looking at pretty girls.

  Porat was the perfect host. Helpful, congenial, undemanding. He and his wife Naomi, a psychiatrist, gave a charming dinner party for the Director and his wife. Somehow, despite the presence of many Israeli officials, the party had the feel of an evening at home with the family, including several loud family quarrels.

  Nothing more was said about the Israeli request for help in the war against terrorism. Nothing more needed to be said. The Americans were on notice.

  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 Deuxième 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?”