“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 th
e 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.
39
Beirut; October–November 1972
The dinner party that night for the Director and his wife went ahead according to schedule. It was hosted by Ambassador and Mrs. Wigg, who swallowed their pride and decided to ignore the rebuke at the airport. There was a lengthy guest list: Frank and Gladys Hoffman; Tom and Jane Rogers; Youssef Majnoun, the head of the Lebanese Deuxième Bureau, and his wife Brigitte; the recently appointed deputy chief of the Deuxième Bureau, Samir Fares, and his wife Hoda; Edward Stone, who was accompanying the Director; and as an extra woman to make the table come out right, Solange Jezzine, the estranged wife of the former head of the Deuxième Bureau.
It was a pleasant enough evening. The American men seemed a bit tired, especially Frank Hoffman. The chief of the Deuxième Bureau, Majnoun, was so intent on impressing the Director that he made a nuisance of himself. Samir Fares and his wife were clever and witty and made a favorable impression on everyone, most of all the American intelligence officers at the table, who had been paying Fares a generous stipend the last several years.
What the Director himself seemed to enjoy most was his conversation in the drawing room after dinner with the charming extra woman, Madame Jezzine. She was radiant: dressed in a stunning low-cut gown that showed off her figure, and wearing her hair up off her shoulders in a way that highlighted her long neck and cheekbones. She looked, the Director remarked to Mrs. Wigg, like an Arab princess.
Solange flirted elegantly with the Director, asking him about his athletic interests, expressing astonishment about his age. Jane Rogers, deep in conversation with Edward Stone about life in Beirut, couldn’t help overhearing the conversation and admiring the wiles and beauty of her friend Solange. The Director himself seemed ready enough to spend the rest of the evening with the Lebanese beauty. So he was dismayed when, after twenty minutes of conversation, Solange Jezzine excused herself and strolled out toward the garden, where Tom Rogers was talking to Samir Fares.
“Am I interrupting anything?” asked Madame Jezzine.
“Oh no,” said Fares. “I was just telling Mr. Rogers about the village where I was born. He must be very bored hearing about Lebanese villages. Why don’t you rescue him?”
“Happily,” said Solange.
“Would you like another drink, Tom?” asked Fares.
“No thanks,” said Rogers. “We have to be leaving soon.”
Fares walked inside, leaving the two of them alone in the garden.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” asked Solange. She asked the question like a spoiled little girl, her lips pouting.
“I haven’t,” said Rogers.
“Yes you have, and you shouldn’t!” said Solange. She had slipped her arm through Rogers’s and was walking him slowly down a gravel path in the garden, away from the house and the light.
Rogers felt his heart beating. He felt dreamy and light-headed. It was pleasant, for once, to be in the power of someone else’s personality. Solange leaned her head a little closer to his as they walked along the path. He could smell the perfume behind her ear.
Solange stopped. She turned her head up toward Rogers and spoke in a whisper.
“I’m on fire,” she said.
She kissed him on the mouth. Or he kissed her. It was impossible to know which. As they kissed, Solange put her arm around Rogers’s neck and gently stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. Rogers felt himself becoming aroused, which embarrassed him. Solange pressed tighter against him for a moment, as if to say, Yes, I feel it. I want it. Then she pulled away, smiling coyly and regally.
“You must visit me,” she said. She kissed him gently on the cheek and walked alone back toward the house.
Rogers composed himself. When he returned to the drawing room, the party was breaking up. The Director, deprived of Madame Jezzine’s company, had suddenly become tired and was saying his goodbyes to the Wiggs.
Jane Rogers was still rapt in conversation with Stone. It turned out that Stone had known Jane’s father, the Colonel, in London during the war. Jane was explaining, in a low voice, the volunteer work she had been doing with Palestinian women at the Makassed Hospital, which Stone heartily approved. The two of them were hoisting a second glass of brandy when Rogers walked over and mentioned that it was getting late. Jane gave Stone a kiss, said goodnight, and went upstairs to get her coat.
“Marvellous woman,” said Stone to Rogers. “I knew her father in the war.”
What a wonderful evening it was, said Jane as they were driving home. What a fine man Mr. Stone was.
“He saved my job today, I think,” said Rogers. Jane waited for him to explain, and when he didn’t she assumed that it was one of those things that her husband would tell her, if he could.
A week after the Director’s visit, Hoffman left on a trip to Saudi Arabia. The trip had come up suddenly, he said. He would be back in a few days. Rogers felt uneasy. Hoffman had kept to himself since the meeting with the Director and Stone, and whenever Rogers had tried to draw him out, Hoffman had made a crude joke or otherwise evaded Rogers’s queries.
Hoffman looked ebullient when he returned. He stopped by Rogers’s office on his way back from the airport and Rogers thought at first that it was a practical joke. Hoffman was wearing a well-cut silk suit and smoking a fat Cuban cigar.
“How do I look?” asked Hoffman. “Like a million dollars, right?”
“You look great,” said Rogers. “What happened in Riyadh? Did you hit the daily double at the camel races?”
“Better than that,” said Hoffman. “Much better than that.”
“What’s better than money?” asked Rogers.
“Even more money!” said Hoffman. “And that’s what you’re looking at!”
“Maybe you should explain what’s going on,” said Rogers.
“Gladly,” said Hoffman. And with a flourish, he withdrew a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to Rogers.
“Arab-American Security Consultants, Inc.,” read the card. “Frank Hoffman, President.”
“Oh shit!” said Rogers.
“You don’t like the name?” said Hoffman. “I was going to call it ‘AA-Arab-American Security Consultants,’ so it would be first in the telephone book. But then I realized that the Arabs don’t have telephone books, so what would be the use?”
“I’m not talking about the card,” said Rogers. “I’m talking about the fact that you’re quitting the agency. I can’t believe it.”
“Oh th
at,” said Hoffman. “You’ll get used to it.”
“No I won’t,” said Rogers.
“Have it your way,” said Hoffman. He was relighting his cigar.
“What happened? When did you do it? I thought everything had been settled between you and the Director.”
“Let’s face it,” said Hoffman. “I had to quit. I mean, really, how could I stay after what happened? I had no business talking to the Director like that. In an outfit like ours, you obey orders or you quit. It’s that simple. The Director should have fired me for insubordination. I decided to save him the trouble.”
“Wait a minute,” said Rogers. “Aren’t you being a little easy on the Director?”
“Maybe,” said Hoffman. “But I’ll tell you the truth. The Director may have been out of line the other day. But it isn’t really his fault. The truth is that this is a rotten business. You do terrible things and usually you don’t think about it. And then one day, you just get sick of it. You decide you just don’t want to eat another bite of the shit sandwich.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Security! Didn’t you read the card?”
“Yeah. But what does it mean?”
“For starters,” said Hoffman, “it means taking very large amounts of money from Saudi princes who are terrified that their Arab brethren are going to cut their throats. I intend to sell these gutless bastards the latest in security technology. Whatever will help them continue whoring and drinking in reasonable safety. Bodyguards, bullet-proof limousines, alarm systems. How the fuck should I know? I’ve only been in this business a few days.”
“So that’s why you went to Saudi Arabia.”
“We call it client development, in my new line of work,” said Hoffman. “And I’ll tell you, the Saudis are ready to be developed. The way I figure things, the richer they get, the more scared they’ll get, which means more money for yours truly. After just one trip, I have already lined up contracts worth nearly a million bucks. How does that grab you, junior?”
“Frank, there is nobody in the world I would rather see get rich than you.”
Agents of Innocence Page 36
