Agents of Innocence

by David Ignatius

  “Don’t suppose you’d like to join me in this raid on the Saudi treasury? I could use a partner.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rogers. “I’m not quite ready to pack it in here.”

  “Go fuck yourself then.”

  “Have you told the front office yet?”

  “Of course I have,” said Hoffman indignantly. “Just because I’ve become a businessman doesn’t mean I’ve become dishonest. I told the Director and Stone ten days ago, just before they left Beirut.”

  “They certainly kept it to themselves,” said Rogers.

  “They’re that way, if you hadn’t noticed. They don’t tell the troops any more than they have to.”

  Rogers looked at Hoffman, resplendent in his new suit, a silk handkerchief in his pocket, a pair of expensive alligator shoes on his feet. Rogers shook his head. There was something he didn’t quite understand.

  “You know, Frank, somehow I never imagined you as a businessman. In fact, it never really occurred to me that you were all that interested in making money.”

  “Life is full of surprises, kid,” said Hoffman. “Sometimes we do things for no reason other than the simple fact that we fucking well feel like it. And do you know what? It feels good.”

  With that, Hoffman headed off to his own office, a bouquet of flowers in his hand to give to his secretary, Miss Pugh. Rogers looked at the card in his hand, bearing the imprint of Arab-American Security Consultants, and laughed from deep in his gut, for what seemed like the first time in a very long while.

  Several days after Hoffman’s announcement that he was quitting, Rogers travelled to the mountains east of Beirut to meet with Samir Fares of the Deuxième Bureau. It was a routine meeting, intended partly to reassure Fares and his colleagues in the Lebanese intelligence service that Hoffman’s departure didn’t imply any change in agency policy toward Lebanon or the Middle East.

  On his way back, Rogers did something that, for him, was very unusual. He acted on impulse.

  He was driving along the road looking at the scenery when it occurred to him that he was near the village where the Jezzines lived. And he decided, without really thinking about it very much, without considering the consequences for his marriage or his life or anything else, to stop and pay a visit to Solange Jezzine. He had dreamed often enough about having an affair with her, in a casual sort of way. But his idle fantasizing had very little to do with the deliberate, impulsive decision that day to turn the wheel of the car hard to the right, head down a different road in the Lebanese mountains, and step on the gas pedal. It had less to do, at that moment, with sexual desire than with curiosity, an impulse to do something different, whose outcome wasn’t predictable or even under his control.

  As Rogers drove the car up the cedar-lined drive toward the Jezzines’ house, he felt his heart racing. Gone were the tough-looking young men with automatic weapons who used to police the grounds in the old days, when General Jezzine ran the Deuxième Bureau. Manning the front gate instead was an older man who looked like a gardener.

  Rogers gave his name to the gatekeeper, who phoned to the big house on an intercom and then waved Rogers through. Rogers parked his car in front of the great stone mansion. There was no sign of the general, or of anyone else, for that matter. As Rogers stepped out of the car, he saw a woman’s face peering down at him from an upstairs window.

  He rang the bell. A maid answered the door and escorted him to the living room, where she asked him to wait. There was a great stack of European fashion magazines on the coffee table. Rogers admired the pictures. Many of the women, he thought, had the same radiant and exotic look as Solange. He turned the pages. His palms were moist. The maid returned after five minutes carrying a vellum envelope on a silver tray. It was like the letter she had sent Rogers many months ago. Crisp and creamy and tied with a red ribbon. Inside the envelope was a note: “My darling. You have come to me at last. In a few minutes, I am yours.”

  The seduction began as Rogers sat there on the couch, the vellum notepaper in his hand, imagining Solange. He could see her body. The long curves of her legs, the gentle slope of her thighs, the fullness of her breasts, the radiance of her face. The scent of her body, not just the perfume bought in Paris, but the fragrance of olive and jasmine on her skin. The look of her eyes, so deep and dark, inviting pleasure and seduction.

  There was a sound on the stairs. Rogers turned and saw her walking toward him, dressed in a silk robe, even more beautiful than he had imagined. Her lips were open in the shape of a kiss. She walked toward Rogers silently, took his hand in hers, and led him to a room that had once been the library, but had now been made over into a kind of harem chamber. There were no couches, only large pillows on the floor. A broad shaft of light streamed through the filmy curtains that covered the windows, and there was a slight breeze blowing.

  Solange closed the door and locked it. Rogers moved toward her hungrily, but she held up a finger, bidding him to stop. I will take you, her eyes said. She took his hand and led him to one of the large pillows and bade him sit down. She took his shoes off, one by one. Then his socks. She unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, then gently unfastened his trousers. She was a courtesan now, kneeling gracefully on the floor before Rogers. As she leaned toward him, Rogers glimpsed through her silk robe the curve of her breasts. She was all softness.

  When Rogers was naked, Solange rose from the floor and stood silently before him. She slid the silk robe off her shoulders so that it clung briefly to her breasts and then fell gently to the floor. She was perfectly naked except for a gold chain around her waist, hanging low on the curve of her belly.

  Rogers thought momentarily of the consequences of this act of pleasure and disorder. But only a moment.

  “Come to me,” said Solange Jezzine as she arranged herself on one of the fat pillows on the floor. And Rogers did. He surrendered himself entirely to the woman, her beauty, her eroticism. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of pleasure. It was a heady feeling, like falling from a great height in a dream.

  PART IX

  June 1978–January 1979

  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 gr
een 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.

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p; “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.