“Who did it?”
“That was where the American Embassy helped. They talked to their contacts in the Druse organization and identified the man who rigged the bomb. They even sent me a picture of the man. His name was Marwan Darazi.”
Fuad paused.
“There is a part here that I’m not sure I should tell you,” said the Lebanese.
“You should tell me everything,” said Rogers.
“Okay. That was the first time that I met Mr. Hoffman. He was the one at the embassy who brought me the picture of Darazi, the man who murdered my father. Mr. Hoffman said that they had checked and learned that this man was a Communist.”
Rogers felt his stomach tighten.
“Was he a Communist, this man Darazi?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mr. Hoffman told me so.”
“What else did Mr. Hoffman tell you?”
“He told me that I had a choice. I could get revenge in the Lebanese way, by killing Darazi. Or I could get revenge in the American way, by working to destroy the people who had created Darazi. The Communists.”
“And what did you do?”
“A little of both,” said Fuad. “Lebanese and American.”
“You killed Darazi?”
“No. I only wounded him. But I cleared our family name of shame.”
“What happened then? Didn’t Darazi’s people go after you?”
“Mr. Hoffman helped me to get out of the country, to Egypt. He found me a job there.”
“And then?”
“You know the rest,” said Fuad. “I am an agent. I work for you. I am at your service.”
Rogers took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He looked the young Arab in the eye.
“Is everything you have told me true?” asked Rogers.
“Yes,” said Fuad.
“Are you working for anyone other than me?”
“No.”
Rogers continued to look at him for what must have been fifteen seconds. Fuad did not blink. Rogers took his measure and finally looked away. You have to trust someone in this business, he thought to himself. Otherwise, what was the point?
“Trudie,” Rogers called to the other room, where the technician was waiting with her polygraph machine.
“It’s getting late. We’ll flutter him another time.”
Rogers shook Fuad’s hand, thanked him, and said goodnight in Arabic.
9
Beirut; December 1969
The covert relationship between the CIA and Fatah’s deputy chief of intelligence put down a first frail root in late December 1969. Even by the standards of the espionage business, it was an awkward and furtive contact.
Two things mattered to Rogers in planning this opening move. The Palestinian must understand that Fuad was an agent of the CIA and that Rogers was his case officer. And the Palestinian must signal his good faith directly to Rogers—even though he refused, for now, to meet with him.
A clandestine relationship had to begin as straightforwardly as possible, Rogers felt. Otherwise it soon became hopelessly tangled in the web of confusion and deception that was inevitably part of the secret world. Rogers also wanted to see Jamal in the flesh, to look in the eyes of this twenty-seven-year-old Palestinian and assess his character.
The arrangement was simple. Jamal and Fuad would meet at the sidewalk café in front of the Strand Theater on Hamra Street. They would sit down at a table together and order coffee. Rogers would walk slowly past the café.
As Rogers approached, Fuad would signal Jamal with a prearranged phrase, and Jamal would put his arm on Fuad’s shoulder. It would be understood that this gesture would mean “Fuad is my contact” and would signify Jamal’s willingness to deal with the CIA. The two sides were agreeing in principle to share information, but there was no commitment on the details.
Jamal asked that there be no surveillance of the meeting by either side, and he brought none of his own retinue of aides and bodyguards. In fact, he had told only one person about the meeting—a figure he referred to only as “the Old Man.”
“Tough shit,” said the station chief, when informed of Jamal’s request that there be no surveillance of the rendezvous on Hamra Street.
“Tell him we agree to his condition and then screw him. If he thinks we’re flying into this one blind, he’s crazy.” Rogers protested briefly but then gave up. He recognized that deceit was part of the business. Even so, it made him uncomfortable to begin a relationship of trust with a lie.
Hoffman assigned a small team of agents to cover the area. One would be positioned at a shoeshine stand across the street. Another would be in a café on the corner of Hamra and Rue Nehme Yafet, just west of the meeting place. Another would be just east, in a car parked on the corner of Hamra and Rue Jeanne d’Arc. The station chief insisted on photographing the rendezvous from several angles, so that there would be physical evidence showing Rogers, Fuad, and Jamal together. He arranged to have one photographer shooting from an office window across the street and one shooting from a parked car.
“We need a little control over this guy,” Hoffman said matter-of-factly. “A little something in the bank if he ever decides to play games with us.”
The rendezvous was set for two o’clock in the afternoon. Jamal was late, and Rogers worried that the operation had been blown before it started. But Jamal arrived at 2:20 p.m., sat down at the table with Fuad, and began chatting.
The Palestinian looked as sleek as ever. He wore the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the winter chill. But he left the top buttons of his shirt undone.
As Jamal talked with Fuad, his eyes panned Hamra Street. The Palestinian seemed to be as eager to lay eyes on Rogers as the American was to see him.
Rogers began walking slowly up the street, from the corner of Rue Nehme Yafet. He gazed up at the marquee of the Strand Theater, which was showing Ice Station Zebra that week, and then turned his head down toward the café.
Jamal had his arm firmly on Fuad’s shoulder.
Then something happened that wasn’t in the script. Jamal stared full into Rogers’s eyes and nodded his head.
Rogers kept walking. As he rounded the corner of Rue Jeanne d’Arc, he let out a little shout of pleasure, restrained but audible.
PART III
January–March 1970
10
Washington; January 1970
The Director of Central Intelligence had held his job so long and survived so many bureaucratic wars that people simply called him “the Director,” as if there had never been another. He was to the interagency conference room what Fred Astaire was to the ballroom. So smooth, so self-assured, so perfectly right in his role that even if he missed a step, you couldn’t be sure that he had gotten it wrong. Perhaps the choreographer had made a mistake.
Part of the Director’s charm was that he looked so precisely like what he wanted to be. Some people’s appearance is at war with their self-image. Not so the Director’s. He was a tall, patrician-looking figure, with thinning hair and a Roman profile, who had the useful talent of sounding disarmingly frank without saying anything injudicious. After a distinguished career in the agency, he had mastered the survival skills necessary to a DCI. He knew that his first priority was to maintain good relations with the president, the Congress, and the press, in that order. If those tasks were done, he reasoned, running the agency would take care of itself.
Though he was regarded as one of Washington’s most powerful officials, the Director understood the limits of his authority. He served at the pleasure of the president. His job was to do the dirty work and take the blame when things went wrong. And, of course, to keep his mouth shut. These tasks he did to perfection. To some of his colleagues, he seemed like a bureaucratic version of the English butler: more intelligent and better mannered than his master, yet always obedient, respectful, discreet.
What the Director didn’t like were surprises, especially when they ca
me at White House meetings. So he was particularly uncomfortable in late January 1970, when the “cousins” from British intelligence (as they liked to call themselves) threw him a curve ball.
The occasion was a meeting of the National Security Council attended by the British prime minister, who was visiting Washington that week. It was held in the Situation Room, a cramped, windowless crypt in the basement of the West Wing of the White House. The room featured a long teak conference table, polished to a bright shine every morning by a cleaning woman with a top-secret clearance; a dozen well-padded executive chairs that would allow the nation’s leaders to plan World War III in comfort; communications and audio-visual equipment that could provide information instantly from around the world; and along the outer walls, chairs for the aides who were allowed to attend the meetings, and did much of the work, but were not privileged to sit at the big table.
The British prime minister was a large man, whose face and figure had been ravaged over the years by the finest wines of Burgundy and Bordeaux. When it came time for him to speak, he made a brief address about the specialness of the special relationship, in which he managed to quote Winston Churchill three times in less than five minutes.
To the Director’s considerable surprise, the British official then launched into a discussion of the crisis that was looming in Jordan—the otherwise obscure Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan—where the friendly, pro-Western monarchy was threatened by Palestinian guerrillas.
“We feel that a most delicate situation has arisen in Jordan,” said the prime minister.
Americans around the room looked quizzically at each other.
“The King of Jordan has asked our advice, in the most urgent terms. And we are quite frankly at a loss what to tell him.”
The president nodded toward the Director at that point, as if to say: Will you please explain what in the hell this is all about?
The Director spoke up.
“The King is a worrier,” he said. “I have been holding his hand for the better part of a decade, and I don’t mind telling you that he is a worrier.”
“A what?” said the president, who had been distracted by an aide whispering something in his ear.
“A worrier, and I will give you an example to prove it,” said the Director. He loved telling secrets to those who were authorized to hear them.
“We have been working for two years to get the King together with the Israelis. Back and forth, yes and no. You can imagine. We finally succeeded in arranging a meeting aboard a speedboat in the Gulf of Aqaba between the King and the Israeli prime minister. Just the two of them. We provided the boat and, needless to say, we wired it for sound. Do you know what the King talked about most of the time? About how the other Arabs would try to kill him if he ever made a peace agreement. The man, as I say, is a worrier.”
The president cleared his throat. It was a signal that he was impatient.
“Excuse me,” said the president. “But the question is: Does the King have anything to worry about from the Palestinians?”
“Our judgment, at this point, is that he does not,” answered the Director. He summarized in a few sentences the most recent intelligence estimate of the situation in Jordan. The gist was that the Palestinian guerrillas were a rag-tag, irregular group and would be trounced by the Jordanian Army if it ever came to civil war.
The British prime minister broke in again.
“We shared that opinion, until recently, when we obtained a most interesting set of documents.”
The prime minister handed a copy to the president. An aide simultaneously handed a copy to the Director. It was a collection of several internal Fatah documents, translated from Arabic into English, outlining plans for a new government in Jordan. One of them was a handwritten note from the Old Man to a prominent Jordanian politician, offering him, in oblique terms, the post of prime minister in the new regime.
“What about all this?” asked the president, turning to the Director with a reproachful look.
“Our reporting is not dissimilar,” said the Director, stalling for time. “I’m reluctant to go into the details of what we have, for obvious reasons, but I don’t disagree with our British friends that the Palestinians are intent on overthrowing the King of Jordan. That information, if you will forgive me, is hardly a secret. To confirm it, all you need to do is listen to the radio. They proclaim it every day.
“The issue is what we should do about all this.” The Director emphasized the word “do” to make clear that this was an area in which the British contribution was likely to be modest.
“Precisely,” said the British prime minister. “Or to be more exact, what you should do, since we are in the process of withdrawing our forces east of Suez.”
The president looked to an aide, looked at his watch, and cleared his throat.
“Stenographer,” whispered the aide. A Navy enlisted man in a corner of the room took out his pad and pencil.
“The King of Jordan is a friend of the United States, and we intend to stand by our friends,” said the president. He nodded his head abruptly, as if that settled the issue once and for all.
The meeting turned to a discussion of NATO strategy in Central Europe that left everyone bored and confused, even the attentive aides sitting along the wall of the Situation Room.
The Director walked out of the White House that day still steaming about the British sneak attack. Obviously the Brits had promised the King of Jordan that they would plead his case. Outrageous. The Director made a mental note to make life unpleasant for the MI6 man in Washington. And he began composing in his mind the tart memo he would send to the Deputy Director for Plans telling him that he had dropped the ball on Jordan.
When he returned to his seventh-floor office at CIA headquarters, the Director called for Edward Stone, the chief of the Near East Division of the clandestine service. He did so partly to snub Stone’s boss, the DDP, and partly because he had grown over the years to trust Stone’s judgment.
Stone was a tough old soldier, a warrior-intellectual in the George Marshall tradition, who had made his name in the 1940s as an intelligence officer in London, working with the British to unravel enemy intelligence networks. So many years of living in London had given Stone a British look: he had a ruddy face and silver-gray hair that was always combed in place; he dressed in heavy wool suits with cuffed trousers; he wore sturdy, well-shined Oxfords that he purchased every few years from a shoemaker on Jermyn Street in London; he carried an umbrella even when it wasn’t raining. In his office, Stone had on the wall a paraphrased quotation from Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, mounted in a simple wooden frame. It read: “Gaze not too long into the abyss, lest the abyss gaze back at you.”
Stone arrived promptly at the Director’s office and stood stiffly in front of his desk.
“I’ve just come from the White House,” said the Director in a weary, pained tone of voice.
“I had to pretend to the president that I know what’s going on inside the PLO, when in fact I don’t know what’s going on inside the PLO. I can assure you, I don’t like being in that position.”
Stone looked distressed.
“Do we have any penetrations of these guerrilla groups?” asked the Director.
“Nothing very useful,” said Stone. “We bought a handful of Palestinians in Beirut and Amman years ago, but they don’t provide us with much.”
The Director was frowning and drumming his pen against the desk top.
“We have a promising operation starting up in Beirut,” ventured Stone. “One of our best young officers out there is trying to recruit a senior man in Fatah. It could be a real catch, but it’s the sort of thing that will take time to ripen.”
“We don’t have time,” said the Director, raising his voice slightly.
“We must recruit one of these fellows,” he said, talking as if he was describing a rival tennis team, “as soon as possible! I don’t care what it takes, what it costs, or who gets mad about it!”
The division chief nodded his head.
“There is a slight problem that I must bring to your attention,” said Stone.
“And what is that?”
“Our relationship with the Fatah official is currently structured as ‘liaison.’ ”
“Liaison?” asked the Director incredulously. “Surely you don’t mean intelligence liaison, like what we have with the British and French?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Stone.
“That’s completely mad. I don’t want to share intelligence with these hooligans. I want an agent! Someone who is signed, sealed, and delivered!”
“That’s our goal with the Fatah man, of course. But we aren’t there yet. So far he is only dealing with us through intermediaries.”
“Stone,” said the Director, who retained a schoolboy habit of addressing people by their surnames, “I want a penetration. And soon.”
Stone nodded.
“Right,” said the Director. “Let’s get on with it.”
The Director congratulated himself on his performance when Stone had left the office. He imagined the wave of activity that would be set in motion by this brief conversation: the cables, meetings, and shadowy contacts that would eventually—if they were lucky—start a stream of information flowing back toward his office.
That was the real secret about the CIA, the Director believed. Not its exotic tradecraft, but the fact that it was very much like the rest of the federal government. It was a pinhead: a vast body controlled by a small brain sitting in the White House. The president issued an order—or perhaps, like today, expressed concern about something during a meeting—and it reverberated through the government like a roar of thunder. Directors summoned division chiefs, who cabled station chiefs, who summoned case officers—and so on until the huge apparatus of government was mobilized to deal with an issue the president had probably long since forgotten.
Agents of Innocence Page 7