There was a musty smell in the house. Rogers opened the windows to let in the sea breeze. Then he walked into the main bedroom, opened a compartment that was hidden behind a wall painting, and checked the taping system. It was a voice-activated Wollensak that automatically recorded anything said in any room of the house. There was a second recorder, hidden in a separate place, which served as a back-up, and Rogers checked that too.
Eventually, he settled into an easy chair in the living room and fell asleep reading a book called Arabian Sands, the memoirs of an obscure British Arabist.
When he awoke the next day, Rogers dressed for the meeting with Jamal in his favorite corduroy suit. But instead of his normal shoes, he wore a pair of fancy cowboy boots that his wife had given him years ago, and which he had decided in subsequent years were his good-luck boots. Then he sat in a chair and waited for the Palestinian.
Jamal arrived late that afternoon. He was driving a red Buick LeSabre that threw up a great cloud of dust as it came to a stop outside the beach house.
Rogers, expecting Jamal to be in his usual black leather, was surprised to see him clothed in a neat brown business suit. His long black hair, usually touseled, was brushed straight back from his forehead and combed tightly against his head. He looked like a young college graduate going to a job interview.
Jamal approached the door warily. Rogers saw in his face a shadow of hesitation and doubt.
“Come on in,” said Rogers, shaking the Palestinian’s hand and pulling him inside. Having waited months to meet with Jamal, he wasn’t about to lose him to last-minute indecision.
“Kadimta ahlan wa wata’ta sahlan,” said Rogers, using the formal Arabic greeting that means: You come as a member of the family, you walk on friendly ground. As he spoke the words, he put his hand over his heart.
Jamal made no response. He carefully eyed the room.
“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Let me take your coat.”
The Palestinian shook his head no. Rogers looked at him carefully and noticed a slight bulge in the jacket under the left armpit.
“Please,” said Rogers quietly. “No guns.”
He waited for Jamal to remove the gun. When he didn’t, Rogers spoke again evenly.
“This is a bad way to begin a friendship, to come into my house with a gun. Especially when I have no weapon to threaten you.”
Jamal narrowed his eye, as if measuring Rogers. The American looked even taller than usual in his cowboy boots.
Rogers held his breath.
Jamal removed his coat, slowly, revealing the shoulder holster and an automatic pistol.
“I am sorry,” said the Palestinian. He removed the gun carefully from the holster. The pistol was now pointed directly at Rogers. For an instant, it occurred to Rogers that the Palestinian might shoot. But then he laid the pistol gently on the table.
“I am sorry,” repeated Jamal. “I always carry a gun. It becomes a habit.”
Rogers relaxed. He offered Jamal a cigarette. The Palestinian insisted that Rogers take one of his. They both sat silent for a moment, smoking their Marlboros.
“Now I must ask you a question,” said Jamal. “Is there a tape recorder in this house?”
Rogers thought a moment before responding. Without honesty, he told himself, there is no possibility for trust.
“Yes,” said Rogers, looking his guest straight in the eye. “It is a standard practice.”
“Disconnect it, please,” said Jamal.
Rogers deliberated another long moment.
“I can’t,” he replied finally. “I could pretend to turn it off, but in doing so I would automatically activate a second system, which is installed for situations like this. There is no point in trying to deceive you. The tape recorder is part of our business.”
Jamal was silent for a long time. He turned away and faced the sea, so that his face was hidden from Rogers. Eventually he turned back.
“Let us go for a walk in the desert,” said Jamal.
“A reasonable compromise,” said Rogers. He gathered a blanket and a thermos of coffee.
“I have brought something for you,” said Jamal when they were seated on the sand a half mile from the house.
He passed Rogers a sheet of paper bearing a neatly typed list of five Arab names. Beside each was a second name and a number.
Jamal looked away from Rogers as he handed over the list. The transaction embarrassed him, just as it had embarrassed him to enter the safehouse. He was pulled in two directions: his head told him that meeting the American intelligence officer would serve the Palestinian cause; his heart told him that it was treason.
“I am providing you with this list of names because I have been authorized to do so,” said the Palestinian in a flat tone of voice.
“Who are these people?” asked Rogers, studying the names and numbers. The list was typed on plain white paper, with no markings that might disclose its source.
“They are members of the group that tried to hijack the plane in Munich last month. They are accomplices of the three who were arrested. The five accomplices were travelling on false Iraqi passports. The list shows their real names, their false names, and the passport numbers.”
“Are they members of Fatah?”
“No,” said Jamal. “They are all members of the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”
Rogers nodded. The DFLP was the commando group with the closest ties to the Soviet Union.
“You said you were authorized to give me this list,” said Rogers. “By who?”
“The Old Man.”
“Why?”
“Because Fatah opposes international terrorist operations. They are the tactic of madmen and provocateurs. Terrorism harms our cause.”
Rogers looked at him curiously. He found Jamal’s embarrassment more convincing than his speech.
The two men sat side by side on the blanket, legs crossed beneath them, staring west toward the setting sun. The springtime moss was turning a deeper green in the fading light.
Rogers poured Jamal a cup of coffee. The smell of the coffee was intoxicating in the desert air. As he poured a cup for himself, Rogers tried to decide whether to believe the Palestinian. He knew what the specialists back at Langley would say about the list of terrorists. That it was a throwaway. That the Palestinians must have assumed that the Munich police had already obtained the same information during interrogation of the three bombers. That it was an obvious ploy, which made Jamal more suspicious, rather than more trustworthy. Rogers knew the arguments the specialists would make because he had heard them in dozens of other cases. Usually, in his experience, the specialists were wrong. Sitting in Langley, they didn’t see the nervousness on an agent’s face as he met a case officer for the first time, or the look of distaste in his eyes as he took the first steps toward cooperation. They didn’t understand the nuances that made one person believable and another an obvious phony.
Rogers watched Jamal’s discomfort and wanted to say something reassuring. He recalled a passage from an Arab poet named Al-Moutannabi that he had memorized a decade ago while he was at language school.
It was about fate, and he recited it for Jamal in classical Arabic, the language of the Koran:
“ ‘We have walked along the path of life that was laid down for us, as must men whose steps have been ordained.’ ”
Jamal stared at Rogers. He looked tense and unhappy, as if he was about to explode.
“I am not a spy!” said the Palestinian suddenly. “I am not your agent! That is not my fate!”
“Of course not,” said Rogers.
“I am instructed in everything I do by the Old Man.”
“I understand,” said Rogers.
“Good,” said Jamal.
There was silence. The Palestinian, having vented his frustration, seemed to sit a little easier.
“Does anyone else in Fatah, other than the Old Man, know that you are here?” asked Rogers eventually.
�
�No,” said Jamal.
“That is sensible,” said Rogers. There was another interlude of silence. Okay, thought Rogers. At least it’s clear what he thinks he’s doing. He is an emissary from the highest level of the PLO to the United States. A conduit for information, not an agent. If that explanation makes him feel better, let him believe it. Rogers remembered some advice that an instructor had given him a decade ago. It doesn’t matter whether an agent is a double or a triple. So long as you know which.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed to talk with us,” ventured Rogers. “We’re not quite as bad as you may think.”
The Palestinian smiled for the first time.
“How can I not feel ashamed? Meeting with an American spy in secret in the desert. It is shameful. But do not worry. We Arabs have grown used to shame. It is like our mother’s milk. We live on it.”
The afternoon light was fading.
“Where were you born in Palestine?” asked Rogers.
“I was born in Iraq. My father went there in 1941 to work with the Germans.”
“There is an Arab saying,” said Rogers. “ ‘If she gets pregnant in Baghdad, she will give birth in Beirut.’ Perhaps that is your story.”
Jamal laughed. “You know too many Arab proverbs. Is that part of your spy training?”
“A hobby,” said Rogers.
Jamal lit up a cigarette, cupping the match in his hands to shield it from the wind of the desert. He ran his hand through his jet-black hair so that it blew in the desert breeze.
He is a vain man, Rogers thought to himself. Handsome. Clever. A born operator.
“I am a man who has barely seen his own country,” said Jamal, resuming his story. “We returned to Palestine from Iraq in 1945 but didn’t stay very long. My father was killed in 1948 by an Israeli bomb and my mother and I fled, first to Beirut, then to Cairo. I graduated from Cairo University in 1964. I have been moving ever since: to Kuwait, to Beirut, to Amman, to Europe. I am like the Bob Dylan song. A rolling stone.”
“You listen to Bob Dylan?” asked Rogers.
“I am a child of the 1960s,” said Jamal. “A flower child.”
My ass, thought Rogers. But he was right in a way. There was something about Jamal that captured the spirit of the time. The long hair, the sexuality, the worldliness that he seemed to have soaked up during his years of travel in the Mideast and Europe.
“Let me ask you a question,” said the Palestinian. “Why are you going to so much trouble to meet with me?”
Rogers thought for a moment. Tell him the truth, he said to himself.
“The United States Government wants to establish a direct line of contact with you. They authorized me to take whatever measures I thought were appropriate.”
“But why did you go to Amman during the fighting? You might have been kidnapped or killed.”
“Do you want an honest answer?” asked Rogers.
“Of course.”
“Because I felt that without some personal gesture by me, something that would challenge your assumptions about my organization, the operation would fail. Anyway, it wasn’t really dangerous. Nobody in the Middle East would dare harm a representative of the United States.”
“This is what I like about Americans,” said Jamal. “They are so naive. And so sincere.”
Rogers smiled.
“It is true,” he replied. “We are naive. But in this part of the world, where everyone is so worldly, perhaps that is not such a bad thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jamal.
“I’ve spent ten years now in the Arab world,” answered Rogers. “I’ve watched things go from bad to worse. I’ve seen the Arabs turned into cripples, humiliated by their enemies, mistrusted by their friends. Always blaming the Israelis for everything that goes wrong.”
Jamal nodded, It was true. Who could deny it?
“But the Israelis aren’t to blame for the tragedy of the Arabs,” continued Rogers. “I blame the Arabs themselves. They have become corrupted. By money, by the Russians, by too many lies. I truly believe that the only answer for the Arabs—above all, for your people, the Palestinians—lies with the United States. And I believe that we—you and I—can alter this story.”
Jamal clucked his tongue.
“I am serious,” said Rogers.
“What are you saying?” demanded Jamal.
“I am telling you that you and I, personally, can help change the story of the Middle East.”
“How?” answered Jamal. “Impossible!”
“I mean exactly what I said. I believe that a secret relationship between you and me—between Fatah and the United States—can change the history of this part of the world.”
“Your words may be sincere,” said the Palestinian. “But the dream is impossible.”
The sun had set now and the desert was turning chilly. The two men rose from the blanket and walked together back to the beach house.
“Do you have any whisky in the house?” asked Jamal. “I am a corrupted Arab.”
Rogers poured a double Scotch for Jamal and one for himself. He thought for a moment about the tape recorder and decided the hell with Langley. He turned on a radio, near the microphone in the living room. That should drive the transcribers crazy, he said to himself. Hours of Arabic ballads and chanting from the Koran.
“Come out on the deck,” he said to Jamal.
The Palestinian appreciated the gesture. He brought with him the bottle of whisky.
“So how do we change history?” asked Jamal, sipping his whisky and looking at the play of moonlight on the calm waters of the Gulf.
“By making peace,” said Rogers.
“On whose terms? Ours or the Zionists’?”
“Neither,” said Rogers. “Those of the United States of America.”
“For you Americans, the word ‘peace’ is like a narcotic. It lulls you to sleep, and you think it will do the same for everybody else. But it won’t!”
“There is an American peace plan on the table,” said Rogers. “I sent you a copy.”
“Yes, and the Old Man was pleased to receive it. But the Soviets told him when he was in Moscow last month that the American peace plan is dead.”
“They may be right, about the current version,” said Rogers.
Jamal looked at him with genuine astonishment. In the Middle East, such candor was rare indeed.
“The situation isn’t ripe yet,” continued Rogers. “The Egyptians and Israelis are telling us privately that they are interested in negotiations. But they are also in the midst of a war of attrition along the Suez Canal. For now, they would both probably rather fight than make peace.”
“That is what the Old Man says,” answered Jamal. “He is waiting for the next war.”
“So are we,” said Rogers. “That is the sad truth about the Middle East. The opportunities for creative diplomacy come after wars.”
“People who are humiliated in war cannot make peace,” said Jamal. “The Arabs must win this time.”
Rogers poured another glass of whisky for Jamal and one for himself.
“Let us suppose that after the next war, there are peace negotiations,” said Rogers. “Would Fatah agree to join in discussions?”
“That depends,” replied the Palestinian.
“On what?” pressed Rogers.
Jamal laughed.
“You are asking questions as if I was a foreign minister,” he said. “But I don’t even have a country.”
They stopped for food and more drink. The bottle of whisky was soon gone and they opened another. It was past midnight when they turned to the most delicate topic: the looming conflict in Jordan between the king and the commandos.
Jamal probed to understand the American position.
“If there is a real civil war in Jordan, will the United States stay out?” he asked.
“I can’t answer that,” said Rogers.
“Suppose there was a constitutional monarchy, with a Palestinian prime minister. Would Am
erica recognize such a government?”
“I can’t answer that either,” said Rogers.
“Well, what can you tell me?” demanded Jamal.
Rogers spoke very carefully. He had been briefed in detail on how to respond to queries about the situation in Jordan.
“The United States believes that the problems of the Palestinian people shouldn’t be solved at the expense of Jordan. The King is a loyal friend of America, and the United States will support him in taking appropriate measures to protect his kingdom. We hope that Fatah will act responsibly to avoid a confrontation. Fatah shouldn’t doubt American resolve on the Jordan issue.”
Jamal listened intently. Rogers suspected that he was trying to commit the statement to memory.
“Would you like that in writing?” asked Rogers.
“Please,” said the Palestinian. He looked embarrassed, as if he had been caught in the midst of his own espionage operation.
Rogers retreated to the bedroom and retrieved from his brief case two sheets of paper. He handed Jamal the one that contained the Jordan position, nearly word for word identical to what he had just said.
Jamal read the text several times.
“It looks to me as if you are telling us to go to hell!” said the Palestinian.
“No,” said Rogers. “But perhaps we are telling you to go to Lebanon.”
“And then?”
“On behalf of the President, I give you a commitment that the United States respects the legitimate rights and aspirations of the Palestinian people and will seek a just solution to the Palestinian problem in all its aspects, based on the principles set forth in United Nations Resolution 242.”
“Copy, please.”
Rogers handed him the second sheet of paper, stating the American position on the Palestinian problem.
“What does this statement mean?” asked Jamal.
“We shall discover that together,” said the American, more than a little curious himself.
The sun rose in a quick burst of pink at the eastern rim of the Persian Gulf, and then climbed majestically in the sky amid deeper tones of red and gold. Rogers and Jamal watched this splendid sight from their chairs on the deck of the beach house, where they sat drinking Turkish coffee.
Agents of Innocence Page 11