“Malheureusement, no,” said the cousin. “Perhaps next time.” That was her joke. She laughed and put one of her long slender fingers delicately on the strand of pearls around her neck.
A waiter arrived with a tray piled high with roast quail, which had been shot by one of the general’s sons. Madame Jezzine turned to Rogers and said quietly: “Do you see what I mean?”
Rogers nodded.
There was gay banter around the table. Rogers got into a conversation with a young man seated on his left, who was married to the well-dressed cousin. He was a smooth, carefully groomed young businessman who was working in Saudi Arabia. His name was Elias, and he seemed to have many political contacts in Lebanon and abroad. He made rude comments about the Saudis and their backwardness through much of the lunch.
When the meal was nearly done, Rogers turned back to his hostess. He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard by General Jezzine.
“Suppose I wanted to understand better the views of the Lebanese Christians,” said Rogers. “Who would you suggest that I go see?”
Madame Jezzine deliberated for a moment.
“My confessor,” she said softly. “Father Maroun Lubnani.”
“Where is he?” asked Rogers.
“Kaslik!” boomed a voice from across the table. It was the voice of General Jezzine. The usually stone-faced man was smiling.
22
Beirut; July 1970
Rogers travelled several nights later to the University of the Holy Ghost at Kaslik. It was a spectacular drive up the coastal highway, through East Beirut and the harbor of Jounie. There was a full moon out, painting a silvery beam across the Mediterranean and casting faint shadows within the dark stone cloisters of the university. It was an eerie landscape, drawn in shades of black, like a photographic negative come to life.
Kaslik was a symbol of Lebanon’s troubles. Once a sleepy religious institution, the university had in recent years become a center for militant Maronitism, a place where priests and students met to discuss Christian political tactics rather than theology. The issue was Christian survival, argued the firebrands of Kaslik. The Palestinian commandos had tipped the political balance in Lebanon toward the Moslems, endangering the protected status of the Christians. Some of the Maronite theorists went further and advanced the ultimate Arab heresy: the Lebanese Christians were like the Jews of Israel! Both were tiny islands in a hostile sea of Islam and Arabism. Before it was too late, the Christians should emulate the Jews and vanquish their enemies.
Father Maroun Lubnani met Rogers at the gate and escorted him to his monastic cell, a simple room that contained a narrow brass bed, a desk, two chairs, and a crucifix. Father Maroun was a sturdy man, built like a football linebacker. He wore a simple cassock with a rope belt, as if to say: I am a humble friar. Rogers didn’t believe it. He introduced himself to the Lebanese cleric discreetly, identifying himself only as a representative of the U.S. government who worked at the embassy.
Father Maroun gestured with his hand as if to say: Come now. Do you take me for a fool? The priest appeared surprised when Rogers spoke to him in Arabic. He said he would prefer to speak in French.
“Are you acquainted with the history of our Church in the Middle East?” Father Maroun asked.
Rogers didn’t answer, but it seemed that no response was required. Father Maroun had a prepared text.
“It is a history, I may say, of survival. It is the story of a mountain people who would not surrender their faith or their liberty.” As he spoke, the priest gestured with his large, thick fingers.
“Our ancestors sought refuge in Mount Lebanon thirteen hundred years ago, following a theological dispute in which they sided with Rome against Byzantium. They were driven from northern Syria into these mountains, and their ancestors have remained here ever since.”
The priest paused.
“Fighting for survival,” ventured Rogers.
Father Maroun looked at him with the pained expression of a professor whose lecture has been interrupted by an over-eager pupil. He arched his eyebrows and continued.
“The Maronites were never warriors. We were montagnards who fought only to protect ourselves. We welcomed other persecuted minorities into our midst: Greek Orthodox, Melchite and Syriac Christians, Druse and Alawite Moslems.
“As the centuries passed, we saw the rise of Islam and the periodic slaughter of Christians in the Middle East. The Armenians in Turkey, the Copts in Egypt, the Greeks in Anatolia. We saw people driven from their land. The Armenians lost their ancient kingdom. The Palestinians lost Palestine. The Jews themselves left Israel and were gone for nearly two thousand years! But we did not leave. We stayed in our mountains and created a nation—the Lebanon—that embodied our belief in freedom and religious tolerance.”
The priest paused and poured a glass of water for himself and one for his guest.
“Lebanon is under attack,” he continued. “The battle is just beginning, but the dimensions of the conflict already are clear. The Palestinians, who understand that they cannot regain their land from the Jews, have decided that they will take our land instead. The Lebanese Moslems, who are afraid of their Arab brothers and secretly dream of ruling an Islamic state, are encouraging the Palestinians to destroy Lebanon. Our corrupt government has nearly surrendered. They have given the fedayeen control over South Lebanon and allowed the gunmen to parade their weapons on the streets and highways. No true nation would tolerate such things! Even the King of Jordan, a frightened little man, will find the courage to expel these bandits from his country.
“And what will Lebanon do?” asked Rogers. As he listened to the priest, Rogers had in his mind an image. He saw a colorful sweater, frayed at the edge, and a man tugging at one of the loose strands of yarn.
“Make no mistake!” said Father Maroun, his voice rising. “We Christians will destroy Lebanon before we surrender! If the Lebanese government will not support us, then we will defy the government. If the Lebanese Army will not defend us, then we will form our own army! You Americans cannot stop us. Do not imagine—ever—that we will stand aside so that others can solve their problems at our expense.”
“Surely there is a way to save your country without committing suicide.”
The priest looked at Rogers and shook his head ruefully. How foolish you Americans are, his expression seemed to say.
“We are in mortal danger,” said the priest. “We look to you for help, as a child looks to his father. We are disciples of the Church of Rome. We are an island of freedom and democracy in the Moslem Arab world. We look to the West. A father who does not fight to protect his children is unworthy of respect!”
“And if the West doesn’t help you?” asked Rogers.
“We have other friends, closer to home, who understand our cause and are prepared to help us.”
“What friends?” asked Rogers.
“Our friends are discreet, and they expect us to be discreet also.”
The priest was exhausted. His face was red and his thick fingers were trembling. Rogers felt he owed the old man some sort of response.
“I cannot speak for my government,” said Rogers. “But I must tell you honestly, speaking for myself, that what you are describing worries me. I worry that in creating private armies, you will weaken the institutions of the Lebanese state, on which your people depend for their security.”
“Leave me,” said the priest. “I am tired. Especially I am tired of friends who say they care about us, but not enough to help us defend ourselves. Perhaps we need new friends.”
“Can I come to visit you again, Father?” asked Rogers.
The priest nodded.
Rogers left him in his cell with his head bowed in prayer.
Yakov Levi travelled the same coastal road toward Kaslik not long after Rogers. He was on a business trip for Franco-Lebanese Trading Co., to see a client in Jounie. If he made a stop along the way, and waited in a park in Ashrafiyeh, what of it? It was a lovely summer day. And if he
chanced to pick up a newspaper that had been left on the park bench, that was no crime. And anyway, on such a pleasant day, who would notice?
Levi drove slowly into Jounie, a port town that hugged the shore of a magnificent half-moon bay, a few miles north of Beirut. He parked his car, walked along the quay, and looked toward the Casino du Liban, which rested on top of a hill at the far end of the bay. Perhaps I will go to the Casino after lunch, thought Levi. Perhaps I will be lucky today.
Levi looked innocent enough: a small, wiry man with curly hair, a bit tense perhaps, but who was not these days? He walked through several stores, browsing, but keeping his eye on the door. He walked down the main street and then, as if he had forgotten something, changed direction. When he was convinced that he wasn’t being followed, Levi headed toward the outskirts of the town. Eventually, he came to a small dirt road that skirted a grove of olive trees. He stopped at a small religious shrine along the road. It was a terra cotta likeness of the Virgin Mary, hand-painted by a local artist so that she looked Lebanese. Arrayed below the figure of Mary, like a little altar, were candles enclosed in glass and prayers written on tiny scraps of paper. Levi felt embarrassed. The dead drop hadn’t been his idea, but the suggestion of an agent he had never seen.
Levi left a piece of paper under the right edge of the terra cotta statue. It was a handwritten note that included times, dates, and places.
“24 September, Paris. 10:00.” September 24, the day that a flight would be leaving Paris for Tel Aviv.
“8 October, 9:15.” The return flight from Tel Aviv to Paris.
“331-74-26-85.” The number of the Israeli Embassy in Paris, to be called only in case of an emergency.
Levi checked his watch. It was exactly 11:25 A.M. He looked over his shoulder once more and then crossed himself, in case anyone was watching. He felt ridiculous. A Jew, crossing himself before a Catholic shrine, on a dusty lane in an Arab country. It was too absurd. He continued on his way and eventually arrived back in Jounie in time for his business meeting.
The Israeli intelligence officer had left behind, in the roadside shrine, a message for a contact who, he had been told, was active in the Maronite Church. The message was an abbreviated itinerary for a trip the contact would be making to Israel in two months. The trip had been arranged at a level of the Israeli government far higher than Levi. The nominal purpose would be to visit the handful of Maronite religious institutions that still existed in Israel. But the Maronite cleric would be attending other meetings, with a range of Israeli government officials. It was a promising sign, the Mossad officials told each other, that the Maronite priest wanted to keep the contacts secret. That meant he had something to hide. Which suggested, in turn, that he was a serious man.
At noon, a lone figure appeared on the dirt road. He was dressed in a black cassock, wearing a gold cross. He carried in his hand a breviary, which was stamped in gold with his name: “Père Maroun Lubnani—L’Université du Saint-Esprit de Kaslik.” The priest walked to the shrine, removed a piece of paper, said a brief prayer, and, after making the sign of the cross, turned and walked back down the road.
There was a blizzard of cables from Langley that summer, so many that Rogers gave up trying to read them. All hell was breaking loose in Jordan. In early June, Palestinian commandos had ambushed the king’s motorcade and nearly killed him. Heavy fighting had erupted across Amman. The next day, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine had seized the Intercontinental Hotel, across the street from the American Embassy, and held eighty-eight hostages at gunpoint.
The crisis passed, but the Americans were becoming frantic. The king seemed paralyzed and unwilling to order the Jordanian Army to crush the guerrillas. The new Jordanian cabinet was said to have a pro-fedayeen majority. There were rumors that the Old Man was meeting openly with leading Jordanian politicians and sounding them out about becoming prime minister in a PLO government, once the commandos had toppled the Hashemite regime.
CIA headquarters was more eager than ever to recruit a top-level agent in Fatah. Marsh himself had assumed operational control of the recruitment of Jamal, following the botched meeting in Cairo. He was going to meet with the Palestinian—himself—and set things right.
Marsh cabled Hoffman in early July with details of the meeting with Jamal. They would rendezvous at a hotel in Rome. A support agent from the Beirut station should accompany the Palestinian. There would be a new arrangement for running the operation after the Rome meeting, once control had been established.
Hoffman asked Rogers to meet one last time with the Palestinian and brief him on the details of the Rome meeting.
They met at the safehouse in Ramlet el-Baida, on the coast. Jamal arrived without his black leather jacket, in deference to the midsummer heat. He wore a white T-shirt and blue jeans, which made him look even more than usual like Marlon Brando.
Rogers shook the Palestinian’s hand. Jamal kissed him on both cheeks. He seemed genuinely pleased to see the American case officer again, for the first time since their aborted meeting in Egypt.
“The last time I saw you,” said Rogers, “you were running down the stairs in a pair of sandals and a suit that didn’t quite fit. Evidently you survived the ordeal.”
“I enjoyed it!” said Jamal. “It was like a cowboy movie.”
“I didn’t enjoy it,” said Rogers. He looked at his watch.
“I don’t have much time, so listen to me carefully,” continued the American. “A very senior official of the American government wants to meet with you. He would like to continue the discussions you and I have begun.”
“Fine,” said Jamal. “If he understands the arrangement that you and I have reached, why not?”
Rogers said nothing. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Jamal.
“This is the address of the hotel in Rome where he will meet you and the time and day of the meeting. Fuad will go with you. He will give you money for the trip and arrange any other details.”
“When will you arrive?” said Jamal, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.
“I won’t,” said Rogers. “I’m not coming to the Rome meeting.”
“Why not?” asked Jamal.
“I’m busy with other work. And I think it’s important that you and the senior official have a chance to talk alone.” Rogers sounded almost convincing.
Jamal nodded his head, but he wasn’t pleased.
“I would prefer that you be there,” said Jamal.
“That isn’t an option,” said Rogers.
“Why not?” asked Jamal. “What has changed?”
“Nothing,” said Rogers. “Don’t complain about meeting someone from headquarters. It’s a sign that we’re serious.”
“But my understanding was with you, not the American government.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Rogers.
“What about your promises in Kuwait?”
“Stop it!” snapped Rogers. “You may think the world revolves around you and the Old Man, but it doesn’t. There are lots of other things going on, and I have other responsibilities. I’m not a babysitter.”
Jamal was stung. His expression had turned from enthusiasm to concern, and now to an angry silence. Rogers hated to wound him, but saw no other way to make the break that was necessary.
Jamal rose from his chair. He put the sheet of paper with the instructions on it in the pocket of his blue jeans and headed for the door. He had his hand on the door knob when he stopped and turned back toward Rogers.
“Will we meet again?” asked Jamal. There was something of the child in his voice.
“Of course,” said Rogers. “Don’t be melodramatic.”
“I have another Arab proverb for you to add to your collection,” said Jamal.
“What’s that?” asked Rogers.
“ ‘Entertain the Bedouin and they will steal your clothes.’ ”
Jamal let himself out the door. Rogers sat alone in the apartment for a few min
utes and then went back to the embassy and his paperwork.
23
Rome; July 1970
Rome was hot and sticky. The vines on the stone walls in the Villa Borghese looked wilted. The shops on Via Frattina closed early for the afternoon siesta. Even the lizards on the Palatine Hill hid beneath the rocks until it was dark.
Marsh made a point of not minding the heat. He believed that physical sensations, like fatigue or fear or heat itself, could be overcome by an exercise of will. With this in mind, he had purchased a pair of sunglasses when he arrived in Rome: the kind with thick black frames that the Italians liked. They made him feel cooler. So did his suit, a blue suit of tropical wool made by the tailor in Hong Kong he had befriended when he was stationed there. Many of his colleagues had left Asia in the 1960s with bullet wounds. Marsh had left with suits.
“Anyone for tennis?” Marsh asked his luncheon companions. They were eating at Il Buco, a small outdoor restaurant on Via Sant’Ignazio near the Pantheon. The other luncheon guests, sweating in the midday heat, looked incredulously at the visiting American. Except for a vivacious young Italian woman named Anna Armani. She was married to one of the generals who headed the Servizio Informazione Difesa, as the Italian intelligence service was then called.
“Andiamo!” said Anna. Let’s go! Her husband gave her a wink.
The general’s wife collected Marsh an hour later at the Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto and drove him to a tennis club north of the city. It was an elegant Roman establishment, with red-clay courts and street urchins in white shorts acting as ball boys. As they began to warm up, a look of disappointment showed on Anna’s face. Her American guest, though dressed in expensive tennis clothes from head to toe, was a player of modest skills. After they had played a set, Marsh proposed that they take a breather. As they walked toward the clubhouse, Anna Armani noticed that her guest was limping slightly.
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