“I have come urgently from Washington because of a matter of the highest importance to the United States government,” Stone began.
Jamal nodded. He pushed his hair back off his forehead.
“I would like you to listen to something,” said the American, turning to a large reel-to-reel tape recorder on the table next to him.
Jamal nodded again.
Stone flipped the switch on the tape recorder. The division chief watched Jamal’s face carefully as the recorder played the conversation between him and Omar Mumtazz. Throughout the conversation, even during the exchange about suits and shoes, Jamal’s face was impassive.
“We have absolutely no doubt that this is your voice,” said Stone, after turning off the machine. “I won’t trouble you with an explanation of the technical methods of analysis that allow us to be so confident that it is you. We also understand the meaning of the coded message. It is a request by you for guns and explosives.”
Jamal blinked. He took out a Marlboro cigarette. Stone continued.
“There is only one thing that concerns me. We have been told that you are planning to kill the President of the United States. If this is true, I must warn that you have embarked on a most dangerous course. One that will have ruinous consequences for you and your organization.”
Stone bowed his head gently, like a priest who has just given a condemned man the last rites.
“Is there anything you would like to say?” asked Stone.
“Yes,” said Jamal, his eyes flashing with anger. “The Libyan is a liar. If you believe him you are a fool.”
“The Libyan?” asked Stone blankly.
“Yes, of course, the Libyan! The Libyan named Omar Mumtazz, who smuggles guns and drugs. The Libyan who knows me as Nabil. The Libyan who has taped my phone calls. The Libyan who has made up a tale about me killing the president.”
“Ah yes,” said Stone.
Jamal relaxed slightly.
“Without of course confirming that this fellow—Omar, did you say?—was the source of our information, let me ask you a question. Why would someone invent a tale like that about an assassination plot?”
“To make himself important,” answered Jamal. “To give himself something to bargain with. I don’t know why. You tell me. Why do people sell false information to intelligence services? It happens every day.”
“Well, you’re quite right there,” said Stone. “Yes indeed. People do peddle false information. Quite right.”
“Of course they do,” said Jamal.
“But let me ask you another question. Why would you want to purchase this little arsenal of equipment? I believe the list included four pistols with silencers, one hundred kilos of high-velocity explosives. Why would you want to acquire these items?”
“That isn’t any concern of the United States!” said Jamal.
Hoffman, who had been listening in silence, leaned forward in his chair toward the Palestinian.
“Bullshit,” he said. “It’s our business now.”
Stone smiled genially at Hoffman and then turned back to Jamal.
“Perhaps you would like to tell us why this isn’t any concern of the United States.”
“Fatah is a military organization,” answered Jamal. “We are in a state of war with Israel. That is not a secret. We say it in every statement, every speech, with every breath we take. Also, it is not a secret that we are engaged in a struggle with other Arab regimes that want to destroy the Palestinian Revolution. Every military organization needs weapons. I won’t discuss the issue further. It is not your concern.”
“Young man!” said Stone sharply. “You needn’t lecture me. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the logistical requirements of military combat. But I fail to see what that has to do with a cache of weapons and explosives in Rome, and a plot to kill the President of the United States.”
“There is no plot to kill the President of the United States,” said Jamal again.
“Yes, of course.” Stone smiled solicitously. He had the look of a bridge player, watching the cards fall just as they should, each one dropping to the table despite the best efforts of the other side to resist.
“Mr. Ramlawi,” said Stone, using Jamal’s real name for the first time. “There are many questions that I could ask you. I could ask you about the organization called Black September and your own connection to it. I could ask you about the role that Fatah intelligence has had in establishing this organization. I could ask you where you were several months ago when an oil depot blew up in Rotterdam. Or where you were when an electronics plant in Hamburg was attacked. And I am quite sure that I would, in time, obtain the answers to such questions.”
Jamal was looking at the door, at the windows, obviously wondering whether he could escape.
“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” said Hoffman. “One move from that chair and you’re a dead man.”
The Palestinian settled back uneasily in his chair.
“The point I wanted to make,” continued Stone, “is that I could ask you those—shall we say, awkward—questions. But I will not, for the moment.”
“Good,” said Jamal. “It’s none of your business.”
“Let us assume, for the moment, that you are right. The military operations of Fatah are no business of the United States. None whatsoever. Let us go further and assume, for the moment, that the organization that calls itself Black September is none of our business, either. Now, you are a clever young man. Perhaps you can tell me what would allow me to make such assumptions, that Fatah and Black September are of no concern to the United States?”
“I don’t know,” said Jamal.
“The answer is quite obvious, really. What would allow us to make such assumptions is the certain knowledge that the United States and its citizens are in no way threatened by Fatah and Black September. Do you follow me?”
Jamal cocked his head and looked at Stone curiously.
“I know nothing of Black September,” said Jamal.
“Of course not,” said Stone.
“But I can tell you,” said Jamal, “that Americans are not targets of Fatah.”
“You don’t say,” said Stone. “Ah, how I wish I could simply take your word. But the problem, you see, is that there is no bond of trust between us. We have no reason whatsoever to believe your assurances. None. Now, how can we remedy that? I see only one way, and that is for you to make a gesture to demonstrate that you are telling me the truth. A gesture of good faith. Shall I proceed?”
“Yes,” said Jamal.
“The question is, what sort of a gesture would be appropriate? Do you have any ideas?”
“No.”
“Then I will make a suggestion. I would like you to order your men in Rome to dispose of the equipment obtained from the Libyan—the guns and explosives—in a place where we can monitor the disposal and confirm that it has taken place. Your people needn’t know why you are taking this action. You can tell them that the equipment is defective, if you like.”
Jamal studied the American.
“What difference would it make if we did throw away the guns and explosives?” he asked. “We could always get more weapons from some other source.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stone. “Quite right. As I say, this is simply a gesture of good faith.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then we will go and get the weapons ourselves.”
“Is that your proposal? That we turn over the guns and explosives in Italy?”
“Well, no” said Stone. “Not entirely. There is one other thing I have in mind. It’s the most important part, really. It would be a sort of agreement between us as gentlemen, summarizing the outcome of our conversation today.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Palestinian.
“It is what we in America would call an ‘understanding.’ ”
Jamal leaned forward, wanting to be sure that he heard every word.
“I would like your assurance that nei
ther you nor your organization will conduct terrorist attacks against American citizens or facilities. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. As you can see from my presence here in Beirut, we take such matters very seriously.”
Jamal nodded. The Old Man was right, he thought to himself. They are scared.
“In return,” continued Stone, “I give you my assurance that my organization will regard your conflict with Israel as a state of war in which the United States is not a combatant. We will not interfere with your operations, so long as they don’t jeopardize American property, citizens, or interests. We will not interfere with the Israelis, either. We will leave them free to do whatever they can to destroy you. We may even applaud some of their actions. But we will not become involved directly. It is not our fight.”
Stone paused and smiled. “Can we reach such an understanding?”
“I cannot give you an answer,” said Jamal. “These are very important questions. I am not the one to decide them.”
“Of course not,” said Stone. “I quite understand. But perhaps you can relay our message to the appropriate person.”
“Perhaps I can do that,” said Jamal. His head was spinning. He was remembering what the Old Man had said more than two years ago, when he had first authorized contact with the Americans. We need a door to the West. Now that door seemed to be opening at last.
“What should I tell the one who makes decisions?” asked Jamal.
“Exactly what I have told you.”
“That the Americans are proposing a non-aggression pact?”
“Nothing quite so grand as that,” responded Stone. “We are simply saying that the United States is not a belligerent in the Arab-Israeli conflict. That is, and has traditionally been, the basic premise of our policy in the Middle East. We are asking you, in recognition of that fact, to avoid targeting Americans.”
“When do you need an answer?” asked Jamal.
“Tonight,” said Stone. “By midnight.”
“What if that is not possible?”
“Then we have a very serious problem on our hands.”
“I will do my best,” said Jamal.
“Good,” said the division chief. “We’ll be here waiting for you.”
Stone rose and shook the young Palestinian’s hand. Rogers returned his automatic pistol and escorted him to the door.
They spent the late afternoon and early evening playing poker. Hoffman won $400. His luck was uncanny.
Hoffman, exhilarated by his winnings, offered to make dinner. He sent Fuad out to buy food and two six-packs of beer. When Fuad returned with the groceries, Hoffman made a makeshift apron out of a bath towel, entered the kitchen, and prepared a dinner of spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, and ice cream with hot fudge sauce. The meal was excellent. The hot fudge sauce was especially good, made from melted squares of bittersweet chocolate. After dinner, Hoffman suggested more poker. There were no takers, so Hoffman played solitaire.
Jamal returned just before midnight. He was red-faced and out of breath. Rogers put him through the same drill as before, collecting his pistol and frisking him. The room smelled of garlic and chocolate.
Jamal sat down in a chair. He had tidied up his clothes since the earlier visit and was now wearing a business suit. It was almost as if he felt he were present at an historic occasion, like the signing of a treaty that ended a war.
“I have an answer,” said Jamal.
“Very good,” said Stone.
Jamal was still puffing slightly. He seemed to have trouble actually saying the words.
“So what is it?” demanded Hoffman. “What’s the answer?”
“Yes,” said Jamal. “The answer is yes. I bring you that word from the highest authority of Fatah.”
“And what is it that Fatah is saying yes to?” asked Stone.
“Fatah will not attack American citizens or property, on the understanding that the United States will take no side in our conflict with Israel. And we will dispose of the weapons in Italy.”
“One small point,” said Stone. “It goes without saying that I cannot speak for Congress, or for our various politicians. I speak only for my agency.”
“What is more powerful than the CIA?” asked Jamal.
“What indeed?” answered Stone. “Do we have an understanding, then?”
“Yes,” said the Palestinian.
“Excellent!” Stone turned to Rogers.
“You work out the details with Tom here. I trust that the two of you can meet from time to time to compare notes on the matters we have discussed. That won’t pose any problem for you, I hope.”
“We have met before,” said Jamal. “We can meet again.”
Stone put his hand on Jamal’s elbow and walked with him slowly to the door of the apartment.
“I am so pleased to have met you,” said the American. He said it like a headmaster bidding farewell to a guest at a tea dance.
Rogers was still savoring the evening’s events several hours later over drinks in a bar on Hamra Street. Hoffman had suggested the Black Cat, but Rogers had talked him out of it. Somehow, that didn’t seem like the right place for Stone, so they went to the St. Georges instead.
Rogers was awed by Stone’s performance and told him so. The division chief had manipulated the Palestinian as gently and precisely as if he had controlled him with invisible wires. He had led the Fatah man through a maze of options and decisions, convinced him that what served the agency’s interests equally served his own, and allowed him, in effect, to recruit himself. And he had worked this miracle with a man suspected of planning to kill the President of the United States!
“There is one thing that I should tell you in all candor,” said Stone, downing his second martini.
“What’s that?” asked Rogers.
“I don’t believe I mentioned to you earlier that on my way here from Washington, I stopped off in Rome for several hours. I had one of the boys from the Office of Security give this Libyan fellow—Mr. Mumtazz—a polygraph test.”
“What happened?”
“Generally, he did fine. But on that absurd business about the assassination plot, he flunked.”
Hoffman raised his glass in a toast.
“You did a swell job,” said Hoffman. “No bullshit. It’s a pleasure to watch a real pro at work. But I gotta tell you, my friends, that the fun in this case is just beginning.”
The glasses clinked. There was an interlude of silence as they drank and reflected on the extraordinary events of the past few days. Rogers remembered something Hoffman had said the previous day.
“Tell me about Willy, the agent from Budapest,” said Rogers.
“Naw, you don’t want me to tell that old story now,” said Hoffman. “Not when we’re celebrating.”
“Yes I do,” said Rogers.
Hoffman looked at Stone. The division chief nodded yes. Tell him the story.
“Okay, but it doesn’t have a very happy ending.”
“Just tell me the damn story,” said Rogers, who was slightly drunk.
“All right. We were running a string of agents in Eastern Europe after the war. A lot of them had worked for the Germans. They were tough little men. They hated the Russians and were eager to work for Uncle Sam. But they were also scared shitless that we would sell them out.”
“Why?”
“Because they weren’t stupid. You said you wanted to hear the story, so shut up.”
“Sorry,” said Rogers.
“Willy was the one I liked the best,” continued Hoffman. “He was a Hungarian, about forty years old. His whole family had been killed in the war. Blown to smithereens. At first I thought he was trying to atone, or get revenge, or something. Later on it occurred to me that he was probably just trying to make some money. Who knows? Anyway, we were running him in Hungary and he was doing jim-dandy work for us. He had a friend in the Hungarian security service who let him photograph documents. It was a nice little operation.”
; “What went wrong?”
“One day the Brits approached us. They said they had evidence that our little man was a crook. Supposedly he was smuggling American cigarettes into Budapest to make a little extra dough. It was stupid of him and made him a security risk. So we were pissed. We called in our man for a crash meeting. We did it in an insecure way. Sent him a letter at his home address. Nobody gave a shit. We thought the guy had screwed us. In any event, this poor little fucker came to the meeting with me and Stone shaking like a leaf. He was a mess. He didn’t have good answers to any of our questions.
“I still kind of liked him. Felt sorry for him. I don’t know why. But the Brits said he was bad news. Mr. Stone agreed, and I agreed. Everybody agreed. So we told him sayonara.”
“Did you ever corroborate what the Brits said?” asked Rogers.
“No,” said Hoffman. “I told you. Nobody gave a shit.”
“What happened to Willy?”
“He was dead within six months,” said Hoffman. “Served him right, in a way”
“Why?” asked Rogers.
“Because he was a fool, to have trusted us.”
Stone stopped by Rogers’s office the next morning on his way to the airport. The older man looked fit and pink-cheeked. He was dressed in what, for him, were casual clothes: a bow tie, tweed jacket, gray trousers, and ancient but well-shined brown Oxfords. Stone closed the door behind him, looked for the couch, and when he realized there wasn’t one, sat down in a chair beside the desk.
“You are couchless,” observed Stone.
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.
“What rank are you these days?”
“I’m an R-6,” said Rogers.
“And when will you receive your leather couch and cherry-wood credenza?”
“R-3.”
“Ah well, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?” said Stone sardonically. “Sometimes I marvel at the pettiness of the United States government. Do they really imagine that people are motivated by the desire to obtain additional office furnishings?”
“Some people probably are,” said Rogers.
Agents of Innocence Page 31