“This guy loves pussy!”
Rogers groaned.
“No really, come here. Take a look at these pictures. When this guy tells people he put in a hard day at the office, he really means it!”
Spread out on Hoffman’s desk were a dozen glossy photographs, culled from hundreds that had been taken by the camera hidden in Jamal’s office wall.
“Check this out,” said Hoffman. “This is babe number one.”
He handed Rogers a picture that showed a blond woman with very large breasts lying spread-eagled on top of a desk. Her blouse was open and her skirt was pulled up to her waist. On top of her was Jamal.
“What a unit!” said Hoffman. “That girl’s got a pair of Hogans!”
“Hogans?” asked Rogers, who had never heard the expression before.
“Yeah, wise guy. Hogans. Bigger than big.”
Hoffman picked up another picture and studied it.
“Blow job!” announced Hoffman. “Yesirreee. No question about it. The woman is playing the skin flute! Eating tube steak!”
“I get the point,” said Rogers, taking the picture from Hoffman. It showed the blond woman kneeling on the floor, performing fellatio on the Palestinian, who was smiling and had his eyes closed.
“Don’t swallow it, lady! It might explode!” shouted Hoffman.
“Are you aware that we already have a file on this woman?” said Rogers, who felt foolish looking at dirty pictures.
“Hubba! Hubba!” responded the station chief.
“She’s a German girl,” continued Rogers. “She drives a red Ferrari and keeps house for a Lebanese millionaire. This is how she gets her kicks.”
“Outstanding young woman,” said Hoffman. “Sensational. No wonder the Germans lost the war. They were exhausted.”
He went back to the pile of photographs and pawed through them until he found the one he was looking for.
“Okay. Here’s babe number two,” said the station chief.
“First, we have a little get-acquainted shot.” The photograph showed a dark-haired women in a fashionable dress with her back to the camera. She was passionately kissing Jamal, who had his hand under the woman’s skirt.
Hoffman was already looking at the next picture. “Woof, woof!” barked the station chief.
He handed the photo to Rogers. It showed the dark-haired woman completely naked, kneeling on a desk chair. Jamal was entering her from behind. The woman was slender and her body was darkly tanned. She seemed to be a European, but her head was down, which prevented any clear identification.
“Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!” said Hoffman, handing Rogers yet another picture.
This showed the same woman, the same scene. Except this time she was looking up. Her head was turned toward the wall so that she was gazing, without realizing it, directly into the camera. Her eyes were wide open and her lips were curled seductively.
I’ve seen that face, thought Rogers. I know I’ve seen it.
“More!” shouted Hoffman, but Rogers ignored him.
Rogers saw in his mind’s eye another image. It was the face of a woman looking up at him coyly as she picked up her napkin from the floor at a dinner party.
“My God!” exclaimed Rogers. “That’s the French charge’s wife!”
Hoffman was jubilant.
“I love this job,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “It is a humbling reminder of the breadth of human folly and depravity. People really are capable of the most amazing things!”
Hoffman called in his deputy, who doubled as chief of operations, for a brief meeting to discuss the new piece of intelligence.
“Okay, boys and girls,” said Hoffman. “The first question is: Have we got anything we’d like to know from the Froggies? Because we’ve got a perfect chance to burn a certain French diplomat who might be a bit embarrassed to know that his wife is getting banged by a Palestinian terrorist in a black leather jacket.”
“And loving it,” said the chief of operations, studying the picture.
“I think we might let headquarters in on the fun,” said Hoffman. “Send these back home via diplomatic pouch, pronto.”
“Definitely,” said the operations chief. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose you have this woman’s phone number?”
“Grow up,” said Hoffman.
“The second question,” continued the station chief, “is what we do about donkey dick.”
“Jamal,” interjected Rogers, who was becoming increasingly dismayed by the course of events.
“Right. Because we have a serious problem on our hands. Either this guy is going to fuck himself to death, or he’s going to get killed by a jealous husband. Either way, he’s not a very good security risk.”
“Is he married?” asked the operations chief.
“No,” said Rogers.
“Too bad,” said the operations chief. “That makes him harder to blackmail.”
“Does the Old Man care whether he’s screwing every European broad he can find in West Beirut?” asked Hoffman.
“I doubt it,” said Rogers.
“How about his mother?”
“Chief,” said Rogers. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Hoffman. He turned to the operations chief.
“You don’t mind stepping outside for a minute, Pete? Mr. Rogers has something ‘private’ he would like to discuss with me.”
The deputy glowered at Rogers and left the room.
“Shoot,” said Hoffman when he had gone.
“I think we ought to be careful about using these photographs. They’ll tip off the French that we’re running surveillance on Jamal. And by the time the whole mess is over, we may find that we’ve caused more trouble for ourselves than for the French diplomat. As for Jamal, if you think you can blackmail him with dirty pictures, you’re crazy. He’ll just show them to his friends.”
“Now wait a minute!” said Hoffman. “I hate to break the news to you, but photos like these are the mother’s milk of our particular line of work. I’m not about to throw them away.”
“I’m not asking you to do that,” said Rogers. “But I’d like you to go slow.”
“So that you can do what?”
“So that I can make personal contact with Jamal. As soon as possible. That’s the only answer. Otherwise we’re whistling in the dark.”
“Hmmm,” said Hoffman. For once, he actually looked pensive.
“Hasn’t Jamal already told you he won’t meet you?” asked the station chief.
“Yes,” said Rogers.
“Well, he isn’t going to change his mind just because you ask him politely. This is what I have been trying to explain to you: You need a handle on him!”
“Let me try it my way,” said Rogers. “I’ve got some ideas.”
“Okay,” said the station chief after a moment’s deliberation. “As we say in the personnel-management business, it’s your ass.”
12
Amman, Jordan; February 1970
Rogers’s first plan was simple: trickery. He decided that he would wait for the next scheduled meeting between Fuad and Jamal, a few days hence, and crash it. He would be there in the safehouse when Jamal arrived, sit him down on the couch, and insist that he had to deal directly with an American. The worst that could happen was that the relationship would break off right then and there. Which would be better than waiting months before finding out that Jamal wasn’t willing to play ball.
The appointed day arrived. The meeting was set in an apartment in Ramlet el-Baida, near the seacoast. Rogers went early to the safehouse, waited for Fuad, and told him that there had been a slight change in plans. They would both be meeting with Jamal that day. He didn’t explain why, and Fuad didn’t ask.
Rogers and Fuad sat in the cheerless apartment for five hours, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the Palestinian. He never showed up.
Rogers suspected a double-cross. His fears were relieved by a bit of intelligence that arrived the next day. The Beirut station had learned from a source in the Deuxieme Bureau that a number of senior Fatah officials, including Jamal, had gone urgently to Amman, where some sort of crisis was brewing between the PLO and the Jordanians.