“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 America 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.