But nothing in Italy is ever quite that simple. The SID at the time was split into two factions. One was pro-Arab, the other pro-Israeli. General Armani was part of the latter faction. He made it a practice, from time to time, to pass along to the Israelis bits of information he thought would interest them. They reciprocated with information that was useful to the general. It was a trade, the universal commerce of the intelligence business.
“I’m going for a little walk, darling,” said the general. He strolled to a pay telephone several blocks away and dialed the number of an Israeli friend. The general knew the phone was tapped-his own people did the tapping-so he muffled his voice and arranged a quick rendezvous in a bar near his house.
When the Israeli arrived, General Armani came quickly to the point: A CIA man named Marsh was in town. He hadn’t said why, but it was a safe bet that he had come to meet an agent. It was also a good bet that his trip involved an Arab. Perhaps a Palestinian, the general said. He thought the Israeli government would like to know.
The Israeli asked where Marsh was staying and what name he was travelling under. But the general begged off. There were limits, he said.
The information went into the Mossad files in Tel Aviv. It was one more bit of evidence to support a thesis that the Israeli intelligence analysts had speculated about often enough, but never explored in detaiclass="underline" the possibility that the Americans had secret contacts with the Palestinian terrorists. The subject raised the most awkward sort of question. If a friend has dealings with your enemy, is he still your friend?
Fuad arrived in Rome that night with Jamal in tow. He had reserved a suite at the San Marco Hotel, a modern and anonymous establishment on Monte Mario, overlooking the city. When the two Arabs pulled up to the entrance, the lobby was nearly empty and Fuad got nervous about security. He preferred a crowd. He told the taxi driver to take them into the city for dinner.
“Where you go?” asked the driver. Jamal spoke up, answering in Italian that they wanted to go to Sabatini in Piazza Santa Maria di Trastevere. It seemed that Jamal had been in Rome before.
They returned to the San Marco just before midnight. Jamal sat in the cocktail lounge, listening to a guitarist named Carlo Mustang, while Fuad checked in and went to the room. Thirty minutes later the Palestinian called Fuad on the house phone and discreetly made his way upstairs. The hotel, thinking that Fuad must be an Arab oil potentate, had sent up baskets of fruit and an arrangement of flowers.
The concierge called and asked in broken Arabic if the Pasha would like female company. Jamal answered the phone and said yes enthusiastically.
“Quattro, per favore!”
Fuad overruled him. Business before pleasure, he admonished his ward. Deprived of women, Jamal fixed himself a whisky and soda from the mini-bar and turned on the television, which was broadcasting American cartoons dubbed into Italian.
At eleven the next morning Marsh arrived and knocked twice on the door. “Is this Mr. Anderson’s room?” he asked.
“No,” said Fuad. “But Mr. Jones is here.”
Marsh, who liked tradecraft, had cabled the passwords to Beirut the previous week.
The American solemnly entered the suite, leaning on his new wooden cane and nodding to Fuad as if he was the maitre d’ in a fancy restaurant. Jamal stood in a corner of the room, wearing his usual black shirt and trousers. His hair, still wet from the shower, was combed back slick against his head. Marsh cleared his throat and extended his hand.
“I represent the National Security Council,” said Marsh. “I bring you greetings from the President of the United States.”
Jamal said nothing. Fuad suggested that everyone sit down.
“My government is very pleased with the work you have done for us,” Marsh began.
Jamal cut him off.
“I haven’t done any work for your government,” said the Palestinian.
Marsh peered at him over the rim of his glasses and then continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“My government hopes that our relationship can become stronger and more clearly defined.” He looked toward Jamal and smiled.
“Shu al haki?” said Jamal angrily to Fuad. What is this guy talking about?
Fuad excused himself for a moment and asked Jamal to join him in the bedroom. They talked noisily for a minute or so. An Arabic speaker could have heard Fuad repeating several times an expression that means: Calm down. Eventually they returned and the conversation resumed.
Marsh pressed on as if nothing had happened.
“We would like to hear your assessment of the situation in Jordan,” Marsh said. Jamal turned toward Fuad and answered the question in Arabic. It was intended as a sign of disrespect to the American, but the gesture was lost on Marsh. He assumed that the Palestinian spoke English poorly.
“The road to Jerusalem passes through Amman,” translated Fuad. “The King should go back to the Hejaz. If America isn’t worried that the King is finished, then why are you here, talking to a man from Fatah?”
“Hmmmm,” said Marsh. “That isn’t very helpful.” He posed another question, this time about Fatah’s contacts with Soviet intelligence. Again Jamal gave a vague and elliptical answer.
Marsh then asked the number of people under Jamal’s command in his section of the Rasd, the Fatah intelligence organization. He sounded like a man at a cocktail party who is running out of things to say.
“Very many,” said Jamal in English, smiling at the American.
“One hundred?” pressed Marsh.
“Perhaps. Perhaps more, perhaps less. I don’t know.”
The discussion meandered in this way for forty-five minutes, producing little of value for either side. Jamal asked several questions about American policy toward the Palestinian problem, eliciting long and ponderous answers from Marsh. As the discussion progressed, Jamal concluded that the American-though evidently a fool-was probably harmless. He missed Rogers.
Lunch was ordered. Fuad intercepted the waiter at the door to prevent him from glimpsing his two guests. Jamal poured himself a double whisky from a bottle in the bedroom and drank it down in several gulps.
Marsh proposed a toast to the future of U.S.-Palestinian cooperation. Jamal responded with a Lebanese toast -Kaysak!- which literally means: “Your glass!” Then he smiled and repeated the toast, changing the pronunciation slightly. Mispronounced in this way, the word meant: “Your cunt!”
When lunch was done, Marsh turned to Fuad and asked him to leave the room. “We have some matters to discuss,” the American said. Jamal protested, but Fuad was already out the door.
Marsh removed from his pocket a device that looked like a small tape recorder and turned it on. It made a babbling noise, like the sound of five conversations taking place at once.
“Security,” said Marsh with a wink.
Jamal clucked his tongue.
“Let’s talk business,” Marsh began. “As you may have guessed, I am an intelligence officer. I am familiar with the details of your case and I have read the full transcripts of all your previous meetings.”
Jamal winced.
“Oh yes!” said Marsh, nodding his head for emphasis. “We have all of those meetings on tape!”
Jamal lit a cigarette and seemed to disappear in the clouds of smoke. Marsh pursued him intently.
“I must also advise you that I am a senior official of my agency, unlike the people you have dealt with previously, and I am thus familiar with the broad aspects of this case.”
“What case?” muttered Jamal. He was slumped in his chair, like a teenager listening to an especially unwelcome parental lecture. His head was tilted so that he looked at Marsh out of half-closed eyes.
“Am I going too fast for you?” asked Marsh.
“No,” said Jamal, slumping even deeper in his chair.
“Good. Now then, I believe that our relationship with you has gotten off to a bad start because we haven’t clarified in a businesslike way the nature of our dealings. We are in the business of acquiring information. You have information that is of value to us. Therefore, a basis exists for a relationship that is mutually beneficial. But there must be no mistake-I repeat, no mistake-about who is running the show. There will be severe consequences for you if you fail to live up to your side of the bargain. Would you like me to detail those consequences?”