Rogers and Fares met twice more before they concluded an arrangement. Fares was a professional, and he had no illusions about what he was doing. It was treason. The only mitigating factor, he told Rogers, was that the way things were going, in a few more years there wouldn’t be a Lebanese nation left to betray.
Rogers explained what he wanted: access to the underground movement that was developing among the Christians of Lebanon.
“Let’s be clear on one thing,” said Fares. “All I can do for you is to make introductions. I have my own network of agents in East and West Beirut, and I hope that they can help me to penetrate these organizations. But it won’t be easy. The militias are very secretive and their members are intensely loyal to each other. It is like trying to recruit one member of a family to provide information about his brothers. So don’t get your hopes up.”
“We need to see inside the cave,” said Rogers. “We’re seeing shadows on the wall, but we don’t know whether they are made by a giant or a dwarf.”
“I know what you want,” said Fares. “You want to know who makes the bombs.”
“Yes,” said Rogers. “But I also want to understand why he is doing it.”
“Those are good questions,” said Fares.
To Rogers, that sounded like a deal.
“I insist on two things,” said Fares, when they were down to the final bargaining. He was puffing on his pipe, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air with each puff.
“First,” said Fares, “I want an annuity that will allow my wife to live comfortably abroad and my children to complete their studies in America if anything happens to me. And I want it done in a way that neither my wife nor my children ever know that you are providing the money.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Rogers. “We do this more often than you might imagine. We have accountants who can buy the annuity and establish a trust fund for your children, and brokers who can manage the money, all very quietly. We even have our own offshore banks and mutual funds in the Caribbean to handle the paperwork. What’s the second request?”
“It’s more complicated,” said Fares. “You may find this strange, given what I am doing, but I still love my country.”
“I don’t find that strange,” said Rogers.
“Good, because then you will understand what I am asking,” said Fares. “Several years ago, my commanding officer told me that someday I would run the Deuxieme Bureau.”
“I hope he’s right,” said Rogers.
“Personally, I doubt it. But if it should ever happen, I want your promise that the agency will terminate me immediately as a controlled agent and allow me to serve my country honorably.”
Rogers thought a moment.
“I can make you that promise,” said Rogers. “What matters is that you believe me.”
Fares looked at him warily.
“We’ve been down this road before,” Rogers said matter of factly. He explained that the issue came up surprisingly often. People recruited by the agency when they were young men, studying in the United States or serving in junior positions in their governments, inevitably rose in the ranks. Some of them rose to the very top. The agency had dealt with the problem often enough that it even had a phrase for agents who did so well that it became embarrassing. They called it “the prime minister syndrome.”
“So you will never betray me,” said Fares.
“That’s right.” said Rogers.
“I suppose I should find that reassuring,” said Fares, extending his hand toward Rogers. “But even America cannot suspend the laws of human nature. Let us say that you will never betray me unless it is absolutely necessary.”
28
Beirut; May 1971
“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Fares told Rogers a month later over lunch at Le Pecheur restaurant near the port. Rogers had finished eating and was smoking a cigarette as he gazed out across St. Georges Bay at the tramp steamers lying at anchor and the small boats used by the smugglers and fishermen. He had removed his tie and his open shirt was blowing in the sea breeze.
“Who’s that?” asked Rogers, turning to Fares. The Lebanese intelligence officer was wearing a tweed coat, which made him look all the more like a junior professor.
“He is a young agent I have recruited from a secret organization in East Beirut. He came to me because he is troubled about something. He won’t tell me the details, and he refuses to meet with anyone else from the Deuxieme Bureau. He says that we’re penetrated by his people from top to bottom, and I suspect he’s right. But he is willing to meet with an American. I think he regards it as a sort of insurance policy. Any interest?”
“Definitely,” responded Rogers. “But I’m not putting any militiamen on the payroll.”
“I don’t think this fellow is interested in money,” said Fares. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“What kind of a Lebanese is he?”
“Confused,” said Fares. “He’s a bright young man, one of the top students at the Universite de St. Joseph, who has seen something that terrifies him. His name is Amin Shartouni.”
“How did you meet him?” asked Rogers.
“His brother is married to my wife’s sister,” said Fares.
“How Lebanese,” said Rogers.
“I can arrange a meeting in a week or so,” said Fares. “But I warn you, he’s an odd fellow.”
“ La puissance occulte! ” whispered the tormented-looking young man. “They never teach us about it in school, but it is the secret history of the Middle East!”
Amin Shartouni spoke in a raspy, breathless voice-as if in a fever-at an apartment in Ashrafiyeh. He was a thin man with short curly hair and a look of intense concentration. His skin was the color of parchment and was drawn tightly across his face. As he talked, he wagged his finger at Rogers and Fares.
“What do you mean by ‘ la puissance occulte ’?” asked Rogers cautiously. “Is that some sort of organization?”
“No, no, no! Of course not!” said Amin in exasperation. “Are you a fool? It is not a single group. It is the hidden power behind all of the groups and leaders.”
“I’m still not sure I understand,” said Rogers gently, not yet certain whether he was talking to a lunatic or a useful intelligence asset. He prodded the young man. “Perhaps you could explain what you mean in more detail.”
“Very well,” said Amin. “I will give you an example. A new leader named Hafez Assad came to power in Syria last year. There is a story about the name. Should I tell it?”
Fares nodded.
“Very well. The name of his family was ‘al-Wahash,’ which means ‘the Beast.’ So he was Hafez the Beast. But he changed it to Assad, which means ‘the Lion.’ So now he is Hafez the Lion.”
“What about la puissance occulte? ” said Rogers.
“I’m coming to that,” said Amin. “The question is, who is the real power behind Hafez the Lion? Is it the Syrian Arab Baath Party? No, of course not! Preposterous!” He snorted at the absurdity of the thought.
“The real power lies elsewhere, shrouded in mystery and deceit: Assad is an Alawite, and the hidden force behind him is the Alawite tribal council. Officially, there is no such council. Any Alawite will tell you that it does not exist. In Arabic, we even have a word for the lies we tell to protect such secrets. We call it taqiyya. But here is the truth. Assad’s father was a member of the Alawite council, and it was this council that selected Hafez as leader of the Alawites and ultimately as president of Syria! Do you understand?” He looked hopefully toward the American.
“Continue,” said Rogers.
“Ahaaa!” said Amin, pleased to have an audience. “Next, consider the Druse. Everyone assumes that the Jumblatt family controls the Druse, yes? But that is an illusion! The real power is not Kamal Jumblatt, but the secret council of Druse notables that chose him as leader. This council includes the Sheik al-Aql and others and maintains secret relations with the Druse of Israel and Syria. It is another example of la puissance occulte.”