Stone looked away from Hoffman. His face was impassive.
“Tom?” asked Stone, nodding toward Rogers.
“I don’t know,” said Rogers. “PECOCK has a motive for going after us. He certainly felt betrayed after the Rome meeting. But not to the point that he would do something stupid. I agree with Frank. The assassination plot sounds a little far-fetched.”
“That makes it unanimous,” said Stone.
“I have another thought,” said Rogers. He was thinking, at that moment, about a message he had received several months ago from Fuad, noting the changed personality of Jamal Ramlawi.
“Please,” said Stone. He was rubbing his eyeballs.
“It’s simple, really. If we can believe what ‘Nabil’ said on the tape about obtaining guns and explosives, then it follows that he is building a network in Europe. Otherwise, he would just buy the stuff here in Beirut, which would be much easier. He’s buying it in Europe because he intends to use it in Europe. For terrorist attacks against Fatah’s enemies.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that perhaps we have blundered into the fringes of Black September. And that our Palestinian friend is one of its leaders.”
“That thought has unfortunately also occurred to the Director,” said Stone. “It makes this case rather awkward.”
“Awkward, my ass,” said Hoffman. “It makes this case fucked up. Let’s not mince words. What happened in this case was that a certain Mr. John Marsh made an inept attempt to buy a Palestinian, who got pissed off and became a major league terrorist, and is now turning his guns on us. That sounds like a fuck-up to me.”
“It isn’t helpful to personalize this, Frank,” said Stone.
“Isn’t it?” said Hoffman. “Because it seems to me that if the geniuses back at headquarters had listened to Rogers a year ago and not put the screws on this Palestinian kid, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Stone was rubbing his eyeballs again.
“Do you know what this reminds me of, Frank?”
Hoffman grunted a no.
“It reminds me of the old days in Germany after the war, when we were running our crew of Abwehr agents. Do you recall, for example, the unfortunate Czech agent from Prague? The one I was so enthusiastic about, whom you correctly pegged as a stinker.”
“I remember.”
“Tom, did I ever tell you the story?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers, remembering Stone’s account that night at the Athenian Club and the moraclass="underline" If your intuition tells you an agent is unreliable, dump him.
“Doesn’t this case remind you a bit of the man from Prague?” asked Stone again.
“Slightly,” said Hoffman. “But it reminds me even more of the agent from Budapest. Willy, I think his name was. Do you remember Willy?”
“Who’s Willy?” interjected Rogers.
“Ask Mr. Stone to tell you about Willy some time,” said Hoffman.
Stone looked even more tired than before.
“Poor dumb Willy,” continued Hoffman. “He learned one of the little secrets of the spy business, which is that sometimes we burn our agents. The people who have trusted us with their lives. We may not like it, but we do it. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stone?”
“I’m going to get some sleep,” said Stone, rising from his chair abruptly. The three men exited the surveillance-proof conference room in silence.
When the meeting broke, Rogers sent an urgent message to Fuad. He ignored the usual security rules and delivered the message orally, by telephone. The message was simple: Find our old Palestinian friend, no matter where he is. Tell him we need to meet him as soon as possible, within forty-eight hours at the very latest. Warn him that if he refuses the meeting, he faces the most serious consequences. Rogers spoke loudly throughout the conversation and by the time he finished, he was almost shouting. His tone left no doubt that this was a crisis.
The Americans were lucky. The Palestinian was in Beirut that week. He had arrived from Europe two days earlier and was leaving again the next Monday. Fuad found him in Fakhani, walking near the Arab University campus toward one of the Fatah offices. He hailed him like a long-lost brother and embraced him on the street. As he kissed the Palestinian on the cheek, Fuad whispered in his ear: “I must see you urgently.”
Jamal said he was busy.
“It can’t wait!” said the Lebanese. His voice was sharp and clipped. Fuad steered the Palestinian toward a large open area on the way to the new stadium, where they wouldn’t be overheard.
“The Americans say they must see you within forty-eight hours on a matter of the highest importance,” Fuad said. “They make threats about what will happen if you do not meet with them.”
Jamal clucked his tongue. He muttered an Arabic expression that means: So what?
Fuad took Jamal by the elbow and tried to talk to him as a friend.
“This is serious,” he said. “Do you remember the first American that you met? The one who called himself Reilly? I have never heard him so upset. He is always the calm one. You must come to the meeting. The Americans don’t make threats unless they are serious.”
“I will think about it,” said Jamal.
“No,” pressed Fuad. “They need an answer now.”
“Impossible. I need to talk to someone.”
“I will wait here in Fakhani for the answer,” said Fuad.
“Go back to Hamra.”
“I will wait here.”
The Palestinian gave up. He left Fuad standing near a lamppost on the road outside the stadium.
If the decision had been left to Jamal, he would not have attended the meeting with the Americans. Rome had soured him on dealing with the United States. But the decision, in the end, wasn’t his to make. It was the Old Man’s. Jamal sent a message to the Old Man’s personal secretary requesting a quick audience. It was granted late that afternoon. The Fatah leader refused his young protege nothing.
Jamal explained that the Americans had made an urgent request. He quoted Fuad. A matter of the highest importance. A threat of retaliation.
The Old Man smiled as he listened to Jamal. An odd smile of satisfaction.
“I don’t want to meet with them,” said Jamal. “The Americans are not trustworthy. It is too sensitive a moment. My work is too delicate right now, too dangerous.”
The Old Man was still smiling.
Jamal explained his reluctance with various circumlocutions. He was vulnerable. He knew sensitive information. There were operations that could be compromised. He didn’t say what he really meant: that he was one of a tiny handful of people who knew the secret of Black September; that the Americans might try to force him to divulge the secret. But he said none of that. The rules of the game required that no one even mention the words “Black September” in the presence of the Old Man. Jamal noticed, as he talked, that the Old Man wasn’t really listening. His eyes were wide with what appeared to be-how could it be?-a look of hope.
“I think we have won,” said the Old Man, when Jamal had finally finished.
“What, Father?” asked Jamal.
“We have won! The Americans are frightened. They have come to talk peace. That is why they want to see you. They understand that they need our help. You must see them.”
“I think you are wrong, Father,” said Jamal.
“I am right!” said the Old Man, beaming with the optimism that coursed through his veins like water through a rushing river. “We have won. Thanks be to Allah! You will see the Americans. That is an order.”
Jamal rejoined Fuad that evening. Yes, he would see the Americans. Fuad was overjoyed. He outlined the details. They would all meet in Fuad’s apartment in Ras Beirut the next afternoon. That was as close as they could come to neutral ground. Fuad pledged on his honor as an Arab and a Moslem that no harm would come to Jamal.
“If the Americans try any tricks, I will shoot them myself,” said Fuad. He patted a bulging object under his jacket. It was the first time Jamal had ever seen Fuad carrying a gun.