Fuad’s apartment was on a side street off Hamra. The street teemed with life. Sidewalk vendors noisily advertised lottery tickets and bootlegged cassette tapes. The neighborhood butcher hacked away at a carcass of beef hanging in his doorway. And a Turkish restaurant filled the air with smoke and the smell of charcoal and spices.
Stone, Hoffman, and Rogers made their way through this commotion and were waiting in Fuad’s apartment when Jamal arrived. The Palestinian was dressed in his usual defiant outfit: leather jacket, silk shirt open at the neck, and black leather boots.
Rogers met Jamal at the door.
“No guns,” said Rogers.
Jamal removed an automatic pistol from a shoulder holster.
“Sorry, but I’ll also have to frisk you.” He did so quickly and found nothing. He then escorted Jamal into the living room.
Rogers made the introductions, calling Stone “Mr. Green” and Hoffman “Mr. Brown.” Jamal regarded the three Americans warily. None of them had the self-importance of the man he had met in Rome. “Mr. Green” looked like an Englishman. As for “Mr. Brown,” he was overweight, his shirt was sticking out of his trousers, and he had a soup stain on his tie.
Stone took charge of the meeting. He had a military man’s way of asserting command naturally and spontaneously, through simple changes in his voice and posture.
“I have come urgently from Washington because of a matter of the highest importance to the United States government,” Stone began.
Jamal nodded. He pushed his hair back off his forehead.
“I would like you to listen to something,” said the American, turning to a large reel-to-reel tape recorder on the table next to him.
Jamal nodded again.
Stone flipped the switch on the tape recorder. The division chief watched Jamal’s face carefully as the recorder played the conversation between him and Omar Mumtazz. Throughout the conversation, even during the exchange about suits and shoes, Jamal’s face was impassive.
“We have absolutely no doubt that this is your voice,” said Stone, after turning off the machine. “I won’t trouble you with an explanation of the technical methods of analysis that allow us to be so confident that it is you. We also understand the meaning of the coded message. It is a request by you for guns and explosives.”
Jamal blinked. He took out a Marlboro cigarette. Stone continued.
“There is only one thing that concerns me. We have been told that you are planning to kill the President of the United States. If this is true, I must warn that you have embarked on a most dangerous course. One that will have ruinous consequences for you and your organization.”
Stone bowed his head gently, like a priest who has just given a condemned man the last rites.
“Is there anything you would like to say?” asked Stone.
“Yes,” said Jamal, his eyes flashing with anger. “The Libyan is a liar. If you believe him you are a fool.”
“The Libyan?” asked Stone blankly.
“Yes, of course, the Libyan! The Libyan named Omar Mumtazz, who smuggles guns and drugs. The Libyan who knows me as Nabil. The Libyan who has taped my phone calls. The Libyan who has made up a tale about me killing the president.”
“Ah yes,” said Stone.
Jamal relaxed slightly.
“Without of course confirming that this fellow-Omar, did you say?-was the source of our information, let me ask you a question. Why would someone invent a tale like that about an assassination plot?”
“To make himself important,” answered Jamal. “To give himself something to bargain with. I don’t know why. You tell me. Why do people sell false information to intelligence services? It happens every day.”
“Well, you’re quite right there,” said Stone. “Yes indeed. People do peddle false information. Quite right.”
“Of course they do,” said Jamal.
“But let me ask you another question. Why would you want to purchase this little arsenal of equipment? I believe the list included four pistols with silencers, one hundred kilos of high-velocity explosives. Why would you want to acquire these items?”
“That isn’t any concern of the United States!” said Jamal.
Hoffman, who had been listening in silence, leaned forward in his chair toward the Palestinian.
“Bullshit,” he said. “It’s our business now.”
Stone smiled genially at Hoffman and then turned back to Jamal.
“Perhaps you would like to tell us why this isn’t any concern of the United States.”
“Fatah is a military organization,” answered Jamal. “We are in a state of war with Israel. That is not a secret. We say it in every statement, every speech, with every breath we take. Also, it is not a secret that we are engaged in a struggle with other Arab regimes that want to destroy the Palestinian Revolution. Every military organization needs weapons. I won’t discuss the issue further. It is not your concern.”
“Young man!” said Stone sharply. “You needn’t lecture me. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the logistical requirements of military combat. But I fail to see what that has to do with a cache of weapons and explosives in Rome, and a plot to kill the President of the United States.”
“There is no plot to kill the President of the United States,” said Jamal again.
“Yes, of course.” Stone smiled solicitously. He had the look of a bridge player, watching the cards fall just as they should, each one dropping to the table despite the best efforts of the other side to resist.
“Mr. Ramlawi,” said Stone, using Jamal’s real name for the first time. “There are many questions that I could ask you. I could ask you about the organization called Black September and your own connection to it. I could ask you about the role that Fatah intelligence has had in establishing this organization. I could ask you where you were several months ago when an oil depot blew up in Rotterdam. Or where you were when an electronics plant in Hamburg was attacked. And I am quite sure that I would, in time, obtain the answers to such questions.”
Jamal was looking at the door, at the windows, obviously wondering whether he could escape.
“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” said Hoffman. “One move from that chair and you’re a dead man.”
The Palestinian settled back uneasily in his chair.
“The point I wanted to make,” continued Stone, “is that I could ask you those-shall we say, awkward-questions. But I will not, for the moment.”
“Good,” said Jamal. “It’s none of your business.”
“Let us assume, for the moment, that you are right. The military operations of Fatah are no business of the United States. None whatsoever. Let us go further and assume, for the moment, that the organization that calls itself Black September is none of our business, either. Now, you are a clever young man. Perhaps you can tell me what would allow me to make such assumptions, that Fatah and Black September are of no concern to the United States?”
“I don’t know,” said Jamal.
“The answer is quite obvious, really. What would allow us to make such assumptions is the certain knowledge that the United States and its citizens are in no way threatened by Fatah and Black September. Do you follow me?”
Jamal cocked his head and looked at Stone curiously.
“I know nothing of Black September,” said Jamal.
“Of course not,” said Stone.
“But I can tell you,” said Jamal, “that Americans are not targets of Fatah.”
“You don’t say,” said Stone. “Ah, how I wish I could simply take your word. But the problem, you see, is that there is no bond of trust between us. We have no reason whatsoever to believe your assurances. None. Now, how can we remedy that? I see only one way, and that is for you to make a gesture to demonstrate that you are telling me the truth. A gesture of good faith. Shall I proceed?”
“Yes,” said Jamal.
“The question is, what sort of a gesture would be appropriate? Do you have any ideas?”