“No.”
“Then I will make a suggestion. I would like you to order your men in Rome to dispose of the equipment obtained from the Libyan-the guns and explosives-in a place where we can monitor the disposal and confirm that it has taken place. Your people needn’t know why you are taking this action. You can tell them that the equipment is defective, if you like.”
Jamal studied the American.
“What difference would it make if we did throw away the guns and explosives?” he asked. “We could always get more weapons from some other source.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stone. “Quite right. As I say, this is simply a gesture of good faith.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then we will go and get the weapons ourselves.”
“Is that your proposal? That we turn over the guns and explosives in Italy?”
“Well, no” said Stone. “Not entirely. There is one other thing I have in mind. It’s the most important part, really. It would be a sort of agreement between us as gentlemen, summarizing the outcome of our conversation today.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Palestinian.
“It is what we in America would call an ‘understanding.’ ”
Jamal leaned forward, wanting to be sure that he heard every word.
“I would like your assurance that neither you nor your organization will conduct terrorist attacks against American citizens or facilities. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. As you can see from my presence here in Beirut, we take such matters very seriously.”
Jamal nodded. The Old Man was right, he thought to himself. They are scared.
“In return,” continued Stone, “I give you my assurance that my organization will regard your conflict with Israel as a state of war in which the United States is not a combatant. We will not interfere with your operations, so long as they don’t jeopardize American property, citizens, or interests. We will not interfere with the Israelis, either. We will leave them free to do whatever they can to destroy you. We may even applaud some of their actions. But we will not become involved directly. It is not our fight.”
Stone paused and smiled. “Can we reach such an understanding?”
“I cannot give you an answer,” said Jamal. “These are very important questions. I am not the one to decide them.”
“Of course not,” said Stone. “I quite understand. But perhaps you can relay our message to the appropriate person.”
“Perhaps I can do that,” said Jamal. His head was spinning. He was remembering what the Old Man had said more than two years ago, when he had first authorized contact with the Americans. We need a door to the West. Now that door seemed to be opening at last.
“What should I tell the one who makes decisions?” asked Jamal.
“Exactly what I have told you.”
“That the Americans are proposing a non-aggression pact?”
“Nothing quite so grand as that,” responded Stone. “We are simply saying that the United States is not a belligerent in the Arab-Israeli conflict. That is, and has traditionally been, the basic premise of our policy in the Middle East. We are asking you, in recognition of that fact, to avoid targeting Americans.”
“When do you need an answer?” asked Jamal.
“Tonight,” said Stone. “By midnight.”
“What if that is not possible?”
“Then we have a very serious problem on our hands.”
“I will do my best,” said Jamal.
“Good,” said the division chief. “We’ll be here waiting for you.”
Stone rose and shook the young Palestinian’s hand. Rogers returned his automatic pistol and escorted him to the door.
They spent the late afternoon and early evening playing poker. Hoffman won $400. His luck was uncanny.
Hoffman, exhilarated by his winnings, offered to make dinner. He sent Fuad out to buy food and two six-packs of beer. When Fuad returned with the groceries, Hoffman made a makeshift apron out of a bath towel, entered the kitchen, and prepared a dinner of spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, and ice cream with hot fudge sauce. The meal was excellent. The hot fudge sauce was especially good, made from melted squares of bittersweet chocolate. After dinner, Hoffman suggested more poker. There were no takers, so Hoffman played solitaire.
Jamal returned just before midnight. He was red-faced and out of breath. Rogers put him through the same drill as before, collecting his pistol and frisking him. The room smelled of garlic and chocolate.
Jamal sat down in a chair. He had tidied up his clothes since the earlier visit and was now wearing a business suit. It was almost as if he felt he were present at an historic occasion, like the signing of a treaty that ended a war.
“I have an answer,” said Jamal.
“Very good,” said Stone.
Jamal was still puffing slightly. He seemed to have trouble actually saying the words.
“So what is it?” demanded Hoffman. “What’s the answer?”
“Yes,” said Jamal. “The answer is yes. I bring you that word from the highest authority of Fatah.”
“And what is it that Fatah is saying yes to?” asked Stone.
“Fatah will not attack American citizens or property, on the understanding that the United States will take no side in our conflict with Israel. And we will dispose of the weapons in Italy.”
“One small point,” said Stone. “It goes without saying that I cannot speak for Congress, or for our various politicians. I speak only for my agency.”
“What is more powerful than the CIA?” asked Jamal.
“What indeed?” answered Stone. “Do we have an understanding, then?”
“Yes,” said the Palestinian.
“Excellent!” Stone turned to Rogers.
“You work out the details with Tom here. I trust that the two of you can meet from time to time to compare notes on the matters we have discussed. That won’t pose any problem for you, I hope.”
“We have met before,” said Jamal. “We can meet again.”
Stone put his hand on Jamal’s elbow and walked with him slowly to the door of the apartment.
“I am so pleased to have met you,” said the American. He said it like a headmaster bidding farewell to a guest at a tea dance.
Rogers was still savoring the evening’s events several hours later over drinks in a bar on Hamra Street. Hoffman had suggested the Black Cat, but Rogers had talked him out of it. Somehow, that didn’t seem like the right place for Stone, so they went to the St. Georges instead.
Rogers was awed by Stone’s performance and told him so. The division chief had manipulated the Palestinian as gently and precisely as if he had controlled him with invisible wires. He had led the Fatah man through a maze of options and decisions, convinced him that what served the agency’s interests equally served his own, and allowed him, in effect, to recruit himself. And he had worked this miracle with a man suspected of planning to kill the President of the United States!
“There is one thing that I should tell you in all candor,” said Stone, downing his second martini.
“What’s that?” asked Rogers.
“I don’t believe I mentioned to you earlier that on my way here from Washington, I stopped off in Rome for several hours. I had one of the boys from the Office of Security give this Libyan fellow-Mr. Mumtazz-a polygraph test.”
“What happened?”
“Generally, he did fine. But on that absurd business about the assassination plot, he flunked.”
Hoffman raised his glass in a toast.
“You did a swell job,” said Hoffman. “No bullshit. It’s a pleasure to watch a real pro at work. But I gotta tell you, my friends, that the fun in this case is just beginning.”
The glasses clinked. There was an interlude of silence as they drank and reflected on the extraordinary events of the past few days. Rogers remembered something Hoffman had said the previous day.
“Tell me about Willy, the agent from Budapest,” said Rogers.
“Naw, you don’t want me to tell that old story now,” said Hoffman. “Not when we’re celebrating.”
“Yes I do,” said Rogers.