Hoffman looked at Stone. The division chief nodded yes. Tell him the story.
“Okay, but it doesn’t have a very happy ending.”
“Just tell me the damn story,” said Rogers, who was slightly drunk.
“All right. We were running a string of agents in Eastern Europe after the war. A lot of them had worked for the Germans. They were tough little men. They hated the Russians and were eager to work for Uncle Sam. But they were also scared shitless that we would sell them out.”
“Why?”
“Because they weren’t stupid. You said you wanted to hear the story, so shut up.”
“Sorry,” said Rogers.
“Willy was the one I liked the best,” continued Hoffman. “He was a Hungarian, about forty years old. His whole family had been killed in the war. Blown to smithereens. At first I thought he was trying to atone, or get revenge, or something. Later on it occurred to me that he was probably just trying to make some money. Who knows? Anyway, we were running him in Hungary and he was doing jim-dandy work for us. He had a friend in the Hungarian security service who let him photograph documents. It was a nice little operation.”
“What went wrong?”
“One day the Brits approached us. They said they had evidence that our little man was a crook. Supposedly he was smuggling American cigarettes into Budapest to make a little extra dough. It was stupid of him and made him a security risk. So we were pissed. We called in our man for a crash meeting. We did it in an insecure way. Sent him a letter at his home address. Nobody gave a shit. We thought the guy had screwed us. In any event, this poor little fucker came to the meeting with me and Stone shaking like a leaf. He was a mess. He didn’t have good answers to any of our questions.
“I still kind of liked him. Felt sorry for him. I don’t know why. But the Brits said he was bad news. Mr. Stone agreed, and I agreed. Everybody agreed. So we told him sayonara.”
“Did you ever corroborate what the Brits said?” asked Rogers.
“No,” said Hoffman. “I told you. Nobody gave a shit.”
“What happened to Willy?”
“He was dead within six months,” said Hoffman. “Served him right, in a way”
“Why?” asked Rogers.
“Because he was a fool, to have trusted us.”
Stone stopped by Rogers’s office the next morning on his way to the airport. The older man looked fit and pink-cheeked. He was dressed in what, for him, were casual clothes: a bow tie, tweed jacket, gray trousers, and ancient but well-shined brown Oxfords. Stone closed the door behind him, looked for the couch, and when he realized there wasn’t one, sat down in a chair beside the desk.
“You are couchless,” observed Stone.
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.
“What rank are you these days?”
“I’m an R-6,” said Rogers.
“And when will you receive your leather couch and cherry-wood credenza?”
“R-3.”
“Ah well, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?” said Stone sardonically. “Sometimes I marvel at the pettiness of the United States government. Do they really imagine that people are motivated by the desire to obtain additional office furnishings?”
“Some people probably are,” said Rogers.
“Would you like a couch?” queried Stone. “I’ll get you one.”
“I don’t really care, to be honest.”
“No, of course you don’t.”
Stone adjusted his bow tie so that the two ends were precisely even and then got down to business.
“I want to discuss details,” said Stone.
“About handling the Palestinian?”
“Precisely,” said Stone. “God is in the details.”
Rogers nodded. Where is the Devil? he wondered.
“Now then,” said Stone. “I think that you should meet with PECOCK every few months, you or one of your agents. Keep him on a long leash. Don’t inquire too much about what he does. You’re not his nursemaid.”
“What do we do about the Israelis?” asked Rogers.
“Nothing.”
“But won’t they try to do something about Jamal?”
“I have no idea,” said Stone. “I can’t predict what anyone will do. Not the Israelis. Not us. Not our Palestinian friend.”
“What is he, exactly?” asked Rogers.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, is PECOCK an agent? An asset? A contact? What sort of relationship do we have with him?”
“Ah, yes,” said Stone. “Sticky wicket. What is this all about? Strictly for bookkeeping purposes, we will treat what took place yesterday as a recruitment, even though it wasn’t one in the usual sense. We will enroll this fellow immediately as an active agent, assuming that he follows through in Rome. The fact that he doesn’t consider himself an agent is fine.”
“That doesn’t pose any problem?” asked Rogers, remembering all the consternation this same question had provoked two years earlier in the discussions with Marsh and Stone.
“No problem whatsoever,” replied Stone serenely.
“Forgive me for asking, but does that mean the Palestinian won the argument?”
“Nobody won,” said Stone. “It simply means that we have learned our lesson and will not insist on control. In essence, we are accepting his definition of the relationship. If he asks, you should encourage him to believe that we have embarked on a sort of ‘liaison’ with him as a senior inteligence officer of Fatah. We have such arrangements with all sorts of disagreeable people. As I say, it isn’t a problem.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.
“Good,” said Stone, rising from his chair.
“Can I ask one more question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think that the Palestinian is involved in Black September?”
“Possibly.” said Stone. “Quite probably.”
“Does that bother you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it bother you that we are working with a terrorist?”
“Oh,” said Stone.
He turned and gazed out the window.
“Let me answer your question frankly, and you will forget that I ever said these words. Morality in the abstract is too large a problem for me to get my arms around. I leave it to moral philosophers. What I do understand is the practical matter of protecting the lives of American citizens. I have no doubt-none whatsoever-that the relationship we are embarking on will serve that goal. The rest is too complicated.”
PART VIII
June-November 1972
35
Tel Aviv; June 1972
Yakov Levi’s desk at Mossad headquarters looked out on the disorderly urban landscape of Tel Aviv. The building was in the center of Tel Aviv, near the old Haifa railway station, in the midst of the noise and commotion of the city. Levi was settling into his new job as the desk officer handling intelligence about the Palestinian guerrillas. He was still savoring his transformation. He was a hero. He had an office. He was home.
Levi gloried in the ordinariness of his new life. In Beirut he had gone to the office each day trussed in a silk tie and a business suit. Here he wore an open-neck shirt, loose-fitting gabardine slacks, and, in summer, a pair of sandals. Levi’s body seemed to relax as well. His hair lost the tight, wiry curl of Beirut and became softer and looser. The knot in his stomach also seemed to loosen and he stopped chewing antacid pills. He spoke Hebrew all day and night and revelled in it. When newly arrived immigrants approached him on the street speaking English or French, he would feign incomprehension.
Levi liked taking long walks at lunchtime. He would leave the Mossad headquarters building and walk down Arlosoroff Street toward the sea. He would pass Dizengoff Street, where many of the fine shops and stores were located, then continue past Ben Yehuda Street until he reached the beach and the Mediterranean. How different the sea looked here than it had in Beirut. So much calmer and cleaner, breaking on the soft sand of Israel rather than the rocky coast of Lebanon.
What Levi couldn’t quite fathom as he took these walks through the city was that all of the people around him were Jews! The people watching the movie in the theater on Ben Yehuda; the women in the department stores, the sales ladies and the customers, too; and the beautiful girls on the beach with golden brown skin, and the men playing paddle ball who were trying so hard to impress them. They were all Jews. That was the miracle of it. There was no one else to impress, to seduce or be seduced by.