“More goodies?” said the Director, opening the second envelope. This one contained the names, photographs, and passport numbers of a dozen Arabs.
“These gentlemen are Palestinian terrorists,” said Porat. “Most of them are members of the PFLP, although some also maintain contact with Fatah. Several are connected with Black September. We have reason to believe that they are planning attacks against American targets over the next six to twelve months. We thought you would be interested.”
“Indeed we are,” said the Director. He handed the packet to Stone, who began leafing casually through the dozen photographs. Porat watched Stone intently as he thumbed through the packet. Stone paused for an instant when he saw the face of Jamal Ramlawi.
“We like to help our friends,” said Porat crisply. “And we hope that our friends will help us.”
“What can we do for you?” asked the Director once again.
“Israel has a terrorism problem. That is no secret to you. What you may not realize is that we have decided to take the most aggressive measures to deal with the problem.”
“What does that mean?” asked the Director. As he spoke, he was picking pieces of lint off the legs of his gray pinstripe trousers.
“I will tell you exactly what it means,” said Porat. “We are going to war with Black September. We intend to eliminate its leaders-every one of them-before they kill any more of our people. And we will punish those who planned the Munich massacre in the only way that is appropriate.”
“I don’t think I need any more details, thank you,” said the Director.
“Good.”
“I have a question, Nathan…”
“Natan,” said Porat, correcting him.
“What I’m not clear about, Natan, is what you want us to do?”
“Let us talk frankly,” said Porat. “When we ask for your help in fighting terrorism, we have in mind something quite specific. We assume that the United States tries, just as we do, to develop contacts within the terrorist organizations.”
“No comment,” said the Director.
“Of course not. But you asked me what we want and so I am telling you. We don’t know what contacts you may or may not have. That is none of our business. But we do want your help, whatever it might be, in destroying the Fatah terrorist arm that calls itself Black September. We will destroy this organization-and its leadership-whether you help us or not. But we would prefer to do it with your help.”
The Director cocked his head and looked at Porat out of one eye. “But you haven’t told me yet how you want us to help you,” said the Director.
“This is the Middle East,” said Porat, smiling. “A merchant does not name his price. So let us leave the question of how you might help us to the imagination.”
“Very well,” said the Director. “Let us leave it to the imagination. We’ll get back to you.”
There was another pause.
“Say, Director,” said Cohen. “Listening to you talk about agreeing with Natan reminds me of the story about the rabbi and the two suitors. Have you heard that one?”
“I suspect not,” said the Director.
“Okay. There was this rabbi from Lublin who tried to resolve a quarrel between two men who both wanted to marry the same woman. Are you sure you haven’t heard this one?”
“Quite sure,” said the Director.
“Okay. The rabbi asks the first suitor to come and make his case, and the young man says he should get the girl because he has money, a good job, a handsome face. When he finishes, the rabbi says, ‘You’re right, I agree with you.’
“Then the second suitor arrives and argues his case. And he also has a long list of reasons why the woman should marry him. Fame, fortune, eternal bliss. The rabbi hears him out and says: ‘You’re right. I agree with you.’
“Now the rabbi’s wife, who has been listening to all this, goes over to the poor rabbi from Lublin and says he is crazy to be telling both of the suitors he agrees with them. She tells him he has to make up his mind and choose.
“ ‘You’re right,’ says the rabbi. ‘I agree with you.’
This time everyone laughed.
The Director repeated the punch line to himself several times.
The meeting turned from serious business to ceremony. Glasses of vodka were poured, Polish-style, and toasts were drunk to friendship and cooperation. Stone took Cohen aside as they were leaving and said that it might be a week or so before the Director would have a response to Porat’s request for American help in dealing with Black September.
“What are they up to?” the Director asked Stone several hours later.
They were walking along the beach. The Director didn’t dare discuss sensitive business with Stone in his hotel room, or even in the American Embassy. That was asking for trouble, given Israeli surveillance technology. Even on the beach, Stone was carrying a small portable radio to mask the conversation from the ears of any long-range antennae.
“It’s a squeeze play,” said Stone.
“Explain what that means for an old friend who never played baseball.”
“The Israelis want us to give up Ramlawi,” said Stone. “It couldn’t be more obvious. They know we won’t admit openly that we’re running him as an agent, but they evidently suspect it. Putting his picture in with the other Palestinian mug shots was a clear tip-off.”
“Obviously,” said the Director. “But of what?”
“That he’s on their hit list,” answered Stone. “They probably mean what they said. They seem convinced that he’s part of Black September. Apparently they also suspect he was behind the Munich operation. And they probably do suspect that Ramlawi is planning to attack Americans. Maybe they’ve even heard about ‘Nabil’s’ supposed plot to kill the president. But that’s not really the message, the simple fact that they regard Ramlawi as dangerous to American and Israeli interests.”
“Then what is the message?”
“The message is that they are onto us. They know that we have contact with Ramlawi. And they are planning to kill him.”
“And?”
“And they want our help, either by passing on the intelligence take from Ramlawi, or in finding him.”
“And killing him.”
“Yes.”
They were walking toward a more crowded area of the beach. Several girls were out frolicking in the late afternoon sun. They were dressed in tiny bikinis, little more than string and loose triangles of fabric. The Director, still dressed in his gray pinstripe suit, looked appreciatively at one of the girls. Though only a teenager, she had the largest breasts the Director could ever remember seeing. They were so firm that they barely seemed to move, even when she was running. The girl smiled back flirtatiously. Apparently men in pinstripe suits were exotic on the beach at Tel Aviv.
“I rather like this place,” said the Director.
The Director waved at the girl and walked on. He and Stone looked decidedly odd. Two men in business suits walking on the beach, one of them carrying a portable radio.
“Edward,” said the Director, resuming the conversation. “Is there any reason to doubt that they’re right?”
“About what?”
“About Ramlawi being involved in Black September and Munich and all that?”
“No,” said Stone. “Probably not.”
“Well, then, why not burn him?” said the Director. “He’s expendable, isn’t he?”
“Excuse me,” said Stone. “I didn’t get that.”
“Burn him! Dump him. Give the Israelis what they want.”
“Betray Ramlawi?”
“Absolutely,” said the Director. “Why not? He sounds like a bloody bastard.”
“Perhaps,” said Stone. “But he’s our bastard.”
“What has he done for us?”
“Not much, yet. But we’re only beginning.”
“He’s a big boy,” said the Director. “Let him fend for himself. Need I remind you that this is an election year?”
The Director was looking at a young Israeli maiden emerging, dripping wet, from the sea.
“I would add,” said Stone, “that the Palestinian has placed his trust in us. He’s our man.”