“Not any more,” said the Director.
“Director,” said Stone gently. “I suspect that the Beirut station may have some reservations about this course of action. They have developed a relationship with Ramlawi. Perhaps we should discuss this with them before throwing him overboard.”
“Sure,” said the Director. “I am quite happy to talk to anybody. But I’m not likely to change my mind.”
Ahead on the beach, another stunning, dark-haired woman in a tiny bikini was approaching. The Director tipped an imaginary hat. The woman smiled.
“Time for a swim,” said the Director.
The Director made the grand tour of Israel. He visited the Wailing Wall and put a cardboard yarmulke on his head. He toured the Israeli nuclear facility at Dimona. He visited the Holocaust Memorial at Yad Vashem. He sat by the pool in Tel Aviv with his sun reflector, looking at pretty girls.
Porat was the perfect host. Helpful, congenial, undemanding. He and his wife Naomi, a psychiatrist, gave a charming dinner party for the Director and his wife. Somehow, despite the presence of many Israeli officials, the party had the feel of an evening at home with the family, including several loud family quarrels.
Nothing more was said about the Israeli request for help in the war against terrorism. Nothing more needed to be said. The Americans were on notice.
38
Beirut; October 1972
“I hate babysitting,” said Hoffman to the members of the Beirut station. “But when the baby in question is your boss, what can you do?” Hoffman was holding a morning staff meeting, making final plans for the arrival of the Director in Beirut that afternoon. He looked harried.
As Hoffman talked, he was munching on a jelly donut. Hoffman was very fond of jelly donuts, especially a particular overstuffed version made by a company in New Jersey called Tast-EEE-Kreme. He had considered it a major coup several months ago when he found an old Air America contact who was willing to drop off a case of donuts in Beirut every month on his way to Oman. Hoffman was holding the jelly donut in his right hand, unaware that when he gesticulated to make a point, jelly was oozing out of the half-eaten donut onto the conference table.
“If they had asked me,” Hoffman continued, “I would have told the Director that the trip was a waste of time. But they did not ask me, so here we are.” A code clerk discreetly rose from her chair and scooped up the jelly with a napkin, before Hoffman could put his elbow in it.
“Seriously,” said Hoffman to no one in particular. “It’s one thing to entertain some asshole congressman from Illinois who wants to tell you how to solve the problems of the Middle East. That I can handle. The conversation is about my speed. Yes sir. No sir. My goodness, that’s an interesting idea. No, indeed, we hadn’t thought of that one.
“But the Director is different, boys and girls. When he shows up, it’s time to turn off the bubble machine. If he asks you a question, you better answer it honestly. Anybody who tries to bullshit the Director should look for another job, starting tomorrow.”
Hoffman’s administrative deputy took over a discussion of the logistical arrangements, while Hoffman went to his office, unlocked the safe, and retrieved another jelly donut.
Hoffman, for all his grumbling, had done all the right things to prepare for the Director’s arrival. He had repainted the rooms of the CIA station a pleasant off-white. He had arranged a dog-and-pony show with the new head of the Deuxieme Bureau. He had asked Ambassador and Mrs. Wigg to host a small dinner party for the Director that evening. And, prodded by the Wiggs, he had scheduled a day trip to the mountains, stopping for lunch at the birthplace of Khalil Gibran.
Hoffman, responding to an urgent cable received the previous day from Stone, had also set aside several hours that afternoon for a private meeting with the Director in the bug-proof conference room at the embassy. Hoffman didn’t know who was supposed to attend the meeting or what it was about. Details would follow, Stone’s cable said.
The Director’s plane arrived at the Lebanese Air Force base in Rayak, in the Bekaa Valley, rather than at Beirut Airport. Security worries. The experts from Langley thought it was too dangerous to fly the 707 in over the Palestinian refugee camps at Sabra and Shatilla that adjoined the northern edge of the airport. The experts seemed to imagine that Palestinian camp dwellers were in the habit of firing surface-to-air missiles, willy-nilly, at passing airplanes.
Hoffman went to the airport to meet the VIPs. He was dressed in his best gray suit, which unfortunately was fifteen years old and no longer fit very well. He buttoned the trousers below his stomach, leaving an abundant expanse of white shirt that was not quite covered by his suit jacket. To make matters worse, the collar button of Hoffman’s white shirt popped as he was trying to close it just before the plane touched down.
The Director stood at the top of the stairs and looked out at the massed limousines, the bus for lower-ranking aides, the official greeters with pasted-on smiles, and the crocodillic faces of the American ambassador and his wife, poised in a welcoming tableau.
“Frank, come on up here,” bellowed the Director to Hoffman. Hoffman loyally bounded up the ramp to his boss.
“No more tours!” said the Director.
“What?” said Hoffman.
“ No more tours, God-damn it!” said the Director. “I’ve had enough sightseeing this week to last a lifetime. If I see another Roman ruin I’m going to call in artillery and close air support. Understand? My wife is even sicker of touring than I am, aren’t you, dear?” The Director’s wife nodded.
“Okay,” said Hoffman. “But would you mind telling that to the ambassador yourself?”
“Yes, I would mind,” said the Director. “You do it. That’s part of your job. Tell him whatever you like. But no more tours! ”
Hoffman led the Director and his wife down the stairs and over to the Wiggs, who were waiting stiffly, smiles affixed. There was the usual round of handshakes and pleasantries. How was the trip? Isn’t the weather lovely? As the Director and his wife prepared to head for their car, the ambassador spoke up again. He seemed to want to discuss the schedule.
“We are so looking forward to the round of visits we have planned for you, Director,” said Ambassador Wigg.
“And we’re so eager to show you our Lebanon,” said Mrs. Wigg, clasping the Director’s wife gently on the arm. “This is quite a country, you know. Skiing in the morning and swimming in the afternoon. And the nightlife is magnificent. They call it ‘The Paris of the Orient.’ Did you know that? It will be such fun.”
The Director coughed, not very convincingly.
“The Director is feeling a little, uh, sick,” said Hoffman.
“What a nuisance,” said Mrs. Wigg. “I hope that won’t spoil our plans.”
“Uh, actually, the Director’s wife is also feeling a little under the weather. Quite sick, actually.”
The Director’s wife coughed on cue.
“Afraid so,” said the Director. “We’re feeling a bit of a chill right now. If you’ll excuse us.”
The Director took his wife by the arm and together they followed Stone and a bodyguard toward a waiting limousine.
“What a shame!” said the ambassador to Hoffman. He sounded crestfallen. Mrs. Wigg was fuming, too angry for the moment to protest.
“I hope it isn’t serious,” said Ambassador Wigg. “What sort of illness do they have, exactly?”
“We’ll get back to you on that,” called out Hoffman as he opened the door of the limousine and prepared to depart.
“Gun it!” said Hoffman to the driver, and off they roared, leaving behind the befuddled ambassador and his wife, the motorcycle outriders, and the secretaries, code clerks, and hangers-on.
“So what’s the big deal?” asked Hoffman later that day when the Director and Stone arrived in the bubble, the bug-proof room within a room where the station held its most secret discussions. Rogers was also there, at Stone’s request.