“Very well,” said the Director.
“With your permission,” said Stone quietly to the Director, “I would like to have a few words with you privately.”
The Director nodded. Hoffman and Rogers left the room.
“What in heaven’s name is wrong with Frank Hoffman?” asked the Director when he and Stone were alone. “That was virtual insubordination a few moments ago.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stone. “I know.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?”
“Director,” said Stone gently, “we are on the verge of losing two very fine men. Before we get to that point, I think you ought to listen to what they’re saying. Frank gets a little emotional sometimes, but he means well. And Rogers is one of our best young officers.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. I was inclined to agree until about five minutes ago.”
“Maybe Rogers has a point.”
“What?”
“Maybe he has a point. The Israelis certainly don’t tell us who their agents are. They might lose respect for us if we betray one of ours.”
“Lose respect?” said the Director. “I doubt that very much. People don’t lose respect when you help them. They’re grateful.”
“Not always. Not if you’re doing something questionable.”
“Edward,” said the Director sharply. “Aren’t you losing sight of the fact that we are running an agent who may be the world’s leading terrorist? Doesn’t that make you a little squeamish?”
“A little,” said Stone. “But that’s water over the dam.”
“Not over my dam.”
“We made the decision to deal with him, on the assumption that it would help save American lives. Already he has given us some useful information, and we stand to get far more. Whether the decision to work with him was right or wrong, we made it. And I’m not sure that we should go back on it.”
“The rebellion in the ranks appears to be growing,” said the Director.
“Let’s look at the practical side of this.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“If you order Hoffman to turn over intelligence on Ramlawi, he’ll quit.”
“Evidently. Fine old fellow. Gone to seed a bit in Beirut. Sorry to see him go. Next.”
“If you order Rogers to turn over intelligence on Ramlawi, I suspect that he will also quit.”
“Pity. A fine career ahead of him. He would be foolish to do so. But I can’t stop him. So that’s the end of it.”
Stone swallowed hard. He had hoped the discussion would not reach this point. He thought, momentarily, about his pension, his friends, his career ambitions, and then plunged ahead. There was no stopping now.
“There is one final item, Director.”
“What is that?”
“If you order me to turn over the intelligence on Ramlawi, I will also quit. With great sadness and reluctance. But I will not carry out an order that I think you will have cause to regret later.”
The Director was dumbstruck.
“You can’t be serious,” he said after a moment’s reflection.
“I am.”
“But I don’t want you to leave. I trust your judgment. I depend on you.”
“Then listen to me.”
“Very well,” said the Director.
“I think I can suggest a sensible compromise.”
The Director’s demeanor changed at the mention of the word “compromise.” His face perked up, and you could almost see him adjusting and refiguring his mental calculus of the Ramlawi problem.
“I’m listening,” said the Director.
“The compromise is very simple. We won’t help the Israelis kill Ramlawi. But we won’t help Ramlawi stay alive, either. We will do our best to stay neutral in this war.”
“What do we tell the Israelis?”
“We tell them that of course we’ll help them. They are our friends and allies. And then we give them something that has nothing to do with Ramlawi. COMINT. Or satellite photos. They’re always asking for satellite photos.”
“And if they ask specifically about Ramlawi?”
“Tell them you don’t know what they’re talking about. We never met the man.”
The Director looked at his nails, examining them for dirt.
“That is not unreasonable,” he said eventually.
There was a knock at the door.
“Let them in,” said the Director.
“Stone and I have come up with a plan,” said the Director. “Something that will be responsive to our Israeli friends without offending the delicate sensibilities of the Beirut station. Edward, why don’t you explain what we intend to do?”
Stone gave a brief explanation of his plan. The only thing that was clear when he had finished was that the crisis of a few minutes ago was over. Rogers relaxed and smiled with relief. But Hoffman looked more taciturn, and spent much of the rest of the meeting staring at the walls.
39
Beirut; October-November 1972
The dinner party that night for the Director and his wife went ahead according to schedule. It was hosted by Ambassador and Mrs. Wigg, who swallowed their pride and decided to ignore the rebuke at the airport. There was a lengthy guest list: Frank and Gladys Hoffman; Tom and Jane Rogers; Youssef Majnoun, the head of the Lebanese Deuxieme Bureau, and his wife Brigitte; the recently appointed deputy chief of the Deuxieme Bureau, Samir Fares, and his wife Hoda; Edward Stone, who was accompanying the Director; and as an extra woman to make the table come out right, Solange Jezzine, the estranged wife of the former head of the Deuxieme Bureau.
It was a pleasant enough evening. The American men seemed a bit tired, especially Frank Hoffman. The chief of the Deuxieme Bureau, Majnoun, was so intent on impressing the Director that he made a nuisance of himself. Samir Fares and his wife were clever and witty and made a favorable impression on everyone, most of all the American intelligence officers at the table, who had been paying Fares a generous stipend the last several years.
What the Director himself seemed to enjoy most was his conversation in the drawing room after dinner with the charming extra woman, Madame Jezzine. She was radiant: dressed in a stunning low-cut gown that showed off her figure, and wearing her hair up off her shoulders in a way that highlighted her long neck and cheekbones. She looked, the Director remarked to Mrs. Wigg, like an Arab princess.
Solange flirted elegantly with the Director, asking him about his athletic interests, expressing astonishment about his age. Jane Rogers, deep in conversation with Edward Stone about life in Beirut, couldn’t help overhearing the conversation and admiring the wiles and beauty of her friend Solange. The Director himself seemed ready enough to spend the rest of the evening with the Lebanese beauty. So he was dismayed when, after twenty minutes of conversation, Solange Jezzine excused herself and strolled out toward the garden, where Tom Rogers was talking to Samir Fares.
“Am I interrupting anything?” asked Madame Jezzine.
“Oh no,” said Fares. “I was just telling Mr. Rogers about the village where I was born. He must be very bored hearing about Lebanese villages. Why don’t you rescue him?”
“Happily,” said Solange.
“Would you like another drink, Tom?” asked Fares.
“No thanks,” said Rogers. “We have to be leaving soon.”
Fares walked inside, leaving the two of them alone in the garden.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” asked Solange. She asked the question like a spoiled little girl, her lips pouting.
“I haven’t,” said Rogers.
“Yes you have, and you shouldn’t!” said Solange. She had slipped her arm through Rogers’s and was walking him slowly down a gravel path in the garden, away from the house and the light.
Rogers felt his heart beating. He felt dreamy and light-headed. It was pleasant, for once, to be in the power of someone else’s personality. Solange leaned her head a little closer to his as they walked along the path. He could smell the perfume behind her ear.
Solange stopped. She turned her head up toward Rogers and spoke in a whisper.