Agents of Innocence (11 page)

Kuwait; March 1970

Rogers departed the hectic confusion of Kuwait City, driving a big American car that floated gently on its springs like a boat on a crest of water. As he reached the outskirts of the city, he stopped the car, made a U-turn, and then doubled back again to see if he was being followed. He wasn’t. One of the benefits of working in the Middle East, as opposed to Europe, was that surveillance was loose or nonexistent. In the Arab world, the Soviets seemed to be as lazy as their clients.

He turned on the radio. A local Arabic station was playing a song by Fayrouz, a Lebanese singer adored throughout the Middle East. The song told the story of a girl who waited forlornly by the roadside for a lover who never arrived.

“I loved you in the summer…I loved you in the winter,” Fayrouz sang in her tremulous voice. It was the sound of the Arab world, Rogers thought. A sentimental story about unkept promises.

As he headed south along the Persian Gulf coast, Rogers saw a breathtaking change in the landscape.

Stretching to the western horizon was the Arabian desert, undulating slightly like the sea on a calm day. But rather than the blank white of midsummer, the desert was a thin carpet of green, dotted with the blue flowers of thistles and the yellow of daisies. The effect was like a pointillist painting, with tendrils of herbs and shrubs dabbed against a sandy background.

It was spring in Kuwait. The brief season between the rain of February and the heat of May when the desert burst into bloom. In this brief springtime, Kuwaitis liked to flee the city and emulate their Bedouin ancestors. Every few miles Rogers saw the billowing flaps of a camping tent, often with a shiny new RV parked alongside, which marked a Kuwaiti family on a desert holiday. Further from the highway were the ragged tents of a few real-life Bedouin nomads, lost in time, wandering with their sheep and camels across the ocean of sand.

The radio crackled with static. Rogers fiddled with the tuning knob trying to find a clearer station. Eventually, he heard a familiar radio voice, speaking in perfect, modulated, American English:

“…and it is well known that the peoples of Africa and Asia are resolutely opposed to the plans hatched in Washington for further warfare against the peoples of Indochina. According to certain circles, the American monopolists, as is well known, are achieving super-profits from this military adventure. A concrete analysis of the situation….”

Radio Moscow! Rogers changed the dial. It was remarkable, he thought to himself, that no matter where you were in the Middle East, Radio Moscow was always the loudest broadcast signal. As he fiddled with the dial, Rogers mused about the phrase “concrete analysis.” What did it mean, exactly? Certainly not an analysis made of concrete.

Rogers eventually found another station. It was a voice speaking loudly in Arabic, with the cadence and intonation of someone shouting through a bullhorn.

“…Zionism is a political movement organically associated with international imperialism and antagonistic to all action for liberation and to progressive movements in the world. It is racist and fanatic in its nature, aggressive, expansionist, and colonial in its aim, and fascist in its methods. Israel is the instrument of the Zionist movement, and a geographical base for world imperialism placed strategically in the midst of the Arab homeland to combat the hopes of the Arab nation for….”

Radio Baghdad.

Rogers turned off the radio.

A few miles past the town of Mina Abdulla, he slowed the big car and turned off the main highway onto a sandy road that ran along the beach. The road skirted an irregular row of beach houses, which prosperous Kuwaitis and westerners used as retreats during the Moslem weekend of Thursday and Friday. “Chalets” is what Kuwaitis liked to call these cottages by the steamy Persian Gulf.

Rogers parked his car outside one of the houses—a modest gray bungalow that belonged, on paper, to a senior executive of the Americo-Kuwaiti Oil Co.

Inside, it was neat but slightly faded, like an old motel. Behind a small leather-topped bar, someone had neatly arrayed bottles of whisky, gin, vodka, and brandy; in the refrigerator, Rogers found heaping platters of Arab and American food; on the kitchen table was a basket piled high with fresh fruit. On the stove was a fresh pot of coffee.

There was a musty smell in the house. Rogers opened the windows to let in the sea breeze. Then he walked into the main bedroom, opened a compartment that was hidden behind a wall painting, and checked the taping system. It was a voice-activated Wollensak that automatically recorded anything said in any room of the house. There was a second recorder, hidden in a separate place, which served as a back-up, and Rogers checked that too.

Eventually, he settled into an easy chair in the living room and fell asleep reading a book called
Arabian Sands
, the memoirs of an obscure British Arabist.

When he awoke the next day, Rogers dressed for the meeting with Jamal in his favorite corduroy suit. But instead of his normal shoes, he wore a pair of fancy cowboy boots that his wife had given him years ago, and which he had decided in subsequent years were his good-luck boots. Then he sat in a chair and waited for the Palestinian.

Jamal arrived late that afternoon. He was driving a red Buick LeSabre that threw up a great cloud of dust as it came to a stop outside the beach house.

Rogers, expecting Jamal to be in his usual black leather, was surprised to see him clothed in a neat brown business suit. His long black hair, usually touseled, was brushed straight back from his forehead and combed tightly against his head. He looked like a young college graduate going to a job interview.

Jamal approached the door warily. Rogers saw in his face a shadow of hesitation and doubt.

“Come on in,” said Rogers, shaking the Palestinian’s hand and pulling him inside. Having waited months to meet with Jamal, he wasn’t about to lose him to last-minute indecision.

“Kadimta ahlan wa wata’ta sahlan,” said Rogers, using the formal Arabic greeting that means: You come as a member of the family, you walk on friendly ground. As he spoke the words, he put his hand over his heart.

Jamal made no response. He carefully eyed the room.

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Let me take your coat.”

The Palestinian shook his head no. Rogers looked at him carefully and noticed a slight bulge in the jacket under the left armpit.

“Please,” said Rogers quietly. “No guns.”

He waited for Jamal to remove the gun. When he didn’t, Rogers spoke again evenly.

“This is a bad way to begin a friendship, to come into my house with a gun. Especially when I have no weapon to threaten you.”

Jamal narrowed his eye, as if measuring Rogers. The American looked even taller than usual in his cowboy boots.

Rogers held his breath.

Jamal removed his coat, slowly, revealing the shoulder holster and an automatic pistol.

“I am sorry,” said the Palestinian. He removed the gun carefully from the holster. The pistol was now pointed directly at Rogers. For an instant, it occurred to Rogers that the Palestinian might shoot. But then he laid the pistol gently on the table.

“I am sorry,” repeated Jamal. “I always carry a gun. It becomes a habit.”

Rogers relaxed. He offered Jamal a cigarette. The Palestinian insisted that Rogers take one of his. They both sat silent for a moment, smoking their Marlboros.

“Now I must ask you a question,” said Jamal. “Is there a tape recorder in this house?”

Rogers thought a moment before responding. Without honesty, he told himself, there is no possibility for trust.

“Yes,” said Rogers, looking his guest straight in the eye. “It is a standard practice.”

“Disconnect it, please,” said Jamal.

Rogers deliberated another long moment.

“I can’t,” he replied finally. “I could pretend to turn it off, but in doing so I would automatically activate a second system, which is installed for situations like this. There is no point in trying to deceive you. The tape recorder is part of our business.”

Jamal was silent for a long time. He turned away and faced the sea, so that his face was hidden from Rogers. Eventually he turned back.

“Let us go for a walk in the desert,” said Jamal.

“A reasonable compromise,” said Rogers. He gathered a blanket and a thermos of coffee.

“I have brought something for you,” said Jamal when they were seated on the sand a half mile from the house.

He passed Rogers a sheet of paper bearing a neatly typed list of five Arab names. Beside each was a second name and a number.

Jamal looked away from Rogers as he handed over the list. The transaction embarrassed him, just as it had embarrassed him to enter the safehouse. He was pulled in two directions: his head told him that meeting the American intelligence officer would serve the Palestinian cause; his heart told him that it was treason.

“I am providing you with this list of names because I have been authorized to do so,” said the Palestinian in a flat tone of voice.

“Who are these people?” asked Rogers, studying the names and numbers. The list was typed on plain white paper, with no markings that might disclose its source.

“They are members of the group that tried to hijack the plane in Munich last month. They are accomplices of the three who were arrested. The five accomplices were travelling on false Iraqi passports. The list shows their real names, their false names, and the passport numbers.”

“Are they members of Fatah?”

“No,” said Jamal. “They are all members of the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”

Rogers nodded. The DFLP was the commando group with the closest ties to the Soviet Union.

“You said you were authorized to give me this list,” said Rogers. “By who?”

“The Old Man.”

“Why?”

“Because Fatah opposes international terrorist operations. They are the tactic of madmen and provocateurs. Terrorism harms our cause.”

Rogers looked at him curiously. He found Jamal’s embarrassment more convincing than his speech.

The two men sat side by side on the blanket, legs crossed beneath them, staring west toward the setting sun. The springtime moss was turning a deeper green in the fading light.

Rogers poured Jamal a cup of coffee. The smell of the coffee was intoxicating in the desert air. As he poured a cup for himself, Rogers tried to decide whether to believe the Palestinian. He knew what the specialists back at Langley would say about the list of terrorists. That it was a throwaway. That the Palestinians must have assumed that the Munich police had already obtained the same information during interrogation of the three bombers. That it was an obvious ploy, which made Jamal more suspicious, rather than more trustworthy. Rogers knew the arguments the specialists would make because he had heard them in dozens of other cases. Usually, in his experience, the specialists were wrong. Sitting in Langley, they didn’t see the nervousness on an agent’s face as he met a case officer for the first time, or the look of distaste in his eyes as he took the first steps toward cooperation. They didn’t understand the nuances that made one person believable and another an obvious phony.

Rogers watched Jamal’s discomfort and wanted to say something reassuring. He recalled a passage from an Arab poet named Al-Moutannabi that he had memorized a decade ago while he was at language school.

It was about fate, and he recited it for Jamal in classical Arabic, the language of the Koran:

“ ‘We have walked along the path of life that was laid down for us, as must men whose steps have been ordained.’ ”

Jamal stared at Rogers. He looked tense and unhappy, as if he was about to explode.

“I am not a spy!” said the Palestinian suddenly. “I am not your agent! That is not my fate!”

“Of course not,” said Rogers.

“I am instructed in everything I do by the Old Man.”

“I understand,” said Rogers.

“Good,” said Jamal.

There was silence. The Palestinian, having vented his frustration, seemed to sit a little easier.

“Does anyone else in Fatah, other than the Old Man, know that you are here?” asked Rogers eventually.

“No,” said Jamal.

“That is sensible,” said Rogers. There was another interlude of silence. Okay, thought Rogers. At least it’s clear what he thinks he’s doing. He is an emissary from the highest level of the PLO to the United States. A conduit for information, not an agent. If that explanation makes him feel better, let him believe it. Rogers remembered some advice that an instructor had given him a decade ago. It doesn’t matter whether an agent is a double or a triple. So long as you know which.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed to talk with us,” ventured Rogers. “We’re not quite as bad as you may think.”

The Palestinian smiled for the first time.

“How can I not feel ashamed? Meeting with an American spy in secret in the desert. It is shameful. But do not worry. We Arabs have grown used to shame. It is like our mother’s milk. We live on it.”

The afternoon light was fading.

“Where were you born in Palestine?” asked Rogers.

“I was born in Iraq. My father went there in 1941 to work with the Germans.”

“There is an Arab saying,” said Rogers. “ ‘If she gets pregnant in Baghdad, she will give birth in Beirut.’ Perhaps that is your story.”

Jamal laughed. “You know too many Arab proverbs. Is that part of your spy training?”

“A hobby,” said Rogers.

Jamal lit up a cigarette, cupping the match in his hands to shield it from the wind of the desert. He ran his hand through his jet-black hair so that it blew in the desert breeze.

He is a vain man, Rogers thought to himself. Handsome. Clever. A born operator.

“I am a man who has barely seen his own country,” said Jamal, resuming his story. “We returned to Palestine from Iraq in 1945 but didn’t stay very long. My father was killed in 1948 by an Israeli bomb and my mother and I fled, first to Beirut, then to Cairo. I graduated from Cairo University in 1964. I have been moving ever since: to Kuwait, to Beirut, to Amman, to Europe. I am like the Bob Dylan song. A rolling stone.”