“Let’s take a trip,” said Hoffman, suddenly rising from his chair. “Show you around town.”
He buzzed his secretary, grunted the word “car” into the phone, took Rogers by the arm, and led him out the door and down the stairwell. It was a comical sight: the short, pudgy Hoffman, dressed in a baggy blue suit, steering the tall young man by the arm. On the ground floor, Rogers headed for the front entrance. Hoffman yanked him by the arm and led him toward a side door where a black Chrysler was waiting.
“Take the day off, Sami,” said Hoffman to the Lebanese driver. He slid into the front seat.
“Get in,” he said to Rogers. When the doors were closed, Hoffman removed an automatic pistol from a shoulder holster and put it in the glove compartment. Rogers, who had never worn a gun in the office and never known anyone in the agency who did, concluded that Hoffman was an eccentric.
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Hoffman. “Another smart kid, like you.”
Hoffman popped the Chrysler into gear and roared out of the alleyway onto the Corniche, heading west. He rounded the point beneath the lighthouse, passed the Bain Militaire on his right, and was spinning along the Mediterranean coast at 60 miles an hour, humming to himself.
When they reached an amusement park on the coast, Hoffman slammed on the brakes, swerved left onto a side street, and parked the car where it couldn’t be seen from the Corniche.
“Get out,” he said to Rogers.
There was a large Ferris wheel, turning lazily in the morning sun, and several smaller rides for children. The park was nearly deserted.
“Do you like cotton candy?” asked Hoffman. Rogers said he didn’t.
“Too bad. It’s very good here. A local specialty.”
Hoffman walked ahead of Rogers toward a small building in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. It was a small, open-air cafe, empty except for an old man who was sitting at a table smoking Turkish tobacco from a hookah pipe.
When the old man saw his visitors, he dropped the pipe from his lips, walked over to Hoffman, and kissed him on both cheeks. Hoffman, to Rogers’s surprise, reciprocated.
The old man disappeared into the back of the cafe. Not a word had been said.
“Smoke?” asked Hoffman, pointing to the pipe.
“No thanks,” said Rogers.
“All the more for me,” said the station chief, sitting down in front of the hookah and taking a big drag from the smoldering pipe.
Hoffman sat contentedly, puffing occasionally on the mouthpiece of the pipe but saying nothing.
After five minutes, the old man returned with coffee and then disappeared once again. The sun was warm and there was a pleasant breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. Hoffman remained silent.
Rogers wondered if this was some kind of test.
They had been in the cafe about ten minutes when Rogers noticed a figure in the distance, walking alone on the beach. He was a young Arab man, smooth and compact, wearing sunglasses.
Rogers looked over to Hoffman at that moment and noticed that the station chief had his hands clapsed over his head, as if he was stretching. Or making a signal.
The young man slowly approached the seaside cafe.
“This is the fellow I wanted you to meet,” said Hoffman. “His name is Fuad.”
The young man entered the cafe. Hoffman welcomed him and made the introductions.
“Fuad, I’d like you to meet John Reilly,” he said, pointing to Rogers.
“How do you do, Mr. Reilly,” said the Arab. He seemed calm and almost unnaturally composed.
“Call me John,” said Rogers. He hated work names, especially ones that were chosen for him by somebody else.
The Arab sat down and removed his sunglasses. Rogers could see a look of intensity, almost of hatred, in his eyes. Not hatred of the Americans, apparently, but of somebody.
“We first met Fuad when he was a student at the American University of Beirut,” said Hoffman. “We have the highest regard for him.”
Rogers nodded his head and smiled. Fuad nodded his head and smiled. It was all very Oriental.
“Fuad has been in Egypt for the last several years, working for a Lebanese trading company and dabbling in leftist politics.” Hoffman panned his eyes slowly across the cafe and the beach beyond, making sure that nobody was approaching, and continued.
“While in Egypt, Fuad maintained occasional contact with our organization and provided a number of interesting reports. We especially appreciated his reporting on the activities of Palestinians in Egypt.”
“Now Fuad is thinking of moving back to Lebanon,” said Hoffman. “We think this is a fine idea.”
Hoffman smiled at Fuad, who this time did not smile back.
There was silence. A cruise ship was slowly moving across the horizon.
Rogers spoke up, in Arabic.
“The Egyptians have a saying about travel by sea,” Rogers said in colloquial Arabic, gesturing to the ship.
“They say: ‘Better to hear the farts of camels than the prayers of the fishes.’ ”
Fuad cocked his head, as if he wasn’t quite sure that he had heard right, and then smiled.
“The Egyptians are quite right,” said Fuad.
“Bullshit,” muttered Hoffman.
“The Egyptians have another saying that I like,” continued Rogers in Arabic. “It’s a warning for people who think they understand the Arab world.”
“And what is that?” asked Fuad.
“ ‘We expose ourselves to danger when we regard our own counsel as sufficient.’ ”
“Let’s get serious here for a minute,” said Hoffman. “Because I’ve got better things to do than listen to the two of you tell each other folk wisdom in a language that is not my mother tongue.”
Rogers lit a cigarette, offered one to Fuad, and settled back in his chair, listening to Hoffman.
“Fuad, I’d like you to meet again in Beirut with Mr. Reilly for a serious talk about the Palestinians,” said the station chief, all business now.
“I want you to do the same sort of thing for him that you did for me two months ago. Names, histories, political records, a Who’s Who of the people you got to know in Cairo. I want Mr. Reilly to have as full a picture of the leadership of the guerrilla organizations as he possibly can.”
Fuad nodded.
Hoffman pulled a 3? 5 index card out of his pocket. On it was typed the address of an apartment in West Beirut, a time, and two brief sentences. He handed the card to Fuad.
“Go to this address three days from today, at ten in the morning. Mr. Reilly will be there, waiting for you. Say your code phrase, he’ll respond with his, and then he’ll let you in. If you’re followed, or if you can’t make the meeting for some other reason, go to the same address the next day, at four in the afternoon. Got it?”
Fuad nodded again.
“Have you memorized what’s on the card?”
“Yes,” said Fuad.
“Then give it back to me.”
The young Arab took a final glance at the card and returned it to the station chief.
Hoffman rose from his chair. No one was invited to speak and no one did.
Fuad rose and shook Rogers’s hand firmly.
The Arab turned to Hoffman. He placed his hand on his heart in a gesture of sincerity, shook Hoffman’s hand, then turned and departed.
Watching the young Arab walk slowly across the beach, Rogers decided that he had the look of a born agent. His appearance was sleek and elusive: medium height, neither fat nor thin, with the sort of smooth, well-groomed face that you almost remember, but not quite. Some faces are a roadmap of character. Fuad’s was a blank slate, a lustrous tan without lines or wrinkles, a picture of a journey across a desert that has left no traces.
Hoffman relit the pipe. After a few minutes more of puffing on the hookah, he put down the mouthpiece.
“Interesting fellow,” said Hoffman. “He’s convinced that it’s America’s destiny to liberate the Arabs! God knows why he has such faith in us, but he does.”
