The surveillance reports began to accumulate. The trackers who were following Jamal described the subject as an Arab playboy. He stayed out late at discos and nightclubs, almost always in the company of a beautiful woman. He woke up late in the morning, often in the bed of a young lady, went back to his apartment to shower and shave, and arrived at the office around 11:00 A.M.
He was rootless and almost bohemian in his lifestyle, drifting among the offices and apartments of friends, co-workers, and lovers. He ate nearly all his meals in restaurants and always had a fat roll of banknotes. The oddest thing about his routine, the trackers reported, was that he would occasionally go to the library of the American University of Beirut in the afternoon and read. Just read! Science books, news magazines, pop-music tabloids. Books about America and the Soviet Union. Even books about Israel.
There was a final detail, said the trackers. He loved to buy presents, the more expensive the better. On his way to an appointment, he would often stop in a store and buy for his host some fruit, or flowers, or candy, or books. Sometimes he would stop at fancy women’s shops on Hamra and buy gifts in bulk for his girlfriends: bottles of perfume; a dozen silk scarves; a half-dozen pairs of gold earrings.
“I can tell you one thing about our boy,” said Hoffman, after the surveillance had been in place for several weeks.
“What’s that?” said Rogers, suspecting that he already knew the answer.
“This guy loves pussy!”
Rogers groaned.
“No really, come here. Take a look at these pictures. When this guy tells people he put in a hard day at the office, he really means it!”
Spread out on Hoffman’s desk were a dozen glossy photographs, culled from hundreds that had been taken by the camera hidden in Jamal’s office wall.
“Check this out,” said Hoffman. “This is babe number one.”
He handed Rogers a picture that showed a blond woman with very large breasts lying spread-eagled on top of a desk. Her blouse was open and her skirt was pulled up to her waist. On top of her was Jamal.
“What a unit!” said Hoffman. “That girl’s got a pair of Hogans!”
“Hogans?” asked Rogers, who had never heard the expression before.
“Yeah, wise guy. Hogans. Bigger than big.”
Hoffman picked up another picture and studied it.
“Blow job!” announced Hoffman. “Yesirreee. No question about it. The woman is playing the skin flute! Eating tube steak!”
“I get the point,” said Rogers, taking the picture from Hoffman. It showed the blond woman kneeling on the floor, performing fellatio on the Palestinian, who was smiling and had his eyes closed.
“Don’t swallow it, lady! It might explode!” shouted Hoffman.
“Are you aware that we already have a file on this woman?” said Rogers, who felt foolish looking at dirty pictures.
“Hubba! Hubba!” responded the station chief.
“She’s a German girl,” continued Rogers. “She drives a red Ferrari and keeps house for a Lebanese millionaire. This is how she gets her kicks.”
“Outstanding young woman,” said Hoffman. “Sensational. No wonder the Germans lost the war. They were exhausted.”
He went back to the pile of photographs and pawed through them until he found the one he was looking for.
“Okay. Here’s babe number two,” said the station chief.
“First, we have a little get-acquainted shot.” The photograph showed a dark-haired women in a fashionable dress with her back to the camera. She was passionately kissing Jamal, who had his hand under the woman’s skirt.
Hoffman was already looking at the next picture. “Woof, woof!” barked the station chief.
He handed the photo to Rogers. It showed the dark-haired woman completely naked, kneeling on a desk chair. Jamal was entering her from behind. The woman was slender and her body was darkly tanned. She seemed to be a European, but her head was down, which prevented any clear identification.
“Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!” said Hoffman, handing Rogers yet another picture.
This showed the same woman, the same scene. Except this time she was looking up. Her head was turned toward the wall so that she was gazing, without realizing it, directly into the camera. Her eyes were wide open and her lips were curled seductively.
I’ve seen that face, thought Rogers. I know I’ve seen it.
“More!” shouted Hoffman, but Rogers ignored him.
Rogers saw in his mind’s eye another image. It was the face of a woman looking up at him coyly as she picked up her napkin from the floor at a dinner party.
“My God!” exclaimed Rogers. “That’s the French charge’s wife!”
Hoffman was jubilant.
“I love this job,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “It is a humbling reminder of the breadth of human folly and depravity. People really are capable of the most amazing things!”
Hoffman called in his deputy, who doubled as chief of operations, for a brief meeting to discuss the new piece of intelligence.
“Okay, boys and girls,” said Hoffman. “The first question is: Have we got anything we’d like to know from the Froggies? Because we’ve got a perfect chance to burn a certain French diplomat who might be a bit embarrassed to know that his wife is getting banged by a Palestinian terrorist in a black leather jacket.”
“And loving it,” said the chief of operations, studying the picture.
“I think we might let headquarters in on the fun,” said Hoffman. “Send these back home via diplomatic pouch, pronto.”
“Definitely,” said the operations chief. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose you have this woman’s phone number?”
“Grow up,” said Hoffman.
“The second question,” continued the station chief, “is what we do about donkey dick.”
“Jamal,” interjected Rogers, who was becoming increasingly dismayed by the course of events.
“Right. Because we have a serious problem on our hands. Either this guy is going to fuck himself to death, or he’s going to get killed by a jealous husband. Either way, he’s not a very good security risk.”
“Is he married?” asked the operations chief.
“No,” said Rogers.
“Too bad,” said the operations chief. “That makes him harder to blackmail.”
“Does the Old Man care whether he’s screwing every European broad he can find in West Beirut?” asked Hoffman.
“I doubt it,” said Rogers.
“How about his mother?”
“Chief,” said Rogers. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Hoffman. He turned to the operations chief.
“You don’t mind stepping outside for a minute, Pete? Mr. Rogers has something ‘private’ he would like to discuss with me.”
The deputy glowered at Rogers and left the room.
“Shoot,” said Hoffman when he had gone.
“I think we ought to be careful about using these photographs. They’ll tip off the French that we’re running surveillance on Jamal. And by the time the whole mess is over, we may find that we’ve caused more trouble for ourselves than for the French diplomat. As for Jamal, if you think you can blackmail him with dirty pictures, you’re crazy. He’ll just show them to his friends.”
“Now wait a minute!” said Hoffman. “I hate to break the news to you, but photos like these are the mother’s milk of our particular line of work. I’m not about to throw them away.”
“I’m not asking you to do that,” said Rogers. “But I’d like you to go slow.”
“So that you can do what?”
