“The Munich police captured an unusual message written by the leader of the group, which he planned to read to the passengers of the Israeli jet.
“According to police sources in Munich, the message read: ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is the deputy commander of the 112th unit of the Martyr Omar Sastadi Division of the Action Group for the Liberation of Palestine. In the name of the Palestinian Revolution, we are taking command of this aircraft and renaming it Palestine II.’ According to German police, little is known about the Sastadi group.”
“Bullshit,” said Rogers over the sound of the radio. “Nothing is known about the group because there is no such group.”
“My dear Mr. Reilly, you do not understand the Arab mind,” said Fuad. “We think that if we announce that there has been an operation by the 112th unit of an organization that no one has ever heard of, then people will assume that this organization must have at least III other units. No Arab would believe it, of course. No Arab believes anything that anyone tells him. But we think the rest of the world is stupid.”
“And now for the soccer results,” said the radio newscaster. “In the fourth division, Hartlepool nil, Wigan nil. Doncaster two, Cardiff, one.”
“Turn it off,” said Rogers.
“And in the Scottish League, Partick Thistle nil, Queen of the South, one. Aberdeen two, Celtic two. Hibernians nil…”
“Turn it off,” said Rogers again. The radio went silent.
At 8:00 P.M. that night, they heard the sound of gunfire coming from the eastern part of the city, near Jebel al-Taj. It seemed to be a clash between the Jordanian Army and the commandos.
An hour later, the neighborhood of Jebel Hussein shook with the sound of heavy-caliber machine-gun fire. Rogers could see from the window a volley of tracer bullets coming from the rooftop of the headquarters of the Jordanian Ministry of Interior. It was answered by a rattling barrage from two machine guns positioned within Jebel Hussein.
“Now we know why Jamal was in such a rush to get here,” said Rogers as he peered over the windowsill.
Below him on Jaffa Street, Rogers saw a jeep fitted with a machine gun, careening up the street at breakneck speed. A dark-haired Palestinian commando stood in the back, legs apart and hips swaying with the motion of the vehicle, holding the trunk of the machine gun in his hands and rotating it on its turret. It was a sensual, almost erotic embrace of a deadly weapon, and it was an image that Rogers came to associate with the guerrillas; the posturing of a vain but ultimately powerless people.
“Come watch the show,” Rogers whispered to Fuad. “The fedayeen are in heaven.”
“They are children,” said Fuad. “When I want to watch children, I go to the playground.”
The sound of automatic weapons rattled on through the night but tapered off toward dawn.
When he awoke, Rogers set in motion the plan he had devised over the previous two days. He wrote out a message in neat Arabic script, sealed it, and gave it to Fuad.
The message read: “A friend with important information will be in Nasser Square at noon. If you want the information, follow him.”
Rogers turned to Fuad and spoke to him carefully and deliberately.
“Take this letter to 49 Ramleh Street and knock on the door. A bald Arab man will answer the door. Tell him you have a message for Jamal Ramlawi at the Fatah military headquarters at Nasser Square, on the corner of Khaled Ibn Walid Street.”
“What if he asks me who the message is from?” queried Fuad.
“He won’t ask.”
“Who is he?” asked Fuad, wanting to understand every detail.
“A friend who has maintained contact with us for many years, who travels easily among the commandos.”
“But won’t it be dangerous for Jamal to receive the message?”
“No,” said Rogers, smiling at all the questions that were tumbling out of the usually taciturn Fuad. “Jamal is an intelligence officer, and intelligence officers are supposed to collect information. That’s their job.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” said Rogers. He put his two large hands on Fuad’s shoulders, as if to brace him for the task ahead.
“When you have delivered the message, return to Beirut,” said Rogers. “Here’s five hundred dollars for the trip.” He handed Fuad the money and walked him to the door. The Lebanese walked out into the chilly February morning. He walked deliberately, Rogers thought, with the confidence of a man who, with each step, feels that he is fulfilling his destiny.
Rogers tidied up the safehouse. He collected a few bits of paper that might identify the occupants of the apartment as Americans-a matchbook cover with advertising for a restaurant in New York, a well-thumbed copy of The International Herald-Tribune- and burned them in the kitchen sink. He checked his wallet to make sure it contained only documents that supported his Canadian identity.
At eleven-thirty, Rogers left the house. He walked slowly and deliberately, his head down, along Jaffa Street. The city seemed to have calmed down after the previous night’s gunplay, and some of the roadblocks had been removed.
As Rogers crossed a side street, two teen-aged Palestinians shouted at him. Rogers’s heart pounded like a hammer against an anvil. He shouted out in Arabic, “Death to the traitor King and all his family!” One of the boys roared back a similar epithet and they continued on their way.
At the edge of Nasser Square, the scene of the machine-gun exchange the previous night, Rogers saw a half-dozen small children creeping along the sides of the stone buildings that lined the street, darting out every few steps to retrieve small objects from the ground. They were scavengers, gathering spent cartridges from the previous night’s battle. The copper linings from the spent shells would bring a few piastres in the souk.
Just before noon, Rogers arrived at the entrance to Nasser Square. There was still a smell of powder in the air. The streets were nearly empty. At noon exactly, he emerged from Ameena Bint Wahab Street, walked halfway across Nasser Square, and sat on a stone bench. Directly across from him was a tin-roofed building that housed the Fatah military command.
He felt conspicuous and wished there were more people and noise around him. He saw a man walk out of a building and disappear down Khaled Ibn Walid Street; 100 yards away he saw another man, a blind vendor selling smuggled American cigarettes. At the edge of the square a woman with a shopping bag was sitting and resting. Every twenty seconds or so, a car or truck rumbled past.
Rogers looked toward one of the upper windows of the Fatah headquarters, fifty yards away. He thought he saw a figure, all in black, staring out the window. He stood and walked a few steps closer to the building. He counted slowly to ten, feeling his pulse beat against his closed eyelids. Then he turned and walked back the way he had come, across the square and into Ameena Bint Wahab Street. Had Jamal gotten the message?
Rogers walked very slowly. When he reached the shadow of a building, he stopped and turned around. There was nobody following him. He waited fifteen seconds in the shadows, then walked another half block. He was afraid to turn around. Afraid not of who would be there, but of who wouldn’t. He took a cigarette from his pocket and turned around to light it.
And there, ambling toward him, was a man in a black leather jacket.
Bingo! said Rogers under his breath.
Jamal approached Rogers and asked him if he had an American cigarette.
“Marlboro,” offered Rogers.
The Palestinian took the cigarette and lit it.
“What information do you have for me, friend?” said Jamal.
“Come back with me to a quieter place, where we can talk,” answered Rogers.
“No. Here.” He sounded like he meant it.
“Very well,” said Rogers. “The message I have for you is this: The King will rescind his decree about carrying weapons.”
“The King will back down?” asked Jamal dubiously.
“Yes,” said Rogers. “He will back down.”
