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
