from the tops of their blue jeans. It was a problem nobody quite knew how to handle, except to join in the Arab chorus of invective against Israel.
The Palestinian refugees, the uninvited guests at Lebanon’s party of self-congratulation, lived in a string of camps around Beirut that were known as “the belt of misery.” In the Lebanese way, two big Sunni landowning families named Sabra and Shatilla had found a way to profit from the influx. They offered derelict land near the Beirut airport for the refugees to build tin-roofed shacks and stucco houses.
The camps became a familiar sight for air travellers: the MEA jets would turn right from the Mediterranean, begin their descent above the shops and cafes of Hamra Street, and roar over the miserable camps of Sabra and Shatilla, so close that the frail houses seemed to shake, and then touch down their wheels in the Paris of the Orient.
2
Beirut; September 1969
Rogers had to wait a week before meeting the station chief, Frank Hoffman, who was away on a trip to Saudi Arabia. He was curious to meet his new boss, who had a reputation for being an outspoken character in an organization that prized discretion and anonymity.
Hoffman’s secretary, a woman in her fifties named Ann Pugh, scowled at Rogers when he arrived at the station chief’s office.
“You’re five minutes late, Mr. Rogers,” she said. Miss Pugh walked to a heavy oak door and knocked twice. There was a growl from inside. With an electronic buzz, the door swung open, revealing Hoffman at his desk.
Hoffman was short and stocky, with a meaty face and a bald spot in the center of his head. He looked-and talked-more like an FBI agent than a CIA man.
“So you’re my new case officer,” said Hoffman dubiously.
“Tom Rogers,” said the younger man, approaching the desk with his arm outstretched. Hoffman grunted and shook hands.
“You look the part,” said Hoffman, surveying his new case officer. Part of Hoffman’s anxiety about being overweight was expressed by caustic remarks to anyone who wasn’t.
“Sit down,” barked Hoffman. Rogers sat on a fat, red leather couch.
“Now then…,” said the station chief, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “Your cover job is political officer.”
“Much obliged,” said Rogers. To maintain his previous cover, as a consular officer in Oman, Rogers had spent half his day processing visa applications. Before that, in Khartoum, his cover had been commercial officer, which required shuffling through import-export papers part of the day. Cover as a political officer was the easiest and best in any embassy, since the requirements of the nominal job weren’t very different from those of an intelligence officer.
Hoffman took out a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“You don’t smoke a pipe, I hope,” said Hoffman. “I don’t like professor types who smoke pipes.”
“I’ll take a cigarette,” said Rogers.
Hoffman handed him a Lucky. Rogers took a wooden match from a box on the desk and lit it against the sole of his shoe.
“Is that how they light matches at Yale?” said Hoffman.
“I didn’t go to Yale,” said Rogers. Hoffman was beginning to get on his nerves.
“Good,” said the station chief. “There’s hope.”
“It says here that you single-handedly penetrated the politburo in South Yemen,” said Hoffman, staring at a piece of paper. “That right?”
Rogers smiled for the first time. It was inconceivable that any such information would be written on a piece of paper in an open file.
“I had several useful contacts,” said Rogers.
“Cut the crap,” said Hoffman.
“You have it about right,” said Rogers. “I recruited one of the revolutionary leaders in Aden a few years ago. He turned out to be a gold mine. The closer he got to power, the more talkative he became.”
“And why was that?” asked Hoffman.
“I don’t know,” said Rogers. “People like to talk.”
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe I was his insurance policy,” said Rogers. “Maybe he hated the Russians. I don’t know why, but he told me his life story. How he learned revolutionary strategy in Moscow. How the KGB taught him to establish a secret police force after taking power. He was a walking textbook on Soviet operations.”
“Soooo?” asked Hoffman, still looking at the bogus file. “I mean, what’s the point?”
Rogers paused. He thought of his Yemeni agent, who was now a senior official of the country that had been renamed the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen.
“There isn’t any,” said Rogers. “Except that the Soviets aren’t as stupid as they look.”
Hoffman squinted his eyes and looked closely at Rogers. Then he laughed.
“No shit!” said Hoffman. “That took you three years to find out?”
Rogers relaxed. The inquisition seemed to be over.
“Okay, my friend,” said Hoffman. “You know your business. Let me give you an idea of what we’re up to around here.”
He handed Rogers a thick file marked “Top Secret,” which carried the unlikely bureaucratic title, “Related Missions Directive.” This document, prepared back in Langley, set forth the station’s priorities.
“Read it later,” said Hoffman. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, which is the following: Beirut is a three- ring circus. We’ve got a little bit of everything here. We have a string of Lebanese politicians, the greediest bunch of bastards I ever met, who wouldn’t be worth the trouble except that they seem to know everyone else in the Arab world. We have some third-country agents-Egyptians, Syrians, Iraqis-we run through the Beirut station. We have the usual cat-and-mouse game with the Soviet mission here.”
Hoffman paused.
“We also have a few Palestinians, who have been on the books for years and who are the biggest bullshit artists in this entire, fucked-up part of the world.”
“And that’s where you come in,” said Hoffman with a toothy smile. “When you get settled in, I’d like you to handle the Palestinian account.”
At their next meeting, two days later, Hoffman was a little more relaxed. He was playing with a pen on his desk, absent-mindedly bouncing it in the air and catching it.
“Let’s play a game,” said the station chief.
“Assume that there’s someone who wants to kill you. What do you do about it?”
“Kill him first,” said Rogers.
“Wrong answer. In this part of the world, the guy’s brother will come after you and kill you, so you still end up dead.”
“Get somebody else to kill him,” said Rogers.
“Better, but still wrong. The correct answer is penetrate! You got that? Penetrate!”
Rogers nodded.
“Find someone who knows the killer. Someone who can get very friendly with him, who’ll know where he goes, who he sees, what he eats for breakfast. You follow me? And get this guy to tell you when the other guy is coming after you, so you have time to get out of the way. Get the picture?”
Rogers nodded. He was beginning to like Hoffman.
“My friend,” said the station chief. “If you can play this little game in real life, then we’re going to get along fine. Because that is precisely what we want to do with some of the undesirable elements around here who think that killing Americans is fun. Such as your friends, the Palestinians.”
Already, Rogers noticed, they were “his” friends.
