“How am I going to get anything new out of him?”
“That’s your problem,” said Hoffman. “By the way, if you strike out with the general, try his wife. She’s a firecracker.”
“I know.”
“You know the lady?”
“Slightly,” said Rogers. “I sat next to her one night at a dinner party when she got drunk and denounced the Palestinians.”
“Excellent.”
Rogers turned and began to walk out of the office.
“Guadeamus igitur!” called out Hoffman.
“What does that mean?” asked Rogers.
“Let us make merry.”
21
East Beirut; July 1970
Rogers embraced the new assignment as if he was starting a new life. He spent his days in East Beirut, among the Christian elite, making new contacts and renewing old ones. Several weeks after his conversation with Hoffman, he had wangled an invitation to lunch at the Jezzines’ house in the mountains northeast of Beirut.
The luncheon took place on a bright summer day that seemed hot when Rogers left his apartment in West Beirut. He was dressed casually, in a light summer suit and open-necked shirt, and his cowboy boots. When he reached the mountains near the Jezzines’ village, the air was chillier and Rogers wished he had brought a sweater.
The village, on the slopes of Mount Lebanon, had been tidied up for the arrival of a special visitor. There was a string of lights across the main street, shining dully and almost invisibly at midday, and Lebanese flags were fluttering from many of the stone houses. As Rogers drove down the road, he noticed that in the windows of some of the houses were faces, staring silently at him.
The village was the ancestral home of the Jezzine clan. Their villa sat atop the highest hill, sheltered in a grove of cedar trees. As Rogers neared the house, he saw a barricade ahead in the road. It was manned by peasant boys dressed in black and carrying automatic weapons. They stopped him, asked to see his passport. When they had established that he was the important American vistor who was expected that day, the gunmen insisted on driving Rogers the remaining one hundred yards to the house.
The Jezzines kept him waiting, inevitably. Rogers amused himself smoking cigarettes and reading the magazines from Paris on the table in the salon. Eventually, precisely thirty minutes after Rogers had arrived, General Jezzine emerged from the private quarters of the mansion to greet him. The general was dressed in a white linen suit and smoking a Havana cigar.
“How good of you to come,” said Jezzine. “It is an honor to have a distinguished member of your organization in my home.” His voice was precise and measured. He had a way of talking that allowed his mouth to form words while the rest of his face remained utterly immobile. Especially his eyes, which seemed to stare at Rogers without blinking.
They made small talk for a few minutes. Jezzine showed Rogers his collection of guns, mounted in a case on the wall. Then he strolled to the large picture window that dominated the salon and pointed out, in the distance, the valley where he had hunted with his father when he was a boy, and where he now hunted with his own sons. The general glanced momentarily at Rogers’s boots and looked away in disdain.
A servant eventually arrived with tea, served in small glass cups that were half-full with sugar.
“Have you ever heard of ‘Le Dactylo,’ Mr. Rogers?” asked the general, sipping his tea.
Rogers shook his head.
“It means ‘The Typewriter’ in French. But here in my country it has a special meaning. Do you perhaps know what that is?”
“I do not,” said Rogers.
“It is a nickname that Lebanese journalists have for the Deuxieme Bureau. The name has a certain logic. Sometimes, you see, I will summon the owner of one of the Lebanese newspapers to my office in Yarze, and I will give him a bit of information. I will say that the bank owned by Mr. So-and-so, the Palestinian millionaire, is in trouble, or that a particular ministry has exceeded its budget because of financial irregularities. The newspaper owner, if he is a sensible man, will take this information to his editor and tell him to run it in the newspaper. If the editor asks where it came from, the owner will say: ‘Le Dactylo.’ ”
“From ‘The Typewriter,’ ” said Rogers.
“Yes. Precisely. Everyone knows what that means. It means the story comes from me, from army intelligence, from the secret police. And that will be that. The story will run, praising one politician who is acting in the interest of the nation, condemning another one who is not.”
Rogers nodded. He wasn’t sure where Jezzine’s recitation was leading.
“Sometimes,” continued the general, “The Typewriter will supply the newspapers with information that originated, not with us, but with the American Embassy. Le Dactylo types it out, just the same, and it appears in the Beirut papers. And from here, it can be sent by news services around the world.”
“An efficient system,” said Rogers.
“Indeed it is. And one that is possible, I would immodestly add, only because of the efficiency and skill of the Lebanese intelligence service.”
“And the pliancy of Lebanese editors,” said Rogers.
General Jezzine’s mouth smiled. The rest of his face remained frozen. “That also reflects the efficiency of the Deuxieme Bureau,” he said.
“How?”
“Because Le Dactylo understands its clientele. We know that all Lebanese have a common weakness. To put it bluntly, they can be bought. It is a fact of life. We are a small, poor country with few resources. Our people live by their wits. They sell their most valuable asset, which is their loyalty, to the highest bidder. It is not our most admirable trait, perhaps, but it is understandable.
“Unfortunately we in the Deuxiene Bureau cannot afford to buy the loyalty of all our citizens. But we have learned a little secret: You do not have to bribe someone yourself, so long as you know the identity of the person who is bribing him. Do you understand what I am saying? Knowledge truly is power. This is our technique, and in this way we can control nearly everyone.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Rogers untruthfully. In fact, he understood the bureau’s methods perfectly well. It rigged elections, manipulated newspapers, and tapped telephones. It ran Lebanon.
“I will give you an example,” said Jezzine. “Several years ago, the president of the republic held a meeting with the editors of all the major newspapers. He gathered them around the table and turned to them one by one, addressing them by the names of the Arab rulers who sent them money.
“ ‘How is President Nasser?’ he said to the editor of the paper that received a secret bribe from the Egyptians. ‘How is President Assad?’ he said to the editor who received a stipend from Syria. ‘How is King Faisal?’ he said to the editor whose payoffs came from Riyadh. And then he came to the editor of our most respected and incorruptible newspaper.”
“And what did he say?” asked Rogers.
“He said, ‘How is the whole bloody world?’ ”
Rogers laughed at the joke. Jezzine smiled and squinted his eyes, which for him was the equivalent of a belly laugh.
“So you see,” continued Jezzine, “as long as we know who is paying whom in our corrupt little country, we have a handle on nearly everyone.”
“But not everyone?” queried Rogers.
“Alas, there are fanatics among us whose motives are not so clean. They hunger for something other than money. They want dignity, justice, things that are difficult to provide on this earth. They are a more difficult
