“I don’t have much time, so listen to me carefully,” continued the American. “A very senior official of the American government wants to meet with you. He would like to continue the discussions you and I have begun.”
“Fine,” said Jamal. “If he understands the arrangement that you and I have reached, why not?”
Rogers said nothing. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Jamal.
“This is the address of the hotel in Rome where he will meet you and the time and day of the meeting. Fuad will go with you. He will give you money for the trip and arrange any other details.”
“When will you arrive?” said Jamal, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.
“I won’t,” said Rogers. “I’m not coming to the Rome meeting.”
“Why not?” asked Jamal.
“I’m busy with other work. And I think it’s important that you and the senior official have a chance to talk alone.” Rogers sounded almost convincing.
Jamal nodded his head, but he wasn’t pleased.
“I would prefer that you be there,” said Jamal.
“That isn’t an option,” said Rogers.
“Why not?” asked Jamal. “What has changed?”
“Nothing,” said Rogers. “Don’t complain about meeting someone from headquarters. It’s a sign that we’re serious.”
“But my understanding was with you, not the American government.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Rogers.
“What about your promises in Kuwait?”
“Stop it!” snapped Rogers. “You may think the world revolves around you and the Old Man, but it doesn’t. There are lots of other things going on, and I have other responsibilities. I’m not a babysitter.”
Jamal was stung. His expression had turned from enthusiasm to concern, and now to an angry silence. Rogers hated to wound him, but saw no other way to make the break that was necessary.
Jamal rose from his chair. He put the sheet of paper with the instructions on it in the pocket of his blue jeans and headed for the door. He had his hand on the door knob when he stopped and turned back toward Rogers.
“Will we meet again?” asked Jamal. There was something of the child in his voice.
“Of course,” said Rogers. “Don’t be melodramatic.”
“I have another Arab proverb for you to add to your collection,” said Jamal.
“What’s that?” asked Rogers.
“ ‘Entertain the Bedouin and they will steal your clothes.’ ”
Jamal let himself out the door. Rogers sat alone in the apartment for a few minutes and then went back to the embassy and his paperwork.
23
Rome; July 1970
Rome was hot and sticky. The vines on the stone walls in the Villa Borghese looked wilted. The shops on Via Frattina closed early for the afternoon siesta. Even the lizards on the Palatine Hill hid beneath the rocks until it was dark.
Marsh made a point of not minding the heat. He believed that physical sensations, like fatigue or fear or heat itself, could be overcome by an exercise of will. With this in mind, he had purchased a pair of sunglasses when he arrived in Rome: the kind with thick black frames that the Italians liked. They made him feel cooler. So did his suit, a blue suit of tropical wool made by the tailor in Hong Kong he had befriended when he was stationed there. Many of his colleagues had left Asia in the 1960s with bullet wounds. Marsh had left with suits.
“Anyone for tennis?” Marsh asked his luncheon companions. They were eating at Il Buco, a small outdoor restaurant on Via Sant’Ignazio near the Pantheon. The other luncheon guests, sweating in the midday heat, looked incredulously at the visiting American. Except for a vivacious young Italian woman named Anna Armani. She was married to one of the generals who headed the Servizio Informazione Difesa, as the Italian intelligence service was then called.
“Andiamo!” said Anna. Let’s go! Her husband gave her a wink.
The general’s wife collected Marsh an hour later at the Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto and drove him to a tennis club north of the city. It was an elegant Roman establishment, with red-clay courts and street urchins in white shorts acting as ball boys. As they began to warm up, a look of disappointment showed on Anna’s face. Her American guest, though dressed in expensive tennis clothes from head to toe, was a player of modest skills. After they had played a set, Marsh proposed that they take a breather. As they walked toward the clubhouse, Anna Armani noticed that her guest was limping slightly.
“War wound,” said Marsh.
It was true. He had sprained his ankle badly once in Saigon running along the pavement during a rainstorm. The general’s wife nodded sweetly and led him to the clubhouse. She rubbed the tender ankle and held an icepack against it. The American’s spirits improved markedly.
“What a wonderful country!” said Marsh as he sat on the clubhouse patio, gazing out at the courts and the Roman hills beyond. He was sipping a Campari soda. The midday heat had passed and the courts were beginning to fill up with Italians: members of parliament, prominent journalists, executives of the Italian national oil company, ENI. Anna Armani explained that the club was frequented mostly by people connected with the Socialist Party.
“Do you know what I love about Italy?” said Marsh grandly. “You can buy anything here. Clothes. Ideas. People. That’s why this country is so stable beneath the surface. Because everything has its price!”
“Everything?” asked Anna coquettishly.
“Everything but love,” answered Marsh. He imagined that he was being charming.
“Perhaps you will live here someday, since you love Italy so much.”
“Perhaps,” said Marsh. “But my area of expertise lies a bit further east.”
“I hope you will come to Rome. My husband says you are a clever man.”
“Oh does he really now? He should be more discreet.”
“Come now!” said Anna. “It is not a secret that you are a clever man.”
She adjusted the icepack on his ankle. Marsh chided himself, Don’t be so uptight. Her husband already knows enough about the CIA to fill a book.
“Will you be in Rome long?” asked Anna. “We would love to have you to dinner.”
“I’m afraid it’s just a short trip. Just one meeting, really. I’ll probably be leaving in a day or so.”
“What a shame!” said Anna. “To come so far.”
There was a lull in the conversation. They gazed toward the tennis courts and watched the players, chattering in Italian as they batted the balls back and forth on the red clay. Marsh noticed a tall Arab playing on one of the courts. He was a distinguished-looking man, with long legs and a slice backhand.
“Who’s he?” asked Marsh.
“I don’t know,” said Anna. “One of the Arabs.”
“Are there many Arabs living in Rome these days?”
“They are everywhere!” said Anna disgustedly. “They are ruining prices in the stores. Soon the signs in the shops on Via Condotti will be only in Arabic.”
“And Palestinians?” asked Marsh, thinking he might gather a little intelligence. “Are there many Palestinians in Rome?”
“I don’t know,” answered Anna. “They all look the same to me.”
“Do you find them attractive?” asked Marsh.
“Ugh!” said Anna Armani. “I am one of those things in Italy that Arab money cannot buy.”
Marsh was in heaven. He chatted for more than an hour with the Italian woman. She seemed fascinated and besides, Marsh told himself, she was practically one of the family. But despite her ministrations with the icepack, his ankle still hurt. On the way back to the hotel, Marsh stopped in a store near the Via Veneto and bought himself a carved wooden cane.
