The discussion meandered in this way for forty-five minutes, producing little of value for either side. Jamal asked several questions about American policy toward the Palestinian problem, eliciting long and ponderous answers from Marsh. As the discussion progressed, Jamal concluded that the American-though evidently a fool-was probably harmless. He missed Rogers.
Lunch was ordered. Fuad intercepted the waiter at the door to prevent him from glimpsing his two guests. Jamal poured himself a double whisky from a bottle in the bedroom and drank it down in several gulps.
Marsh proposed a toast to the future of U.S.-Palestinian cooperation. Jamal responded with a Lebanese toast -Kaysak!- which literally means: “Your glass!” Then he smiled and repeated the toast, changing the pronunciation slightly. Mispronounced in this way, the word meant: “Your cunt!”
When lunch was done, Marsh turned to Fuad and asked him to leave the room. “We have some matters to discuss,” the American said. Jamal protested, but Fuad was already out the door.
Marsh removed from his pocket a device that looked like a small tape recorder and turned it on. It made a babbling noise, like the sound of five conversations taking place at once.
“Security,” said Marsh with a wink.
Jamal clucked his tongue.
“Let’s talk business,” Marsh began. “As you may have guessed, I am an intelligence officer. I am familiar with the details of your case and I have read the full transcripts of all your previous meetings.”
Jamal winced.
“Oh yes!” said Marsh, nodding his head for emphasis. “We have all of those meetings on tape!”
Jamal lit a cigarette and seemed to disappear in the clouds of smoke. Marsh pursued him intently.
“I must also advise you that I am a senior official of my agency, unlike the people you have dealt with previously, and I am thus familiar with the broad aspects of this case.”
“What case?” muttered Jamal. He was slumped in his chair, like a teenager listening to an especially unwelcome parental lecture. His head was tilted so that he looked at Marsh out of half-closed eyes.
“Am I going too fast for you?” asked Marsh.
“No,” said Jamal, slumping even deeper in his chair.
“Good. Now then, I believe that our relationship with you has gotten off to a bad start because we haven’t clarified in a businesslike way the nature of our dealings. We are in the business of acquiring information. You have information that is of value to us. Therefore, a basis exists for a relationship that is mutually beneficial. But there must be no mistake-I repeat, no mistake-about who is running the show. There will be severe consequences for you if you fail to live up to your side of the bargain. Would you like me to detail those consequences?”
Instead of answering, Jamal sat up in the chair and spit on the rug.
“Stop that!” said Marsh. Control your agent, he reminded himself.
The American picked up a leather attache case he had brought with him and placed it on the coffee table in front of Jamal. He turned it toward the Palestinian and popped the locks. The case was filled with $100 bills, neatly stacked and bound. The money, gathered covertly from a half-dozen banks in Europe, was dog-eared and dirty.
“I hope we can reach a businesslike agreement,” said Marsh. “There is $100,000 in that briefcase as an initial payment. You may count it if you like.” He picked up a wad of bills and rifled them with his thumb.
“As in any business arrangement, I must request that you sign a contract.” He removed a sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket and placed it face up on the table, next to the money. From another pocket he removed an ink pad, to take the fingerprint that would form his receipt.
Jamal lit another cigarette. His face had the tight surface tension of a balloon that is nearly ready to explode.
Marsh was oblivious. In his own nervousness, he had barely looked at the Palestinian.
“As you will see from the contract,” continued Marsh, “we propose to pay you a sum of three million dollars over the next five years. The balance will be paid in regular installments to a numbered bank account in Switzerland. We have taken the liberty of opening the account already.
“Three million dollars!” Marsh repeated the sum like an incantation. With this final, gross invitation to bribery, the balloon burst.
Jamal rose from his chair, muttered an oath in Arabic, and kicked the attache case-dumping the neat stacks of bills on the floor. He loomed over Marsh’s chair. His hands were shaking with rage. Hundred-dollar bills were scattered on the rug in front of Marsh.
“You bastard!” said the Palestinian. “If I had a gun I would shoot you!”
With that, Jamal went to the bedroom and began packing his bag.
Marsh, suddenly frantic, walked to the bedroom and began making blackmail threats. He talked about photos, tapes, incriminating evidence that would be sent to the Soviets, warrants that would be issued for Jamal’s arrest in Italy, Lebanon, and Jordan. When it was obvious that these threats were having no effect, Marsh picked up the phone and called a number that reached the switchboard of the Rome station. With a few prearranged code phrases, he signalled that he had a problem and needed a backup team in a hurry.
Jamal ignored the American. When he had finished packing, he walked briskly past Marsh to the door. He took the stairs to the ground floor and slipped out a side entrance, escaping into the heat of the Roman summer.
PART VI
September 1970-June 1971
24
Beirut; September 1970
Rogers was shattered when he heard about the Rome meeting. He felt mute and helpless, like a father hearing the news that one of his children has died while in the custody of someone else. In the first several weeks he tried to reestablish contact with Jamal. He came up with various strategems, but nothing worked. It was difficult to locate somebody if you couldn’t acknowledge that you knew him.
The Palestinian remained silent and invisible. The Lebanese had no record of his returning to Beirut. Indeed, nobody had any record of his going anywhere. He had vanished. It was then that Rogers began to suspect that he had underestimated Jamal.
Rogers’s immediate problem was Fuad. The Lebanese was disgusted by what had happened, and for a time he disappeared, too. He eventually sent a message to Rogers from Greece-a postcard from Skiathos-but Rogers let him be. Fuad’s anger toward the United States would help reinforce his cover, Rogers assured Hoffman. Eventually, Fuad returned to Beirut and threw himself into the whirl of Lebanese leftist politics. He went to meetings of the Progressive Socialist Party, the National Syrian Socialist Party, the Independent Nasserite movement. He watched, he gathered information, he reported at regular intervals to Rogers. And he wondered, in his idle moments, why it was that the Americans were so accident-prone.
The PECOCK file went dead. There were meetings and discussions. The DDP’s office conducted a review of Marsh’s handling of the Rome meeting and concluded that he had badly bungled the case.
Much as Rogers disliked Marsh, he felt sorry for him now. His career was in limbo. He asked for a transfer to the newly formed staff that was handling congressional relations. It was said to be a growth area for the agency. There was some debate about the wisdom of that move, but Stone vouched for Marsh’s integrity. Rogers was pleased that his own arguments about how best to run the case had been vindicated, but that did him little good now. The agent had bolted.
In August, Stone made a swing through Beirut. Without ever admitting that his own recommendations had been wrong, he commended Rogers for his patience and good judgment. He also advised him that he would receive a promotion and advance to a higher pay grade as of September 1. It was Stone’s way of saying that he was
