“This is the man known as ‘the Bombmaker,’ ” began Rogers.
He handed Hoffman a grainy photograph taken from a distance with a high-powered lens. It showed a heavyset Arab man with a stubbly beard and a mustache. He had a bald spot on his head and was wearing thick glasses. There were bags under his eyes and a look of perpetual sleeplessness. He was wearing what appeared to be an expensive silk shirt, open at the neck. Because he was overweight, the fabric was pulling at the buttons. Around his neck, matted in the hair on his chest, was a large gold ingot.
“So this is the face of evil,” said Hoffman. “He looks to me like your average fat slob.”
Rogers handed Hoffman the next photograph.
“This is a picture of the apartment building where he lives,” said Rogers. The photo showed a modern building, with clothes hanging from some of the balconies and children in the courtyard.
“Where is it?” asked Hoffman.
“West Beirut,” said Rogers. “Off the Corniche Mazraa, near the Palestinian camps.”
“But I thought you told me this guy was a Christian,” said Hoffman.
“He is,” said Rogers.
“Well, then, why in the Sam J. Hill is he living in the middle of a bunch of Palestinians?”
“Because he’s a Palestinian.”
“Now listen, Rogers. Don’t fuck with me. I’m warning you.”
“I’m not,” said Rogers.
“Well, then, what is he? A Christian or a Palestinian?”
“He’s both. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s a Christian Palestinian. His family is from Bethlehem.”
“Oh,” said Hoffman.
“His real name is Youssef Kizib. He studied electrical engineering at Cairo University ten years ago and he was the best student in his class, by far. His teachers still remember him. He was the student who could build anything. He was working on his doctorate when he got in trouble with the Moukharabat in Egypt. They thought he was working with one of the Palestinian underground groups. He fled to Lebanon in 1964 and has been here ever since, except for occasional trips to Cannes, where he lives like a pasha.”
“Attractive fellow,” said Hoffman.
“Now here’s the interesting part,” said Rogers. He handed Hoffman another grainy, telephoto-lens picture. It showed the Bombmaker in a dimly-lit room. Standing near him were Amin Shartouni and several other young Lebanese.
“This is the Bombmaker with his Lebanese Christian pupils,” said Rogers. “We tracked them to the place where they do their training in the mountains. This picture shows him giving his final lesson.”
“What’s that?” asked Hoffman.
“How to make bombs that are hidden in the lining of a suitcase, that will explode when an airplane reaches a certain altitude.”
“Why in heaven’s name do the Lebanese Christians need to know that?” asked Hoffman.
“They probably don’t,” answered Rogers. “But it’s part of the curriculum.”
“Asshole,” said Hoffman, looking again at the heavyset face with the stubbly beard.
“Guess where this next picture was taken?” said Rogers as he handed Hoffman another photograph. This one showed the gray exterior of a modern office building on a hill overlooking Lebanon. In the foreground of the picture was a short man dressed in an army uniform.
“I give up,” said Hoffman without looking at the picture.
“It’s the headquarters of army intelligence, formerly known as the Deuxieme Bureau. The man in the foreground is a Lebanese Army major who happens to be a cousin of the president.”
“The Squirrel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what?” said Hoffman.
Rogers handed him the next picture. It showed the same Lebanese intelligence officer sitting in a cafe talking with the Bombmaker, Youssef Kizib.
“We photographed them together a week ago. Then we began to look around. It seems that Kizib maintains regular contact with several members of army intelligence. They know exactly what he’s up to with the Lebanese Christians and, in fact, they seem to have given him their blessing. That’s how he gets some of his explosives.”
“Now let me get this straight,” said Hoffman. “We’ve got a Palestinian who’s training a bunch of Lebanese Christians to kill other Palestinians, with the blessing of the Lebanese Army.”
“More or less,” said Rogers. “But the best is yet to come.”
Rogers handed another black-and-white photo to Hoffman. This one showed the Bombmaker walking down a narrow street, framed by rough cinderblock buildings.
“This was taken in Tal Zaatar refugee camp,” said Rogers. “Our man is paying a secret visit to another set of his friends. Guess who they are?”
“In Tal Zaatar, they must be Palestinians,” said Hoffman.
“Correct,” answered Rogers. “He’s visiting one of the men who handles logistics for Fatah. We think he went there on behalf of his friends in East Beirut to buy rocket-propelled grenades-RPGs-for one of the Christian militias. This was just four days ago, so we’re still checking out some of the details. But as near as we can reconstruct the deal, the Fatah man agreed to sell Kizib one hundred RPGs, at eight hundred Lebanese pounds each. All out of Fatah’s stores of ammunition.”
“You’re shitting me,” said Hoffman. “A Palestinian from Fatah is selling grenades to the Christians to use in killing Palestinians!”
“You got it,” said Rogers.
“Humor me,” said Hoffman. “Explain to me why the Bombmaker is doing these odious things.”
“For money,” said Rogers. “And fun.”
There was silence.
Rogers had a mental picture of the arsenals that were being assembled in basements and warehouses across town. Homemade cluster bombs for residential neighborhoods; RPGs to shoot across the boundaries of East and West Beirut; car bombs for mosques and churches; sniper’s rifles to attack innocent civilians who happened to be the wrong religion; pistols with silencers to remove obstinate politicians; and the militias training in secret while the scoundrels who ran the country tried to squeeze the last piastre of graft from the dying system. And in the middle of it all, at the eye of the hurricane that was destroying Lebanon, stood a small group of professionals like the Bombmaker, who saluted all flags but sailed under none, who disdained ideology and sold their services to whoever was willing to pay the price.
“The question,” said Rogers, “is what we do about it.”
“That is indeed the question,” said Hoffman. “And I fortuitously have the answer.”
“Which is?”
“That we do nothing about it.”
Rogers looked at him, dumbfounded.
“You can’t mean that,” said Rogers.
“Wanna bet?”
“But for God’s sake, Frank,” said Rogers, his usually calm voice becoming insistent. “We should do something before things get out of control.”
“Like what?”
“Simple things. A media program to bolster moderate political opinion. Security assistance for what’s left of the Deuxieme Bureau. Contacts between Palestinian and Christian leaders. Recruit more people who can keep tabs on the gangs of thugs out there. Anything. But we should do something.”
“My boy,” said Hoffman. “Forgive me for saying this, but that’s a very American response. You see a problem on the horizon. Ergo, you want to solve it. I understand completely. I share your concerns. But forget it! Uncle Sam isn’t going to solve the problems of this fucked-up little country! So let’s not waste our time trying.”
“But this is serious!” said Rogers. “A friendly country is falling apart. Surely there is something we can do?”
