“Such as?”
“The Palestinians.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Rogers, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” replied Levi.
They walked in silence, each man trying to understand what the other had meant by each maddening fragment of conversation. It was like trying to start a game of chess with only pawns on the board.
“What do you handle in the Mossad, exactly?” asked Rogers. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“A little of this, a little of that,” said Levi. “But mostly I deal with the Palestinians.”
“I know a little about the Palestinians.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Rogers.”
“You must be busy these days.”
“With what?” asked Levi.
“With Camp David.”
“Not so busy as you might imagine,” said Levi. “In my opinion, there is less there than meets the eye.”
“How so?” asked Rogers.
“Do not misunderstand me. We are very pleased to have a peace treaty with Egypt. But the rest, about the Palestinians, is meaningless. I must tell you honestly, our new government has no intention of giving the Palestinians a homeland in Judea and Sumaria. But I’m sure you understand that, don’t you? You understand very well the hostility of our new government toward the Palestinians.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Simply that the new government is prepared to take the most extreme measures.”
What did that mean? Rogers let it drop. He was waiting to see a pattern in Levi’s questions, but so far all he saw was that he was the target for something. The Israeli wanted to send him a message, but what was it?
They reached Trafalgar Square. There was the usual squadron of pigeons gathered on the statuary, and the usual throng of tourists competing with them for the available space. Rogers looked for a place to sit down, but every available space was covered with bird shit. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered Levi one. The Israeli accepted. Rogers lit a match, and cupped it against the wind. He lit Levi’s cigarette and then his own. They continued strolling up St. Martin’s Lane.
“Mr. Rogers,” said Levi. “I would like to mention something.” He cleared his throat.
Okay, thought Rogers. Here we go.
“There is one Palestinian in whom we have a special interest.”
Rogers’s brow furrowed slightly. “Oh really? Who’s that?”
“His name is Jamal Ramlawi. He is the head of Fatah intelligence.”
“I know who he is,” said Rogers. “What about him?”
“You know that we hold him responsible for the Munich massacre, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Rogers. “But that was six years ago. I thought that whole business was over.”
“Not for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jamal Ramlawi is still on the top of our list.”
Rogers looked at him curiously? Why do they want to get him? Why now? And why are they asking me for permission? We’ve been through this once already, and they know the answer. The answer is silence. What do they expect me to say? ‘No! Don’t kill him! He’s ours!’ That was the very thing that Rogers, by the rules of the game, could not say.
Rogers smiled an impenetrable smile.
“Is that right?” he answered blandly. “Still on the top of your list, eh?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of list might that be?”
“You know what I am saying, Mr. Rogers. You know what kind of list.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Rogers. “You are telling me that the new Israeli government is planning to kill Jamal Ramlawi?”
Levi said nothing. His face was turning red. He gave a slight nod.
“And why are you telling me this?”
“Because I thought it might be of interest to you.”
Levi looked at Rogers, so deliberate in this conversation, dragging out every word. He wanted to shake him: Say it. Say it! Say no. Say we can’t kill him because he works for you. Say you want him alive. Just say it. Tell us. That’s all we ask.
But Rogers said nothing. He walked in silence for what seemed like a minute, his face utterly still, his head lost in thought. At length, he spoke again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Please tell that to your colleagues back in Tel Aviv. Tell them that Tom Rogers doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Very well,” said Levi. He looked crestfallen. He had failed.
“It’s time we got back,” said Rogers. “We’ve got the Canadians on Quebec separatism.”
They crossed Trafalgar Square again and walked in silence back down Whitehall. Rogers lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t offer one to the Israeli. When they neared the Foreign Office, Rogers excused himself and sat down on a bench in Parliament Square. He had an unsettled feeling in his gut, like what you feel when you remember a promise made long ago that you had almost forgotten. Rogers mentally reviewed his schedule over the next few weeks and decided that he could spare a few days to see some old friends in Beirut.
43
Beirut; October 1978
Fuad sat in his hotel room, waiting for Rogers. He said a prayer silently, not on the floor facing Mecca but in his T-shirt, facing the mirror. Fuad missed his old apartment, but what could he do? It was gone, the victim of a stray artillery shell from Christian East Beirut.
Rogers was coming! It was a great event. They hadn’t told Fuad why Rogers was coming, but they never did these days. They just said that Rogers was coming to Beirut on a brief mission, and that he wanted to see Fuad as soon as he arrived. What could that mean? Fuad hoped it didn’t have anything to do with Camp David, which had already become a curse word in West Beirut.
A few minutes after 8:00 A.M., Fuad saw a familiar figure in the distance. It was Rogers, unmistakably. Tall and slim, his hair blowing slightly in the wind, his face intent and detached at the same time. Rogers neared the hotel. He was dressed in a gray flannel suit, a blue striped shirt open at the collar, and a pair of cowboy boots. To Fuad, he looked ageless and rumpled in the relaxed way of the Americans. There was a half-smile on his face and an absent expression. He disappeared from Fuad’s view as he entered the hotel.
Fuad listened for Rogers’s footsteps. He knew the sound by heart from a hundred meetings in safehouses and hotel rooms. Rogers would take the stairs, not the elevator, to make sure that no one saw which floor he stopped at. There would be the sound of his shoes reaching the top stair, a pause as he looked around, a slow amble for a few steps, then a quicker pace. Then a soft knock and the code words.
There was a knock.
“Am I early?” said the voice outside the door.
“No, you are right on time.”
The American entered the room, closed the door firmly, and then opened it a crack to make sure that he hadn’t been followed. The hall was empty. The two men, case officer and agent, embraced each other, exchanged pleasantries in Arabic, and offered each other cigarettes.
“You have come back!” said Fuad.
“There isn’t much left to come back to,” said Rogers. He walked to the window and pulled back the drapes a few inches to survey the ruined city. It had all changed. The American gazed out toward the kidney-shaped swimming pool of the hotel, now filled. with debris, and to the skyline beyond, which became increasingly
