offices.”
“I told you once in Kuwait that I had never lost an agent,” said Rogers. “And I don’t intend to start now.”
“Yes,” answered Jamal. “You did tell me that. And do you remember what I answered? I told you that I was not your agent.”
They talked for a few minutes more and then Jamal excused himself. He had a meeting with a visiting intelligence officer from Japan. It was getting to be an industry, Jamal said, this business of security cooperation.
After Jamal left, Rogers sat for a while in the apartment, thinking of what Jamal had said. “I am not your agent.” Rogers had to admit that he wasn’t sure what Jamal was. He wasn’t a CIA agent. He certainly wasn’t an ally of the United States. He was something awkward, in between. The American relationship with him was, in that sense, out of control.
45
Beirut; January 1979
The Israeli special-operations team entered Lebanon mostly through the Beirut International Airport. They came one by one, as businessmen travelling on various European passports. They were well trained and intensely motivated. Among them was the cousin of one of the Israeli athletes who had been killed at Munich.
Their mission was to finish once and for all a job that had been started years ago-and to make no mistakes. But even professionals make mistakes.
There were little hints, tipoffs, bits of evidence. The first came from the Mossad officer in East Beirut who was responsible for liaison with the Lebanese Christian militia. He paid a visit to the Christian militia’s chief of intelligence one day in early January and said that he would be away for several weeks. He added that it would be wise to stay out of West Beirut for a while. When the Lebanese Christian pressed for details, the Mossad man just winked.
What the Israeli didn’t say was that most of the Mossad station was quietly slipping out of Beirut. There was no sense in leaving them there, vulnerable and without good alibis, while the special-operations team did its work.
The incident seemed odd to the Christian militiaman. So he sent his own agents to check the logs of Beirut hotels and car-rental agencies and the records of arriving airline passengers to see if there were any unusual developments. It took him a week to gather all the information, and most of it was useless. But he did eventually notice one peculiar detail. Three cars had been rented by foreign passport holders from a particular car-rental agency in East Beirut that week. That seemed strange. Foreign visitors didn’t usually rent cars in Lebanon. They took taxis. Stranger still was the fact that all three cars had been reserved by the same travel agent in Paris. When the militiaman called the number of the Parisian travel agency, it had been disconnected.
The Christian intelligence man wasn’t sure what to do with the information, so he did what intelligence officers usually do. He traded it. As it happened, he owed a favor to the head of Lebanese military intelligence, Samir Fares, who had recently helped his men obtain some American-made electronic-surveillance equipment. So he simply passed along to Fares his scanty evidence that the Israelis might be up to something.
Fares was busy that month with an escalating war in the streets of West Beirut between Syrian, Iraqi, and Libyan agents. So he didn’t pay any real attention to the militiaman’s tip until he got another piece of information- this time from an agent in a small and very secret Christian underground group called Al-Jabha, which was said to have close ties to the Israelis.
Someone was trying to monopolize the group’s bombmaking business, the agent complained. Al-Jabha’s workshop in the mountains had been commandeered by one member who was especially close to the Israelis. The man had brought special welding equipment to the garage, along with sheets of heavy steel plate. That was state- of-the-art for car bombs, the agent explained. The sheets of steel were welded under the car, around three sides of the bomb, so that the force of the explosion would blow out in a particular direction.
It wasn’t fair, the agent said. Lebanon was a country of entrepreneurs. Nobody should try to monopolize the bombmaking business.
The intelligence reports made Fares nervous. Somebody-apparently connected with the Israelis-was planning to hit an important target in West Beirut. But Fares had no idea who or why. He made a mental list of the possible targets: the Sunni prime minister, the Shiite speaker of parliament, several Druse members of the cabinet. The security of these Lebanese officials was Fares’s responsibility. He called in the officers who were responsible for protecting them and issued an alert: The Lebanese Moslem officials should alter their normal travel routines until further notice-and stay off the streets of West Beirut.
Fares thought of other possible targets. There were various Druse, Sunni, and Shiite religious and political leaders, of course. But the most likely targets were among the Palestinians. The Old Man was planning to travel that week to Damascus, along with many of the other Fatah leaders. But Jamal Ramlawi, the Fatah chief of intelligence, was still in town. Fares wondered whether he should send Ramlawi a warning.
Fares did one other thing. He sent a brief report to the new station chief at the American Embassy, a man named Bert Jorgenson who had recently arrived from Kuwait, with a request that a copy be sent to Tom Rogers in Washington.
None of these tips and hints would have come to Rogers’s attention if Father Maroun Lubnani hadn’t panicked.
The Maronite priest had gone off to meet with his Israeli case officer, as he did once a month. The Israelis were meeting much more openly with their agents in Christian East Beirut now, ever since the civil war and the partition of Beirut. Why not? The Israelis were in open alliance with the Christians. They were the new kings of East Beirut!
Father Maroun had gone, as usual, to an apartment building on the beach south of Jounie. He had dressed in his bathing costume, as he did each month, and sat by the indoor pool waiting for the Israeli to meet him there. He had waited and waited. But his Israeli contact hadn’t arrived. So he had followed orders. He had come back to the beach apartments the next day, at the same time, and sat by the pool again, feeling increasingly embarrassed as he watched the nubile Christian girls in their bikinis parade past him.
The Israelis never made mistakes, Father Maroun told himself. But the hours passed that second day, and the Israeli contact still didn’t arrive. Finally, after waiting too long by poolside in an ill-fitting swim suit, Father Maroun panicked.
Father Maroun’s case officer had made a simple and forgivable mistake. In his haste to get out of Beirut, the Mossad officer had forgotten to notify his contact in the Maronite clergy that their meeting that month would be postponed.
Father Maroun was worried. The Israeli officer would not miss a meeting unless something was very, very wrong! So he did what he had been told to do in an emergency. He called the Israeli Embassy in Paris and asked for his special emergency contact there by name.
A voice came on the line.
“What is happening?” said Father Maroun, his voice trembling. “I went to meet my friend, but he has disappeared!”
“Calm down,” said the voice. “Your friend is busy. Something important has come up that requires him to miss his meeting. Everything is fine. Your friend will contact you in several weeks in the normal way.”
“Very well,” said Father Maroun, much relieved.
“Please do not call this number again,” said the voice. The line went dead.
A brief intelligence report on the conversation came across Rogers’s desk two days later, in the midst of a thick pile of other reports from around the world, with a note from the watch officer: “FYI.” After his visit to London and Beirut the previous September, Rogers had asked to see as much of the raw intelligence from Lebanon as he could.
The call had, in fact, been monitored by American intelligence, which tapped all calls going in and out of the Israeli Embassy in Paris, as well as much of the telephone traffic in and out of Lebanon. The intelligence report
