noted the basic details: the caller was a Maronite priest named Maroun Lubnani. The person he called was a Mossad officer in Paris who, it was thought, handled some Lebanese accounts.
What caught Rogers’s eye was the name of Maroun Lubnani, which brought to mind the figure of a stout Lebanese cleric dressed in lederhosen. But as he read the intelligence report, he found it intriguing. Why the panic? What were the Israelis up to? Why were they breaking off meetings with agents?
Rogers felt his stomach churning. He pulled from a file another recent SIGINT report from Lebanon that had come across his desk several days earlier. The signals people had captured a transmission from Lebanon by a high- speed transmitter, which sent coded communications in rapid bursts. It was state-of-the-art equipment and only used for sensitive jobs. Rogers had assumed, when he first saw the report, that the Soviets were up to something.
Now he suspected that it was the Israelis. And he thought he knew what they were doing.
It was late. Nearly 5:00 P.M. in Washington. First, Rogers sent a cable to Jorgenson, the new station chief in Beirut. Jorgenson wasn’t a genius, but he would have to do. “Request your help urgently on a sensitive matter,” the cable said. Jorgenson called back from his home on an unsecure line. That was a bad sign.
“Can’t help you, my friend,” said Jorgenson. “We’re mighty tight this week. Big project going.”
“I have a feeling this may be more important,” said Rogers. Jorgenson’s last big project had been a conference on Arab folk art.
“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” said Jorgenson. “But if you’re talking about something sensitive, then I’m going to need some paperwork. A finding. A memo from the general counsel. A note saying you’ve briefed the appropriate committees.”
“But we don’t have time for that, Bert. Somebody could be dead by then.”
“Sorry, Tom. But rules are rules. The days of the rogue elephant are over!”
“For Christ’s sake!” said Rogers. He was almost shouting.
“Sorry, pal,” said Jorgenson amiably. “Can’t help. Maybe you can scare up a little local talent. Some of your old pals. We don’t see much of them any more. Be my guest.”
Rogers cursed. Jorgenson rang off.
Rogers’s next call was to Fares. It was past midnight in Beirut when he reached him.
Rogers apologized for waking the Lebanese chief of intelligence. He wouldn’t have called at all, Rogers said, except that he had a tip that somebody might be planning a major operation in Lebanon.
“Didn’t you get my message?” asked Fares sleepily.
“What message?”
“I sent a message to the embassy nearly a week ago passing along some interesting information that had come our way. I asked the embassy to forward it to you. Didn’t you get it?”
“No,” said Rogers. He was fuming. Calm down, he told himself.
Rogers thought for a moment. He was in trouble. His options were all bad. There wasn’t time for him to go to Beirut. The CIA station there wouldn’t help. Time was running out. There was only one alternative.
“Samir,” said Rogers. “A few months ago I promised I wouldn’t ask for your help again. But I need a favor. Will you do something for me?”
“Of course,” said Fares. “Tell me what it is.”
“Can you send someone you trust to an address I will give you. When your man gets there, a friend of mine named Fuad will be waiting for him. Could you have your man tell Fuad the information that you sent to me via the embassy.”
“I will go myself,” said Fares.
Rogers gave him Fuad’s address and room number in West Beirut and thanked him, haltingly.
“It is nothing,” said Fares. “We are friends.”
Finally Rogers called Fuad. He talked carefully.
“Marhaba,” said Fuad groggily in Arabic when he picked up the phone.
“This is your old friend,” said Rogers. “The man who first met you on the beach.”
“Yes,” said Fuad. “I know who you are.”
“I think that someone is trying to make trouble for another friend of ours.”
“Who?”
“The man I met in Amman.”
“The man in black?”
“Yes,” said Rogers.
“Bad trouble?”
“The worst.”
“When will it happen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe soon.”
“What should I do?”
“I’m sending someone to visit you tonight. He’ll tell you what he knows. You can trust him. He is discreet. But don’t tell him who we are trying to protect. That’s none of his business. That’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“Okay,” said Fuad. “Should I ask the people at your old office for help?”
“No,” said Rogers. “They’re useless.”
Fuad was silent.
“Good luck,” said Rogers. He put the phone down.
“Goodbye, Effendi,” said Fuad.
Fares arrived at Fuad’s hotel just before dawn. When Fuad opened the door of his room there was a look of surprise and recognition on each man’s face. Each one knew the other by reputation, but neither knew until that moment that they both shared a link with Rogers.
Fares described the intelligence reports. A Christian militia leader had been warned by an Israeli to stay out of West Beirut. Another Christian had complained that someone new was in the car-bomb business. A rental-car agency in East Beirut had received reservations from a nonexistent travel agency in Paris. Somebody, said Fares, was being set up for a hit, and he wanted to know who.
“Are they trying to kill one of Rogers’s people?” demanded Fares.
“I cannot tell you that, General,” said Fuad.
Rogers is protecting an agent, thought Fares. A Moslem agent in West Beirut.
“I am ordering you to tell me,” said Fares.
“I still cannot tell you.”
“I can have you arrested.”
“I hope you will not do that,” said Fuad coolly.
Fares decided that he liked Fuad. He was a worthy agent for Rogers.
“No. Of course I won’t arrest you,” replied Fares. He relit his pipe. He thought about who the target might be, surveyed a mental list of the people the Israelis would want to kill and the Americans would want to protect. And suddenly it was obvious to him who the agent was. And just as obvious why Fuad was on orders not to give his name to the head of a Lebanese intelligence service that was thoroughly penetrated by the Israelis.
“How can I help you?” asked Fares.
“Do you have the license numbers of the cars that were rented by the travel agency in Paris?”
“Yes,” said Fares. He gave Fuad a piece of paper with the numbers written on it. There were three cars-a Ford, a Volkswagen, and a Mercedes-each with a license number.
“We must find these cars,” said Fuad. “If we find the car with the bomb, then we don’t have to worry about the target.”
“I will send out a team of men this morning,” said Fares.
Fuad said he would join in the search.
“How soon are the Israelis likely to move?” asked Fuad.
“I got this information a week ago,” answered Fares. “It could be very soon.”
When Fares had left, Fuad called Jamal’s apartment. His wife answered. Jamal wasn’t there, she said. He hadn’t come home the previous night. He must be working. Then Fuad called Jamal’s office. A bodyguard answered. No, Jamal wasn’t there. No, he didn’t know where he was. Fuad tried the health club where Jamal sometimes went in the morning. No, he hadn’t been in. He called two women who he thought might know Jamal’s whereabouts.
