Free Agents of Innocence by David Ignatius Page A

He offered to help me.”
    “What did he do?”
    “He gave me money.”
    “What else?”
    “He put me in touch with someone at the embassy who he said could make inquiries about what had happened to my father.”
    “And did they find out anything at the embassy?”
    “They found out everything.”
    “What happened?”
    “It was all very Lebanese. There had been an argument between two local politicians—the representatives of the Druse and Maronite members of parliament from our district—about political patronage. The question was whether a Moslem or a Christian contractor would get the job paving the road between Saadiyat and Dibbiye.
    “My father, though he was a Moslem, had sided with the Christian contractor. The man was a friend of Emile-Bey’s and he was a good worker. The next day, when my father went to start his motorcycle, a bomb exploded. The government didn’t want a scandal, so they hushed up the incident. They never caught the man who planted the bomb.”
    “Who did it?”
    “That was where the American Embassy helped. They talked to their contacts in the Druse organization and identified the man who rigged the bomb. They even sent me a picture of the man. His name was Marwan Darazi.”
    Fuad paused.
    “There is a part here that I’m not sure I should tell you,” said the Lebanese.
    “You should tell me everything,” said Rogers.
    “Okay. That was the first time that I met Mr. Hoffman. He was the one at the embassy who brought me the picture of Darazi, the man who murdered my father. Mr. Hoffman said that they had checked and learned that this man was a Communist.”
    Rogers felt his stomach tighten.
    “Was he a Communist, this man Darazi?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because Mr. Hoffman told me so.”
    “What else did Mr. Hoffman tell you?”
    “He told me that I had a choice. I could get revenge in the Lebanese way, by killing Darazi. Or I could get revenge in the American way, by working to destroy the people who had created Darazi. The Communists.”
    “And what did you do?”
    “A little of both,” said Fuad. “Lebanese and American.”
    “You killed Darazi?”
    “No. I only wounded him. But I cleared our family name of shame.”
    “What happened then? Didn’t Darazi’s people go after you?”
    “Mr. Hoffman helped me to get out of the country, to Egypt. He found me a job there.”
    “And then?”
    “You know the rest,” said Fuad. “I am an agent. I work for you. I am at your service.”
    Rogers took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He looked the young Arab in the eye.
    “Is everything you have told me true?” asked Rogers.
    “Yes,” said Fuad.
    “Are you working for anyone other than me?”
    “No.”
    Rogers continued to look at him for what must have been fifteen seconds. Fuad did not blink. Rogers took his measure and finally looked away. You have to trust someone in this business, he thought to himself. Otherwise, what was the point?
    “Trudie,” Rogers called to the other room, where the technician was waiting with her polygraph machine.
    “It’s getting late. We’ll flutter him another time.”
    Rogers shook Fuad’s hand, thanked him, and said goodnight in Arabic.

9
     
    Beirut; December 1969
     
    The covert relationship between the CIA and Fatah’s deputy chief of intelligence put down a first frail root in late December 1969. Even by the standards of the espionage business, it was an awkward and furtive contact.
    Two things mattered to Rogers in planning this opening move. The Palestinian must understand that Fuad was an agent of the CIA and that Rogers was his case officer. And the Palestinian must signal his good faith directly to Rogers—even though he refused, for now, to meet with him.
    A clandestine relationship had to begin as straightforwardly as possible, Rogers felt. Otherwise it soon became hopelessly tangled in the web of confusion and deception that was inevitably part of the secret world. Rogers also wanted to see