Read Online Agents of Innocence by David Ignatius - Free Book Online
Authors: David Ignatius
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, middle east, spy stories, Terrorism - Middle East
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recent communiqué issued by the radical Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, titled “Final Warning to the World to Stay Away from Israel.” The document contained an unsubtle threat of airplane hijackings. It announced: “Don’t Travel to Israel! Stay Neutral! Be Safe! Keep Away!”
“The DDP says he doesn’t understand what he’s being asked to approve,” said Hoffman, when he had read the response to his cable. “Normally, I would tell him to go screw himself. But in this case, he has a point.
“To be frank, I’m not even sure I understand what we’re asking him to approve, and I wrote the fucking cable! So bear with me while I belabor the obvious.”
Rogers nodded.
“Is this an agent recruitment?” demanded Hoffman.
“No,” said Rogers. “Not yet.”
“Then what is it?”
“Our source is calling it ‘liaison.’
“Oh yeah? Well that’s bullshit, and you can tell him I said so. In the meantime, what are we supposed to tell Langley we’re doing out here?”
Rogers thought a moment.
“Tell them,” said Rogers, “that we are in the development phase of what we expect will be a penetration of the senior leadership of the Fatah guerrilla organization. For now, we are using a Lebanese agent as talent spotter.”
“Not bad,” said Hoffman. “It sounds almost plausible.”
And that was exactly what the DDP approved in early December 1969.
8
Beirut; December 1969
Christmas was only a few weeks away. Half the embassy, it seemed, was planning to take home leave for the holidays. The other half was scheming to take trips to Paris and London on embassy business.
Ambassador Wigg gave a lavish Christmas party the first week of December. It was a bit early, but the Wiggs were among the many who were leaving the country for vacation. Mrs. Wigg also organized some of the embassy wives and their children to go caroling in early December. They mistakenly did so in a part of West Beirut that was entirely Moslem, so the reception was less enthusiastic than hoped.
Jane made an appointment several days after the Wiggs’ party to see the ambassador’s wife. She had come up with an idea, and she wanted Mrs. Wigg’s blessing. Jane wore her best silk dress to the ambassador’s residence and tried very hard to make a good impression.
It was a modest proposal, really. Wouldn’t it be a fine thing, Jane suggested, if some of the embassy wives—rather than staying cloistered in the wealthy foreign sections of West Beirut every day—could play a more useful role in the community? Perhaps they could arrange to do some volunteer work. Something like the Junior League back home.
“Where were you thinking of, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“The Makassed Hospital,” said Jane. “I’m told that they desperately need help.”
“Where is that, exactly?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“In West Beirut,” said Jane, adding in a quieter voice. “Near the Sabra refugee camp.”
Mrs. Wigg didn’t seem to hear.
“Isn’t that a Moslem hospital?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“Yes, I think it is.”
“And who are the patients?”
“Moslems,” said Jane. “Palestinians for the most part. They are the ones who can’t afford private hospitals, you see, and are dependent on charity hospitals like the Makassed.”
“Did you say Palestinians?” asked Mrs. Wigg, her voice rising.
“Yes, although I’m not sure why that matters.”
“It’s out of the question, my dear,” said Mrs. Wigg with finality. “You should know better. Really.”
Jane paused. She looked at Mrs. Wigg, deliberated a moment, and then spoke.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
“Why?” thundered Mrs. Wigg. “Why? I’m surprised you have to ask. Need I remind you that we are here at the sufferance of the Lebanese government. The Palestinian refugee problem is their affair, not ours. For all I know, the Lebanese government would rather not encourage these refugees to settle in Lebanon by providing them with free
“The DDP says he doesn’t understand what he’s being asked to approve,” said Hoffman, when he had read the response to his cable. “Normally, I would tell him to go screw himself. But in this case, he has a point.
“To be frank, I’m not even sure I understand what we’re asking him to approve, and I wrote the fucking cable! So bear with me while I belabor the obvious.”
Rogers nodded.
“Is this an agent recruitment?” demanded Hoffman.
“No,” said Rogers. “Not yet.”
“Then what is it?”
“Our source is calling it ‘liaison.’
“Oh yeah? Well that’s bullshit, and you can tell him I said so. In the meantime, what are we supposed to tell Langley we’re doing out here?”
Rogers thought a moment.
“Tell them,” said Rogers, “that we are in the development phase of what we expect will be a penetration of the senior leadership of the Fatah guerrilla organization. For now, we are using a Lebanese agent as talent spotter.”
“Not bad,” said Hoffman. “It sounds almost plausible.”
And that was exactly what the DDP approved in early December 1969.
8
Beirut; December 1969
Christmas was only a few weeks away. Half the embassy, it seemed, was planning to take home leave for the holidays. The other half was scheming to take trips to Paris and London on embassy business.
Ambassador Wigg gave a lavish Christmas party the first week of December. It was a bit early, but the Wiggs were among the many who were leaving the country for vacation. Mrs. Wigg also organized some of the embassy wives and their children to go caroling in early December. They mistakenly did so in a part of West Beirut that was entirely Moslem, so the reception was less enthusiastic than hoped.
Jane made an appointment several days after the Wiggs’ party to see the ambassador’s wife. She had come up with an idea, and she wanted Mrs. Wigg’s blessing. Jane wore her best silk dress to the ambassador’s residence and tried very hard to make a good impression.
It was a modest proposal, really. Wouldn’t it be a fine thing, Jane suggested, if some of the embassy wives—rather than staying cloistered in the wealthy foreign sections of West Beirut every day—could play a more useful role in the community? Perhaps they could arrange to do some volunteer work. Something like the Junior League back home.
“Where were you thinking of, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“The Makassed Hospital,” said Jane. “I’m told that they desperately need help.”
“Where is that, exactly?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“In West Beirut,” said Jane, adding in a quieter voice. “Near the Sabra refugee camp.”
Mrs. Wigg didn’t seem to hear.
“Isn’t that a Moslem hospital?” asked Mrs. Wigg.
“Yes, I think it is.”
“And who are the patients?”
“Moslems,” said Jane. “Palestinians for the most part. They are the ones who can’t afford private hospitals, you see, and are dependent on charity hospitals like the Makassed.”
“Did you say Palestinians?” asked Mrs. Wigg, her voice rising.
“Yes, although I’m not sure why that matters.”
“It’s out of the question, my dear,” said Mrs. Wigg with finality. “You should know better. Really.”
Jane paused. She looked at Mrs. Wigg, deliberated a moment, and then spoke.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
“Why?” thundered Mrs. Wigg. “Why? I’m surprised you have to ask. Need I remind you that we are here at the sufferance of the Lebanese government. The Palestinian refugee problem is their affair, not ours. For all I know, the Lebanese government would rather not encourage these refugees to settle in Lebanon by providing them with free
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