Agents of Innocence by David Ignatius

tradecraft. They agreed on the location of dead drops in downtown Beirut where messages could be passed quickly and discreetly. They reviewed extraction procedures for getting Fuad and Jamal out of Beirut in an emergency. Rogers urged Fuad to deepen his cover as a pro-Palestinian Lebanese businessman by spending time with other Fatah officials. Every additional Fatah man in Fuad’s circle of acquaintance, he stressed, was additional protection for Jamal.
    The surveillance reports began to accumulate. The trackers who were following Jamal described the subject as an Arab playboy. He stayed out late at discos and nightclubs, almost always in the company of a beautiful woman. He woke up late in the morning, often in the bed of a young lady, went back to his apartment to shower and shave, and arrived at the office around 11:00 A.M.
    He was rootless and almost bohemian in his lifestyle, drifting among the offices and apartments of friends, co-workers, and lovers. He ate nearly all his meals in restaurants and always had a fat roll of banknotes. The oddest thing about his routine, the trackers reported, was that he would occasionally go to the library of the American University of Beirut in the afternoon and read. Just read! Science books, news magazines, pop-music tabloids. Books about America and the Soviet Union. Even books about Israel.
    There was a final detail, said the trackers. He loved to buy presents, the more expensive the better. On his way to an appointment, he would often stop in a store and buy for his host some fruit, or flowers, or candy, or books. Sometimes he would stop at fancy women’s shops on Hamra and buy gifts in bulk for his girlfriends: bottles of perfume; a dozen silk scarves; a half-dozen pairs of gold earrings.
     
     
    “I can tell you one thing about our boy,” said Hoffman, after the surveillance had been in place for several weeks.
    “What’s that?” said Rogers, suspecting that he already knew the answer.
    “This guy loves pussy!”
    Rogers groaned.
    “No really, come here. Take a look at these pictures. When this guy tells people he put in a hard day at the office, he really means it!”
    Spread out on Hoffman’s desk were a dozen glossy photographs, culled from hundreds that had been taken by the camera hidden in Jamal’s office wall.
    “Check this out,” said Hoffman. “This is babe number one.”
    He handed Rogers a picture that showed a blond woman with very large breasts lying spread-eagled on top of a desk. Her blouse was open and her skirt was pulled up to her waist. On top of her was Jamal.
    “What a unit!” said Hoffman. “That girl’s got a pair of Hogans!”
    “Hogans?” asked Rogers, who had never heard the expression before.
    “Yeah, wise guy. Hogans. Bigger than big.”
    Hoffman picked up another picture and studied it.
    “Blow job!” announced Hoffman. “Yesirreee. No question about it. The woman is playing the skin flute! Eating tube steak!”
    “I get the point,” said Rogers, taking the picture from Hoffman. It showed the blond woman kneeling on the floor, performing fellatio on the Palestinian, who was smiling and had his eyes closed.
    “Don’t swallow it, lady! It might explode!” shouted Hoffman.
    “Are you aware that we already have a file on this woman?” said Rogers, who felt foolish looking at dirty pictures.
    “Hubba! Hubba!” responded the station chief.
    “She’s a German girl,” continued Rogers. “She drives a red Ferrari and keeps house for a Lebanese millionaire. This is how she gets her kicks.”
    “Outstanding young woman,” said Hoffman. “Sensational. No wonder the Germans lost the war. They were exhausted.”
    He went back to the pile of photographs and pawed through them until he found the one he was looking for.
    “Okay. Here’s babe number two,” said the station chief.
    “First, we have a little get-acquainted shot.” The photograph showed a dark-haired women in a fashionable dress with her back to the camera.