Agents of Innocence Read Online Free PDF Page A

took them down the hall to Hoffman. He attached a cover letter, asking permission to do some initial scouting on a potential source inside Fatah.
    “He’s busy,” said Hoffman’s secretary, Ann Pugh.
    “He ought to look at this today,” said Rogers. “As soon as he has time.”
    Miss Pugh tilted her head to one side and gave Rogers a sardonic look that seemed to say: Who the hell do you think you are? She was the sort of CIA clerical worker who, in nearly twenty years with the agency, had handled more top-secret information than a dozen case officers. She was totally loyal to Hoffman, whom she regarded as a kindred spirit, and at war with anyone making demands on his time, especially newly arrived case officers. But a half hour later she buzzed Rogers and said that Hoffman was free for a few minutes. Rogers went immediately to his office.
    “What’s all this crap?” demanded Hoffman when Rogers arrived, waving the bulky interview transcript. “You don’t expect me to read all this, do you?”
    “No, sir,” said Rogers. “I just want you to approve a little fishing expedition, based on something that Fuad told me yesterday.”
    “Will it cost me money?” queried Hoffman. CIA stations needed permission from headquarters for any operation costing more than $10,000.
    “Nothing beyond the normal operational budget.”
    “Will it get me in trouble?” asked Hoffman.
    “Absolutely not,” said Rogers.
    “I’m not authorizing anything that would require my authorization,” said Hoffman. “Got that?”
    Rogers said yes.
    “If that’s understood, then you have my authorization. Go see my deputy if you need anything special. And don’t ask me to read any more God-damned paperwork. I have enough as it is.”
     
     
    Fuad called on Jamal two days later at a small office on the third floor of a building in the Fakhani district, just north of the Sabra camp. The neighborhood was in Fatahland, patrolled by commandos in tight blue jeans and Italian loafers.
    He gave his name to an unshaven man in an outer office who appeared to be a secretary but for some reason had a gun thrust in his pants. Fuad sat down on a dirty couch and waited. In front of him on a coffee table was a huge ashtray, the size of a hubcap, filled with what looked like hundreds of cigarette butts.
    Fuad was going to smoke but thought better of it and pulled out his worry beads. Inside the main office he could hear an occasional murmur of voices.
    After a few minutes, the door of the main office opened and out walked a stunning blond woman, dressed in a leather miniskirt. A German, Fuad thought.
    She was giggling and seemed to be fastening the top button of her blouse. Her breasts were loose and she was having trouble. The woman walked past Fuad, turned to him, and gave him a little wave. Clasped in her hand, Fuad noticed, was a pair of panties.
    “You can go in now,” said the man in the outer office.
    Jamal was sitting in a chair with his hands behind his head and his feet up on his desk.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the Palestinian, swivelling his chair toward Fuad.
    He looked, at first sight, like a European rather than an Arab. He was bright-eyed and clean-shaven, without the usual Arab mustache and beard. He was dressed all in black: black jeans, a black shirt open almost to the waist, and a black leather jacket slung over the chair.
    Fuad began haltingly to introduce himself, mentioning that they had met in Cairo, but Jamal cut him off.
    “I know who you are,” said Jamal, rising from his chair.
    The Palestinian grabbed his leather jacket, took a gun from his desk drawer, put it in his jacket pocket, and walked toward the front door.
    “I’m hungry,” he said. “Let’s go out and have lunch.” The man in the outer office, who turned out to be a bodyguard, trotted along behind.
    Jamal told the driver to take them to a restaurant called Faisal’s on Rue Bliss, across from the American University of Beirut. Fuad was