Agents of Innocence Read Free Page A

says here that you single-handedly penetrated the politburo in South Yemen,” said Hoffman, staring at a piece of paper. “That right?”
    Rogers smiled for the first time. It was inconceivable that any such information would be written on a piece of paper in an open file.
    “I had several useful contacts,” said Rogers.
    “Cut the crap,” said Hoffman.
    “You have it about right,” said Rogers. “I recruited one of the revolutionary leaders in Aden a few years ago. He turned out to be a gold mine. The closer he got to power, the more talkative he became.”
    “And why was that?” asked Hoffman.
    “I don’t know,” said Rogers. “People like to talk.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “Maybe I was his insurance policy,” said Rogers. “Maybe he hated the Russians. I don’t know why, but he told me his life story. How he learned revolutionary strategy in Moscow. How the KGB taught him to establish a secret police force after taking power. He was a walking textbook on Soviet operations.”
    “Soooo?” asked Hoffman, still looking at the bogus file. “I mean, what’s the point?”
    Rogers paused. He thought of his Yemeni agent, who was now a senior official of the country that had been renamed the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen.
    “There isn’t any,” said Rogers. “Except that the Soviets aren’t as stupid as they look.”
    Hoffman squinted his eyes and looked closely at Rogers. Then he laughed.
    “No shit!” said Hoffman. “That took you three years to find out?”
    Rogers relaxed. The inquisition seemed to be over.
    “Okay, my friend,” said Hoffman. “You know your business. Let me give you an idea of what we’re up to around here.”
    He handed Rogers a thick file marked “Top Secret,” which carried the unlikely bureaucratic title, “Related Missions Directive.” This document, prepared back in Langley, set forth the station’s priorities.
    “Read it later,” said Hoffman. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, which is the following: Beirut is a three-ring circus. We’ve got a little bit of everything here. We have a string of Lebanese politicians, the greediest bunch of bastards I ever met, who wouldn’t be worth the trouble except that they seem to know everyone else in the Arab world. We have some third-country agents—Egyptians, Syrians, Iraqis—we run through the Beirut station. We have the usual cat-and-mouse game with the Soviet mission here.”
    Hoffman paused.
    “We also have a few Palestinians, who have been on the books for years and who are the biggest bullshit artists in this entire, fucked-up part of the world.”
    “And that’s where you come in,” said Hoffman with a toothy smile. “When you get settled in, I’d like you to handle the Palestinian account.”
     
     
    At their next meeting, two days later, Hoffman was a little more relaxed. He was playing with a pen on his desk, absent-mindedly bouncing it in the air and catching it.
    “Let’s play a game,” said the station chief.
    “Assume that there’s someone who wants to kill you. What do you do about it?”
    “Kill him first,” said Rogers.
    “Wrong answer. In this part of the world, the guy’s brother will come after you and kill you, so you still end up dead.”
    “Get somebody else to kill him,” said Rogers.
    “Better, but still wrong. The correct answer is penetrate! You got that? Penetrate!”
    Rogers nodded.
    “Find someone who knows the killer. Someone who can get very friendly with him, who’ll know where he goes, who he sees, what he eats for breakfast. You follow me? And get this guy to tell you when the other guy is coming after you, so you have time to get out of the way. Get the picture?”
    Rogers nodded. He was beginning to like Hoffman.
    “My friend,” said the station chief. “If you can play this little game in real life, then we’re going to get along fine. Because that is precisely what we want to do with some of the undesirable elements around here who think that