Agents of Innocence Read Free Page B

killing Americans is fun. Such as your friends, the Palestinians.”
    Already, Rogers noticed, they were “his” friends.
    “Let’s take a trip,” said Hoffman, suddenly rising from his chair. “Show you around town.”
    He buzzed his secretary, grunted the word “car” into the phone, took Rogers by the arm, and led him out the door and down the stairwell. It was a comical sight: the short, pudgy Hoffman, dressed in a baggy blue suit, steering the tall young man by the arm. On the ground floor, Rogers headed for the front entrance. Hoffman yanked him by the arm and led him toward a side door where a black Chrysler was waiting.
    “Take the day off, Sami,” said Hoffman to the Lebanese driver. He slid into the front seat.
    “Get in,” he said to Rogers. When the doors were closed, Hoffman removed an automatic pistol from a shoulder holster and put it in the glove compartment. Rogers, who had never worn a gun in the office and never known anyone in the agency who did, concluded that Hoffman was an eccentric.
    “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Hoffman. “Another smart kid, like you.”
    Hoffman popped the Chrysler into gear and roared out of the alleyway onto the Corniche, heading west. He rounded the point beneath the lighthouse, passed the Bain Militaire on his right, and was spinning along the Mediterranean coast at 60 miles an hour, humming to himself.
    When they reached an amusement park on the coast, Hoffman slammed on the brakes, swerved left onto a side street, and parked the car where it couldn’t be seen from the Corniche.
    “Get out,” he said to Rogers.
    There was a large Ferris wheel, turning lazily in the morning sun, and several smaller rides for children. The park was nearly deserted.
    “Do you like cotton candy?” asked Hoffman. Rogers said he didn’t.
    “Too bad. It’s very good here. A local specialty.”
    Hoffman walked ahead of Rogers toward a small building in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. It was a small, open-air café, empty except for an old man who was sitting at a table smoking Turkish tobacco from a hookah pipe.
    When the old man saw his visitors, he dropped the pipe from his lips, walked over to Hoffman, and kissed him on both cheeks. Hoffman, to Rogers’s surprise, reciprocated.
    The old man disappeared into the back of the café. Not a word had been said.
    “Smoke?” asked Hoffman, pointing to the pipe.
    “No thanks,” said Rogers.
    “All the more for me,” said the station chief, sitting down in front of the hookah and taking a big drag from the smoldering pipe.
    Hoffman sat contentedly, puffing occasionally on the mouthpiece of the pipe but saying nothing.
    After five minutes, the old man returned with coffee and then disappeared once again. The sun was warm and there was a pleasant breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. Hoffman remained silent.
    Rogers wondered if this was some kind of test.
    They had been in the café about ten minutes when Rogers noticed a figure in the distance, walking alone on the beach. He was a young Arab man, smooth and compact, wearing sunglasses.
    Rogers looked over to Hoffman at that moment and noticed that the station chief had his hands clapsed over his head, as if he was stretching. Or making a signal.
    The young man slowly approached the seaside café.
    “This is the fellow I wanted you to meet,” said Hoffman. “His name is Fuad.”
     
     
    The young man entered the café. Hoffman welcomed him and made the introductions.
    “Fuad, I’d like you to meet John Reilly,” he said, pointing to Rogers.
    “How do you do, Mr. Reilly,” said the Arab. He seemed calm and almost unnaturally composed.
    “Call me John,” said Rogers. He hated work names, especially ones that were chosen for him by somebody else.
    The Arab sat down and removed his sunglasses. Rogers could see a look of intensity, almost of hatred, in his eyes. Not hatred of the Americans, apparently, but of somebody.
    “We first met Fuad when he was a