Siro

by David Ignatius

  “Allison James, the banker from London.”

  “Oh yes! How are you, lovely lady? I am so glad to be talking to you. Where are you?”

  “In Istanbul.”

  “Ya salaam!” he exclaimed. “Why is that? Have you come all this way to see me? To see your friend Ali Ascari? This is a great day! Thanks be to God! Where are you staying?”

  “I would like to see you, on business,” said Anna. She could feel her heart racing. “My friends in London have sent me with an important message.”

  “Why not,” said Ascari. “Meet me here, at the hotel, tonight. I will be in the casino. At ten o’clock.”

  “No,” said Anna. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What about tomorrow morning?”

  “Impossible. Tomorrow I leave for Dubai. If you want to talk to me, it must be tonight.”

  “Okay,” said Anna. “But not the casino. That would be too crowded. We should meet somewhere else. How about the coffee shop?”

  “You do not understand, lady,” said the Iranian. “I am doing business here. My business friends are taking me to dinner. They will be in the casino with me after dinner. You come then. First you meet Ali Ascari’s friends. Then we go talk.”

  “I’d rather meet in the coffee shop,” said Anna.

  “Then go back to London. You want to see me, you come when I say. Otherwise, forget it.”

  Anna thought a moment. He didn’t sound like he was bluffing. Maybe having his friends around would improve his behavior. “All right,” said Anna. “The casino at ten.”

  “Dress nice, my dear,” said Ali. “My friends are very rich.”

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” protested Anna. But Ascari had hung up.

  Anna waited until nearly eleven o’clock. She would be damned if she would sit in a Turkish casino, being propositioned by strange men and feeling like a tart, waiting for Ali Ascari to show up. She spent a long time trying to decide what to wear and settled on a simple black dress and the jacket from one of her business suits—an odd combination, but that was the point. Her fashion accessory for the evening was an attaché case containing a thousand dollars in cash and a battered book in Azeri Turkish.

  Ascari was sitting at the blackjack table with his two pals. He introduced them with a flourish: Abdel-Aziz from Saudi Arabia, a rotund man dressed in a white robe that made him look like a walking marshmallow, and Sami from Lebanon, a sallow-faced man in a silk suit. Ascari himself was dressed in a black Nehru jacket that was apparently meant to look like a tuxedo. All three appeared to be somewhat inebriated.

  What a crew! Three 1979-model petro-hustlers—gambling, drinking and whoring away their small share of the hundreds of billions of dollars that had, as it were, come bubbling out of the ground. You could have seen them across Europe that season—in Monte Carlo and Paris and London and Athens—taking five percent of someone else’s five percent and still making out like bandits.

  “Come play blackjack with us,” said Ascari, throwing Anna $200 worth of chips.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll watch.”

  They played with the enthusiasm of drunken men trying to impress a very sober woman. The Saudi hit everything. He hit 15, he hit 17, once he even hit 18. He lost nearly $1,000 in the brief time Anna watched. Ascari was more cagey. He split his aces: he hit 14 but not 15; he doubled when he had the cards. He was ahead $500 at one point but lost most of it. When he won, he would exclaim: “Ya Salaam!” When he lost, he would cluck his tongue and mutter a dark oath in Farsi. The Lebanese was the only one who won consistently. He actually seemed to be counting the cards.

  “Mr. Ascari,” said Anna sharply after they had been playing nearly forty-five minutes. She pointed to her watch.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Ascari. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He extended his arm to Anna.

  “Bye-bye, boys,” said Ascari. He winked at Abdel-Aziz and Sami. He winked at the blackjack dealer and gave him a $50 chip. They all rolled their eyes. The Saudi blew Anna a kiss. Let them think what they want, Anna told herself. Once they were out the door, she disentangled her arm and moved away from the corpulent Iranian.

  “Let’s have a drink,” said Ascari.

  “You look like you’ve had enough,” said Anna. “I suggest we go to the coffee shop.”

  “It’s closed,” said Ascari, pointing to his watch. It was almost midnight.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Anna. “Privately.”

  “Then we go to your hotel room.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Then we go to my room. I have suite. Very comfortable.”

  “No,” said Anna.

  “Okay, then where?”

  Anna thought a moment. She couldn’t very well give him the thousand dollars in the lobby of the hotel.

  “If we go to your room, there will be no funny business. Understood?”

  “Please, please. You hurt my feelings,” he said, putting his hand over his heart.

  “No sex talk,” continued Anna. “No hands on knees. Because if there is, I’m calling the police and the American consulate. And you’ll be in more trouble than you’ve ever seen.”

  “For sure, lady. For sure. I am hearing you. Ali Ascari is a gentleman.”

  Ascari had a bottle of whiskey in his room, as it turned out, and promptly poured himself a drink. Then he excused himself and repaired to the bedroom. Anna surveyed the room. It was filled with the paraphernalia of the petrodollar circuit: packs of cigarettes on every table, opened but half smoked; the remains of gifts to be given and received: candy, silk ties, perfume, a box of Davidoff cigars. It was the messy room of a messy man. Anna checked the location of the phone. She measured in her mind the distance to the door. She moved from the couch to a chair so that Ascari couldn’t sit next to her.

  Ascari returned after five minutes with his hair and beard combed, wearing a silk brocade smoking jacket and bathed in more of that awful cologne.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” said Anna.

  “I am at your service.”

  “As you might expect, my friends at the embassy are very concerned by what you told me at our last meeting, about assassination.”

  “Oh yes,” said Ascari. “As I expect.”

  “They would like to thank you for your help in this matter.”

  “Very good. Okay.” Ascari was looking at Anna’s attaché case. “You have a surprise for Ali maybe?”

  “Maybe,” said Anna. “But first I have a few more questions.”

  “Okay. Why not?”

  “My friends want to know who will carry out the assassinations.”

  “Khomeini men. I told you last time. They will be Khomeini men.”

  “Yes,” said Anna. “But that isn’t very helpful. There are thousands of Khomeini men.”

  Ascari paused, tilted his head, stared off into space. It was hard to tell whether he was searching his memory or his imagination. “They will be from Qom,” he said.

  Anna took out her spiral notebook and wrote: Qom.

  “And from Isfahan maybe.” Anna wrote: Isfahan. “And maybe from Tehran, too.”

  This time Anna didn’t write anything. “All three places?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Will they be working with contacts in America, these men? Will they try to enter the country themselves?”

  “Contacts,” said Ascari thoughtfully. “They will use contacts.”

  “Who are the contacts?”

  Ali surveyed the room, then narrowed his eyes and said in a whisper: “Mafia.”

  “Mafia?” demanded Anna. “Who? The Italian Mafia?”

  “Shhh,” said Ali. “Not so loud.”

  “But that’s absurd. Why would the Mafia work with a group of Iranian revolutionaries? I’m sorry, Mr. Ascari, but that doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Ascari drained his glass of whiskey, rose from the couch, and walked unsteadily to the phone table, where he had left the whiskey bottle. He poured himse
lf another drink, spilling more on the table than in the glass.

  “Let’s have a drink. Okay?”

  “You’ve had enough,” said Anna. “No more whiskey.”

  “Hey, lady, you go to hell. Nobody tell Ali Ascari what to do.” He took a long drink, spilling some of it on his chin.

  “What evidence do you have that the Mafia is involved?”

  “No evidence. Forget it. This is boring subject. We talk about something else.”

  “Wait a minute. This is important. I’ve come all the way from London to talk to you about the assassination plot. I want information.”

  “They have been caught!” whispered Ascari as he wobbled back across the room toward the couch.

  “Who?”

  “The assassins. The Khomeini men. After we talk before in London, they were caught. Now they are in prison.”

  “Who caught them?”

  “Other Khomeini men. Good ones. My friends. They catch the bad ones. Thanks to me!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Ali sat back on the couch. There was a dreamy, drunken look in his eyes. “Do you like my jacket?” he asked. “It is silk. Very expensive.”

  “What about the Mafia? Did you make that up?”

  “Ali Ascari make nothing up!”

  “My friends have ways of finding out whether you are telling the truth or not. You know that, don’t you? They have a machine. It is impossible to lie to them.”

  “Take off your jacket,” said Ali. “Be comfortable. You worry too much. You will get a heart attack and die.”

  “Cut the crap, goddammit!” said Anna loudly. “I want information!”

  “Please, lady. Do not take name of God for swear word. Don’t ever do that. Please! Ali might get upset. Now relax, and I will tell you some real informations. Very big secrets! Take off your shoes. Maybe your feet are hurting.”

  “My feet are not hurting. What are the big secrets?”

  “About Soviet Union,” said Ascari with a calculating smile. “About Moslem people in Soviet Union.”

  “I’m listening,” said Anna.

  “Ah, see! I knew you would be interested. Now you listen good to what Ali tell you. A big problem is coming for Soviet Union. Big explosion! Moslem people are going to fight Russian people. Civil war maybe.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Anna. It sounded like more of Ascari’s craziness.

  “Hey! You listen. Ali Ascari knows what he is talking about. Moslem men in Soviet Union ready to fight! We send them guns. We send them Korans.”

  “Who sends them guns?”

  “Khomeini men. Afghan men. Pakistani men. Saudi men. All Moslem men want to help brothers fight Russians.”

  “Hold on, hold on. What are you telling me? That Iran is sending guns across the border into the Soviet Union?”

  “Oh yes! There is an army of Moslem brothers who move across the border. It is a great secret!”

  “How do you know about it?”

  Ascari leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I told you before. I am an Azeri man! My father is from Baku. I have cousins across the border. Believe me, lady. I know.”

  “Guns across the border?” repeated Anna. As she said it again, she thought of someone who would be quite interested in this piece of information. Mr. Edward Stone, dean of the old boys, sender of obscure Turkic monographs, job title unknown.

  “Yes, guns. And other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Oh, you know. Videotapes. Radios. VCRs. Why not? We are traders in our part of the world. So we trade.”

  “I know,” said Anna. “I’ve noticed that, actually. Now listen, Mr. Ascari, this had better not be more of your lies. Because if it is, you’re finished.”

  “Trust me!” said Ali indignantly. He put his hand on his heart. “Maybe not everything I tell you about assassination is true. Okay. Maybe not everything. But I want to get your attention. Because I know so many things. I have my own spies. Like tonight, my friends Abdel-Aziz and Sami. They know too many things. Whatever you want to know about Saudi Arabia and Lebanon, they can tell you. Who is new mistress of Saudi king? Who is paying who in Lebanon to make trouble. They tell me and I tell you. Easy pie! I can be your helper. And you need help, you know that? You Americans really make a big mess. Ali Ascari help you clean it up. What you say?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Anna. “I’ll have to talk about all this with my friends back at the embassy.”

  “Uh-huh,” grunted Ascari. “You messenger lady, I know.” He gave a wink and looked at the attaché case again. “So what you bring me, huh? What surprise you have for Ali Ascari?”

  Anna picked the attaché case up off the floor. She thought a moment. She wasn’t sure anymore that Ascari had earned his money. She didn’t know which version of the assassination plot was true, if any of them. She certainly didn’t know if the business about arms shipments across the Iranian border was true. But she had brought the cash all the way to Istanbul to give to Ascari, and she wasn’t about to take it back.

  Anna clicked open the locks on the case. Ascari sat up in his chair like an attentive puppy. The prospect of receiving money seemed to have a salutary effect on his disposition.

  “First, I have a gift for you.” She flipped up the lid, removed the worn book on Azeri holy places, and handed it to Ascari.

  “Oh yes. What is it, please?”

  “A book.”

  “Oh yes, very nice. What else you bring me?”

  “My friends thought you would like the book. It’s very rare.”

  “Very nice, thank you, lady. But Ali Ascari doesn’t read too much.” He opened to the title page, as much out of politeness as anything else. Then his eyes saw the Cyrillic type and caught the word “Baku.” “Wait a minute, lady,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “This book is from Soviet Union. What the hell is this? Are you KGB lady?”

  “No, of course not. The book is about Islam in Azerbaijan. My friends thought you would like it, because you are a religious man.”

  “Sure, lady. Okay. Fine. I read it later. What else you got for Ali?”

  “I have also brought you a reward from my friends at the embassy in London,” said Anna evenly. “They are grateful for the information you have provided. They will want to be certain that it is true, and back in London they may want to give you a test with the machine I mentioned, to make sure you are telling the truth.”

  “The money,” said Ascari. “The money.”

  Anna opened the attaché case again, revealing ten thin little stacks of currency, each holding ten ten-dollar bills. Ascari peered in greedily, and Anna handed the case over to him. The money didn’t even cover the leather bottom of the container. The Iranian assayed the thin stacks and, with a grunt of disgust, dropped the case on the floor.

  “Bullshit!” he said, waving one of the wispy stacks in Anna’s face. “This is bullshit. This is a thousand dollars.”

  “That’s correct,” said Anna. “It is a thousand dollars. A special bonus for the information you have provided. My friends thought you would be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Are you crazy? A thousand dollars? Ali Ascari spends this much in one night! I spend this much for my hotel room! This money is an insult. You are saying to me: ‘Go to hell!’ ”

  “Calm down,” said Anna. But her words had no effect. The Iranian, convinced that he had been insulted, was working himself into a rage.

  “A thousand dollars!” he shouted, throwing the bundle across the room. “Better you should give me nothing.” The little stacks of tens scattered across the rug.

  “There may be more money later, if your information is reliable,” said Anna. But Ascari wasn’t listening.

  “Do you know how much you are insulting me, lady? I spend that much for a woman for one night! A good woman, too! Not a cheap CIA-KGB whore.”

  “I’m leaving now,” said Anna. She rose quickly from her chair
and headed for the door. But Ascari was quicker than she had expected. With the nimble feet of a fat man, he bounded to the door ahead of her, stood in front of it, and bolted the chain.

  “Where are you going, lady? Ali Ascari not through yet. Ali Ascari want his money’s worth!” He was breathing hard, sweating from his forehead, stretching his fat fingers toward her.

  Anna froze. She was stopped by a combination of fear and astonishment that this pathetic little man imagined that he could have sex with her. She wanted to scream, but her voice wouldn’t work. Ascari lunged toward her drunkenly, grabbing at her blouse and pulling it open, so that the lace of her bra was exposed. That unstuck Anna’s voice.

  “Get away from me, you fat little fuck!”

  Anna reached for her purse, where she had a can of chemical spray supplied by the tech shop in London. But again Ascari was quicker and knocked the purse out of her hand. Oh shit, thought Anna. Her head was spinning. All she could think to do was to scream for help, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to explain to the hotel cops, let alone the Istanbul gendarmes, what she had been doing in Ascari’s hotel room. Stay calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, don’t cry.

  “Let me go now!” she said, holding her blouse and trying to sound cool and in control. “The American consulate knows where I am. If anything happens to me, they’ll come after you. I’m warning you. Stand away from the door and let me go.”

  “Shut up,” said Ascari. The confrontation only seemed to have increased his recklessness. He moved toward a desk near the door, reached into the top drawer, and removed from it a stubby knife with a curved blade. It was a letter opener, but still an effective weapon. “Now,” he said, “you better be nice to Ali Baba!”

  Oh Jesus, thought Anna. What do I do now? Her eyes darted around the room, looking for some means of rescue or escape. The door was blocked. The windows were too high to jump. Then she saw the telephone, and on the table next to it, the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

  “What does CIA lady look like with no clothes on?” said Ascari, moving toward her with his knife. “We see if you worth a thousand dollars.” He waved his blade and made a warbling cry.

  As Ascari moved toward her, Anna retreated toward the table. He was talking Farsi now, calling her a whore and the mother of a whore. Anna could feel her knees trembling as she backed toward the table. Do it! she told herself. When she reached the table she lunged, seizing the bottle in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other. Her body moved more decisively than her brain might have thought possible.