Siro

by David Ignatius

  “Alan,” he continued, “your problem is complicated. You must find a way to convey information to a KGB agent who is posing as a CIA agent, without his suspecting in any way that he is being fed false material. Have you thought about how to accomplish this sleight of hand?”

  “A little,” said Taylor. “Obviously we need a cutout, a Central Asian who can feed our stuff to Rawls. But I doubt we can find the right person in Istanbul. The Soviets have the town pretty well wired.”

  “I agree,” said Stone. “Recruiting the right cutout is crucial, perhaps the single most important aspect of this operation, and the person probably can’t be found in Turkey. As it happens, I have a recommendation for you.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Once upon a time, we had among our brethren a most extraordinary man from Uzbekistan. He had worked for the Germans during the war, and we picked him up in the early 1950s. He’s a charming character. Speaks with an Uzbek-Russian accent, if you can imagine that. He’s just your man, if he’ll agree to do it. But that may be a problem. He and the agency parted company rather unhappily at the end of the 1950s. I suspect he still harbors a grudge.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Munzer Ahmedov.”

  “How do I contact him?”

  “It’s a bit odd, I’m afraid. The registry lists his permanent address as a mosque in Brooklyn. That’s his favorite hangout, evidently.”

  “I didn’t know they had mosques in Brooklyn.”

  “Apparently they do,” said Stone. He took a piece of Karpetland stationery and wrote out the address of the mosque for Taylor.

  “4905 Fort Hamilton Avenue,” said Taylor, reading the address aloud. “Where the hell is that?”

  “In Borough Park, near Maimonides Medical Center, I gather,” said Stone.

  “You gotta be kidding,” said Taylor. “That’s a Jewish neighborhood.”

  “I assure you that I am not kidding. Good luck in finding Ahme­dov. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.”

  “From who? You?”

  “Heavens no. From a Turkish mullah in New Jersey who’s a friend of ours, and also of Mr. Ahmedov’s. They’re in the same Sufi brotherhood, I gather.”

  “Probably the same bowling league, too. Can I take the truck?”

  “I don’t know why not, unless Miss Barnes objects.”

  “It’s all yours,” said Anna. “I’m not the panel-truck type.”

  “Now then, Miss Barnes,” said Stone, turning to Anna. “What you bring to our table is the worthy Azeri-Iranian gentleman who calls himself Ali Ascari. And the first question we need to discuss is who will handle him. Should that person be you, do you think?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Anna. “That would be a very serious mistake. I don’t like the guy, to be honest. And it would be insecure.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you. So you will need a cutout, too. And again, I have a suggestion.”

  “No more Iranians, please.”

  “The man I have in mind is an old friend of mine who worked with me in Germany in the 1950s. He was chief of station in Beirut until he retired seven years ago in a huff. He can be a difficult man. Prickly, irascible. He’s the only case officer I ever knew who made it a practice to carry a side arm. But he’s a brilliant operator, one of the best I’ve ever known. His name is Frank Hoffman.”

  “What does he do now?”

  “He runs a private security business based in Athens. His clients are mostly rich Arabs, and he travels frequently in the Gulf, which will be helpful for your purposes.”

  “He sounds great,” said Anna.

  “He is,” said Stone. “The problem with him, as with Mr. Ahmedov, is that he may not want to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s become something of a crank. He thinks we’re all incompetent.”

  “Have you sounded him out?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I asked him, he would say no. The unfortunate fact, you see, is that I was part of the reason he resigned.”

  “Oh,” said Anna softly.

  “So you’ll have to make the approach yourself. He won’t be easy to recruit, but if he agrees, he’ll be the ideal person to handle Ascari. He should be easy to find in Athens.” He wrote out Hoffman’s home and office telephone numbers and handed the paper to Anna.

  “Okay,” said Anna, “but I should warn you. I’m not convinced that Ascari will make a good agent. He’s unreliable, in addition to being a little shit.”

  “Oh, he’ll make a tolerable agent, especially if Frank Hoffman gets his hands on him. I’ll tell you a little secret about recruiting which applies to people like Mr. Ascari. I call it Stone’s Inverse Law.”

  “What’s Stone’s Inverse Law?”

  “It states as follows: If you walk into a room and take an instant dislike to someone—a particularly sleazy or uninspiring character—then it is almost a certainty that this man can be recruited to become an agent of the United States of America.”

  “That’s Ascari, all right.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Stone. “You two may want to begin by contacting the people I mentioned. If they agree, we’ll talk about what to do next. We’ll certainly want to add more instruments to our little orchestra when we get further along, but this is enough to get you started. May I remind you, finally, of the importance of maintaining security. An injudicious word to anyone and the project may be ruined.” Stone looked gravely at Anna and at Taylor.

  “What about the cutouts?” asked Taylor. “How much can we tell them?”

  “Oh, I’ll leave that to you. You both have good judgment. The two people I mentioned are reasonably discreet, if it turns out that you’re working with them. I have no objection to your telling them a bit about what we’re up to. But you’ll know what makes sense in terms of operational security. Anything more?”

  “What about money?” asked Anna.

  “All arranged. The accounts have been opened. Marjorie will give you the checkbooks. And you already have the keys.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Taylor, fishing the key chain out of his pocket.

  “Now then, I must go. I have to maintain appearances at my non-job back at headquarters. Marjorie will be here to assist you with whatever details I’ve forgotten. I will be checking in regularly, but don’t hesitate to call me immediately if any problems arise. Marjorie has my home number.”

  He shook hands with each of them again and headed for the stairs. Anna had one last question, which had been nagging in the back of her mind all day. On whose authority was this operation being conducted? Who ultimately was responsible for it? The question embarrassed her, and now, enveloped in the web spun so elegantly by the old man, it seemed almost a technicality. And it was too late anyway. Stone was walking down the stairs and out the door.

  23

  The Karpetland showroom seemed quite empty after Stone had left—even after Marjorie returned from lunch at two-thirty. She offered to make coffee for Taylor and Anna, and when they said no, she sat down at the desk closest to the door and took out a fat paperback book. She read with great concentration, pausing every few minutes to look dutifully at the black telephone.

  Taylor took the desk farthest from the door and put his feet up, as if he’d been working in a run-down rug store in Rockville all his life. That left the middle desk for Anna. She sat down squarely, centering her bottom on the chair as if to anchor herself in time and space. She wanted to lean back and put her feet up, too, the way Taylor had done, but she was wearing a dress and she suspected that Marjorie would think it unprofessional. Taylor leaned toward her, wanting to make conversation, but Anna ignored him. She was already making plans.

  “Marjorie,” she said. “Could you check the airline connections from Dulles to Athens for me, please.”

  “What day will you be traveling, Miss Morgan?”

  “Tuesday night if there’s
a direct flight from Dulles. Otherwise, Wednesday night.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Marjorie, putting down her book.

  “I’ll need a hotel room, too.”

  “Which hotel would you like?”

  “The Hilton,” interjected Taylor.

  “Yes, I suppose the Hilton would be fine,” said Anna.

  “What size room?”

  “I don’t care. Whatever they have.”

  “A suite,” called out Taylor.

  Anna laughed. “Yes, why not. A suite please, Marjorie.”

  Marjorie began busily dialing and reserving and arranging. While these negotiations were going on, Taylor had abandoned his desk and flopped down on the stack of Oriental rugs in the middle of the showroom floor. He appeared at first to be asleep, but when Anna walked over to take a closer look, he propped himself up on one elbow.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This is a drag.”

  “We can’t. We’ve got work to do.”

  “No, we don’t. Stone has already taken care of all the busywork. We’re wasting our time sitting around here.”

  Anna couldn’t disagree. “Where do you suggest we go?” she asked.

  “I dunno. Take a walk. See the sights.”

  “Of Rockville?”

  “Why not?”

  “What about Marjorie?”

  “She’ll be fine. What does she need us for?”

  It was true. Marjorie was running on autopilot. “I’ll get my purse,” said Anna.

  Taylor walked over to Marjorie’s desk. “We’re going out for a while. You can knock off whenever you like.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Goode. I’m here until five o’clock every day, Monday through Friday.”

  “Fine. Whatever you say. If we’re not back by then, you just turn out the lights.”

  “All rightie,” Said Marjorie.

  The Rockville Pike was thick with Friday-afternoon traffic, the Toyotas and Datsuns and Hondas idling like smug little water bugs alongside their big, sulking American cousins. The highway, in that respect, offered a snapshot of America in the late automobile age. It was one of those suburban strips that were homogenizing the American landscape, making the outskirts of every city look more or less identical. It could have been peeled up off the ground, with its fast-food restaurants and tire stores and L-shaped shopping centers, and stuck down somewhere else—Atlanta, say, or St. Paul—without anyone noticing much difference. That was the new America. The pieces of our national quilt—once rich and varied, marked by the particular quirks and obsessions of each region—were now all the same. Which made it easier to find your way, and harder.

  “Let’s look for a bar,” suggested Taylor as they emerged into the noise and haze of the late afternoon.

  “Out here?”

  “Sure. They have bars in the suburbs. They’re all called PJ’s or TJ’s, and they all have the same hanging plants and phony bric-a-brac on the walls. But the drinks taste the same. C’mon.”

  Taylor put his arm around her shoulder, friendly as could be, and she, just as gently, let it slip off.

  A few more blocks and they came upon a place called McGillicuddy’s. It was a restaurant franchiser’s notion of an Irish pub, with old Guinness and Harp posters on the wall, brass ship’s lanterns in the lobby and, above the bar, an incongruous moose head with a sign that said “Kiss me, I’m Irish” hanging from one of the antlers. The bartender was wearing a green leprechaun cap. His name tag read: Sadlowski.

  “What’ll it be, folks?” asked the bartender.

  Anna looked at her watch. It was just four-thirty.

  “Isn’t it too early to start drinking?” she asked.

  “Not if you’re on Istanbul time.”

  Anna ordered a piña colada, no cherry. Taylor ordered a gin martini.

  “So what do you think of Stone’s little operation?” ventured Anna. It was a question she had been wanting to ask Taylor all day.

  “I like it.”

  “You do, really?”

  “Yup. This is the real thing. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for years.”

  “You don’t think it’s too far-out?”

  “Nope. I think it’s just far-out enough.”

  “And what about Mr. Stone? Do you think he’s cleared all this with the director?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t care. The director is an idiot. I’m sure Stone has cleared things with whoever he’s supposed to. He’s a pro. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “But it sounds as if he doesn’t have to clear things with anyone.”

  “So much the better,” said Taylor.

  The drinks had arrived. Anna’s wary eyes were beginning to soften. “And you think we can trust Mr. Stone?”

  “Why not?” said Taylor. “You have to trust someone. I’d rather put my money on him than most of the drones we work with.”

  Anna thought of Howard Hambly and Dennis and the boys back in London. The difference between them and men like Taylor and Stone was … what? Toughness. Irreverence. A willingness to take risks.

  “I just want to make sure we’re doing the right thing,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it. Of course it’s the right thing. A hot project, working with a smart guy like Stone. No paperwork, unlimited expenses. A chance to impress the big shots. What more could you want?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was thinking more in terms of right and wrong.”

  “That’s not my department,” said Taylor.

  “What is your department?”

  “Applied mechanics.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t deliberately do something you thought was wrong.”

  “Maybe not. But deep down, I’m a sensualist. I think people should do what makes them feel good.”

  Anna shook her head. “I didn’t think there were any more of you Jack Kerouac types left. You’ve gone out of fashion.”

  “Sorry,” said Taylor amiably. “I didn’t get the word.”

  Anna closed one eye and tilted her head. “Buy me another drink,” she said.

  Taylor looked at her closely. For the first time all day, she appeared relaxed. As Taylor studied her, it occurred to him that she was dressed, not just elegantly, but expensively. The fine silk dress, open at the neck; the high-heeled shoes of Italian leather; the sheer stockings. In the late-afternoon light, her skin looked as soft as the magnolia blossom sitting in a vase atop one of the tables. He looked at her eyes. They seemed almost to match the green print of her dress, until she turned her head slightly; then, in a subtly different light, they seemed to become an impossible aquamarine shade of blue.

  “You look beautiful,” said Taylor. He wondered how she would respond—whether she would protest, or change the subject, or chide him for being unprofessional. But she did none of those things.

  “Thanks,” she said. She leaned against the back of her bar stool, crossed her legs and took out a cigarette. Taylor lit a match and Anna gently pulled the flame toward her.

  “Definitely,” said Taylor. He didn’t have to explain.

  They talked through the late afternoon, over several more rounds of drinks. As night fell and the bar’s regular customers began to arrive, greeting Sadlowski the bartender with friendly obscenities. Taylor suggested that they move to a booth in the corner. He didn’t try to put his arm around Anna this time. He just leaned toward her, enveloping her in the canopy of his attention. And she pressed in with him under this tent of words and gestures. Hours passed, and still they remained in the dark corner of McGillicuddy’s, ordering dinner, and after-dinner drinks, and after-after-dinner drinks. Even the bar food tasted like a gift from heaven. And after a very long time, when they had become as intimate as two people sitting fully clothed in a bar can be, the inevitable question arose. And inevitably, it was Taylor who posed it.

  “Let’s go back to my place,” he said. “Or your place.”

  “I don’t kno
w,” said Anna.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “Oh come on,” he said dreamily. “You’re ready. You’re a big girl. You’re thirty years old.”

  “Twenty-nine, and that’s not what I meant. I’m not sure I’m ready for you. You frightened me a little that afternoon in Istanbul, when we went driving in the country.”

  “Why? I was just trying to cheer you up.”

  “It was what you said about Turkish women. You sounded like a predator. Like a Westerner who’s been let loose in the harem and wants to fuck everything in sight.”

  Taylor tried to look apologetic. “I’m sorry if I sounded that way. I don’t want to fuck everything in sight. I’m much more particular. And anyway, I’m not the harem type.”

  “How do you know?”

  Taylor looked at her curiously, wondering if this was a come-on, or a setup. “Is this a trick question?” he asked.

  “Not at all. It’s a question of historical interest.”

  “Okay. So what was it like?”

  “What?” Anna closed her eyes coyly.

  “The harem. What was it like?” Taylor looked Anna up and down. “How did they dress, for example, the women in the harem?”

  She leaned toward him. “They dressed,” she said softly, “to please the sultan. Their clothes were all soft and filmy, with nothing to really cover the body. A loose blouse; loose linen drawers tied around the waist with a string; and a silk gown that was open in front so they could never quite cover themselves.”

  “I see. And did they have any unusual customs? Historically speaking.”

  Anna thought a moment. “They shaved their bodies.”

  “So? Women do that now.”

  “No. I mean all over. Everywhere.”

  “Everywhere?” said Taylor, his eyes falling to Anna’s crotch.

  “Everywhere,” she said, with a look that was half smile and half frown. “Someone called the Keeper of the Baths would take the woman and shave her all over, and then apply some paste to remove any hairs that were left. Then a slave girl would examine her body, every inch, to make sure it was smooth. And then they would perfume her with rose petals. The woman would sit naked on the floor of the bath while slave girls rubbed her with petals—in her hair, on her neck and shoulders, across her breasts, between her legs, around her toes and ankles.”