Siro

by David Ignatius

  Taylor’s colleagues were glad to see him back at the office, all except the deputy chief of base, who had a taste for bureaucracy and had actually enjoyed doing the paperwork while Taylor was away. He seemed worried that Taylor might remove these comfortable manacles of responsibility from him. Taylor summoned his deputy for a brief meeting in the bubble and reassured him that his own special assignment would be continuing for several more months, which meant that the D-COB could remain as A-COB. That pleased him immensely. He turned over to Taylor a neat stack of papers he had been saving, most of them not worth reading. On top of the stack was an invitation to Stanley Timmons’s farewell party, which would be held in several weeks at the Ankara Golf Club.

  Munzer Ahmedov arrived the following day from New York and went directly to an apartment in Aksaray, whose address and key Taylor had provided. It was an out-of-the-way place, down a dusty side street off the Ataturk Boulevard. The CIA base in Istanbul had acquired it a decade ago as a safe house but had used it sparingly in recent years because of fears that the location had been blown. That didn’t matter so much in Munzer’s case; indeed, allowing interested parties to guess at his links to the agency was part of the game.

  Taylor had drilled Munzer on arrangements before he left America. They would meet at the apartment in Aksaray at ten o’clock the morning after Munzer arrived and at regular intervals thereafter, at times and places Taylor would specify. If Munzer needed to contact Taylor urgently, he should go to a pay phone, call Taylor’s home in Arnavutkoy, and leave a message on the answering machine that Mr. Sukru was calling and the rug was ready to be picked up. In that case, Taylor would meet him the next morning in the gardens of the Sultanahmet mosque. In a real emergency, Taylor could receive telephone calls at the consulate. And Munzer could always crash the American compound. He was, after all, an American citizen.

  Munzer’s job in Istanbul, Taylor advised, would be to set up the headquarters for a new Turkestani independence movement. The Uzbek came prepared. He brought with him from New York his framed portrait of Mustafa Chokay and a similar portrait of Ali Merdan Topcubasi, one of the leaders of the Moslem rebels who fought the Red Army in the 1920s. Munzer hung these icons on the wall of his new living room the night he arrived. He also displayed a large map he had brought from home, a sort of Turkestani version of the famous Saul Steinberg cartoon that shows the world ending just the other side of the Hudson River from Manhattan. In this case, it was a map of Central Asia that showed a vast expanse labeled Turkestan, dwarfing the neighboring regions of Russia and China. The final item decorating Munzer’s new headquarters was the strangest. It was a favorite quotation from a Naqshbandi sheikh from the North Caucasus named Uzun Haji, who had fought fanatically against the Russians—both sides, Red and White—in the first years after the Revolution. The quotation, written in the Arabic of the Koran, read: “I am weaving a rope to hang engineers, students and in general all those who write from left to right.”

  Taylor knocked on the door at ten the next morning. “Is Mr. Yakub there?” he asked, following the prearranged script.

  “No, this his brother,” came the almost grammatical reply.

  Taylor waited a few moments, trying to remember if there was another phrase in the recognition code. He didn’t think so, but he had thrown away the index card on which the dialogue was written. He knocked on the door again. Still it didn’t budge.

  “Open the door, please,” he said gently. He could hear the rustle of a human body on the other side of the portal, but it stayed closed.

  “Open the goddam door.”

  Munzer opened the door a crack, just enough to see that it was Taylor, who quickly entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

  The Uzbek had a look of reproach on his round face. “You not say password,” he chided.

  “What did I forget?”

  “You forget to say at end: ‘May I come in?’ ”

  “Oh shit. Was I supposed to say that?”

  “Yes, my friend. I say: ‘No, this his brother,’ then you say: ‘May I come in?’ Then I open door. You forget, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” said Taylor. “But it doesn’t matter. Here we are. It’s nice to see you in Istanbul. I’m glad you arrived safely.” He shook Munzer’s hand.

  “Welcome to house of Munzer,” said the Uzbek. With a flourish, he ushered Taylor into the living room, newly hung with posters and portraits. “Welcome also to new headquarters of Turkestani Liberation Front.”

  “Very nice,” said Taylor, surveying the room. He nodded respectfully toward the portraits of Mustafa Chokay and Ali Merdan Topcubasi, and then pointed to the quotation from Uzun Haji. “That looks interesting. What does it say?”

  “Ah, that,” said Munzer, smiling warily in a way that Taylor would have recognized—had he known him better—meant he was about to tell a lie. “It says: ‘Long live heroic struggle of Turkestani peoples.’ ”

  “Bravo.”

  “Come, Mr. Goode. Sit down, please, you are my guest. I do not have tea or coffee, sorry. You like water maybe? Or I go out and buy coffee? Or cigarettes?”

  “I’m fine,” said Taylor, smiling at Munzer’s earnest attempt at hospitality. “We have business to do.”

  “Yes. Okay. Munzer is ready.”

  “Let’s start by setting the time and place for our next meeting. That way, if we have to break off suddenly, we’ll know how to make contact.”

  Munzer nodded.

  “Our next meeting will be in three days. We’ll meet at the same time, ten o’clock, in Yildiz Park. You know where that is?”

  “Yeah, sure. I find.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you at the fountain above the entrance. If I have my arms crossed when you see me, like this”—Taylor folded his arms—“that means there’s a problem, I’m being followed or something, and you shouldn’t approach me. You should come back to the same place the next day, an hour later. Got that?”

  “No problems. Munzer remember this spy talk from before.”

  “And on your way there, check to make sure you aren’t being followed,” said Taylor. He omitted the usual admonition not to be too obvious in watching your tail. In this case, what did it matter?

  Munzer nodded gravely. “Okay, okay.”

  “Are you comfortable here?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Did you find someone to take care of your store in Queens while you’re gone?”

  “My sons. One son is engineer. He take leave. One son study to be lawyer. He take vacation. One son in medical school. I let him stay. Business is doing. No problems.”

  “Good. Now I’d like to talk to you about your assignment.”

  “I am ready for anything. Climb mountains, swim Black Sea. Whatever you say. This is big chance to help my dear peoples.”

  “Glad to hear it. But right now, all I want you to do is establish contact with some of your old Turkestani friends here in Istanbul. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “Who will you go see?”

  “Editor of Great Turkestan magazine is friend of Munzer from old days. His name Hasan Khojaev. Maybe I go see him?”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “Of course. He friend of Munzer’s. What I can tell him about new Turkestani movement, please?”

  “Not much for the time being,” said Taylor. He knew that was impossible. Munzer would say something to the magazine editor. But this way, it would probably come out mumbled and garbled, which was about right for now.

  “I be careful,” said Munzer.

  Taylor reached into his briefcase and removed several copies of the Mustafa Chokay pamphlet that Stone had prepared back in Washington.

  “Give your friend Khojaev some of these,” he said, handing Munzer the copies of “Turkestan Under the Soviet Yoke.”

  “Allah! What is this?” asked Munzer, turning the pages.

  “Some of our material. Your material now.”

  “This is Mustafa Chokay book
! You make this for Munzer?” Taylor nodded.

  “Show these to the editor, Khojaev, and to any other friends you trust, and see what they think.”

  “I show to Kirdarov and Nemir Bey. These two honest peoples. No bullshit.”

  “Fine. Whatever you say.”

  “What I tell them about Mustafa Chokay book?”

  “You can tell them there are lots more of these on their way into the Soviet Union.”

  “Where from I tell them, please?”

  “From Riyadh,” said Taylor with a wink.

  “Yes, okay. Riyadh,” said Munzer, trying to wink back at Taylor. His eyes were so narrow it looked more like a squint.

  “That’s enough for now,” said Taylor. “You get settled and talk to your friends, and I’ll see you in three days in Yildiz Park.”

  On his way back from Munzer’s apartment, Taylor drove down Yeniceriler Street. He studied the apartment on the third floor, right-hand side, looking for signs of life. But there was nothing. No lights, no movement, no sign that anyone had ever lived there at all.

  Taylor’s next stop was to see Sonia—the Circassian beauty who sang Oriental love songs at Omar’s place. She was a better bet than Omar himself, who was an estimable man but talked too much. Sonia was smart, she was discreet, and best of all she had once been in love with Taylor, and might be still. He called her that afternoon and asked if he could stop by her apartment in Cihangir. She was surprised, and pleased.

  Taylor kissed Sonia on the lips when she answered the door. It seemed spontaneous, like most of Taylor’s calculated gestures. Sonia looked more beautiful than he had remembered. She was a slender woman, light as a feather, so delicate that she seemed to float a few inches off the floor. No wonder the Circassians had been the preferred bedmates of the Ottoman sultans for four hundred years. They were reputed, in the East, to be the most beautiful women in the world. Taylor had broken off with Sonia when he realized he was becoming infatuated with her, back in that distant other lifetime before his wife packed up and left Istanbul, when his only stipulation for a love affair was that nothing serious should come of it.

  “I need your help,” said Taylor when he was seated on Sonia’s couch with a glass of vodka in his hand. During their affair, he had spent many happy, boozy hours drinking vodka and looking out her window at the ceaseless transit of boats and people along the Golden Horn.

  “I hope you do not want me to escort another one of your American friends.”

  Taylor shook his head.

  “I would do it if you asked me to, but I hope you won’t.”

  “Not this time. I need something much simpler. An Uzbek friend of mine has just arrived in Istanbul. He’s a nice old guy, loves to reminisce about the old country. He’s bound to show up at Omar’s one of these nights. When he comes, take good care of him. Treat him like someone special. You’ll like him. His name is Munzer.”

  “He is a friend of yours?”

  “Yes. A special friend. He’s a freedom fighter.”

  “Okay, my darling. But this is too simple. What else do you want?” The light was streaming in through the window, illuminating her face so that she looked like a Byzantine angel.

  “Nothing,” said Taylor.

  “Please want something. I would like to make you happy.”

  Taylor shook his head. It hurt to hold back from her. He could almost feel that slim feather of a body in his arms as he carried her to bed.

  “Why do you stay away from me?” she asked quietly.

  “Because,” said Taylor.

  “Why because?”

  “Because I like you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Sonia closed her eyes. It was as close as she would ever get to a declaration of love from Taylor. He leaned forward. Not toward Sonia, but toward his briefcase. He took out a picture of Munzer and showed it to her.

  “This is a picture of my friend. If he goes to Omar’s, treat him nice. But don’t tell anyone he’s my friend.”

  Taylor put his finger to his lips. Sonia did the same.

  “Shhhh,” they said together. Taylor left a few minutes later. This time he kissed her on the cheek.

  Taylor sent a cable to headquarters late that afternoon, asking for traces on one Hasan Khojaev, editor of Great Turkestan magazine. The response came back late the next day. A 201 file had been opened for a man with that name and description twenty-two years ago, but it had been closed a month later because of evidence that he had occasional contacts with Turkish intelligence officers and perhaps others. Hasan Khojaev seemed to be a peddler, a man who worked hard to stay in touch with everyone and sell off small pieces of what he knew. He sounded perfect.

  Munzer showed up on schedule three days later at Yildiz Park. He was wearing black-framed sunglasses, apparently in the belief that they would make him less conspicuous. In fact, they made him look like Mr. Potato-Head. Munzer took off the sunglasses when they sat down on a park bench, and Taylor could see that there was a glint of curiosity and suspicion in his eye.

  “Business first,” said Taylor. “Our next meeting will be on Tuesday, five days from now. Got that? Next Tuesday. We’ll meet at two p.m. at the ferry dock at Kadikoy, on the Asian side. I’ll give you the same signal if there’s danger, with the same fallback plan. Okay?”

  “Munzer will write this down, please,” he said. He took out a pen and carefully noted: Tuesday, Kadikoy, two o’clock. Taylor should have made him memorize it, but he suspected that Munzer might actually forget it without a written reminder.

  “So how’s it going?” asked Taylor when Munzer had finished writing.

  “Okay, okay. I show Mustafa Chokay book to friends and they very happy. They say thank you, Mr. Munzer, our brother. This book must be part of big plan.”

  “What big plan?”

  “That is Munzer question. Listen, Mr. Goode, you not pull Munzer’s leg, okay?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You sure you tell Munzer everything?” He leaned over and gave Taylor a playful tap on the shoulder.

  “Everything you need to know. Why? What’s bothering you?”

  “I ask you question, okay? You not have to answer, but maybe you answer.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you have CIA team in Istanbul?”

  “Team? What do you mean?”

  “Maybe another American man working with you?”

  “Why do you ask?” Taylor tried not to smile, not to blink, not to hint at any particular interest in this subject.

  “Because my friend Khojaev say another American man has been talking to Turkestani peoples in Istanbul sometimes.”

  “What about?”

  “Free Turkestan. He is always talking about Free Turkestan. So I think maybe he is working with you.”

  “What does he look like, this American?”

  “Khojaev say he is tall man, blond man.”

  “It’s possible. I’ll be honest, Mr. Ahmedov. There are other people working on this project, but I don’t know all of them. Where is this other American now?”

  “Khojaev say he gone now.”

  Oh shit, thought Taylor. “Did Khojaev say whether he would be coming back?”

  “Maybe he come back. Khojaev not sure.”

  “Did Khojaev like him?”

  “Khojaev never meet him. His friend Mr. Abdallah from Tashkent meet him, and he tell Khojaev about it. He say this American man talk all about freedom and independence of Turkestani peoples, talk about big help from America, but pssst, nothing. Sound to Munzer like old days, but I know from my friend Mr. Goode these is new days.”

  “Listen, Munzer,” said Taylor confidentially. “I wish I could tell you all the details, but I can’t. Some I don’t even know myself. You just have to trust me.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Trust.”

  “Good. It will all work out. Believe me.”

  “So what should Munzer do now? Khojaev say Munzer should talk to other American man when he come back.
But Khojaev not know Munzer already working with Mr. Goode.”

  “That’s right, and don’t tell him. Let me know when the other American comes back, and maybe we’ll have you meet him.”

  “Okay. Munzer understand spy business. Nobody knows nothing.”

  “Right,” said Taylor. “Forget this other stuff for now. I have something important I want you to do. For me.”

  “Munzer is ready.”

  Taylor reached into his pocket and removed a well-worn handbill, printed in the Cyrillic characters of Uzbek Turkish. He handed it to Munzer.

  “What is this, please?”

  “It’s a leaflet, announcing a demonstration at a Sufi shrine outside Tashkent in ten days. One of our people in Moscow picked it up during a trip down there and sent out a copy.”

  “Allah! A demonstration? Uzbek people very brave, but this is too dangerous. What it means, please?”

  “We’re not sure. If it’s for real, we should try to hook up with it. Ask around, will you? See if anyone in the émigré community knows anything about it. Give me a report the next time we meet.”

  Munzer folded the handbill carefully—lovingly—and put it in his pocket, next to his heart.

  Where the hell was Rawls? Taylor drove again that night by his old apartment in Beyazit. The apartment was still dark and apparently empty. Taylor returned during the next few days to make sure, but there was still no sign of him. Maybe he had changed apartments. Maybe he had left Istanbul for good. All Taylor could do was put more chum in the water and wait for something to bite.

  “Nobody know nothing about no demonstration in Tashkent,” reported Munzer the following Tuesday. He had shed the sunglasses and was wearing a traditional Uzbek cap, embroidered in black and white. It rested on his head like a box top.

  “That’s too bad,” said Taylor.

  “No. Is good.”

  “Why? I want some information about these people in Tashkent, so we can decide what to do.”