Siro

by David Ignatius

  “No, no. Up-down side you have. If people talk in Istanbul, then no good. Must be phony. If nobody know, then maybe this real thing. Nobody here know nothing, so Munzer is happy. You tell friends maybe this demonstration by real Moslem men in Tashkent.”

  They walked slowly down the street, away from the Kadikoy dock. Just north of them was the Haydarpasa train station, the old gateway to Asia. Across the way stood a small caravan of buses, waiting to take travelers to the teeming suburbs of the Asian side; they belched out noise and smoke even while they were idling. And darting in every direction were the dolmus group taxis, most of them lovingly maintained old Buicks and Chevys, their rearview mirrors bearing colorful totems to keep away the evil eye. Munzer looked entirely at home amidst this scene; a man of Asia, walking toward home with each step. Taylor strode along with him, carrying a plastic bag in one hand.

  “Listen, Munzer,” said Taylor. “You’re a Sufi brother, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am, so why you ask?”

  “You’re a Naqshbandi, right?”

  “I am sorry. This for me is something not for talking about. You have secret things. So does Munzer.”

  “They’re strong in Central Asia, aren’t they? The Sufi brotherhoods, I mean.”

  “The strongest. They are the only real Islam. Official mosque is bullshit, run by KGB. Only true Islam is underground, with the tariqat. But you ask somebody else about these things. Munzer not talking.”

  “Okay, but one more question. Why are they so strong?”

  “Because they are real brotherhood. Closed to outsiders. Never tell secrets. If Naqshbandi find out a member is KGB informer, that man is finished. No one speak to him. No one marry his daughters. He is alone. Better he should be dead. Same thing if member of brotherhood tells secrets to CIA, my friend, so you don’t ask Munzer no more questions about tariqat.”

  “Sorry. I only brought it up because I want to give you something that would interest your Naqshbandi brothers.”

  “What you talking about, please?”

  Taylor reached into the plastic bag he had been carrying, pulled out a cassette tape, and handed it to Munzer. “This is for you. I have lots more of them. Thousands of them.”

  Munzer read the Russian label: “Siberian Folk Chorus.” He snorted. “What I need this for?”

  “It’s not the Siberian Folk Chorus, Munzer. It’s a sermon from a Naqshbandi sheikh in Saudi Arabia. He talks about the duty of all Moslems, especially members of the Naqshbandi brotherhood, to liberate Samarkand and Bukhara and Ferghana from the atheists.”

  Munzer looked at the tape carefully, as if he expected to see a little sheikh inside. “You have more of these?”

  “Thousands of them.”

  “Munzer can take this and listen to it, please?”

  “Sure. Take a bunch of them. Your friends can listen, too.”

  “What you do with these?”

  “We plan to send them where they will do some good. To Samarkand and Bukhara and Ferghana.”

  “You getting serious now, my friend.”

  “Yes,” said Taylor. “We’re getting serious.”

  32

  Frank Hoffman sat like a fireplug on the couch of Anna Barnes’s hotel room in Athens, waiting for Ali Ascari to show up. Anna had taken a suite at the St. George this time, a smaller and less conspicuous hotel above Syntagma Square. The room was at once dark and noisy, thanks to Hoffman’s precautions. He had swept the room carefully for bugs and then, for good measure, he had unplugged the television and the lights, unscrewed the mouthpiece of the telephone to remove the speaker, and turned on a small portable noise machine. These prudential measures had given the room an otherworldly feel, somber and shadowy without the electric lights, echoing with unintelligible white noise.

  Anna couldn’t quite imagine it, but Hoffman seemed nervous. He was fidgeting under his coat with the two revolvers that were parked below his armpits, checking to make sure that they were still there. With his guns in place, Anna had noticed, Hoffman walked in a peculiar way, swinging both arms forward together at the same time, rather than alternating them. Perhaps he wanted to be able to draw both pistols at once.

  Hoffman stopped fiddling with his guns after a while and began munching chocolate-covered peanuts, popping them into his mouth one at a time from a bag in his coat pocket. In five minutes he consumed the entire pack and reached into his attaché case for another. He had a half dozen more packs lined up in a row, in the compartment usually reserved for pens and pencils. He opened a new one and resumed munching.

  At last there was a knock at the door.

  “Is this Miss Bigelow’s room?” asked a singsong nasal voice.

  “You are early,” replied Anna. Actually, he was late, but that was the recognition code.

  Anna opened the door and in walked Ali Ascari, wobbling his head ever so slightly. He was dressed soberly for the occasion, in a pinstripe suit with wide lapels and a striped tie that was nearly six inches across at the bottom. His mullah’s beard looked as woolly as ever.

  “Hello, nice lady,” he said to Anna, standing on tiptoes and clicking his heels.

  Hoffman rose from the couch and walked toward the Iranian, swinging his arms in that odd, two-handed gait.

  “This is Mr. Block,” said Anna. “He’s the man I mentioned to you.”

  “Very nice to be meeting you, Mr. Block,” said Ascari, extending a limp hand.

  “Sit down,” said Hoffman.

  “Okay. I am happy to sit down.”

  Hoffman grunted and sat back down on the sofa.

  “You are a CIA man, Mr. Block?”

  “No comment.”

  “This nice lady, Miss James, tell me that next time I will be seeing CIA man. So I think you must be him.”

  “Listen, my friend,” said Hoffman. “Let’s get something straight before we go any further. I ask the questions. You answer them. Got it? Otherwise, take a walk.”

  “Okay,” said Ascari warily. “You sound like CIA man. That is good enough for Ali Ascari.”

  “Drop it.”

  “Okay. No problem.”

  “You got a passport, so I can make sure you’re who you say you are?”

  “For sure. Not just one.”

  “Give them to me.”

  Ascari reached into the pocket of his suit coat and handed his Iranian passport to Hoffman.

  “Where’s the other one?”

  The Iranian pulled the Spanish passport from his side pocket and handed it over.

  “Cut the bullshit.” barked Hoffman. “Where’s the Greek passport?”

  “No problem,” said Ascari with a little smile and a wobble of the head. He stood up and removed the third document from the back pocket of his trousers.

  “Thanks,” said Hoffman. He laid the passports on the coffee table in a neat stack, with the Greek one on top. “I’ll look at these later.”

  Anna spoke up. “I have told Mr. Block about our previous meetings, Mr. Ascari. I’ve told him every detail, including your appalling behavior in Istanbul. Mr. Block was not amused.”

  “Nope,” said Hoffman. “To be honest, you sound to me like a real asshole.”

  “Please, Mr. Block,” said Ascari. “I do not like bad languages.”

  “Is that right? Well, as we say in the U.S. of A., tough shit.”

  Ascari looked offended. “I am not liking this conversation. Maybe I leave now.”

  “Stay a while. I’m just beginning to relax.”

  “I am not so relaxing.” He was looking over his shoulder to the door.

  “Hey, lighten up. Take your coat off. It’s a little hot in here, don’t you think, Miss James? Maybe I’ll take off my coat, too.”

  Hoffman stood up and slowly removed his suit coat, a sleeve at a time, so that one snub-nosed revolver became visible, and then the other. Ascari shook his head and took a deep breath. Now he looked genuinely frightened.

  “Wait a minute, please,” said Ascari, extending hi
s arms plaintively. “There is big mistake here. I am very sorry for what happen in Istanbul. You want me to apologize? So I apologize. No problem. Okay?” He had a phony let’s-be-friends smile on his face.

  “Thank you,” said Anna coldly. “But it’s a little late.”

  “Save your apologies, pal,” growled Hoffman. “Because I honestly don’t give a shit whether you’re sorry. I’m only interested in one thing from you.”

  “What is that?”

  “My friend Miss James says you have some friends who are shipping guns across the Iranian border into Azerbaijan. Is that right?”

  “Yes. I tell that to nice lady.”

  “If you say ‘nice lady’ one more time, I’m going to cut your dick off and stuff it down your throat. So stop saying it! It bothers me.”

  Ascari reached protectively for his crotch. “Very sorry. Please.”

  “Now, tell us about the guns.”

  “What you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “We buy guns. We take them across border. We leave them in Azerbaijan. That is it.”

  “I want the details, dipshit.”

  “Excuse me, please?”

  “I said I want the fucking details.”

  “What is in this for Ali?” asked Ascari, sensing that the eagerness of this crazed American for information might give him some momentary bargaining leverage.

  “Money,” answered Hoffman.

  “How much?”

  “That depends on whether you deliver. If you do, a lot.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Fuck you. You know what ‘a lot’ means.”

  “Maybe I not interested.”

  “Oh, you’re interested. You just want to jerk me around. But you gotta understand, my friend, I’ve been dealing with assholes like you for most of my life.”

  The Iranian crossed his arms. “Ali not so sure he want to do business with you.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” said Hoffman. He scooped up the Greek passport from the table and leaned toward the telephone. He quickly screwed the mouthpiece back on and began dialing.

  “Hey. What you doing?”

  “I’m calling a Greek friend of mine at the Ministry of the Interior. He’ll be mighty interested to know that an Iranian con man is traveling on a phony Greek passport.”

  “You are bluffing.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Hoffman. “Try me.” He held up the phone so Ascari could hear it ringing. A voice answered, speaking Greek.

  “Hello, Mikos? This is Frank. I’ve run across something that might interest you.”

  Ascari, convinced now that Hoffman was not bluffing, stood up suddenly and looked as if he might bolt for the door. Anna moved to block his exit, but Hoffman was quicker. He put one hand over the phone and removed a pistol from its shoulder holster with the other.

  “Sit down, asshole,” he said. Ascari backed down into his chair, and Hoffman resumed his conversation.

  “Mikos, you still there? Here’s the deal. I’ve heard about a guy who’s traveling on a false Greek passport. He sounds like a pretty suspicious character. Gunrunning, smuggling. That sort of thing.”

  Ascari was making frantic hand motions, but Hoffman ignored him for the moment.

  “That’s right. A phony Greek passport.… No, I don’t know where he got it.… What’s his name?”

  He looked at Ascari.

  “Stop!” whispered the Iranian. “No more bullshit.”

  Hoffman gave him a wink, and then resumed the conversation. “Sorry, Mikos, but I don’t know the guy’s name yet. That’s my problem. I just wanted to know if you’d be interested. If I find out, I’ll get back to you right away. Okay? … Right. Bye. Ciao.” He hung up the phone.

  “No more fucking around, please,” said Hoffman. “Because as you have just discovered, I have got you firmly by the balls. And I would take genuine, personal pleasure in turning you over to the Greek police.”

  “We be friends, please,” said Ascari. “I play ball game.” He looked genuinely shaken.

  “Hey, listen,” said Hoffman, reaching over and putting a meaty hand on Ascari’s shoulder. “I’m not really a prick. I just act like one sometimes. You’ll like me when you get to know me better.”

  “Will you put gun away now, please?”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” Hoffman returned the pistol to its holster.

  Ascari relaxed slightly. “Thank you. You worry Ali a little bit. I thought CIA men play by rules, but you not playing by rules.”

  “You got it. I have one big advantage over my colleagues, which is that I’m crazy. I don’t give a shit about the rules. So watch it.”

  “I hear you. For sure.”

  “Good. So let’s start again, about the guns.”

  “Yes. I am ready to talk.”

  “Honey,” said Hoffman, turning to Anna. “Leave us alone for a while, would you? This next part is agency business.”

  Anna nodded. Her departure was part of the scenario they had worked out earlier. They had agreed that once Hoffman had established control, she would check out—in the hope that this might help preserve at least a small shred of cover. She didn’t like having to leave the conversation just when they were finally getting down to business, but there was one consolation. With luck, she would never have to see Ali Ascari again.

  “Okay, pal,” said Hoffman when Anna had left. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  “Ali know too many things. What you want to know, exactly?”

  “The whole shooting match. We want to move some things across the border, and we think maybe we’d like to piggyback on what you’re doing. So tell me the whole thing.”

  “Not much to tell. Most smuggling is run from Tabriz, in the north. Some of it go through Khvoy, into Nakhichevan. Some go through Ardebil, across mountains to Astara and Masally and Pushkino. Some go by boat on Caspian Sea, from Bandar-i-Anzali to secret ports in Azerbaijan.”

  “How do they get across?”

  “This depend. Most smugglers just simple tribespeople. Half of family lives on one side of the border, half on the other side. They come and go, all the time. All of them are Azeris, so what is border to them? They hate Russians and they hate Iranians. Same difference.”

  “Do they get caught?”

  “Not so often. They know special routes in mountains, special hiding places, special ways to escape KGB border patrols. They been smuggling long time. Sometimes this is business of family for many generations. They leave some cousins in Azerbaijan as part of family business. But these ones are the little smugglers.”

  “Who are the big smugglers?”

  “Big crooks. They do it a different way.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Money. They pay off Soviet officials. They pay off border guards, or commander of border guards, or local KGB official who runs border guards, or local party official who is big boss of everybody. Once in a while they catch somebody, to pretend they are doing job. This is big business. I am telling you.”

  “I like the little guys, the family operation. You know people like that?”

  “Sure. Some of them are my cousins.”

  “Could your cousins take a load of stuff across for us?”

  “Why not. Business is business. What you got?”

  “Books, mostly.”

  “Books? Books is bullshit! You listen to Ali. If you smart, you send VCRs and porno tapes. That is what they want in Baku. Debbie Does Dallas.”

  “We’re sending books, you horny son of a bitch. Books and tapes. Religious stuff, nationalist stuff.”

  “What for?”

  “To make a fucking revolution, that’s what for!”

  “Okay, but porno tapes better bet. Honest. Even old ones. Deep Throat. Behind Green Door.”

  “Forget the goddam tapes! How soon can your cousins get a shipment moving?”

  “Right away. You give to Ali. We get it there a few weeks later. But it cost you plenty. This not cheap.
My cousins very greedy.”

  “I’ll bet they are. How much do you want?”

  “As you like.”

  “Cut the crap. Name a price.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Fuck off. I’ll give you twenty thousand, if you make it.”

  “Ali cannot ask cousins to risk lives for less than seventy-five thousand. In advance.”

  “Thirty thousand. Tops.”

  “For you, Ali will do it for sixty-five thousand. At this price, no money for Ali himself. But okay. We are partners.”

  “Forget it. No deal.”

  “You hurt me too much. Sixty thousand.”

  “Maybe I’ll go to thirty-five thousand. If you can promise to get it there in two weeks.”

  “No. Sorry. Find someone else. Go ahead, turn Ali over to Greek police. I don’t care. Pride is all I have.”

  “Forty thousand. Final offer.”

  “Fifty-five thousand.”

  “Forty-five thousand. Absolute final offer. And I keep the Greek passport for insurance.”

  “Why do you hate Ali? Fifty thousand. Best price. You can take out gun and shoot Ali, but still not less than fifty thousand.”

  “My friend,” said Hoffman, extending his hand. “You have a deal.”

  Anna returned several hours later to find Ascari gone and Hoffman asleep on the couch. A messy tray from room service was on the table, along with a half dozen empty beer bottles. Hoffman had been celebrating, apparently.

  “Wake up, Frank,” said Anna.

  “Whaaa?”

  “Wake up!”

  He roused himself and sat up on the couch.

  “You were magnificent,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “With Ascari. That was a textbook lesson in how to establish control. It was worth a whole year of training, just to watch you.”

  “Aw, bullshit,” said Hoffman. “That kind of thing only works with a real slimeball like Ascari. Otherwise, it’s useless.”

  “Come on! As somebody once said, if you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.”

  “Baloney. Don’t listen to all that macho crap. Fear is a lousy way to motivate people.”

  “You’re too modest. What’s better than fear?”