Siro

by David Ignatius

  “Certainly.”

  “Why did you agree to this silly idea of Anna’s?”

  “Because she wanted to do it.”

  “Come on. That’s bullshit.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “What are they?”

  “Cover.”

  “Cover for what?”

  “For all of us. In the worst case, if things really fall apart over the next several months, it may be quite useful to have an additional iron in the fire—another face of our operation that doesn’t look quite so menacing. Miss Barnes would make quite a compelling witness before a closed session of the Senate Intelligence Committee, if it ever came to that, God forbid. I can imagine her testimony—one world, satellite television, plucky Armenians. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house.”

  “But she could get hurt.”

  “She’s a big girl. As a matter of fact, she’s really been quite self-reliant lately. Almost headstrong. Perhaps you haven’t noticed the change because of your … personal interest in her.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “There is one more thing about Miss Barnes that makes me inclined to let her do what she wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I won’t call it disloyalty, but she simply doesn’t know when to accede to authority. I find that troublesome in any subordinate. But to be candid, I find it especially unattractive in a woman.”

  Anna’s final meeting in Paris with Dr. Antoyan didn’t last long. She was staying in a small hotel in the suburbs now, out near the American Hospital in Neuilly. She had met with the Armenian once, when she first arrived back in town. Then she had waited for a message from Stone, with the necessary details, before seeing him again. She hadn’t heard from Taylor, but she neither expected to nor wanted to.

  She met Aram at a suburban café near the outer edge of the Bois de Boulogne. The Armenian had shaved off his beard completely by now. His face looked thinner and more vulnerable without it. He was dressed in an ill-made gray suit, which hung from his body like a sack. He looked as if he were already halfway home.

  Anna carefully explained the procedures for delivering the equipment. In early November, it would be transported over the Iranian border into Nakhichevan, an Azerbaijani enclave bordering Armenia, and from there to a small village at the southeastern edge of Armenia. The village was called Kiarki, and it was populated by ethnic Azerbaijanis. On November 10, Aram should go to the house of a man named Sadeq Shirvanshir. He should say: “Hamid sent me.”

  Anna wrote the address on a piece of paper, along with the time, date and password, and asked Antoyan to memorize the information. He studied the sheet for thirty seconds, closed his eyes, and repeated the words to himself several times. Anna retrieved the paper and put it in her purse.

  “I will be there,” he said.

  “Come back to my hotel with me,” said Anna when they had done their business. “I’d like to spend a few more hours with you.”

  “That would not be wise,” the Armenian answered softly.

  “Why not? I’m tired of wisdom. Wisdom is for old men.”

  “If I spend more time with you, I will not want to leave. And it would put us both in danger. They may be watching me more carefully, now that I’m about to go home.”

  Anna felt a wave of sadness flow over her. “When will I see you again?” she asked.

  “The next time I come to the West.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. It could be a few years.”

  “How will you know where to find me?”

  “That should not be hard. I think I know how to contact you.” He had that sly half smile which once would have charmed Anna but now just made her anxious for him.

  “How can we contact you in Yerevan?”

  “I thought we agreed at our last meeting that you would not try to use me for any other purpose.”

  “We did agree. This is just for emergencies.”

  Antoyan wrote an address and phone number on a paper napkin and gave it to her. “This is the hospital where I will be working. But people should be very careful if they ever try to contact me. The Soviet Union is not like the West. There is no such thing as an innocent meeting.”

  “Do you have a home address?”

  “Not yet. But I can give you the address of my parents’ apartment.” He took back the napkin and wrote the address in English and Armenian script. “Be careful,” he said again.

  Anna tried hard not to show it, but she was frightened for him. She had worked so hard to arrange Antoyan’s mission, but now on the eve of his departure, she didn’t want him to go. She had brought along her airline bag of cash and tried to give him some money, to buy gifts for his relatives at least, but he dismissed her with an abrupt wave of his hand.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said.

  The waiter came and asked if they would like anything more. Aram shook his head.

  “Let us say goodbye now,” he said. “Otherwise it will be too hard.” He embraced Anna, kissed her on both cheeks, and let her go. Her eyes were full of tears. Anna had heard that when Russians don’t want someone to leave, they sit on their bags at the train station and refuse to move. But she couldn’t do that. She was Aram Antoyan’s case officer.

  “If anything goes wrong, we’ll contact you,” she said.

  “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “But if something does, we’ll make sure you get a warning in time. I promise.”

  “Goodbye, my darling,” he said. He kissed her a final time on the cheek, turned, and walked toward the Métro station. He never looked back. Dr. Antoyan, as he had said so often, had no desire to be a victim. Not even of love.

  VIII

  ANNA BARNES

  WASHINGTON / ISTANBUL YEREVAN / BOSTON

  OCTOBER 1979–DECEMBER 1980

  40

  The roof of Edward Stone’s cantilevered house of cards fell in one morning in mid-October. Stone was as usual a step ahead of his pursuers, but in this instance it did him little good. He received a telephone call just after seven-thirty from Harry Peltz, his friend and informant in the European Division. Peltz said he had received a tip from a neighbor in Falls Church who worked for the Office of Security. At ten-thirty that morning, Peltz confided, a team of investigators from the Office of Security would raid the headquarters of an unauthorized CIA proprietary in Maryland that traded under the name Karpetland, Inc. The bust was part of a larger dragnet, Peltz said. Very secret, very closely held. He thought Stone would want to know.

  “Thanks so much, old boy” was all Stone said. But he was as close to panic in that moment as a controlled and composed man can be.

  Stone left his blue pinstripe suit and black wing-tip shoes on the valet stand. He pulled on a pair of corduroy pants, a polo shirt and a sweater and headed out the door. The traffic was slow all the way out Wisconsin Avenue, but Stone managed to reach the office in Rockville just before nine. He was there when Marjorie arrived, punctual as ever. He got right to the point.

  “We’re closing up shop, Marjorie,” he said. “Immediately.”

  Marjorie stared at Stone, hearing the words but not really taking them in. She had never before seen her boss quite so disheveled, but the detail that disturbed her most was that he wasn’t wearing any socks. She stared for a long moment at his white wrinkled insteps.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Stone?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course it is,” he said, looking at his watch. “Everything is just fine. But we must close this office. Right now. Do you understand?”

  “When?”

  Stone exploded in exasperation. “Right now! Today! This morning! Are you deaf?”

  He was almost shouting. Marjorie, who was even less accustomed to hearing Stone raise his voice than to seeing him without socks, began sniffling and looked as if she might burst into tears.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” said Stone. “We have a lot of work to do in a very short time.”


  That quieted her. “Now unlock the desks and the filing cabinet,” he said. “Quick!”

  Marjorie fumbled with her keys a few moments but managed to open the various locks. The filing cabinet didn’t contain much. Travel records for Taylor and Anna; the rental agreement for the office; insurance documents for the white Karpetland van; junk mail received at the office the past six months, which Marjorie had neatly filed away; back issues of a carpet-industry newsletter called “Wall to Wall.” Stone scooped it all up and dumped it in a large cardboard box that had once contained Pakistani Korans.

  “Where are the checkbooks?” he asked. Marjorie brought them from her desk. “And the credit-card receipts? And the phone bills?” Marjorie fetched those items as well.

  “Where’s the petty cash?”

  “In the safe.”

  “How much do we have?”

  “Eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Open the safe, please. Now.” Marjorie turned the combination lock but failed, twice, to get it open. Her hands were shaking.

  “Goddammit! Tell me the combination, and I’ll open the bloody lock.”

  She called out the numbers to Stone in a quavering voice. Stone ran through the sequence, pulled the handle, and opened the safe door. He removed several thick stacks of bills, a cash ledger, some blank air tickets, a classified CIA telephone directory, a classified report titled “Kurdistan in Perspective” and a jar of instant coffee that Marjorie inexplicably had kept locked up in the safe.

  “This must be yours,” said Stone, handing the coffee to Marjorie. He took the money and the classified material and dumped it into the cardboard box. He looked at his watch again.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. It was almost nine-thirty. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Who?” whimpered Marjorie. “Oh, Mr. Stone, what’s wrong?”

  Stone fixed his gaze on her. “A hostile raid will take place here in less than an hour.”

  “Who?” she said, still mystified. “The Russians?”

  “Not the Russians themselves,” said Stone. “Their friends.”

  “Blessed Mother Mary,” said Marjorie. She looked frightened, but also galvanized.

  Stone surveyed the room once more. He rummaged hurriedly through the desks of Taylor and Anna, removing whatever bric-a-brac he found. A carry-out menu from a bar called McGillicuddy’s in Rockville; stationery from the Athens Hilton; a Turkish-English dictionary; a dog-eared copy of The Forty Days of Musa Dagh. Stone grabbed them all and threw them into the cardboard box. He searched all the desk drawers one last time, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, and then turned to his faithful secretary.

  “My dear Marjorie, how would you like to take a vacation?”

  “I’ve already had my vacation,” she answered. “Two weeks in August.”

  “How about another vacation, on the company? How about Cancún? Or Rio? Have you ever been to Rio?”

  “I haven’t had my shots.”

  “What shots?”

  “Diphtheria. Malaria. Don’t they have a lot of diseases there?”

  Stone rolled his eyes. “Perhaps somewhere in this country would be better. Where would you like to go?”

  “I could visit my mother in Florida.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Lakeland.”

  “Fine. Do you know the address and telephone number?”

  “Oh yes. I call my mother every Sunday.” She wrote out the address and phone number. While she did so, Stone reached into the cardboard box and counted out ten thousand dollars.

  “Now then, Marjorie,” he said. “I’d like you to take this money and use it to pay for your airline ticket to Florida and your expenses while you’re there. Please don’t use your own checks or credit cards. We’ll take care of the accounting later.”

  Marjorie nodded earnestly.

  “I want you to stay at your mother’s house until you hear from me,” he continued. “Don’t contact anyone else until then, not even your best girlfriend. It’s very dangerous. I can’t tell you the details, but you must trust me.”

  “I will. I promise,” said Marjorie. She took the cash and began stuffing it into her purse. Fortunately, it was a very large purse, and when she removed a fat Danielle Steele novel, the money just fit. Stone looked at his watch one more time.

  “We’d best be going,” he said. “I want you to go directly to National Airport and take the first available flight to Florida, no matter where—Miami, Tampa, Orlando—then go to Lakeland. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t have any clothes. I’ll have to go home and pack.”

  “There isn’t time. Buy yourself some new clothes when you get to Florida.”

  “But I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

  “Buy yourself a new toothbrush, goddammit!” said Stone. He was almost shouting again, and it looked for a moment as if Marjorie might resume her sniffling. Stone reached into the cardboard box and handed her some more bills, not even bothering to count them.

  “I’ll keep the receipts,” she said.

  “Yes, you do that. Keep the receipts.” He took her by the arm and escorted her to the door.

  “The keys, please,” he said. “That’s a good girl.”

  They climbed down the stairs together. Stone scanned the parking lot carefully before opening the door and, seeing no sign of surveillance, led her by the arm to the Rockville Pike. After a few agonizing minutes, he managed to hail a cab.

  “Take her to National Airport,” Stone ordered the driver. He opened the door for Marjorie.

  “Remember!” he said. “Do exactly what I told you. Don’t leave Lakeland or talk to anyone until you hear from me. I’m counting on you!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Marjorie, voicing the unquestioning and automatic loyalty that is the mark of a disciplined soldier in any service.

  The cab sped off. Stone jogged back to the Karpetland office as fast as he could manage. He made a last quick tour of the room and then carried the cardboard box down to his car, leaving the parking lot just after ten. He drove west toward the Potomac River, to a park and picnic area on the Maryland side of Great Falls. The park was deserted on this October morning. Stone parked next to an outdoor barbecue grill. He removed the cash from the box and crumpled the remaining files and papers into a small bonfire. He patted his pockets for matches and cursed loudly when he realized he didn’t have any. He decided to use the cigarette lighter from the car instead, which worked admirably. Within a few minutes the records of the sham enterprise known as Karpetland had been reduced to ashes.

  Stone’s next stop was back at his house on N Street, to make two urgent telephone calls. It seemed imprudent to make them from his own phone, so he knocked at the house across the street, owned by a genteel old Georgetown matron. He explained that his own phone was unaccountably on the blink. Could he possibly use her phone to make several overseas calls? Of course he could. She was flattered that the great and mysterious Mr. Stone would think to ask.

  The first call was to Taylor in Istanbul. It was late afternoon there by now, but he was fortunately still at the office, haggling with the consulate’s chief administrative officer about the housing allowance for a new CIA officer who would be arriving in December. Taylor loathed such housekeeping details, but for some unexplained reason, his deputy—who normally handled them—had been absent the past day and a half.

  “We have a problem,” Stone said when he reached Taylor. He didn’t bother to identify himself.

  “What’s that?”

  “A certain rug dealership is going out of business sooner than expected.”

  “How soon?”

  “Today. It may be under new management at this very moment. The parent company was planning to take possession this morning.”

  “Is that so?” said Taylor. He knew he should feel devastated, or at least frightened, but at the moment he felt a weird sense of relief that the inevitable had finally happened. Still, he knew he should t
ry to register concern. “Oh shit,” he said.

  “Just so,” said Stone. “It’s important to do what we can quickly to tidy up the loose ends. I’m thinking of a certain gentleman of your acquaintance who normally resides in Brooklyn.”

  “Yes, indeed, I know him well.”

  “Is he still in your part of the world?”

  “Last I knew. I saw him several days ago.”

  “I suggest you pay him a visit immediately, and urge him to do a bit of traveling, on the first available flight.”

  “For how long?”

  “A month or so. Then he can go home. Find some money for him somewhere or other, and I’ll reimburse you.”

  Stone rang off. Taylor apologized to the administrative officer that something had come up, and they would have to resolve the matter of the housing allowance the next day. Then he headed off to Munzer’s flat in Aksaray, taking a Turkish taxi rather than one of the office cars.

  Taylor was too late. When he opened the door of Munzer’s flat, he found that a burly young man from the Office of Security was already there, standing next to the Uzbek. The security officer had arrived the previous day from London and, with the connivance of Taylor’s deputy, had obtained the address of Munzer’s safe house and spent much of the past fifteen hours trying to interrogate him. Now he loomed over the old Uzbek gentleman like a sheriff’s deputy guarding his prize witness.

  “Allah sukur!” said Munzer as soon as he saw Taylor’s face. “Thank God you are here!”

  “Who are you?” demanded the security man. He had his hand under his coat, as if reaching for a gun.

  “None of your fucking business,” said Taylor. “Who are you?”

  The security officer flipped open his wallet and displayed some sort of badge along with his CIA identification. He looked like the sort of fellow whose favorite bedtime reading was Guns and Ammo.

  “That doesn’t mean shit to me,” said Taylor. “They sell those at Woolworth’s.”

  “Fuck you!” snarled the security man. He took a menacing step toward Taylor, but Munzer moved in front of him, appealing to Taylor with his palms outstretched.