Siro

by David Ignatius

  He walked off in search of a store. Anna scanned the streets, going and coming. Several trucks arrived from the direction of Yerevan, and so did a half dozen cars of various description. A horse cart trotted down the street with an Azeri farmer and his son. A few bicycles whizzed by. But in none of these vehicles did Anna see anyone who looked remotely like Aram Antoyan. Down one side street, she thought she saw a tall man in a gray coat watching her from the shadows. But when she moved to get a closer look, he disappeared.

  Samvel returned after a while with a fizzy cherry drink in a bottle, full of apologies. Most of the local stores were closed for some reason, he said. Typical Azeris. In an Armenian village the stores would all have been open, and they would have had Pepsi-Cola. Anna drank it slowly, scanning the highway. When the bottle was finally empty, she complained again of pain in her leg and asked if Samvel could perhaps get her something to eat. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock now.

  “Food is better in Armenian village,” he said. He wanted to leave.

  “Please, Samvel, I need to eat something before we travel.”

  He nodded and went off again. Anna fixed her eyes on the Yerevan road and watched the same occasional parade of cars, still looking in vain for the face of Aram Antoyan. Where in God’s name was he? she wondered. She was half angry at him and half worried. She turned and was scanning the streets in the interior of the village, wondering if maybe he could have come some other way, when she saw something that made her heart leap.

  In the distance, nearly a hundred yards away, she could see the figure of a man emerging from a car that had parked on the small road that led away from town in the other direction. What made her think immediately of Aram was the man’s gait, that close-footed step of the mountain pony that she had found so endearing in Paris. The man in the distance was heading toward a warren of houses. Anna wondered for a moment what to do, and then simply acted on impulse.

  She opened the car door and walked quickly—forgetting the fake limp—toward the figure in the distance. She removed the headscarf, so that he would recognize her more easily. He was walking toward her—perhaps sixty yards away now—and was turning to his left. The closer Anna got, the more certain she was that it was Aram. He still hadn’t recognized her.

  Anna quickened her pace, until it was almost a run. He had stopped in front of a two-story house, slightly grander than most of the rest in the village. Oh my God, thought Anna. This must be the home of the smuggler, Sadeq Shirvanshir. In a moment, Aram would be in the house and gone.

  “Aram,” she called out to him, into the wind.

  He turned and glanced at her briefly, so preoccupied with his own business that he didn’t really bother to look who might be calling his name. He turned back toward the door of the house.

  “Aram,” she cried again.

  This time he heard, looked, and looked again in disbelief. They were still forty yards apart. Anna began shaking her head and waving her arms, in pantomime, as if to say: Don’t go in the house. Stay away from the house. Stay away from me.

  He understood the first part, but not the second. In his shock and exhilaration at seeing the woman he thought he had left behind forever in Paris, he thought only of embracing her. He ran toward her, in short, tight steps, and put his arm around her.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” He was delighted and dumbfounded. “What can this be? Why are you here?”

  Anna took his arm and walked quickly away from the house of Sadeq Shirvanshir, then stopped and looked at him. Aram had grown his beard back. He looked ruddy and healthy, not at all the worse for his return home.

  “Listen to me carefully, Aram,” she said in French. “There is a problem with the delivery. I don’t think it’s safe for you to pick things up. I promised back in Paris that I would warn you if something was wrong. This was the only way, coming here myself.”

  Aram was shaking his head and smiling. “But there is nothing wrong, you silly girl. Everything is okay.”

  “Yes, there is something wrong. Trust me. The KGB knows what my friends and I have been doing. They are probably waiting for you to pick up this delivery. You shouldn’t take the risk. They will think you’re a spy.”

  “But you are wrong. There is no danger here,” repeated Aram. “I tell you, we are safe.”

  “Listen to me!” she pleaded. “I have come all this way to warn you, and you aren’t even listening.”

  “No, you must listen to me,” he said. He was trying to be calm and manly, in the presence of this anxious woman. “There is nothing to worry about. There is no danger.”

  “How do you know? What are you talking about?”

  “I have already met the smuggler, Shirvanshir. I met him three hours ago, at first light. I stayed with friends last night in the next Armenian village, so that I could be near and watch and make sure there were no tricks. But it is just as you promised. He knew the password. There was no KGB. You are mistaken. We are safe.”

  “Why were you going back just now if you have already met with him?”

  “To pick up the equipment. He has to bring it from a hiding place outside town. He told me he would bring it back in three hours. So now I am going to get it. Do not worry. There is no problem.”

  “Walk with me to my car,” said Anna. The streets were empty, but still, she wanted not to rouse the attention of the local villagers. “I don’t think you should go back,” she said. “It could be a trap.”

  “Impossible. Anyway, if it is a trap, I have already fallen into it. They already know who I am. If I don’t go, the only thing that happens is that I do not get the antenna. So I must go. I will not listen to any argument.”

  “Please, Aram. This is crazy. I have a bad feeling.”

  “This time you are wrong. I am the fortune-teller, remember? Do not be frightened. You come with me to the house, if you like. You will see.”

  “No,” said Anna. “That would not be a good idea.”

  They were almost to Anna’s car. Samvel had returned in the meantime and was holding a sandwich, stuffed with a spicy Armenian meat known as basterma. He evidently had walked to the next village to get it. He looked at Aram, then gave Anna a knowing look, as if to say: So this was what we were waiting for in Kiarki.

  “How is your ankle?” asked Samvel sarcastically.

  “Better,” said Anna. She pointed to Aram. “I met my friend here. He has an errand to do. I’d like to wait here a few more minutes to make sure he finishes his errand, then we will go.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Samvel, looking at his watch.

  Anna held Aram’s hand. “We shouldn’t be seen together anymore. When you get the package, go back to Yerevan alone. I’ll wait here until I know you’re safe, then I’ll go back, too.”

  “When can I see you in Yerevan?”

  “We shouldn’t meet again. It’s too risky.”

  “Nonsense. You will come meet me tonight at my apartment. I will give you the address.”

  “I know where it is. I got the address from your parents.”

  “Nine o’clock,” said Aram. “Bring your toothbrush.”

  He turned and walked back down the side street, toward the house of Sadeq Shirvanshir. Anna sat back down in the front seat of the Zhiguli.

  “Nice guy?” asked Samvel.

  “Yeah. Nice guy.”

  Anna watched Aram’s clipped gait all the way down the street, till he reached Shirvanshir’s house and knocked at the entrance. The door immediately opened and a hawk-eyed man drew the Armenian doctor inside. Anna couldn’t see or hear any more. She could only sit and watch the empty space in front of the house.

  The game inside Shirvanshir’s house took only a few minutes. The Azeri smuggler brought out a large waterproof bag, the kind that can be dragged behind a boat making its way across the Caspian Sea or strapped to the back of a mountain goat on the snowy ridges of the Caucasus. He handed the bag to the Armenian, who reached inside and withdrew a rectangular frame. He looke
d at it carefully, opening the cover to examine the electrical components inside, and pronounced himself satisfied.

  “What about the other shipment?” queried the Azeri with a half smile.

  “What other shipment?” asked Aram, his warm relief of a moment ago turning to ice. “What are you talking about?”

  “The other shipment my cousins bring from Iran.” He opened the bag wide, so Aram could see what was at the bottom. There was a small pouch, containing a whitish substance.

  Aram’s eyes darted back and forth. He looked at the Azeri and saw the face of a mercenary. A smuggler who needed to maintain good relations with the border guards, and who didn’t much like Armenians to boot. Aram looked about the room and saw nothing unusual, but he heard a loud creak in the floorboard behind the door to the kitchen.

  “Who is the other shipment for?” demanded the Azeri. “Who will pick it up?”

  “There isn’t any other shipment. Only this one.”

  “You are wrong, my friend,” said the Azeri. He reached into the bag and slowly withdrew the package of plastic explosive. “I think you are planning to kill some of my Azeri brothers.”

  “My God!” whispered Aram. Anna had been right. It was a double cross. He turned on his heel and ran for the door. As he did so the door to the kitchen burst open and a man with a pistol shouted for Aram to stop.

  Anna watched the street, afraid even to blink. Aram had been inside one minute, then two, then three. She was counting every second. Finally she took a breath and looked away, toward the little playground near the center of the square. She didn’t understand, at first, didn’t think to ask the question: Where were the children? What had happened to the dozens of children who, an hour ago, were playing in the streets of Kiarki? They had disappeared. The streets were too empty; the silence was too pervasive.

  Anna turned her eyes back to the door of Shirvanshir’s house. Something was wrong. She got out of the car and took a step toward the house, and then another. She saw the door open. An instant later she heard the shot reverberate through the village. Then she saw Aram. He stretched one arm toward her, waving her away; the other was at his side, bleeding from the gunshot wound.

  He was still on his feet, half running toward her, shouting something she couldn’t hear. Two officers had emerged from the back of the Shirvanshir house, and two from across the street. They were trying to block Aram’s way—trying to subdue him without killing him; trying to keep him alive for interrogation. Aram ran right at the closest one, knocking him aside, forcing the other officers to raise their guns in self-protection. Aram kept running. A second shot echoed across the little village, and a moment later, a third. Anna took cover behind a stone wall when she heard the shots. She was at midpoint between the car and the house—unable to save Aram, unable to save herself.

  Aram’s right leg, torn by a bullet, gave way under him and he fell to the ground. As the officers converged toward him to make their arrest, the Armenian doctor summoned a last measure of will and threw himself toward one of his would-be captors, flailing his arm toward the gun. When the final shot rang out in the village of Kiarki, it released Dr. Aram Antoyan from the danger of compromising himself or anyone he loved. It was an Armenian death. He had sought it, embraced it, added his name to the roster of victims.

  45

  Anna Barnes was taken into custody in the village of Kiarki on the morning of November 10, along with her driver, Samvel Sarkisian. She protested that she was an American citizen, traveling in Armenia on a tourist visa, and innocent of any crime. The KGB major who arrested her spoke no English, so her protest was of little use. He took her to Yerevan, where she was held at the local KGB headquarters on Nalbandian Street while the higher-ups in Moscow tried to figure out what to do with her.

  The next day, she was flown to Moscow and taken to a suburban KGB office in Yasenevo for interrogation. When she refused to answer questions, she was formally accused of violating Soviet border restrictions, a potentially serious charge for anyone lacking diplomatic immunity, since it carried a lengthy prison sentence. The Soviet Foreign Ministry notified the U.S. embassy that afternoon that an American citizen named Anna Barnes, passport number A2701332, had been arrested in the republic of Armenia and brought to Moscow. The Soviets did not make any public statement of the charges, however. Silence ensued on both sides, as Soviets and Americans tried to figure out what had happened in Kiarki.

  Four days after Anna’s arrest, a KGB colonel who maintained an informal, back-channel liaison with the CIA station chief sought out his American counterpart at a diplomatic reception. He remarked that the Barnes case was regarded as extremely serious by the Soviet Union, and one that could be very embarrassing for the United States. The investigation was continuing, he said, and the Soviet government would undoubtedly publicize the case soon unless it was resolved through diplomatic channels. The KGB colonel seemed to be inviting the American side to propose a deal—a swap of prisoners perhaps—but the Americans didn’t respond, that night or during the week that followed.

  The prevailing sentiment in Washington, among the few people who knew about the Barnes case, was a desire that it go away. Despite the official American silence, however, there was a steady patter of cable traffic with Washington and discussion within the embassy. The Soviets, listening in clandestinely to much of this debate, rapidly began filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle.

  The Soviet Foreign Ministry finally issued a brief public statement eight days after the debacle in Kiarki. It said that an unnamed American woman had been arrested in a restricted border area of Soviet Armenia and would be tried under Soviet law. The State Department immediately protested. At the daily noon briefing, a spokesman called the Soviet charges “ludicrous” and said the American in question was a businesswoman who had been visiting the Soviet Union as a tourist. The spokesman demanded that the Soviets release her without delay. An article in The New York Times the next day quoted unnamed “administration officials” explaining that the unfortunate woman had been involved in a “close personal relationship” with a Soviet Armenian dissident she had met during a business trip to Paris and might have been lured unwittingly into the forbidden border zone. Press coverage of the incident lasted just two days. With no name or other identifying details about the woman, the media lost interest.

  It was, for the moment, a standoff. The Soviets had no interest, at that point, in publicizing details of a case that raised the sensitive issue of Western contact with dissident Soviet nationalities. The American side was also happy to keep the lid on a case that, if it should be disclosed in detail, would cause an uproar—embarrassing the CIA and the White House—and almost certainly trigger a congressional investigation. Besides, both sides had bigger things to worry about at that moment. Soviet troops in the Central Asian military district were beginning to assemble around Samarkand for a possible move south across the Uzbek border into Afghanistan. And for the Americans, the only hostage problem that mattered that month was in Tehran, where radical students had seized the American embassy. So a lone American woman sat in a prison cell in Moscow, waiting for trial.

  Anna’s cell was small, but neat and relatively comfortable. She had better food and toilet facilities in prison than the average Soviet citizen had outside, the guards regularly reminded her. The interrogation was correct and controlled; it was not the KGB’s style to use harsh methods on American prisoners. The interrogators visited her every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes for a few minutes. But they seemed only marginally interested in the actual facts of the case. Instead they quizzed her again and again about small details in her résumé.

  The questions were clever probes, designed to elicit particular bits of information that could be matched with other facts already known. Who had Anna studied with in graduate school? Why had she left Harvard before completing her dissertation? What had her father done in the foreign service? Was she aware that he had previously worked for the CIA? How had she spent the year
between leaving graduate school and joining the investment bank in London? Who were Halcyon’s clients, and what services had Anna performed for them? Why had she been absent from London so much during her first year with the firm? Anna had appropriate answers for all these questions, most of them backstopped by cover arrangements back home, but as she repeated them, they began to sound ridiculous—even to her.

  Anna had decided, from the moment they took her into custody to admit whatever she knew they could prove and deny everything else. She had tried all along with Aram to build a plausible legend about their relationship, and now she repeated the story like a mantra. She had met him in Paris while she was there on business for the firm. Yes, she had known that he was a dissident; that was part of the reason she found him so attractive. Yes, she had come to Armenia to see him. No, she hadn’t informed him she was coming, because she had wanted to surprise him. And yes, she had been in love with him.

  She admitted, of course, that she had written the note to Antoyan that was found on the floor of his apartment. She couldn’t very well deny it, since it was written on one of her traveler’s checks. The interrogator kept returning to one phrase in the message: “The friend you were going to meet tomorrow has unfortunately caught a cold.” What did that mean? From the moment of capture, Anna had worried how she would explain that phrase. She eventually settled on an answer, which she repeated over and over. The “friend” in question, she told the interrogator, was a reference to herself. She had gotten the sniffles during the trip from Moscow, and was forewarning Aram so he wouldn’t be disappointed. It was lame, but the best she could do.

  Explaining why she had traveled to Kiarki was the most awkward part. When she had met Aram in Paris, he had spoken often about the beauty of the Ararat valley, she said. He had urged her to see the monastery at Khor Virap and the little Azeri villages near the border. Aram had said he often went there himself, to relax, and when she couldn’t find him in Yerevan the night she arrived, she had concluded that perhaps he had gone south and decided to follow him. She “admitted” after several days of questioning that one reason she had gone to Kiarki was jealousy. When Aram hadn’t come back to his apartment that first night, she had feared he must be with another woman; and because he had mentioned Kiarki so often, she suspected they might be there. The interrogator listened politely to her and then laughed and said the story was preposterous.