Siro

by David Ignatius

  They allowed a counselor from the U.S. embassy to come see her after several days, and at regular intervals after that. But the visits were little comfort. Anna assumed that every word and gesture was being monitored, and when the embassy officer leaned toward her at one point, as if to hand her something or whisper in her ear, she pulled back. The Soviets also sent in the Moscow equivalent of a jailhouse stoolie to try to elicit information. Their candidate was a chatty woman about Anna’s age with a New York accent who claimed she had been arrested in Leningrad with several grams of hashish. Anna, who had previously been denied contact with other prisoners, was now allowed to eat all her meals with the loquacious woman. The New Yorker tried every way she could to get Anna to open up, without success. She talked about boyfriends, she talked about clothes and makeup, she talked about the CIA. After a week, she disappeared.

  The harshest tactic the Soviets used was simply to let time pass—and let Anna come to the recognition that nobody was going to save her; to the realization that, without cooperating, she might spend years in a Soviet prison. And as the weeks passed and Anna’s sense of abandonment increased, her spirits inevitably began to ebb. Doing battle with the KGB in the early days had galvanized her and given her an identity. Now she was just a prisoner.

  In January, after she had spent two months in custody, Anna was introduced to a new interrogator. His name was Viktor, and he was a different sort altogether from the functionaries who had visited her before. He was in his late forties, with sleek gray hair and the cool manner of a professor of mathematics, and he spoke near-perfect English. He made no pretense whatsoever of investigating the case and was, transparently, an intelligence officer. He began the first conversation bluntly.

  “Do you know that Edward Stone has sacrificed you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” bristled Anna. She had denied, from the first day, that she had any connection to the Central Intelligence Agency or that she knew any of its personnel.

  “I don’t expect you to answer,” said the Russian. “In fact, I would prefer that you not answer. But if you must, please do not make stupid statements that insult my intelligence. Can we agree on that?”

  Anna didn’t speak. She had a vague recollection from some long-ago training session that this was a standard KGB interrogation technique—to tell the prisoner details about the case, using bits of information to gather more—and she tried to steel herself. But in this case, steel was blanketed by velvet.

  “Stone sacrificed you,” repeated the Russian. “That’s why he let you go to Armenia to rescue poor Dr. Antoyan. And that’s why you’re still here, two months later. You are expendable. I am sorry to have to tell you these facts, but you should know them.”

  “I am innocent of the charges against me and I demand to be released to the custody of the American embassy,” Anna said dully. That was part of her standard line, repeated in every interrogation session.

  “Yes, of course. I will note that for the record. If it is important for you to say this, I am happy to listen. Although it is very boring.”

  Viktor’s manner of bemused tolerance put Anna off balance. She was going to repeat the rest of her set piece, about being an innocent tourist who had come to see her Armenian boyfriend, but decided it was pointless.

  “Would you like some coffee?” asked the Russian.

  “No,” said Anna.

  “Pity. I am going to have some.” He went to the door of the cell and called to a guard, who returned a few moments later with a steaming cup of coffee. Real coffee, not the dreadful watery stuff the Russians served. The aroma filled the cell.

  “You know, really, you should relax,” said the Russian. “It is such a pleasure for me to have a chance to talk with one of Edward Stone’s operatives. For us, Stone is a kind of spectator sport. He is such a clever man, and his operations are so subtle. To finally sit in the same room with one of his people is like meeting backstage with one of the actors in a Broadway play.”

  “Give me a break,” said Anna. It was an involuntary response to the Russian’s flattery, but she regretted it instantly. It was a step toward confirmation and collaboration, and she resolved that she would not say another word of substance.

  “Really, it’s true. But never mind. Stone is a great man, but he betrayed you. That is a fact. I will try to be frank about what we know about your case, so you will know where you stand. Then you can make your decisions accordingly.”

  “Do whatever you like,” said Anna. “I’ve told you that I’m innocent. I’m not a spy. I don’t work for the CIA. I don’t know anyone named Stone.”

  The Russian just smiled. When it was clear she had finished, he continued.

  “We have spent a lot of time analyzing your case, as you can imagine, and particularly the question of why Stone decided to sacrifice you. The reason, we think, is that he was worried about getting caught—not by us, but by investigators from Congress and the agency—so he decided to create a diversion. And you were the diversion. What do you think of that?”

  Anna stared at him impassively. This week, her guards were giving her cigarettes, and she took one and lit it.

  “Stuff it,” she said.

  “Apparently you don’t believe me. So I will pose for you a question. Do you know what your friend Mr. Stone sent to Kiarki that day for poor Dr. Antoyan?”

  Anna blew a smoke ring in Viktor’s direction.

  “So cocky you are! You are thinking that of course you know what Stone sent. He sent that ridiculous television antenna that Antoyan wanted. But you have missed the most important fact. The antenna was there, but there was something else. I wonder if you know what it was.”

  Anna blinked and looked away, lest her eyes betray her. The Russian leaned toward her.

  “Stone also sent a load of explosives in the same shipment. Czech. Very fancy. Enough to blow up half of Yerevan.”

  “Bullshit,” said Anna.

  “Poor thing. I think it is possible that you did not know anything about these explosives. I have always suspected that, contrary to some of my colleagues. And now looking at you, trying so hard to be brave and not give away any information, but also so obviously surprised, I am quite sure of it.”

  “Bullshit,” she repeated.

  “Yes, I agree. It is bullshit. But it is also true. I could show you the explosives, bring you the KGB guard who discovered them. But you wouldn’t believe me. Maybe you would like to know how we found out about this shipment to your Armenian doctor?”

  “Fuck off,” said Anna. She was becoming tense and angry.

  “We learned about the shipment from an old friend of yours. Can you guess who that might have been?”

  Anna took another puff on her cigarette, closing her eyes as she did so.

  “It was Mr. Ali Ascari,” continued the Russian. “An Iranian gentleman. I believe you first met him in London. Not a very attractive man. Too mercenary. A peddler. But still, quite helpful. He told us all about you and your fat friend Mr. Hoffman, who got mad and tried to fire him. A mistake, I think. And he told us about the other shipments of explosives, to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan.”

  “Stop trying to frame me!” exploded Anna. “I told you I’m innocent of all your charges. Stop inventing these ridiculous lies.”

  “Poor girl,” said the Russian again. “I wonder. Can it be that you did not know about the deliveries of explosives to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan? Your friend Mr. Hoffman knew. He gave them to Mr. Ascari, in a suitcase. But perhaps he did not tell you. I must say, honestly, I feel very sorry for you, Miss Barnes.”

  “Go away,” said Anna.

  “I really do feel very sorry for you. I think you did not know how dangerous your criminal activities were. But now that I have told you, you will understand why we take your case so seriously.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, which was by now cold. When he put the cup down, his demeanor had changed slightly—not so friendly now, no longer the bemused prof
essor.

  “You see, Miss Barnes, we regard you not simply as a spy, but as part of a terrorist network that has been operating against the Soviet Union. The fact that you may not have been aware of the full details of this terrorist plan does not lessen your guilt. For this reason, many of my colleagues want to make an example of you—as a warning to Mr. Stone and his friends—and to seek the maximum penalty when your case comes to trial. Which in matters of terrorism, under Soviet law, is the death penalty.”

  Anna shuddered involuntarily, once, then a second time. She feared for a moment she might break down and begin sobbing, but no tears came. What she felt was not self-pity but a deep, dry despair—anger toward Stone and Taylor balanced by disgust at her own mistakes. Aram Antoyan had died because of her stupidity. Why shouldn’t she?

  “Let me say the obvious, please, Miss Barnes,” said Viktor. “You have only one way to save yourself, and that is to cooperate with us. In that event, the prosecutor may be willing to reduce the charges, perhaps dismiss them altogether. But that is your only chance.”

  “Go away,” said Anna. Her voice was brittle.

  “I admire your loyalty and self-control, but it is misplaced. Your colleagues have betrayed you. You have been manipulated and abandoned. Frankly, there is little we can gain from your cooperation, since we already know all the important aspects of your case. But still, we give you this opportunity.”

  “Go away,” she said again. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  And she didn’t, not that day or in the weeks that followed. Viktor returned several more times, coaxing and cajoling her with new tidbits of information about Stone and Hoffman and even Alan Taylor; and then threatening her more directly. With each additional visit, Viktor reminded her more of Stone, which only stiffened her will to resist. When Viktor’s smooth insinuations failed to elicit her cooperation, the Soviets got nasty. They moved Anna to a smaller cell—with a smelly hole in the floor rather than a toilet and a flat wooden board to sleep on rather than a mattress. They left the light on all night, and woke her up at strange times, and one day, after denying her food for twenty-four hours, brought in a piece of meat crawling with maggots. But still Anna refused to cooperate. She was, in her way, dead to the world—beyond grief over Aram’s death or anger at Stone’s betrayal. All the fires in her had been banked.

  46

  It took Margaret Houghton only a few weeks to discover what had happened to Anna. She wasn’t supposed to know, but Margaret was good at getting around such barriers. That was what had made her career so successful. She operated at the margins, standing quietly aside in the compartments where secrets were held, waiting to be helpful. And people told her things. In this case, she pieced together from a half dozen people how Anna had gone to Armenia and been arrested. More important, she learned that the agency had no clear plan about how to get her out. For once, the old boys and the bureaucrats on the seventh floor seemed to be in agreement. The sensible plan, they concurred, was to do nothing.

  Margaret thus found herself Anna’s sole advocate and lobbyist within the clandestine service. As she talked with colleagues who remembered other, similar cases involving NOCs, she became convinced that it would take a significant American concession to get Anna released—a trade for a Soviet spy, or something else that Moscow wanted—and she pursued this strategy tirelessly.

  She began by going to see Edward Stone one Saturday afternoon at his house in Georgetown. Her own house was on Q Street, just three blocks away, and she walked the short distance in a sleek black fur coat; her hair, in a neat bun, was sparkling from a trip that morning to the beauty parlor. It was a chilly December day, and Stone was sitting in front of the fire in his library, drinking tea, when Margaret rang the bell. Stone welcomed her graciously, with his usual protective show of good manners. But to Margaret, who had known him nearly forty years, he looked vaguely uneasy. She noticed something else about him, which had never before occurred to her. He looked old.

  “Shame on you,” she said when they were seated in the library.

  “That’s not a very friendly greeting,” he answered. “Perhaps you would like some tea.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Stone called to his wife to bring the teapot, but she had already retreated upstairs. Mrs. Stone generally tried to avoid Margaret Houghton’s company. She had been convinced, for much of her married life, that her husband and Margaret had once been lovers. Stone waited for Margaret to volunteer to get the teapot, and when she didn’t, he grumpily went out to get it himself. He set the tea tray down in front of Margaret and let her pour.

  “I’m very sorry about what happened to Anna, if that’s what you mean,” he said.

  “You should be. It’s your fault.”

  “I can understand how you might think that, Margaret, but you’re quite wrong. In fact, the opposite is true. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to discuss the details.”

  “I already know the details.”

  “Then you should know that I opposed Anna’s notion of recruiting this Armenian doctor, and agreed only because she insisted. When the operation went sour, I warned her against any attempt to rescue the man. Again, she didn’t listen. I feel very sorry for Anna. She was a great favorite of mine. But it’s not my fault, and I’m afraid there is nothing I can do at this point to help her. Except to keep quiet and play along with the cover story that she’s an innocent tourist.”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “That’s nonsense,” she said. “Of course there’s something you can do. You can go to Hinkle and tell him to make whatever deal is necessary to get Anna out. She’s a prisoner, for heaven’s sake! You can’t leave one of your troops behind on the battlefield just because it’s inconvenient to rescue her. You of all people!”

  “I’ve already been to see the director. To be frank, he is the one who insists that we do nothing. From his standpoint, this case is a potential disaster. Anna is a NOC. If we trade for her, we confirm to Moscow that we were running an illegal network inside the Soviet Union. Besides, there’s an aspect of this case you may not be aware of.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This crazy Armenian friend of Anna’s wanted explosives. They were part of what we sent in. We can’t admit to the Soviets that we were involved in such an operation. It would be ruinous. And imagine what Congress would say.”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “The director argues that we should do nothing and wait. The Soviets will eventually release her. They aren’t stupid.”

  “And you agree?”

  “Yes, actually. I do.”

  “You make an unlikely couple, you and Hinkle. I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I think he’s a fool. But in this case, it’s irrelevant.”

  Margaret looked at Stone, tight and controlled as ever. Hers was not the look of a colleague, or even a friend, but something more intimate and poignant. But Stone did not return it. He was looking at the floor, waiting for her to be done. Margaret turned and gazed at the fire, now flickering into coals, soon to be exhausted and barren of heat and light. There really was nothing more to say to Stone. She rose and retrieved her fur coat, and spoke only when she had reached the door.

  “You really are a great disappointment to me, Edward,” she said quietly. And she was gone.

  Margaret Houghton made an appointment the next Monday to see the director. He was away that week, and the next week he was busy, and his secretary finally confided that Margaret was wasting her time, because the director didn’t want to see her. Margaret went to call on him anyway, taking the elevator to the seventh floor, smiling and waving to the few friends she had left in the front office, flashing her badge at the others. She made it to the secretarial cordon sanitaire outside the director’s office before she was stopped.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Hinkle,” she said.

  “He’s in conference, Miss Houghton,” said the head secretary.

  “I’ll wai
t.”

  “It may take a long time.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ve brought some paperwork.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that. It’s not allowed.”

  “Oh yes, I can,” said Margaret. “You’re going to have to have the guards come and remove me physically, which will be quite embarrassing for the director. But I’m not leaving until I’ve seen him.”

  Margaret looked so determined, and so perfectly confident of herself, that the secretary thought it best to reconsider. “Hold on,” she said. She picked up the phone, buzzed Hinkle, and said in a muffled, apologetic voice that a Miss Houghton was waiting outside and wouldn’t leave without seeing him. Anna heard Hinkle’s unlikely curse through the phone.

  “Fuck a duck!” he said. But fifteen seconds later the big door opened and a square-jawed, round-eyed man emerged. He had his suit jacket buttoned, even in his own office.

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” said Hinkle, looking at his watch.

  “I’ve come to see you about Anna Barnes,” said Margaret when the door was closed.

  “What about Anna Barnes?”

  “What are you doing to get her out?”

  “All of the usual procedures.”

  “What are they?”

  “I can’t talk about it. This case is very sensitive. You’re not cleared for it. It’s none of your concern.”

  “Mr. Hinkle, I have known Anna since she was a girl. I encouraged her to join the agency. I’m very concerned about her situation. I don’t think we’re doing enough to get her out.”