Siro by David Ignatius (short books to read txt) 📕

When KGB officers began questioning black men at the university, for several blacks had been seen in the area where the bomb was placed the day before, the young Tanzanian sent an anonymous tip implicating a suspicious fellow from Kampala who lived in an adjoining dormitory.

Taylor’s mission to Athens was considerably less dangerous than the Tashkent affair. He took the morning flight from Istanbul, checking the bag Stone had sent him containing the plastic explosive. Nobody gave him any trouble at either the Istanbul or the Athens airport—he certainly didn’t look like a bomb carrier—and he went directly to Hoffman’s apartment at the foot of Lykabettos Hill. Taylor assumed that he would be expected, since he had asked Marjorie, back in Rockville, to let Hoffman know he was coming. He rang the doorbell, holding the bag full of explosive in his hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Hoffman when he opened the door. He was unshaven, and dressed in a blue silk bathrobe trimmed in black satin that looked as if it might have once belonged to a professional wrestler.

“William Goode,” said Taylor.

“Oh yeah?” said Hoffman, looking Taylor up and down. “So what?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you I was coming?” asked Taylor.

“No,” said Hoffman. He looked as if he were about to close the door.

“They were supposed to call you.”

“Who?”

“Stone’s people.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. Really.”

Hoffman squinted his eye. He didn’t like the looks of Taylor. He was too handsome. “Bullshit,” he said again.

“Fuck you,” said Taylor. “Let me in the goddam door.”

Hoffman liked that a little better. “Who sent you?”

“Stone, for chrissake. Edward Stone.”

Hoffman considered the situation and began to relent. “Maybe they tried to call,” he said. “I left the phone off the hook for a while.”

“How long?”

“I dunno. A couple of days. What does it matter? You’re here now. You might as well come in.”

“Thanks,” said Taylor. He carried the suitcase in with him and set it gently atop the coffee table in Hoffman’s living room.

“What the hell is that?” asked Hoffman, pointing to the suitcase.

“Stone told me to deliver it to you. There’s a letter inside that explains everything.”

“Cut the crap, sonny boy. What’s your real name anyway?”

“Taylor.”

“Well, cut the crap, Taylor. What’s in the fucking suitcase?”

“Explosives.”

“Say what?”

“Explosives. You know. Boom!”

“Jesus Chriminy. Explosives! Has Stone lost his mind? What does he think he’s doing anyway? Starting a world war?”

“Read the letter,” said Taylor. “Maybe that will explain.”

“I don’t have to read the goddam letter. I know what it says. He wants me to give this portable nuclear weapon, or whatever it is, to a crazy Iranian asshole by the name of Ascari, and have him transport it to some fleabag town somewhere in the middle of the Caucasus or Central Asia—so that Big Ivan back in Moscow will think that Uncle Sam is still a tough guy. Is that the general picture, more or less?”

“Probably. I haven’t read the letter. But that sounds about right.”

“Sure it does. Of course it does. That’s the basic play book. Think of ways to scare the shit out of the Russkies. And here’s a new way. Bombs!”

“You don’t like it?”

“No. I do like it. I just think it’s a little nuts. What’s gotten into Stone anyway? He used to be so conservative.”

“I’m not sure,” said Taylor. “I think he got fed up with all the bullshit and decided to wing it for a while. He’s got a strategy.”

“Does he, now? And what might that be?”

“He thinks that if we give the Soviets a good hard push, they’ll fall over.”

“Well, I certainly do hope he’s right. Yes, indeed. Because if he isn’t, we’re all in deep shit.”

“What do you mean? War?”

“Fuck no. Nothing as trivial as that. I’m talking about legal trouble.”

“What legal trouble?”

“Someone from the Athens station came to see me a few days ago asking a lot of questions. Did I know Edward Stone? What was he doing? Did I know a woman named Anna Barnes? They may even have asked me about you.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them to fuck off. I don’t work for the agency anymore. I told them that if they wanted to talk to me, they should get a subpoena.”

“What happened? Did they get back to you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I took the phone off the hook. I didn’t want to hear any more of their bullshit. When you showed up, I thought you were a process server.”

Taylor laughed and shook his head. “Nope. I’m a co-conspirator.”

“That sounds neighborly,” said Hoffman. “Let’s have a drink.”

Hoffman made sure the phone was still off the hook and opened a new bottle of scotch. By the time the bottle was finished, late that evening, they had drunk many toasts to the estimable Edward Stone, pledged unshakable loyalty to each other and to the cause, whatever that might be. Hoffman had even offered Taylor a job with Arab-American Security Consultants, should he ever find himself in difficulty with his present employer.

The second bomb exploded in the Uzbek city of Samarkand. It arrived there in the luggage of an Iranian architect. Or at least that was what he claimed to be. He certainly had a big Persian nose and spoke a sweet, musical-sounding Farsi. He liked to tell Uzbeks that he was a descendant of the Persian architect who built the Bibi Khanum mosque in Samarkand—an immense, crumbling wreck next to the bazaar that had collapsed of its own weight centuries ago. The Uzbeks would laugh when he said that and ask if he knew the tale of what happened to the architect.

Oh yes, said the Iranian, he knew the story. Tamerlane hired the architect to build a mosque in honor of his beautiful Chinese wife, Saray Mulk Khanum. Then he went away on one of his conquests. The wife wanted to surprise him with the completed mosque by the time he returned, and urged the Persian to hurry his work. The architect agreed, on one condition. He wanted to kiss the lovely queen on her cheek. She consented. But