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

talk about it,” he said eventually. “I have some things I must discuss with you also. But no more talk of money, please. I want something from you, but it is not money.”

“Where shall we meet? At the Cité Universitaire?”

“No. That is not the place. We would be seen. Perhaps we could meet at your hotel.”

“Ahh. So you do care whether someone sees us.”

“Of course I care,” said Antoyan. “I told you, I do not want to be a victim.”

37

Anna was staying in a small suite at the Bristol. The rooms were simple and stylish, decorated with fine fabrics in shades of beige and taupe. The suite cost nearly 2,000 francs a night—a small fortune in 1979—but the money seemed to flow endlessly from the bank accounts back in Rockville, and over the past few months Anna had fallen into the comfortable habit of traveling first-class. It was one of the many small corruptions that had entered into her life as she had moved deeper into the realm of unaudited covert operations.

Aram Antoyan rang from the lobby and proposed that he come upstairs. Anna promptly agreed; she had been hoping he would do just that. Meeting in the room would be more secure, and also more intimate—which Anna reasoned would be good tradecraft on both counts. She had initially taken the precaution of unplugging the lights, just as Hoffman had done in Athens, but then decided it was too dark and turned them back on. She had also, in her ladylike way, tidied the room and dressed herself in another newly purchased outfit from the Rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré, this one a simple black chemise. And finally, she had opened the mini-bar and poured two glasses of vodka, one for Aram and one for herself.

As she waited for the knock on the door, Anna ran through her mental agenda one last time. The essence of any successful recruitment was control, of her own emotions and those of the target. She recalled what Hoffman had said back in Athens, and what Margaret Houghton had told her so long ago at the restaurant in Washington. The task for a good intelligence officer was to sense what the other party wanted out of life, and then to help him to achieve it. It was, in a strange way, like what a seductive woman tries to do with a man: contrive a world, partly of illusion, in which he can realize his deepest hopes and desires. At first that had sounded to Anna like a very feminine definition of intelligence work, but if she had learned anything in the past year, it was that Margaret’s initial guidance had been right. The male mythology of intelligence was bunk. Except for the occasional bad apple like Ali Ascari, the spy business wasn’t about “burning” people, “busting their balls” or “turning the screws.” It was about stroking people, coaxing them, entering into their dreams and nightmares and translating these private visions into the language of the world; it was about leading people along a path toward a mutually agreed destination, albeit sometimes by a circuitous route.

Anna’s reverie was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Despite her calm rehearsal, she felt a sudden rush of anxiety like an actress about to perform a new play. She needn’t have worried quite so much. For, unknown to her, Dr. Antoyan had come to the Bristol Hotel to act out a drama of his own invention.

When the Armenian was seated, glass of vodka in his hand, he leaned earnestly toward Anna. The characteristic look of bemused reflection was gone from his face. He was there to talk business. Anna was thinking about how to begin, but Dr. Antoyan beat her to it.

“There is something I must tell you,” he said.

“That’s interesting,” said Anna. “Because there is something that I must tell you, too.”

“I will go first, if you do not mind. That may make it easier for you, or harder. I don’t know. But I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

Oh shit, thought Anna. This crazy Armenian is going to tell me that he’s a KGB officer, and that he wants to recruit me.

But that was not it at all. Antoyan began in a roundabout way—which was unusual for him but, under the circumstances, understandable.

“How much do you know about the Soviet Union, Miss Morgan?” he said.

“Some,” she answered. “Not very much.” As she looked at his face, she noticed that he had trimmed his black beard since the previous night. It no longer seemed a mark of creativity, but of camouflage and control.

“To the rest of the world,” he continued, “the Soviet state probably looks like a colossus that is impregnable and invulnerable. But if you live there, you know that it is quite different. We have, throughout the country, people who are known in the West as ‘dissidents.’ They are everywhere. You cannot find anyone my age, anyone who is the least bit sensible, who does not understand in his heart that the great Soviet Union is a sick and dying animal.”

Anna nodded. She thought of what Edward Stone had said, back at the beginning of this strange quest. He had used almost the same words in describing the decay of the Soviet state.

“They are everywhere in the Soviet Union, these dissidents,” he went on, “and they are especially numerous in my own republic. But in Armenia, they are not called dissidents. They are called patriots.”

“And you are an Armenian patriot,” said Anna. She could feel the first ripples of what was coming.

“Yes. Despite some of the things I said last night, I am an Armenian patriot. I am no politician. In fact, I hate politics in the way that any honest scientist does. But I love my country in a sense that is beyond politics.”

Anna nodded again. “I suppose I knew that about you,” she said.

“That is why I am going home in two weeks. I could arrange to