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

this hole he inserted the guts of the hardware—a tiny device, no more than several inches long, that, once activated, would transmit sounds to a receiver several blocks away. At a point near where the top of this transmitting device would rest, he drilled another hole. This one was almost invisible, no larger than the size of a small sewing needle. Into it he delicately placed a filiment microphone that would carry sound to the transmitter. It was a tidy little package, not state of the art, but still useful. The chair could sit dormant for weeks or months and then be switched on when needed, like an electronic sleeper agent.

“What’s the frequency?” George whispered.

“Say what?”

“The Soviet consulate. What frequency do they broadcast classified traffic on?”

“How should I know? What difference does it make?”

“I need to set the frequency of our transmitter. Usually I like to slip in right next to the Soviets’ own frequency. It’s the one place on the spectrum they usually don’t look.”

“Sorry. Not my department.”

George mumbled aloud. “They’re lazy. They probably use the same frequency here as in Athens and Rome. I’ll park alongside and tune the volume down real quiet.”

George removed the transmitter, adjusted it, and put it back in the leg of the chair. Then he filled up his hole with a fast-drying wood compound, matched the varnish and painted over the scar. Hamid sat motionless, waiting for him to finish. At one point he took out a cigarette and looked at it lovingly, as if imagining how good it would taste when the job was done. Taylor looked at his watch. It was after two o’clock. They had to be out before dawn.

George was utterly absorbed in his work and seemed unaware of the passage of time. When he finished the first leg, he installed an identical backup device in the second. He did it just as painstakingly as the first one. At three-thirty, George was carefully applying the varnish.

“I hate to say this,” said George as he waited for the varnish to dry, “but this is a pretty old-fashioned operation.”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Taylor.

“You don’t really need a microphone anymore, Al. You don’t even need a transmitter inside the premises. You just need a resonator.”

Taylor ignored him. “Is that dry yet?” he asked impatiently, pointing to the varnish.

“You see, anything that vibrates can be a microphone,” continued George, by now quite absorbed in the technical point he was elaborating. “A window can be a microphone. A wall can be a microphone. Even the filament in a light bulb can be a microphone. All you need is a power source to read the vibration, like an accelerometer behind a wall, or a laser across the street, or a tunable antenna. Did you know that? Isn’t that amazing?”

“Jesus,” hissed Taylor. “It’s got to be dry by now.”

“So this is a very old-fashioned operation, when you think about it. But still nice.”

“Fuck it,” said Taylor. “Let’s not wait for it to dry, okay?” George smiled amiably and collected his tools. Taylor and Hamid were already out the door and to the window when George motioned to them to stop.

“We have to lock the door,” whispered George.

“Use the gun,” said Taylor. George looked almost disappointed, like a fly fisherman who has been told to fish with a shimmering silver lure instead of a hand-tied Gray Ghost. George inserted the Lockaid gun.

SPROING. Taylor hoped the guard was asleep by now. One dead bolt closed. SPROING. The other bolt turned shut. Hamid opened the window and unrolled the ladder. Down went George, then Taylor. Then Hamid emerged, dangling from a rope he had clamped to the window ledge. He collected the ladder, closed the window, and slid deftly down the rope to the alley.

It was nearly dawn when they finally left Horhor. A few yellow taxis were already beginning to shuttle the streets. The smells of fresh bread and Turkish coffee were in the air. Taylor felt intoxicated. Hamid offered him a cigarette, and although he hadn’t smoked in nearly a year, Taylor eagerly took it. Why not? To refuse would have been metaphysically unsound.

Kunayev didn’t visit the antique bazaar in Horhor all morning. In fact, he didn’t stir from his office in the salmon-pink pile on Istiklal Avenue. Taylor was edgy. He sat in his office with George, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee, listening to periodic reports from the Turkish surveillance team in the observation post across from the Soviet consulate. As the morning passed, he began to doubt that the Soviet consul general would ever revisit Horhor Street. It would be a mistake to do so, a breach of security, and the Soviets didn’t make mistakes. That was an American specialty.

Finally, just after three, the watchers reported that someone—Kunayev—was leaving the consulate in a big limousine and heading along Istiklal Avenue.

When the Turkish surveillance team reported that he was nearing the Fatih district, Taylor held his breath. The Soviet diplomat was turning left on Ataturk Street, radioed the watchers. He was turning left again. Onto Horhor Street.

“Say that again,” Taylor barked into the radio.

“Horhor Street.”

Taylor smiled. His eyes twinkled. The watchers reported that the Soviet diplomat had parked his car. He was walking toward the antique bazaar, accompanied by his bodyguard. He was entering the building.

“Now buy the chair, asshole!” said Taylor.

“I hope the varnish dried all right,” said George.

“Shut up,” said Taylor. He apologized an instant later.

Kunayev finally emerged twenty-five minutes later, empty-handed. Taylor held his breath until he heard the next squawk over the radio. Behind the Soviet diplomat was his bodyguard, carrying a large brown chair.

“Owooooo!” wailed Taylor when the last report came over the wireless. “Kunayev, you are one dumb motherfucker!” He pounded his desk, kissed his secretary, and barked again, like a stray dog with something to brag about.

“I hope the microphone works,” said George. “I didn’t have much time.”

“Of course it will work,” answered Taylor. “Tomorrow we start listening. Tonight we celebrate!”

“What you got in mind?”

“Georgie, my