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

a scene that might have been imagined by a Levantine Charles Dickens. It was run by an old woman, inevitably dubbed the “dragon lady” by visiting foreign scholars, whose greatest pleasure seemed to lie in denying researchers access to archival materials. Often, she didn’t have to bother, since the cataloguing was so haphazard and erratic that it was difficult to find things at all. The Germans had made a stab at cataloguing the archives during the several decades when they played Big Brother to the Turks, but even the Germans had given up. As a result, there were tens of thousands of documents, handwritten in Ottoman Turkish script, some of them dating back to the fourteenth century. But no one was ever sure exactly where they were. The only certainty was that anything politically sensitive—anything involving sticky moments with the Armenians or Bulgars or Greeks, for example—had been pulled from the shelves.

Not that a researcher could visit the shelves. That was against the rules. The dragon lady would send one of her minions to the storage depot where most of the records were kept to retrieve the requested volume, assuming it was permitted, assuming it could be found. Many other things were against the rules, too. Indeed, there was a formal list of twenty-one rules in legalistic Turkish posted on the wall of the Basbakanlik reading room. “It is forbidden to use pens in the reading room, only pencils; except for document-request forms, which must be signed in ink.” “It is forbidden for researchers to leave Turkey for more than a month without permission.” And so forth. But these weren’t all the rules; there were others, which weren’t posted. You had to guess at what they were.

Anna surveyed the reading room: It hadn’t changed in two years. The twenty-one rules were still posted on the wall; the dragon lady was still in her booth; the closed-circuit TV camera still panned the room, with its uncanny habit of focusing on women researchers every time they uncrossed their legs. And at the library tables, as ever, sat a half dozen glassy-eyed foreign researchers, staring at Ottoman texts.

Basbakanlik had its contingent of Turkish researchers, too, and of all the strange characters in the reading room, these were Anna’s favorites. They were mostly “professional” historians—old men who had mastered the nuances of reading Ottoman Turkish and hired themselves out to scholars. These Turkish researchers sometimes took years to complete their tasks. Part of the reason for the slow pace was that the old men spent much of the day sleeping. As Anna scanned the room, she could see four or five “professional” historians who had nodded off.

“Ufuk!” whispered Anna, spotting a familiar face walking toward her. It was Ufuk Celebi, one of the dragon lady’s assistants. During Anna’s three months at Basbakanlik, Ufuk had been Anna’s page turner. (Foreign researchers were not allowed to turn the pages of Ottoman documents; that was another of the rules.) When Anna had left Istanbul at the end of the summer, she had bought her page turner a box of Belgian chocolates. “Ufuk,” she said again. He turned toward her, still not recognizing her.

“Shhh,” he said. “What do you want, please?”

Anna debated whether to introduce herself and decided against it. “I’m looking for a manuscript,” she said.

Ufuk eyed her curiously. “Ask at desk,” he said, pointing to the twenty-one rules.

“They take so long at the desk. Maybe you can help me. I want to see the Azerbaijan papers. The correspondence between the Sublime Porte and Baku.”

“Sorry, closed. These papers are all closed.”

“But do you have them?”

“Ask at desk,” repeated Ufuk.

The hell with him, thought Anna. She decided that she would have tea in the Basbakanlik Tea Room. It was a jolly little room, with the ambience of a nineteenth-century Balkan railway station. Here, too, nothing had changed. It was the same collection of horny graduate students, balding professors, crackpot Armenians and sleepy Turks. Anna had a cup of tea and a sweet roll. There was no sign of the charming Turkish professor who had enlivened her summer two years ago. But a German man in his early thirties spied Anna across the room, sat down beside her, and tried to pick her up. The German was very earnest and boyish. Anna indulged him just enough to get a buzz, and then ignored him. He left looking stricken.

Anna returned to her hotel fortified to do what she had been dreading and call Ali Ascari at the Istanbul Hilton. She sat down on the edge of her bed, pen in hand, notepaper on the side table. The first time, Ascari’s line was busy. The second time, she reached him.

“Marhaba,” he answered in Arabic. He must have been expecting an Arab caller.

“Mr. Ascari,” said Anna. “This is Allison James.”

“Who?” Maybe that was a good sign. He didn’t remember her.

“Allison James, the banker from London.”

“Oh yes! How are you, lovely lady? I am so glad to be talking to you. Where are you?”

“In Istanbul.”

“Ya salaam!” he exclaimed. “Why is that? Have you come all this way to see me? To see your friend Ali Ascari? This is a great day! Thanks be to God! Where are you staying?”

“I would like to see you, on business,” said Anna. She could feel her heart racing. “My friends in London have sent me with an important message.”

“Why not,” said Ascari. “Meet me here, at the hotel, tonight. I will be in the casino. At ten o’clock.”

“No,” said Anna. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What about tomorrow morning?”

“Impossible. Tomorrow I leave for Dubai. If you want to talk to me, it must be tonight.”

“Okay,” said Anna. “But not the casino. That would be too crowded. We should meet somewhere else. How about the coffee shop?”

“You do not understand, lady,” said the Iranian. “I am doing business here. My business friends are taking me to dinner. They will be in the casino with me after dinner. You come then. First you meet Ali Ascari’s