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

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KARPETLAND

WASHINGTON / BROOKLYN

ATHENS

MAY 1979

21

The sign on the door said “Karpetland,” and in smaller type: “The World at Your Feet.” The office itself was a second-floor walk-up in a commercial building just off the Rockville Pike. It was in one of those small shopping centers built in the 1960s that had since become derelict castoffs, shunned by the newer chain stores and boutiques of suburbia. Other establishments in the complex included an insurance agency, a doughnut shop, a hardware store and a fabric store. It was a place out of time, with no evident connection to the larger environment of Washington, which was why Stone had selected it. He wanted his new enterprises to be born under cover, as far as possible from the physical and psychological orbit of headquarters.

Anna Barnes arrived punctually at ten o’clock. She was dressed for spring, in a bright silk dress gathered and tied at the waist. She rang the bell, half expecting that Stone himself would open the door to greet her. A middle-aged woman came lumbering down the stairs instead, and after giving Anna a careful look, opened the door. “I’m Marjorie,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Please wait upstairs.”

Anna walked up one flight and surveyed the office. It was a small and somewhat dilapidated showroom. Three gray metal desks stood in the front of the room, each bearing a black telephone, a blotter, pens and stationery. Beyond the desks was a thin stack of Oriental rugs and, on a table, samples of wall-to-wall carpeting. The wall decorations consisted of a clock, a calendar from an auto-parts store and an old TWA airline poster. At the back of the room were two couches, a coffee table and a water cooler. The showroom was lit by two long fluorescent fixtures hanging overhead, which gave it the seedy glow of a pool hall.

“Have a seat,” said Marjorie, gesturing toward one of the couches. On the coffee table were copies of People and Better Homes & Gardens, all several months old. Anna skimmed an article about a lawsuit filed against a famous actor by his former girlfriend, Michelle. After ten minutes the doorbell rang, and Marjorie once more clunked downstairs. This time up walked Alan Taylor, looking tanned and sleek and wearing a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Taylor. He had the same mischievous look in his eye that Anna remembered from Istanbul. Before she could answer, the bell rang once more. Someone apparently had been waiting for the rest of the group to arrive before making his appearance. This last visitor didn’t wait for Marjorie to let him in. He had his own key.

“Hello, friends,” called out Edward Stone, bounding up the stairs. He was in disguise, or at least his notion of it. In place of the usual gray flannel suit and brown homburg hat, he was wearing a red lumberjack shirt and khaki work pants, a pair of boat shoes and a cap that said “Redskins” on the brim.

“Welcome to Karpetland,” said Stone grandly.

“What the hell is Karpetland?” asked Taylor.

“Didn’t you see the sign? It’s your new base of operations. I hope you like it, since you may be spending rather a lot of time here over the next few weeks.”

“Delightful,” said Taylor, picking a piece of Karpetland stationery off one of the gray metal desks. “Why did you spell it with a ‘K’?”

“To discourage people from calling us on the telephone. Nobody in his right mind would think of carpets and ask the operator for the ‘K’s. And if anyone should be foolish enough to do so, Marjorie can take care of them.” He gestured to the middle-aged woman. “Did you meet Marjorie? She is on loan to us from the SB Division.”

“Not formally,” said Anna, extending her hand. She was about to introduce herself, but Stone cut her off.

“Uh-uh-uh. No true names, please. Marjorie will know you two as Lucy Morgan and William Goode, the two employees of our modest enterprise. We’ll have passports and other documentation ready for you on Monday.”

Taylor scanned the room. “We’re not actually going to have to sell rugs, are we?”

“Of course not,” answered Stone. “Don’t be silly.”

Taylor looked relieved. He sat down at one of the desks and tried the phone. It worked.

“Come join me and we’ll get started,” said Stone, striding toward the couches in the corner. “Marjorie, we won’t need you for several hours. Perhaps you could do some errands and come back after lunch. About two-thirty, say.”

“Yes, sir,” said Marjorie, taking her purse. Stone waited for the front door to close.

“Now then,” said Stone when she was gone. “I’m delighted to see both of you. I trust your trips were pleasant, and that you have reasonable hotel accommodations.”

“Motel,” said Taylor.

“And you must be wondering, after coming all this way, just what we’re planning to do in this charming establishment in Rockville. Before we begin, however, I must ask you both to sign something.” He removed from the pocket of his lumberjack shirt two pieces of paper and handed one to each of them.

“What is it?” asked Anna.

“A secrecy agreement, of sorts. It applies to the particular compartment we’re opening for this operation. The gist of it is that you agree never to reveal details of our activity except to someone authorized to receive the information.”

“Who’s authorized to receive the information?” asked Taylor.

“I am,” said Stone. “I’m not sure who else is. For practical purposes, nobody.”

“That’s easy enough,” said Taylor. He took out a pen and signed.

“Do you mind if I read it?” asked Anna.

“Not at all.”

Anna perused the document. “It doesn’t mention the agency,” she said after a few moments.

“Quite right. It doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a technicality, really. This compartment is separate from the normal administrative procedures of the Directorate of Operations. It’s easier that way. More secure.”

“Need a lawyer?” asked Taylor. His tone was not