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

and Stone were silent, still holding in their minds the threads of the earlier conversation. An aura of earnest concentration hung over the room. Taylor wanted none of it.

“C’mon, gang, let’s eat!” he said loudly, depositing the food on one of the desks. He popped the tab on a can of Iron City and handed it to Stone. “Hey, lady,” he called to Anna. “How about you?”

“I ordered a Diet Coke.”

“They didn’t have any. Want a beer?”

“Sure,” she said. “Why not.”

Taylor handed her a beer and opened one for himself. “Serefe!” he said.

“What does that mean?” asked Stone.

“ ‘Kiss my ass,’ in Turkish.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding. It means ‘cheers.’ ”

“Cheers,” said Stone, raising his beer can.

“Cheers,” said Anna.

When the squeezed-out ketchup packets and the french-fry and hamburger boxes had been cleared away, Stone took center stage once again. The food seemed to have focused his mind. He was no longer the meandering dialectician, tacking back and forth toward a glimmering goal in the distance. His tone was now that of an operational planner, moving straight ahead toward a set of specific objectives.

“We’d better get going,” he said. “Marjorie will be back in just over an hour, and I want to give you some specific assignments.”

Anna took out a pad to make notes. Taylor put his feet up.

“The basic elements of this operation should already be obvious to you. Because the fact is, the two of you were the ones who discovered them. My only contribution has been to suggest a creative way in which these elements can be used. That’s the easy part. Now you two will have to go out and actually do it—invest this imaginary scenario of mine with real people, real flesh and blood, so that it lives and breathes.”

“You’re not checking out, I hope,” said Taylor.

“Absolutely not. But I’m not an operator anymore. At best, I’m a planner.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“The operation, as I envision it, will have two interwoven strands. First, we will seek to create the illusion of an independence movement in Central Asia; second, we will attempt to place this illusion before the Soviets in a way that they will find credible. We will be aided in these endeavors by two blessed accidents: Alan’s discovery of a Soviet false-flag operation that is seeking to penetrate a Central Asian underground movement that they suspect already exists; and then, Anna’s discovery of an Iranian from Azerbaijan who claims to be part of just such an underground. We have the instruments. Now we must play them. Or more appropriately, we must find people who can play them for us.

“Alan,” he continued, “your problem is complicated. You must find a way to convey information to a KGB agent who is posing as a CIA agent, without his suspecting in any way that he is being fed false material. Have you thought about how to accomplish this sleight of hand?”

“A little,” said Taylor. “Obviously we need a cutout, a Central Asian who can feed our stuff to Rawls. But I doubt we can find the right person in Istanbul. The Soviets have the town pretty well wired.”

“I agree,” said Stone. “Recruiting the right cutout is crucial, perhaps the single most important aspect of this operation, and the person probably can’t be found in Turkey. As it happens, I have a recommendation for you.”

“Who’s that?”

“Once upon a time, we had among our brethren a most extraordinary man from Uzbekistan. He had worked for the Germans during the war, and we picked him up in the early 1950s. He’s a charming character. Speaks with an Uzbek-Russian accent, if you can imagine that. He’s just your man, if he’ll agree to do it. But that may be a problem. He and the agency parted company rather unhappily at the end of the 1950s. I suspect he still harbors a grudge.”

“What’s his name?”

“Munzer Ahmedov.”

“How do I contact him?”

“It’s a bit odd, I’m afraid. The registry lists his permanent address as a mosque in Brooklyn. That’s his favorite hangout, evidently.”

“I didn’t know they had mosques in Brooklyn.”

“Apparently they do,” said Stone. He took a piece of Karpetland stationery and wrote out the address of the mosque for Taylor.

“4905 Fort Hamilton Avenue,” said Taylor, reading the address aloud. “Where the hell is that?”

“In Borough Park, near Maimonides Medical Center, I gather,” said Stone.

“You gotta be kidding,” said Taylor. “That’s a Jewish neighborhood.”

“I assure you that I am not kidding. Good luck in finding Ahme­dov. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.”

“From who? You?”

“Heavens no. From a Turkish mullah in New Jersey who’s a friend of ours, and also of Mr. Ahmedov’s. They’re in the same Sufi brotherhood, I gather.”

“Probably the same bowling league, too. Can I take the truck?”

“I don’t know why not, unless Miss Barnes objects.”

“It’s all yours,” said Anna. “I’m not the panel-truck type.”

“Now then, Miss Barnes,” said Stone, turning to Anna. “What you bring to our table is the worthy Azeri-Iranian gentleman who calls himself Ali Ascari. And the first question we need to discuss is who will handle him. Should that person be you, do you think?”

“Absolutely not,” said Anna. “That would be a very serious mistake. I don’t like the guy, to be honest. And it would be insecure.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. So you will need a cutout, too. And again, I have a suggestion.”

“No more Iranians, please.”

“The man I have in mind is an old friend of mine who worked with me in Germany in the 1950s. He was chief of station in Beirut until he retired seven years ago in a huff. He can be a difficult man. Prickly, irascible. He’s the only case officer I ever knew who made it a practice to carry a side arm. But he’s a brilliant operator, one of the best I’ve ever known. His name is Frank Hoffman.”

“What does he do now?”

“He runs a private security business based in Athens. His clients are mostly rich Arabs, and he travels frequently in the Gulf, which will be helpful for your