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

you just want your own Russians running show in Tashkent, not Communists.”

“You had better explain that. I’m not following you.”

“Sure. You bet. I explain to you. In 1952, I am in Washington. CIA tell me to broadcast tribute to Kerensky on Voice of America. I refuse. I say: Kerensky, hah! He break promise to our leader, Mustafa Chokay, in 1917. He tell us he will help but when he come to power, he forget us. So I say: Forget Kerensky. Let us talk about Turkestani people on radios. Let us talk about Mustafa Chokay, and 1918 massacre in Kokand, and freedom and independence. But they refuse. They say sorry, no independence talk for Soviet nationalities. Except for Baltic peoples, them only. Not even Ukrainians can talk about independence. We Uzbeks not allowed even to use old Uzbek words on radio. They think maybe Russians get upset. And then they say sorry, big mistake, and they stop Uzbek service. Pfft. No more.”

“I’m sorry,” said Taylor.

“Sorry? They break my heart, these Americans. They break my heart. So now maybe you understand, Mr. Goode, what I tell you in Turkish restaurant. Whole world betray Turkestani people, five times. Munzer had enough. No more trust left. Only tears.”

The Uzbek put his head in his hands. Taylor said nothing for a long time. He watched the candles flicker around the face of Mustafa Chokay; the neat mustache, the quaint Western frock coat and necktie; the narrow eyes looking expectantly toward the camera. Taylor rose from his chair and walked to the shrine at the other end of the room and blew out the candles. It seemed like giving the Turkestani patriot a decent burial.

“Thank you, my friend,” said Munzer, looking up. His eyes were red. Taylor sat down again, thinking about what to do, and remained silent for a while longer.

“What could we do to give you hope again?” Taylor said at last.

“Nothing. I am sorry, my friend, but that is truth. Hope is finished.”

“But the 1950s were a long time ago. Things have changed. We’ve changed. What would convince you of that?”

“Nothing. I tell you again.”

“What if we could do something very specific to show you that we were serious, Mr. Ahmedov? Something that would prove to you that things have changed.”

“You cannot. Impossible. So do not play games with me, my friend. I am too old and too smart.”

Taylor lit a cigarette. He told himself to move very carefully now, for this was the essential moment. The wrong suggestion and Munzer was lost. The right one and he might move a first foot across the line he had drawn in the sand twenty-five years ago.

“Mr. Ahmedov,” said Taylor slowly. “The poem that you asked me to read earlier from the book”—Taylor walked over and picked up the book in his hand—“the poem from this book, called ‘Wake Up, Kazakh.’ ”

“Yes. By Mir-Yakub Dulatov, one of our great Turkestani patriots. What about this poem? You want book? Here, you keep it. I get another.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Ahmedov. What if we were to read this poem on the Turkic services of Radio Liberty—in Kazakh, Uzbek, Tajik—read it so that all of Central Asia could hear? Would that change your mind?”

“Psst. It is forbidden.”

“Who says?”

“I know the rules. It is forbidden. It is anti-Russian poem and it is forbidden to broadcast anti-Russian poem on American radios. VOA, Radio Liberty. I tell you before, those are rules. That is problem, my friend. Don’t you understand? That is why I give up.”

“But what if those rules don’t apply anymore?”

“Ach! Please. Rules are rules.”

“But we make the rules for the radios, Mr. Ahmedov. And if we decide to change them, they’re changed. And I am telling you, the rules are changing. That’s what I have been trying to tell you all day, but you’ve been feeling so sorry for yourself that you haven’t heard me.”

Munzer looked at Taylor warily, with a tiny glint of interest in his eye. “Okay, suppose you are telling truth and rules have changed. How would Munzer know, please?”

“Just listen to the radio. Or have your people listen for you.”

“When?”

Taylor thought another moment, wondering if he could depend on Edward Stone and his mysterious unnamed friend in Munich, and then decided—what the hell—and plunged over the edge.

“I make you this promise, Mr. Ahmedov. Listen to me very carefully. Within the next week, the Turkic services will read the poem of Mir-Yakub Dulatov which is called ‘Wake Up, Kazakh.’ You have your people listen, and when this poem has been broadcast, as I have promised, then you call me on the telephone and we will talk again. Okay?”

Taylor handed Munzer his Karpetland card, which had the office phone number in Rockville printed at the bottom. “Is that a fair deal?”

Taylor didn’t give him time to answer. He extended his hand and shook Munzer’s firmly. Now it was a deal. They had shaken on it.

“And when we meet next time, Mr. Ahmedov, I will tell you how we will strike a real blow—you and I—at last, for the freedom and independence of Turkestan. All right?”

Munzer didn’t respond. He looked disoriented. He had been minding his business, living an anonymous and relatively happy life, and suddenly this stranger had arrived, summoning him to arms.

“All right?” said Taylor again.

“Yeah. Sure,” said Munzer.

“I think your man Munzer can be had,” Taylor confided to Stone when he returned to Washington the next day. They met briefly in the parking lot of a drugstore on Wisconsin Avenue, near Stone’s home in Georgetown. The Karpetland van was parked a few yards away. Taylor had driven straight down from New York that morning and called Stone as soon as he arrived.

“Well done,” said Stone, shaking Taylor’s hand. “He’s not an easy nut to crack, as I recall.”

“He’s like most émigrés. Gaga about the old country, but otherwise a nice guy.”

“So how can I help you,” said Stone, “on this pleasant Saturday afternoon which I had intended to spend on the tennis court?”

“Sorry