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

to bother you. But to close the deal with Ahmedov I need a favor in a hurry.”

“What might that be?”

“I need to have something broadcast on the Turkic services of Radio Liberty. You mentioned you had a friend in Munich who had helped you put stuff on the radios in the past, and I thought maybe you could ask him for a favor.”

“Of course I can. What is it that you want broadcast?”

“A poem. A nationalist poem called ‘Wake Up, Kazakh.’ I have a copy of it here.” He handed the book he had brought from Munzer’s house to Stone.

“That shouldn’t pose a problem.”

“It’s on Ahmedov’s list of all-time greatest hits. Since it’s anti-Russian, Ahmedov thinks broadcasting it is a no-no. I told him we could change the rules. That was my recruitment pitch, to get him on board. So if we can’t do it, I’m screwed. I’ll have to look for another guy.”

“Not to worry. As I said, it shouldn’t pose a problem. Nobody checks these things very carefully. And even when they do, there are always ways of covering one’s tracks. How soon should this epic be broadcast?”

“Right away. I told Ahmedov it would be on the air within a week.”

“How would next Tuesday be? Three days from now.”

“You can do it that quickly?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“That would be fine,” said Taylor. “Just fine.”

“Anything else?” asked Stone, looking at his watch. “I have my tennis game.”

“Not a thing,” said Taylor.

26

Anna called Frank Hoffman the day she arrived in Athens, using his old agency pseudonym—Oscar D. Fabiolo. That was Stone’s idea. He thought it would help shake off the cobwebs. Fortunately Hoffman was home, rather than on one of his regular trips to see clients in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Abu Dhabi—or, increasingly, to the homes these gentlemen maintained in pleasanter spots, like Monte Carlo, Geneva, Paris and London. Unfortunately, Hoffman was in a grumpy mood.

“Is Mr. Oscar D. Fabiolo there, please?” Anna asked.

“No,” answered a gruff voice. “He’s dead.”

“Mr. Fabiolo?” pressed Anna.

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend of an old friend.”

“Bullshit. I don’t have any more old friends. Just new friends. Who is this anyway?”

“Lucy.”

“I don’t know any Lucy.”

“Good,” said Anna. “That makes me a new friend.”

“You obviously want to talk to me, whoever you are.”

“Yes, sir. I do. I’ve come a long way to talk to you.”

“Are you pretty?”

Anna thought a moment about how to answer. “Not bad,” she said.

“Aw, shit,” barked Hoffman. “You might as well c’mon over, honey. I got a million-dollar view here and nobody to share it with.” Hoffman was better at getting mad, it seemed, than staying mad. And “honey” said she would be right over.

Frank Hoffman was in the security business. He had understood, as the oil boom began in the early 1970s, that the one thing the newly rich princes of the desert would need was someone to help them stay alive and hold on to their dubiously acquired loot. So he had left the agency in 1972 and formed a security company; he had initially planned to call it AA-Arab-American Security Consultants, Inc., hoping to be first in the Riyadh phone book—not realizing that Riyadh didn’t yet have a phone book and that when it did, it wouldn’t be in English. By now, Hoffman was so rich that he didn’t really have to care what anybody called him or his company. He lived in a vast apartment in the Kolonaki district of Athens, at the foot of Lykabettos. The apartment overlooked the Acropolis and had, as Hoffman liked to boast, a million-dollar view.

Perhaps in deference to his surroundings and his new wealth, Hoffman had in recent years come to resemble a Greek tycoon. He was a short, stocky man—a fat man, to be blunt—but he had stopped worrying about it. He had a fifty-dollar haircut, wore Gucci loafers and open-neck silk shirts and carried around his neck an immense gold ornament shaped like the letter “O.” His only real link with the old days was that he still carried a side arm, having bribed an appropriate official in the Greek Ministry of the Interior for the necessary permit.

Anna rang the doorbell of Hoffman’s apartment having no idea what to expect. Stone had explained that Hoffman was eccentric, and that he had left the agency in a huff over what he regarded as high-handed behavior by the former director—and, peripherally, by Stone himself—in a case involving a Palestinian agent in Beirut. Otherwise, Hoffman was an unknown quantity. He was one of the colorful characters the old-timers liked to reminisce about, but whom nobody really remembered very clearly anymore.

“C’mon in, sweetie,” said Hoffman, opening the door of his apartment. It was early evening, and through the huge windows of the salon, Anna could see the pillars of the Acropolis, floodlit and magnificent. Next to the windows, vying for attention, was a large color television that was broadcasting an episode of Starsky and Hutch.

“Not bad, huh?” said Hoffman, walking her over to the window. “Did I lie to you? Is this a million-dollar view or what?”

“Maybe two million,” said Anna.

“Nah. The dollar is still strong here. One million. Have a seat. What are you drinking?”

“White wine.”

“Bullshit. I’m having a whiskey.”

“Thanks, but I’ll still have white wine.”

“Suit yourself, honey.”

He went to get her drink. Anna pointed to the television set, which was blaring noisily. “Mind if I turn that down? I can barely hear you.”

“It’s Starsky and Hutch. A good one, too. Starsky pretends to be a tango dancer to catch a ring of blackmailers.”

“I’ll catch it another time,” said Anna.

“Leave the picture on, would you?”

Hoffman brought her the drink, sat down across from her, and leaned toward her. “So who the hell are you anyway?”

“My name is Lucy Morgan.”

“Oh yeah? Is that a work name?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Well then, what’s your real name, sweetie?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned back against the couch and resumed watching the soundless Starsky and Hutch.

“Anna Barnes,” she said.

Hoffman