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

roused himself. “Is that another work name?”

“No. That’s it.”

“How do you know my old pseudonym?”

“I’m a case officer in London. I was given your name by a colleague at headquarters who said you might be able to help us with something.”

“Which colleague?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Uh-huh. And why did they send you from London or Washington or wherever the hell you’re coming from when they have a whole floor full of no-name case officers bumping into each other over at the embassy? I could tell one of them no just as easily as I can tell you.”

“It’s a sensitive case. They’re running it from headquarters.”

“So they sent you.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a female case officer.” He used the word “female” as a qualifier, like “crippled.”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Equal opportunity, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I think it’s a terrific idea putting women in the field as case officers. I just want you to know that. I’d hate to see the national interests of the United States get in the way of equal opportunity. Believe me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. He was either slightly drunk or very rude. “Hey, listen. I’ll tell you a little joke. You’ll like it. It’s cute.”

Anna said nothing. She was thinking, in the back of her mind, about how soon she could get a flight back to America.

“The joke goes like this. We parachute an agent into the Soviet Union, and the guy is absolutely perfect. He speaks perfect Russian, with no accent. He’s dressed in Russian clothes, made of the same lousy fabric they use. He smokes the same loopy cigarettes they do. And his identity papers are perfect, right down to the rusty staples that leave red marks on the middle pages. This guy has everything! So when he lands and hides his parachute, he walks into town and goes to a café and asks for a beer, local brand, just right, perfect Russian, no accent. And the lady behind the bar says: ‘You must be from the CIA.’ ”

“I’ve heard this joke.”

“So the guy says: ‘How can you tell? I’m a perfect Russian. Clothes, accent, papers, cigarettes.’ And the lady says: ‘Yeah, but we don’t get too many black Russians in here.’ Funny, huh?”

“Not very. And I’ve heard it before.”

“Women have no sense of humor.”

“Look, I think I’d better go.”

“Hold on. Don’t go. It was just a joke, for chrissake.”

“Listen, Mr. Hoffman. I didn’t come here to listen to racist jokes or to debate feminism with you. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what you think about those subjects. Or anything else.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down. So why did you come to see Uncle Frank then? Call him out of the blue, using his old code name? Huh?”

“Because someone back home had the idea that you might want to help us with an important case.”

“But why little old me? I’m retired. I’ve gone to seed. I don’t give a shit anymore. Didn’t they tell you that?”

“Yes, they did, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Well, fuck them, then. Although it’s true. I have gone to seed. I have too much money and too much fun, and I’m not willing to work with incompetents and nitwits anymore. I guess that makes me a malcontent.”

“Apparently it does.”

“Screw you, too. But let’s cut the crap. What’s your little case about?”

“I’m not sure there’s any real point in going into it. You sound pretty burnt-out, to be honest. That’s not what we’re after.”

“I am burnt-out, goddammit, and proud of it. I did a lot of burning in my day, which is more than you can say for most of your so-called colleagues. They’re never going to burn out, because they’re never going to get lit. You want another drink?”

“No. Like I said, maybe I should be going.”

“What’s the rush? This may be your only chance to see a genuine relic from the dinosaur age. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

He visited the lavatory and returned with another glass of whiskey. “Let’s stop playing games, huh? What’s your case about and how do you think I can help you?”

“It involves Soviet nationalities.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. They thought you might be worth talking to because you handled some cross-border operations in the 1950s.”

“So I did. Total fuck-ups, as I recall. Got a lot of innocent people killed. Don’t tell me they’re going to do that again.”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can’t give you details.”

“So give me generalities.”

“We’re not going to run cross-border operations. We’re going to pretend to run them. If you follow me.”

“Deception.”

“Yes.”

“Make them think you’re holding four aces when all you’ve got is a pair of twos.”

“That’s right.”

“Hold on. I think I’m beginning to get the picture.”

“What?”

“This has to be one of Stone’s capers.”

Anna said nothing.

“Edward Stone. You want me to spell it?”

Still she said nothing.

“This is one of his slick little games. Hootchie-kootchie. Now you see it, now you don’t. And he wants me to help with the shit work. Except he doesn’t have the balls to come see me himself, so he sends little Miss Dickless Tracy. Is that it, more or less?”

“You’re out of line.” She stood up.

“Hey, c’mon. Sit down. I’m sorry. About the Dickless Tracy part, I mean. I was joking.”

“You’re worse than they said. What’s wrong with you anyway? What are you so angry about?”

“What’s wrong with me is that I’m sick of watching us get our ass kicked from one end of the world to the other. It puts me in a bad mood and makes me say nasty things to nice young ladies such as yourself. If you want to know what’s bothering me, just read the fucking newspapers. Do they still do that back at headquarters? Read the newspapers? They probably have a machine now that does that for them.”

Anna said nothing.

“Here’s one day’s news, sweetheart,” said Hoffman, picking up from the coffee table a copy of that morning’s Athens Post, the local English-language paper.

“What’s the front-page headline? ‘Iranian Firing Squad Executes 21 of Shah’s Officials.’ Too bad. I probably know some of those guys. Okay, so we fucked up.