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

said Taylor. Anna cringed. The Islamic mania of the operation was beginning to bother her.

“The Korans!” exclaimed Stone. “I almost forgot! We have small-format Korans, from Pakistan. Thousands of them. We’re actually piggybacking on our Saudi friends, who’ve been sending Korans into the Moslem republics covertly for the last few years. They do it mostly by giving the books to Moslem sailors, I gather, although I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Moslem sailor. In any event, the Saudis will be increasing shipments during the next several months. Back in Moscow, it’s going to look like someone has declared a jihad!”

“Mr. Stone,” interrupted Anna. “I’m sorry, but something is bothering me.”

“What, again?” Stone didn’t sound quite so genial this time.

“Why are we only working with Moslems in the Soviet Union? There are lots of other national groups that would like to be independent.”

“Because those are the cards in hand, Miss Barnes. The game is being played at present with a Moslem deck. The Soviets are making our lives unpleasant in Iran, in Afghanistan, in Pakistan, in Turkey and from one miserable end of the Arab world to the other. And we are going to remind them that the Islamic card can be played in two directions.”

“But it’s a rotten game!”

“How so?” Stone put his hand to his ear.

“I don’t want to give a sermon, but religious extremism is the problem in this part of the world, not the solution. Christians and Moslems have been at each other’s throats for centuries. The reason is that each ethnic group always goes for a unilateral solution. Turkestani Moslems only care about Turkestan. Christian Armenians only care about Armenia. Nobody ever tries to bring them together.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my dear. It’s a dreadful business, pogroms and all that. But I don’t see what we can do about it.”

“We can draw some Armenians into our operation. Or Georgians. But Armenians would be better.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“Why not?”

“Because Uzbeks and Azeris don’t like Armenians.”

“So what? If we go against what’s traditional, so much the better. That will frighten the Soviets even more.”

“Why would it do that?” asked Stone, his eyes brightening. He was willing to consider anything that would give the Soviets heartburn.

“Because Moscow’s biggest fear is that someday these ethnic groups will all get together and start shooting Russians. That’s why the KGB works so hard to keep them suspicious of each other. The Ottomans were the same way. Divide and rule. If you really want to scare the daylights out of Moscow Center, then make them think there is an underground movement that links Armenians and Azeris.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Re-create the golden age, before 1914. Back when all the people in that part of the world were rising together against their imperial masters. It’s not impossible. There are historical precedents.”

“It sounds so … utopian.” Stone said the last word as if it had a sour taste.

“What’s wrong with that? If we’re going to create an imaginary network, why not make it perfect? And as I said, that’s the best way to give the Russians a heart attack.”

“An appealing thought. But it’s late in the day to add something new to our kit, I’m afraid. Why don’t we save this for another time.”

“There won’t be another time.”

Stone shook his head, like a bemused father. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got other matters to deal with. Do you really care about this?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been worrying about this problem, one way or another, for nearly ten years. It matters to me. And I know what I’m doing.”

“Very well,” said Stone, tiring of the discussion. “Suppose we make you head of the Armenia desk? Would you like that?”

“What would it mean?”

“It means that if you can come up with a plausible way to draw an Armenian into our little charade, then I will try to accommodate you. Is that fair enough?”

“I guess so.”

“Any objections, Alan?”

“Nope.”

“How will I find names of Armenians we could try to recruit?”

“I’ll have Marjorie get you traces on any live prospects that are in the registry. We’ll pull their 201 files and get you the vital statistics. It will take several weeks. You can deal with it when you get back from Athens. Is that agreeable?”

“Fine,” said Anna. She felt that she had won at least a temporary victory, a chance to paint on her own canvas, rather than simply carry out Stone’s design. She excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.

“Alan,” said Stone, when she was out of earshot. “I wonder if you could stop by my house this evening.”

“Sure. What for?”

“A little business I’d like to discuss privately with you.”

“What’s the address?”

Stone wrote out his address on N Street in Georgetown and handed it to Taylor. “Come around seven. Cocktail time.”

Anna returned, still smiling from ear to ear. She sat down on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table—a first.

“I have one more little surprise for the two of you, and then I must go,” said Stone.

“Uh-oh,” said Anna.

“Not to worry. You’ll like this one. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Fire away.”

“Alan, do you remember the Ottoman chair purchased by the Soviet consul general in Istanbul, into which you and the TSD man from Athens inserted the bug?”

“Of course I do. How could I forget that stupid fucking chair? What a waste of time.”

“Now, now. Don’t be so harsh. The chair helped bring us together. But the consul general sent it home, as I remember. To Alma-Ata.”

“Correct. He sent it to the party first secretary in Kazakhstan as baksheesh.”

“And so you forgot about it.”

“Sure. What could we do? The transmitter only broadcast a half mile. And who really cares what the party first secretary in Alma-Ata has to say?”

“We do,” said Stone. “Or at least we might want people to think we do. We might very well want people to think that a covert operation in Central Asia is so extensive that the Central Intelligence Agency has taken the trouble to install