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

“So how’s it going?” asked Taylor when Munzer had finished writing.

“Okay, okay. I show Mustafa Chokay book to friends and they very happy. They say thank you, Mr. Munzer, our brother. This book must be part of big plan.”

“What big plan?”

“That is Munzer question. Listen, Mr. Goode, you not pull Munzer’s leg, okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You sure you tell Munzer everything?” He leaned over and gave Taylor a playful tap on the shoulder.

“Everything you need to know. Why? What’s bothering you?”

“I ask you question, okay? You not have to answer, but maybe you answer.”

“All right.”

“Do you have CIA team in Istanbul?”

“Team? What do you mean?”

“Maybe another American man working with you?”

“Why do you ask?” Taylor tried not to smile, not to blink, not to hint at any particular interest in this subject.

“Because my friend Khojaev say another American man has been talking to Turkestani peoples in Istanbul sometimes.”

“What about?”

“Free Turkestan. He is always talking about Free Turkestan. So I think maybe he is working with you.”

“What does he look like, this American?”

“Khojaev say he is tall man, blond man.”

“It’s possible. I’ll be honest, Mr. Ahmedov. There are other people working on this project, but I don’t know all of them. Where is this other American now?”

“Khojaev say he gone now.”

Oh shit, thought Taylor. “Did Khojaev say whether he would be coming back?”

“Maybe he come back. Khojaev not sure.”

“Did Khojaev like him?”

“Khojaev never meet him. His friend Mr. Abdallah from Tashkent meet him, and he tell Khojaev about it. He say this American man talk all about freedom and independence of Turkestani peoples, talk about big help from America, but pssst, nothing. Sound to Munzer like old days, but I know from my friend Mr. Goode these is new days.”

“Listen, Munzer,” said Taylor confidentially. “I wish I could tell you all the details, but I can’t. Some I don’t even know myself. You just have to trust me.”

“Yeah. Okay. Trust.”

“Good. It will all work out. Believe me.”

“So what should Munzer do now? Khojaev say Munzer should talk to other American man when he come back. But Khojaev not know Munzer already working with Mr. Goode.”

“That’s right, and don’t tell him. Let me know when the other American comes back, and maybe we’ll have you meet him.”

“Okay. Munzer understand spy business. Nobody knows nothing.”

“Right,” said Taylor. “Forget this other stuff for now. I have something important I want you to do. For me.”

“Munzer is ready.”

Taylor reached into his pocket and removed a well-worn handbill, printed in the Cyrillic characters of Uzbek Turkish. He handed it to Munzer.

“What is this, please?”

“It’s a leaflet, announcing a demonstration at a Sufi shrine outside Tashkent in ten days. One of our people in Moscow picked it up during a trip down there and sent out a copy.”

“Allah! A demonstration? Uzbek people very brave, but this is too dangerous. What it means, please?”

“We’re not sure. If it’s for real, we should try to hook up with it. Ask around, will you? See if anyone in the émigré community knows anything about it. Give me a report the next time we meet.”

Munzer folded the handbill carefully—lovingly—and put it in his pocket, next to his heart.

Where the hell was Rawls? Taylor drove again that night by his old apartment in Beyazit. The apartment was still dark and apparently empty. Taylor returned during the next few days to make sure, but there was still no sign of him. Maybe he had changed apartments. Maybe he had left Istanbul for good. All Taylor could do was put more chum in the water and wait for something to bite.

“Nobody know nothing about no demonstration in Tashkent,” reported Munzer the following Tuesday. He had shed the sunglasses and was wearing a traditional Uzbek cap, embroidered in black and white. It rested on his head like a box top.

“That’s too bad,” said Taylor.

“No. Is good.”

“Why? I want some information about these people in Tashkent, so we can decide what to do.”

“No, no. Up-down side you have. If people talk in Istanbul, then no good. Must be phony. If nobody know, then maybe this real thing. Nobody here know nothing, so Munzer is happy. You tell friends maybe this demonstration by real Moslem men in Tashkent.”

They walked slowly down the street, away from the Kadikoy dock. Just north of them was the Haydarpasa train station, the old gateway to Asia. Across the way stood a small caravan of buses, waiting to take travelers to the teeming suburbs of the Asian side; they belched out noise and smoke even while they were idling. And darting in every direction were the dolmus group taxis, most of them lovingly maintained old Buicks and Chevys, their rearview mirrors bearing colorful totems to keep away the evil eye. Munzer looked entirely at home amidst this scene; a man of Asia, walking toward home with each step. Taylor strode along with him, carrying a plastic bag in one hand.

“Listen, Munzer,” said Taylor. “You’re a Sufi brother, aren’t you?”

“You know I am, so why you ask?”

“You’re a Naqshbandi, right?”

“I am sorry. This for me is something not for talking about. You have secret things. So does Munzer.”

“They’re strong in Central Asia, aren’t they? The Sufi brotherhoods, I mean.”

“The strongest. They are the only real Islam. Official mosque is bullshit, run by KGB. Only true Islam is underground, with the tariqat. But you ask somebody else about these things. Munzer not talking.”

“Okay, but one more question. Why are they so strong?”

“Because they are real brotherhood. Closed to outsiders. Never tell secrets. If Naqshbandi find out a member is KGB informer, that man is finished. No one speak to him. No one marry his daughters. He is alone. Better he should be dead. Same thing if member of brotherhood tells secrets to CIA, my friend, so you don’t ask Munzer no more questions about tariqat.”

“Sorry. I only brought it up because I want to give you something that would interest your Naqshbandi brothers.”

“What you talking about, please?”

Taylor reached