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

into the plastic bag he had been carrying, pulled out a cassette tape, and handed it to Munzer. “This is for you. I have lots more of them. Thousands of them.”

Munzer read the Russian label: “Siberian Folk Chorus.” He snorted. “What I need this for?”

“It’s not the Siberian Folk Chorus, Munzer. It’s a sermon from a Naqshbandi sheikh in Saudi Arabia. He talks about the duty of all Moslems, especially members of the Naqshbandi brotherhood, to liberate Samarkand and Bukhara and Ferghana from the atheists.”

Munzer looked at the tape carefully, as if he expected to see a little sheikh inside. “You have more of these?”

“Thousands of them.”

“Munzer can take this and listen to it, please?”

“Sure. Take a bunch of them. Your friends can listen, too.”

“What you do with these?”

“We plan to send them where they will do some good. To Samarkand and Bukhara and Ferghana.”

“You getting serious now, my friend.”

“Yes,” said Taylor. “We’re getting serious.”

32

Frank Hoffman sat like a fireplug on the couch of Anna Barnes’s hotel room in Athens, waiting for Ali Ascari to show up. Anna had taken a suite at the St. George this time, a smaller and less conspicuous hotel above Syntagma Square. The room was at once dark and noisy, thanks to Hoffman’s precautions. He had swept the room carefully for bugs and then, for good measure, he had unplugged the television and the lights, unscrewed the mouthpiece of the telephone to remove the speaker, and turned on a small portable noise machine. These prudential measures had given the room an otherworldly feel, somber and shadowy without the electric lights, echoing with unintelligible white noise.

Anna couldn’t quite imagine it, but Hoffman seemed nervous. He was fidgeting under his coat with the two revolvers that were parked below his armpits, checking to make sure that they were still there. With his guns in place, Anna had noticed, Hoffman walked in a peculiar way, swinging both arms forward together at the same time, rather than alternating them. Perhaps he wanted to be able to draw both pistols at once.

Hoffman stopped fiddling with his guns after a while and began munching chocolate-covered peanuts, popping them into his mouth one at a time from a bag in his coat pocket. In five minutes he consumed the entire pack and reached into his attaché case for another. He had a half dozen more packs lined up in a row, in the compartment usually reserved for pens and pencils. He opened a new one and resumed munching.

At last there was a knock at the door.

“Is this Miss Bigelow’s room?” asked a singsong nasal voice.

“You are early,” replied Anna. Actually, he was late, but that was the recognition code.

Anna opened the door and in walked Ali Ascari, wobbling his head ever so slightly. He was dressed soberly for the occasion, in a pinstripe suit with wide lapels and a striped tie that was nearly six inches across at the bottom. His mullah’s beard looked as woolly as ever.

“Hello, nice lady,” he said to Anna, standing on tiptoes and clicking his heels.

Hoffman rose from the couch and walked toward the Iranian, swinging his arms in that odd, two-handed gait.

“This is Mr. Block,” said Anna. “He’s the man I mentioned to you.”

“Very nice to be meeting you, Mr. Block,” said Ascari, extending a limp hand.

“Sit down,” said Hoffman.

“Okay. I am happy to sit down.”

Hoffman grunted and sat back down on the sofa.

“You are a CIA man, Mr. Block?”

“No comment.”

“This nice lady, Miss James, tell me that next time I will be seeing CIA man. So I think you must be him.”

“Listen, my friend,” said Hoffman. “Let’s get something straight before we go any further. I ask the questions. You answer them. Got it? Otherwise, take a walk.”

“Okay,” said Ascari warily. “You sound like CIA man. That is good enough for Ali Ascari.”

“Drop it.”

“Okay. No problem.”

“You got a passport, so I can make sure you’re who you say you are?”

“For sure. Not just one.”

“Give them to me.”

Ascari reached into the pocket of his suit coat and handed his Iranian passport to Hoffman.

“Where’s the other one?”

The Iranian pulled the Spanish passport from his side pocket and handed it over.

“Cut the bullshit.” barked Hoffman. “Where’s the Greek passport?”

“No problem,” said Ascari with a little smile and a wobble of the head. He stood up and removed the third document from the back pocket of his trousers.

“Thanks,” said Hoffman. He laid the passports on the coffee table in a neat stack, with the Greek one on top. “I’ll look at these later.”

Anna spoke up. “I have told Mr. Block about our previous meetings, Mr. Ascari. I’ve told him every detail, including your appalling behavior in Istanbul. Mr. Block was not amused.”

“Nope,” said Hoffman. “To be honest, you sound to me like a real asshole.”

“Please, Mr. Block,” said Ascari. “I do not like bad languages.”

“Is that right? Well, as we say in the U.S. of A., tough shit.”

Ascari looked offended. “I am not liking this conversation. Maybe I leave now.”

“Stay a while. I’m just beginning to relax.”

“I am not so relaxing.” He was looking over his shoulder to the door.

“Hey, lighten up. Take your coat off. It’s a little hot in here, don’t you think, Miss James? Maybe I’ll take off my coat, too.”

Hoffman stood up and slowly removed his suit coat, a sleeve at a time, so that one snub-nosed revolver became visible, and then the other. Ascari shook his head and took a deep breath. Now he looked genuinely frightened.

“Wait a minute, please,” said Ascari, extending his arms plaintively. “There is big mistake here. I am very sorry for what happen in Istanbul. You want me to apologize? So I apologize. No problem. Okay?” He had a phony let’s-be-friends smile on his face.

“Thank you,” said Anna coldly. “But it’s a little late.”

“Save your apologies, pal,” growled Hoffman. “Because I honestly don’t give a shit whether you’re sorry. I’m only interested in one thing from you.”

“What is that?”

“My friend Miss