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

“Yes. Abdallah very sad with me.”

“Did you give him the new leaflet we got about the demonstration in Baku?”

“No. Munzer not give this one.”

“Why not?”

“Because Abdallah not Azeri man. Munzer not Azeri man. What do we care? You leave this thing for Azeri men.”

“You’re all working together, for chrissake. Abdallah and Khojaev and your other friends should realize that this movement is bigger than just Turkestan. Other Soviet nationalities want their freedom, too. The Azeris, the Armenians, the Latvians, the Ukrainians.”

“Who cares about Armenians and Azeris?”

“We do. The next time you see Khojaev, show him the Baku leaflet and tell him it’s all right for him to give it to Abdallah. Okay?”

Munzer nodded, not entirely happy at the thought that the independence movement of Turkestan would have to coexist, even momentarily, with the desires of any other people on the planet.

A courier arrived at the consulate the first Tuesday in August with an entirely new sort of cargo. The man wasn’t from the regular diplomatic courier service, based in Frankfurt, which carried sensitive material to and from Moscow and other hot spots. In fact, he didn’t identify himself as a U.S. government employee at all when he checked in at the main gate. He just said that he had an important package to deliver personally to Alan Taylor. The Marine guards were about to send him packing when he handed them a sealed envelope with Taylor’s name typed on it and asked that they deliver it to him immediately.

When Taylor opened the envelope a few minutes later, he found inside one of his own Karpetland business cards. “Send him up, with whatever he wants to deliver,” he said. “And don’t examine the box.”

The courier, accompanied by a Marine, carried his cargo across the courtyard and upstairs to Taylor’s office in the annex. It was a large box. The courier had carried it all the way on the Pan Am flight from New York on a reserved seat next to him. Taylor dismissed the Marine guard and closed the door. The courier, meanwhile, was studying Taylor’s face, checking it against a photograph he had been shown. When he was convinced he had the right man, he placed the box on Taylor’s desk.

“This is for you,” he said. He was a tough little man, with the body of a circus roustabout and a manner that suggested he could keep his brain idling in neutral for indefinite periods.

“Who sent you?” asked Taylor.

“The boss at Karpetland.”

“Oh yeah? And who the hell are you?”

“I work for the boss.”

“Prove it,” said Taylor. “I never heard of you.”

The courier removed from his pocket a second sealed envelope, also addressed to Taylor, and handed it to him.

It was a note from Stone, written in his neat handwriting. “Alan,” it began. “I am sending you this box by courier. When you receive it, give the courier one of your Istanbul business cards, with your signature, which will serve as a receipt. Sealed instructions are in the box. Be well.” The letter was unsigned.

Taylor did as instructed, handing the courier a signed card in a sealed envelope. He walked him back to the consulate gate and shook his hand. The courier turned and walked off down Mesrutiyet Street. Where did Stone find these people? Taylor wondered.

Back in the office, door closed, Taylor opened the box. It was tightly and carefully wrapped. Inside was a smaller box and a large envelope sealed with wax. Taylor broke the seal and removed from it another letter from Stone, also handwritten. Taylor read it with astonishment: “My dear Alan, the time has come to pull the chain, as hard as possible. To this end, I am sending you several new items. You’ll find the first in the same envelope as this letter. It is a set of eight hand-drawn maps which show the location of potential targets in the Soviet Union.”

Taylor stopped reading and removed a packet of material from the envelope. It was just as Stone described. A series of eight carefully drawn maps, with letters and notations in the Cyrillic Turkic languages of Central Asia. Taylor continued:

“The list of targets includes the headquarters of the Moslem Religious Board in Tashkent; a militia office in a suburb of Samarkand; the Tajik party headquarters in Dushanbe; a military barracks in Margelan, in the Ferghana Valley; the Turkmenistan KGB office in Ashkhabad; an all-union cultural center in Baku; an oil-pumping station in Sumgait; a militia office in the suburbs of Alma-Ata.”

Taylor counted to make sure he had all eight maps. Then he resumed the letter.

“In addition to the maps, you will find a small cardboard box. Inside this box is a type of plastic explosive that is quite potent and well regarded by people who are familiar with such matters. I have included four bags of it. These are for show only. For God’s sake, do not under any circumstances use any of it. Someone might get hurt. My intention is that the maps and the explosives should find their way into Soviet hands in Istanbul. Presumably you’ll want to give them to Ahmedov, but I leave the details to you. Don’t dally, because in a few weeks an actual bomb attack will take place in one or more of the Central Asian republics, though obviously not at any of the named targets.

“The final item is a suitcase, with a letter inside for Frank Hoffman. The suitcase, for your information, contains in its lining a substantial amount of the same plastic explosive contained in the box. Don’t worry about the suitcase, by the way. The explosive can’t be detected, and it’s quite unlikely to explode. Please deliver the letter and the suitcase to Frank at your earliest convenience. Good luck!”

He’s out of his fucking mind, was Taylor’s first thought. That was also his second thought. But his third thought was that he had better get moving.

Late that afternoon, Taylor made a crash visit to Munzer’s apartment in Aksaray. He drove himself in one