Siro, David Ignatius [ereader for android TXT] 📗

at his house on N Street, to make two urgent telephone calls. It seemed imprudent to make them from his own phone, so he knocked at the house across the street, owned by a genteel old Georgetown matron. He explained that his own phone was unaccountably on the blink. Could he possibly use her phone to make several overseas calls? Of course he could. She was flattered that the great and mysterious Mr. Stone would think to ask.

The first call was to Taylor in Istanbul. It was late afternoon there by now, but he was fortunately still at the office, haggling with the consulate’s chief administrative officer about the housing allowance for a new CIA officer who would be arriving in December. Taylor loathed such housekeeping details, but for some unexplained reason, his deputy—who normally handled them—had been absent the past day and a half.

“We have a problem,” Stone said when he reached Taylor. He didn’t bother to identify himself.

“What’s that?”

“A certain rug dealership is going out of business sooner than expected.”

“How soon?”

“Today. It may be under new management at this very moment. The parent company was planning to take possession this morning.”

“Is that so?” said Taylor. He knew he should feel devastated, or at least frightened, but at the moment he felt a weird sense of relief that the inevitable had finally happened. Still, he knew he should try to register concern. “Oh shit,” he said.

“Just so,” said Stone. “It’s important to do what we can quickly to tidy up the loose ends. I’m thinking of a certain gentleman of your acquaintance who normally resides in Brooklyn.”

“Yes, indeed, I know him well.”

“Is he still in your part of the world?”

“Last I knew. I saw him several days ago.”

“I suggest you pay him a visit immediately, and urge him to do a bit of traveling, on the first available flight.”

“For how long?”

“A month or so. Then he can go home. Find some money for him somewhere or other, and I’ll reimburse you.”

Stone rang off. Taylor apologized to the administrative officer that something had come up, and they would have to resolve the matter of the housing allowance the next day. Then he headed off to Munzer’s flat in Aksaray, taking a Turkish taxi rather than one of the office cars.

Taylor was too late. When he opened the door of Munzer’s flat, he found that a burly young man from the Office of Security was already there, standing next to the Uzbek. The security officer had arrived the previous day from London and, with the connivance of Taylor’s deputy, had obtained the address of Munzer’s safe house and spent much of the past fifteen hours trying to interrogate him. Now he loomed over the old Uzbek gentleman like a sheriff’s deputy guarding his prize witness.

“Allah sukur!” said Munzer as soon as he saw Taylor’s face. “Thank God you are here!”

“Who are you?” demanded the security man. He had his hand under his coat, as if reaching for a gun.

“None of your fucking business,” said Taylor. “Who are you?”

The security officer flipped open his wallet and displayed some sort of badge along with his CIA identification. He looked like the sort of fellow whose favorite bedtime reading was Guns and Ammo.

“That doesn’t mean shit to me,” said Taylor. “They sell those at Woolworth’s.”

“Fuck you!” snarled the security man. He took a menacing step toward Taylor, but Munzer moved in front of him, appealing to Taylor with his palms outstretched.

“Please, my friend. This man is telling so many lies about you. Big lies. You must tell him he is wrong.”

“What did he say?”

“Yesterday he come here to my house and says he is your friend, so I tell him some things. But today he begin to say lies about you. He says your name not Mr. Goode but Mr. Taylor. Okay. No problem. That is spy business. Then he say you not really working for agency at all and you make up whole story about big American plan to liberate Turkestan. He say nobody is doing nothing for Turkestan, so forget about all that. But I tell him no. This is big lie. My friend Mr. Goode promise me. CIA not break promise to Turkestani people again. This is impossible.”

“You come with me, Munzer,” said Taylor, taking him by the arm. “I’ll explain everything to you. Pack some clothes in a suitcase, and I’ll tell you on the way to the airport.”

“Not so fast, asshole,” said the security man, withdrawing his revolver from the shoulder holster. “Neither of you is going anywhere.”

“Put that gun away,” said Taylor, who hadn’t thought to bring one of his own. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m the Istanbul base chief. You’re on my territory.”

“Not anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“As of yesterday, your deputy is chief of base. I’m operating under his authorization.”

“That little shit,” said Taylor.

Munzer, who was beginning to get the picture, let out a low moan. “What about Turkestan?” he said. “What about my dear Turkestani peoples?”

“Shut up, gramps!” said the security man.

Munzer’s round face reddened, and his almond eyes narrowed to slivers: It is a cardinal principle among Uzbeks always to treat elders with respect. This ill-mannered young American had insulted not just Munzer Ahmedov but the soul of Uzbekistan. The old man tightened his hand into a fist, and he looked for a moment as if he might throw a wild punch at the security man.

“Calm down, Munzer,” said Taylor.

The Uzbek turned to Taylor with an imploring look in his eyes. “Tell me this man is lying. Tell him Turkestani Liberation Movement is real thing.”

Taylor said nothing. He could not bear to lie to the old man anymore.

“Tell him, please.” Munzer’s large round head was wobbling like a ball knocked off center. “Do not break the heart of Munzer twice in one life.”

Still Taylor was silent. Munzer looked at him imploringly, then warily, then angrily. His face grew redder and he began to curse bitterly in Uzbek.

“Listen to me, Munzer,” said