Siro, David Ignatius [ereader for android TXT] 📗

first names in the office. One of the many things that disturbed him about the CIA was that people were beginning to call each other “Mister,” just like the State Department.

“Who is it?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

Good for him, thought Taylor. Someone who refused to be objectified.

5

The call was from a Turkish intelligence officer named Serif Osman. He ran the Istanbul office of the Milli Istihbarat Teskilati, the Turkish National Intelligence Organization. The Americans usually referred to it by the English acronym TNIO, just as they called the government of Turkey the GOT. Taylor stubbornly insisted on using the Turkish initials, MIT. Serif was Taylor’s principal liaison contact in Istanbul, and he had been trying hard for nearly a year to cultivate him. “Cultivate” wasn’t the right word, exactly. He had invited the MIT man to lunch twice and tried to get him drunk, once unsuccessfully, once successfully.

The Turk suggested they meet for coffee. Taylor proposed the Hilton near Taksim Square, about a mile from MIT headquarters in Besiktas. The Turk suggested a cheaper, less conspicuous hotel nearby. That whetted Taylor’s curiosity. He called downstairs to his driver and departed several minutes later in one of the consulate’s bulletproof Chevys—glad for a momentary chance to escape the bunker.

Serif was waiting in the lobby. He was a robust man, with high cheekbones and a neat goatee. Like many Turkish men, he had a limited range of facial expressions. When Serif didn’t like something, he narrowed his eyes. Otherwise, his face gave nothing away. Taylor smiled and shook his hand warmly, but the Turk was squinting.

The Turks were an odd people, Taylor had concluded soon after his arrival. Prickly and difficult, like their language. They didn’t crack jokes, they rarely laughed. They rarely talked to foreigners. They did their part in NATO, but they suspected they were being had.

It was said in the agency that Turks were notoriously hard to recruit. Taylor hadn’t believed it at first, but after a few months, he understood why. They didn’t have handles or rough edges or secret dreams. They weren’t mercenary, so money wouldn’t do it. And they didn’t have the sort of complicated mind, like the Arabs, that allowed them to rationalize betrayal. They were intensely patriotic. The only way to get them to do something was to convince them that it was best for Turkey.

Serif didn’t speak until they were seated at a table in the corner of the coffee shop.

“I have something for you,” he said solemnly. Despite the grave manner, he looked pleased with himself. “Something we cannot use.”

“And what might that be?”

“You know Kunayev?”

“Of course,” said Taylor. He was the Soviet consul general. Kunayev was a figure of some interest. His cousin was the party first secretary in Kazakhstan, and his wife was a beautiful blonde from Vilnius.

“This morning he went to the Bit Pazar in Horhor to look at some old furniture …” Serif paused for emphasis.

“… He saw something he liked.” He cleared his throat. “… An Ottoman chair.”

Taylor didn’t get it right away. Big fucking deal, he thought.

“A chair?” repeated Taylor dully.

“Yes,” said the Turk. “An Ottoman chair. Kunayev asked the shop owner to clean it up. He is half Kazakh, Kunayev, from Alma Ata. We think he will come back tomorrow and buy it. For his office maybe.”

“Oh Jesus!” said Taylor. He finally got the point. What Serif was describing so solemnly was one of those serendipitous moments that underemployed base chiefs dream about, when your adversary does something stupid and allows you to do something smart. Like install a microphone in a piece of his furniture. All Taylor could think of to say was “No shit?”

The Turk looked embarrassed. Like most of his countrymen, he abjured profanity.

“How did you come across this lovely piece of information?” asked Taylor.

“The owner of the store next door told us. He’s a Circassian. He hates the Russians.”

“Why are you telling me about it?”

“Because we cannot do anything with it,” said the MIT man. “There is no time for us to install a proper microphone that would not be detected. We do not have the equipment. The Soviets would find it, and we would have a flap with Moscow. So we have decided to do nothing ourselves. But we feel it is some waste!”

“Definitely,” agreed Taylor. “Much waste!”

Taylor pondered the situation a moment. Bugging a piece of furniture wasn’t as easy as Serif seemed to think. There was also the possibility that he was being set up. “Does Ankara know you’re seeing me?” he asked.

“Of course!” said Serif. “Do you think I am a crazy man? This is strictly above the boards!”

“Just asking.”

“This is a present from us to you,” said Serif.

“We are most grateful,” said Taylor, putting his hand over his heart.

“We ask one thing,” said Serif, returning to his initial solemn tone. “That you share with us the product of this operation. Otherwise, no deals.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Taylor. In fact, he hadn’t a clue what headquarters would say.

“You give me your promise?”

“Sure,” said Taylor. What the hell.

The Turk smiled slyly and stood up from the table. As he did so, he removed from his pocket a slip of paper and placed it gently on the table. On it was written the name of the antique shop and a description of the chair the Soviet had admired.

“Be very careful, please,” said the Turk. “If you get caught, we never heard of you.” He turned and walked away. Taylor wanted to kiss him. Into the enervating, paint-by-numbers world of the Istanbul base had fallen something unexpected.

6

Taylor’s car left the hotel and moved slowly down the hill and along Dolmabahce Avenue toward the city. Ordinarily, Taylor didn’t mind the traffic. It gave him a chance to watch women in the streets. But today it was a nuisance. He looked at his watch. It was after three, which meant he had about fifteen hours. He