Siro, David Ignatius [ereader for android TXT] 📗

the alleyway at the side of the building. The only sound was the faint reverberation of Arab music from a tape player a block away.

Hamid turned on a small flashlight and pointed it toward the wall. In the faint light, Taylor could see the outlines of a rope ladder climbing to an open window on the second floor. Hamid had already done the hard work of arranging the clandestine entry. All Taylor had to do was follow the script.

Taylor climbed the ladder first, gently, a rung at a time. The ladder swayed against the concrete wall of the building but made little noise. Taylor paused when he reached the window frame, moving his head up slowly till he could see into the building. It was dark, save for a faint light coming up the stairwell. Taylor eased himself over the windowsill and onto the floor. George clambered up behind him with surprising agility, followed by Hamid. When the Turk reached the top he pulled the rope ladder up after him, laid it on the tile floor, and closed the window.

Taylor took a diagram from his pocket. The shop they wanted was called Ozcan Is. It was about twenty yards across the hall. Taylor moved silently to the door. It was locked tight, with two dead bolts. Taylor heard voices from the floor below and froze until he recognized one of them as Hasan’s.

George reached into his bag and removed a small leather kit that looked like a manicure set. It contained a set of thirty-two picks, each made of spring steel no more than a few hundredths of an inch thick. The picks were tipped with various irregular shapes—a diamond, a square, a ball, a jagged point—that could press against the pins of the lock while an L-shaped “tension tool” gently pushed it open.

The first lock was easy. George squirted in some graphite. Then he inserted the tension tool, selected a pick with a triangular head, pushed it in all the way, and then rapidly brought it forward. Locksmiths called it “raking” the pins. On the fourth rake, the lock opened.

George attacked the second lock the same way, but after several dozen rakes it hadn’t budged. He studied the lock to see if it might be an exotic variety with a special architecture, but it looked ordinary enough. He tried picking it more gently with various tools and then sighed and shook his head.

“Mushroom pins,” he said in a whisper.

“Is that bad?”

George nodded. Unlike normal pins, which were straight and smooth and slipped up gently to the shear line when they were picked, mushroom pins were H-shaped and tended to get stuck halfway up.

Taylor looked at his watch. It was twelve forty-five. George had been working on the second lock for nearly twenty minutes. Downstairs, Hasan and the watchman were talking animatedly about the local soccer rivalry—the rowdies of Fenerbahce versus the gentlemen of Galatasaray. It was a favorite topic in Istanbul, but Taylor knew they couldn’t keep talking about it forever. Eventually the watchman would have to make his rounds. He looked at his watch again and then looked at George.

“I’ll use the gun,” whispered George.

Oh shit, thought Taylor. He’s going to shoot open the lock.

George reached into his bag and pulled out a small black snub-nosed object with a large trigger. Taylor was reaching to stop him when George put his finger to his lips.

“Take it easy. It’s just a Lockaid gun,” he said. The gun in question was an automatic pick, sold under the name Lockaid, whose trigger activated a small, straight pick that snapped up sharply against the pins. The only problem with it was that it was noisy.

Downstairs, the voices were louder. Hasan’s thirty minutes were almost up. The watchman was apologizing profusely. He had enjoyed the conversation very much, thank you, brother, and the whiskey, but now he must make his rounds. Hasan was offering him one last drink, but the watchman was declining. Taylor leaned toward George. “Now,” he whispered.

George smiled vaguely. He inserted the gun into the lock and pulled the trigger. SPROING. George turned the tension tool and the second dead bolt opened.

There were footsteps below. The watchman was beginning his tour of the first floor. Taylor nudged George, who eased open the door. The three tiptoed inside and closed it behind them. The watchman was climbing the stairs. Taylor motioned for everyone to lie down on the floor, behind some large pieces of furniture, until the watchman had passed. They were lying there, listening to the watchman’s footsteps, when Taylor remembered the rope ladder.

The footsteps grew louder. Then they stopped. The watchman was at the window. There was a creaking noise that Taylor didn’t recognize at first. Then he realized that it was the sound of the window opening. Disaster. The watchman had seen the ladder; now he must be looking to see where the culprits had come from. Taylor listened to the rise and fall of George’s breathing for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he heard something unmistakable. It was the thin, vaporous sound of a man urinating. The night watchman hadn’t discovered the ladder after all. He was pissing out the window. He must be very drunk, Taylor reasoned. Urinating out a window was something a sober Turk would never do.

The rest was easy. Taylor located the chair in question. It was a magnificent old Ottoman piece, intricately carved and stained a deep, rich brown. Inlaid in the wood were pieces of mother-of-pearl in handsome Oriental designs. Say what you like about old Kunayev, thought Taylor. He has good taste in furniture. George set up his portable workshop. From the canvas bag emerged a small high-intensity light, a silent high-speed drill, a palette of varnishes in different shades, and finally a small metal box containing his electronic treasures.

Taylor watched him with genuine admiration. George executed each task gently and lovingly. First he drilled a small hole four inches deep into one of the legs of the chair. Into