Siro by David Ignatius (classic novels to read .txt) 📗

adris,” said the woman, pointing to the apartment on the third floor.

“Spasiba, spasiba,” said Anna, handing the driver a five-ruble note.

She got out of the car and looked around. The streets were empty and quiet. The city was asleep. She saw no sign that she had been followed, but then, in deference to Stone’s advice, she hadn’t been watching. She looked up at Aram’s third-floor apartment. It was dark. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was with another woman. It didn’t matter. She only needed to tell him two words: Don’t go.

Anna looked carefully, left and right, and then stepped into the entryway of the building. She climbed the stairs as quietly as she could. When she reached the third floor, she stood on the landing a moment, letting her eyes get accustomed to the dark, and then tapped quietly on the door.

No answer. Come on, you bastard, open the door. She knocked louder, still trying to avoid rousing the neighbors, and then louder still. She heard a door open on the floor above, and saw the lights switch on across the hall. But still there was no response from Aram. She gave one last, loud knock, and then sat down on the stairs to ponder her options.

She had half decided to sit there on the steps and wait for Aram to come home. But that possibility faded when the door across the hall opened and a nosy-looking old woman in a frayed bathrobe stuck her head out and stared at Anna. She would have stayed there anyway—damn the old woman—but the door opened again several minutes later. It was the same old woman, but this time she was making a motion with her hands, as if to sweep Anna away. Anna suspected that if she stayed, the woman would summon the militia.

Hastily, Anna scribbled out a message on one of her traveler’s checks, the only clean piece of paper she could find in her wallet. She wrote it in French, their lingua franca. She tried to compose it in a way that would be obvious enough for Aram to understand, but not so obvious that it would incriminate him if someone else read it first. It read: “Hello, my darling. I’m in town for a quick visit. The friend you were going to meet tomorrow has unfortunately caught a cold. I’m staying at the Armenia Hotel. I ache for you.” She threw in that last phrase for cover, but she realized, as she wrote it, that it was also true. She did ache for him. She folded the check in half and slipped it under the door.

It was now almost one o’clock. Back at the hotel, the hall ladies who monitored each guest’s coming and going would be waiting up for her. If she didn’t come back soon, they would probably sound the alarm. Anna loitered a few more minutes across the street, hoping that Aram would show up, and then gave up. Where was he? Probably sleeping with some dark-haired Armenian woman. Or more likely, Anna decided, he was with some of his friends planning the next day’s rendezvous.

Anna walked back to the main street, feeling very conspicuous. Fortunately, a cab drove up after several minutes, and Anna was back at the hotel by one-thirty. The night desk clerk gave her a naughty wink. She set her alarm for five-thirty but lay awake more than an hour, assembling the pieces of her plan of action.

44

Anna got up at dawn on November 10. She showered, dressed, and was downstairs by six-fifteen. Fortunately, the desk clerk was on duty. Unlike the stolid Slavic personnel who manned the Intourist hotel in Moscow, he had a friendly, slightly larcenous look about him. God bless the Armenians, thought Anna.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” said the clerk. “What we need, please?”

“I would like to go sightseeing today.”

“Intourist,” he said, motioning down the hall. “Service bureau open nine-thirty.”

“Yes, but I want something special,” said Anna. “Not just the regular Intourist tour.”

“Something special?” he asked, lifting his eyebrow.

“Yes. I want to see the old monastery at Khor Virap, where St. Gregory the Illuminator was kept underground.”

“Not so good trip. Not permitted trip. Khor Virap near border. Restricted area.”

“Yes, I know,” said Anna sweetly. “But my Armenian friends said I could probably arrange a special trip. You know, for dollars?”

“For dollars?” He looked around to make sure that nobody had heard. That was a good sign, thought Anna. He was already a co-conspirator.

“Yes,” she said. “If that’s all right. Do you know anybody who could help me arrange a special tour like that?”

“Car we got,” said the desk clerk. “My brother has very nice car. Maybe I call him. If it is a very special trip.” He said the word “very” with some emphasis, as if it signified an extra twenty dollars.

“Could your brother take me in his car? That would be wonderful. I have a friend who may want to come along, too. Maybe we could stop and pick him up on the way.”

“Why not.”

“And one more thing. I would love to visit some of the little villages in the Ararat district. There is one I am told is very beautiful, called Kiarki.”

“Why not,” he repeated. He lowered his voice. “Not telling anybody, please. This business for us.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“When you go?”

“Now,” she said.

“Now?” He looked at his watch.

“Yes, please. I want to see Ararat at dawn.”

The desk clerk shrugged his shoulders, picked up the phone, and called his brother. The only word Anna made out was “dollar.” He showed up thirty minutes later driving a shiny red Zhiguli sedan. He was a burly man with a big mustache who spoke some English and said he worked at the cognac plant. A serious crook, thought Anna. His name was Samvel.

Anna got in the back seat, then realized that she would attract attention there and moved up to the front, next to Samvel.