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

Viktor’s manner of bemused tolerance put Anna off balance. She was going to repeat the rest of her set piece, about being an innocent tourist who had come to see her Armenian boyfriend, but decided it was pointless.

“Would you like some coffee?” asked the Russian.

“No,” said Anna.

“Pity. I am going to have some.” He went to the door of the cell and called to a guard, who returned a few moments later with a steaming cup of coffee. Real coffee, not the dreadful watery stuff the Russians served. The aroma filled the cell.

“You know, really, you should relax,” said the Russian. “It is such a pleasure for me to have a chance to talk with one of Edward Stone’s operatives. For us, Stone is a kind of spectator sport. He is such a clever man, and his operations are so subtle. To finally sit in the same room with one of his people is like meeting backstage with one of the actors in a Broadway play.”

“Give me a break,” said Anna. It was an involuntary response to the Russian’s flattery, but she regretted it instantly. It was a step toward confirmation and collaboration, and she resolved that she would not say another word of substance.

“Really, it’s true. But never mind. Stone is a great man, but he betrayed you. That is a fact. I will try to be frank about what we know about your case, so you will know where you stand. Then you can make your decisions accordingly.”

“Do whatever you like,” said Anna. “I’ve told you that I’m innocent. I’m not a spy. I don’t work for the CIA. I don’t know anyone named Stone.”

The Russian just smiled. When it was clear she had finished, he continued.

“We have spent a lot of time analyzing your case, as you can imagine, and particularly the question of why Stone decided to sacrifice you. The reason, we think, is that he was worried about getting caught—not by us, but by investigators from Congress and the agency—so he decided to create a diversion. And you were the diversion. What do you think of that?”

Anna stared at him impassively. This week, her guards were giving her cigarettes, and she took one and lit it.

“Stuff it,” she said.

“Apparently you don’t believe me. So I will pose for you a question. Do you know what your friend Mr. Stone sent to Kiarki that day for poor Dr. Antoyan?”

Anna blew a smoke ring in Viktor’s direction.

“So cocky you are! You are thinking that of course you know what Stone sent. He sent that ridiculous television antenna that Antoyan wanted. But you have missed the most important fact. The antenna was there, but there was something else. I wonder if you know what it was.”

Anna blinked and looked away, lest her eyes betray her. The Russian leaned toward her.

“Stone also sent a load of explosives in the same shipment. Czech. Very fancy. Enough to blow up half of Yerevan.”

“Bullshit,” said Anna.

“Poor thing. I think it is possible that you did not know anything about these explosives. I have always suspected that, contrary to some of my colleagues. And now looking at you, trying so hard to be brave and not give away any information, but also so obviously surprised, I am quite sure of it.”

“Bullshit,” she repeated.

“Yes, I agree. It is bullshit. But it is also true. I could show you the explosives, bring you the KGB guard who discovered them. But you wouldn’t believe me. Maybe you would like to know how we found out about this shipment to your Armenian doctor?”

“Fuck off,” said Anna. She was becoming tense and angry.

“We learned about the shipment from an old friend of yours. Can you guess who that might have been?”

Anna took another puff on her cigarette, closing her eyes as she did so.

“It was Mr. Ali Ascari,” continued the Russian. “An Iranian gentleman. I believe you first met him in London. Not a very attractive man. Too mercenary. A peddler. But still, quite helpful. He told us all about you and your fat friend Mr. Hoffman, who got mad and tried to fire him. A mistake, I think. And he told us about the other shipments of explosives, to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan.”

“Stop trying to frame me!” exploded Anna. “I told you I’m innocent of all your charges. Stop inventing these ridiculous lies.”

“Poor girl,” said the Russian again. “I wonder. Can it be that you did not know about the deliveries of explosives to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan? Your friend Mr. Hoffman knew. He gave them to Mr. Ascari, in a suitcase. But perhaps he did not tell you. I must say, honestly, I feel very sorry for you, Miss Barnes.”

“Go away,” said Anna.

“I really do feel very sorry for you. I think you did not know how dangerous your criminal activities were. But now that I have told you, you will understand why we take your case so seriously.”

He took a sip of his coffee, which was by now cold. When he put the cup down, his demeanor had changed slightly—not so friendly now, no longer the bemused professor.

“You see, Miss Barnes, we regard you not simply as a spy, but as part of a terrorist network that has been operating against the Soviet Union. The fact that you may not have been aware of the full details of this terrorist plan does not lessen your guilt. For this reason, many of my colleagues want to make an example of you—as a warning to Mr. Stone and his friends—and to seek the maximum penalty when your case comes to trial. Which in matters of terrorism, under Soviet law, is the death penalty.”

Anna shuddered involuntarily, once, then a second time. She feared for a moment she might break down and begin sobbing, but no tears came. What she felt was not self-pity but a deep, dry despair—anger toward Stone and Taylor balanced by disgust at her own mistakes. Aram Antoyan had died