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

for a few minutes, about the wonders of the old country and the perfidies of Stalin, which pretty much exhausted Omar’s range of interest. To hear him talk, you might think that old Joe Dzhugashvili was still running the Soviet Union. Eventually, a waiter arrived to solicit Omar’s help—a quarrel had broken out in the kitchen between a Kurdish busboy and a Sudanese dishwasher—and Omar excused himself. As he walked off, Taylor’s eyes turned back toward the American whom Omar had pointed out across the way.

“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” he said to George.

Taylor took another long drink of vodka, rose from his chair, and headed toward the bathroom. His course led him near the table where the mystery man was sitting. He was tall and tanned, with blond hair and an athlete’s body. As Taylor passed the table, he noticed that the man was talking in Turkish—not perfect, but not bad either. He gestured when he talked, reminding Taylor of one of those slick young television preachers on Sunday mornings before the football games started. Taylor visited the men’s room and then returned to his seat, curious for more information about the Turkish-speaking American but wary of tipping his hand.

“Georgie,” said Taylor, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Do some reconnaissance for me, will you? Find out who this guy is.”

“Who am I, workwise?”

“An expat businessman based in Athens.” George nodded and strode toward the American, grinning like a Shriner out for a night on the town.

“Hey, asshole!” said George as he approached the table. The blond-haired man bolted upright in his chair and whipped his head around.

“Who are you calling asshole?”

George broke into a broad smile. “Sorry, pal,” he apologized. “Just wanted to see if you were a fellow American.”

“North American,” said the blond.

“How’s that?”

“I’m a Canadian.”

“No kidding. Wow!”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Take it easy. My name’s Henry. I’m just in from Athens.” George extended a meaty hand, waiting for the younger man to introduce himself. He didn’t.

“You visiting, too?” asked George, compulsively friendly as only an American traveling abroad can be.

“I work here.”

“No kidding. What do you do? I’m a salesman myself. Electronics, from Korea.”

“I make films,” said the young man, obviously hoping that George would go away. He nodded apologetically to his two Uzbek guests.

“Oh yeah? What kind?” asked George, leaning on the table.

“Documentaries. I’m working on a film about Soviet refugees in Turkey.”

“Hey. Wow. No kidding. Who are these guys?”

“Some of my subjects. They are Uzbeks.”

“Hi, fellas,” said George. “Can I buy you guys a drink?” The Uzbeks smiled and nodded uncomprehendingly.

“No,” said the filmmaker abruptly. “I have to leave soon. We were just finishing our conversation when you interrupted us.”

“Oh, sorry. Hey, I’ll leave you alone then. You got a business card?”

The Canadian grudgingly handed him a card, hoping to get rid of him. It identified him as one Jack Rawls, employed by a concern called Filmworks, with an address in Vancouver.

“I’m from Ohio myself,” said George.

The Canadian cut him off. “Nice meeting you, asshole,” he said. He gave George a thin smile and turned back to the Uzbeks.

George returned to the dark booth, where Taylor, sitting alone, had nearly finished the bottle of vodka.

“He’s a Canadian,” said George. “His name is Jack Rawls. Or at least that’s his work name. He says he’s a filmmaker.” He handed Taylor the Filmworks business card. Taylor studied it a moment.

“Bullshit,” he said. “Whoever heard of a Canadian filmmaker in Istanbul? It’s ridiculous.”

“Definitely.”

“What’s he like?”

“Spooky,” said George. “He talks a little funny. Like a Canadian, I guess.”

“Company man?”

“Maybe,” said George. “He does sort of have the look, doesn’t he? What’s he doing here anyway?”

“Beats me. But if someone back home is running a NOC into my territory, I want to know about it. I’m sick of being jerked around.”

“Calm down, Al.”

“Fuck you,” said Taylor. He was drunk and angry, and looking to make trouble. It was a mood like the one twenty years earlier when he had stood up in his dormitory room one Saturday afternoon, unzipped his fly, and urinated out the window. Across the room, Rawls was getting up from his table and going to the bar to pay his bill.

“Listen,” said Taylor, his eyes lighting up. “Why don’t we find out where Mr. Jack Rawls lives when he’s not in Vancouver.”

“How?”

“Follow him.”

“He’ll catch us.”

“No, he won’t. My driver is a pro.”

“Not now,” pleaded George. The lights were dimming. It was almost time for Sonia’s last set of the night. The band was beginning to tune up.

“Yes, now,” said Taylor. “Come on. This is important. It’s for his own good. Rawls could get in trouble. He doesn’t know the neighborhood.”

Taylor looked over his shoulder. Rawls was near the door.

“Come on, goddammit! I promise I’ll make it up to you. I introduced you to Sonia, didn’t I?”

George moaned at the mention of her name.

“Move it!”

George was a soldier. He dutifully picked up his canvas bag and walked out behind Taylor, who was weaving slightly from the booze. As they neared the door, George caught a glimpse of the chanteuse in her stage costume, looking even more beautiful than before. “Come back,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

Rawls was already in the street, hailing a taxi. Taylor waited in the shadows until Rawls was safely off, then summoned his driver and told him to follow the taxi at a discreet distance.

The trip confirmed Taylor’s suspicions. Rawls took the taxi back across the Galata Bridge to Pera, then pulled over when he reached the divided highway that ran along the edge of the Golden Horn. He then crossed the median strip and caught another taxi—a Murat sedan with a dented door—heading in the other direction. Taylor watched carefully as this little street ballet was played out. He didn’t think Rawls had detected them, but if they continued to follow him in the same car going the other way, he surely would.

“This guy is definitely a spook!” said George. “I learned that same trick at the