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

own loony direction? It wasn’t that he was intimidating. He was a fat, ugly little man with no appeal or charm, and Anna half suspected that she could break his arm if she had to. It was that he refused to play by the rules. He was the kind of man Anna loathed, the kind she had been smart and pretty and wellborn enough to have avoided dealing with her entire life. Now she hadn’t that luxury.

“Listen to me,” said Anna carefully. “I have a message from my friends at the embassy.” At the mention of the word “embassy,” Ascari seemed to cool off. He sat back in his chair. “My friends,” she continued, “said they were very interested in the information you gave me when we met before. They asked me to meet you again.”

“Interested?” He beamed.

“Yes. Very interested.”

“Thanks be to Allah! How much money will they pay me?”

“They’re not ready to talk about money yet.”

“I am so sorry, then,” said Ascari. “No money, forget it.” He folded his arms and pouted, as if he had been cruelly insulted. I hate dealing with this man, thought Anna. I hate it! Yet she was a professional, or wanted to be, and he was a client.

“Calm down,” she said. “I didn’t say no money. I just said not yet.”

“No money, forget it,” repeated Ascari.

“I’ll tell that to my friends at the embassy. But first, they say they need to know more about you.”

“Yeah. Okay. Fine. What they want to know?” He adjusted his ascot. He was vain, for such an ugly man.

“When were you born?” asked Anna.

“In 1940, 1942. I don’t remember.”

“What does your passport say?”

“Which one?”

“How many do you have?”

“Two, I think. No, three.”

“Where are they from?”

“One from Iran.”

“Do you have it? Let me see it, please.”

“Yeah, okay. Fine.” He gave her the Iranian passport. She began copying the information in a small spiral notebook.

“Hold on!” said Anna sharply. “It says here you were born in Baku, in Soviet Azerbaijan.”

“That is right. Baku.”

“How did you get to Iran?”

“It was during the war. Everybody went everywhere. No problem.”

“But what was your father doing in Baku?”

“He live there, lady. That was home, okay? But not now. Ali Ascari’s home is Tehran. Understand?”

She looked at him dubiously. “Where are the other passports from?”

“One from Spain, I think.” He fished around in the alligator-skin purse he carried and removed a Spanish passport. It looked brand-new. Anna wrote down the information, none of which matched what was on the Iranian passport. The Spanish passport said he had been born in Madrid.

“Nice job,” said Anna, handing the passport back to Ascari.

He looked at her strangely. “Thank you,” he said.

“What’s the third?”

“Greek,” said Ascari. “But I keep this one. I have to have some secrets, even from you, lady, and your friends at embassy.”

“They’ll be upset when I tell them that you wouldn’t show it to me.”

“Eh. So what.”

Anna decided to let it go. Two passports were enough for now. Baku was a potential problem, but let headquarters worry about it.

“I like that dress,” said Ascari, leaning forward in his chair again. “Brown is very nice color for you.”

Ignore him, thought Anna. Don’t answer. Stick to your game. “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“Business,” said Ascari.

“What kind?”

The Iranian leaned closer to Anna, so that she could smell the garlic on his breath, not quite covered by the mint smell of his mouthwash. She cocked her ear, thinking he would confide the nature of his work. But no.

“Lady,” he said. “I know that you want to sleep with me.”

Anna pulled back with a start. “You’re wrong!” she said. “Flat wrong! And I told you, I am not going to permit this kind of talk.”

“You know how I know?” continued Ascari, oblivious to Anna’s protest. “I know because you call me back. After I put my hand on your knee. So I say to myself, if this American lady not CIA lady, and she let me put my hand on her knee, then she must like me very much. Or she want money. Do you want Ali’s money?” He winked as he said it.

“No,” said Anna through her teeth. “I do not.”

“Then you must like me very much. Then you will sleep with me. I am happy. We will drink champagne.”

“No! We will not drink champagne. And I certainly will not sleep with you. That is out of the question. Do you hear me?”

Anna worried that she was beginning to sound hysterical. But even the waiter didn’t pay any attention. The few people in the restaurant seemed to assume that any Western woman with a man like Ascari was asking for trouble. Hold on, Anna told herself. Keep cool.

“I have surprise for you,” said Ascari sweetly. “For your friends at embassy, I mean. Big surprise.”

“That’s nice,” said Anna. “But first let’s finish with your background. What is your occupation?”

“Business. I told you.”

“But what kind?”

“You know, business. Any kind. If you want to buy, I sell. If you want to sell, I buy. You know. Business.”

“Why don’t we just say ‘trader,’ ” said Anna. She opened her little spiral notebook again and wrote: Trader. As she did so, she noticed that Ascari had leaned over and was looking at her legs.

“You know what?” he asked.

“No. What?”

“I hate panty hose. Hate them.”

“Shut up!” said Anna. Her voice was almost a shout.

“You know why?”

“Shut up! Stop it!” She could feel herself losing control.

“Because,” he said with a giggle, “you can’t get finger inside!”

“You slimy bastard!” She slapped him, hard. Then she walked to the ladies’ room.

Anna doused her face with cold water and considered the situation. She was furious, as much at herself as at Ascari. It was her fault that she had lost control, first of him, then of her own feelings. She felt humiliated and abused, but worse than that, she felt incompetent. After a few moments of sober reflection, she decided it was time to cut her losses. For some bizarre reason, Ascari had her