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

Howard, writing her description word for word. “Now, the juicy stuff.”

“There isn’t much. The source reported a plot by Iranians close to Khomeini to assassinate presidential candidates in the 1980 campaign, including the President and members of his staff, possibly during the presidential nominating campaigns. That’s it.”

“That’s enough, sweetie,” said Howard. “Believe me, that will wake them up back home.”

“What about the fact that he was born in the Soviet Union? Is that a problem?”

“Not with me. Azerbaijanis, Iranians. What’s the difference? But put it down. It will give the CI people something to do. If it bothers anybody, they’ll scream.”

Ascari had indeed pushed the right button. It was almost as if he knew how the American government worked; as if he knew that once an agency of the American government received a threat involving assassination of the President or presidential candidates, the information achieved a different status from ordinary intelligence, so that it was no longer subject to the same standards of evaluation. After Kennedy in 1963, the one thing that no agency of the government wanted to have in its files was an assassination threat it hadn’t acted upon because it seemed too implausible.

Headquarters came roaring back overnight. Immediate, London. Priority. Bells and whistles. They wanted more information as soon as possible from Ascari and authorized aggressive further development of him, including payment of a one-time cash reward of $1,000 for the information provided thus far. They gave him a cryptonym—SDROTTEN, picked at random from a dictionary back at headquarters. And they authorized immediate travel to Istanbul by the officer handling the case, Amy L. Gunderson, who should continue to describe herself as an intermediary to the embassy.

Anna suddenly found that she was a star. Twinkle-eyed Dennis gave her a big kiss when she walked in the next morning. Later in the day, a courier arrived with a “hero-gram” from C/NE, the chief of the Near East Division. “Wish congratulate Gunderson on professional handling of tricky case. Subject of high interest and very timely. Report used in DCI morning notes and in memorandum to director of NFAC.” Best of all, Anna received a personal message from Margaret Houghton, relayed via the London station. How she had learned of the case Anna couldn’t imagine. It said simply: “Well done!” All of which made it very difficult for Anna to do what she had planned—which was to dump Ascari.

The next day a package addressed to Anna Barnes arrived at Halcyon. It was delivered by a courier, but other than the address had no markings. Anna debated what it might contain. New paperwork to support her cover identity? Insurance claim forms from the personnel department? A new training manual? She opened the package eagerly. Inside, to her surprise, she found a dog-eared old book, whose bruises suggested that it had passed through many hands before reaching its current destination. She opened the cover. The book was in a Cyrillic Turkic language, but she wasn’t sure what it was until she saw the publication data on the title page. It read: “Baku, 1967.”

The book was titled Islam din galyglary—Survivals of Islam—written by someone called M. M. Sattarov. She leafed through the pages. It appeared to be a study of current Islamic worship in Azerbaijan, including detailed descriptions of holy shrines and Sufi cults in the Soviet republic. As Anna was turning the pages, a handwritten note fell from the book. She picked it up.

“This would make a handsome gift for your new friend,” read the note. “Good luck in Istanbul.” It was signed: “Stone.”

“Bring me back some Turkish taffy,” said Howard that night, when they met to plan the next phase of the case.

“They don’t have Turkish taffy in Istanbul,” answered Anna.

“Then bring me a Turkish towel.”

“They don’t have those either.”

“Then forget it,” said Howard.

He laid out the plan. “Travel arrangements are your responsibility. Have the administrative people at Halcyon make them. Economy class, please. Put together reasonable cover for the trip. Something economic. And then get your ass over there, pronto, before Ascari goes somewhere else.”

“What about money?”

“Pay him the thousand dollars in cash.”

“He may not think it’s enough. He may want more.”

“Stall him. Tell him you need to check with your friends at the embassy. And tell him that we’re going to want to polygraph him when he gets back to London, if he wants any more money. It’s time to begin reeling this guy in.”

“Can I tell him that I’m CIA?”

“No. You’re a NOC, for chrissake.”

“Please, Howard. I really think it would be better. He already knows it anyway.”

“He doesn’t know it,” said Howard. “He suspects it. Which is different. What does it matter anyway?”

“It matters to me,” said Anna, struggling for a way to explain the special problems she had with Ascari without sounding like a whiner. “Look, I’ll be honest,” she said. “If he knows I’m agency, then maybe he won’t try so hard to hustle me. He’ll treat me as an intelligence officer, rather than as a sex object.”

“Oh, that,” said Howard dubiously. “I can check with headquarters, but they seemed pretty adamant about maintaining the fig leaf. They’re not likely to change their minds. Unless there’s a real problem.” He said “real problem” as if it were a kind of disease.

“No,” sighed Anna. “I guess it’s okay.” She put her head in her hands.

“What’s the matter, honey?” asked Howard, trying to be supportive. “You got the jitters?”

“It’s not that,” said Anna. “I’m just not sure I should be handling this guy.”

“Why not? You’re doing great so far.”

“No, I’m not. I’m doing a lousy job. The chemistry is wrong. What did you call it the other day? Rapport. There isn’t any rapport.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I hate the guy. I think he’s an obnoxious prick, and I’d be happy never to see him again.”

“Look,” said Howard. “You’re not marrying him. You’re just developing him. And so far, you’re doing great! Cheer up. You’re a star.”

“He gives me the creeps.”

“Tell you what,” said Howard, putting his arm