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specify. If Munzer needed to contact Taylor urgently, he should go to a pay phone, call Taylor’s home in Arnavutkoy, and leave a message on the answering machine that Mr. Sukru was calling and the rug was ready to be picked up. In that case, Taylor would meet him the next morning in the gardens of the Sultanahmet mosque. In a real emergency, Taylor could receive telephone calls at the consulate. And Munzer could always crash the American compound. He was, after all, an American citizen.

Munzer’s job in Istanbul, Taylor advised, would be to set up the headquarters for a new Turkestani independence movement. The Uzbek came prepared. He brought with him from New York his framed portrait of Mustafa Chokay and a similar portrait of Ali Merdan Topcubasi, one of the leaders of the Moslem rebels who fought the Red Army in the 1920s. Munzer hung these icons on the wall of his new living room the night he arrived. He also displayed a large map he had brought from home, a sort of Turkestani version of the famous Saul Steinberg cartoon that shows the world ending just the other side of the Hudson River from Manhattan. In this case, it was a map of Central Asia that showed a vast expanse labeled Turkestan, dwarfing the neighboring regions of Russia and China. The final item decorating Munzer’s new headquarters was the strangest. It was a favorite quotation from a Naqshbandi sheikh from the North Caucasus named Uzun Haji, who had fought fanatically against the Russians—both sides, Red and White—in the first years after the Revolution. The quotation, written in the Arabic of the Koran, read: “I am weaving a rope to hang engineers, students and in general all those who write from left to right.”

Taylor knocked on the door at ten the next morning. “Is Mr. Yakub there?” he asked, following the prearranged script.

“No, this his brother,” came the almost grammatical reply.

Taylor waited a few moments, trying to remember if there was another phrase in the recognition code. He didn’t think so, but he had thrown away the index card on which the dialogue was written. He knocked on the door again. Still it didn’t budge.

“Open the door, please,” he said gently. He could hear the rustle of a human body on the other side of the portal, but it stayed closed.

“Open the goddam door.”

Munzer opened the door a crack, just enough to see that it was Taylor, who quickly entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

The Uzbek had a look of reproach on his round face. “You not say password,” he chided.

“What did I forget?”

“You forget to say at end: ‘May I come in?’ ”

“Oh shit. Was I supposed to say that?”

“Yes, my friend. I say: ‘No, this his brother,’ then you say: ‘May I come in?’ Then I open door. You forget, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Taylor. “But it doesn’t matter. Here we are. It’s nice to see you in Istanbul. I’m glad you arrived safely.” He shook Munzer’s hand.

“Welcome to house of Munzer,” said the Uzbek. With a flourish, he ushered Taylor into the living room, newly hung with posters and portraits. “Welcome also to new headquarters of Turkestani Liberation Front.”

“Very nice,” said Taylor, surveying the room. He nodded respectfully toward the portraits of Mustafa Chokay and Ali Merdan Topcubasi, and then pointed to the quotation from Uzun Haji. “That looks interesting. What does it say?”

“Ah, that,” said Munzer, smiling warily in a way that Taylor would have recognized—had he known him better—meant he was about to tell a lie. “It says: ‘Long live heroic struggle of Turkestani peoples.’ ”

“Bravo.”

“Come, Mr. Goode. Sit down, please, you are my guest. I do not have tea or coffee, sorry. You like water maybe? Or I go out and buy coffee? Or cigarettes?”

“I’m fine,” said Taylor, smiling at Munzer’s earnest attempt at hospitality. “We have business to do.”

“Yes. Okay. Munzer is ready.”

“Let’s start by setting the time and place for our next meeting. That way, if we have to break off suddenly, we’ll know how to make contact.”

Munzer nodded.

“Our next meeting will be in three days. We’ll meet at the same time, ten o’clock, in Yildiz Park. You know where that is?”

“Yeah, sure. I find.”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the fountain above the entrance. If I have my arms crossed when you see me, like this”—Taylor folded his arms—“that means there’s a problem, I’m being followed or something, and you shouldn’t approach me. You should come back to the same place the next day, an hour later. Got that?”

“No problems. Munzer remember this spy talk from before.”

“And on your way there, check to make sure you aren’t being followed,” said Taylor. He omitted the usual admonition not to be too obvious in watching your tail. In this case, what did it matter?

Munzer nodded gravely. “Okay, okay.”

“Are you comfortable here?”

“Oh yes!”

“Did you find someone to take care of your store in Queens while you’re gone?”

“My sons. One son is engineer. He take leave. One son study to be lawyer. He take vacation. One son in medical school. I let him stay. Business is doing. No problems.”

“Good. Now I’d like to talk to you about your assignment.”

“I am ready for anything. Climb mountains, swim Black Sea. Whatever you say. This is big chance to help my dear peoples.”

“Glad to hear it. But right now, all I want you to do is establish contact with some of your old Turkestani friends here in Istanbul. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Who will you go see?”

“Editor of Great Turkestan magazine is friend of Munzer from old days. His name Hasan Khojaev. Maybe I go see him?”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“Of course. He friend of Munzer’s. What I can tell him about new Turkestani movement, please?”

“Not much for the time being,” said Taylor. He knew that was impossible. Munzer would say something to the magazine editor. But this way, it would probably come out mumbled and garbled, which was about right for now.

“I be careful,” said