Siro David Ignatius (best e ink reader for manga TXT) 📖

Taylor reached into his briefcase and removed several copies of the Mustafa Chokay pamphlet that Stone had prepared back in Washington.

“Give your friend Khojaev some of these,” he said, handing Munzer the copies of “Turkestan Under the Soviet Yoke.”

“Allah! What is this?” asked Munzer, turning the pages.

“Some of our material. Your material now.”

“This is Mustafa Chokay book! You make this for Munzer?” Taylor nodded.

“Show these to the editor, Khojaev, and to any other friends you trust, and see what they think.”

“I show to Kirdarov and Nemir Bey. These two honest peoples. No bullshit.”

“Fine. Whatever you say.”

“What I tell them about Mustafa Chokay book?”

“You can tell them there are lots more of these on their way into the Soviet Union.”

“Where from I tell them, please?”

“From Riyadh,” said Taylor with a wink.

“Yes, okay. Riyadh,” said Munzer, trying to wink back at Taylor. His eyes were so narrow it looked more like a squint.

“That’s enough for now,” said Taylor. “You get settled and talk to your friends, and I’ll see you in three days in Yildiz Park.”

On his way back from Munzer’s apartment, Taylor drove down Yeniceriler Street. He studied the apartment on the third floor, right-hand side, looking for signs of life. But there was nothing. No lights, no movement, no sign that anyone had ever lived there at all.

Taylor’s next stop was to see Sonia—the Circassian beauty who sang Oriental love songs at Omar’s place. She was a better bet than Omar himself, who was an estimable man but talked too much. Sonia was smart, she was discreet, and best of all she had once been in love with Taylor, and might be still. He called her that afternoon and asked if he could stop by her apartment in Cihangir. She was surprised, and pleased.

Taylor kissed Sonia on the lips when she answered the door. It seemed spontaneous, like most of Taylor’s calculated gestures. Sonia looked more beautiful than he had remembered. She was a slender woman, light as a feather, so delicate that she seemed to float a few inches off the floor. No wonder the Circassians had been the preferred bedmates of the Ottoman sultans for four hundred years. They were reputed, in the East, to be the most beautiful women in the world. Taylor had broken off with Sonia when he realized he was becoming infatuated with her, back in that distant other lifetime before his wife packed up and left Istanbul, when his only stipulation for a love affair was that nothing serious should come of it.

“I need your help,” said Taylor when he was seated on Sonia’s couch with a glass of vodka in his hand. During their affair, he had spent many happy, boozy hours drinking vodka and looking out her window at the ceaseless transit of boats and people along the Golden Horn.

“I hope you do not want me to escort another one of your American friends.”

Taylor shook his head.

“I would do it if you asked me to, but I hope you won’t.”

“Not this time. I need something much simpler. An Uzbek friend of mine has just arrived in Istanbul. He’s a nice old guy, loves to reminisce about the old country. He’s bound to show up at Omar’s one of these nights. When he comes, take good care of him. Treat him like someone special. You’ll like him. His name is Munzer.”

“He is a friend of yours?”

“Yes. A special friend. He’s a freedom fighter.”

“Okay, my darling. But this is too simple. What else do you want?” The light was streaming in through the window, illuminating her face so that she looked like a Byzantine angel.

“Nothing,” said Taylor.

“Please want something. I would like to make you happy.”

Taylor shook his head. It hurt to hold back from her. He could almost feel that slim feather of a body in his arms as he carried her to bed.

“Why do you stay away from me?” she asked quietly.

“Because,” said Taylor.

“Why because?”

“Because I like you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sonia closed her eyes. It was as close as she would ever get to a declaration of love from Taylor. He leaned forward. Not toward Sonia, but toward his briefcase. He took out a picture of Munzer and showed it to her.

“This is a picture of my friend. If he goes to Omar’s, treat him nice. But don’t tell anyone he’s my friend.”

Taylor put his finger to his lips. Sonia did the same.

“Shhhh,” they said together. Taylor left a few minutes later. This time he kissed her on the cheek.

Taylor sent a cable to headquarters late that afternoon, asking for traces on one Hasan Khojaev, editor of Great Turkestan magazine. The response came back late the next day. A 201 file had been opened for a man with that name and description twenty-two years ago, but it had been closed a month later because of evidence that he had occasional contacts with Turkish intelligence officers and perhaps others. Hasan Khojaev seemed to be a peddler, a man who worked hard to stay in touch with everyone and sell off small pieces of what he knew. He sounded perfect.

Munzer showed up on schedule three days later at Yildiz Park. He was wearing black-framed sunglasses, apparently in the belief that they would make him less conspicuous. In fact, they made him look like Mr. Potato-Head. Munzer took off the sunglasses when they sat down on a park bench, and Taylor could see that there was a glint of curiosity and suspicion in his eye.

“Business first,” said Taylor. “Our next meeting will be on Tuesday, five days from now. Got that? Next Tuesday. We’ll meet at two p.m. at the ferry dock at Kadikoy, on the Asian side. I’ll give you the same signal if there’s danger, with the same fallback plan. Okay?”

“Munzer will write this down, please,” he said. He took out a pen and carefully noted: Tuesday, Kadikoy, two o’clock. Taylor should have made him memorize it, but he suspected that Munzer might actually forget