Mrs. Witherspoon remained frozen. Her glazed, unflinching expression did little to conceal her desire to see Hasan’s visitors leave. She escorted them to the door, and waited until they had made their way more than a hundred yards down the lane before she closed it.
Despite their distance from the cabin, Miller kept his voice low.
“Did you get it?”
“Every word,” Bogner said. He patted the briefcase.
“From the time Witherspoon opened the door until she closed it. Everything is on tape.”
Chapter Three
The man who had become Taj Ozal sat in the lobby of the Empress Zoe, watching the flurry of activity at the hotel’s registration desk, thankful the meeting had been scheduled late in the afternoon.
The previous day’s call had been unexpected.
He had met the man known as Concho Banks only a week earlier and knew little about him. Consequently, the late hour of the meeting had given him an opportunity to do a little background checking. What he learned was that Banks, like him, was a little-known figure in the Istanbul community. He was believed to be an American, and assumed to have some sort of connection to the U.S. government. Beyond that, information was sketchy and conflicting.
Now Banks was late and Ozal had decided the reason could be nothing more than traffic. It was difficult to get around Istanbul during rush hour, especially if one found it necessary to drive. And even though Banks claimed to have been in Istanbul for six months, Ozal doubted that he knew his way around the city.
Still, Taj Ozal was mildly concerned, although his training and temperament kept him from revealing that fact. In truth he was still adjusting to his new identity and, other than periodically reviewing what would eventually be expected of him, he had little to occupy his time until the one called Solkov informed him that the second phase of his real reason for being in Istanbul was about to begin.
Philosophically, the man who now called himself Taj Ozal had never known anything but Communism.
He was the only son of an officer in the Russian Army and the firstborn of a mother who taught mathematics at the Technical University in Moscow. Both had been and continued to be strong Party advocates.
Following the completion of his education at the Institute of Languages, he had been recruited by the KGB. Now, at forty-three years of age, he was a remnant of Moscow’s past: unmarried, independent, harboring no political ambitions, and seemingly constantly turning his back on anything resembling a career or steady occupation.
His parents, unaware that their son was still a staunch Party activist, described him as one of the new generation of Russians, suspended somewhere between the most recent economic revolution and the teachings of Lenin.
As the time passed the four-thirty mark, Doron kin waited, occupying himself by admiring a fashionable dark-complexioned woman in a gray suit and carrying a notebook computer. If asked, he would have guessed she worked for one of the banks in Istanbul. As in his mother country, women in Turkey were finding a place for themselves in the financial community of the new economies.
The woman, Ozal finally decided, had that look about her.
Across from him, an older man was engrossed in deep conversation with a younger woman. Like the one he imagined to be a banker, this woman was also attractive. In the process of becoming Ozal, he had discovered something about himself; he enjoyed women, especially if they were beautiful and appeared to be successful. As a result, he had begun toying with the idea of calling Saba, a young woman he had met at the health services center, to see if she would accept an invitation to dinner. He was reasonably certain Solkov would not approve.
He was still amusing himself with that thought when he saw Concho Banks hurrying across the lobby. Although he had only met him on two other occasions, the American seemed to wear a perpetually purposeful expression.
“Sorry I’m late,” Banks apologized.
“The damn traffic in this town is worse than New York.”
Doronkin had never been to America, let alone New York, so the only thing he knew about New York traffic was what he saw on television. He wondered idly if the real Ozal had been to America and how he would respond. Instead of dwelling on the deplorable traffic conditions, he invited Banks to join him in a pilsner.
Concho Banks accepted, motioned for Ozal to follow him, and headed for a small, semiprivate alcove just off of the hotel’s lobby. Ozal was curious.
He intended to make careful note of how the conversation with Banks began — if for no other reason than to test Solkov’s knowledge.
“The first thing he will do,” his countryman had assured him, “is inquire about your health.” Then he added, “Americans know of no other way to begin a conversation.”
When they were seated, Banks looked across the table, opened his briefcase, and laid an envelope on the table.
“So, my friend, how have you been?” he asked.
Ozal shrugged. One more thing he remembered learning from Solkov. Noncommittal answers were best. Americans, Solkov said, tended to belabor their small talk. Instead of responding, he waited for Banks to get on with the reason for their meeting.
The waiter who had followed them into the alcove returned with two bottles of Efes Pilsen.
Banks hurried a sip and extracted a small wad of Turkish lira notes. He paid for the drinks and gave the old man a large tip.
“See that we are not disturbed,” he instructed.
When they were alone, Banks opened his briefcase a second time and took out a copy of the English-language Turkish Daily News. He laid it on the table and pointed to the headline: Red Crescent Finds Evidence of Further Kurd Genocide in Iraq.
Ozal shook his head, shrugged again, and looked across the table.
“Are you waiting for my reaction?”
Banks nodded.
Ozal placed his hands on the table.
“What do you want me to say? That it’s a tragedy? That I’m outraged? That the Iraqis should be hauled before a world tribunal?”
Concho Banks, a man with pinched features and rimless spectacles, leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“As a human being you should say all of that and more.”
Doronkin realized that the real Ozal would be cautious, but he saw no harm in expressing his opinion.
“If your concern is about the Kurds, the Turkish people, like so many others in this part of the world, view them as a people without a country.
The Iraqis have tried to rid themselves of the Kurds for years. When it isn’t Iraq, it’s the Syrians.
There is no shortage of grief for the Kurds. It has been that way for centuries.”
Banks was shaking his head.
“You misunderstood me. The treatment of the Kurds is not my concern. Where this most recent incident took place, however, is my concern.”
Doronkin studied the small map adjacent to the article in the newspaper.
“Your concern is Ammash?”
Banks smiled.
“Yes. Tell me about Ammash.”
The man who now presented himself as Taj Ozal was aware that the man he had killed traveled frequently in Iraq. He sat back in his chair and considered his words carefully.
“The area around Ammash is mountainous, thinly peopled, and underdeveloped, populated predominantly by Kurds and sheep. What else do you need to know?”
Banks moved around to the other side of the table until he was sitting next to Doronkin. At the same time he was checking to make certain no one was close enough to overhear their conversation.