“People tell me that you have met with Baddour. Tell me what you know about Nasrat Pharmaceutical and the military installation just across the road from Nasrat.”
The question took Doronkin by surprise. Here was an American asking him about the very area he had been required to study in his preparations for coming to Istanbul. Again he exercised caution.
“You know as much about Nasrat as I do,” he began.
“It is, what is the term you Americans like to use for such a company, a multinational?”
Banks shook his head.
“That isn’t what I meant.
More specifically, what kinds of products does the plant in Ammash manufacture?”
Doronkin tried to conceal his astonishment.
“Products? I would imagine they produce a wide variety of health-care drugs. After all, it is…”
Banks distracted him by pointing to the envelope.
“Let me repeat my question, what kinds of—”
“I find humor in this,” Ozal interrupted.
“America, the land of spy satellites and an intelligence network that I am told is second to none, and self-appointed monitor of world morals and affairs, is asking a humble Turk what goes on at Nasrat Pharmaceutical in Ammash. I find that both curious and amusing.”
Banks pursed his lips, took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and lit one.
“I can give you the dimensions of the buildings at Nasrat. I can tell you how many railroad cars are parked on the siding.
I can tell you the name of the facility’s superintendent.
I can even tell you how many boxcars and trucks come and go from their shipping docks in a twenty-four-hour period. But I cannot tell you what they are producing.”
“And this is of interest to you?”
Banks lowered his voice.
“I know people who would pay a great deal of money for that information.”
Sergi Doronkin assumed the role he had been trained for. He became Ozal.
“Does the name Salih Baddour mean anything to you?”
Banks smiled.
“Are you telling me that Nasrat is a front for General Salih Baddour’s activities?”
Ozal knew he had to be careful. The real Taj Ozal was reported to have had contact with Baddour as recently as a year ago. The question remained: How well did Baddour remember the man from that brief meeting? The fact that the Party was convinced he could pass for Ozal was the pivotal reason the Party had selected him for the mission.
“I have no such information.”
“But you know him and you are aware of the rumors that Salih Baddour will someday soon attempt to take over the entire Iraqi military?”
Still Ozal waited.
“And not just the military; the entire country perhaps?”
Finally Sergi Doronkin relented. He knew the real Ozal would respond. But how?
“I have heard rumors,” he finally admitted, “and while I am somewhat familiar with what you suggest, I would have no way of knowing Salih Baddour’s real intentions. Like you, I merely draw conclusions from what I read in the newspapers. I will admit, however, that between the rumors and what I read, what you suggest is a reasonable assumption.”
Concho Banks glanced at the envelope again.
“There are one million TLs in that envelope,” he said, “all of which can be yours in return for a small favor.”
“A small favor?”
“There is more where that comes from,” Banks assured him.
“What kind of small favor?”
“When we met a week ago, you indicated you made your living by arranging matters and by introducing people, Mr. Ozal. I have friends that believe the death of those Kurds”—he stabbed his finger at the headlines—“is the direct result of weapons being developed by Nasrat.”
“I have no such knowledge,” Ozal said.
“Regardless, these friends would like the opportunity to meet with Baddour.”
“For what purpose?”
“I can only tell you this much. If these reports are true, my friends may want to do business with General Baddour and his associates at Nasrat.”
Doronkin was again surprised by Banks’s directness.
He lowered his voice before he spoke, using the precise words Solkov had rehearsed with him. “As you have already said, I consider myself an information merchant. What you ask may be outside of the realm of my abilities. I know nothing of—”
“All you have to do is get me inside that facility.
I’ll take care of the rest.”
Doronkin studied the bland-faced, slender man sitting across from him. This American who called himself Concho Banks looked like anything but a risk-taker. He could have passed for an accountant, a merchant, or even a diplomat — but not a risk-taker. It was hard for him to imagine Banks in the role of a man who would undertake such a mission.
“When would such an undertaking take place?”
he finally asked.
“As soon as I get the go-ahead from my colleagues.
In a few days — perhaps sooner.”
“Good. I will consider what you ask. If I decide to do this small favor, I will need time to make arrangements.”
Banks smiled, picked up the newspaper, and stuffed it back in his briefcase, pushed himself away from the table, and stood up. The remains of his cigarette smoldered in the ashtray.
“I will be in touch,” he said.
Doronkin watched Banks thread his way through the bar, and decided to finish his beer.
The commissary at ISA was located in the building’s basement. Bogner considered the food little more than tolerable and avoided it whenever possible.
So when Clancy Packer ordered a double portion of the meat loaf, Bogner winced.
“Isn’t there an old Pennsylvania Dutch saying about a man being what he eats?” Bogner joked.
Packer looked sheepish. “I know. I know. Trust me. Sara and I are attending a reception tonight at the Howards’,” he admitted.
“That means all I’m going to get to eat until I get home tonight is a couple of goddamned crackers, smeared with a paste made out of God knows what, and a watered-down martini. As bad as this stuff is, I’m counting on it to hold me over.”
Bogner was still smiling when they settled on a table, disposed of their trays, and sat down. While
Packer attacked his meat loaf, Bogner suspiciously poked at his ham on rye and looked around the room. They were early and the commissary dining room was nearly empty. The noon rush, if it could be called a rush, would come later.
“So what’s this all about?” Packer asked.
“You’re the one that said you wanted to talk to me.”
“I know I just got back from Hawaii, Pack, but I’d like to take a few days off.” When Packer looked up, Bogner’s expression was one of uncertainty.
“Joy and I are planning a few days in Paris.”
Clancy Packer laid his fork down and smiled.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in days, T. C. Paris, huh? Is this something I’m supposed to keep under my hat, or is it all right to tell Sara?”
Bogner ignored the sandwich and picked at his salad.
“I guess I wish you wouldn’t say anything to anyone. Let’s see how it turns out first. There’s been a hole in this bucket for a long time.”
Clancy and Sara Packer had known Joy and T. C. Bogner for years. Clancy was even their daughter. Kim’s, godfather, a fact he was proud of. When the news broke that T. C. and his bride were dissolving their marriage, it hit the Packers as hard as it had hit the couple’s parents.
“It’s your call, T. C.” but I don’t think anything would make Sara happier. As you well know, you and Joy are the kids we never got around to having.”