“I would be back in town Monday or Tuesday,” Bogner assured him. “Then I can get back on the Hastings case.”
“I’d feel like a first-class asshole if I said no,” Packer said with a grin.
“Besides, I’ve got that new gal, Ginny Harper, working on putting the information together on the Hastings matter. All things being equal, I probably wouldn’t have a file to turn over to you until midweek. Between now and then I can stall anything else that needs to be done on the matter.”
Bogner took a bite of his sandwich and relaxed.
It tasted only half as bad as he had anticipated. As for the trip to Paris, he had expected Packer to approve a few days off, but he readily acknowledged he had been out of touch with agency matters while he was in Hawaii, and up until now there hadn’t been an opportunity to sit down with Packer and go over his agenda.
“So what’s everyone up to these days?” he asked as an afterthought.
Packer’s mouth was full but he talked around it.
“All’s quiet at the moment. No doubt you read about the latest incident involving some Kurd tribesmen; N1 thinks the Iraqis are flexing their muscles and testing weapons again. U.N. inspection teams or not, it’s beginning to look and sound like we didn’t uncover all of their chemical weapons this last go-round.”
If anyone had asked, Bogner would have admitted he had heard only bits and pieces of the agency chief’s response; he was already thinking about calling Joy and telling her it was her move.
Sergi Doronkin passed the famous Muhiddin candy window, pausing just long enough to watch a group of tourists flock into the lokum shop. They were mostly American and they already had their wallets and purses open. Seldom tempted by such delicacies, he was amused; he realized that what the Americans were doing was good for the local economy, but equally bad for their teeth. He watched several more minutes before he decided to hurry on. Unlike the Americans, he had more important matters on his mind.
He passed several more shops and turned into a narrow alley lined on both sides by street vendors.
On the corner, near the dolmus station where the locals caught the area minibus, an elderly man was passing out pamphlets condemning the governments’s fiscal policies.
In the few short weeks that Doronkin had been there he had come to know this place well; he had been meeting Solkov there every other day. Solkov, he had learned, had long ago developed a taste for the restaurant’s kofta, grilled meatballs, and borek, a flaky pastry filled with sheep’s milk cheese.
He entered the restaurant, walked directly to the back of the room, and found a secluded booth in a corner. Since it was approaching ten o’clock, the restaurant was nearly empty. For the most part it catered to an older clientele, and by habit, a good many of Instanbul’s seniors dined early in the evening and then retired to their homes.
He checked briefly to make certain Solkov hadn’t already arrived; then he sat down, ordered a cup of elma cay, and waited. When the waiter returned with the apple tea, Doronkin asked the man to keep his eyes open for Solkov.
It was nine forty-five when Josef Solkov appeared.
As usual, he greeted his Russian colleague with a nearly imperceptible nod. Solkov was a heavyset, jowly man with thick, bushy eyebrows, a coarse face, yellowed teeth, a large head, no neck, and bull-like shoulders. The rest of his appearance was equally loutish. Doronkin knew little more about him than the fact that he seldom smiled.
Unlike Doronkin, Josef Solkov knew a great deal about the man he was meeting. Most of what Solkov knew was based on the reports that had been forwarded to him during Doronkin’s training.
Following long-established KGB practice, at no time during their brief association had the two men revealed anything about themselves or their private lives. What little Doronkin had been able to pick up, he had learned from the handful of people who had come in contact with him since the Russian had arrived in Istanbul. There were even rumors that Solkov kept in close contact with Afghanistan, and frequently traveled back and forth between Istanbul and his former directorate’s office there.
In truth, little had changed for Solkov, even after the Soviet Union crumbled and he received his subsequent assignment to Istanbul. He openly showed interest in Party matters back in Russia, and more recently had become involved in Party activities in Istanbul. Despite all that, the few people who knew him even slightly described Solkov as a man who lived in shadows.
Solkov took a seat, uncoiled his fingers, and folded his large hands on the table.
“I take it you have information for Solkov?”
Doronkin had become used to his Russian colleague’s brusque manner. Solkov was noticeably void of social graces.
“I have been contacted by an American,” he replied, “a man by the name of Concho Banks.”
“An American?” Solkov repeated.
“That is a good sign. You were able to pass for Ozal.”
“He has expressed interest in learning more about the Nasrat Pharmaceutical facility in Ammash. He was told that I had contacts there and he wishes me to take him there.”
“For what purpose?” Solkov demanded.
“The Americans are suspicious. There have been recent reports of renewed Iraqi chemical weapons testing. No doubt you too have read the accounts in newspapers. There are reports of the deaths of large numbers of Kurdish tribesmen.”
Solkov nodded, signaled the waiter, and placed his order just as Doronkin had predicted he would.
“And what exactly does the American want you to do?”
“He was somewhat vague, but he indicated he will make his plan known within a matter of hours, as soon as he receives approval from his superiors.”
Solkov grunted. Doronkin knew the gesture was intended to confirm the fact that he was listening.
“I wonder,” Solkov mused.
“What do the Americans really know — and what do they only suspect?”
“I have been asking myself the same question,” Doronkin admitted.
“I do know that he considers me to be nothing more than a conduit by which he can get inside the complex in Ammash. If I were to make a conjecture on what his purpose is once he gets inside the facility, I would guess that he hopes to obtain enough information to prove that the Iraqi government is building and storehousing chemical weapons.”
Solkov frowned.
“And what do you think he intends to do with such information?”
Doronkin had thought the matter-through.
“The Americans are no doubt looking for proof of Iraqi testing activities. If they find it, they will no doubt take their documentation and proof to the United Nations. Doubtless, a new round of inspections would be the result.”
“The Iraqis will not cooperate with such inspections,” Solkov said. If asked, Josef Solkov would have said he agreed with his Russian companion, the Americans were always meddling in the affairs of others. He finished the last of the kofta and borke, wiped his mouth, and sat back while the waiter cleared away the dishes.
“This American, the one you call Banks, you are convinced he is an agent of the United States government?”
“I am,” Doronkin said.
“During our conversations he repeatedly refers to his contacts in the United States — but he does not elaborate on the nature of his affiliation with them.”
“Perhaps he is like your predecessor, Mr. Ozal,” Solkov grunted.
“What was it he chose to call himself?
An information merchant?” It was the first time Doronkin could recall Solkov making even an oblique attempt at humor. Then Solkov’s face again darkened and he appeared to lapse into thought. Finally he added, “It would appear that, as our Turkish friends are prone to say, Allah has chosen to smile on our endeavors. Comrade. Your unwitting American friend just may have presented us with an opportunity to achieve our objective and blame it on the Americans. A delicious thought, nyet?”