Strike Force

Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn’t hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.

The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.

“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.

“Only under very unusual circumstances — very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”

“No. Just business.”

“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”

“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.

“In your society it is not permitted — here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women’s frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I’d say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office’s holding cell — along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”

Najar sized up the officer, considering whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.

“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”

“Telecommunications software engineer.”

“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”

“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country’s wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”

“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”

“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover’s background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases — that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction with disdain, then said, “But what confuses me, sir, is why you would need to go through this particular person in Istanbul for a letter of introduction when you could have just as easily obtained a visa from the ministry of communications or a letter of introduction from RuTel — if you are indeed working with these agencies? This person in Istanbul is well-known to us as a letter-writing hack — he would give Satan himself a letter of introduction for a thousand dollars. Can you please explain this to me, sir?”

“Of course,” Najar said. “If I would have requested a letter from Mr. Saparov at RuTel, I would be beholden to him, and that is no way to begin any business negotiations. And I have not spoken to the minister about my deal because it has not been formalized to my shareholders’ satisfaction. We wish to go to His Honor Ashirov at the very least as equal partners with RuTel in this venture, preferably as majority partners. So the ministry was not obligated to grant us a visa since we have not been dealing with them at all yet.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. “I do not understand all this business psychology and maneuverings, but what you say makes a certain amount of sense to me.” He stamped something on the letter of introduction. “So you will be meeting with this Mr. Saparov at RuTel soon?”