Strike Force

“After I complete my due diligence and business proposal, I will,” Najar said. “But I wish to be fully prepared before I ask for a meeting. That may take a few days. That is why I requested only a ten-day business visa, with no re-entry privileges.” He withdrew and opened his wallet, letting the customs officer peek inside the billfold, revealing it fat with American dollars and Turkish new lira. “I am prepared to pay the expedited visa fee, in cash — it is four times the normal fee, is it not?” Najar knew the expedited fee was only twice the normal fee — he hoped the extra “incentive” would cause this guy to back off. He undoubtedly had most of this guy’s entire annual wages in his wallet right now.

“I see,” the customs officer intoned. He looked through the passports again, imperceptibly nodding his head. “Just so.” He got up from his chair and ordered, “Follow me.” Najar’s heart sank.

They were taken into a very small office just behind the service counter. Najar and Saidi could see no surveillance cameras — that was good. There was a long steel table in the center of the room, along with a telephone on a rickety wooden desk and inspection devices such as flashlights and rubber gloves. “Well,” the agent said after he locked the door behind them, “I think we shall have to meet with my supervisor for some additional information. We shall undoubtedly have to speak with Mr. Saparov and someone at the ministry’s office to confirm your story.”

“It is no story, sir — it is the truth,” Najar said, trying to remain calm. “But I will be happy to meet with the unit supervisor here, and I should like to inform the trade and commerce consul at the Turkish embassy of this exchange as well. I think he should be apprised at how unfairly one of its citizens is treated by Turkmenistan customs.”

The customs officer’s eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, sir? I assure you, that is most unwise.”

“Please, sir,” Azar said in crude but passable Turkmen, removing her scarf and affixing the customs officer with an imploring, desperate look, “please let my father, mother, and I come into your country.”

“Azar, no…!”

“Look, the China doll speaks!” the customs officer laughed.

Najar’s mouth tightened and his fists balled, but Azar touched his hand under the counter, ordering him to be calm. “Please, sir. My father has…he has sold everything to come here and make this deal — our home, our farm, his inheritance, everything,” Azar said. “My father is very smart and has many ways to help the people of your country, but no one at the Russian phone company or in your government minister’s office will talk to him while he is in Turkey, so we came here together. My father brought us all here to Turkmenistan as a sign of his commitment to this project — this will be our home for many years if this deal is concluded. We have no place else to go and no money other than what my father carries with him. This is our last hope. Will you please help us, sir?”

The customs officer scowled at Najar. “So, you let your female child do the pleading for you, eh, Mister Telecommunications Engineer?” he scoffed. “That is a true Turkish businessman for you. And why does she learn Turkmeni when her father does not?” Najar forced himself to lower his eyes contritely. The customs officer chuckled. “Have you declared that foreign currency yet, sir?” Najar shook his head and handed him all the money out of his wallet — he noticed how quickly the customs officer hid it from sight with his hands and with the letter of introduction. “Any more to declare?” Najar turned, and Saidi withdrew another wad of bills from a pocket inside her robes.

“Ah, just so. As I thought. Not so delicate and feminine as to stop her from hiding foreign currency from a customs agent, eh?” The customs officer counted it all, separated all of the American dollars from the rest, slipped the greenbacks into his pants pocket, counted out a thousand dollars’ worth of Turkish new lira for the visa fees, logged the remainder, handed it over to Najar, and stamped the passports. “Five days tourist visa, no re-entry,” he said. “You must apply for a business visa before you contact the ministry of communications or anyone at RuTel — if you fail to do so, you could spend six months in jail for the violation, unless of course you have your lovely daughter talk them out of arresting you. You must check in at a hotel in the capital and surrender your passport to the manager within four hours or be in violation of the terms of your tourist visa.”

He handed back the passports, then looked at Azar, smiled evilly at Najar, pursed his lips as if giving her a kiss, and added, “What pretty eyes she has. I’ll bet she drives all the boys wild.” He grinned at Najar’s suppressed anger, laughed, then shook his head toward the exit. “Welcome to Turkmenistan.” Najar again forced himself to control his anger as he took his passports, bowed politely at the laughing customs officer, and turned to go.