The Persian Price (11 page)

She was a woman in her mid-thirties, already too fat, with four children shouting in the background. Ardalan was patient and polite. He could see that she was frightened and could easily be persuaded to say anything. He asked her when she had seen the car; her answer was vague. Some time in the last two weeks – maybe less. It hadn't stopped by the flats; she was looking out of the window – her flat was on the ground floor – and she had seen it draw up far down on the opposite side of the road and a man get out. She was surprised when he crossed over and came into the flat.

‘Naturally,' the Colonel agreed. ‘You were curious. How do you know he went to Peters's flat?'

‘Because I opened my front door and saw him go upstairs. I heard the American's voice. He said something like, “Hallo, Homsi. Come in.”'

‘Homsi,' the Colonel repeated. ‘Thank you. That's very helpful. Do you remember if this man ever came again – or had been before? Did you recognize him?'

‘No,' the woman said. ‘I'd know him again if I saw him. He only came that one time. So far as I can tell.' She glanced nervously at Ardalan, who smiled at her. He had a way of reassuring people. He stood up.

‘You've done well,' he said. ‘Very well. Now you understand one thing. You mustn't speak about this to anyone. You may tell your husband that we have been here but what you told us is to be kept secret. Otherwise you will both be in great trouble. You understand that?'

She nodded, too frightened to speak.

‘Great trouble,' Ardalan repeated. ‘But if you are silent and do what I tell you, you will be rewarded. Tell your husband so. We are going now, but I shall come again.'

In the car on the way back to his office he turned to his assistant. His name was Sabet and he had graduated from civilian police work to Ardalan's special political branch.

‘Homsi,' the Colonel murmured. ‘What nationality does that suggest to you?'

‘If it was Al Homsi, a man from Horns, he could be Syrian.'

‘Syrian. Yes. I think it could be Syrian. They are always involved with terrorism. How stupid to use a car with diplomatic plates.'

‘People get careless. He didn't think anyone would notice.'

‘The woman said he only came once. I think it was sooner than she remembers. Otherwise she wouldn't have such a clear picture in her mind.'

‘She says she can identify him,' Sabet said.

Ardalan smiled.

‘We will go through our list of members of the Syrian Embassy. We will see if we can find this Homsi.'

Logan and James Kelly were on their way to the Ministry of Economics. Their appointment with the Minister Khorvan was at ten-thirty. To Kelly's relief, Janet Armstrong was not with them. The financial director, Ian Paterson, was sitting in front with the driver. The two-tone blue Rolls Royce slid through the traffic down Shah Reza Avenue; it was baking with heat at that hour. The air-conditioning was full on inside the sealed car.

‘Half the cost,' Logan said. ‘We can start with that.'

Kelly saw Paterson's face in the driver's mirror. It looked grim and disapproving.

‘He'll turn it down,' James said. He felt gloomy himself and irritable. He had put in a call to London early that morning and been told that Eileen had gone to Ireland. He didn't know the number and had no way of finding out. He could only hope she would contact him. He was prepared to quarrel with the Minister because he couldn't vent his feelings on Logan. Or that bloody woman, stuck up under all their noses. He really hated Janet Armstrong and he hadn't been trying to hide it. Whenever he saw her asserting herself in the meetings, which Logan insisted she attend, James's temper began to seethe. She was so sure of herself, so competent. He couldn't fault her opinions either and this angered him more. Logan spent every evening out of the house; he hadn't suggested bringing Janet there and James was thankful for that much tact. But he came back in the small hours, and twice he didn't return at all. He looked tired out and taut with nervous tension. By comparison the woman looked triumphant and serene.

‘He'll turn it down,' he repeated.

Logan looked at him, frowning.

‘So you've just said. All right. He turns it down. This is a bloody poker game. He wants to get the top out of us and we know we can't pay it. Not until we've had more time to work on the figures. So we play for that time.'

‘No amount of time will make that a viable proposition.' Paterson, an outspoken Scot, turned round in his front seat. ‘It can't be done,' he said. ‘And no Board would sanction it. We'd be paying them for the right to bring their oil to the surface, and getting nothing out of it ourselves.'

Logan leaned a little forward.

‘You let me worry about the Board. We're not going to lose this field, no matter how tough the deal.'

‘I was thinking,' Kelly said, ‘that in view of the importance to Western economy, we might consider asking for joint American and English subsidies.'

‘We daren't bring in the Americans,' Logan said. ‘Or we'd risk losing the deal to Exxon. As for getting anything out of our present government – you must be joking! When have they ever supported business interests? The bloody civil service thinks profit is a dirty word; wouldn't be any better if we had the other lot in power either. I'd go to Japan before I started farting round Whitehall.'

He hunched himself back into the upholstery. His expression was truculent. Kelly decided to let his condemnation of the civil service pass unchallenged. He knew Logan in this kind of mood and nothing was going to get him out of it until he saw Khorvan.

‘In fact,' Logan said suddenly, ‘that might not be a bad idea. Japan is starving for oil. They are totally dependent on oil and haven't got a barrel – and they've got plenty of money. They might be the people to enter into agreement with us over Imshan.'

Kelly didn't want to admire him but he couldn't help it. Logan had this genius for throwing off ideas, for seeing a solution which was so simple it was ridiculous someone else hadn't thought of it first. But they never did. It needed Logan's unique combination of ruthless logic and dashing inspiration. Ian Paterson had twisted round in his seat again and was looking at his chairman, his mouth pursed up. He could hardly be described as a man given to quick enthusiasms.

‘Japan might be a possibility,' he conceded.

Logan ignored him. He was furious with Paterson for emphasizing the difficulties which he already knew. The reference to his dependence upon the Board would rankle for a long time. Democratic processes like voting at board meetings didn't appeal to him. His authority and his methods usually assured him of getting his own way. Kelly had seen him once chairing an Annual General Meeting during the second Arab – Israeli war and been mesmerized by his approach to opposition. The rare smile, the genial wit, and above all the overbearing sense that he knew what was best, had silenced critics from the floor and given him a complete mandate to meet the crisis as he thought fit. He was a different man from the brusque, autocratic chairman of the giant oil company, or the husband of Eileen, not quite a gentleman, at home in Eaton Square. There were so many facets to him, none of them appealing to Kelly, and yet he was fascinated. He could afford to be, without that unpleasant feeling of being patronized. He was going to marry Logan's wife. He didn't know how long it would take; he was just certain that it was going to happen.

The car drew up outside the Ministry and they got out. In his first-floor office, Khorvan told his secretary to keep them waiting. He had a cup of Turkish coffee he wanted to finish; also he was hoping to irritate Logan Field by the discourtesy. He wondered what solution, if any, they had thought of to his impossible proposal. A refinery costing another three hundred million dollars. Khorvan smiled as he drained the tiny silver cup. Actually, he thought it was a better idea than the high standard of township and amenities which were already in the terms. His people didn't need swimming pools and recreational centres. They wouldn't appreciate luxuries which were unrelated to their experience of life. Food, money and a woman. That was the basic requirement of the Iranian worker. Add a corner of land to till, no matter how dry and back-breaking, and you had satisfied the peasant. It would take years of reeducation to change the attitudes of his people and Khorvan despised the instant methods practised by the West. All that resulted was waste and corruption. America had poured out billions in foreign aid after the last war and only intensified the envy and contempt of those they imagined they were indoctrinating. Khorvan believed that the slow process of Marxist socialism provided the only solution to the underdeveloped peoples of the world.

He had sent a message to the Soviet Trade Secretary, telling him to delay the departure of the Russian technical team which had been hanging around Tehran for weeks, hoping that negotiations between the Government and Imperial Oil would come to grief. When his demands were not met – and he knew that Logan Field was capable of bluffing till the last moment – he could gently re-introduce the Russians. He hoped profoundly that Logan Field could be induced to offer him a bribe. That would establish the purity of his motives when he exposed the offer to the Shah. He intended to hint that a gift might influence him. He pressed the buzzer for his secretary. The same beautiful girl came in; she was not Khorvan's mistress, although the idea occurred to him when he wasn't too busy. He admired her elegant dress, and saw the expectant gleam in her eyes.

‘Send in the gentlemen from Imperial Oil,' he said. He lit a cigarette and stood up, holding his hand out to Logan Field. Chairs were disposed for them and Logan took the one nearest Khorvan's desk. Kelly sat next to him, with Ian Paterson on his left. Khorvan smiled politely at Logan.

‘My apologies for keeping you,' he said. ‘I was very occupied. Tell me, how is your beautiful wife?'

‘I'm afraid she had to go back to England,' Logan said. ‘Our daughter wasn't well.'

‘Oh?' The Minister looked annoyed. He had accepted an invitation to the party James was giving for him and he had expected to find Eileen there. Her absence was quite irrelevant, but it gave him an opportunity to be offended. James felt his muscles stiffen in anticipation. Logan shouldn't have mentioned it. He hadn't thought to warn him.

He heard Logan say smoothly, ‘Of course, she's coming back to be at your party, Minister. She wouldn't miss the chance to entertain you.'

‘I look forward to meeting her again.' Khorvan bowed his head politely.

‘And now,' Logan said, ‘my colleagues and I have been examining your proposals. Ian, have you got the folder? I'd like you to keep this, Minister, and after our meeting this morning perhaps you'd find the time to study the financial breakdown in terms of the investment as a whole. I must say now that we haven't been able to meet your demand for the total cost of the refinery.'

Khorvan leaned back; it was as if a shutter had closed on them.

‘Equally,' the strong voice went on, ‘we've come up with an idea for cost sharing between the Iranian government and ourselves. Ian, you're the financial expert. I leave this part of it to you.'

Kelly watched Logan; he lit a cigarette, leaving his massive gold case on the Minister's desk. He had never appeared more relaxed. His retrieval of the mistake about Eileen had been instant and faultless. Kelly had spent a lot of time over the last three years trying to understand Logan Field. He had seen his bad temper, his intolerance and arrogance; his gift for coping with difficulties. But until now he hadn't appreciated how Logan glittered in adversity. He was like a great actor seizing and subduing an unplayable part. Combined with his ability to assume a role was the cold-blooded nerve of the born gambler.

Imshan was in jeopardy; the greatest coup of Logan's career was menaced by the hostility and greed of the Minister. This was Logan's view and the more he observed the Minister's tactics the more Kelly was unhappily inclined to agree. But Logan was neither worried nor discouraged. What Kelly saw that morning, during the slow, frustrating negotiation which all knew was already doomed to fail, was a man enjoying every moment of the game. It might well be that Khorvan had met his match.

‘There are three with names that sound similar in the Embassy,' the Colonel said.

Sabet nodded. ‘A trade attaché, a passport officer and one of the military staff. I went back to see the woman again and she described the man she saw as being very thin with a full head of hair. The military attaché is short and fat; the passport officer is bald.'

‘So it looks like trade, then,' Ardalan remarked. ‘We mustn't make a mistake. We have photographs of all three on our files – show them to the woman and see if she can identify any one of them. The name Homsi might not be genuine. We have to consider that. But we have an interesting situation, don't you agree?'

‘Very interesting,' Sabet said.

Ardalan passed him a cigarette.

‘A man is murdered for no motive and that means the only motive was to shut his mouth. He is some kind of political activist and he happens to be passing drinks at a reception given for the Minister of Economics and the chairman of Imperial Oil. He carried the telephone number of an American archaeologist living in Tehran. The archaeologist blends so well into the background that he is unlike any Americans I've ever known. His friends are Iranian. And one Syrian from the Embassy. Go and take those photographs over to Torshab Road. I want an answer today.'

Sabet went out and Ardalan finished his cigarette. It was a jigsaw puzzle without pieces. His difficulty was to find the pieces before he could attempt to solve the puzzle. It might well be that the visitor to the apartment that night was not a Syrian. That left him with the American Peters and the girl who was living with him. Police records cleared them both. Neither had any suspect connections. Peters came from France via West Germany. West Germany. Ardalan didn't know why this worried him, but it did. He rang through to the aliens section and asked for the report on Peters to be sent up. There would be nothing in it; he had already read the single sheet through. An archaeologist, intending to help with the Iranian dig at Persepolis. There were dozens of foreigners participating. The paper was laid in front of him. Everything was in order. Peters had left Munich on March 28th.
Munich.
That was what had set off the alarm bells in his mind. There had been reports of a top-level Palestinian terrorist meeting in the city. Interpol had been alerted; the watch on airports and Israeli Embassies had been increased for some weeks in expectation of bomb attacks. March 28th. It was the right time. The Colonel sent for the details of Madeleine Labouchère. Aged twenty-five, French citizen domiciled in Paris. Nothing suspicious there. Only her relationship with the American. The Colonel was frowning, tapping each finger in turn against his thumb. He wondered how long Sabet would be. At a quarter to four the assistant knocked and came into the office. He placed a blown-up photograph, obviously the work of a hidden photographer, in front of the Colonel.