The Mingrelian (8 page)

*****

“I need to get another rug,” Boyd told Bud as they got to their hotel the next week, a little late because of weather.

“I’d keep buying rugs until I at least got her phone number,” Bud said with a laugh. “You want to take someone with you? You’re supposed to have a wingman.”

He was reminding Boyd that aircrews aren’t supposed to go off alone in a foreign land.

“I think I can handle this one.”

“OK,” Bud shrugged.

Boyd was pretty sure Bud was read into this thing, such as it was. It certainly didn’t seem to be anything like his previous jobs.

It was nearly dark on a Monday evening when he turned to Erekle II Street. Most of the other shops were closed. Her shop was open. The bell alerted the old man, who returned to the back as soon as he saw Boyd.

“Hello,” she said, stepping from behind the curtain.

Boyd’s heart flipped in his chest; she was more beautiful than he remembered. This time, she wore a sweater with a more tailored skirt.

“I want to buy a rug,” he said, summoning a smile.

“Yes, over here,” she said leading him to that same section away from the street.

“I’ve heard of Persian carpets. What’s that?”

“Carpets are large, rugs are smaller. Persians make very good rugs and carpets, that’s one on the floor there,” she said, pointing to a large floral print in the center of the room. She squatted to pick up the corner and turn it over.

“The knots are much smaller than these tribal rugs,” she motioned around the shop, indicating that most of her stock was tribal rugs. “With the smaller knots, they can do flowers, vines, even animals. See how she was able to round this flower here? Those rugs are all straight lines.”

Boyd looked at the tribal rugs and saw the difference.

“This one is a Mashad, named for the town where it was made, in Persia,” she said. “They make large carpets with a central medallion and floral motif.”

“Expensive, I’ll bet.”

“This one, for you,” – she stood and pursed her lips like she was thinking – “six thousand dollars.”

“Hah! I don’t even own a house. I don’t need a carpet like that.”

“Oh?” She smiled, then lowered her voice and said in mock disbelief, “An American officer, and no house?”

“No wife. No house.”

“Well, you’ll need a smaller rug, then,” and turned back toward the stack in the rear.

“How about this one?” Boyd held up a bright rug, mainly red and blue with geometric designs but also some birds and animals. He could see the knots were larger and the animals looked crude compared with the intricate floral pattern on the Mashad. He turned it over and the back had loose yarn between the different color objects.

“That’s unique,” she said, stepping to his side and standing close while she examined the rug. “There’s no pile. See the open weave on the back, that’s a Soumak, from Borchali here in Georgia. Interesting, but a bit gaudy, don’t you think?”

He felt her warmth, smelled her fragrance.

“It has a certain charm,” he said taking it from her and laying it on the floor.

“It is less expensive than your other rug,” she said, stepping back so they stood together admiring the rug. “It looks like something you’d find in a Russian theater.”

Boyd didn’t know if that was a compliment or not.

“I like it,” he said.

“Then you should have it,” she said gaily and bent to pick it up.

Boyd followed her to the cash register.

“You know all about me. Can I know your name?” he asked quietly as he handed her his MasterCard.

She looked up anxiously but said nothing.

He nodded.

She ran his card and handed him the receipt to sign. He signed it and handed it back and she pressed a flash drive into his hand. They walked to the door. She was silent.

Was she mad that he asked? It was a risk, for her.

She stopped as she was about to open the door to let him out. The street was empty. It was dark. She looked in his eyes.

“I am Ekaterina Dadiani.”

Chapter 16: Tehran, Iran

ay I have a cigarette?” Eskander Khorasani asked casually as the meeting took a midmorning break.

Lado had been invited – no, summoned – to a meeting in Tehran, ostensibly to cement Kartvelian National Bank’s relationship as a correspondent bank with Petroleum Bank. He’d been to Iran many times. As a young man, he’d traveled to Tabriz, Kashan, Herat and Kerman with his father and grandfather to buy Persian carpets, which they sold to the Russians through their shop in Tbilisi. He’d learned Farsi and was fluent enough to negotiate with Persian rug merchants while still a college student.

Bright, he’d wanted something better than being a rug merchant, so he’d earned a highly coveted scholarship to Moscow University and majored in mathematics. But he soon discovered that success in the Soviet Union was based on ideology and not reality. Returning home, he eschewed the offer of a government job and went back to rugs. Banking was a natural extension of the rug trade, and when the Soviet Union dissolved and banking became possible in the new, independent Georgia, he opened a tiny bank two blocks from the Erekle II Street rug shop.

Eskander Khorasani had been his first foreign depositor. Later, they were friends, as Eskander opened a branch of Petroleum Bank in Tbilisi, and then collaborators in Iran’s smuggling and money-laundering schemes. Capitalizing on the differences between Muslim and Christian banking regulations,
Eskander and Lado were partners in many successful ventures. Eskander helped Lado’s bank succeed, and now Lado was rich because of it. But, there was more. It was Eskander who gave him the Iranian nuclear program secrets to pass to the Americans.

Eskander was a dedicated and observant Muslim, a loyal Iranian, an experienced international banker operating in the innermost circles of his government’s financial dealings and a clandestine member of the National Resistance Movement of Iran. His was a dangerous road, working for the overthrow of the Mullahs from within the regime, and Lado was his accomplice.

They stepped out onto a smoking balcony located just across the lobby from the boardroom where they’d been discussing a sudden change of plans for the flow of oil money back to Tehran. The regime wanted everything it could get in the next week. Something was up. Several other smokers followed them onto the balcony.

“Point to your left as if you were asking about a landmark,” Eskander whispered in Georgian. They’d been speaking Farsi all morning.

Lado pointed to his left and asked a question. They strolled to the end of the balcony, away from the others. Eskander pointed to something and spoke quietly.

“I was given an unexpected vacation, a month to return home to be with my family.”

“Reward for your work,” Lado offered.

“No. But now I know why. Don’t react when I tell you.”

Lado tensed.

“The Chechens are going to assassinate the Russian president in Tbilisi tomorrow.”

Lado gasped. Now the change of financial plans made sense. If someone succeeded in assassinating the czar the Red Army would be in Tbilisi in two days. By next week, they’d all be speaking Russian again.

“But ...”

“Don’t speak,” Eskander cautioned. “Point to your right.”

Lado pointed to his right. Eskander faked a small laugh and spoke loudly about some building in the distance as others walked by, circling the balcony while they smoked.

“It could still be a trap, a ruse to expose traitors,” Eskander whispered when the smokers had passed.

That was an old Russian trick: Fake a crisis and see who finds out on the other side, then follow up how they found out. When in doubt, imprison, torture, execute.

“But, why?” Lado asked.

“Look at a map. You will see. I am afraid for my family. This will be our only contact.”

“But, what can …”

“If it is the will of Allah to stop this, you are His tool. If it is the will of Allah, you cannot fail. Go with God.” Eskander stubbed out his cigarette and turned quickly to return to the meeting.

*****

Back in the boardroom, Lado forced himself to stare at a point behind the speaker’s head and let his eyelids droop. Though his mind was racing and his pulse pounding, he appeared to nod off. He awoke with a start, looking furtively around the room to see if he was caught sleeping. He dared not think about the consequences for Eskander and himself if this were a trap. When he saw he was ignored, he began to focus on the other bankers in the room. They asked all the right
questions; they were curious about a sudden change of plans. It’s all temporary, a cash shortage, they were being told.

Lado dared not call home. He was sure they’d monitor his cellphone. The Internet was also out of the question, as the Wi-Fi in his hotel room was surely monitored. He’d attract attention if he made any attempt to change his airline reservation for the following morning. So he’d have the night to think about it, and maybe be too late to stop it – if it were real instead of a trap.

Miserable with worry and sorry that he’d ever gotten into this mess, Lado ate a simple meal alone in the hotel restaurant that night and read a Russian newspaper. Indeed, the Russian president was due to speak in Freedom Square in Tbilisi the next day. It made no sense; the Russian president was a good friend to Iran. Politically, he had been a staunch supporter. Why would they want to assassinate him?

“All power rests with the Supreme Leader,” Eskander had told him many times as they’d discussed the world situation together candidly at Lado’s estate in Zugdidi, his ancestral home where they could be assured they wouldn’t be overheard. “There are political advisers, economic advisers and military advisers, but the final authority always rests with the Ayatollah.”

So, this was the Ayatollah’s doing.

“Look at the map, you’ll understand,” he’d said.

Lado drew a map of Georgia on a piece of paper and added the surrounding countries. To the south is Muslim Turkey, a sliver of Christian Armenia, then Muslim Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea. The Caucasus Mountains to the north are inhabited only by wild men, whose primitive passions are easily stirred by Islamic militancy of several flavors, all bad. Chechnya is in the center of that. To the west, as the Caucasus slope down to the Black Sea, Abkhazia, which was part of his Mingrelian homeland, is occupied by the Russian Army. A crisis in Georgia causing Russia to reoccupy it to deal with Chechnya eliminates a sovereign Christian nation and pushes the fault line for Islamic expansion north to the Caucasus. Politically and economically, that would be a blunder, but in the mind of an Islamic scholar with a thousand-year timeline, a tactical advance. Or, a trap.

****

Lado Chikovani’s plane from Tehran landed the next day at 3 p.m. There had been no flights out the night before, and he’d spent a sleepless, fearful night. Rushing through customs, he searched frantically for the first telephone he could find. He’d played all the alternatives through his mind during the past 20 hours and had decided to alert the Americans at the embassy and let them handle it. They’d have a hot line to local police, and he’d have minimal exposure.

“Embassy of the United States,” an officious voice answered in Georgian.

“I need to speak to the ambassador,” Lado said, breathlessly.

Then he waited.

“Ambassador’s office,” a secretary answered, still in Georgian.

“I need to speak to the ambassador,” he said.

“Could I tell the ambassador what it concerns?”

“It’s very important, and urgent.”

“The ambassador is out of town. I could let you speak to the deputy chief of mission,”

“Yes, please.”

“This is Dabney St. Clair”.

“The Chechens are going to assassinate the Russian president here, in Tbilisi.”

“Oh?”

“Today,” he said, still breathless. Why didn’t she respond?

“Who is this?” she asked.

“I can’t say, it is too dangerous.”

“Can you give me any details?”

“I don’t have any details, just call the police, please.”

“OK, I will.”

“Thank you,” he said and hung up. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He walked to the television monitor in the airport to watch the events as the alarm was sounded.

****

“Ellie, put a tracer on that call,” Dabney St. Clair said, walking to the door, brow wrinkled.

What did this mean? Was this a test? She’d look ridiculous if she called an all-out alarm and then it proved to be a hoax. She didn’t need that. Whoever that was on the phone could call the police himself if he had something as incredible as an assassination to report.

“It came from the airport,” the secretary called through the open door.

Dabney turned her attention to the television in the outer office. All channels had been broadcasting nonstop live coverage of the Russian president’s every move. His motorcade was approaching Freedom Square where he was to lay a wreath at the statue of Pushkin and make a speech.

“Call the office of the president of Georgia, I need to speak to someone over there.”

The secretary turned in her chair to look at Dabney. The deputy chief of mission didn’t usually ring up the president of
Georgia, who was obviously not in the office because he was right there on live television in Freedom Square.

“Now,” Dabney said with authority. She didn’t need an insolent secretary questioning her instructions. She was going to act decisively, just in case this was real. She could point to her fast action in elevating her concerns to the highest level in the land. She’d get someone on the phone, whoever was manning the office over there, and convey her concern. Then, if it proved to be a hoax, they could deal with it. No egg on this face, she thought.