The Persian Price (2 page)

There had been resentment among the senior executives of the company at the chairman giving such an important job to an outsider. That was why Field referred to his judgement being vindicated. He had chosen a man who could deal with the Iranian Government, and this in effect meant dealing with the Shah.

‘It's bloody marvellous,' Field went on, speaking low. ‘The biggest oil-field in fifty years – and the breakthrough on oil prices for Western Europe. Christ, James, we'll go down in history!'

‘I'm not trying to be pessimistic, but I won't believe it till I see the Minister actually sign the heads of agreement.'

‘With the Shah supporting it, he's no alternative,' Field said. ‘But I want him on our side, James. I want things to go ahead as smoothly as possible. And as fast. I know this party doesn't mean a damn, and tomorrow morning he'll start trying to squeeze our balls over the terms, but all the same, I'm feeling bloody confident.'

James didn't answer. He sipped his whisky and watched Eileen Field. She was taking a great deal of trouble with the Minister. He wondered if Logan realized how much she contributed. He was too fair-minded to criticize Logan Field because he happened to be in love with his wife. He insisted that he admired Logan's dynamic qualities and it couldn't be denied that, when he wanted to, Logan could be charming. But he was a man motivated by things rather than people; he had a famous collection of Greek antiquities and when James admired it, he had told him frankly that it was better than money in the bank. It was typical of an attitude that irritated James intensely. Everything had to have a purpose; if it wasn't power then it had to be profit. He thought that Eileen Field looked very pale.

‘I'd like to give a private party for Khorvan,' Logan was saying. ‘Something very special. At your house; it's more intimate than an hotel.'

‘He's unlikely to come,' James answered. ‘Ministers very rarely accept private invitations, but we can try.'

‘Let's join them.' Logan moved towards Khorvan. ‘You ask him.' James was surprised when the Minister accepted.

‘I shall be delighted,' he said. ‘I must have another opportunity of talking to this charming lady. She has been telling me all about you, Mr Field.' For a moment there was a hostile gleam in his eyes. Logan saw it and responded with a friendly smile.

‘We shall certainly have a party, Minister. On condition that you are the guest of honour. I'll suggest a suitable date at our meeting in the morning.'

The waiter was back with the tray. Logan took another whisky. Habib waited, submissive and silent, while Khorvan ignored him.

‘How long do you expect to stay in Tehran?' the Minister asked Logan.

‘For as long as it takes to conclude our business.'

‘And your charming wife?'

‘She may go back ahead of me. We have a little daughter at home. She doesn't like to leave her for too long.'

‘Ah,' said the Minister, not understanding. Daughters were not important and he couldn't see what difference it made if they were left behind. He had little sympathy with Western sentimentality over children; but then he had little sympathy with the West. The chairman of Imperial Oil, trying so hard to ingratiate himself, had no idea what it had cost Khorvan to agree with the Shah that the British company should be admitted to partnership with the National Iranian Oil Company to develop Imshan. Nobody knew how he had writhed and twisted in his efforts to block their negotiations. He had used cogent arguments to defeat American interests; there were enough American troops and bases in Iran without permitting them another hold in what was expected to be the biggest oilfield in the Middle East. The Minister hated the United States and resented its influence in his country; he was able to say truthfully that the Soviet Union would be entitled to take offence if the Americans were admitted as partners. There were other contenders: a consortium of French and Germans, and the Russians had also sent a team. Until James Kelly obtained a private audience with the Shah, Khorvan had been gently steering Imshan in the direction of the Soviet delegation. He glanced at Kelly. His appointment to Tehran by Imperial was a very clever move. The Shah had been impressed by his diplomatic record; he considered himself as more than the equal of any businessman, and in general he despised them. But with Kelly he could discuss the wider implications of the oil-field. The first audience had been followed by private meetings during the next six months. Europe was facing bankruptcy because of the rise in oil prices. Khorvan viewed this prospect with indifference. His own political leanings were to the Left and he bitterly resented decades of exploitation by the West. The Shah's decision to start lowering the oil price without appearing to do so had been communicated to Khorvan after his last audience with James Kelly.

To Khorvan, the implications were disastrous. When he heard the decision, he had to pretend to agree with it. Disagreement with the Shah's policy was followed by dismissal. Only by seeming to acquiesce could he hope to sabotage the plan. He had agreed with the choice of Imperial Oil as the company which would develop the field. His unquestioning acceptance of the Shah's views left him in charge of the final negotiations.

He gave Eileen Field a charming smile. The waiter was at his elbow again and he took another orange juice. Whatever the executives of Imperial Oil thought, visibly congratulating themselves and imagining that the attentions of a pretty woman made any difference to him, Logan Field had not won yet.

‘I shall be delighted to come to your house, Mr Kelly,' he said. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I must mix with some of your other guests.' He walked away into the crowd.

‘I'd better do the same,' Logan said. ‘Look after Eileen, will you?' He had moved away before James could answer. He turned to Eileen with eagerness.

‘You're looking marvellous, as usual. And you certainly made a hit with the Minister.'

‘He likes women,' Eileen said. ‘So do most Iranian men. I don't think it means anything. He was very easy to talk to and he has quite a sense of humour.'

She had met James soon after he joined Imperial. He had been invited to dine at their house in Eaton Square, a privilege Logan reserved for the top executives in the company. It was an evening he had never forgotten. He thought Logan's wife looked extremely frail; he learned afterwards that she had been desperately ill after the birth of their only child and had not long been out of hospital. There was an immediate rapport between them. They had many interests in common, and she seemed grateful for the effort James made at entertaining the other guests. She seemed to him the last woman in the world to have married a man like Logan Field. They met several times after that; Logan valued his qualities as a guest. Before he left for Tehran he was invited to a lunch given for one of the Arab sheiks, and to a large company cocktail party, where he spent most of the time talking to Eileen in a corner.

He watched her at that moment and wondered just how much she liked him. He had no idea what made him ask the question, but he did.

‘I'm surprised Janet isn't with you. I thought Logan was sure to bring her.'

Janet Armstrong was not Logan's secretary in the conventional sense; she had been a brilliant student at the London School of Economics and was his personal assistant. She had worked for Field for the last two years. She was the most efficient and intelligent woman that James had ever met, even in the exalted climate of the Foreign Office where clever women floated by like leaves in autumn. Janet Armstrong had the mind of an exceptional man, with no visible feminine weaknesses like sentiment or emotion. He wouldn't admit that she was smart and attractive because he disliked the type so much.

‘No. Logan left her behind this time,' Eileen answered him.

He had a thin, intellectual face with eyes that were alert and yet warm. She had liked him almost too much when she first met him. It was as if they had known each other for years. Suddenly she put her hand through the crook of his arm. There was no mistake about the way he closed it against himself.

‘Let's sit down for a minute,' she said.

‘There's a table over there.' James steered a way through the crowd towards a little gilt table with empty chairs along one wall. He sat her down.

‘I'll go and get us both a drink,' he said. ‘Don't let anyone come and drag you away.'

‘I won't,' Eileen promised. She felt very tired and her head was aching slightly. She had tried very hard to amuse the Iranian Minister, hoping to please Logan. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the more she tried to contribute to his business and fill out her role as the chairman's wife, the more irritated he became.

James came back, carrying two glasses of champagne.

‘Thank you, James. You're a darling.' She took the glass and let their fingers touch.

‘I wish you'd tell me what's the matter,' he said quietly. ‘I know there's something. There's nothing wrong with Lucy, is there?'

Eileen shook her head.

‘Oh, good Lord no. She's fine. Growing sweeter and prettier every day. Logan absolutely worships her.'

‘I'm afraid I can't imagine him as the doting father, but I'll take your word for it. All right, if it's not Lucy, then what is it? You can tell me. You know that.'

‘I know I can,' she said gently. ‘I feel I could go to you with anything, James, and you'd help if you could.'

‘That makes me very happy,' he said. For a moment he covered her hand with his. Communication was passing between them. It was very disturbing. He looked at her, and she knew that if they'd been alone he would have kissed her.

‘I can't talk about it. Not yet anyway. But I promise you, if I talk to anyone it will be you. I think I see Logan making signs at us. We'd better go.'

She got up and James pulled back her chair. He bent down to her a little way.

‘Damn Logan,' he said.

There were three people in the upstairs room in the apartment block on Torshab Road. The three-roomed flat had been rented two months previously by an American who described himself as a student of archaeology and explained that he wanted a base in Tehran during his visits to the dig near Persepolis.

He was twenty-eight, tall and squarely built, with blonde hair that was cut unfashionably short, and a Nordic face with blue eyes. The name on his passport was Peters. The last two names under which he had operated in Europe were Rauch and Glover, and in Guatemala he was known as King. The name which really belonged to him was well known and respected in Cleveland, Ohio, but he had ceased to think of himself in connection with it. He hadn't been back to the United States in five years. There was an FBI warrant for his arrest waiting if he returned.

Of his two companions, one was a girl, the other a slight, wiry Syrian. The girl was sitting beside Peters and she had one hand laid in a proprietary way on his knee. She had green eyes and her dark hair had been hennaed; her mother was German and her father Lebanese. She was twenty-five years old and she carried a French passport in the name of Madeleine Labouchère with an address in Paris. She had met Peters in Dublin, where they had been attending a secret conference with some of the extreme left wing of the Provisional IRA. As a result she and the American had joined up. To Madeleine, that was the most important thing that had ever happened to her since her political conversion. She had lived with many men, as any liberated woman should do, but never before had she been in love. She was sitting close to him now, waiting for the telephone to ring. It was past one o'clock in the morning; the room was grey with cigarette smoke, and there were empty coffee cups piled on the brass table. The Syrian, who was working in the Embassy as a commercial attaché, yawned and stretched his skinny arms above his head.

‘He should have rung through an hour ago.'

Peters shrugged. ‘Maybe the party went on past midnight. They've got plenty to celebrate.'

The girl leaned against his shoulder. She lit a cigarette.

‘They won't be celebrating for long,' she said.

‘It's a masterly plan,' the Syrian said. ‘But assassination would have been simpler.'

‘Murdering Khorvan won't stop them,' Peters answered. ‘It would just have brought Ardalan's butchers swarming all over Tehran. It was a stupid idea, my friend, and rightly vetoed by the Committee.'

The Syrian shrugged; he didn't seem to mind the correction.

‘I'm not complaining about the plan,' he said. ‘It's very well worked out.'

‘I majored in history,' Peters said. ‘All the patterns are predictable because events repeat themselves. And this way, we'll come out of it without shedding blood.'

‘You're becoming squeamish,' the girl said.

‘Would you kill in this particular case?' He looked down at her.

She didn't hesitate. ‘If there was no other way – yes.'

‘Well it won't arise,' he spoke to the Syrian. ‘I'm in charge of this. I said there'll be no killing and no need to kill.'

‘You can't have a revolution without blood,' Madeleine said. She didn't want to make him angry, but she had to disagree.

‘I don't dispute that,' Peters answered. ‘I've done my share. But this is going to be different. We'll come out with a moral victory.'

‘If the story gets out, you don't think public opinion will congratulate you for kidnapping …' Madeleine began, and then the telephone rang. It was the Syrian who answered. He only said, ‘Yes,' and then listened.

Habib was in the kitchens of the Hilton hotel. Most of the staff had gone home and the clearing up after the oil company's reception and dinner was finished. He was using the telephone in the chef's office.

‘I'm sorry to be late. I hadn't finished work. They were all here tonight and the wife is with him. He expects to stay for some time. She also, but will return before him. There are no immediate plans to go back.' As he spoke he glanced behind him, afraid that somebody might have heard a noise from the outside of the office and would then come to investigate.