The Persian Price

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The Persian Price

Evelyn Anthony

To my dear friend

Shirley Chantler

with love

1

When James Kelly told people he worked in Tehran, they were immediately interested. They found the idea of Persia fascinating, especially women. He thought cynically that had he said he was an executive with Imperial Oil in Iran, few would have responded with enthusiasm. The same cynicism, which he preferred to call irony, had chosen the Persian Room at the Tehran Hilton as a setting for a reception in honour of the Shah's Minister of the Economy and his own boss, the chairman of Imperial Oil, Logan Field. He didn't expect that the incongruity would penetrate the chairman's sense of the ridiculous. It was his own joke, to be enjoyed in private.

He didn't hate Logan Field, although a number of people did. He regarded him as a phenomenon, like an electric storm which suddenly blew up, battering at everything in its path. He wasn't just a ruthless tycoon, the caricature of the merciless, power-greedy businessman so dear to the hearts of the left-wing progressives. He was a personable man of superior intelligence and abnormal drive who happened to be at the head of one of the world's fastest growing corporations. Kelly had met him at Mehrabad, the Tehran airport, that morning; waiting in the broiling Iranian sunshine like an ambassador to receive his king, flanked by equerries: the assistant resident director, the field operations manager and his two assistants, with a junior official from the Iranian Ministry of the Economy bearing the Minister's welcome.

Kelly hadn't expected to see Logan Field's wife follow him down the gangway steps. Nobody had warned him. There had been no cable saying she would be on the trip. He had shaken hands with Logan and then come up to Eileen Field. She smiled and the silly shock went racing up and down his nerve endings. Beautiful blue Irish eyes and that soft smile. What in Christ's name had she ever found to love in Logan Field …

He had come to the Hilton early to supervise arrangements for the party. Three years in Tehran had taught him not to rely upon Persian efficiency or punctuality. The big room with its artificially domed ceiling and low lighting from bogus brass lamps was heavily decorated with flowers. Jasmine and lilies overscented the air, but then the Eastern taste in such things was flamboyant. Only in politics, business and sex were the Persians a subtle people. Otherwise their preference was for the vulgar and emphatic. He checked with the head waiter that the champagne was cold and there was a plentiful supply of whisky.

Kelly was a tall man, dark and thin, with hair that had overgrown his collar; he had authority and tact. He had demonstrated both in the last three years. As a result, Logan Field was giving this reception for the most inaccessible and anti-Western of the Shah's Ministers. No doubt that was why Eileen Field had come at the last moment. The Minister liked the company of women; he spoke impeccable English. At five minutes to six the junior executives of the company and their wives began to arrive. James glanced at his watch and, as he did so, Logan and Eileen Field came through the doorway and he hurried to meet them.

On the way to the Hilton Logan had turned to his wife. Kelly ran a Mercedes, but there was a two-tone blue Rolls Royce, with a Mulliner special body, which was reserved for the use of the chairman when he was in the city. Otherwise it stayed in the garage.

Although it was early evening, Tehran shimmered in a dry heat that made the streets dance in a haze; the car was air-conditioned. Eileen Field wore a silk dress and felt quite cold.

‘Khorvan won't be there for hours,' Logan said. ‘They make a point of keeping everyone waiting. They think it emphasizes their importance.' He lit a cigarette and looked out of the window. His eyes showed irritability. There were deep creases from his brow to his nose and his lower lip was sucked in.

‘It doesn't matter,' Eileen Field said. ‘Our own people will be there; we can talk to them. I don't mind if he keeps me waiting.'

‘That's not the point,' Logan said. ‘I mind, because it's an insult to you and it puts me at a disadvantage. We shouldn't have come before a quarter to seven.'

‘Then if by some chance the Minister was early, we'd have insulted
him.
It's better this way round.'

He should have appreciated her logic, but he couldn't. He hadn't wanted her to come, and the Minister of the Economy was not part of the reason. He didn't want her to talk about ‘our people' and identify herself with him and Imperial; he didn't want her to go in to the party and show what a perfect wife she was for a man like himself. The harshness of his thoughts made him feel guilty. He never wanted to be unkind to Eileen, even in his mind. It wasn't her fault that things were going wrong. He laid his hand on her knee.

‘To hell with it,' he said. ‘I'm just edgy tonight. Khorvan's been fighting us for eighteen months. It isn't going to be easy to trust him. They're the most difficult bloody people in the world.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘I know it's going to be a strain on you. That's why I wanted to come.' He took his hand off her knee. That kind of answer, loyal and innocent, only made him feel worse. There were moments when he longed for her to quarrel, or complain, to give him some excuse …

Seated beside him, Eileen shivered in the artificial chill in the car. She wore a huge diamond brooch with a turquoise in the centre. Her earrings and a bracelet matched. The jewellery felt cold and heavy; she had chosen it because the turquoises were Persian, bought as a present by Logan three years ago, after their only child was born. Her reasons for wearing them were not a conscious reminder that he had been kind and loving then; she thought they were a compliment to the Minister. For the last three years she had given that kind of attention to detail, to try and compensate Logan. If she couldn't give him what he wanted in one way, then she could devote herself to the part of his life which she knew to be the most important, the power and progress of Imperial Oil. She had always admired her husband; part of loving him had been her admiration for the qualities in him which were so alien to those possessed by all her family and friends.

His ambition, his energy, his incisive thinking; his dynamic personality which didn't derive its force from inherited privilege or historical exploits performed by others.
‘Une force de nature.'
She remembered that phrase, culled out of a book, though she had long forgotten the context. A force of nature. That truly described him, and she had loved him for it.

For some months now, she had known that he no longer loved her. As they entered the Persian Room, she slipped her hand through his arm and together they walked towards James Kelly and the other guests.

Habib Ebrahimi moved through the mixed Iranian and European crowd, carrying a tray with champagne, whisky and soft drinks. He avoided the other guests and made his way to the small group standing a little apart. He came to Logan and stopped, offering the tray. The Minister, Mahmoud Khorvan, was standing beside him. Habib had seen photographs of him, and he glanced at him once to provide a first-hand image of his hate. This was the former Iranian patriot who had sold out to the Western capitalist oil company. For a second his black eyes flickered over the Minister's face: light-skinned, black-browed, with receding hair. He was a small man, immaculately dressed in a London-made suit. Heavy gold-and-diamond cuff-links gleamed as he waved his hands. He was talking to a European woman wearing fine turquoises, and he was looking as if he were enjoying himself. Habib Ebrahimi looked at her too, for a moment. He had seen her come in with Field. She was the wife of the chairman of the oil company which was trying to link itself like an octopus round the throat of his country. Habib was a humble man, but he knew his enemies. He served them with their alcoholic drinks, observing that the Minister upheld his Moslem principles, at least in public, by drinking orange juice, and did what he had been told to do. He had been working at the Hilton for the last six months; when the reception was arranged, Habib suddenly became important. His friends had explained to him how he, the one who sat and listened at the feet of others, was to be of service to the common cause.

He gave a little bow to the Minister and withdrew a few paces. He passed a tall Iranian in army officer's uniform, and stopped at a word from him. He didn't look up. A hand, thin at the wrist, with long fingers and thick knuckles, lifted a glass of whisky from his tray. Habib went on, his head down, not looking up. He knew Colonel Ardalan. He was a brave man, and dedicated, but Habib prayed with what superstition remained in his soul, that he would never see the Colonel any closer.

‘It's going well,' Logan spoke aside to James. ‘Do you think he's enjoying himself?'

‘The hell of it is,' James answered, ‘you only know when they're not. It's like trying to do something to please them. If you do it they're not grateful; if you don't they never forgive you. At a guess I'd say Khorvan was in a good mood. Largely thanks to your wife; she's marvellous with people.'

‘Yes,' Logan said. Eileen was laughing at something the Minister had said. Khorvan was grinning, his head slightly tilted back. Iranians didn't laugh loudly like Westerners. He touched her on the elbow. ‘He's enjoying himself,' James said. ‘When he starts pawing it's a good sign.'

‘You've done a great job,' Logan said quietly. ‘You've justified my judgement a hundred times over, and I'm always pleased about that! How does it feel to have rescued the economy of Europe?'

James shrugged. Logan in an expansive mood embarrassed him; he didn't need a layman's assurance that he had brought off a crucial political coup under the guise of a business negotiation. He had seen the opportunity present itself and his years of public service in the Foreign Office had enabled him to take advantage of it. He had to remind himself constantly not to be a snob. In his heart he despised industry and had little in common with Imperial Oil. He had met Logan Field at a city lunch; he had no idea that he had registered with the oil man as anything more than a Foreign Office under-secretary, holding forth on the Middle East over the table. The offer of the job as resident director of Imperial Oil in Iran had come when he was disillusioned and rebellious. His path to a Grade I Ambassadorship had been blocked, unfairly as it seemed, and a posting to Finland appeared to be a retrograde step. The prospect of Finland had daunted him for weeks. He had little private money and diplomats were notoriously underpaid. The massive salary offered by Logan Field, with stock options, had made up his mind. He went to see Logan and accepted the offer after an excellent lunch at the Savoy.