The Persian Price (4 page)

‘Eileen –'

‘How could you?' Her voice was quiet but full of contempt. ‘That awful woman. I'll go home tomorrow. It'll be less embarrassing for everyone. There's a sofa in the next room; I'd be glad if you'd sleep on it tonight.'

She went into the bathroom and locked the door.

2

Janet Armstrong was asleep when the call came through from Tehran. She lived in a small flat in Chelsea, part of a conversion of a Georgian house in an elegant and expensive square. She had rented it for a year and six months ago Logan Field had bought her the lease. It was beautifully decorated in the best contemporary Italian style, and it was a faithful reproduction of her own personality. Crisp, clear, brilliant and positive. The bed was circular; Logan had thought it funny and refused to sleep in it when she first brought him there. He had soon admitted that it was more comfortable than the bed in the Dallas hotel room where they had first made love. It happened by accident; neither had anticipated that a late night conference would end in his hotel suite with him taking off her clothes at three in the morning. It began with a casual touch and ended in a sexual storm that left them both astonished.

As she woke and reached for the telephone, she registered the hour, five-thirty, and the time change in Iran, and she knew it was Logan. She pulled the telephone onto the bed; her blonde hair was cut short and streaked with silver lights; he had asked her to let it grow because he liked playing with long hair when he made love, but Janet had refused. Long hair was untidy and a nuisance. Also it didn't suit her. She had employed no feminine tricks to catch him; nobody could have accused her of behaving like the secretary in every cliché-ridden situation, angling to marry the boss. She had never thought of a closer relationship than working for him, until they exploded together in Dallas. Then, added to the intense interest they shared in the company and the natural fluency with which they worked together, had come the dimension of perfectly matched sex.

‘Logan?' she said.

His voice was clear; for once the line worked without atmospherics.

‘Janet – it's me. How are you?'

‘I'm fine. You woke me up. How's everything going?'

It was typical that she mentioned the business first.

‘So far, everything's fine,' he said. ‘I have a meeting with the Minister this morning. Then I hope to see the Shah. I don't know how long I'll have to wait for an audience, but if it's weeks, I'll come back home and go out again. It looks all set though. We had a big party for Khorvan and he was perfectly friendly. Kelly said not to be surprised if he didn't turn up and that would have been a bad sign. But it went off very well. How's everything your end?'

‘Going smoothly. There's a bit of a panic about the rig drilling on Block 211/6; apparently they keep losing bits down the hole and they're worried about next month's long range weather forecast. Jenner's dealing with it. He's flying up to Lerwick today and out to the rig tomorrow. There were items in all the financial columns about you and Imshan. The same old photograph – you'll have to get a new one taken, darling. I'll fix that up when you get back. The reaction on the market has been very optimistic. There was a big article on the Shah in
The Sunday Times
apropos of the oil-field. Oh, and I hear the Saudi Ambassador asked for an appointment; nothing's been fixed till you get home. Is that all right?'

‘They're getting the wind up their asses,' Logan sounded gratified. ‘Once we get Imshan into full production they won't be holding the cards any more. We can tell them to go stuff themselves.'

He had always used what he thought of as ‘men's language' to Janet, without any fear of offending her. He was only coarse in front of Eileen when they quarrelled.

‘Listen, Eileen's coming home.'

‘Oh? Why? Nothing wrong with Lucy, I hope?'

She sat upright, tensing slightly at the mention of his wife. She always asked after the child; it was her only concession in the game, because she knew how much Logan loved her. She had seen her several times when she came to the house in Eaton Square and thought her a lonely, over-protected little girl, in dire need of brothers and sisters. She had said so to Logan.

‘No, Lucy's not the reason. I'm afraid things have come to a head.'

‘Oh God,' Janet said. ‘Jesus. Has she found out?'

‘I told her,' he said.

There was a sharp crackle down the line, and she guessed that he was having to shout.

‘I can't talk about it now. I want you to come out here. I'll need someone to act as hostess. Can you come out by the end of the week?'

‘I don't know –' she was shouting back at him now; the connection had deteriorated. ‘I'll see what's on this morning and I'll ring you tonight. At James's – about seven – your time.'

‘All right. Seven o'clock. Take care of yourself.'

‘You too,' Janet said. ‘I love you.'

She hung up. She got out of bed; she wore a silk pyjama jacket, and her legs were beautifully shaped. She went into the bathroom, all white carpet and glass, drank some water and looked at herself in the mirror. A face that was pale without make-up, grey eyes that needed mascara, and a mass of curling silvered hair. She was thirty-one, with an early marriage which had ended in divorce after three years behind her and the prospect of marrying Logan Field suddenly ahead. She was healthy and she was still young. She could give him children, and she would. She would never be a wife like Eileen Fitzgerald, but then he hadn't been content with a graceful ornament. Logan wanted a partner and he wanted a big family. Looking in the mirror, Janet made up her mind that she was going to give him both.

She smiled, unaware that she did so. Happiness and excitement made her beautiful. She didn't think about Eileen Field. Janet was not without scruples, but she had never seen any reason to feel guilty about the other woman. Eileen Field had married him and had the chance to make him happy. If she had failed, that wasn't anybody else's fault.

She showered, made up and dressed quickly. She loved going to the giant Imperial building off Cheapside She loved her smart office outside Logan's and the sense of excitement it gave her to get down to work. Power had always fascinated her. And Logan personified power. Her own secretary, a middle-aged spinster of superb efficiency who had been with Imperial for fifteen years, was surprised to hear the crisp, aloof Mrs Armstrong humming under her breath as she read through her mail.

Eileen slept late. James's houseboy knocked on the bedroom door with coffee and orange juice, but since nobody answered he took the tray down to the kitchen. At seven o'clock, Logan had come into the bedroom to dress. He had glanced at her lying asleep, one arm above her head, and felt a pang of real regret. Last night had been an ugly incident which made him feel uneasy and ashamed in the chill of daylight. But there was no going back, even had he wanted to. Rejected as she was, she had suddenly been able to despise him, and he hated the feeling. He had been able to despise her family while loving her; in his opinion they were useless parasites, contributing nothing but funny stories and racing anecdotes to any conversation, completely disinterested in world affairs, in industry or politics. Her mother had died after their marriage; she was a tall horsy woman with a soft voice and her daughter's blue eyes. Logan had tolerated her, but John Fitzgerald he actively disliked. A sponger, a snob – he had been sending money to the old humbug for years, knowing that he was never grateful. Now that was over too; there would be no more milking of the English son-in-law. He had picked up his clothes and slipped out of the room. Downstairs he lit a cigarette, sent the houseboy who appeared from the kitchen to get him coffee, and put through the telephone call to Janet. He left the house before James Kelly came down to breakfast.

In the Syrian Embassy, the commercial attaché who had spent the evening in the flat on Torshab Road was writing a report.

The commando unit was ready to go on its mission; Peters and Madeleine Labouchère were booked out on a flight through to Paris and then on to London the next day. Resnais would join them independently. It should take about a week to perfect the final details of the operation and they expected to complete it within ten days at the latest.

Peters had told the Syrian to get the little waiter Habib out of Tehran. There was no reason in the world to suppose that Colonel Ardalan had noticed him among the crowd, or that he could ever be connected with what was to come. But Peters never took chances. Which was why he was just a series of aliases to Interpol, a faceless shadow with a deadly record of terrorism. The Syrian had to find Habib Ebrahimi and make sure that the million to one chance didn't happen.

Mahmoud Khorvan received Logan Field, James Kelly and the assistant resident director, Ian Phillipson, in his office at the Ministry. It was a large modern building, square and ugly like all the new buildings in the city. It was garishly furnished, with thick crimson carpets and gilt chandeliers; a huge Harrods reproduction desk and fake Chippendale chairs completed the effect of incongruity. A large colour photograph of the Shah with the Empress and the little Crown Prince hung on the wall behind Khorvan in a carved gilded frame. A signed photograph stood by his right elbow. Coffee and orange juice had been brought in for his visitors. His secretary, a slim, beautiful girl, poured and passed the cups. The smell of Turkish cigarettes was strong; the Minister smoked sixty a day. Although he never drank at public receptions, especially where foreigners were present, part of his bookcase contained a cocktail cabinet with every kind of alcoholic drink except wine, which he disliked. His favourite was malt whisky. He greeted Logan courteously, Kelly with amiability, and the subordinate hardly received an acknowledgement. Kelly had long since realized that they were not a gracious people. Khorvan offered cigarettes; all but Logan declined.

‘Now Mr Field,' he began. He spoke very good English and understood even better than he spoke. He had spent three years in London studying economics and it was during that period he had developed left-wing sympathies. ‘I have given very careful consideration to your offer. Very careful. I have reached an unfortunate conclusion.' He made an arch with his fingers and looked at Logan. Logan didn't move; no change of expression, not a muscle twitch. The Minister admired him for this; he might hate the man and try to wreck the negotiations, but at least he was going to enjoy himself. James leaned a little forward, instinctively prepared to be the diplomat.

‘Not too unfortunate, I hope, Minister.'

‘It depends on how serious you were when you submitted this offer,' was the answer, directed at Logan.

‘We have never entered any negotiation except on a serious level, Minister,' Logan spoke curtly. ‘Please explain why you find the offer unfortunate. I had been told it was acceptable.'

‘Acceptable to me, yes,' Khorvan said pleasantly. ‘But to a higher authority – not.'

‘What's wrong with it?' Logan put out his cigarette in the visitors' ashtray. He wasn't in the least worried by Khorvan. Nobody with any experience of the Eastern methods of conducting business would have expected anything but a last minute haggle over terms. He had come prepared to give something away.

‘Let us consider the proposition as a whole,' Khorvan said. ‘There were many contenders for the right to develop Imshan. Because of the size of the oil-field, every one of them was prepared to offer as much or more than you, Mr Field. But His Imperial Majesty decided in favour of a British company. Thanks to the persuasive powers of Mr Kelly.'

‘It was more of a political decision than an economic one,' James interposed. ‘His Imperial Majesty is a very great man. He thinks in global terms.'

‘His decision to allow your company to export your share of the oil produced at Imshan at a discount on the
OPEC
price will not only have world-wide repercussions, but it will inevitably undermine the solidarity of the oil-producing countries. It will also, if I am not mistaken, enormously enhance Imperial's position as a major oil company. You could become as important as Exxon.' Khorvan looked at them in turn. ‘Yet in exchange for this, you propose to give no more than any of your competitors.'

Logan leaned forward.

‘As I see it, Minister, our contribution to the joint venture with the National Iranian Oil Company is to develop the field at Imshan. The cost of this development alone will be in the region of three hundred million dollars to produce up to six hundred thousand barrels a day. There will also be a township, hospital, schools, full modern amenities in an area which is deserted at the moment and a pipeline to the refinery at Abadan. Finally there is the commitment to expand production up to a million barrels a day. If there's anything more the Shah wants us to do, I can't think what it is, but I'm naturally anxious to hear.'

‘His Imperial Majesty has made a gesture which will save the West from bankruptcy and revolution,' Khorvan said coldly. ‘The price of oil is causing such massive inflation that a total breakdown is inevitable. Everyone knows that. The United States would like to declare war on the Arab States but she cannot because they are under Soviet protection. Governments are plotting and negotiating to try and save themselves; they cannot use the Israelis as a pawn because the Arab forces are equally well equipped, as the last conflict proved. So His Imperial Majesty decides to save you. Once it is realized that Iran is letting some of its oil go at lower prices than is agreed between the
OPEC
countries, the others will have to reduce their prices in turn.'

‘Without any disrespect,' Logan said, ‘This is not just a philanthropic gesture. The situation you describe is only too true, Minister. We are on the edge of disaster in the West. But if Europe suffers a complete economic breakdown the result will be chaos followed by a Communist revolution. Iran could not hope to survive it unscathed. The Shah knows this. He is certainly saving us by breaking the price formula, but he's also protecting himself.'