Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  She found Franklin Yang at a waterfall in the park.

  He was doing yoga exercises on the bridge. He straightened out of a complicated stretch and came down to meet her by the water. His hair was teased up in a scented pomade, and combed back from his scalp. He was wearing a blue checked shirt that adhered to his lean frame. Rachel pegged him as in his early twenties.

  Rachel motioned him to a bench, where he had parked a large leather portfolio. He sat rather close to her, and he smelled as good as he looked, a heady mix of citrus and ginger. Rachel looked down at his feet. His shoes weren’t meant for a ramble along a park trail: they were polished loafers with sharp, silver buckles.

  “Why didn’t you try to speak to me, the day I came to the ROM?”

  The question was too blunt. It reflected Rachel’s internal turmoil. Franklin stiffened at her tone.

  “I don’t need any additional trouble.” He pinched his lips together.

  “Additional?” Rachel pounced on the word. “Are you talking about Zahra Sobhani? Your name is listed in her address book, you met several times. And Zahra’s assistant told us you were close, she called you Lin.”

  “Everyone calls me Lin,” he said with a pout. “But yes, I’d like to think we were getting close.” He looked at Rachel with an expressive movement of his eyebrows. “I thought it might be worth my time to cultivate the acquaintance, but it wasn’t just that, of course. She needed help, and when Charlotte put up such a stink, I was happy to do what I could.”

  His tone suggested he would have been glad to do a great deal more, if it would have helped him get back at his boss.

  “How did you help her, Mr. Yang?”

  “It was all about the Yellows, wasn’t it? She was trying to track them down. Charlotte said the very idea was absurd, but Zahra thought if anyone would know, it would be an archivist at the ROM. Seeing as how we led the project to begin with. Inescapable logic, if you ask me. Not that Charlotte agreed.”

  None of this made any sense. Except for the words “the Yellows” noted in Zahra’s date book. Rachel’s interest in Franklin sharpened.

  “Slow down, Mr. Yang,” she said. “Start at the beginning. What are the Yellows? And why would an archivist at the ROM be expected to know of them? What do you know of them?”

  Franklin Yang widened his satiny eyes.

  “I thought you knew all about it. You said you did on the phone.”

  He reached for his portfolio, its handle slipping in his hands.

  Belatedly, Rachel softened her tone.

  “I knew Zahra was investigating the Yellows, and I know about the coronation video. What I don’t understand is how the two connect. I also don’t know where to find Vic Mean. I was hoping you might help.” Thinking grimly of her own family, she said, “I promised Zahra’s son I’d bring his mother back from Iran, which is something I won’t be able to do unless I have some leverage.”

  His fingers dithered over the leather portfolio.

  “This won’t get back to Charlotte?”

  “Not from me. Though I’m interested in why she told us she didn’t know anything about Zahra.”

  “Charlotte won’t lift a finger if she can’t see the benefit to herself. Imagine a head of archives who loathes the task of actually consulting the archives.”

  “Was it the archives Zahra wanted to search? Because Charlotte told us the ROM has no records on the coronation of the Shah of Iran.”

  “That’s true, as far as it goes, but I think you’ve been misled. Zahra wasn’t interested in the coronation, she was interested in the Yellows. The Iranian Yellows, to be exact.” He puffed out his chest in the blue checked shirt. “Which speaks to our expertise.”

  She forced herself to ask again calmly.

  “What are the Iranian Yellows?”

  A little surprised, Franklin unzipped the portfolio.

  “They’re a priceless collection of diamonds—they form part of the Iranian crown jewels.”

  And when Rachel looked blank, he added, “The crown jewels are so phenomenally valuable they back the national currency to this day.”

  With a flourish, he pulled a massive volume from his case and dumped it on Rachel’s lap.

  “Zahra came to us because the ROM pioneered an inventory of the national treasury in 1968. It was led by our chief mineralogist.”

  Rachel stared down at the book’s shiny gold cover.

  Four photographs of fabulous treasures adorned the center of the cover in a narrow strip. The third in the row was the picture of a giant yellow diamond.

  At the top of the cover, two names were printed in capitals.

  MEEN & TUSHINGHAM.

  She flipped to the inside cover.

  The authors of the gemological study were listed as V. B. Meen and A. D. Tushingham. A closer inspection yielded their full names.

  Victor Meen and Arlotte Tushingham.

  Rachel’s heart began to race. She was finally on the right track.

  * * *

  Rachel pulled up a photograph on her phone, trying to connect the dots. It was the picture of the letters on Zahra’s sleeve: ADTVBMJBT. It was safe to assume she’d solved part of the code at least.

  Arlotte Douglas Tushingham, Victor Ben Meen. The third man was missing from the book’s cover. JBT. Jeb Taverner. She would have to find the connection between this man and the Yellows.

  Zahra had worn the letters on her sleeve to prepare against being taken. The letters were a clue to the Yellows. An idea had taken root in Rachel’s mind: Zahra’s sleeve, the message on the wall at Omid Arabshahi’s house, the role Mehran Najafi had played, the reason he’d made no effort to free his daughter. She didn’t think he was at a port on the Caspian, enjoying his caviar.

  The one part of the puzzle she wasn’t able to solve had to do with the Shah’s coronation.

  “Tell me about the Yellows,” she said. “Why was Zahra concerned with them?”

  Moving his hands expressively, Franklin recounted a tale that was part spy thriller and part Arabian Nights. The crown jewels were a dynastic treasure that had traded hands many times during invasions and internecine plots. Though the treasure originated in the Safavid courts of the 1500s, Nader Shah’s raid on India’s Mughal empire in 1739 constituted the bulk of it: thousands of chests filled with gold and silver coins, and a superlative number of diamonds, gemstones, and pearls. The greatly reduced, contemporary collection had been established by a descendant of the Qajar dynasty, and documented by ambassadors to the royal court. Nasiruddin Shah was the last of the Shahs to enlarge the collection, and the first to establish their display at the Golestan Palace.

  “That’s where the coronation of the Shah took place,” Rachel said.

  Franklin shrugged. He was more concerned with the far distant past.

  “He was also the one to take an interest in South African diamond mines.”

  “And that’s significant, why?”

  “It’s where the bulk of the Iranian Yellows originate. They’re called Cape diamonds. Originally, the term referred to diamonds from the British Cape Colony in South Africa, but now it’s synonymous with the color and line patterns of yellow diamonds.”

  “Where are the diamonds now?”

  Franklin stared at her in surprise.

  “Where they’ve always been. In the custody of the Central Bank. They’re housed in a highly secure vault in Tehran. They’ve been there since 1960.”

  “And they’ve never been anywhere else? In a public museum or on a world tour like the treasures of King Tut?”

  Franklin checked his watch with an impatient tut-tut of his own.

  “The bank vault is a museum—the entire collection is on display there. The crown jewels have never left the country.”

  Which brought Rachel to a dead end. If the diamonds had been under guard for more than fifty years, it dismantled the theory she’d been developing.

  “Wait, I’d forgotten! There was an exhibition, well, not a public exhibition like buyi
ng a ticket to the ROM and having your pick of the galleries—more along the lines of a private celebration—hail, fellow, well met and all that.”

  Rachel struggled to keep herself from grabbing Franklin’s shoulders and shaking him until he got to the point.

  “When was this?” she asked with forced calm.

  “Two months ago?” He said it as if Rachel would confirm the answer. “It was kind of a big deal, Sergeant Getty. There was a high-level visit from Chinese government officials. A private display was arranged of some of the choice pieces in the collection—the easily transportable ones. The transfer was overseen by representatives of the Central Bank. It was only for one evening. The jewels were returned the same night.”

  That didn’t mean something hadn’t been arranged in advance, Rachel thought with a spike of excitement. A sleight of hand, a quick substitute, a few stones peeled off from the rest.

  “How many stones are we talking here, Mr. Yang? Ten? Twelve? Would they be missed in the midst of so much other bounty?”

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean to mislead you. The Yellows are twenty-three diamonds. But they never left the vault.” He put one hand to his mouth as the other adjusted his portfolio. “None of the loose stones—and there’s an extensive collection of emeralds, as you’ll see—were part of the private exhibit. I’m sorry, I really do need to get back.”

  Rachel picked up the book on the bench and fell into step beside him, her theory crushed.

  “Did you tell all this to Zahra? I mean, did she ask?”

  “She did ask, yes. And I told her exactly what I’ve told you. The Yellows haven’t been out of the vault since 1960. I told her to pay no attention to rumors, no matter what the letters may have said.”

  Rachel stopped in her tracks.

  “What letters?”

  Franklin looked at her as though she’d grown another head.

  “The Mossadegh letters, tell me you’ve heard of those. They’re the reason Zahra came to see us. Her husband told her about the letters. He said Mossadegh believed the Yellows had been stolen or would be stolen—one or the other.” Franklin gave a little shudder. “It’s an exquisite story if you think about it. Mystery, intrigue, political dynasties. He’d heard a rumor someone was planning to switch out the stones at the royal coronation.”

  The coronation. Where it had all begun.

  “How do you know they didn’t?”

  “I told you,” Franklin said patiently. “The Yellows have never left the vault. They weren’t part of the coronation.”

  “Did Zahra have the letters? Had she seen the letters?”

  They had reached the crowded parking lot. Franklin shaded his eyes against the sun.

  “No one has seen those letters, they were burned the night they were stolen. Zahra told me as much. You know how these things are. Rumors beget rumors—Zahra didn’t believe them. But her husband talked about the rumor, and then at some point, he recanted. Some kind of pressure was put on him, Lord knows why, and that’s what sparked Zahra’s interest in digging deeper. Now if you don’t mind, Sergeant Getty—”

  Rachel minded. She minded very much. She wasn’t done with Franklin Yang, and she suspected she wasn’t done with Charlotte Rafferty either.

  She looked around the gardens. They had passed the waterfall and the playful, meandering creek and she hadn’t noticed, absorbed by the task of untangling the riddle. They had reached the park’s spiral garden, and she found it a perfect metaphor: she was spiraling down to the heart of the truth.

  Zahra had learned of the rumor from Mehran. She’d gone to the ROM to find out about the diamonds, because the ROM had pioneered an inventory of the treasury.

  When she asked Franklin if the name “Jeb Taverner” meant anything to him, he gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

  “Zahra wanted to speak to Victor and Arlotte, I assume to talk about the Yellows and corroborate the rumors. I couldn’t help her with that, they’re both deceased. She didn’t mention a ‘Jeb,’ but to tell you the truth, though I unearthed this ancient tome for her”—he nodded at the cumbersome book—“I haven’t actually read it. Maybe Jeb photographed the collection. Maybe he was part of the family that financed the expedition. You’ll have to read it through. Gemstones are much more Charlotte’s specialty than mine.”

  But Charlotte Rafferty had denied any knowledge of Zahra’s activities, just as she’d denied knowing the name Vic Meen, however it may have been spelled.

  Frustrated at the drying up of her lines of inquiry, Rachel remembered why she’d chosen the gardens as a meeting place.

  “One last thing, Mr. Yang. Do you have any idea why Zahra might have scheduled a meeting at Windfields Park? It was the last meeting on her agenda before she left for Iran.” She waved a hand at a burgeoning willow whose branches trailed over the creek. “It’s just north of here, maybe you’ve heard of it, maybe you’ve been there.”

  To her surprise, Franklin Yang struck a peevish pose, one hand on a jutting hip.

  “That’s just the kind of thing Charlotte should have told you. And since she hasn’t, promise you’ll keep my name out of this. More trouble with Charlotte is honestly the last thing I need.” He favored Rachel with a knowing look. “It’s not a place, Sergeant Getty. Winfield Park is a person. He’s a contact of Charlotte’s. I sent Zahra to Winfield to ask about the treasure. He’s a gemstone cutter, quite well-known in his field.”

  Rachel took a moment to absorb this. She needed another meeting with Charlotte Rafferty. But more than that, she needed to speak to Winfield Park. She took his contact details from Franklin and, as a last resort, held up her phone to Franklin’s face.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  It was the photograph Khattak had sent her of Zahra’s sketch.

  He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t. It looks a bit like a coffin, doesn’t it?”

  Rachel thanked him for his time. Despite the death of her theory, Franklin Yang had proved to be a fount of information. There were new avenues to pursue.

  And the book.

  She hefted it in her hands.

  She was itching to read the book.

  43

  Nate passed the long drive to Ottawa with his thoughts for company. He’d wanted to ask Rachel to accompany him. They could have stopped for a picnic lunch at Tweed and caught each other up on the banks of Lake Ontario. Just as well the sleeting rain had dashed that idea, for he could imagine what Laine would make of it. She’d think he’d brought Rachel as a form of protection because he couldn’t face her on his own. Worse yet, she’d score points at Rachel’s expense.

  A man could be a fool at least once in his life, he believed; a fool about money, love, friendship, family. Any or all of those. And a writer needed to be, if his books were to traverse the shared experiences of his audience. But more than once or twice would be terribly unwise. He no longer had any illusions about Laine, he wasn’t worried about his susceptibility to her. Rachel would have been welcome for her own sake, not as a shield against Laine.

  He stopped in Kingston for lunch, finding a brasserie on the lakefront and choosing a meal he didn’t taste. Laine had taken his call, accepted his reasons for wanting to see her, and otherwise stayed silent. There were none of the probing, teasing questions he was used to, none of the barbed provocation he’d once found irresistible. Her voice flat, she gave him directions to a café downtown, and the window of an appointment time.

  “Don’t be late,” she’d told him. “I have another meeting after yours.”

  He fueled up the car, though why he was driving his Aston Martin instead of his more reliable SUV, he couldn’t have said. He hoped it wasn’t because some part of him hoped to impress Laine. Walking away had been his choice—no choice really, when the truth about Laine and Esa had come to light. She’d played one friend against the other, damaging both. Now things between himself and Esa had returned to normal, the friendship too cherished to risk again.

  He had to play this meeting with
Laine right, so he could walk away unscathed.

  * * *

  By the time he pulled off the highway onto the quiet streets of the capital, the rain had eased off, light poking through windows like a handful of broken straws. If this was spring, it was tardy. Despite the presence of new cafés and restaurants, the city looked gloomy and dank, unwelcoming to outsiders, preoccupied with the business at hand, most of the business belonging to banks and civil servants.

  He’d wanted to meet Laine at the RCMP’s national headquarters on Leikin Drive. She’d refused, choosing an out-of-the-way café in the market instead. Nate parked in an underground lot with a parking attendant. He snagged his silver-headed umbrella from the backseat of his car as a precaution against the rain’s return.

  He was dressed in black, like a man about to attend a funeral. From his hangdog expression, one would have guessed the funeral was his own. He found his way down Sparks Street, past the banks, art galleries, and souvenir stores, and across the bridge that spanned the Rideau Canal. He passed by the stately charm of the Chateau Laurier’s masonry and turrets, and the photography museum curled up in its illustrious shadow.

  Dull pink coins of light, reflections of the streetlamps, bobbed over the surface of the black water of the locks. A chilly wind penetrated the warmth of Nate’s coat. A fresh flurry of sleet swiped at his glasses.

  By the time he reached the café, he was reconsidering his choice of a parking spot. He hadn’t wanted to leave the Aston Martin in the street, now he thought better of his decision. A round-armed woman with a habit of yawning widely led him to the table where Laine had arrived before him.

  She didn’t stand. He removed his glasses to dry their surface, memory filling in the beautiful lines of her face. A little older, yes, her face more graven with experience, but the long-lashed eyes and dark sweep of hair pulled to one side of a swanlike neck were the same. What was different was the watchfulness in her face. Laine had always been intemperate with her emotions, storming, laughing, seizing, defying.