“You chose not to replicate the tiara?” Nate asked, undeterred by the snub.
“A platinum tiara engorged with a number of utterly pedestrian baubles? It wasn’t worth my time. As it happens, settings are prohibitively expensive to manufacture—my interest resides in the rarity of the stones.”
Vicky had pointed out something similar in her summary of Winfield Park’s biography. He’d been quoted in the Lapidary Journal as disdaining attempts to amplify stones of superlative natural quality by mounting them in pedestrian settings. The cut, he’d argued, allowed the stone to reveal its inner beauty, treasure enough for the discerning. Thus the master cutters of the Steinmetz had reduced the stone’s weight by fifty-five carats to allow for a superior cut.
Rachel studied Tavernier’s sketch. She viewed the Nur-el Ain from both sides. There was an empty space beside the pink tablet.
“I imagine these replicas require a lot of skill. They must excite a great deal of interest.”
Mollified, Park nodded at Rachel.
“Museums and private collectors are particularly interested. I have an exclusive arrangement with the mineralogy galleries at the ROM.”
“I don’t see the Darya-e Nur.” Rachel quoted from her reading, “‘A stone unrivaled in history.’ Did you choose not to make a replica of it?”
“Why would I leave out half of the Diamanta Grande Table? Of course I made a replica of the Darya-e Nur. And in time, I’ll make another.”
Rachel caught her breath.
“Why would you need to, Mr. Park? Where’s the replica you made?”
His shrug was down-to-earth.
“Who knows why collectors want what they want? They made me a most generous offer, I sold off the piece.” He gazed fondly at the display case. “They do seem a little diminished by the absence of their companion.”
Nate interrupted his reverie.
“Who was the collector?”
Park looked at Nathan as if he’d muttered an indecency.
“In your position, Mr. Clare, you should know most collectors prefer to remain anonymous. I have no idea who purchased the piece.”
Rachel wasn’t buying it.
“Someone brokered the sale. Someone must have arranged for payment and delivery. You must have a name for us.”
“As to that, I don’t know if I should say. I shouldn’t like to get my intermediate into trouble.”
Rachel had been wondering why Park didn’t push back on her questions. And why he hadn’t asked her the nature of her interest in the Darya-e Nur. Maybe this was the reason. Maybe he didn’t want the police digging too closely into his private business. Could be there were tax implications. She circled around to a different question.
“But these—” She jabbed a finger at the unsold replicas. “These were cut from cubic zirconia. The Darya-e Nur as well? Couldn’t anyone tell the difference at first glance?”
Park surprised her by laughing.
“What are you imagining, Sergeant Getty? The originals are part of the Iranian crown jewels—how would anyone be in a position to make a comparison?”
“But could you tell them apart?”
He seemed to be sizing up Rachel for the first time. He’d been happy to discuss his process, now he seemed more like an expert gemologist, his head tipped back, his canny eyes considering.
“I could, yes, so could other professional jewelers. All it would take is the proper tools. But this is irrelevant, Sergeant Getty.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“A replica of the stone wouldn’t be enough. You’d need a jeweler with the craft and skill to duplicate its frankly marvelous setting. He’d need a few hundred residual stones at hand. There are four hundred and fifty-seven diamonds and four rubies of exceptional quality mounted above the Darya-e Nur. I wouldn’t have the stones, I really don’t know who would.”
But Rachel had a very good idea.
“The name of your agent, Mr. Park. Since you can’t help us with the name of the buyer.”
“It isn’t a conflict for me, but it may be a conflict of interest for her, given her position. You’ll have to leave me out of it. I’ve told you, I don’t want trouble.”
“I can’t promise anything of the kind. I’m investigating a murder.”
Winfield Park relented, either out of self-interest or because Rachel’s words had prompted a momentary concern.
“Charlotte Rafferty arranged the sale. She’s the head archivist at the ROM.”
* * *
Park walked them to the door, pausing beneath a chandelier hung with hundreds of shimmering pendants, arranged in concentric loops. The marble floors gleamed in its light. Nate wondered if Park had designed it. Park confirmed Nathan’s guess.
“It’s perfection,” Nate said simply. “Like the rest of your work. I’m not surprised the ROM arranged a partnership.”
Park preened at the words. Now that he’d given up Charlotte Rafferty’s name, he’d entered a new phase of conviviality. He withdrew a crystal-edged card case from his trouser pocket and slipped a business card into Nate’s hand.
“Should you find yourself in need of a commission, Mr. Clare.”
Nate thanked him.
“I shouldn’t let your flattery go to my head,” Park added. “I aim for accuracy with my replicas, but there are some things I cannot replicate.”
Rachel looked up at him from the bottom step.
“What do you mean?”
“The Darya-e Nur.” He waved one hand in the air, swatting at an insect drawn to his cologne. “I wasn’t able to reproduce the inscription on the tablet. Charlotte said the buyer wouldn’t notice, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. The diamond had sentimental value.”
* * *
When she related this story to Vicky over a dinner of Thai noodles and spicy shrimp, the young reporter was furious.
“You make me dredge through archives, but you don’t invite me to see the world’s most fabulous gemstones? I mean, the Hope Diamond, Rachel. How could you let me miss it?”
Rachel shrank down in her chair.
“One shiny bauble is the same as another to me. I didn’t know there’d be a roomful of them. To be honest, I really didn’t pay them much attention.”
“Except for the opals,” Nate put in with a smile. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you gawking at the opals.”
“I would have liked to gawk at the opals!” Vicky protested.
The three of them grinned at each other. They’d found a common groove.
Rachel said, “I’d like to know why the inscription on the Darya-e Nur doesn’t matter to the buyer. And I’d also like to know why Charlotte Rafferty didn’t tell us any of this.”
“You’re missing the point,” Vicky warned, around a mouthful of noodles. “Who has a sentimental attachment to a chunk of the crown jewels? I don’t have a sentimental attachment to the Kohinoor. Yeah, give it back to India, but that’s about as much as I care.”
“A former royalist?” Nate suggested. He managed his chopsticks with the elegance that was second nature to him. “Someone who was at the coronation?”
Rachel snorted. A bit of sauce leaked from the side of her mouth. Embarrassed, she dabbed at it with a napkin.
“A jewel thief in his dotage? And why the Darya-e Nur especially? Why not the tiara or the emerald belt? Why not the Shahi Sword or the scepter? They seem like good choices.”
Vicky helpfully produced Franklin’s book.
“You carry that everywhere now?” Rachel asked, deadpan. Vicky blew her silky black bangs out of her eyes, a gesture that was simultaneously endearing and insulting.
“Look at this tiara,” she said, pointing. “Yes, the Nur-el Ain is just one stone, but look at the additional stones you’d have to reproduce. And the tiara weighs two kilograms, it’s not the easiest thing to transport. By comparison, the Darya-e Nur is small and discreet.”
Rachel opened another carton, searching for wontons to soak up the sauce on her plate
.
“The setting,” Nate pointed out. “Four hundred and fifty-seven additional diamonds, four rubies. That seems difficult to reproduce.”
“No,” Rachel said in a tone of discovery. “I don’t think so. Vicky’s right, it’s discreet. And the diamonds in the Darya-e Nur ornament are tiny. The setting is intricate, I’ll grant you, but where did Zahra go in Iran?” The wontons were forgotten on her plate. She compared the delicate grace of the Darya-e Nur to the excess of the tiara. “Zahra went to see a jeweler.”
“But the stone would be ruined if it was removed from its setting,” Nate objected.
“I know.” Rachel’s smile was smug. “That’s the whole point. The stone wasn’t removed—the entire ornament was replaced. And that’s what Zahra could prove.”
47
Khattak booked his passage on the Royal Safar bus line, not needing another warning. He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t rested—he could only think of the others trapped in Larijani’s hands.
Get out of Iran or you won’t be leaving.
He arrived in time for the first bus to Tehran. He hadn’t known how to thank Nasih, he’d simply embraced him. He could tell that Nasih understood.
“We are many,” Nasih had said in Farsi, explaining his well-judged silence, perhaps also explaining the delivery of the letters. Nasih was a supporter of the Green Movement. And Esa remembered Ali had told him there were others.
Khattak had retrieved his phone, checking the brick in the wall as a reflex. His correspondent had ceased to write him. Or perhaps Nasih was no longer willing to risk delivering her letters, if he was her courier.
Khattak was alarmed to see Taraneh at the bus terminal at first light, the clouds inaugurating a baleful sky behind the wings of the building. When she met him at his bus stop, he realized the extent of Nasih’s connection to the others—for only Nasih could have told her of his plans.
En route to the stop, Esa had received two messages from Rachel. One was a set of photographs from a book called The Crown Jewels of Iran: it included color plates of the Nur-el Ain tiara, and of an ornamental brooch known as the Darya-e Nur. He was stunned to realize Roxana had pointed him to the diamond, just as she’d pointed him to the wall at Omid’s house.
I slip through the crack to find you, borne along on a sea of light.
In English, the Darya-e Nur was called the Sea of Light.
Rachel had also included photographs of pages that related the story of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. Her second message announced the arrival of her tourist visa. After making sure she knew what she was getting herself into, Nate had booked her on a tour due to arrive in Tehran in two days. She’d suggested a few tasks for Esa in the interim.
The first was to find out some background on the exhibit for the Chinese; she wanted to know which pieces had been taken out of the Central Bank’s vault for the private exhibit. And she’d suggested he pay a visit to the bank to determine for himself whether a substitution of the Darya-e Nur had been made. He was on his way to Tehran to accomplish these tasks, along with one of his own. He wanted to learn what he could of Zahra’s burial. The news of her burial had come as a shock. It was something he wished he’d had a chance to discuss with the others, but Larijani’s intrusion had changed things.
He found Taraneh waiting beside his bus in a short black coat and a head scarf tied with more rigor than he’d come to expect from her. He glanced around for a sign of Nasreen. Taraneh had come alone, and the impish smile he associated with her was missing.
“I don’t think we’ll meet again,” she said without preamble. “I’m sorry to see you leave.”
Clouds had gathered above their heads, bands of dark lace feathered with traces of gold. He saw signs of weariness in her face. She would have spent the previous night worrying over Ali’s and Omid’s safety. She was taking a risk meeting him here now—a risk that endangered them both. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her what she must already know.
“Have Omid and Ali been released from custody?” he asked instead. He was conscious of his fear now, in a way he hadn’t been before.
The driver of the bus opened the door to begin admitting passengers. The queue Esa joined began to move, Taraneh moving along with them.
“He kept them all night, but they’re home now, though perhaps a little worse for wear.”
She held up a hand to his face, then thought better of it as a woman in the queue clicked her tongue. “You’re all right?” she asked him. “They didn’t harm you? Larijani told Ali he’d interrogated you.” A faded echo of her impish smile settled on her lips. “You were clever. You said exactly what Ali guessed you would say. He didn’t contradict you. They wouldn’t have been released otherwise.”
“Were they beaten?” Khattak asked, dreading the answer.
Taraneh looked away. She shrugged.
“I’m thankful Darius is safe. Ali would never have let them take him again.”
It was an indirect answer—her way of articulating unpalatable truths.
“And you—or the others? Were any of you harmed?”
She studied him, a faint concern reflected in her eyes.
“You’re wondering about Nasreen.”
There was no point in denying it. “There’s something she’s holding back.”
“She wakes up every day missing part of herself. Is that the only reason you worry?”
The bus driver honked his horn. There were two passengers left in the line ahead of Esa. He had this moment to speak, and then it would be over, he wouldn’t be returning to Esfahan. He felt a tremor that was part nostalgia, and part residual fear.
“The wall at Omid’s house is a danger to you. You could end up at Kahrizak, or find yourself somewhere worse.”
“There isn’t anywhere worse.”
“Listen to me, please. Convince the others. What good are any of your efforts if you’re locked away or made to disappear? Promise me you’ll do something about the wall. Larijani is watching you closely.”
He mounted the first step of the bus, his ticket in his hand. Taraneh considered his words.
“It’s the last thing we have that was Zahra’s.”
“Take a picture,” he said roughly. “And go on to finish her work.”
“You say this yet you’re abandoning us.”
He didn’t flatter himself that this explained Taraneh’s subdued demeanor. He remembered his days as a student. A buoyant invincibility had bubbled up from within, sustaining the efforts of his young group of friends, their safety assured, their principles secure. But as friends dropped out, as interests and career paths had diverged, he’d felt rudderless and ill at ease, wondering if he too should fall into safely trodden ways.
There was something to be said for companions in arms. He could understand why Taraneh would feel more alone now in the efforts of her group, despite how little Esa had contributed to their cause. For a brief time there’d been someone who believed. And he wondered if he would write her from Toronto.
“I’m going to Tehran to see this through, I’ll let Ali know what I find. If you see Roxana’s mother, please let her know I was thinking of her. And Nasreen—”
He bit back the words. His knowledge of Nasreen was confined to what he imagined her to be, his attraction an ephemeral thing, meaningless against her pain.
“And Nasreen?”
Taraneh took his hand in her own with a gentle disregard for convention. The warmth of her compassion wrapped around him. He didn’t know what loss or littleness she had seen in him, but she didn’t let him answer, quoting the poet Hafiz instead.
“‘You still listen to an old alley song that brings your body pain.’”
The poets had an answer for everything.
* * *
He read Rachel’s notes closely on the long ride north, overtaken by the fear Larijani would re-appear. He knew it was a mistake to be complacent. He’d have no recourse to judicial process in Tehran. And an international incident wouldn’t help his situati
on at home, no matter what Touka had promised him.
Visiting popular tourist sites such as the National Jewelry Treasury was an uncontroversial option if Larijani was still on his trail, delving into Zahra’s burial much less so. He’d begin with the exhibit, and he’d be as quick as possible. He agreed with Rachel’s conclusion that a substitution of the Darya-e Nur was only possible if the ornament had been part of the private exhibit. Suppose the pieces fell into place. The substitution would have been planned far in advance: brokering the sale of the replica, arranging the transport of the stone. It would have taken time to duplicate the ornament’s elaborate setting—the hundreds of diamonds, the paired rubies. A sophisticated level of craftsmanship would be required to imitate the original: the diamond was surmounted by Iran’s imperial symbols, a pair of rampant lions under a fiery sun.
He studied Rachel’s photographs with interest. The history of the crown jewels was fascinating, the story of the Canadian mineralogists’ detective work in tracing the journey of the Great Table exactly the kind of legend that should apply to such a stone. He imagined Rachel and Nate in Winfield Park’s gallery. Nate’s interest would have been piqued, he had the taste and means by which to indulge a fondness for rarities, whereas Rachel’s quotient of skepticism would doubtlessly have tempered the appeal of Winfield Park’s treasures.
He thought of Zahra and Mehran. He was working up a possible scenario in his mind. From what he knew of Zahra, Roxana’s rearrest would have left her without peace. She would have been agitating for information on her stepdaughter, long before she arrived in Tehran.
Rachel thought the phone calls between Zahra and Mehran were concerned with the theft of the Darya-e Nur, if theft there had been. Khattak thought otherwise.
Why had they assumed Mehran cared so little for the fate of his daughter?
A statement in one of Roxana’s letters had stayed with him.
My father’s strength infuses me.
If Mehran had spent time in Iranian jails—not for political crimes but for periodically finding himself out of favor—his fears for Roxana’s well-being would have been formed from firsthand knowledge. He would have told his daughter stories of his time in prison, stories that supported her through her detention, lessons that forged Roxana’s strength.
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