Her letters exuded a quiet toughness.
If she was what her father had made her, perhaps the phone calls between Zahra and Mehran had been dedicated to a different end: two parents conspiring together to secure the release of their daughter. Mehran had been detained for suggesting the Mossadegh letters mentioned a conspiracy to steal the Iranian Yellows, an impossible, unproven rumor. But what if the rumor had sparked the idea for the real theft?
Rachel had expressed the theory that Mehran was responsible for the substitution of the stone. But suppose Mehran had merely uncovered the theft, and shared his knowledge with Zahra on his last trip to Toronto. She’d persuaded him to participate in an exhibit at the ROM, to donate a photograph from his collection. It would have given them leverage over Charlotte, so they could demand to know who the buyer was. It was possible Mehran had trailed the buyer to Shiraz, and Zahra had followed in his footsteps. If Zahra had stepped up her activities in Tehran, she might have done so because Mehran had gone missing. The question was why—how? And why had Zahra thought herself secure enough to take photographs at Evin? Someone must have assured her of her safety. Someone must have told her it was worth the risk. But who would Zahra have trusted with her life?
He felt the stirring of his blood. There were things he could do, answers he could dig for without endangering the others. And he would be putting himself back to work, dusting off skills grown stale from disuse.
He’d been cautious since he’d chosen the police as a career. Careful and measured consideration was the only way he knew to answer the assumption of Muslim rage. He was clean-shaven, he didn’t regularly wear a topi or any other signifier of his faith. He prayed behind a closed door. He was light-skinned and green-eyed, passing in his public engagements, not easily pigeonholed. Whether he enjoyed living his life on these terms when he could have been at ease, expressing the different sides of himself, the things that enriched him, enriched, he believed, the fabric of his nation, was a separate question.
There were issues that engaged his sympathies, his intellect, his heart. Zahra Sobhani’s murder, Saneh Ardalan’s disappearance, Roxana Najafi’s imprisonment—these coldly callous acts to which there was no recourse enraged him to the heart of his core beliefs.
If one could be enraged by the loss of a favorite sports team, shouldn’t his anger rise at the entrenchment of a scheme whereby no innocent person was safe, where self-determination was a crime punished by the vagaries of an opaque and impervious judicial system?
He thought of parents who begged at the prosecutor’s door, the bribes paid to minor clerks for information on the missing, the mothers who collapsed at the morgue, praying not to find their answers with the coroner.
He thought of journalists and artists languishing in cells varied only in the nature of their persecutions. His mouth tightened. He had underestimated the courage required to be an activist inside Iran. Larijani had shattered his sense of himself with a single, ominous threat.
He was glad to feel his blood stir in response. It was the cresting of his humanity, something he hadn’t lost, something Rachel shared with him.
He texted her an encrypted message. He needed to study Zahra’s photographs again. He asked her to send them back.
* * *
Dry hills, blue mosques, dusty roads, sparse bits of green, and a blind, inarticulate sun that reddened the foreground as the miles drifted by. Khattak was offered tea and cakes on a punctual basis with a hopeful smile from the driver’s assistant, whose cologne announced his presence long before his arrival, brandishing a tourism-enhanced samovar on a cart. A shah with twirling mustaches and a pompous, high-stacked cap gazed torpidly at Esa from its surface.
A movie played on a shared screen, the arms of the chairs equipped with private headphone jacks. Some of the passengers dozed lightly, others followed the film. Khattak made extensive notes on the case in a specialized shorthand. By the time the Royal Safar had reached the terminal, he’d decided which of his leads to pursue. He proceeded from the ring of the terminal, tipping the driver and his assistant.
* * *
Two-note horns, diesel fumes, and catcalls rose in an antiphonal symphony to greet him. He wasn’t fond of Tehran, a city gridlocked with traffic and shrouded with pollution. He had a hazy view of the Milad Tower, from which he could orient himself in the streets of a rapidly expanding metropolis. Smoke, pollution, clouds of dust and noise—the marks of a visit to Tehran, though the ashen sky freshened by a sharp tang of frost lessened the prospect of spring.
His taxi moved from the city center to less densely trafficked neighborhoods. Here, market stalls disclosed Nowruz preparations, the pavements cluttered with potted flowers in electric shades of yellow and pink, and baskets of new spring grass, their emerald blades grown tall and thick. Market stalls promised painted eggs in turquoise, the green sprouts of onion bulbs, glass bowls teeming with goldfish, and offerings of hyacinth and honey.
The city was expectant, buoyant, though it would empty soon for revels in the countryside, the traffic dying down. He checked into his hotel, offering his passport at the reception desk, whose walls, ceilings, and floors were paneled in an earth-red marble against the backdrop of French provincial furniture. He’d traded the charm and familiarity of Nasih’s guesthouse for the generic imperturbability of a five-star chain. He’d chosen it for a reason: he would blend in among its crowd of eager tourists, making it easier to disappear.
The hotel was fifteen minutes down the road from the Central Bank. He took a quick shower, changed into fresh clothes, and called up the hours of the local library on his phone. He wore his black blazer and combed back his hair, hoping that a more presentable appearance would result in the librarian’s willingness to assist with his search.
His drive took him through the affluent neighborhood of Elahieh, past a row of white high-rise buildings fronted by diplomatic clubs. Those who thought of Tehran as a city of black-clad mobs were clinging to an archaic picture of the past. The residents of the wealthier suburbs lived a double life away from the prying eyes of the Revolutionary Guards. Elahieh was characterized by foreign sports cars, expensive liquor, plastic surgery, and beach-ready bodies.
The library Khattak sought was a nondescript building of negligible distinction that lingered in the shadows of Elahieh—an inconspicuous relic of a time before the re-development boom. It sat in a garden overgrown with briars that poked through a rime of snow on the crest of a featureless hill.
The driver of his taxi offered to wait, Esa urged him on his way. He didn’t want his presence to linger in anyone’s memory, though he hoped his precautions were unnecessary. He was met at the reference desk by a librarian with a ruddy face and an expression of mild anxiety. The librarian introduced himself as Ramin Rajaee, a stutter in his voice. He listened patiently to Khattak’s request for anything the library might house in its collection on the National Jewelry Treasury, known locally as the Jewelry Museum.
“British tourists like to visit it,” Ramin said. “It reminds them of the Raj. But we primarily archive newspapers and magazines at this location. You would do better to visit the museum, they sell a book that documents the highlights of the collection.”
Khattak was calculating how to bring up the exhibit when Ramin’s face lit up.
“Just a moment. There was recently an exhibition of part of the collection—how many weeks ago, two or three? The National Museum of Iran hosted a cultural exchange with a delegation from China. It was not a public exhibit by any means.” His clever eyes interrogated Khattak. “It was meant as a display of prestige.” Wryly, he added, “Our national treasures were sampled like so many items on a smorgasbord, the background to a diplomatic dinner.”
Khattak tried not to overstate his interest in this.
“Who approved the pieces for the exhibit?”
“I wouldn’t know, and I doubt our archives would tell you. You’re welcome to take a look, if you like. I’d be happy to search the records for you.
As you can see, we don’t have much regular custom.” He shrugged. “You can draw your own conclusions about what we’re permitted to preserve for posterity. Can you read Farsi?”
Esa nodded. His practice with Persian poetry would stand him in good stead.
Ramin motioned Khattak to a recessed reading room on the main floor. Khattak had been expecting dusty binders with newspaper pages preserved in plastic sleeves. Instead, he was treated to a display of sleekly lined-up computer monitors, one at each patron’s station.
The librarian retreated to his reference desk, where he used his browser to search for articles on the exhibit. He made minute notations on a pad at his elbow. These he transferred into Esa’s care with a satisfied glint of accomplishment. The librarian had noted down four articles in four different papers, each with its own take on the creatively named “Clasp of Civilizations” exhibit. The Farsi title was considerably more ponderous, assuring the dignity of both sets of delegates.
Khattak read each article closely, a process that took him some time. A fulsome piece in the hardliner paper Kayhan discussed the inimitable nature of the treasure. Khattak scanned the pages for a more precise account of the exhibit. He found it in the final article given to him by the librarian.
The highlight of the exhibit had been the Kiani Crown. Khattak was shocked to read the crown had traveled from the safety of the vault to the lightly guarded exhibit. Its twenty-one emerald plumes curved above a second spray of diamonds, the heart of which was an eighty-carat emerald of exceptional clarity. This was to say nothing of the crown’s pearl pavement, its heavily jeweled headband, or the thousands of stones that formed its perimeter and plumes.
Reading this, Khattak shook his head. Who would have insured the transfer of the crown? He read further and had his question answered: a complement of Revolutionary Guards.
The Kiani Crown had pride of place in the private exhibit, perhaps more acceptable to the present regime than the Pahlavi Crown of the deposed dynasty. It was accompanied by the jeweled mace of Fath Ali Shah, a symbol of the Shah’s copious authority. Its diamond-sheathed surface glinted from a background of delicate green enamel. It was accompanied by a jiqa, an aigrette or ornamental brooch, that had been a favorite of Fath Ali Shah. Khattak had seen the jiqa in portraits of various shahs, crested by three black heron plumes, the stamp of royalty. He read on.
A handful of additional aigrettes had been scattered about the display, along with a selection of turquoise-studded cups. No other crowns or tiaras were listed, and none of the regalia of state had been removed from the Central Bank. No Shahi Sword, no emerald belt, and certainly not the Naderi Throne. Almost as an afterthought and with very little fanfare, the author of the article listed the Darya-e Nur.
Khattak read it over three times to make sure.
The Darya-e Nur was unlike anything else in the collection. Perhaps its close association with the Pahlavi shahs had merited its offhand dismissal by the journalist in question. There was no mention of the legend of the Great Table Diamond, and no indication that the Nur-el Ain had formed part of the Table Diamond together with the Darya-e Nur.
The librarian wandered over to Khattak’s monitor.
“Did you find what you wanted?” he asked.
“It was of great interest,” Esa replied. “It’s unfortunate there were no photographs of the exhibit, it should have taken the world by storm.”
Pleased by this compliment, Ramin pointed to the miniscule numbering at the top of the page. It indicated the article continued at the back of the relevant section. He found the page for Esa. It featured a full-color set of photographs. But as quickly as Esa’s anticipation rose, his hopes were dashed.
Primacy was given to the Kiani Crown. It was as resplendent in the photographs as Esa had imagined. The rest of the photographs were of delegates in various stages of affability. Gifts were proffered and exchanged. Thirteen or fourteen men struck a congratulatory pose. At one end of the group, a man in a sharp black suit had turned his face from the camera.
Khattak recognized him anyway.
It was Barsam Radan.
He asked Ramin, to be certain.
The librarian squinted at the printing, incurious as to Khattak’s familiarity with the name.
“Yes,” Ramin said. “It was Radan who arranged the exhibit. His personal guards secured the transfer.”
* * *
Khattak arranged for photocopies of the articles to be made. An ugly picture was forming in his mind, its outline hazy but certain of its details clear.
The Darya-e Nur had been placed on display outside the heavily guarded Jewelry Museum. Coverage of its presence as part of the exhibit had been limited to a passing mention. It was the only item in the exhibit not to be photographed.
And Radan had arranged both the exhibit and the transfer of the jewels from the treasury.
He was getting closer to the truth, he could feel it.
What if Radan had arranged the substitution of the stone? Who among his guards would have dared to challenge him?
He asked Ramin a final question.
“The cost of arranging an adequate alarm system for the Kiani Crown at a private location must have been steep.”
Ramin was reading the article over his shoulder. His answer was dismissive. The exhibit had passed from his thoughts, he was likely hoping Khattak’s departure would allow him to close up early. Khattak was the last patron to occupy a carrel.
“Why would you need an alarm when you have the Revolutionary Guards?”
* * *
On his ride back to the hotel, Khattak outlined his discoveries in a message to Rachel. It was imperative she find out who had purchased the replica from Charlotte Rafferty. The day after tomorrow, all official business and buildings would be closed for Nowruz. If he was to have a look at the Darya-e Nur at the museum, it would have to be first thing tomorrow. The museum was closed on weekends, Wednesdays, and public holidays.
Tomorrow was Tuesday. He had roughly a two-hour window, and the window was in the afternoon. Which gave him time to contact Touka to ask her for her help.
48
Touka waited for Khattak at a tiny restaurant wedged between a pharmacy and a grocery. Spring was in retreat, columns of clouds arranged with military precision over the Alborz Mountains. The bite of frost was in the air. The restaurant’s outdoor seating was closed, its patio umbrellas folded in a corner like a stack of used-up Christmas trees. The interior wasn’t much warmer, the diner-style seating supplemented with embroidered cushions in a dull burgundy, halfhearted stars limping along the borders. It was a cheerless place, but the food was good.
She had ordered helpings of pomegranate stew for Khattak and herself. His smile, when he saw her, transformed his face, brightening his eyes, relaxing his self-possession. He was dressed in casual slacks and a windbreaker zipped against the wind.
Touka had worn her new blue coat and made an effort with her hair for his benefit. A fringe of white decorated her shoulders like a cape. She had also applied lipstick in a shade adventurously named “Kiss Me Coral.”
She urged him to eat, he told her what he’d discovered, sliding the pages of the newspaper article in front of her. She should have put the pieces together for herself. Of course Radan was involved. And it answered a question that had puzzled them both: Zahra’s ability to gain an audience with a representative of the Supreme Leader. Zahra would have been careful not to give away her whole hand—perhaps, she would have named Radan and indicated something had gone amiss with the exhibit. Then she would have offered to provide evidence to back her claims. In return, she would have demanded Roxana’s release.
Something had gone wrong in that short period between Zahra’s meeting at the Supreme Leader’s office and her visit to Evin prison, and that was what they needed to determine. Touka was curious about one thing, though.
“What are you hoping to gain from following in Zahra’s footsteps?”
Khattak eyed her directly, his att
ention on her face. She hadn’t known green eyes could be so penetrating. She felt a bloom spread over her skin. She was certain it clashed with her lipstick.
“I want Radan held to account, and I want Zahra’s body returned to Canada.”
“Is that all?” Her fingers unclenched from her fork. She was astonished to find herself flustered by an attractive man’s attention.
“No.” His gaze didn’t falter. “I also want to secure Roxana Najafi’s release.”
Roxana’s letters were a trust. He didn’t want to fail her.
As Khattak told her this, Touka saw she’d mistaken his reserve. He was passionately engaged, and he was telling her this for a reason. It wasn’t Khattak who would have to demand co-operation from figures in the corridors of power. He expected Touka to do it. She should have thought of that before she had threatened him—coercing his assistance.
“You seem angry,” she said.
His reply was blunt. “I’ve had the smallest taste of what these men can do. I won’t leave Roxana behind.”
When they’d finished eating, he ordered tea. It came in scarlet glasses, adorned with the face of Nader Shah.
“You got me into this,” he said without preamble. “So we should finish this together. My partner is coming. We’ll work our leads to get what you need, you’ll have to do the rest.”
Touka straightened her back, ignoring the twinge of pain in her hip.
“I can’t promise you anything.”
But she knew she would do her best. She had caught something of his commitment. In the shadowy realms of her experience, she admitted the feeling was rare.
* * *
The Central Bank of Iran was a gleaming glass tower, an icon of Tehran’s skyline. Under the aegis of a wintry sun, its blind glass eyes gazed at the streets with a basilisk glare. A green marble wall disported the name of the bank: Khattak read the logo first in Farsi, then in English. He glanced across the street, searching for a tail. No one paused to watch him, everyone in a hurry to be about their business.
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