Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  I sign a bond to the effect that I’ll pay for my term at Kahrizak—I learn that I’ve been here fifteen months. At the word “fifteen,” I think of poor Piss-Pants, but I wipe him from my mind. It’s spring in Shahr Ray, and I’ll be free to celebrate Nowruz. The confession is signed, the camera switched off. Hogsbreath shakes my hand, so does his second-in-command. Joojeh appears at the door, I’m led down the wing of detainees, where I imagine I hear the cries of the ones still trapped. Step by step, I’m led down the stairs, past the desk to the crowded courtyard.

  57

  At the westernmost tip of the harbor, amidst a fleet of Russian ships, Khattak found the portrait of the man he was looking for, the man with a sty in his eye.

  “I’m looking for a courier,” he said to the dockworker behind the registry, a heavyset man with Kazakh eyes, a sunburned face, and hands like boiled hams. Khattak nodded at the portrait behind the man’s head.

  “Barid Rud,” he went on. “I’m told I can find him here.”

  The dockworker wiped his blunt fists on his apron. He set them on the counter.

  “What do you need to transport and where?”

  He gave no name. His name tag identified him as Aruzhan. Khattak struggled to sort out his dialect.

  “I prefer to discuss my business with him directly. Tell him, I can pay.”

  Khattak looked around the boathouse. A framed photograph on one wall showed Rud standing beside a ship flying Russian and Iranian flags. Its name was the Caspian Rose. He found this oddly poetic.

  “Come back in an hour.”

  The dockworker returned to brewing his tea.

  Khattak found himself a seat on a bench with full view of the entrance to the boathouse. He watched the waves lap at the shore, the silky current sweeping back and forth. There was a scent in the air specific to the Caspian: a tang of dead fire, a greasy salinity, the stink of fish underlined by the odor of oil. And all of it draped in humidity.

  Khattak loved the smell. It reminded him of his first trip to the shores of the Caspian, on a road trip his parents had made through Asia. He’d been a child then, and the long, blue languor of the sea had stretched along a pristine shore, outlined by valleys of sand. Silvery-white shells had filled the entire expanse of Esa’s vision. Holding his father’s hand, he’d skipped along the shore collecting shells or diving for black rocks under the cover of the surf. He’d spelled his name on the sands of Anzali Harbor with the stones, chatting with the fishermen while kind-eyed women had smiled on his efforts and stroked his hair.

  His long fascination with Iran had begun that day. He felt a pang of nostalgia at this return, absent the companionship of his father. The father who’d quoted Rumi and Hafiz and Mirza Ghalib, the last great poet of the Mughal empire, using language as a vehicle of grace.

  The hour passed, he returned to the boathouse. This time the dockworker gave him a resentful glance and informed him Rud was late. He was told to try again an hour later.

  Khattak returned to his bench. Barid Rud, the messenger of the sea, and undoubtedly the Darya-e Nur’s courier, might have gotten wind of Esa’s pursuit. He might have learned of Esa’s purpose in tracking him down at the harbor. Perhaps the whole effort had been futile.

  He consulted his phone. There was no new information from any member of the Green Birds. A message from Touka said cryptically: Our bird’s wings have been clipped. He considered its possible meanings.

  Droplets of rain dusted Esa’s hair and fell on his shoulders. A white-haired man took up a seat beside Esa on the bench, dressed in a cashmere topcoat, the scarf at his throat wrapped with a casual elegance. The watch on his wrist was staggeringly expensive. A canary diamond gleamed from his buttonhole. It glittered like one of the Yellows.

  “I hope I don’t trouble you.”

  His eyes were the blue of gentians. He spoke with a mild Russian accent and an air of colossal prestige.

  It was not an accidental meeting.

  “I admire your perseverance, Inspector Khattak, just as I admired Mrs. Najafi’s. You’re too late, I’m afraid, as she was. I suggest you return home, you and your partner, before you encounter any difficulties.”

  The well-groomed man was in his seventies. His watchful face betrayed a calculated power, his authority absolute.

  Khattak was not discomposed. He’d faced deadlier men in his time.

  “May I know your name? As you’re familiar with mine.”

  “Alexei Mordashov, a name I trust you’ll forget.”

  Khattak doubted it was his real name. He took a shot in the dark, assembling the facts he’d learned about Mehran Najafi’s connection to a man named Mordashov.

  “I assume you’re here because you’ve an interest in the Darya-e Nur. Perhaps you’re the buyer who arranged its purchase.”

  The Russian forbore to answer. His fingers tweaked his diamond-head pin. He gazed out over the waves of the Caspian, his hands clasped in his lap.

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of the Orlov, Inspector.”

  The emphasis on Esa’s title was a threat. Khattak ignored the warning.

  “Do you mean the Black Orlov or the diamond gifted to Catherine the Great by Count Orlov? A stone stolen from India, of course.”

  Mordashov’s smile was granite-edged. He pointed to the phone in Khattak’s hand.

  “The arc of history sweeps across the globe, as easily as you sweep your hand across your phone. I refer to the Orlov in Catherine’s Imperial Scepter. It resides in the Kremlin’s collection, or so most believe. It retains its original, exquisite rose-cut, a specialty of the Indians. I confess to a fondness for the riches of the Kollur mines.”

  Khattak wasn’t sure whether to believe the man. He knew great wealth in Russia bestowed a certain impunity. He didn’t know if the impunity extended to a theft from Moscow’s Diamond Fund, or more questionably, to a diamond of such historic significance. There was a rumor the fabled Orlov had once fallen from the head of Catherine the Great’s scepter. The jeweler who’d restored it had failed to take its measurements. Was the idea of a theft of the Orlov any more impossible than the substitution of the Darya-e Nur? Esa attempted to find out.

  “A theft of the Orlov would necessitate discretion, an unfortunate state of affairs for a collector unable to place his treasures on display.”

  Something hardened in Mordashov’s face.

  “There are few among the general public who can discern the original from a facsimile. For a man in my position, it’s enough that I know.”

  He studied the harbor with a wintry gaze.

  “I own dozens of transport ships, including the Caspian Rose. None of them hold a candle to the majesty of the Great Table Diamond. The Sea of Light will find a worthy home.”

  It was the smallest of slips. It suggested the diamond hadn’t changed hands yet, which meant the Darya-e Nur was still in Iran. If it was stolen before Zahra’s murder, why hadn’t it left Iran? Was the “clipped bird” in Touka’s message Radan? Was he unable to act? And why had Barid Rud been at Evin?

  “Barid Rud works for you,” he commented. “An effective way to circumvent international customs.”

  Mordashov gave a low chuckle.

  “My ships are inspected where and when I wish them to be inspected. Don’t trouble yourself with the details, Inspector.”

  “Is that what Zahra Sobhani did? She troubled herself with details? Is that why she ended up dead?”

  The Russian rose to his feet with aplomb.

  “Of Mrs. Najafi, I will say only this. In her understandable concern for her daughter, she overplayed her hand. She thought she could trust her husband, her husband was a fool. I would have wished her outcome to have been as painless as Najafi’s, circumstances prevented it.” He made a grimace of distaste. “There is no elegance to Radan, the result you already know. Take my advice, Inspector. Take the first flight out of Iran. And take Sergeant Getty with you, while you still have that option.”

  He made Khattak a formal bow. As he
moved from the bench to the boardwalk, two bodyguards fell into step behind him. From the awkward fit of their jackets, both men were carrying arms.

  Mordashov had confirmed Esa’s suspicions. Zahra had hoped to use the theft of the Darya-e Nur as leverage against Radan. Her ex-husband had acted as Radan’s middleman, arranging for the fabrication of the replica, arranging for a buyer. But when he’d confided his plans in Zahra, she’d persuaded him to blackmail Radan to free Roxana from prison.

  The Russian, through his connection to Mehran, had known the exact moment when first Mehran, then Zahra, had become a danger to his plans. Whether he’d arranged for them both to be killed before the substitution of the diamond was exposed, or whether he’d simply whispered in Radan’s ear, Khattak couldn’t tell. The end result was the same.

  Two lives taken, Roxana locked away for good.

  But Mordashov didn’t have the diamond yet. It must be why he was still in Iran. Zahra’s meeting at the office of the Supreme Leader must mean Radan was being watched. He hadn’t been able to arrange the transfer.

  So where was the Darya-e Nur?

  And why had Evin been the place where Zahra was killed?

  * * *

  He made a swift phone call to Touka, updating her on his findings. He was jolted by her response.

  “Radan is on lockdown,” she confirmed. “He hasn’t been seen at his office or at Evin. For the last ten days, he hasn’t made an appearance at an interrogation. But Larijani has been recalled to Tehran. He met with Radan at his house—he must be acting in his stead.” A hint of fear entered her voice. “You should have left Tehran when you had the chance. You can’t let Larijani find you at the harbor.”

  Khattak’s stomach dropped.

  “Why would he look for me here?”

  “He isn’t looking for you. He’s delivering the diamond for Radan. I told you he runs Radan’s errands. I’m on his tail, he’s in a car headed north.”

  “He could be going anywhere.”

  “I think he’s headed to your Russian.”

  Khattak scanned the line of Russian ships. The Caspian Rose loomed large in the foreground, its series of winches engaged in loading the ship’s cargo. Orders were shouted down from the ship’s top deck.

  “Why would Mordashov give me the name of his ship? Why would he come himself, for that matter, if Barid Rud is his courier?”

  Touka didn’t answer right away. “His passion to possess the stone has gotten the better of him, he wants to make sure Radan doesn’t renege on the deal. If Mordashov is leaving on the Caspian Rose—maybe it has special clearance, maybe Barid’s run these routes for Mordashov before. And maybe Barid is working for them both, playing both ends against the middle. I’m guessing there’s no deal without his participation. You need to get back to that boathouse and check on the ship’s departure time.”

  “How will that help?”

  “Because you need to intercept the transfer of the diamond.”

  Khattak took a moment to think this through.

  “You don’t think it’s best to inform the Iranian authorities?”

  He listened to her sigh. “How do we know who’s involved in the theft and who isn’t? Radan may have partners who helped him cover up the theft. And there’s another more urgent consideration. If the Iranian authorities reclaim the stone on their own, we’ll have nothing left to bargain with. Either for Roxana or for my purposes.”

  Khattak saw the wisdom of her words. If he hoped to achieve anything for Roxana, he needed to prevent the transfer.

  But what of Mordashov’s armed gunmen? And Larijani’s guards? If he factored them all in, his chances of intercepting the diamond were non-existent. He said as much to Touka.

  “Larijani is coming on his own—Radan wouldn’t risk the involvement of anyone else. I doubt Larijani even knows what he’s delivering, or that he handles the money. It’s probably done through wire transfer. You’ll need to get the diamond after Larijani hands it over, but before Mordashov’s men have the chance to get it on Mordashov’s ship. He’ll be there by eight this evening.”

  Khattak couldn’t imagine how to achieve this without causing an international incident. From that point on, his options would be bleak.

  His next call was to Rachel to warn her of the risks. She refused to hear him out. She told him she’d meet him near the boathouse at seven. They had no weapons, they had no plan. And they had just a few hours to make one.

  * * *

  Rachel’s tour group had been scheduled to return to Tehran at six o’clock. Rachel had used a hefty portion of the money Nate had given her to buy herself some extra time. She’d also paid for everyone’s dinner at the most exclusive restaurant on the boardwalk. She’d promised to rejoin the tour group by ten.

  She gave Samira a conspiratorial wink. She’d added lipstick and eyeliner to make her outing seem more probable. Her dangly earrings caught in her hair, her scarf well back on her head.

  “You mentioned an underground club?”

  Samira took the money. She tacked on a warning in a hard-bitten tone.

  “My tour has a reputation for discretion. I insist that you remember that.”

  She sounded more concerned with the viability of her business than with Rachel’s safety, a fact she underlined by giving Rachel succinct directions to the club.

  Rachel smiled. She was getting better at this.

  “I’ll keep my adventures to myself.”

  As she made her escape, she was conscious of Simon’s frown.

  * * *

  She found the boathouse at the dock in good time, glad to be rid of her companions. She’d participated in the tour without straying all day, earning a reprieve from Samira.

  Now she was in her element, clad in black, her scarf pulled low over her forehead, her eagle eyes switching between the boathouse and the boardwalk, Khattak quiet at her side.

  They’d found a good spot to spy on Barid Rud’s boathouse at a floating restaurant that harbored a pair of speedboats. They waited at a window of the lime-green shack. The jeweler’s binoculars would have come in handy.

  “Look—there he is.”

  In her excitement, she elbowed Khattak in the side. He grunted, peering through the window beside her.

  “Barid Rud.”

  The courier stepped out of the boathouse and made his way to the boardwalk. As Khattak had guessed, he was followed by Mordashov’s men. There was no sign of Larijani. They scanned both sides of the boardwalk, a hand inside their jackets. Khattak had canvassed the Caspian Rose’s manifesto. The ship was scheduled to depart the harbor in fifteen minutes. Mordashov would already have boarded.

  Barid Rud had left himself a small window to collect the Darya-e Nur and drive his runabout out to the Caspian Rose. Rachel had checked out the runabout. It wasn’t large enough for three people. It couldn’t accommodate men the size of Mordashov’s guards. How were they planning to get to Mordashov’s ship?

  Khattak showed her a boat docked fifty yards away. A passenger tender, larger than Barid’s runabout, also named the Caspian Rose. She couldn’t tell if there was anyone inside the cabin. The boat was dark, its lights switched off.

  “Let’s take cover on the boat,” she suggested. “It’s our best hope of dodging Larijani.”

  Khattak agreed. They’d still have to face down Mordashov’s men, but Larijani would no longer be a threat. And if they were out of the public eye, they stood a chance of catching Mordashov’s men by surprise. Khattak weighed the risks. He took a moment to decide, then beckoned Rachel to follow.

  Just as they were about to break cover, a car pulled up on the boardwalk. Larijani emerged from the car, a small black case in his hand. Mordashov’s men approached him, reaching for the case. Rachel and Khattak ducked down from the shack’s window. Cautiously, they peered through a gap in the tin frame.

  Larijani held on to the case, taking a step back. He scouted the shore with a barked-out order to Barid. Barid Rud looked around. In response to
Larijani’s question, he shook his head. Larijani barked the same question to Mordashov’s men. They didn’t speak Farsi. Barid Rud repeated the question in Russian. All four men scouted the shore. One of Mordashov’s men moved closer to the shack.

  “We have to get out of here,” Rachel realized. “I think they’re looking for you.”

  The only way through was to exit from the shack’s other side, past the spot where the speedboats were docked. Khattak went first, Rachel ducking down behind him.

  “There’s no cover,” Rachel warned. “They’ll see us.”

  “Hold on to these,” Khattak said. There were hooks on the outside wall of the shack, out of view of the boardwalk. Khattak used them to maneuver himself farther down the floating dock to the shore. Her palms slippery, Rachel followed. When the door of the shack banged open, Rachel and Khattak were gone.

  They crept under the pier along the sand, staying low to the ground. They heard the sound of Mordashov’s man trudging across the sand in the opposite direction. Startled by another sound, Rachel risked a glance over her shoulder.

  Larijani was staring directly at Khattak.

  Could he see them?

  She froze in place, digging her elbow into Khattak’s back. She threw herself over Khattak on the sand, the water lapping at their faces.

  “Don’t move,” she muttered.

  They waited. The boardwalk was eerily quiet. A minute passed. Then another. And another. She didn’t dare look back again.