The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “What did this guy Matteli do?”

  “It’s impossible to say. All the records are gone. All we have left to go on are the ledger books. The accountant seems to be perfectly honest. He just did as he was told.”

  “So what do you think we should do now?” asked Doc.

  “Get right back on the plane and go home,” responded Albert.

  “Let’s not get too hasty,” said Doc. “We’re going to have to think on this for a while. But lemme tell you something, if we do go back to the States, then this guy,” once again grabbing the prince’s arm, “comes with us.”

  “I simply don’t know what to say,” stuttered the prince.

  “Then keep your mouth shut,” suggested Doc.

  “Look Albert,” he continued, “is there no way we can get your father’s money back at least?”

  “Doc,” replied Albert dryly, “we can hardly go to court, can we?”

  “Then can we somehow try to make a go of this thing?”

  “Theoretically yes. The bank does have a full charter to do any and all types of banking, both in Switzerland and abroad. It has an office and skeleton staff. But it has no activity whatsoever. Zero. Provided we could generate some business fast—you know—deposits, loans, foreign exchange, securities management—we might be able to get this thing off the ground. But we must also be realistic. We’re all total strangers to this part of the world.”

  “Oh no,” responded Doc, “three of us are, but there’s a fourth sitting right across this table who is much too much at home here. Right, prince old boy? Why I’ll just bet that you have friends spread all over Europe who would love to do business with our bank. And I’ll bet something else. If you don’t come up with something good—quick— you are going to be a dead man.”

  These last words were spoken softly and slowly.

  Doc then rose. “Come on Albert, Marvin. We’re going back to the hotel. Prince, you have exactly twenty-four hours to deliver. Don’t try to run. Because if you do, I’ll get you.”

  The three Americans left, leaving the Sicilian slumped over the table in the now empty restaurant.

  At noon the next day, there was a knock on the door of Doc’s hotel room.

  “Marvin,” he said, “open it.”

  It was the prince. He looked bad. But there was strength in his grip as he shook hands with each American in turn.

  “O.K.” said Doc, “let’s hear it. And forget the bullshit.”

  The prince looked around the suite, picked out a chair, sat down, and crossed his legs.

  “First,” he said, looking directly at Doc, “from now on I expect everyone here to behave in a civilized manner, and to use civilized language.”

  Then he lit a cigarette.

  “Good,” he proceeded, “now to the matter at hand. I believe I have—successfully—arranged for our bank to get some business. Big business. During my explanation, I expect all of you to keep quiet.”

  He looked around the room.

  “Have we nothing to drink?”

  No answer until finally Albert responded: “No. Would you care for something?”

  “Perhaps some wine.” He turned to Doc. “You might make the arrangements. The telephone is right beside you.”

  The puzzled look on Doc’s face deepened, but without any comment he picked up the phone on the small table beside his bed, where he lay stretched out, and did as requested.

  “Thank you,” said Annunzio. Then he spoke again.

  “The deal I’ve arranged involves Iran—Persia, if you prefer. My family has had ties with Iran for many years. In fact, in the past there have been a number of cases of intermarriage with the aristocracy of that country. This may appear strange to you, but you must remember that relations between Sicily and the Near East have been close for many centuries, going back to the Saracens. That is why some of the nouveaux riches in Milan or Turin think they are so clever when they call us Sicilians the Arabs of Europe. Be that as it may. The family I have contacted is very rich. They have enormous landholdings in the southwestern part of Iran, in Khuzistan. For generations these holdings were worthless. The area was a desert. But just a few years ago, an enormous dam was constructed in the mountains immediately to the north. It was named after one of their relatives: Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi. The result was water for irrigation. My relatives’ desert has been turned into one of the most productive agricultural areas on earth.”

  “Interesting,” interjected Doc, “but not very. We’ve been doing the same in the central valley in California for years. Just exactly what has your story got to do with us?”

  The prince continued as if Doc did not exist.

  “During the past few years, my friends have accumulated large profits, and, being cautious people, they have kept it mostly in cash. In rials, the currency of Iran. But they would like to get this money out. Their memories of people like Mossedegh, who almost succeeded in forcing Iran into the Socialist camp in the early 1950’s, are still vivid. They strongly desire to establish a nestegg abroad—something upon which they can fall back if bad times return to their homeland.”

  He paused and looked at Doc, but this time not a word came from the American.

  “But Iran has very stringent laws which prevent any Iranian resident from sending rials abroad, or even converting them into dollars at home. The penalties are severe for breaking this law: as much as ten years incarceration. This may appear overly severe, but I remind you that Iran is a country which punishes people involved in the drug trade with death by firing squad—after a summary hearing before a military court. No appeal possible.”

  The prince again paused. The lesson on Iranian justice was apparently to be given time to sink in. Doc disappointed him by not appearing at all impressed.

  “So,” he said, “your relatives want us to bring their money out for them, because they’re too scared to do so themselves.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How much is it?”

  “About four hundred million rials.”

  “How much is that in dollars?”

  “Around five million.”

  “Well,” said Doc, “it would be a start. What would we get out of it for the bank?”

  “First, they would be willing to pay a five percent transportation fee. Then they would agree to keep the funds in our bank for an indefinite period, provided, of course, that we give them normal conditions.”

  “That sounds fair enough,” responded Doc. “When do we leave?”

  The prince lost just a touch of his former poise. “Are you sure you understand everything I’ve just told you?”

  “Sure. Why? Something bothering you?”

  “I thought I quite clearly outlined how severe the law operates in Iran.”

  “You did.”

  “Under such conditions, I see no reason why any of us should get personally involved. The risks are . . .”

  “Who do you want to send? Our bookkeeper?”

  “No, but I do have friends in Sicily who are quite used to this type of thing.”

  “I’m sure you do, prince old boy. But we have had enough of your Sicilian friends. Oh, no. No more of that stuff. I think your project is just great. And I think you and I—personally—are going to take care of it.”

  “Can’t I come along?” pleaded Marvin.

  Doc looked at him for a moment. “No. Both you and Albert stay here.”

  “Why?” asked Albert.

  “Because, dammit, somebody has to. And furthermore, your old man would kill me if anything happened to you, especially where the law’s concerned. So Albert, you stay here. And Marvin, you take care of Albert. Maybe while we’re gone you two can think up some ways of improving the setup here. Although I doubt it.”

  At this point there was a knock on the door. The wine had arrived. Doc just motioned toward the table beside the bed, and tossed the waiter a dollar bill after the tray had been deposited.

  “Prince,” he said, “it’s your party, so why
don’t you do the pouring?”

  He did.

  With brimming glass in hand, Doc carefully unwound himself from the bed.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think we have underestimated our friend from Sicily. I propose that, for the time being, we forget the past and get on with the job.” He walked up to Annunzio. “John, here’s to success in Persia!”

  Gianfranco beamed. “Mathew,” he said, “I’m sure we are going to be good friends.”

  “Great,” replied Doc, “let’s drink to that.”

  Which they did. Whereupon the prince nimbly filled the glasses once more. Fifteen minutes later the foursome left for the dining room. Three days later, on April 3, 1967, Doc and the prince left for Abadan on an Air India flight from Malpense. Albert and Marvin waved from the spectators’ terrace as they disappeared into the 707.

  3

  THE Persian Gulf is no match for the Mediterranean or the Caribbean. This is especially true at the point on its northern coast where the combined waters of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers flow into it, forming a dark brown corridor in the already murky sea. The Air India 707 came in very low over these waters, and just skimmed the long line of majestic palms lining the Iraqi bank of the river. The illusion of a desert paradise created by such lush trees was immediately destroyed as the plane slowed to a stop on the runway at Abadan. The reversing thrust of the engines created whirlpools of sand and dust on both sides of the concrete strip. Beyond there was nothing but perfectly flat, barren bleakness.

  The airport terminal, a small wooden barracks-type structure, appeared deserted as the two men from Lugano approached. All but a few of the other passengers had opted to stay on the plane as it was quickly refueled for the next leg to Delhi. Nobody from Air India seemed to mind. As they entered the building, the first people to meet them were four soldiers, all with submachine guns slung over their shoulders. Beyond them stood two other officials, also dressed in khaki, waiting behind three low tables. Almost immediately their baggage came in through another door, carried by two small Arabs. The suitcases were deposited on the tables.

  “Passports,” demanded one of the men.

  “Open,” said the other. Two of the four soldiers moved up behind them, while the other two stood sentry at the door leading to the tarmac.

  “Real friendly atmosphere,” muttered Doc, as he handed over his documents, and began to fumble at the locks on his suitcase.

  “What you want in Iran?” asked the passport man, as the other began to dump the contents of Doc’s suitcase onto the dirty table.

  “Hey, what’re you trying to do?” exclaimed Doc, with no effect, as the customs man proceeded to unscrew a pocket whiskey flask and sniff at the top.

  “Why have you come to Iran?” said his partner, in an even surlier voice.

  The prince then intervened. “We are here on a visit. At the invitation of the Firdausi family. I believe they have a car waiting for us outside.”

  “Firdausi?”

  “Yes.”

  Both passports were returned immediately, and the Iranians hurriedly began to replace the contents of Doc’s suitcase.

  “Many pardons,” said the passport man. “I was not told, you see. If you would please come this way. I will arrange that your baggage follows immediately.” He bowed ever so slightly, and then motioned that they should follow him through the building and out the opposite door. A solitary vehicle stood there, a yellow Range Rover. The chauffeur, who had been leaning against its side, smoking, sprang to attention as they approached.

  “Prince Annunzio?” he asked, with great difficulty.

  “Yes,” was the reply. That did it. Now the immigration official insisted on personally stowing their baggage in the back, while the customs man solicitously held open the doors. Both officials saluted smartly as, with a jerk, they moved off.

  “Prince,” said Doc, “I’ve got to hand it to you. Your relatives pack a lot of wallop in these parts. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a walkover. I’m just going to sit back and enjoy it.”

  The scenery outside provided very little in the way of entertainment. Instead of going into the town of Abadan, the driver took a left at the main intersection just outside the airport gates, guarded by another army foursome, again with automatic weapons. Almost immediately they found themselves in the middle of row after row of huge oil storage tanks, followed by a series of refining installations, all pipes and belching fumes.

  “Looks like Pittsburgh,” commented Doc, “and smells like East St. Louis.”

  “Doc, do they have camels in East St. Louis?” questioned the prince, innocently. And sure enough, five camels with clanging bells, followed by a half dozen mangy donkeys, attended by two even mangier Arabs, blocked the road ahead.

  “John,” laughed Doc, “you are slowly starting to grow on me.”

  The driver just leaned on the horn, and, grudgingly, the menagerie was cleared from the road. All signs of civilization disappeared as the Range Rover sped up a perfectly flat and straight road into the desert. Only one half of the road was paved, the left half, and it was there that the driver stayed, in the obvious knowledge that the odds were very low indeed that they would meet anyone coming from the opposite direction. The hum of the tires on the hot asphalt and the dry desert air streaming through the open windows soon took their toll as the heads of both passengers slumped in a fitful sleep.

  The route took them through Khurramshahr and Ahwaz, across the bone-dry bed of the Karun River, then straight north. The desolation was complete, and the country devoid of human life except for occasional groupings of black tents visible well in the distance on both sides of the semi-highway. After two hundred kilometers, mountains began to emerge on the horizon to the right. On some of the peaks the whiteness of what must have been snow reflected the late afternoon sun. Thin, isolated patches of grass began to appear in the open land, and with darkness rapidly falling, for the first time they met traffic: horse and donkey-drawn carts; small herds of goats attended by small boys; even trucks of unknown vintage, packed full of people and animals. As they came to an ancient bridge, the driver was forced to cope with a desert traffic jam: hordes of people on foot—black-veiled women, barefoot children, men in those dirty-gray robes so common to the Arab world. The continuing honking of the Range Rover’s horn soon had everyone inside fully awake.

  Across the bridge, the vehicle was forced to a creep as they pushed their way through the town of Dizful. Its narrow streets now took on the form of an oriental bazaar—food shops with cadavers of unidentifiable fowl hanging from the ceilings; a hardware niche with its disarray of misshaped pots and utensils; then the shoemaker, the rugs, the inevitable donkey supporting brass urns surrounded by customers sipping tea and gossiping; the garbage, the spices, the dust.

  Suddenly the Range Rover swung left into an alley, and after fifty meters turned again onto a wide boulevard which ended abruptly at tall iron gates. They were open. As they drove through they moved into a different world, one of water in the desert. Green lawn, hibiscus shrubs, palm trees, flowers—all softly lit by invisible lamps. Then the villa, which would have been quite at home on the Bay of Naples. Two fountains, also dancing in light, framed the wide staircase which led up to the entrance. The car stopped, the doors opened, and the two bankers from Switzerland stepped out into the warm Asiatic night of southern Iran.

  Simultaneously, two figures emerged from the villa and descended the steps toward them.

  “Gianfranco,” said the approaching man. “It has been so long. We are honored by your visit.”

  The girl was a beauty. All of her. Her voice was husky and low as she caught both of Annunzio’s hands in a happy embrace.

  “Oh, how we have looked forward to this since your phone call, Gianfranco. You have always been our favorite cousin.”

  Gianfranco gallantly kissed her hand, and then embraced her.

  “Shireen! How wonderful you look! And how glorious this all is. I had no idea. But first I
must introduce my friend from America. This is Doctor Mathew Smythe. We are associates in the bank in Lugano. Mathew, my cousins Agha and Shireen Firdausi.”

  It was Doc who stepped forward and bestowed a kiss on the Iranian girl’s hand with movements which were fully as elegant as those of his Italian companion. After a handshake with her brother, they all moved up the stairs and into the villa. Within minutes the foursome were seated in the vast reception room which was furnished in Western style, except, perhaps, for an overabundance of rugs and tapestries. The drinks were served by a silent, almost black man, in a white jacket and sandals. The dinner that followed was equally Western, the wine definitely French, and the ice cream apparently American. No business was discussed. All retired to separate bedrooms shortly after eleven. Their host suggested the men plan on rising fairly early the next morning. He had scheduled the grand tour.

  At nine, Agha Firdausi, the American, and the Italian nobleman, all clad in sportsclothes, left the grounds of the estate in the Range Rover. The temperature was already in the high 80’s.

  At first it was just sand and dust again. But then a vast area of shimmering green came into sight, and soon they were surrounded by rich vegetation on all sides.

  “Let me explain,” said Agha, his hand sweeping from left to right, as he sat beside the driver in the front seat. “Until five years ago this was a desert. But with the water from the high dam in the mountains on the horizon in front of us, we are turning it into one of the most fertile areas on earth. Or should I say, returning it. Three thousand years ago this entire area was crisscrossed with irrigation channels, fed from dams which probably numbered in the hundreds. I will show you one later. It has survived almost three millennia. It’s six hundred meters long, twenty-two wide, and was capable of raising the water level of the nearby Nan-i-Darayan River by two meters. Two meters does not sound like much. But in an area like this which is utterly flat, as you can see, it allows for a tremendous dispersal of water through completely natural irrigation methods. We have learned from our past. You will see practically no pumps here. We are reviving this desert in the same manner as that employed by Darius or Xerxes: with the help of gravity.”