The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “I have yet another question,” said the prince. “How will you get the silver out?”

  “The same way we get the equipment and people in: by truck to the coast, then by djerba, or preferably something faster, via the Gulf, to either Abu Dhabi or Dubai. Finally by plane to wherever we choose.”

  “Without anybody knowing?” was the skeptical response.

  “Gianfranco, I see you know very little of this area of the world. Let me briefly explain. Dubai is the center of an immense trade in bullion—all illegal. The focal point is the Indian subcontinent. There it is forbidden to import gold. Yet for time immemorial both the Indian and Pakistani people have revered gold. They have also found it a safe investment. So there is a constant high demand for the metal. The merchants of Dubai, many of them expatriate Indians, meet that demand by djerba. They charge a premium over world prices, but they deliver c.i.f. And they keep their mouths shut, regarding both their “clients” and their bullion sources, for obvious reasons.”

  “What has all that to do with silver?” was Doc’s dry comment.

  “This. With what do you suppose the Indians pay for this gold? I’ll tell you: silver. Tons and tons of silver. India has been hoarding silver for millennia. Literally every household of any means has countless silver objects—bars of bullion, ornaments, jewelry, coins. Collectively, the Indians have the largest hoard of silver existing on this earth today. They trade it for gold, using those same djerbas operating out of Dubai. From there, it goes to Europe by air. I intend only to use a smuggling system which already exists, and already manages to cope with a high volume of bullion trade.”

  These last words created a long lull.

  “What more is there to say?” suggested Doc, finally. “It’s perfect. At least from the standpoint of logistics. But—and I’m afraid I must again use that word—how can you really be sure you have that much silver in the ground underneath Choga Zambil?”

  “I shall prove it. Excuse me for a moment.”

  In less than five minutes Firdausi returned. He carried an object about eighteen inches high. With great care he placed it upright on the table in the middle of their sitting group. It was an alabaster statue, depicting the stylized figure of an ancient queen or princess. Her features, her dress, closely resembled those pictured in some of the ancient tombs of Egypt. But this figure was three dimensional, and in a state of perfect preservation. Astoundingly, the figurine’s jewelry was also intact. No less than seven rows of necklaces; a diadem; long, hanging ear rings composed of a series of interconnected spheres; even bangles fastened well up on each arm, probably a dozen in all. All were made of silver, even the massive metal base.

  “Agha,” explaimed the prince, “it is unbelievable!”

  “But it is true,” replied his Persian host, “and it is almost four thousand years old. Yet still perfect. It came from Shushan, our ancient capital—the place we visited this morning just before lunch. You note the jewelry—all perfect miniatures. In our vault at a bank in Teheran we have some of the counterparts in their original size. They are also made of silver, and the diadem contains many small, but perfect, gems. The Louvre has something very similar to the statue, but devoid of the jewelry. The British Museum has many counterparts to the bracelets and earrings. Only we have such a perfect diadem, and this unique figurine, completely intact. My father collected all this.”

  “And the connection with your silver mine?” asked Doc.

  Again Agha rose. “Excuse me once more.”

  Again within a matter of minutes he returned, this time carrying a large metal box. He opened it and removed a gleaming block of metal. Holding it up in both hands he said, “This is a silver ingot. I have a dozen more in the house. We found them all at Choga Zambil.”

  A low whistle came from Doc’s lips.

  “Now listen,” Firdausi continued, “what follows is of key importance.” He again reached into the container, this time removing some documents.

  He handed one bound set to the other men.

  “That,” he said, “is an assay, done by a metalurgist in London for me. It gives the makeup of selected pieces of ancient jewelry taken from my father’s collection. Now listen carefully: no two pieces were chosen from the same source. One was found at Ur, Abraham’s birthplace, which lies about three hundred kilometers southwest; a second from Shushan; the third from Ashur, then from Tell Asmar, even Uruk. All in all it was a random selection of ancient Mesopotamian jewelry and religious objects—all made of silver. Now compare the makeup of the metal. It was the same in each case.”

  What followed was a slightly awkward moment, since obviously neither Doc nor the prince could make head or tails out of the print in front of them. Doc finally admitted it.

  “O.K.,” said Firdausi, “you will understand in a minute. Both of you look at the last page. There you can read a summary of the assay results: Silver 93.5%; Copper 6.10%; Gold 0.08%; Zinc 0.15%. Each object assayed out exactly the same way. Right?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Now compare the last page of this document. It is an analysis of our silver ingots, the ones we uncovered at Choga Zambil.”

  They did.

  “Don’t you see?” asked Firdausi, now visibly excited. “All of these silver objects had their origin in similar silver ingots. These ingots must have come from a single source, and that source had to be Choga Zambil. Because everything matches!”

  A pause, a long one.

  Then Doc: “No one could possibly argue with evidence like this. You’ve made your point, Agha. But,” he continued, “that still leaves the million-dollar question open. Is any of that silver still left in the earth today?”

  “I’ll make the answer short. We have driven a shaft, and made several hundred borings. All have proven positive. There are two major silver veins, both less than a hundred feet below the surface. The seams are of an immense size and extraordinarily rich. When processed, the silver has exactly the same assay as that of both the ancient ingots and the jewelry. The circle has been closed. And one of the puzzles of ancient Persia has been solved.” Agha Firdausi now rose to his feet. “This,” he continued, “is Elam, and Shushan,” his arm pointed to the south, “was the most powerful city in Elam. Because it was by far the most wealthy city in all of ancient Asia, since for many centuries it seemed to possess an almost inexhaustible source of silver. To this day, no one has discovered where. It certainly wasn’t in Shushan itself. Nobody even thought of Choga Zambil, since no one knew it existed, just ten kilometers east of Shushan. Today everybody knows about the ziggurat, but only we know of Choga Zambil’s ancient silver refinery, and of the silver deposits beneath.”

  Abruptly he sat down.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” exclaimed Doc. “Obviously the guys who ran Shushan knew how to keep their mouths shut too.”

  Firdausi glanced at his watch. “Our time is running out. We must come to specifics. My proposal is this: between us we should work out some kind of joint venture. You would be responsible for the financial arrangements. I will take care of everything else.”

  “How much financing are we talking about?” asked Doc.

  “Around $5 million.”

  “Which we have, except that it’s still in rials,” answered Doc.

  “Not exactly,” said Firdausi. “My rials are, after all, meant to be a deposit in your bank. I am sure you have many other depositors, as well as a great deal of capital of your own. I can hardly be expected to bear the entire risk in this venture. Otherwise I would hardly need a partner, would I?”

  “Maybe not,” replied Doc,” but you need somebody to take your rials out for you, don’t you?”

  “To be sure, but as Gianfranco has no doubt told you, I am also prepared to pay a handsome fee for that service. I am talking here about a partnership, in the true sense of the word. I think that when you’ve heard me out, you will agree that what I propose is fair.”

  “O.K., go ahead. How would the financial side wor
k, technically?”

  “I always feel the simpler, the better. We would just set up a special joint numbered account in the bank, and your bank would put the necessary funds into it—as an investment. For my part, I would assign our family rights to the mine, in fact to this entire property, to that account. Your bank would then transfer the funds to a bank in Kuwait, and against them I could get the necessary letter of credit. I would probably use the Bank of London and the Near East. I know them, and they know me. They are well established in both Kuwait and Rhodesia. Unless, of course, you would rather issue the letter of credit directly?”

  “No, no,” replied Doc, quickly, his knowledge of letters of credit being something less than encyclopedic, “what you suggest sounds quite reasonable. What about sales? Who would handle them?”

  “I have all the necessary contacts in Dubai.”

  “All the better.” Then Doc added, “What is your concept of how we will split the profits?”

  “Fifty-fifty. All profits would accrue to our joint account, and we would share them equally.”

  “Who will control your expenditures here in Iran?”

  “No one. You will have to trust me just as I will have to trust you to protect my secret.”

  “That sounds reasonable. I think we’ve got a deal. Do you agree, John?”

  The prince nodded his head vigorously.

  “O.K., what about timing?”

  “First,” said Firdausi, “I need your money, and the transfer of the funds to my bank in Kuwait. When I have their letter of credit, Howard and I will fly down to Rhodesia. We should be able to conclude the arrangements there within a fortnight.”

  “Assuming everything works out, when will the silver start to arrive in Dubai?”

  “Perhaps in six months. More probably it will take a bit longer. Let’s say shipments will start no later than January 1, 1968.”

  “Do you have any forecasts of probable volume?”

  “Yes. Howard estimates we can do as much as 50 million ounces the first year, provided the equipment works at 100 percent capacity.”

  “That would be worth how much?”

  “About $65 million. The current price is $1.29 an ounce.”

  “And your costs?”

  “Probably fifty cents an ounce. But it should be obvious that as the project develops, we will need progressively more working capital. Loans from the bank. Of course, by that time such loans could be fully collateralized by silver bullion in the Dubai warehouse. I must have your assurance on this.”

  “I am sure all that can be arranged. Now one final matter. I know you don’t like documents, but you do realize that we can’t avoid them when we set up the joint account, assign the ownership of your property to it, make the loans, etc. At some time, probably fairly soon, we’ll have to get together again and finalize these matters—on paper.”

  “I agree. But I’m sure that lawyers in Switzerland work just as slowly as those in Iran. When everything’s ready, I’ll come to Switzerland. But I can see no reason why we must hold anything up because of the paperwork. I think it logical we move forward on the equipment right away.”

  “Sure. In fact, we’ll be right on top of that when we get back to Switzerland.”

  “Good. I imagine that in the meantime you can hold my cash deposit as a performance guarantee. Isn’t that the way you people usually handle these things?”

  “That’s right,” replied Doc, now on very uncertain ground indeed.

  Again Firdausi glanced at his watch, and then turned to his sister.

  “Shireen, you say nothing. Does something disturb you?”

  At first there was no answer. Then, “Agha, it is all too big and complicated for me to really follow. You know that. It is just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing really. Certainly nothing to do with you and your friends. I am sure everything you have discussed and planned will work out. It is only . . .”

  “Now Shireen, you don’t mean those old fairy tales!”

  “They are not just fairy tales! You know what father always said.”

  “Ach, that was pure superstition. Forget it once and for all. Otherwise do you agree?”

  “Yes, Agha.”

  “Good. Then we must put these things back into the house. And you, gentlemen, must pack. We shall be leaving in half an hour.”

  This time it was not the Range Rover that was used for transportation. Instead, a long dark blue Cadillac Brougham waited outside the villa. Agha Firdausi himself took the wheel, accompanied by his cousin, the prince, in the front seat. Doc and Shireen sat silently in back, as they moved through Dizful and south into the desert. Agha and Gianfranco maintained a steady chatter, in French, a language in which both seemed to be more at home than in English. Occasionally Agha laughed aloud in appreciation of some of the anecdotes which Gianfranco was relating nonstop, with obvious relish.

  Doc felt increasingly embarrassed as the silence continued in the back seat, but Shireen seemed unapproachable as she sat stiffly in her corner. Then, suddenly, she turned to him:

  “Mathew,” she said, “I am so sorry. I was, I mean my thoughts were elsewhere. I have been a terrible hostess. We have hardly spoken ten words to each other since you have been here.”

  “Oh,” said Doc, “I understand that. After all, this does involve serious matters, and I’m sure they must worry you at times, Miss Firdausi.”

  “Please don’t call me that. I’m Shireen to my friends, and I hope you will regard me as your friend.”

  Doc smiled.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m glad to hear you say that. For a while I thought you had something against me. Because I’m American, or something.”

  “No, no,” was Shireen’s forceful reply. “But you must understand. We have so few guests at our home. We are quite cut off from the world, even Teheran. And so, probably, I require a little time to adjust when people like you suddenly fall upon us, out of the heaven.”

  “But don’t you ever go to Europe?”

  “We did for a while. But not since 1965. I would so much like to again. But Agha says our duty lies here, at present.”

  “I will talk to Agha. You must come with him to visit us in Lugano. After all, we are now business partners, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. I will come. Agha will certainly agree now. Oh, how I already look forward to it.”

  As dusk began to fall, the interior of the car slipped into darkness, and it was with pleasure that Doc noticed that the Persian girl no longer remained stiffly sitting in her corner. First, there was just the hint of her arm brushing his. Then, as the car jostled over yet another pothole, their bodies came suddenly together, and Doc felt the firmness of her breasts. She made no effort either to say anything or move away.

  “Shireen,” said Doc after what seemed an hour of satisfied silence. “What was that you were referring to back at the house?”

  “You mean my uneasiness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, it is like Agha said. Just old wives’ tales and local superstition.”

  “About what?”

  “It relates to some of our ancient myths. Persia, you know, is full of myths. Quite often it is impossible for us to tell the difference between the true history of our country and mythology.”

  “And this particular myth?”

  “It involves silver. Our father often came back to it when he showed us the ancient jewelry which he collected with a passion all his life. It is said that there is evil connected with the silver of Elam. Outsiders who tried to exploit the riches of Shushan usually met violent deaths, or faced other personal tragedies.”

  “Come on, Shireen. Metal is just metal.”

  “Of course I realize that. But our father was a rather strange man. He was not even a good Muslim. All his life he felt a peculiar attraction to the old religions of our country, especially Zoroastrianism. In those times, gold and silver were regarded as possessing specific properties. Gold was associated w
ith the sun, and silver with the moon. The god Ninurta endowed both metals with magical powers, both to protect and to harm. My father believed these things, and he always said that it was good that Elam’s silver was gone. You must think, Mathew, when you grow up with such legends, they are impossible to forget. And my father was not alone in these beliefs. Many thousands of people in this region still actively practice that religion.”

  “Sure, and many people in America believe in astrology.”

  “Mathew, let’s change the subject. I’m being silly and emotional. Agha was right and you are right. I will never bring it up again. Anyway, it makes me shiver.”

  The conversation shifted to the subject of America, of Las Vegas, the Kennedys, even Hollywood and Frank Sinatra. At 7:30 they approached the outer perimeter of Abadan airport. A car marked with the letters of the Iranian Oil Company was waiting at the gate. Its driver exchanged just a few words with Firdausi in Pharsee. Then both vehicles passed through the gates unchallenged and seemingly unnoticed by the guards standing there. Ten minutes later, the four suitcases of the two passengers were stowed in the hold, and the doors of the Lear jet closed. With whining engines, the plane taxied onto the runway and, without stopping, turned and plunged forward. A half minute later it had disappeared into the night sky.

  4

  “COMFORTABLE, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you ever been in one of these before?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the first time for me.”

  “Yeah, I gathered as much.”

  “Something bothering you, Doc?”

  “No.”

  “Then why so quiet?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Should I be quiet?”

  “No, John. I’m sorry. I get this way sometimes.”

  “I understand. So do I. But usually I talk quite a bit. Especially when I’m nervous. And I’m nervous. Are you, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that. Do you think we will have any trouble?”