“Yes.”
“And Doc is one of them?”
“Yes.”
“And Albert here?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this in the beginning?”
The prince just shrugged. Albert said nothing. Firdausi slowly shook his head.
“I have been warned many times,” Firdausi said, “about doing business with Americans. They smile, they joke, they come with stacks of documents, with lawyers—all very thorough and efficient, yet easygoing. They talk of fairness, of wanting to learn from their foreign partners. They want to be friends, forever. Until everything is signed. Then the surprises start to happen. The lies. The double-crosses.”
He turned to the prince. “That you are willing to be part of such, Gianfranco. You should be ashamed of yourself.” The last words were spoken bitterly. “Now I shall lose everything. Just like your father did in Sicily. Then I too shall have to become a prostitute like yourself, Gianfranco. And what is to happen to Shireen?”
“One minute, Mr. Firdausi,” interrupted Albert. “You do not understand.”
Firdausi’s voice rose for the first time. “Who are you to tell me I don’t understand? You are worse than my cousin. You make a profession of stealing—of taking advantage of the weak. In Iran we shoot people like you.”
“Please,” interjected the prince, “let him talk, Agha. It is bad, but not nearly as bad as you think.”
“Not as bad as I think?” Now Firdausi was shouting. “I lose the property that has been in our family for centuries. I lose a business that was making millions upon millions of dollars. I even lose all the savings which I was stupid enough to entrust to you, Gianfranco, and that Mafia bank of yours.”
“Mr. Firdausi,” interrupted Albert again. “You are wrong, I would suggest you hear me out.”
Firdausi slumped back into his chair. The vodka glasses had been refilled. He emptied his. The prince followed his example.
“Go ahead,” he said, quietly this time.
“First, your savings. You deposited $5 million with us last year.” “Yes.”
Albert opened his briefcase.
“I have a check here for $5.5 million. It includes full interest. It is a cashier’s check issued by the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York— in your name.”
Albert showed it to Firdausi, but did not let it leave his hands.
“That is at least something,” said Firdausi, grudgingly.
“There is more,” replied Albert.
“Go on.”
“How much silver is warehoused in Dubai?”
“You know that. I send the warehouse receipts every week.”
“Our records indicate 4.1 million ounces.”
“That’s about right, yes.”
“Actually, that silver is our joint property.”
“Naturally.”
“We propose to turn the entire amount over to you.”
“When?”
“Now, if everything else can be adjusted. I have the necessary documents here.” Albert pointed to his briefcase.
Firdausi’s face brightened for the first time.
“May I see that document?”
“But of course.”
Actually, it was nothing but a simple assignment. The warehouse receipts had been attached. The proper signatures, from the Swiss side, were already there.
“That silver is worth about $10 million, at today’s prices,” said Firdausi.
“Yes.”
“That still leaves me five million short of the twenty million I need to pay off those notes. But,” Firdausi continued, now flushed, “I can probably borrow that in Kuwait. In fact, I’m sure I can, against the warehouse receipts of the silver in Dubai. Now I see what you meant, Mr. Fiore. I apologize for some of my earlier remarks. All it will mean is that our partnership will be dissolved. My property will once again belong to our family. Completely.”
“No,” said Albert.
“What did you say?”
“I said no. The property will not belong to your family.”
Again Firdausi’s voice rose, “I’m afraid, young man, that what I do with my money is my affair.”
“It is. But, Mr. Firdausi, you will not have any money, or any silver bullion, unless we give it to you.”
“Give! Give! How can you give me my own money?” Again he was shouting.
“Quite simply. We have it. You don’t.”
So there it was. Right on the table. And Firdausi knew it. He nervously wiped his mouth, then his forehead, with a table napkin.
“What do you want of me?”
“The mine. Which means your entire property in Khuzistan.”
“You want me to sell you something that’s worth a fortune for $15 million of my own money?”
“The silver’s not yours.”
“Half of it is. Remember, we’re supposed to be partners.”
“All right. Have it your way. The situation is still the same. We want full title to that property, in return for $5.5 million cash, and 4.1 million ounces of silver bullion. As we say at home: take it or leave it.”
“And if I leave it? Then you will send Doc after me? Isn’t that the way you people work?”
Albert picked up his briefcase, and put both the check and the agreement of assignment on the silver bullion back into it. He snapped it closed, and leaned over to put it back down on the floor beside his chair.
From the far side of the room, an orchestra suddenly began playing and, at the same moment, the prince leaped to his feet. Albert was startled by all the action. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he wildly tried to push them back up with one hand, seeking to regain his balance with the other, while still protecting his briefcase. Was this to be an Iranian hit?
Hardly. It was Shireen Firdausi. Agha Firdausi was almost as shocked to see her as Albert was relieved. Before anyone could say a word, even the prince, he again shouted:
“Shireen, I thought I told you to stay in your room!”
His sister ignored him completely, as she embraced her cousin.
“Gianfranco. Oh, Gianfranco.” And she burst into tears.
The roomful of Iranian big spenders, plus a sprinkling of British expatriates, were getting their money’s worth that evening. Women who broke into tears in the middle of dining rooms are appreciated worldwide, especially if they are good-looking. And Shireen Firdausi definitely was. But Gianfranco Annunzio di Siracusa was up to any occasion. With a great flourish, he put one arm around Shireen, and with his other waved to the headwaiter, who almost dashed to his side.
“Flowers,” he commanded. And somehow, within seconds, a bouquet appeared, apparently snatched from a free table. The prince seized them from the waiter’s hands and presented them to Shireen with a tremendous bow.
And the tears were replaced by a choking smile.
“You are,” she said, “a great big—what do you call it—a great big clown, Gianfranco.” And she kissed him.
The audience beamed. Albert gaped. And Agha Firdausi hissed:
“Sit down! Both of you. This is ridiculous!”
“Agha,” said the prince, “don’t act so damned Iranian. Come, Shireen, we both need a bit of champagne.”
Again he put the headwaiter to work. He wanted a bottle of Dom Perignon—not the other whatever it was they had been drinking. And he wanted it now—not in ten minutes.
He also wanted a place set for Shireen—instantaneously—and some more caviar for all. Black, not red. Then he proceeded to chat up Shireen—in French.
Albert’s computerized mind had difficulty following all this. At twenty-seven, females were still a total mystery to him, a mystery he was not terribly interested in solving, since he had concluded long ago that their emotions were simply not reduceable to anything even faintly resembling predictable logic. So, ignoring all the preceding events, he returned to the business at hand.
“Mr. Firdausi,” he said, “I assume you have decided to leave it.
”
“I have decided to cease discussing it,” was the harsh answer.
“Which is exactly the same.”
“It is not. I must reflect.”
“We do not have that much time.”
“How much time do you have?”
“Until the end of the week. No longer.”
“You shall have my reply before then. Now if you will excuse my sister and myself.” Firdausi rose abruptly, so abruptly his chair fell over.
“Come,” he said to his sister.
Her face turned from the prince to his.
“Please, Agha,” she said, “don’t. What has gotten into you?”
He roughly grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“We go,” he said.
Again the prince intervened: “If you want to go, Agha, go. But I intend to dance with Shireen.”
What ensued was a brief tug-of-war, with Shireen in the middle, until Agha, red-faced with embarrassment and slightly puffing from exertion, let go. And when the pair moved off, he just glared after them, immobile.
“Mr. Firdausi,” said Albert. “Please sit down again. Gianfranco means well.”
Now Albert got the glare. But it is difficult to hate Albert for very long, especially when his glasses are perched precariously near the tip of his nose, as they were once again.
So Firdausi picked up his chair and sat on it. Stiffly.
“It’s disgusting.”
“What is?”
“The habits you people have brought to our country. Just look at the display those women are making of themselves!”
To be sure, a number of miniskirts were flouncing rather high as the orchestra beat out the Persian version of “Strangers in the Night.” The prince and Shireen, both tall, with equally black hair, dominated the scene on the dance floor with their grace of movement and striking good looks.
“At least Gianfranco is a gentleman of the old school,” admitted Firdausi.
“You are closely related?” asked Albert, trying to calm the waters.
“It is none of your business, actually,” replied Firdausi. “But the answer is no. It goes a long way back, and is very complicated. You would not understand these things.”
The music continued, and so did Shireen and Gianfranco.
“Another vodka?” suggested Agha, grudgingly. Albert could hardly stand the stuff, but he agreed.
“At least,” Firdausi said, “she will finally get that Doc off her mind now.”
Albert decided to let that one pass.
“Mr. Fiore,” began Firdausi anew. “Is all that you have been telling me true?”
“Please call me Albert. And the answer is yes. It is true.”
“Who is behind all this?”
“An extremely powerful group. So powerful that even we can do nothing about it. That is not my conclusion. It is the conclusion of my father.”
“Who are they?”
“I am not in a position to say. I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.”
“They are in the silver business?”
“Yes.”
“They are criminals?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“If I agree to your proposal, what happens then?”
“We want mine output stopped immediately.”
“Stopped?” said Firdausi, “but that is crazy!”
“Perhaps,” replied Albert. “But that is what they want. It would mean that you would have to go down there right away and make the necessary arrangements. With the prince.”
“So. To make sure I don’t double-cross you, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“And Gianfranco has agreed to this? To do this to me and Shireen?”
“Yes. He also has no choice. But he agrees with me that it is the best, in fact the only, way out for you. And Shireen.”
“Do you realize this means that we must move out of our home, put many many people out of work—men whose families have been faithful to us for generations?”
“They will have work again when the mine is reopened.”
“And when will that be?”
Albert just shrugged.
Agha took yet another glass of vodka. Iranians, like Russians, thrive on the stuff.
“What else would I have to sign?”
“Sign?”
“If I agree to your proposal.”
Albert reached down once again to his briefcase and extracted a new document.
“Just this,” he said, and handed it to Firdausi. It was thick.
Firdausi flipped a few pages and put it back on the table.
“What is it?”
“A release.”
“A what?”
“It says, in about a hundred different ways, that you will never sue us. In Switzerland, Iran, or anywhere else on this globe. Ever.”
“I see. You thought I would?”
Again Albert just shrugged.
“Show me those other papers.”
“You mean the assignment of the silver?”
“Yes. And the check.”
Albert showed them, and this time he let Firdausi pick up the $5.5 million check.
Firdausi read the check, once, then again, and yet again. His hand then wiped across his face. It was damp. Then yet another vodka— straight down.
He reached inside his jacket. For a pen.
“Where do I sign?” he asked.
“Here,” said Albert, “and here.”
Firdausi signed. And just as he had attached the second signature, the music, finally, stopped. The sweat glistened on his forehead. Shireen and the prince both stared at him when they reached the table after leaving the dance floor.
“Agha,” exclaimed his sister, “what is wrong?”
“Nothing, my dear. Nothing. It is over.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have sold everything. We are—we are now gypsies, like Gianfranco.”
“Agha, are you sick?” Not only was her brother bathed in sweat, he was now white as a sheet.
“No, my dear. Let me be. I will explain everything later. While you pack.”
“Pack? Whatever for?”
“Because we are leaving for Abadan in the morning.”
Her face clouded.
“And Gianfranco is coming with us,” Firdausi continued. “Come. Sit down both of you. We still have much champagne and caviar. And there is still time to dance. Let us speak of other things.” They did. At least he did, explaining that he loved poetry. Especially that of Omar Khayyám. And with the help of a few more vodkas, he began to recite, first in the original, then in English. Albert listened carefully, as Albert always did.
The next morning all four went to the airport. Albert boarded a nonstop BOAC flight to London. The prince, Agha, and Shireen took Iranian Flight Number 7: Teheran—Abadan—Kuwait—Dubai.
None of them got off the plane in Abadan.
17
WHEN Albert arrived in London, he went directly from the airport to the hotel. He then made two short phone calls. The first was to his father in Las Vegas, who did little more than grunt as Albert explained what had happened. All that was now required, Albert explained, was that someone bring the shares of the Bank of Sicily and America—every one of them—to London. Against delivery—now that the bank owned 100 percent of the silver mine—Albert could collect $60 million. The shares would be sent immediately. By hand, his father said. From where, and by whom, he did not say. Joe Fiore disliked telephones. Anything new from Doc? No. Better talk to him, his father advised. And tell him that if he fucked things up now, he was in big trouble. “Got that, Albert?”
“Yes, father.”
“And when you get that money, keep it in England. You hear? Maybe you can find a way to use it.”
“Yes, father.”
“You’re a good boy, Albert.”
“Yes, father.”
Then Albert called Doc. Was everything going on schedule in Switzerland? It was, more o
r less. That twit Luckman was taking everything a bit seriously, but it appeared as if his audit report would be done by the weekend.
“What happened in Iran, Albert?”
“Firdausi agreed. I have all the signed documents with me.
“That’s great. That means that we now own that silver mine, lock, stock, and barrel?”
“For the moment, yes. I just talked to my father, Doc.”
“And?”
“He’s sending the shares over. And he asked me to tell you not to interfere.”
“He said that I would have ten days.”
“I know.”
“Well, they’re not up yet.”
“Doc, my father sounded quite firm.”
“I don’t give a goddamn how he sounded.”
Albert said nothing.
“Albert, where are you talking from?”
“The Carlton Tower.”
“Where’s that?”
“The West End. On Cadogan Square.”
“Fix me up a room starting Thursday night.”
“Just for you?”
“Yes. Luckman can make his own arrangements. So can Topping.”
“What about Marvin?”
“He’s staying here. To close up the house in Garona.”
“What about the dog?”
“The what?”
“Ringo.”
“How the fuck should I know. It’s you and your father who seem to have everything figured out.”
Again Albert kept silent.
“One more thing, Albert. Is the prince doing what he’s supposed to do?”
“Yes. He went down to Khuzistan this morning.”
“You’re sure those agreements you’ve got from Firdausi are airtight?”
“Yes.”
“O.K., Albert. I’ll see you at the end of the week.
At six the next evening, the hall porter telephoned Albert in his room. Someone had left a large package for him. Should he have it brought up? Yes.
It was a large cardboard box. Inside were hundreds of engraved certificates. Each certificate was in lieu of 100 shares of the Bank of Sicily and America. They were, it was printed, the property of the bearer. Their value? Provided everything went well, $60 million.
Albert pushed the box into the closet. Then he went down to the Rib Room. They serve the best roast beef in London there. And Albert liked roast beef.
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