Clive Cussler - The Assassin

This was translated and the answer translated back. “The shah is a great lover of horses.”

“Tell him that this gift for the shah has many horses.”

The translation back was a puzzled “How many horses?”

Rockefeller, clearly enjoying himself, said, “Tell him many, many, bright red and shiny brass.”

“Motors?”

“The finest autos that Cleveland builds,” answered Rockefeller. “They’ll ride circles around Rolls-Royce. Now, tell him, let’s get down to brass tacks — that expression means ‘business,’ young fellow. Tell him the pipe line will cost the shah not one penny. I will pay for every foot of pipe from Rasht to the Persian Gulf. And I will build the tanker piers and a breakwater to protect the harbor.”

The answer in Persian was long, and it took the translator a long time to craft a halting, vague reply.

“By the terms… of certain… understandings… In the name of the most merciful and compassionate God, His Majesty the shah… prefers… to secure, please God, the agreement of certain… neighbors.”

Isaac Bell gleaned from Rockefeller’s blunt reply that his “correspondents” had laid a lot of groundwork to get to this meeting with a personage who had the shah’s ear. The old man did not sound one bit surprised. Nor did he hesitate.

“Tell him to tell the shah that I am prepared to pay off the neighbor’s loan.”

After translation, there was a long silence. Finally, the Persian spoke. The secretary translated, “How much of it?”

“Every ruble.”

On their way out, they had emerged from the service elevator and were halfway along the edge of the lobby when Isaac Bell suddenly shouldered Rockefeller toward a corridor that entered from the side.

“What is it?” asked Rockefeller, resisting with his full weight. Pain shot through Bell’s wound.

“Keep walking. Turn your face toward me.”

Bell steered him down the corridor and into the first shop, a florist filled with giant sprays of out-of-season tulips and elaborate concoctions of roses. Before the door had closed behind them, he heard familiar ringing laughter.

“Good lord. They make Pittsburgh look positively genteel.”

Bell pressed against the window for a sharply angled view of the lobby.

“What is it?” Rockefeller demanded.

“Two ladies who will not be fooled by Special Envoy Stone.”

John D. Rockefeller was enraged, but he had held off saying anything until they were back at their own hotel where Bill Matters could be called on the carpet.

“That newspaperwoman is here,” he railed. “Your daughter. What is she doing in Baku?”

Bill Matters was genuinely apologetic. He looked completely baffled. “I had no idea either of my daughters was coming to Baku.”

“She is the author of The History of the Under- and Heavy-handed Oil Monopoly .”

“Yes, I know, sir, but—”

Rockefeller whirled on Isaac Bell. “Mr. Bell, did you know that she was coming here?”

“The first I knew,” Bell lied, “was when we saw her at the Astoria.”

“Find out what she knows. No one must learn I’m here.”

“Let me do that,” said Matters. “Please. She’s my daughter. She’ll confide in me.”

Rockefeller looked at Bell, demanding his opinion.

Bell said, “E. M. Hock has no reason to confide in me. I will call on her, of course, as we’ve become friends. And her sister. But no, I’m not the one to question her. Better for Mr. Matters to do it.”

Half the vast, dimly lit, high-ceilinged vault that housed the Hotel de l’Europe’s stables remained a house barn and carriage house. Half had been converted into a modern auto and limousine garage with gasoline pumps and mechanics bays.

Bell went there with Alexey Irineivoich Virovets in the event he needed a translator. He found the shot-up Peerless, with its windshield not yet repaired. They had parked it out of the way, at the back. Hidden behind it were two large wooden shipping crates covered in canvas. Bell lifted the cloth and looked under it. In the crates were two identical red Peerless autos, just as Rockefeller had told the Persians.

Virovets translated the writing on various shipping stickers pasted to the crates. The autos had been originally sent to Moscow, then south on freight trains to Baku. It was strange, Bell thought, when he discussed the details of the trip with Bill Matters, the Pipe Line Committee director had never mentioned the autos. Had Matters thought them unrelated to a bodyguard’s concerns for Rockefeller’s safety? Or did he not know about them? It seemed, Bell thought, odd for Rockefeller to keep the autos secret from a colleague. But for whatever reason they were hidden, it was clear again that Rockefeller had planned this trip far ahead.

“Well, Father, here we are all three having tea as if we’re off to the theater in New York.”

“I’m very surprised to see you.”

“How could you be?” asked Nellie. “Edna writes about the oil business.”

Edna was quietly watching their father and letting Nellie do the talking.

Their father said, “I didn’t think that the Oil City Derrick had the means to send a reporter to Baku.”

Nellie said, “Cleveland would be more their limit. Edna is writing for… May I tell him, Edna?”

“It’s hardly a secret.”

“The New York Sun ! What do you think of that , Father? Your daughter is writing for one of the finest newspapers in the country. ”

“The Sun is no friend of Standard Oil.”

“Fortunately for Standard Oil,” said Edna, “Standard Oil does not depend on the kindness of friends.”

“And furthermore,” said Nellie, all excited with color high in her cheeks, “Baku could be the biggest thing to hit the oil business since Spindletop.”

“In an opposite way,” Edna interrupted drily. “Cutting production in half instead of spouting gushers.”

“I don’t know if the situation is that bad,” Matters said automatically. “The authorities seem back in control.”

“Really?” asked Edna. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that shots were fired at some American business men.”

Bill Matters shrugged. “An isolated incident.”

“Apparently,” said Edna, “the Cossacks reacted by slaughtering refinery workers. And now the rest are up in arms.”

Matters shrugged again. “It’s Russia. My impression is the authorities have strict control of the situation.”

“And what are you doing here, Father? Last we heard, you were in Cleveland. I just mailed you a postcard there. Had I known, I could have handed it to you and saved a stamp.”

“Mr. Rockefeller sent me to rustle up some refinery business — and don’t print that.”

“Not without verification,” Edna said.

Nellie laughed so loudly that people glanced from nearby tables. “Father, you should see your face. You know darned well she won’t print that. Certain things are sacred.”

“Father is sacred,” said Edna with a wink that warmed Bill Matters’ heart.

He sat back with a happy smile on his face. They had bought his story.

“It’s like old times,” he said.

The girls exchanged a glance. “Whatever do you mean?” asked Nellie, and Edna asked, “What are you smiling about, Father?”

“Like going to New York to see a play back when you were in pigtails.”

“‘Pigtails’?” echoed Nellie in mock horror. “Whenever you took us to the theater, we dressed like perfect little ladies.”

“Even after we ceased to be,” said Edna.

“All I’m saying is, it makes me very happy.”