the delicate plates and squeezed lime juice over it. With a quick movement of his hands, using a small piece of flatbread, he transferred the whole plateful to his mouth, following it with a long pull of iced neat vodka.
‘ Terribly Russian of me, I know,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s how I like it best. It’s not bad, this Beluga, is it?’
He bent his nose to the plate. ‘It should smell of the sea but never of fish.’
He lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.
‘Well, I’ve heard of this man Gorner, James. Of course I have. But perhaps you should know a thing or two about me first. My mother was from the
Qashqai tribe, widely regarded as the most treacherous, bloodthirsty and ruthless people in Persia. When the Shah was plotting his return with the Americans, he never even considered trying to win them to his side.’ Darius threw back his head and laughed. ‘ The Kurds, the Arabs, the Reformers, the Baluchistanis, even the mullahs, yes, but never the terrible Qashqai. My father, on the other hand, came from a diplomatic family in Tehran which had long ties of allegiance to the West. He himself was educated at Harvard and I studied at Oxford, which, in case you’re wondering, is why I sound like an English gentleman. I know this country from all sides. I can lose myself with the tribesmen in the desert or I can make small-talk in French at their embassy down the road – though frankly I prefer the former. I’ve seen many nationalities come and go in Persia – or Iran, as Reza Shah, the current Shah’s father, wanted us to call it. Turks, Russians, French, German, American, British. Here we are at the hinge of East and West. The only country between Russia and a warm-water port. Of course, they have the Black Sea, but they can’t get past the Turks, who are the gatekeepers at the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. Good God, can you imagine more cantankerous guardians?’
Darius leaned forward and helped himself to more
caviar which he dispatched in the same way as before.
‘My point is this, James. We are used to being interfered with. Sometimes we feel ourselves like a poor old hooker in the rue St Denis. Anyone can have us for a price. During the war, the Allies thought we were too chummy with the Germans, so they invaded us and the Shah was booted out. Then they thought Mr Mossadegh, our fine independent prime minister, was too open to the Russians. They also distrusted him because he was often photographed in public wearing what looked like pyjamas. So the Americans sent a gentleman called Kermit Roosevelt to help mount a coup and bring the Shah home from exile and back on to the throne. I confess I was of some minor assistance to Mr Roosevelt. We don’t mind any of this too much, so long as we are left to get on with our own lives. Tehran is a nest of spies. It always has been and it always will be. One witty British visitor suggested that the Russians and the Americans should simply share apartments to cut down on the cost of mutual bugging. But there’s one thing that always sets alarm bells ringing – and that’s when a foreigner comes in and wants too much. People are welcome to try and make money here, though it’s difficult to do it legally. Apart from oil. We also accept a degree of political interference if there’s something
in it for us: protection, influence, arms, dollars. But not both at the same time. And everything I’ve heard about this Gorner has made me extremely uneasy. And, as I hope I may have suggested, I’m not easily frightened.’
Darius made another jug of martini. ‘Have some more caviar, James. In ten minutes I’ll get Farshad to drive us down to the best restaurant in Tehran. It’s in the south of the city, near the bazaar. No one’ll recognize me there. Pretty well everyone in Tehran knows I work for your employer. Your boss has a theory that more people with useful information can come to me if they know who I am,
‘ Terribly Russian of me, I know,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s how I like it best. It’s not bad, this Beluga, is it?’
He bent his nose to the plate. ‘It should smell of the sea but never of fish.’
He lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.
‘Well, I’ve heard of this man Gorner, James. Of course I have. But perhaps you should know a thing or two about me first. My mother was from the
Qashqai tribe, widely regarded as the most treacherous, bloodthirsty and ruthless people in Persia. When the Shah was plotting his return with the Americans, he never even considered trying to win them to his side.’ Darius threw back his head and laughed. ‘ The Kurds, the Arabs, the Reformers, the Baluchistanis, even the mullahs, yes, but never the terrible Qashqai. My father, on the other hand, came from a diplomatic family in Tehran which had long ties of allegiance to the West. He himself was educated at Harvard and I studied at Oxford, which, in case you’re wondering, is why I sound like an English gentleman. I know this country from all sides. I can lose myself with the tribesmen in the desert or I can make small-talk in French at their embassy down the road – though frankly I prefer the former. I’ve seen many nationalities come and go in Persia – or Iran, as Reza Shah, the current Shah’s father, wanted us to call it. Turks, Russians, French, German, American, British. Here we are at the hinge of East and West. The only country between Russia and a warm-water port. Of course, they have the Black Sea, but they can’t get past the Turks, who are the gatekeepers at the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. Good God, can you imagine more cantankerous guardians?’
Darius leaned forward and helped himself to more
caviar which he dispatched in the same way as before.
‘My point is this, James. We are used to being interfered with. Sometimes we feel ourselves like a poor old hooker in the rue St Denis. Anyone can have us for a price. During the war, the Allies thought we were too chummy with the Germans, so they invaded us and the Shah was booted out. Then they thought Mr Mossadegh, our fine independent prime minister, was too open to the Russians. They also distrusted him because he was often photographed in public wearing what looked like pyjamas. So the Americans sent a gentleman called Kermit Roosevelt to help mount a coup and bring the Shah home from exile and back on to the throne. I confess I was of some minor assistance to Mr Roosevelt. We don’t mind any of this too much, so long as we are left to get on with our own lives. Tehran is a nest of spies. It always has been and it always will be. One witty British visitor suggested that the Russians and the Americans should simply share apartments to cut down on the cost of mutual bugging. But there’s one thing that always sets alarm bells ringing – and that’s when a foreigner comes in and wants too much. People are welcome to try and make money here, though it’s difficult to do it legally. Apart from oil. We also accept a degree of political interference if there’s something
in it for us: protection, influence, arms, dollars. But not both at the same time. And everything I’ve heard about this Gorner has made me extremely uneasy. And, as I hope I may have suggested, I’m not easily frightened.’
Darius made another jug of martini. ‘Have some more caviar, James. In ten minutes I’ll get Farshad to drive us down to the best restaurant in Tehran. It’s in the south of the city, near the bazaar. No one’ll recognize me there. Pretty well everyone in Tehran knows I work for your employer. Your boss has a theory that more people with useful information can come to me if they know who I am,
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