The Assassin

“Are you free to tell me who we are calling on?”

“In confidence. Please bear in mind this is not to be repeated. We are meeting a representative of the Shah of Persia.”

“Has Mr. Matters gone ahead?”

“Mr. Matters has other business.”

“May I ask—?”

Rockefeller’s eyes cut through the dimly lit passenger cabin like locomotive headlamps. “You have many questions today, Mr. Bell.”

“Getting shot makes me curious about what to expect next. I was about to ask whether you are meeting this representative as Commercial Envoy Stone or as the president of Standard Oil.”

“I am the retired president,” Rockefeller shot back.

“I keep forgetting,” said Bell.

That drew a stony silence. But minutes later, Rockefeller dropped his voice to a half whisper and confided, “I ca

“They love insults,” said Bell. “Armenians are sharpers; Georgians are drunkards; Tatars simultaneously violent, unintelligent, and kindly; Germans dull, Cossacks vicious, Russians petty. All agree that Persians are liars. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise after centuries of tyra

Rockefeller favored Bell’s observation with a thin smile and the further confidence that the detective was angling for. “I don’t know yet whether I am dealing with liars. All I know is that I will begin as Envoy Stone. Whether I become Mr. Rockefeller will depend upon how much noise they make and how much dust they throw in the air.”

The Renault stopped at a side entrance to the Astoria, one of the lavish new hotels near City Hall. They slipped in quietly, skirted the lobby, guided by a hotel functionary, to a service elevator that took them to a penthouse kitchen. A Persian secretary greeted Rockefeller in flawless English. “It is my pleasure to report, sir, that no one has marked your arrival. We are prepared for the private meeting you requested.”

“You requested the meeting,” Rockefeller corrected him, politely but firmly. “I requested privacy.”

“Then we are both happy, sir.” The Persian was slim and lithe as a cat, and as graceful, with large eyes in a narrow face.

Rockefeller turned to Bell. “Wait here.”

“I have to inspect the room where you are going,” said Bell.

“It is perfectly safe,” said the secretary.

“I still want to see it,” said Bell.

“It is all right,” said Rockefeller, “I trust our hosts.”

Bell said, “If I ca

“Insist?” The secretary’s eyebrows arched above a mocking smile.

Bell ignored him. To Rockefeller he said, “By the terms of our contract, our agreement is voided if, in my opinion, you place me in a position that I ca

“I recall,” said Rockefeller. He addressed the secretary, “Take us to the room where we are to meet. Mr. Bell will wait outside the door.”

They put him in the foyer, which was exactly where Isaac Bell wanted to be. He waited until he was alone, closed the outer door, pulled a rubber stop from his pocket, and wedged it under the door. Then he untangled the stethoscope he had borrowed from Dr. Alexey Irineivoich Virovets, inserted the ear tubes, and pressed the chest piece against the thi

The secretary was acting as translator for a Persian of very high rank, guessing by the secretary’s obsequious ma

“Tell His Excellency that I have a gift for the shah waiting in my hotel stables.”

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 pe

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.