A new fit of coughing overtook Samimi, who hated giving his boss the satisfaction of knowing he was affecting him.
“This situation is taking far too long to resolve,” Nassir said. “I’m afraid that this isn’t acceptable.”
“Cultural heritage issues are never resolved quickly. The result is what matters here, not how long it takes to achieve it,” Reza argued.
“But will we ever achieve it? We’ve been involved in tiresome negotiations for more than a year and a half and have managed only to engage a rival country in our battle. We could wind up doing all the work, only to have the Greeks get custody.”
“The sculpture was created there. It’s difficult to imagine that the Greeks wouldn’t stake a claim once it was reported that-” Reza started.
“You should have anticipated that and found a way to keep our request out of the press,” Nassir interrupted, something else he’d never done before today.
Samimi paid strict attention to the volley, looking from the squawk box to the lawyer and then to his boss, who was staring at the burning ember of his cigar.
“Keeping something out of the press is simply not possible in America,” Reza countered.
“Really? Don’t they say anything is possible in America?” Nassir asked.
“Mr. Nassir, we’re arguing about something that happened over a year ago,” the lawyer said. “We have a new problem now and need to deal with that. I can’t take a chance-”
“Thank you, Mr. Reza,” Nassir cut him off again. “Let me look into what you’ve told me and find out where this phony document originated and where the real one is. Because there is a real one, I assure you. Someone is trying to embarrass us. Can you give the papers back to Samimi… Samimi, are you there?”
“Yes, Minister.” He sat up straighter in his chair as if the speakerphone had eyes that had suddenly been turned on him.
“Please show Mr. Reza out and then come back. We have other issues we need to discuss that don’t relate to Hypnos.”
Reza stood and walked to the door without waiting for Samimi, who rushed to catch up and then escorted the lawyer into the reception area. The mission didn’t allow visitors to roam through the offices unescorted.
In the lobby, two uniformed security guards stepped aside to let the men through to the outer hallway where the elevators were.
“I hope you can explain to your boss that we can’t untangle in so short a time what it has taken centuries to tangle.”
“I will, Mr. Reza. At least, I will try,” Samimi said diffidently as he looked up at the lawyer, who had a good three inches on him. “We appreciate your efforts and so does the minister, even if he seemed impatient today.” He pressed the elevator button.
“Seemed?”
For the first time since Samimi had met him, Reza looked worried. Trying to be reassuring, the junior attaché smiled. “It was just the shock of finding this out on the heels of discovering how unsympathetic the museum’s new director is to our cause.” He shrugged. “If I were Tyler Weil, a cultural disaster wouldn’t be the way I’d want to begin my tenure.”
“Or it would be exactly how you’d want to begin it. By making a strong statement cementing your position.”
“Yes, I see your point,” Samimi said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
The elevator arrived. Reza stepped inside, put his hand out to hold the door open and said, “Let me know as soon as you have any news.”
Samimi noticed the high polish on Reza’s oxfords as the door slid shut and then looked down at his own shining shoes. He’d been paying close attention to everything about the lawyer. It was all part of what he called “the education of Ali Samimi,” a self-styled course designed to help him fit in the way Reza did, despite the man’s skin color and dark hair. Samimi wasn’t just impressed with the American Iranian, he was envious of him: Reza was a US citizen who called New York home and didn’t worry about being shipped back to Iran on someone’s whim.
Returning to the stinking conference room and the call still in progress, Samimi didn’t wonder what he’d missed. He’d find out later when he played back the clandestine recording he hoped his boss had no idea he was making.
The only way to play with wolves, his grandfather had taught him, was to be a wolf. And he was certainly playing with wolves. The minute he’d met Taghinia, Samimi had known that he couldn’t trust him. Taghinia, with his flatulence and his teeth yellowed from the constant cigars, who flaunted his superiority over Samimi and tried to humiliate the younger man at every opportunity. He’d piled more and more work on him, so that now Samimi was doing the lion’s share of his boss’s job as well as his own. The only thing that kept him from complaining was his long-term goal, to find a way to stay in America.
At thirty-five, he’d arrived in New York and felt true passion for the first time in his life. He loved everything about his adopted city: its restaurants, culture, nightlife, energetic pace, its architecture and especially its women. Samimi felt as if he’d merely been alive before; now he was living. Complaining would only ensure his return to Tehran, so he put up with this fifty-two-year-old man who, among his other sins, was immune to the temptations of his adopted home. How was that possible? Taghinia lived three blocks away from the office and never strayed from the neighborhood for anything other than necessities, actually boasting that he’d never seen Central Park, Broadway at night, the Upper East Side or the inside of a restaurant other than Ravagh, the Persian eatery less than ten blocks away. Taghinia often said that he would gladly die for his country and living in New York was halfway to dying. Despising the city for its excesses, he focused on the day when his homeland’s recognition as a superpower would be restored. He repeatedly told Samimi that on the day Islam’s universal dominance was reestablished he would rest, but not before.
Not me, Samimi thought as he sat back down at the conference-room table. Not me. Dying for a principle was a lofty ideal, but not when there was so much to live for-Laurie Yardley being a perfect example of how much. He’d left her apartment that morning while she was still lying naked in her bed, a wanton look on her face as she listed what would be waiting for him when he returned that night. And she was just one of the women Samimi was seeing. He sat down, just in time to hide the bulge in his pants.
“The longer you let this go the more damage can be done. These antique rugs need to be mended as soon as they start to unravel,” Nassir was saying over the speakerphone. “Do you understand? The time to take care of this is now.”
Samimi glanced down at his polished shoes on the brilliant sapphire-and-ruby rug. There were five other Persians of this quality in the office. Each was worth more than most people, even in America, made in a year. It was a travesty. These rugs belonged in museums, or at least hanging on the walls. Nonetheless, the minister’s suggestion didn’t make sense. Regardless of how much traffic the rugs bore, or how much ash his boss dropped on the seventeenth-century masterpieces, none of them needed repairs. Taghinia and the minister were talking in a code Samimi didn’t officially know about but one he’d deciphered months ago.
“We’ll stay on top of it,” Taghinia said.
“I think it’s time to let Samimi be responsible for the rugs,” the minister said.
Taghinia looked over at Samimi, his thick eyebrows raised as if to suggest he was impressed. “Yes, of course, Minister.”
A shiver fishtailed down the younger man’s spine.
“Samimi, are you there?”
“Yes, Minister.”
“I’m counting on you.”