His success had been others’ good fortune, too. He was a generous and enlightened philanthropist who funded educational projects throughout the Middle East, favoring those that helped women to raise their families out of poverty. Schools in Palestine, Yemen and Oman bore his name. And he was perhaps the world’s most serious collector of Persian art, his foundation the leading authority on pre-Islamic and Islamic art from the region.
Senechal was certainly a loyal evangelist for his client. Most of this Webster had found out for himself in the last day or two but hearing it delivered coherently—and not without an odd vehemence, even passion—Qazai’s life story was impressive. He was not wholly self-made, since his family had been rich before the revolution and wealthy enough afterward, but his achievements were his and his talents clear. One of the articles that Webster had read had put it simply: “a canny investor and a brilliant salesman, not least in selling himself.” His clients loved him, if Senechal and the newspapers were to be believed, and his commitment to education seemed genuine. For Webster, schooled in the ways of Russia, where it was almost impossible to be a billionaire without stealing something from someone, all this seemed strange, refreshing and unlikely.
Senechal had more, but before he could move on to his master’s family, Qazai himself arrived, immediately supplying all the color that his lawyer seemed to drain from the room. As everyone stood, he made for Hammer, took his hand and shook it vigorously, his other hand on Hammer’s elbow, his face smiling and earnest.
“Mr. Hammer. It is a great honor to meet a leader in his field. A great honor.” For once, though he wouldn’t have disagreed with Qazai’s judgment, Hammer seemed off balance, and despite himself Webster smiled.
“I have read about your exploits with pleasure,” Hammer said. “If I was not doing what I do I should want your job.”
Qazai moved around the table to Webster. “You must be Mr. Webster. A Russian expert, if I am not mistaken. Of some distinction, I understand. I must thank you for seeing Mr. Senechal, and apologize for the clumsy introduction we tried to make. I have got used to guarding my personal affairs more closely than perhaps is necessary.” Webster was wary of the flattery, but had to concede this was elegant. “Gentlemen, many thanks to you both for coming all this way. I appreciate it greatly. Please, sit, sit.”
Qazai sat down at the head of the table with his back to the window, smiled at Hammer and Webster in turn, took an olive and chewed. He seemed as invincible in this small room as he had in church, but what Webster saw for the first time was his health. He glowed. According to the articles Webster had read he was sixty-one, but he moved and talked with the force of a much younger man; his cheeks were taut beneath the beard, his eyes glitteringly clear, and he held himself as an athlete might, as if every muscle was only for the moment in repose.
Webster had the sense, without understanding quite why, that Qazai was not a private man. His life was lived in view, and he liked it there. You had to read his face carefully to detect the faintest signs of what might be within: in the eyes and the lines around them you could see experience—hard-won, guarded—and a watchfulness that suggested he was slow to trust.
“Gentlemen, you will like this place. I have been coming here once a week for the last twenty-five years. It is nothing fancy, but trust me, the fancy places get it wrong. This is real Iranian food.” He took another olive and smiled benignly. Like a king condescending to visit his people, thought Webster, saying nothing.
Qazai, continuing to beam at his guests, shook out his napkin, and the others did the same. Hammer took his and, as he always did, tucked it into his shirt collar, a New York habit that he insisted was merely practical but clearly gave him pleasure; Senechal, for his part, carefully unfolded his and smoothed it out precisely on his lap. Waiters came and poured water.
“That was a beautiful service,” said Hammer.
“Wasn’t it? More so for being so sad. Thank you for indulging me. I had thought that we could come on here together but there were people to talk to. I was moved that so many came.”
Hammer gave a respectful nod in acknowledgment.
“How do you think he died?” said Webster, sensing that Hammer was shooting him a look for his directness.
“Like a hero. Or like a dog. You take your pick.” Qazai held Webster’s eye for a moment. “Mr. Webster, even the simplest things in Iran are difficult. Insanely difficult. They were hard before but now they are impossible. The Arab Spring is not a term I like. My people are not Arabs. But we are all caged together by these, these little men. These vicious little men.” He sighed and shook his head. “You were a journalist, I think?” Webster held his eye and nodded. “In Iran this simple thing—to find something out, to tell people about it—cannot be done. Journalists there are stooges of the state, or scared, or in prison.” He paused to allow the weight of his words to be felt. “So you see how impossible it is to investigate anything. Honestly speaking, to know what happened to Cyrus… You understand Russia. Iran has its similarities. You understand that some things will never be known in such places. I fear that this will be one of them.”
“Would you like to know?”
Qazai’s lips pressed together, his eyes lost their shine and for a moment Webster thought his composure was about to slip; but he caught himself, and his smile reappeared. “When we are done with this first piece of work, Mr. Webster, perhaps then I will send you to Isfahan to find out.” The smile stayed on his lips.
Two waiters came in bearing trays of food: small plates of smoked eggplant and spinach in yogurt; three bowls together, one containing walnut halves, one smoked fish, one unshelled broad beans; a basket of the thinnest flatbread; and a huge plate of radishes, spring onions, deep red tomatoes, bushy green bunches of coriander, tarragon and mint. Qazai passed the bread to Hammer and signaled that everyone should help themselves, while Webster watched him, marveling at the deep shine of the man.
“Now, gentlemen. To why I called you here. I will not insult you again by insisting what we say in this room is confidential. It is delicate. It goes to the heart of my affairs.” Qazai took sea salt from a small glass bowl, ground it between his fingertips onto his plate and rolled a radish slowly over it.
“I have been working for some time—quietly, you understand—to sell my business. Or some of my business. I plan to retire from the day-to-day and leave my son in charge. One day his reputation will eclipse mine, but he needs room. He is ready to move past his father. It is time. And I want to take some money out, for this and that.” He turned from Hammer to Webster and back again, diligently dividing his attention, underscoring his words with slow, deliberate gestures. “Now, for my investors to be happy I need a buyer with a name as powerful as my own, and up until two weeks ago I thought I’d found one. A fund manager in the U.S. You would know the name. A perfect fit. Talented people. They wanted emerging markets exposure, we have much the same risk profile—perfect.”
He paused to check that his audience was keeping pace; Hammer nodded for him to go on.
“The sale was agreed, we were due to announce it, and at the eleventh hour they called it off. Wouldn’t tell me why.” He put the radish in his mouth, chewed deliberately, and swallowed, frowning now at the thought of this reversal like a child who had been refused its way. “Yves and I,” he gestured to Senechal, “could not get them to tell us. I called and called. And then finally their legal counsel tells us that—what did he say, Yves?”