Calouste
Gulbenkian leaned slight forward on the Louis Quatorze
settee in his suite in the Aviz. His octogenarian face
remained as immobile as that on the bronze bust behind
him. His bald head glistened in the setting sun that
streamed through the hotel window. He had lives in hotel
suites most of his life. After the first world war ended,
he moved out of his house on Rue de Grenelle in Paris
the only house he had ever really lived in, and gifted
to the Finance Minister of France who had arranged for
him to keep his oil concession in Iraq. For the next
two decades he had lived in the Ritz. He moved on to
Lisbon when the second world war made Paris inconvenient,
and made the Avis his home.
Raven sat across from
him. He had come to Lisbon to thank him for gifted painting.
He knew that this Armenian billionaire required that
appreciation be demonstrated. With him it was not merely
a formality, it was a way of life.
Korkik, his hunched
servant for as long as anyone could remember, poured
two demitasses of thick coffee. Raven knew the ritual.
He waited until Gulbenkian sipped his coffee, before
broaching his request. When Gulbenkian picked up the
cup a second time, the subject was closed.
"I am moved that you
came all the way Lisbon to see an old man," Gulbenkian
said, with feigned humility. He picked up and sipped
his coffee. "Is there any service I can be to you?"
"It is important you
know what progress the coordinating committee is making
in the Iranian matter. We could use your wisdom, your
experience," Raven said.
"You overestimate my
experience. What do I know about oil. I've never even
seen an oil field, not once. I have an art foundation,
a dance foundation, some investments in oil. I wish
I could be of help but I am too old. You someone who
understands the modern world better than I. There are
much more experienced hands on the coordinating committee,
like yours"
"No one with experience
would ever make the mistake of underestimating your
power."
"Power? Fifty years
ago, I thought I had power. I thought I could draw a
red line on a map and change the world."
Raven knew he was talking
about the red line he had drawn Saudi Arabia, the Red
Line Agreement which stopped anyone drilling there for
two decades, and kept of unwanted crude off the market.
"Then, I saw my hair
fall out. Every day, until there was not a hair on my
head." Gulbenkian continued. " To get it back, I would
have gladly exchanged my oil concession indeed, all
the oil in Arabia. I tried. I brought in the greatest
hair specialists from every part of the world. I consulted
doctors surgeons, nutritionists, faith healers, phrenologists,
herbologists, you name it. A shaman from Siberia suggested
young girls would revive my hair cells, so I had Madame
Claude provide me that kind of therapy for years. Nothing
worked." He pointed to his bald head. "Count the hairs
on my head, that is how much power I have."
"Mossadeq will destroy
everything we built. You must be concerned," Raven said,
getting to the point.
"Mossadeq is a fool.
And we stand to lose a great deal, but he is in power
there, and we are not. That is the sad reality."
"You once told me your
golden rule," Raven said. "He who hath the gold..."
"Makes the rules," he
completed Raven's sentence. "I'm flattered you remember
my old foolishness. Yes, there was a time when gold
made the rules. We gave the desert sheiks bags of gold
sovereigns, and they gave us deeds to their oil. Has
Nubar told you how he delivered a Rolls Royce full of
gold sovereigns to a sheik hunting gazelles, and we
got the oil field?"
"Nubar loves telling
stories," Raven said, recalling he had told only part
of the story at the shoot at Loch Eddy.
"That one was true,
But those days are now gone. So are the sheiks hunting
gazelle with falcons. You know have Mullahs, Russian
troops, the Tudah party, an atom bomb, Israel. It is
too complex to be settled with the golden rule. Alas,
its no longer a matter of gold sovereigns, or even diamond
Korans."
Gulbenkian shrugged.
His hand began reaching in the direction of his coffee
cup. Raven now spoke quickly, "We also have other means.
A silent partner."
Gulbenkian hand stopped
in mid air. His eyes focused. He had a one word question.
"Who?"
"The American. The
CIA."
"Ah, but can you trust
the Americans. Didn't they, with their romantic ideas
about democracy, let Mossadeq get out of hand?"
"Everything is about
to change in Washington," Raven explained. "Eisenhower
will be President in just five weeks. John Foster Dulles
will be Secretary of State and Allan Dulles will be
head of the CIA. The Dulles Brothers fully realize the
importance of our arrangement."
"Will they get rid
of Mossadeq?" "Let's say they will do what we cannot
do," Raven measured his words carefully. "As I'm sure
you will understand, we don't want them doing everything."
"What further service
could you need that the Americans can't provide?"
"A meeting with the
Shah. A very discrete one."
"I understand he will
be spending his Christmas in St. Moritz this year. Do
you ski, Antony?"
"The golden rule may
need to be applied." Raven said. He no longer needed
to mince words with this wily Armenian.
"I unfortunately cannot
help you with that," Gulbenkian now brought his cup
towards his lips. "But there is a man who has helped
me in the past in similar matters. His name is Ali Darius.
I suggest he deserves your respect." He took his second
sip.
Raven politely excused
himself. Rituals have to be followed. He knew that Gulbenkian
would put Darius at his disposal.
The heavily-carpeted
lobby of the Aviz reminded him of a mortuary. He went
to the phone room and asked the operator to dial Christie's,
wondering whether he entice Chris into a ski weekend
in St. Moritz. An officious voice told him "I'm very
sorry. Christina Winchester is in America curating an
exhibition. Is there anyone else who can be of assistance..."
Raven hung up.
|