City of Whispering Stone Read online

  “I thought it might be his politics,” I said carefully.

  Bannon took a long time to answer. “You didn’t mention that you were interested in Iranian politics,” he said quietly.

  “Actually, I only know what I read in the newspapers or see on television.”

  “Oh? What do you read and see?” Bannon was staring into his drink.

  “Well, I know that Pahlavi—” I stopped in mid-sentence. Soussan Bannon had stiffened; a couple at an adjacent table had paused in their conversation and were staring angrily at me. I was definitely in Shah Country. “Uh, the Shah,” I continued, lowering my voice, “is a tough man to get a line on. On television—and you see a lot of him on television—he comes across as urbane, intelligent and tremendously proud of his country. He obviously loves Iran, and he spends an enormous amount of money here promoting it. But the day after some great puff piece in Newsweek his jailers will get caught torturing political prisoners, and all that expensive public relations work goes down the drain. Anyway, I know Iran is a police state, and I thought that might have something to do with a musician of Omar’s caliber being here.”

  Bannon was half-turned in his seat and it was hard to tell what, if anything, was going on in his face. Soussan Bannon, perhaps sensing the tension in her husband’s voice, was chatting determinedly with the woman next to her.

  “Don’t believe everything bad you hear about the Shah,” Bannon said evenly. “Most of it’s garbage.”

  As I was trying to think of a tactful way to frame my next question the lights dimmed again. A spotlight stabbed through the darkness, skittered across the floor and came to rest on the green curtain.

  “Here’s Leyla,” Bannon continued tightly. “I think you’ll find her more interesting than Iranian politics.”

  Once again the room was filled with the wailing music of the band, this time underlined by an even heavier drumbeat. The woman, clothed only in a brief halter and flowing silk trousers, leaped through a fold in the curtains, went rigid for a moment in the smoky cone of light, then bumped her hips to one side and raised her arms; suddenly the air was filled with the staccato clash of the tiny cymbals she wore on her fingers. She closed her eyes and stiffened, the spotlight caressing her body, the music of her cymbals challenging the drums and reeds.

  Then Leyla began to dance, slowly at first, her body undulating in slow, peristaltic waves like some great, lovely serpent. Gradually the pace quickened and her breasts bounced in time to the music. Her flesh was moist; large droplets of perspiration oozed from her pores and ran in glistening rivulets down her body. The overall effect was electrifying, an erotic marriage of life and the earth.

  I kept my eyes on the girl and leaned toward Bannon. “Iranian?”

  Bannon shook his head. He smelled of expensive cologne and the musky odor of desire. “Egyptian,” he said. “Iranian men are great connoisseurs of the belly dance, but they don’t like their women doing it. Performers in Iran are looked down on.”

  He signaled to the waiter, who moved over and took our orders.

  “Tell me,” I said, “how does an American learn so much about Iran?”

  Bannon touched his wife’s shoulder solicitously. “My teacher.”

  “Mrs. Bannon is a lovely woman,” I said, flashing my best Sunday smile. “How did the two of you meet?”

  “Through my business,” Bannon said. “I spend a great deal of time in Iran. I met Soussan there.”

  Hearing her name, the woman turned and patted her husband affectionately. Bannon smiled and kissed her gently on the cheek. Whatever his other faults, he had good taste in women.

  “Tell me, Mr. Frederickson,” Mrs. Bannon said, “what work do you do?”

  “I teach criminology at N.Y.U.” I decided not to mention the private-investigator business until I had to. I had no idea if Bannon could help me, but he seemed to be a regular at The Santur and he spoke my language; private detectives, like questions, tend to make people nervous, and I wanted to make certain I approached the subject properly.

  Bannon grunted noncommittally; if he was surprised, he had the grace to hide it.

  “You’ve piqued my curiosity,” I said casually. “Aside from the torture, what are some of the other bad things I’m likely to hear about the Shah and his people?”

  “Childish mouthings from people who should know better; people who talk about freedom when they mean anarchy.”

  “There must be a middle ground for discussion somewhere. Wouldn’t you agree that Iran’s a police state?”

  “Sure,” Bannon said, lighting a cigar, “but that’s as it should be. You can’t compare Iran to a country like the United States. There is no place like the United States. This country functions better as a democracy because it developed as a democracy. Iran, on the other hand, is better off as a monarchy—or police state, if you will.”

  “You’re speaking as someone who enjoys all the freedoms of this country,” I said, smiling so hard it hurt.

  “I’m speaking as someone who knows Iran,” he replied evenly.

  Leyla danced on, her eyelids half-closed and fluttering, completely lost in the music. She came off the dance floor and began to writhe her way between the tables. Her body glistened. She seemed to take no notice of the hands that reached out and stuffed dollar bills into the moist cleft between her breasts.

  Nor was it only the men who enjoyed Leyla’s dancing. I’d stolen a glance at Soussan Bannon; the slim woman was sitting on the edge of her chair, her fingers white from the pressure they exerted on the tabletop, her eyes smoldering.

  Leyla was close now; her eyes passed over me, then came back. I stared into them; the intelligence in their brown depths blended nicely with an uninhibited sensuality. Together, the two elements made a heady brew. She was an artist who spoke with her body, and that was something I could appreciate.

  It wasn’t likely she’d forget the only dwarf in the place, but I wanted to make sure. I reached into my wallet, fished out a twenty. Leyla removed the other bills from the cleft and bent over, momentarily exposing the topography of her breasts. I slipped the twenty into the inviting space and stared after it. Her brown, taut nipples were surprisingly dry, dancing to a beat of their own on the rounded surfaces of her breasts. I quickly looked away; the musky odor of her hot body was in my nostrils, and I gulped at my drink as Leyla returned to the center of the dance floor, finished her dance in a wild, blurred spin, then crumpled into an exhausted mound of slippery flesh. I applauded with the others, clapping until my hands hurt.

  “How did you find out about this place?” Bannon asked as the roar of the crowd subsided.

  “It was recommended. Actually, I came here looking for a certain Iranian.”

  It seemed to me that Bannon’s clapping hands missed a beat, but that could have been my imagination. Gradually the last beats of applause faded away and the waiters started their rounds. Leyla, still breathing hard, rose from the floor and disappeared through the curtain. I stole a glance at Bannon’s wife; she seemed almost as exhausted as the dancer. Her hands were trembling as she reached for her drink.

  “This Iranian you’re looking for,” Bannon said, turning toward me. “A friend?”

  “No. I’m working for a client. I’m also a private investigator.”

  “You didn’t mention that you were a detective,” he said tightly, quickly looking away. “It must be an interesting line of work.”

  “It can be.”

  “Then it was no accident that you came over by our table?”

  “You’re American, Mr. Bannon. You speak English, and you looked like a regular. I thought you might be able to help.”

  Bannon’s thick, stubby fingers flexed, and his right hand closed around his glass. He didn’t drink, and he didn’t look at me. “You should talk to Leyla. She sees everyone who comes in here.”

  “Thank you. I was thinking of doing just that. In the meantime, I thought you might have seen him.”

  Bannon glanced quickly
at the photograph I showed him, then shoved it back at me. I thought his movement was just a bit too quick, too tense. “I haven’t seen him,” Bannon said shortly. “Besides, the chances are slim that he’d show up here.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?”

  Bannon swallowed hard, and the worms of muscle in his jaw worked rapidly. “Why should he come here? The Santur isn’t very well known.”

  He was lying, and I felt my pulse quicken. “Well, maybe your wife will recognize him.”

  When I started to lean across to Soussan Bannon, her husband made a sudden move, knocking over his water glass, drenching my hand and the photograph; it hadn’t been an accident. The florid-faced man shoved my hand away and forcefully dabbed with his napkin at the spreading blotch of water. Finally he signaled the waiter, who hurried over and assumed the job of mopping up.

  A number of people had turned to stare at us. Soussan’s face was flushed. She started to speak to me, but her husband interrupted, speaking sharply to her in Farsi. She tensed and quickly looked away.

  Bannon turned to me. “We came here to enjoy ourselves, Frederickson,” he said, “not to spend an evening answering silly questions from a dwarf pretending to be a private detective!”

  It was ugly, and loud enough for most of the people in the dining area to hear. There was a sudden rush of whispers and tittering laughter. Bannon was trying hard to embarrass me; he had no way of knowing that these laughers were amateurs compared with some of the rubes who’d filled the circus stands. I sat quietly while the band hurried back to the stage and started to play. Bannon turned his back to me and began talking earnestly with his wife while I sipped my watery Scotch and studied the band. I’d left the photograph on the table in front of me, but Soussan Bannon studiously avoided even glancing at it. Half a minute later, Bannon announced, loudly enough for me to hear, that he was going to the men’s room. He rose and headed toward the rear, veering away at the last moment and slipping through the green curtain.

  I picked up the photograph and held it in front of the woman’s face. “Mrs. Bannon, I wonder if I might—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frederickson,” she said, her voice barely audible. Her hands were clenched tightly together and she was staring intently at the tablecloth in front of her. “My husband has asked me not to speak with you further. You are spoiling our evening with your questions.”

  “That’s obvious,” I said evenly, putting the picture back into my pocket. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  She remained silent, avoiding my eyes. I turned back to the front. A few minutes later, Bannon emerged through the folds in the heavy curtain and returned to the table. He spoke a few words to his wife. She rose, clutching her purse tightly, and moved away. Then Bannon turned to me.

  “I’d like to apologize, Frederickson,” Bannon said, his face a relaxed, fleshy blank. “It’s my work: I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I realize you’re just doing your job, and I’m very sorry I lost my temper. I’m also sorry I couldn’t be of any help. I wish you luck.”

  He went after his wife, who was standing across the room by the exit. I watched them leave, then moved across the crowded dance floor and through the green curtain. There was a narrow, dingy corridor on the other side, with toilets at the end. To my right was a door with a crack of light showing under it. I knocked, and Leyla’s voice answered.

  “Bale?”

  Taking that as an invitation, I went in. Leyla was sitting on a wicker chair sipping a Coke. She’d rubbed herself down with a damp towel and her body gleamed like wet brown marble. On the table next to her was a pile of paper money. One of the bills was a hundred, which meant that someone either was a true patron of the arts, couldn’t read zeros or was willing to pay a premium for special service, like silence.

  “My name’s Frederickson,” I said. “I’d like to ask you some questions.” Leyla shook her head as though she didn’t understand. Her eyes were very dark, unblinking, as she stared at me. I showed her the photograph of Khordad. “Have you ever seen this man before?” Leyla shook her head, and I acted it out. She looked at the photo, shrugged, then handed it back to me. I pointed to the hundred-dollar bill on the table; it was crisp and dry, unlike its soggy companions. “Bannon?” I asked. Still pointing to the bill, I stepped closer to the table. “Did Mr. Bannon give you this money not to talk to me?”

  Leyla laughed pleasantly, reached out and shoved the money into a drawer. What she did next was totally unexpected; she reached behind her back and undid her halter clasp. Her full breasts fell out across her chest, quivering. Slowly she removed the halter, tossed it on the table and stood up, her arms at her sides and her chest thrust forward. Her nipples were hard and pointing directly at me. The muscles in her belly fluttered as she hooked her fingers into the top of her silk trousers, then stepped out of them to reveal a large thatch of moist pubic hair.

  It wasn’t money she was after. I knew where she was coming from, because she was the latest in a long, jaded line. I recognized the peculiar breathlessness, the electric aura of anticipation. Leyla was curious; she wanted to see if I was dwarf all over.

  But I wasn’t in the mood for a demonstration. Like my other, more public performances, the demonstrations, over the years, had been too many, and they were part of a past I was trying to forget. I dropped my card and a copy of the photo on her dressing table.

  “Very kinky,” I said, “but my love life always suffers when I’ve got questions on my mind. I think you can understand me. If you do see this man, I’d appreciate a call.” I walked to the door, then turned and grinned. “I can’t afford your prices, but if you do remember something I’ll reward you with my body.”

  Leyla’s smile flickered, then worked it was across her face. It was a pleasant smile which she tried hard to stop and couldn’t. Finally she broke out laughing. “I’ll call you if I see him,” she said in perfect English.

  “Call me anyway.”

  “I may do that,” she said, still laughing. I stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind me.

  Out on the sidewalk I gulped the cool night air. Suddenly I was very tired, the inside of my head swollen with too much Scotch and too many unanswered questions. My watch read three o’clock in the morning. I jotted down a memo of my conversation with Orrin Bannon, then hailed a taxi. I gave the driver my address, then settled back in the seat to stare out at the deserted streets. A light rain had begun to fall.

  4

  The alarm had been set for seven, but I woke up fifteen minutes early with a clear head and no apparent aftereffects from the night before. It meant I was into the case, excited. I’d pay for the lack of sleep later, but at the moment I was anxious to get going; I had a lot of checking to do. But first it was bread-and-butter time. I studied my lecture notes for an hour over coffee and toast, then went to the university for my ten-o’clock class.

  Ali Azad was waiting for me when I finished. He hadn’t shaved, and his jaw and cheeks around his moustache looked as if someone had sketched them in with a piece of charcoal. I wasn’t happy to see him; for now, the best lead I had was a nervous, big-spending American, and I wasn’t anxious to be delayed by a paranoid Persian. On the other hand, I couldn’t afford to cut off any source of potential help.

  “I’d like to speak with you, Dr. Frederickson.” Azad’s manner was still tense, but the hostility and suspicion were missing from his voice.

  “All right, I’m listening. But I need coffee.”

  We went down to the Student Commons in the basement, where I bought coffee and Azad took tea. We went over to a corner table warm with the morning sun pouring in through an open window. He seemed to be having a hard time getting started, and after the episode in his office I wasn’t anxious to help. I let him stare into his tea while I lighted a cigarette.

  “You really were looking for this man, Hassan Khordad,” he said at last. He sounded vaguely surprised.

  “Congratulations. What finally convinced you?�
�

  “One of our members followed you to The Santur last night. He heard you asking questions about Khordad.”

  “I don’t like being followed, Ali,” I said evenly.

  “We had to make certain you are who you say you are.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Ali, I’ve been teaching here for more than five years.”

  He bared his teeth in a grimace that might have started out as a smile. “You think I’m paranoid, Dr. Frederickson. Just remember the saying that even paranoids sometimes have real enemies.”

  “Who are your enemies?”

  “My government, and your government. The Confederation of Iranian Students is considered a threat to the stability of the Iranian Government.” He lifted his cup and stared at me over the rim. “Also, the Shah doesn’t like criticism. What the Shah dislikes, the United States Government also dislikes.”

  “No offense, Ali, but any threat posed by your organization to the Iranian Government seems to me to be rather, uh, piddling.”

  “We don’t like to think so!” he snapped, white lines appearing at the corners of his mouth.

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Ali?”

  “The fact that we do not trust people easily is not as strange as you may think. We are watched; the SAVAK photographs us constantly, and our telephones are tapped.”

  “The SAVAK: that would be the Iranian secret police.”

  “Correct.”

  “You say they’re operating in this country?”

  “Of course they’re here,” he said with a tight, wry smile. “Anywhere you find two Iranians, you can be certain one of them is probably SAVAK.”

  “I assume you’re a legal resident of this country. If you feel you’re being spied on, why don’t you complain to the U.S. authorities?”

  He looked at me strangely for a moment, then burst into an odd, hiccuping laugh that was razor-sharp with bitterness. “The authorities!” he yelped. “Oh, God, Dr. Frederickson, that is funny!”

  “Ali, people are staring.”

  Suddenly he leaned forward, half-rising out of his chair. His breath, tinged with the smell of spice, hissed in my face. “Don’t you think the U.S. authorities know the SAVAK operates here? The C.I.A. and the F.B.I. help them.” He paused, apparently displeased by something he saw in my face, and sat back down in his chair. “You don’t believe me?”