The secretary was acting as translator for a Persian of very high rank, guessing by the secretary’s obsequious manner of speaking to him. Bell heard a round of elaborate greetings. Then Rockefeller got down to business.
“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 penny. I will pay for every foot of pipe from Rasht to the Persian Gulf. And I will build the tanker piers and a breakwater to protect the harbor.”
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.
Virovets translated the writing on various shipping stickers pasted to the crates. The autos had been originally sent to Moscow, then south on freight trains to Baku. It was strange, Bell thought, when he discussed the details of the trip with Bill Matters, the Pipe Line Committee director had never mentioned the autos. Had Matters thought them unrelated to a bodyguard’s concerns for Rockefeller’s safety? Or did he not know about them? It seemed, Bell thought, odd for Rockefeller to keep the autos secret from a colleague. But for whatever reason they were hidden, it was clear again that Rockefeller had planned this trip far ahead.
—
“Well, Father, here we are all three having tea as if we’re off to the theater in New York.”
“I’m very surprised to see you.”
“How could you be?” asked Nellie. “Edna writes about the oil business.”
Edna was quietly watching their father and letting Nellie do the talking.
Their father said, “I didn’t think that the Oil City Derrick had the means to send a reporter to Baku.”
Nellie said, “Cleveland would be more their limit. Edna is writing for . . . May I tell him, Edna?”
“It’s hardly a secret.”
“The New York Sun! What do you think of that, Father? Your daughter is writing for one of the finest newspapers in the country.”
“The Sun is no friend of Standard Oil.”
“Fortunately for Standard Oil,” said Edna, “Standard Oil does not depend on the kindness of friends.”
“And furthermore,” said Nellie, all excited with color high in her cheeks, “Baku could be the biggest thing to hit the oil business since Spindletop.”
“In an opposite way,” Edna interrupted drily. “Cutting production in half instead of spouting gushers.”
“I don’t know if the situation is that bad,” Matters said automatically. “The authorities seem back in control.”
“Really?” asked Edna. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that shots were fired at some American business men.”
Bill Matters shrugged. “An isolated incident.”
“Apparently,” said Edna, “the Cossacks reacted by slaughtering refinery workers. And now the rest are up in arms.”
Matters shrugged again. “It’s Russia. My impression is the authorities have strict control of the situation.”
“And what are you doing here, Father? Last we heard, you were in Cleveland. I just mailed you a postcard there. Had I known, I could have handed it to you and saved a stamp.”
“Mr. Rockefeller sent me to rustle up some refinery business—and don’t print that.”
“Not without verification,” Edna said.
Nellie laughed so loudly that people glanced from nearby tables. “Father, you should see your face. You know darned well she won’t print that. Certain things are sacred.”
“Father is sacred,” said Edna with a wink that warmed Bill Matters’ heart.
He sat back with a happy smile on his face. They had bought his story.
“It’s like old times,” he said.
The girls exchanged a glance. “Whatever do you mean?” asked Nellie, and Edna asked, “What are you smiling about, Father?”
“Like going to New York to see a play b
ack when you were in pigtails.”
“‘Pigtails’?” echoed Nellie in mock horror. “Whenever you took us to the theater, we dressed like perfect little ladies.”
“Even after we ceased to be,” said Edna.
“All I’m saying is, it makes me very happy.”
—
“Who was that man with E. M. Hock and Nellie Matters?” John D. Rockefeller asked Isaac Bell. “I saw him at the Astoria, and lurking here in the lobby when they came for tea with their father.”
“He is their bodyguard.”
“He looks the part, I suppose. But are you sure?”
“I know him well,” said Bell. “Aloysius Clarke. He was a Van Dorn detective.”
“A Van Dorn? What is a Van Dorn doing here?”
“Not anymore. Mr. Van Dorn let him go.”
“For what?”
“Drinking.”
“Drinking? I’d have thought that was not uncommon among detectives.”
“Mr. Van Dorn gave him several chances.”
“Who does he work for now?”
“I’d imagine he’s gone freelance. I’ll speak with him, find out what’s up.”
Rockefeller asked, “What is that smile on your face, Mr. Bell? There’s something going on here I don’t understand.”
“I was glad to see him. Wish Clarke is a valuable man. I just may ask him to join forces.”
“Right there! Not while he serves E. M. Hock!”
“Of course not. In the future, after we’re all safely back home.”
24
My daughter is reporting for the New York Sun!” Bill Matters exulted to John D. Rockefeller. “It’s a big feather in her cap. A wonderful step up!”
“Does she know I am in Baku?”
“Absolutely not!”
“What makes you so sure? How do you know she didn’t follow me here?”
“They sent her to cover the riots.”
“There aren’t any riots.”
“That could change in a flash, Mr. Rockefeller. You can feel it in the streets. And my daughter told me that the officials she’s interviewed sound deeply worried . . . Now, sir, I know that you can’t abide the Sun. Neither can I, but—”
Rockefeller stopped him with a gesture. “Right there! The Sun is nonsense. Newspapers are all nonsense. The less they know is all that’s important to me.”
“She doesn’t know you’re here.”
Rockefeller stared. “All right. I will have to take your word for it.”
“It’s not only my word, Mr. Rockefeller. It is my judgment. And I guarantee you, sir, if she had told me that she knew you were here, I would inform you immediately.”
Rockefeller shook his head and whispered, “She would never tell you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All right! I’m sending you to Moscow.”
“Moscow?” Matters was stunned. How could he work on the Persian pipe line from Moscow? “Why?”
“We need those refinery contracts. You have done all you can with the local officials. Now you must convince Moscow that the Standard’s thoroughgoing, able administration will do much better for Russia’s oil business than these old, good-for-nothing, rusted-out refineries. And if you can’t find the right officials in Moscow, you’ll go on to St. Petersburg.”
“But what about the pipe line?”
“First the refineries.”
—
Isaac Bell met Aloysius Clarke on the Baku waterfront. The oily, smoky air had been cleared by a sharp wind blowing across the bay from the Caspian. Lights were visible for miles along the great crescent harbor, and Bell saw stars in the sky for the first time since he had arrived in Baku.
Bell thought his old partner looked pretty good, all things considered. He was a big, powerful man who carried his extra weight well. His face was getting fleshy from drink, his mouth had a softness associated with indulgence, and his nose had taken on the rosy hue beloved by painters portraying lushes, but his eyes were still hard and sharp. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all, unless you caught an unguarded glimpse of his eyes, which was not likely. Besides, Bell told himself, a private detective mistaken for a drunkard bought the extra seconds required to get his foot in a door.
Wish wrapped his tongue around the English language with a self-taught reader’s love. “Best job I can remember. Sumptuous feasts and the finest wines shared nightly with a pair of lookers. And Joe Van Dorn pays the piper . . . How bad’s that arm?”
“Healing fast,” said Bell. He flicked open his coat to reveal a Colt Bisley single-action revolver where he usually holstered his automatic, and Wish nodded. Since Bell could not yet rely on the strength in his hand to work the slide to load a round into his automatic’s chamber, the special target pistol version of the Colt .45 was an accurate, hard-hitting substitute.
“How’d you get your paws on a Bisley?”
“You can buy anything in Baku.”
A sudden gust buffeted the sidewalk. Wish said, “I read somewhere that ‘Baku’ is Persian for ‘windbeaten.’”
They walked until they found a saloon that catered to sea captains who could afford decent food and genuine whiskey. They ate and drank and got comfortable reminiscing. Finally, Bell asked, “What do you think of the lookers?”
Wish had been his partner on tough cases. The two detectives trusted each other as only men could who had been stabbed in each other’s company and shot in each other’s company. Having solved every crime they tackled, they trusted each other’s instincts. Each was the other’s best devil’s advocate—roles they could bat back and forth like competition tennis players.
“Edna is a very serious young lady,” said Wish. “Angrier than you would think, at first, about the way Rockefeller’s ridden roughshod over her father. Nellie’s a show-off. She’d make a great actress. Or a politician. She’ll make a heck of a splash if she can pull off her New Woman’s Flyover stunt.”
He gave Bell an inquiring glance. “Which one did you fall for?”
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
Wish chuckled. “That sounds very much like both.”
“It is confusing,” Bell admitted. “There is something about Edna . . . But, then, there is something about Nellie . . .”
“What?”
“Edna’s deep as the ocean. Nellie dazzles like a kaleidoscope.”
“I don’t see either making a wife anytime soon.”
“I’m not rushing.”
A gust of wind stronger than the others shook the building. Sand blown across the bay rattled the windowpanes like hail.
“Let’s get to the real question,” said Wish. “Who’s the assassin shooting for?”
Bell said, “You know how they call Standard Oil the octopus?”
“Aptly,” said Wish.
“I’m thinking our mastermind is more like a shark. Hanging around this monster-size octopus, thinking if he can just sink his teeth into one or two arms, he’ll have himself the meal of a lifetime. He’s shifting the blame for his crimes to the Standard. If he can pull it off, he reckons to pick up some pieces. If it really goes his way, he figures he’ll control the second-biggest trust in oil.”
Wish nodded. “I’d call that basis for a mighty strong hunch.”
“He could be inside the company or an outsider, an oil man, or a railroad man, or in coal or steel. Even a corporation lawyer.”
“A valuable man,” said Wish, “a man on his way up . . . Say, where are you going? Have another.”
Bell had stood up and was reaching for money. “My ‘boss,’ Mr. Rockefeller, is waiting for me to confirm that Detective Aloysius Clarke is no longer a Van Dorn but a freelance bodyguard for Nellie Matters and E. M. Hock, who are traveling together for safety. And that Detective Clarke gav
e no hint to me that either knows that Mr. Rockefeller is in Baku.”
“Rockefeller? Never heard of him,” grinned Wish. He glanced at the bottle they were sharing. His gaze shifted to Bell’s arm in his sling. “Hold on,” he said, “I’ll walk you back.”
“Stay there. I’m O.K.”
“In the event you get in a gunfight of such duration that you have to reload, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t give your one hand a hand.”
Outside, the sharp north wind that had cleared the sky of smoke earlier was blowing a gale. The stars had disappeared again, obscured now by the sand that the harsh gusts were sucking into the air. The harbor lights were barely visible. A caustic blast rattled pebbles against walls.
“Look there!”
A graceful three-masted, gaff-rigged schooner struggled alongside an oil berth, sails furled, decks rippling with dark figures crowding to get off. The moment it landed, gangs of Tatars armed with rifles jumped onto the pier and ran toward the city.
Wish Clarke said, “If the city blows?”
“We evacuate.”
The sand-swirled sky over the oil fields across the bay was abruptly aglow.
Within the city itself, small-arms fire crackled.
They hurried up Vokzalnaya toward the railroad station. The gunfire got louder, pistol and rifle shots punctuated all of a sudden by the heavier churning of Army machine guns. Looking back, Bell saw the sky over the bay getting redder. A glow ahead marked mansions set afire in the Armenian district.
They broke into a run toward the hotel district.
“We’ll grab the ladies at your place,” said Bell, “then Mr. R. at mine.”
“Then what? Land or sea?”
“Whichever we can get to,” said Isaac Bell.
25
Isaac Bell telephoned John D. Rockefeller from the Astoria Hotel’s lobby.
“Pack one bag and wear your warmest coat. We’re running for it.”