was tribal rugs. “With the smaller knots, they can do flowers, vines, even animals. See how she was able to round this flower here? Those rugs are all straight lines.”
Boyd looked at the tribal rugs and saw the difference.
“This one is a Mashad, named for the town where it was made, in Persia,” she said. “They make large carpets with a central medallion and floral motif.”
“Expensive, I’ll bet.”
“This one, for you,” – she stood and pursed her lips like she was thinking – “six thousand dollars.”
“Hah! I don’t even own a house. I don’t need a carpet like that.”
“Oh?” She smiled, then lowered her voice and said in mock disbelief, “An American officer, and no house?”
“No wife. No house.”
“Well, you’ll need a smaller rug, then,” and turned back toward the stack in the rear.
“How about this one?” Boyd held up a bright rug, mainly red and blue with geometric designs but also some birds and animals. He could see the knots were larger and the animals looked crude compared with the intricate floral pattern on the Mashad. He turned it over and the back had loose yarn between the different color objects.
“That’s unique,” she said, stepping to his side and standing close while she examined the rug. “There’s no pile. See the open weave on the back, that’s a Soumak, from Borchali here in Georgia. Interesting, but a bit gaudy, don’t you think?”
He felt her warmth, smelled her fragrance.
“It has a certain charm,” he said taking it from her and laying it on the floor.
“It is less expensive than your other rug,” she said, stepping back so they stood together admiring the rug. “It looks like something you’d find in a Russian theater.”
Boyd didn’t know if that was a compliment or not.
“I like it,” he said.
“Then you should have it,” she said gaily and bent to pick it up.
Boyd followed her to the cash register.
“You know all about me. Can I know your name?” he asked quietly as he handed her his MasterCard.
She looked up anxiously but said nothing.
He nodded.
She ran his card and handed him the receipt to sign. He signed it and handed it back and she pressed a flash drive into his hand. They walked to the door. She was silent.
Was she mad that he asked? It was a risk, for her.
She stopped as she was about to open the door to let him out. The street was empty. It was dark. She looked in his eyes.
“I am Ekaterina Dadiani.”
Chapter 16: Tehran, Iran
“M
ay I have a cigarette?” Eskander Khorasani asked casually as the meeting took a midmorning break.
Lado had been invited – no, summoned – to a meeting in Tehran, ostensibly to cement Kartvelian National Bank’s relationship as a correspondent bank with Petroleum Bank. He’d been to Iran many times. As a young man, he’d traveled to Tabriz, Kashan, Herat and Kerman with his father and grandfather to buy Persian carpets, which they sold to the Russians through their shop in Tbilisi. He’d learned Farsi and was fluent enough to negotiate with Persian rug merchants while still a college student.
Bright, he’d wanted something better than being a rug merchant, so he’d earned a highly coveted scholarship to Moscow University and majored in mathematics. But he soon discovered that success in the Soviet Union was based on ideology and not reality. Returning home, he eschewed the offer of a government job and went back to rugs. Banking was a natural extension of the rug trade, and when the Soviet Union dissolved and banking became possible in the new, independent Georgia, he opened a tiny bank two blocks from the Erekle II Street rug shop.
Eskander Khorasani had been his first foreign depositor. Later, they were friends, as Eskander opened a branch of Petroleum Bank in Tbilisi, and then collaborators in Iran’s smuggling and money-laundering schemes. Capitalizing on the differences between Muslim and Christian banking regulations, Eskander and Lado were
Boyd looked at the tribal rugs and saw the difference.
“This one is a Mashad, named for the town where it was made, in Persia,” she said. “They make large carpets with a central medallion and floral motif.”
“Expensive, I’ll bet.”
“This one, for you,” – she stood and pursed her lips like she was thinking – “six thousand dollars.”
“Hah! I don’t even own a house. I don’t need a carpet like that.”
“Oh?” She smiled, then lowered her voice and said in mock disbelief, “An American officer, and no house?”
“No wife. No house.”
“Well, you’ll need a smaller rug, then,” and turned back toward the stack in the rear.
“How about this one?” Boyd held up a bright rug, mainly red and blue with geometric designs but also some birds and animals. He could see the knots were larger and the animals looked crude compared with the intricate floral pattern on the Mashad. He turned it over and the back had loose yarn between the different color objects.
“That’s unique,” she said, stepping to his side and standing close while she examined the rug. “There’s no pile. See the open weave on the back, that’s a Soumak, from Borchali here in Georgia. Interesting, but a bit gaudy, don’t you think?”
He felt her warmth, smelled her fragrance.
“It has a certain charm,” he said taking it from her and laying it on the floor.
“It is less expensive than your other rug,” she said, stepping back so they stood together admiring the rug. “It looks like something you’d find in a Russian theater.”
Boyd didn’t know if that was a compliment or not.
“I like it,” he said.
“Then you should have it,” she said gaily and bent to pick it up.
Boyd followed her to the cash register.
“You know all about me. Can I know your name?” he asked quietly as he handed her his MasterCard.
She looked up anxiously but said nothing.
He nodded.
She ran his card and handed him the receipt to sign. He signed it and handed it back and she pressed a flash drive into his hand. They walked to the door. She was silent.
Was she mad that he asked? It was a risk, for her.
She stopped as she was about to open the door to let him out. The street was empty. It was dark. She looked in his eyes.
“I am Ekaterina Dadiani.”
Chapter 16: Tehran, Iran
“M
ay I have a cigarette?” Eskander Khorasani asked casually as the meeting took a midmorning break.
Lado had been invited – no, summoned – to a meeting in Tehran, ostensibly to cement Kartvelian National Bank’s relationship as a correspondent bank with Petroleum Bank. He’d been to Iran many times. As a young man, he’d traveled to Tabriz, Kashan, Herat and Kerman with his father and grandfather to buy Persian carpets, which they sold to the Russians through their shop in Tbilisi. He’d learned Farsi and was fluent enough to negotiate with Persian rug merchants while still a college student.
Bright, he’d wanted something better than being a rug merchant, so he’d earned a highly coveted scholarship to Moscow University and majored in mathematics. But he soon discovered that success in the Soviet Union was based on ideology and not reality. Returning home, he eschewed the offer of a government job and went back to rugs. Banking was a natural extension of the rug trade, and when the Soviet Union dissolved and banking became possible in the new, independent Georgia, he opened a tiny bank two blocks from the Erekle II Street rug shop.
Eskander Khorasani had been his first foreign depositor. Later, they were friends, as Eskander opened a branch of Petroleum Bank in Tbilisi, and then collaborators in Iran’s smuggling and money-laundering schemes. Capitalizing on the differences between Muslim and Christian banking regulations, Eskander and Lado were
Similar Books
