The Hypnotist

TWENTY-FIVE

It was just past six o’clock on Thursday night, but there was still a receptionist waiting for Ali Samimi and Farid Taghinia when they got off the elevator and stepped into the wood-paneled hallway. She was wearing a blue shirt and black slacks that showed off her figure in a way that Samimi knew would be immodest in his homeland. As she escorted the two men down the hushed hallway of Weil, Weston and Young, their footsteps fell silently on a rug that Samimi noticed was an expensive copy of a Persian. He smiled to himself at how pervasive they were in America.

It was late for a meeting, but Lou White had suggested the evening summit because of an all-day meeting out of town. As the two men came in he thanked them for accommodating his schedule. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, gesturing toward his office.

White’s irony was well placed. Everything here was impressive, from the massive mahogany desk to the wide windows that afforded a bird’s-eye view of Central Park to the wall of undergraduate and graduate degrees and finely carved wooden shelves filled with leather-bound books. The lawyer was equally impressive; he was one of those Superman-looking Americans Samimi envied. Tall with strong features, he had sandy-colored hair and was tanned and athletic.

It was all so random-where you were born determined your fate. No one could call Lou White at a moment’s notice and drag him back to a country where he didn’t belong anymore, to endure a life he could no longer abide. That was all Samimi wanted-to know he could stay here for as long as he wished.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea? I have something stronger if you don’t abstain,” White offered, and gestured to the bar set up on the top of the console behind him.

Since Taghinia was devout, Samimi didn’t drink when they were together, but he looked at the bottle of whiskey longingly. The thought of the Scotch not only made his mouth water but intensified his ire. He wanted to live an authentic life, not this hypocrisy. Hearing his boss ask for tea with sugar, he said he’d have the same. While White called the request in to his assistant, Samimi studied what the lawyer was wearing as if he’d be tested on it later: navy suit, powder-blue shirt and blue-and-gray-striped tie. His dress, manner and surroundings were all designed to instill trust.

“On the phone you said you had news? Might it be good news?” Taghinia asked.

His boss was too brusque, Samimi thought. Taghinia refused to engage in the social niceties that building business relationships required, and as a result he never inspired anyone to go the extra distance for him.

“It is good news,” White said, but instead of telling them right away, he plucked a folder off the corner of his desk, opened it, searched through the first few pages, didn’t find what he was looking for, closed the folder, picked up a second and looked inside that one.

Samimi wondered if White was deliberately delaying as a power move. The lawyer was a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in New York City; you didn’t hurry him.

“Yes, here it is,” White said as he scanned the sheet of paper he was holding. “We’ve been able to find out that in the process of removing the statue in question from Persia in the nineteenth century, the archaeologist involved was responsible for the murder of two people. Did you know that?”

“No,” Taghinia barked. “But what difference does it make?”

“A great deal. Let me take you through it. The husband and wife who lived in the house above the crypt where the statue was found were killed during the excavation.”

“There was a cave-in?” Taghinia asked, again impatiently.

Samimi thought he could detect annoyance in the lawyer’s glance but couldn’t hear anything but the correct inflection in his voice as he explained.

“No, they were trying to stop the archaeologist from removing anything. The contents of the crypt had been in the family for almost three hundred years.”

“How does that help us?” Taghinia asked.

Now, White did frown, and then continued. “Based on property laws at the time, despite the partage system, the Persian government didn’t have the right to the contents of the crypt.”

White’s assistant, the winsome young woman wearing the blue shirt and black slacks, entered carrying a silver tray. White thanked her and, as she walked out, offered each man a cup.

“If the artwork was looted, the Metropolitan Museum can’t claim the industrialist Frederick L. Lennox left them a piece of sculpture that was free and clear of previous claims, right?” Samimi asked, unsure what answer he hoped to hear. Everything would certainly be much simpler if this were true. Iran would get Hypnos back, and he and Taghinia would be rewarded for jobs well done-even possibly be given promotions, which could result in job shuffling. Success might mean he’d have to go home. The alternative was a covert, complicated operation that made his palms sweat but might offer him a way to stay in America for good.

“Yes, that’s right,” White said.

“That is indeed good news,” Taghinia said.

“Not exactly,” the lawyer amended.

“Why?” Samimi asked.

“Starting in the sixteenth century, harsh treatment was the rule in Persia for the Jews, a situation that didn’t change until early in the twentieth century. The government forced them to wear identifying headgear and a yellow badge and forbade them from relations with Jews outside the country. All over the world, Jews lived in ghettos, but in Iran, those ghettos were high-security prisons.”

“What does this have to do with the sculpture?” Taghinia interrupted, yet again.

White spoke even more slowly when he resumed explaining. “At issue to our case are family property laws. During the time in question, the law of the land stated that if a Jew converted to Islam he became the sole inheritor of the family’s property, and all other relatives were excluded from the will. The husband and wife who died trying to save the sculpture and the other artifacts in the crypt were a couple named Bibi and Hosh Frangi, who had four sons. If all of them had remained observant Jews they would have all inherited the treasures had they not been stolen. Each would have had an equal share in them. But one son, Yoseph, converted to Islam days after the death of his parents-probably to take advantage of that very law-and the house and all its contents became his. Which means if the sculpture hadn’t been stolen it would have been his.”

“Where is this going?” Taghinia was tapping his foot on the carpet, making a slight but annoying sound that set Samimi’s nerves on edge.

White continued as if he had not been interrupted, but the cadence of his words slowed down yet another fraction. Samimi was sure Taghinia didn’t notice it-which was so typical of the overweight, bombastic man. God, he wished he could get away from him.

“We’ve done some research. Yoseph Frangi’s great-grandson lives in Iran today and works for the government as a health inspector. If you were to get him to agree to donate the sculpture to the government of Iran, you would have much more viable grounds to demand that the Metropolitan Museum return Hypnos to you.” White sat back in his chair.

“How long would all this take?” Taghinia asked.

“How long will it take you to convince Ilham Frangi to sign over the sculpture to the government?”

“We don’t even know the man…” Taghinia pursed his lips, and his tapping became faster.

Samimi knew his boss was reaching the end of his patience, and interrupted. “But let’s say we can take care of that part in days. How long would it take your firm to get us back the sculpture?”

“One and a half to two years instead of the three to four we’re looking at without Frangi. But what’s critical to understand now is that if the Metropolitan does their research as well as my firm has, they could find out what we’ve found out and get to Frangi with a better offer. They’re a wealthy institution.”

“Even one more year of this is not acceptable to our government.” Taghinia stood. “We’ll get to Frangi, but you’ll have to move faster.”

“The law can’t be rushed,” White responded in his slow, measured voice.

“It most certainly can.”

“Before you go, there’s another matter we haven’t even discussed,” White said, ignoring the comment.

“And what is that?”

“These archaic laws and the ways that your country treated the Jews won’t win any sympathy with the court system if they are brought to the forefront of the case, and if the Metropolitan gets to Frangi first, then they might be.”

Taghinia pulled out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth. Samimi thought he detected a slight look of disgust in White’s eyes, but the lawyer didn’t say anything. “I want you to stay here and work this out,” Taghinia said to his second in command. “I have a phone call with the minister I can’t be late for. And when you’re done, come back to the office. We’re obviously working late tonight.”

Samimi nodded. Working late tonight was code they’d arranged before arriving at the law firm. It meant Samimi was to stay and agree to pursue whatever path the lawyer suggested, but only for show. It also meant calling Deborah Mitchell in the Islamic department of the Metropolitan, setting up another dinner. Taghinia had said it would now be critical for Samimi to be present at the next few museum events.

Samimi wondered if he’d be too nervous to even enjoy her company in the days and weeks ahead as she unknowingly helped him stage a dangerous and delicate mission that could make him a hero in Iran-or perhaps afford him something he wanted even more.