Whirlwind

Whirlwind

James Clavell

1986

Book One

Friday - February 8, 1979

Chapter 1

IN THE ZAGROS MOUNTAINS: SUNSET. Now the sun touched the horizon and the man reined in his horse tiredly, glad that the time for prayer had come. Hussain Kowissi was a powerfully built Iranian of thirty-four, his skin light and his eyes and beard very dark. Over his shoulder was a Soviet AK47 assault rifle. He was bundled against the cold and wore a white turban and travel-stained dark robes with a rough, nomad Kash’kai sheepskin jacket belted over them, and well-used boots. Because his ears were muffled he did not hear the distant scream of the approaching jet helicopter. Behind him his weary pack camel tugged at the halter, impatient for food and rest. Absently he cursed her as he dismounted.

The air was thin at this height, almost eight thousand feet, and cold, very cold, a heavy snow on the ground that the wind took into drifts, making the way slippery and treacherous. Below, the little-known track curled toward distant valleys, at length to Isfahan where he had been. Ahead the path wound dangerously upward through the crags, then to other valleys facing the Persian Gulf and to the town of Kowiss where he had been bom, where he now lived and from which he had taken his name when he had become a mullah. He did not mind the danger or the cold. The danger felt clean to him as the air was clean.

It’s almost as though I was once more a nomad, he thought, my grandfather leading us as in the old days when all our tribes of the Kash’kai could roam from winter pasture to summer pasture, a horse and a gun for every man and herds to spare, our flocks of sheep and goats and camels a multitude, our women unveiled, our tribes living free,as our forefathers had done for tens of centuries, subject to no one but the Will of God - the old days that were ended barely sixty years ago, he told himself, his anger rising, ended by Reza Khan, the upstart soldier who with the help of the vile British usurped the throne, proclaimed himself Reza Shah, first of the Pahlavi Shahs, and then, with the support of his Cossack regiment, curbed us and tried to stamp us out.

God’s work that in time Reza Shah was humiliated and exiled by his foul British masters to die forgotten, God’s work that Mohammed Shah was forced to flee a few days ago, God’s work that Khomeini has returned to lead His revolution, the Will of God that tomorrow or the next day I will be martyred, God’s pleasure that we’re swept by His whirlwind and that now there will be a final reckoning on all Shah lackeys and all foreigners. The helicopter was closer now but still he did not hear it, the whine of the gusting wind helping to bury the sound. Contentedly he pulled out his prayer rug and spread it on the snow, his back still aching from the weals that the whip had caused, then scooped up a handful of snow. Ritually he washed his hands and face, preparing for the fourth prayer of the day, then faced southwest toward the Holy City of Mecca that lay a thousand miles away in Saudi Arabia, and put his mind to God.

“Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbar. La illah illa Allah…” As he repeated the Shahada he prostrated himself, letting the Arabic words embrace him: God is most Great, God is most Great. I testify there is no other God but God and Mohammed is His Prophet, God is most Great, God is most Great, I testify there is no other God but God and Mohammed is His Prophet…. The wind picked up, colder now. Then through his earmuffs he caught the pulse of the jet engine. It grew and grew and went into his head and drove away his peace and ruined his concentration. Angrily he opened his eyes. The approaching helicopter was barely two hundred feet above the ground, climbing straight toward him.

At first he thought it might be an army aircraft and a sudden fear went into him that they were searching for him. Then he recognized the British red, white, and blue colors and familiar markings of the bold S-G around the red lion of Scotland on the fuselage - the same helicopter company that operated from the air base at Kowiss and all over Iran - so his fear left him but not his rage. He watched it, hating what it represented. Its course was almost directly overhead but it presented no danger to him - he doubted if those aboard would notice him, here in the lee of an outcrop - even so, with all of his being, he resented the intrusion into his peace, and destruction of his prayers. And as the ear-shattering scream increased, his anger soared. “La illah illa Allah…” He tried to go back into prayer but now the thrust of the blades whirled the snow into his face. Behind him his horse whinnied and cavorted in sudden panic, the hobble making him slip and slide. The pack camel, jerked by the halter, equally in panic, reeled to her feet, bellowing, and stumbled this way and that on three legs, shaking her load and fouling the bindings.

His rage burst. “Infidel!” he bellowed at the airplane that now was almost over the lip of the mountain, leaped to his feet, and grabbed his gun, slipped the safety and let off a burst, then corrected and emptied the magazine.

“SATAN!” he shrieked in the sudden silence.

When the first bullets splashed the chopper, the young pilot, Scot Gavallan, was momentarily paralyzed and he stared stupidly at the holes in the plastic canopy ahead. “Christ Almighty…” he gasped, never having been fired on before, but his words were drowned by the man in the front seat beside him whose reactions were honed and battle fast: “Hit the deck!” The command roared in his headphones.

“Hit the deck,” Tom Lochart shouted again into his boom mike, then, because he had no controls of his own, he overrode the pilot’s left hand and shoved the collective lever down, cutting lift and power abruptly. The chopper reeled drunkenly, instantly losing height. At that moment the second burst sprayed them. There was an ominous crack above and behind, somewhere else a bullet howled off metal, the jets coughed, and the chopper fell out of the sky.

She was a 206 Jet Ranger, one pilot, four passengers, one in front, three in the back and she was full. An hour ago Scot had routinely picked up the others back from a month’s home leave at Shiraz Airport, fifty-odd miles southeast, but now routine was nightmare and the mountain rushed at them until just over a ridge the earth tumbled away miraculously and the chopper sank into a depression, giving him a split second of respite to get back air power and partial control.

“Watch out for crissake!” Lochart said.

Scot had seen the hazard but not as quickly. Now his hands and feet slid the plane into a shuddering swerve around the jutting outcrop, the left skid of the undercarriage caught the rocks a glancing blow, howled in protest, and once more they plunged away barely a few feet above the uneven surface of rocks and trees that fell and reeled up again.

“Low and fast,” Lochart said, “that way, Scot - no, that way, over there, down that crest into the ravine…. Are you hit?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. You?”

“No, you’re fine now, drop into the ravine, come on, hurry!” Scot Gavallan banked obediently and fled, too low and too fast and his mind not quite normal yet. There was still the taste of bile in his mouth and his heart was pumping. From behind the partition he could hear the shouts and curses of the others in the back above the roar of the engines, but he could not risk turning and said anxiously into the intercom, “Anyone hurt back there, Tom?”

“Forget them, concentrate, watch the ridge, I’ll deal with them!” Tom Lochart said urgently, his eyes searching everywhere. He was forty-two, Canadian, ex-RAF, ex-mercenary, and now chief pilot of their base, Zagros Three. “Watch the ridge and get ready to evade again. Hug the deck and keep her low. Watchittt!”

The ridge was slightly above them and it came at them too fast. Gavallan saw the fang of rocks directly in his path. He just had time to lurch around it when a violent gust shoved him perilously near to the sheer side of the ravine. He overcorrected and heard the obscenity in his earphones, got back control. Then ahead he saw the trees and the rocks and the sudden end to the ravine and he knew they were lost.

Abruptly everything seemed to slow down for him. “Christ Al - ” “Hard aport… watch the rock!”

Scot felt his hands and feet obey and saw the chopper pirouette the rocks by inches, slam for the trees, ride over them, and escape into free air. “Set her down over there, fast as you can.”

He gaped at Lochart, his insides still churning. “What?”

“Sure. We better take a look, check her out,” Lochart said urgently, hating not having the controls. “I heard something go.”

“So did I, but what about the undercart, it might be torn off?” “Just keep her weight off. I’ll slip out and check it, then if it’s all right, set her down and I’ll make a quick inspect. Safer to do that; Christ only knows if the bullets chopped an oil line or nicked a cable.” Lochart saw Scot take his eyes off the clearing to glance around at his passengers. “The hell with them for crissake, I’ll deal with them,” he said sharply. “You concentrate on the landing.” He saw the younger man flush but obey, then, trying to contain his sudden nausea, Lochart turned around expecting blood splashed everywhere and entrails and someone screaming - screams drowned by the jet engines - knowing there was nothing he could do until they reached sanctuary and landed, always the first duty to land safely. To his aching relief the three men in the backseat - two mechanics and another pilot - were seemingly unhurt though they were all hunched down, and Jordon, the mechanic directly behind Scot, was white-faced, holding his head with both hands. Lochart turned back.

They were about fifty feet now, on a good approach, coming in fast. In the clearing the surface was stark and white and flat with no tufts of grass showing through, the snow banked high at the sides. Seemingly a good choice. Easily enough room to maneuver and land. But how to judge the depth of snow and the hidden level of the earth beneath? Lochart knew what he would do if he had the controls. But he did not have control, he was not the captain though he was senior. “They’re okay in the back, Scot.”

“Thank God for that,” Scot Gavallan said. “You set to get out?” “How’s the surface look to you?”

Scot heard the caution in Lochart’s voice, instantly aborted the landing, put on power and went into a hover. Christ, he thought, almost in panic at his stupidity, if Tom hadn’t nudged me I’d’ve put down there and Christ knows how deep the snow is or what’s underneath! He steadied at a hundred feet and searched the mountainside. “Thanks, Tom. What about over there?” The new clearing was smaller, a few hundred yards away across the other side of the valley, lower down with a good escape route if they needed one, and protected from the wind. The ground was almost clear of snow, rough but serviceable.

“Looks better to me too.” Lochart slid one earphone away and looked back. “Hey, JeanLuc,” he shouted over the engines, “you all right?” “Yes. I heard something go.”

“So did we. Jordon, you all right?”

“Course I’m all effing right, for Gawd’s sake,” Jordon shouted back sourly. He was a lean, tough Australian and he was shaking his head like a dog. “Just banged my bleeding head, didn’t I? Bloody effing bullets! I thought Scot said things were getting bleeding better with the bleeding Shah gone and Khomeini bleeding back. Better? Now they’re bleeding firing at us! They’ve never done that before - what the eff’s going on?” “How the hell do I know? Probably just a trigger-happy nutter. Sit tight, I’m going to take a quick look. If the undercart’s okay we’ll set down and you and Rod can make a check.”

“How’s the effing oil pressure?” Jordon shouted.

“In the Green.” Lochart settled back, automatically scanning the dials, the clearing, the sky, left, right, overhead, and below. They were descending nicely, two hundred feet to go. Through his headset he heard Gavallan humming tonelessly. “You did very well, Scot.”

“The hell I did,” the younger man said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I’d’ve pranged. I was bloody paralyzed when the bullets hit, and if it hadn’t been for you I’d’ve gone in.”

“Most of it was my fault. I bashed the collective without warning. Sorry about that but I had to get us out of the bastard’s line of fire fast. I learned that in Malaya.” Lochart had spent a year there with the British Forces in their war against Communist insurgents. “No time to warn you. Set down as fast as you can.” He watched approvingly as Gavallan went into a hover, searching the terrain carefully.

“Did you see who fired at us, Tom?”

“No, but then I wasn’t looking for hostiles. Where you going to land?” “Over there, well away from the fallen tree. Okay?”

“Looks fine to me. Quick as you can. Hold her off about a foot.” The hover was perfect. A few inches above the snow, as steady as the rocks below though the wind was gusting. Lochart opened the door. The sudden cold chilled him. He zipped up his padded flight jacket, slid out carefully, keeping bis head well down from the whirling blades.

The front of the skid was scraped and badly dented and a little twisted but the rivets holding it to the undercarriage mounts were firm. Quickly he checked the other side, rechecked the damaged skid, then gave the thumbs-up. Gavallan eased off the throttle a hair and set her down, soft as thistledown.

At once the three men in the back piled out. JeanLuc Sessonne, the French pilot, ducked out of the way to let the two mechanics begin their inspection, one port, the other starboard, working back from nose to tail. The wind from the rotors tore at their clothes, whipping them. Lochart was under the helicopter now looking for oil or gasoline seepage but he could find none, so he got up and followed Rodrigues. The man was American and very good - his own mechanic who, for a year now, had serviced the 212 he normally flew. Rodrigues undipped an inspection panel and peered inside, his gray-flecked hair and clothes tugged by the airflow.

S-G safety standards were the highest of all Iranian helicopter operators, so the maze of cables, pipes, and fuel lines was neat, clean, and optimum. But suddenly Rodrigues pointed. There was a deep score on the crankcase where a bullet had ricocheted. Carefully they backtracked the line of the bullet. Again he pointed into the maze, this time using a flash. One of the oil lines was nicked. When he brought out his hand it was oil heavy. “Shit,” he said.

“Shut her down, Rod?” Lochart shouted.

“Hell no, there may be more of those trigger-happy bastards around, an’ this’s no place to spend the night.” Rodrigues pulled out a piece of waste and a spanner. “You check aft, Tom.”

Lochart left him to it, uneasily looked around for possible shelter in case they had to overnight. Over the other side of the clearing, JeanLuc was casually peeing against a fallen tree, a cigarette in his mouth. “Don’t get frostbite, JeanLuc!” he called out and saw him wave the stream good-naturedly.

“Hey, Tom.”

It was Jordon beckoning. At once he ducked under the tail boom to join the mechanic. His heart skipped a beat. Jordon also had an inspection panel off. There were two bullet holes in the fuselage, just over the tanks. Jesus, just a split second later and the tanks would have blown, he thought. If I hadn’t shoved the collective down we’d all’ve bought it. Absolutely. But for that we’d be sprayed over the mountainside. And for what? Jordon tugged him and pointed again, following the line of the bullets. There was another score on the rotor column. “How the effer missed the effing blades I’m effed if I know,” he shouted, the red wool hat that he always wore pulled down over his ears.

“It wasn’t our time.”

“Wot?”

“Nothing. Have you found anything else?”

“Not effing yet. You all right, Tom?”

“Sure.”

A sudden crash and they all whirled in fright, but it was only a huge tree limb, overloaded with snow, tumbling earthward.

“Espčce de con,” JeanLuc said and peered up into the sky, very conscious of the falling light, then shrugged to himself, lit another cigarette, and wandered off, stamping his feet against the cold.

Jordon found nothing else amiss on his side. The minutes ticked by. Rodrigues was still muttering and cursing, one arm reaching awkwardly into the bowels of the compartment. Behind him the others were huddled in a group, watching, well away from the rotors. It was noisy and uncomfortable, the light good but not for long. They still had twenty miles to go and no guidance systems in these mountains other than the small homer at their base which sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. “Come on, for Christ’s sake,” someone muttered.

Yes, Lochart thought, hiding his disquiet.

At Shiraz the outgoing crew of two pilots and two mechanics they were replacing had hurriedly waved good-bye and rushed for their company 125 - an eight-place, twin-engined private jet airplane for transportation or special freighting - the same jet that had brought them from Dubai’s International Airport across the Gulf and a month’s leave, Lochart and Jordon in England, JeanLuc in France, and Rodrigues from a hunting trip in Kenya. “What the hell’s the hurry?” Lochart had asked as the small twin jet closed its doors and taxied off.

“The airport’s only still partially operational, everyone’s still on strike, but not to worry,” Scot Gavallan had said. “They’ve got to take off before the officious, bloody little burk in the tower who thinks he’s God’s gift to Iranian Air Traffic Control cancels their bloody clearance. We’d better get the lead out too before he starts to sod us around. Get your gear aboard.” “What about Customs?”

“They’re still on strike, old boy. Along with everyone else - banks’re still closed. Never mind, we’ll be normal in a week or so.”

“Merde,” JeanLuc said. “The French papers say Iran is une catastrophe with Khomeini and his mullahs on one side, the armed forces ready to stage a coup any day, the Communists winding everyone up, the government of Bakhtiar powerless, and civil war inevitable.”

“What do they know in France, old boy?” Scot Gavallan had said airily as they loaded their gear. “The Fr - ”

“The French know, mon vieux. All the papers say Khomeini‘11 never cooperate with Bakhtiar because he’s a Shah appointee and anyone connected with the Shah is finished. Finished. That old fire-eater’s said fifty times he won’t work with anyone Shah-appointed.”

Lochart said, “I saw Andy three days ago in Aberdeen, JeanLuc, and he was bullish as hell that Iran‘11 come back to normal soon, now that Khomeini’s back and the Shah gone.”

Scot beamed. “There, you see. If anyone should know it’s the Old Man. How is he, Tom?”

Lochart grinned back at him. “In great shape, his usual ball of fire.” Andy was Andrew Gavallan, Scot’s father, chairman and managing director of S-G. “Andy said Bakhtiar has the army, navy, and air force, the police, and SAVAK, so Khomeini’s got to make a deal somehow. It’s that or civil war.” “Jesus,” Rodrigues said, “what the hell we doing back here anyway?” “It’s the money.”

“Bullmerde!”

They had all laughed, JeanLuc the natural pessimist, then Scot said, “What the hell does it matter, JeanLuc? No one’s ever bothered us here, have they? All through the troubles here no one’s really ever bothered us. All our contracts are with IranOil which’s the government - Bakhtiar, Khomeini or General Whoever. Doesn’t matter whoever’s in power, they’ve got to get back to normal soon - any government’ll need oil dollars desperately, so they’ve got to have choppers, they’ve got to have us. For God’s sake, they’re not fools!”

“No, but Khomeini’s fanatic and doesn’t care about anything except Islam - and oil’s not Islam.”

“What about Saudi? The Emirates, OPEC, for God’s sake? They’re Islamic and they know the price of a barrel. The hell with that, listen!” Scot beamed. “Guerney Aviation have pulled out of all the Zagros Mountains and are cutting all their Iranian ops to zero. To zero!”

This caught the attention of all of them. Guerney Aviation was the huge American helicopter company and their major rival. With Guerney gone, work would be doubled and all expat S-G personnel in Iran were on a bonus system that was tied to Iranian profits.

“You sure, Scot?”

“Sure, Tom. They had a helluva row with IranOil about it. The upshot was that IranOil said, If you want to leave, leave, but all the choppers are on license to us so they stay - and all spares! So Guerney told them to shove it, closed their base at Gash, and put all the choppers in mothballs and left.”

“I don’t believe it,” JeanLuc said. “Guerney must have fifty choppers on contract; even they can’t afford to write off that lot.”

“Even so, we’ve already flown three missions last week which were all Guerney exclusives.”

JeanLuc broke through the cheers. “Why did Guerney pull out, Scot?” “Our Fearless Leader in Tehran thinks they haven’t the bottle, can’t stand the pressure, or don’t want to. Let’s face it, most of Khomeini’s vitriol’s against America and American companies. McIver thinks they’re cutting their losses and that’s great for us.”

“Madonna, if they can’t take out their planes and spares, they’re in dead trouble.”

“Ours not to reason why, old boy, ours just to do and fly. So long as we sit tight we’ll get all their contracts and more than double our pay this year alone.”

“Tu en paries mon cul, ma tete est malade!”

They had all laughed. Even Jordon knew what that meant: speak to my backside, my head is sick. “Not to worry, old chap,” Scot said. Confidently, Lochart nodded to himself, the cold on the mountainside not hurting him yet. Andy and Scot’re right, everything’s going to be normal soon, has to be, he thought. The newspapers in England were equally confident the Iranian situation’d normalize itself quickly now. Provided the Soviets didn’t make an overt move. And they had been warned. It was hands off, Americans and Soviets, so now Iranians can settle their affairs in their own way. It’s right that whoever’s in power needs stability urgently, and revenue - and that means oil. Yes. Everything’s going to be all right. She believes it and if she believed everything would be wonderful once the Shah was overthrown and Khomeini back, why shouldn’t I?

Ah, Sharazad, how I’ve missed you.

It had been impossible to phone her from England. Phones in Iran had never been particularly good, given the massive overload of too-fast industrialization. But in the past eight months since the troubles began, the almost constant telecommunication strikes had made internal and external communication worse and worse and now it was almost nonexistent. When Lochart was at Aberdeen HQ for his biannual medical he had managed to send her a telex after eight hours of trying. He had sent it care of Duncan McIver in Tehran where she was now. You can’t say much in a telex except see you soon, miss you, love.

Not long now, my darling, and th - “Tom?”

“Oh, hi, JeanLuc? What?”

“It’s going to snow soon.”

“Yes.”

JeanLuc was thin-faced, with a big Gallic nose and brown eyes, spare like all the pilots who had serious medicals every six months with no excuses for overweight. “Who fired at us, Tom?”

Lochart shrugged. “I saw no one. Did you?”

“No. I hope it was just one crazy.” JeanLuc’s eyes bored into nun. “For a moment I thought I was back in Algiers, these mountains are not so different, back in the air force fighting the fel-lagha and the FLN, may God curse them forever.” He ground the cigarette stub out with his heel. “I’ve been in one civil war and hated it. At least then I had bombs and guns. I don’t want to be a civilian caught in another with nothing to rely on except how fast I can run.”

“It was just a lone crazy.”

“I think we’re going to have to deal with a lot of crazies, Tom. Ever since I left France I’ve had a bad feeling. It’s worse since I got back. We’ve been to war, you and I, most of the others haven’t. We’ve a nose, you and I, and we’re hi for bad trouble.”

“No, you’re just tired.”

“Yes, that’s true. Andy was really bullish?”

“Very. He sends his best and said to keep it up!”

JeanLuc laughed and stifled a yawn. “Madonna, I’m starving. What’s Scot planned for our homecoming?”

“He’s got a WELCOME HOME sign up over the hangar.”

“For dinner, mon vieux. Dinner.”

“Scot said he and some villagers went hunting so he’s got a haunch of venison and a couple of hares ready for your tender mercies - and the barbecue’ll be all set to go.”

JeanLuc’s eyes lit up. “Good. Listen, I’ve brought Brie, garlic, a whole kilo, smoked ham, anchovies, onions, also a few kilos of pasta, cans of tomato puree, and my wife gave me a new amatriciana recipe from Gianni of St. Jean that is merely incredible. And the wine.”

Lochart felt his juices quicken. JeanLuc’s hobby was cooking and he was inspired when he wanted to be. “I brought cans of everything I could think of from Fortnums and some whisky. Hey, I’ve missed your cooking.” And your company, he thought. When they had met at Dubai they had shaken hands and he had asked, “How was leave?”

“I was in France,” JeanLuc had said grandly.

Lochart had envied him his simplicity. England had not been good, the weather, food, leave, the kids, her, Christmas - much as he had tried. Never mind. I’m back and soon I’ll be in Tehran. “You’ll cook tonight, JeanLuc?” “Of course. How can I live without proper food?”

Lochart laughed. “Like the rest of the world.” They watched Rodrigues still working hard. The sound of the jets was muted, the rotors whipping him. Lochart gave a thumbs-up to Scot Gavallan waiting patiently in the cockpit. Scot returned the signal, then pointed at the sky. Lochart nodded, shrugged, then put his attention back on Rodrigues, knowing there was nothing he could do to help but wait stoically.

“When do you go to Tehran?” JeanLuc asked.

Lochart’s heart quickened. “Sunday, if it doesn’t snow. I’ve a report for McIver and mail for them there. I’ll take a 206; it’ll take all tomorrow to check everything. Scot said we’re to stand by to start up full operations.” JeanLuc stared at him. “Nasiri said full ops?”

“Yes.” Nasiri was their Iranian liaison and base manager, an employee of IranOil - the government monopoly that owned all oil above and below the ground - that channeled and authorized all their flights. S-G worked under contract to this company, surveying, supplying personnel, supplies, and equipment to the oil rigs that were scattered over the mountain range, and dealing with the inevitable CASEVACs - casualty evacuations - accidents and emergencies. “I doubt if we’ll be doing much flying over the next week because of the weather, but I should be able to get out in the 206.” “Yes. You will need a guide. I will come too.”

Lochart laughed. “No way, old friend. You’re next in command and on duty for the next two weeks.”

“But I will not be needed. For three days, eh? Look at the sky, Tom. I must see that our apartment is all right.” In normal times Tehran was where all pilots with families would be based, who would fly two weeks on, one week off. Many pilots opted for two months on and one month off on leave at home, particularly the English. “It’s very important I get to Tehran.” “I’ll check out your apartment if you like, and if you promise to cook three nights a week, I’ll sneak you two days when I get back. You’ve just had a month’s leave.”

“Ah, but that was at home. Now I must think of mon amie. Of course she is desolate without me in Tehran, it’s been a whole month for her without me. Of course.” JeanLuc was watching Rodrigues. Then again he looked at the sky. “We can wait ten minutes more, Tom, then we should prepare a camp while there is light.”

“Yes.”

“But back to more important things. Tom, w - ”

“No.”

“Madonna, be French and not Anglo-Saxon. A whole month, consider her feelings!”

Rodrigues clipped the panel back in place and wiped his hands. “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he called out and climbed aboard. They followed quickly. He was still fastening his seat belt, his back and head and neck aching, when they were airborne and scudding for their base over the next range. Then he saw Jordon staring at him. “What’s with you, Effer?” “How’d you fix that effing pipe, sport? She was effing holed to bust.” “Gum.”

“Wot?”

“Chewing gum. Sure, goddamnit. It worked in goddamn Vietnam, so it’ll goddamn work here. Maybe. Because it was only a goddamn little bit but it was all I got so start goddamn praying. Can’t you stop cursing for crissake?”

They landed safely at their base, snow just beginning. The ground staff had switched on the landing lights, just in case.

Their base consisted of four trailer huts, a cookhouse, hangar for the 212 - a fourteen-place passenger transport, or freight helicopter - and two 206s and landing pads. Storage sheds for oil-drilling spares, sacks of cement, pumps, generators, and all manner of support equipment for the rigs, along with drilling pipe. It was on a small plateau at seventy-five hundred feet, wooded and very picturesque, in a bowl half surrounded by snowcapped peaks that soared to twelve thousand feet and more. Half a mile away was the village of Yazdek. The villagers were from a minor tribe of nomad Kash’kai who had settled here a century ago around this crossroads of two of the minor caravan routes that had crisscrossed Iran for three, perhaps four thousand years.

S-G had had a base here for seven years under contract to IranOil, first to survey a pipeline and make topographical maps of the area, then to help build and service the rigs of the rich oil fields nearby. It was a lonely, wild, and beautiful place, the flying interesting and good, the hours easy - throughout Iran only daylight flying allowed by Iranian regulations. Summers were wonderful. Most of the winter they were snowed in. Close by were crystal lakes with good fishing, and in the forests game was plentiful. Their relations with the villagers of Yazdek were excellent. Apart from mail they were well supplied, usually, and wanted for nothing. And, important for all of them, they were well away from HQ in Tehran, out of radio contact most of the time, and left happily to their own devices.

The moment the rotors had stopped and the airplane shut down, Rodrigues and Jordon undipped the panel again. They were aghast. The floor of the compartment was awash with oil. With it was the heavy smell of gasoline. Shakily Rodrigues searched, then pointed the flash. In one of the seams at the edge of a gasoline tank was a tiny rupture they could not possibly have detected on the mountainside. A thin stream of fuel came out to mix with the oil below.

“Jesus, Effer! Lookit, she’s a goddamn time bomb,” he croaked. Behind him, Jordon almost fainted. “One spark and… Effer, get me a hose for crissake, I’ll flood her out now before we go sky-high….”

“I’ll get it,” Scot said, then added queasily. “Well, I guess that’s one of our lives gone. Eight more to go.”

“You musta been born lucky, Captain,” Rodrigues said, feeling very sick. “Yeah, you must’ve been born lucky. This baby…” He stopped abruptly, listening. So did everyone nearby - Lochart and JeanLuc, near the HQ hut with Nasiri, the half-dozen Iranian ground staff, cooks, and laborers. It was very quiet. Then again came a burst of machine-gun fire from the direction of the village.

“Goddamn!” Rodrigues muttered. “What the hell’d we come back to this lousy dump for?”

Chapter 2

ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND - McCLOUD HELIPORT: 5:15 P.M. The great helicopter came down out of the gloaming, blades thrashing, and landed near the Rolls that was parked near one of the rainswept helipads - the whole heliport busy, other helicopters arriving or leaving with shifts of oil riggers, personnel, and supplies, all airplanes and hangars proudly displaying the S-G symbol. The cabin door opened and two men wearing flight overalls and Mae Wests came down the hydraulic steps, leaning against the wind and the rain. Before they reached the car the uniformed chauffeur had opened the door for them. “Smashing ride, wasn’t it?” Andrew Gavallan said happily, a tall man, strong and very trim for his sixty-four years. He slipped out of his Mae West easily, shook the rain from his collar and got in beside the other man. “She’s marvelous, everything the makers claim. Did I tell you we’re the first outsiders to test-fly her?”

“First or last, makes no difference to me. I thought it was bloody bumpy and bloody noisy,” Linbar Struan said irritably, fighting off the Mae West. He was fifty, sandy-haired, and blue-eyed, head of Struan’s, the vast conglomerate based in Hong Kong, nicknamed the Noble House, that secretly owned the controlling interest in S-G Helicopters. “I still think the investment is too much per aircraft. Much too much.”

“The X63’s as good a bet economically as you can get; she’ll be perfect for the North Sea, Iran, and anywhere we have heavy loads, particularly Iran,” Gavallan said patiently, not wanting his hatred of Linbar to spoil what had been a perfect test ride. “I’ve ordered six.”

“I haven’t approved the buy yet!” Linbar flared at him.

“Your approval isn’t necessary,” Gavallan said and his brown eyes hardened. “I’m a member of Struan’s Inner Office; you and the Inner Office approved the buy last year, subject to the test ride, if I recommended it an - ” “You haven’t recommended it yet!”

“I am now so that’s the end to it!” Gavallan smiled sweetly and settled back in the seat. “You’ll have contracts at the board meeting in three weeks.” “There’s never an end to it, Andrew, you and your bloody ambition, is there?”

“I’m not a threat to you, Linbar, let’s l - ”

“I agree!” Angrily Linbar picked up the intercom to speak to the driver on the other side of the soundproofed glass partition. “John, drop Mr. Gavallan at the office, then head for Castle Avisyard.” At once the car moved off for the three-story office block the other side of a group of hangars. “How is Avisyard?” Gavallan asked strangely.

“Better than in your day - so sorry you and Maureen weren’t invited for Christmas, perhaps next year.” Linbar’s lips curled. “Yes, Avisyard is much better.” He glanced out the window and jerked a thumb at the jumbo helicopter. “And better you don’t fail with that. Or anything else.” Gavallan’s face tightened; the jibe about his wife had slipped under his constant guard. “Talking about failure, what about your disastrous South American investments, your stupid fracas with Toda Shipping over their tanker fleet, what about losing the Hong Kong tunnel contract to Par-Con/Toda, what about betraying our old friends in Hong Kong with your stock manipul - ”

“Betray, bullshit! ‘Old friends,’ bullshit! They’re all over twenty-one and what’ve they done for us recently? Shanghainese are supposed to be smarter than us - Cantonese, mainlanders, all of them, you’ve said it a million times! Not my fault there’s an oil crisis or the world’s in turmoil or Iran’s up the spout or the Arabs are nailing us to the cross along with the Japs, Koreans, and Taiwanese!” Linbar was suddenly choked with rage. “You forget we’re in a different world now, Hong Kong’s different, the world’s different! I’m tai-pan of Struan’s, I’m committed to look after the Noble House, and every tai-pan has had reverses, even your God cursed Sir bloody Ian Dunross, and he’ll have more with his delusions of oil riches China. Ev - ”

“Ian’s right ab - ”

“Even Hag Struan had reverses, even our bloody founder, the great Dirk himself, may he rot in hell too! Not my fault the world’s sodded up. You think you can do better?” Linbar shouted.

“Twenty times!” Gavallan slammed back.

Now Linbar was shaking with rage. “I’d fire you if I could but I can’t! I’ve had you and your treachery, you tired, old, out-of-date burk. You married into the family, you’re not a real part of it, and if there’s a God in heaven you’ll destroy yourself! I’m tai-pan and by God you’ll never be!” Gavallan hammered on the glass partition and the car stopped abruptly. He tore the door open and got out. “Dew neh loh moh, Linbar!” he said through his teeth and stormed off into the rain.

Their hatred stemmed from the late fifties and early sixties when Gavallan was working in Hong Kong for Struan’s, prior to coming here at the secret order of the then tai-pan, Ian Dunross, the brother of Gavallan’s late wife, Kathy. Linbar had been frantically jealous of him because he had had Dunross’s confidence while Linbar had not, and mostly because Gavallan had always been in the running to succeed as tai-pan one day, whereas Linbar was considered to have no chance.

It was Struan’s ancient company law for the tai-pan to have total, undisputed executive power, and the inviolate right to choose the timing of his own retirement and successor - who had to be a member of the Inner Office and therefore in some way, family - but once the decision was made, to relinquish all power. Ian Dunross had ruled wisely for ten years then had chosen a cousin, David MacStruan to succeed him. Four years ago, in his prime, David MacStruan - an enthusiastic mountaineer - had been killed in a climbing accident in the Himalayas. Just before he died and in front of two witnesses he had, astonishingly, chosen Linbar to succeed him. There had been police inquiries into his death - British and Nepalese. His ropes and climbing gear had been tampered with.

The inquiries finalized with “accident.” The mountain face they had been climbing was remote, the fall sudden, no one knew exactly what had happened, neither climbers nor guides, conditions were only fair, and, yes, the sahib was in good heath and a wise man, never one to take a foolish risk, “But, sahib, our mountains in the High Lands are different from other mountains. Our mountains have spirits and get angry from time to time, sahib, and who can foretell what a spirit may do?” No finger was pointed at any one man, the rope and gear “might” not have been tampered with, just badly serviced. Karma.

Apart from Nepalese guides all twelve climbers in the party were men from Hong Kong, friends and business associates, British, Chinese, one American, and two Japanese, Hiro Toda, head of Toda Shipping Industries-a longtime personal friend of David MacStruan’s - and one of his associates, Nobunaga Mori. Linbar was not among them.

At great personal risk two men and a guide climbed down the fault and reached David MacStruan before he died, Paul Choy, an enormously wealthy director of Struan’s, and Mori. Both testified that, just before he died, David MacStruan had formally made Linbar Struan his successor. Shortly after the distraught party had returned to Hong Kong, MacStruan’s executive secretary going through his desk had found a simple typewritten page signed by him, dated a few months before, witnessed by Paul Choy, that confirmed it.

Gavallan remembered how shocked he had been, they all had - Claudia Chen, who had been executive secretary to the tai-pan for generations, cousin to his own executive secretary, Liz Chen, most of all. “It wasn’t like the tai-pan, Master Andrew,” she had told him - an old lady but still sharp as a needle. “The taipan would never have left such an important piece of paper here, he would have put it in the safe in the Great House along with… with all the other private documents.”

But David MacStruan had not. And the dying command and the supporting paper had made it legal and now Linbar Struan was taipan of the Noble House and that was the end of it but dew neh loh moh on Linbar even so, his foul wife, his devil Chinese mistress, and his rotten friends. I’ll still bet my life if David wasn’t murdered, he was manipulated somehow. But why should Paul Choy lie, or Mori, why should they - they’ve nothing to gain by that…. A sudden rain squall battered him and he gasped momentarily, brought out of his reverie. His heart was still pumping and he cursed himself for losing his temper and letting Linbar say what should not have been said. “You’re a bloody fool, you could have contained him like always, you’ve got to work with him and his ilk for years - you were also to blame!” he said aloud, then muttered, “Bastard shouldn’t’ve jibed about Maureen…” They had been married for three years and had a daughter of two. His first wife, Kathy, had died nine years ago of multiple sclerosis.

Poor old Kathy, he thought sadly, what bad luck you had.

He squinted against the rain and saw the Rolls turn out of the heliport gate and vanish. Damn shame about Avisyard, I love that place, he thought, remembering all the good times and the bad that he had lived there with his Kathy and their two children, Scot and Melinda. Castle Avisyard was the ancestral estate of Dirk Struan, left by him to succeeding taipans during their tenure. It was rambling and beautiful, more than a thousand hectares in Ayrshire. Shame we’ll never go there, Maureen and I and little Electra, certainly as long as Linbar’s taipan. Pity, but that’s life. “Well, the sod can’t last forever,” he said to the wind and felt all the better for the saying of it aloud. Then he strode into the building and into his office.

“Hi, Liz,” he said. Liz Chen was a good-looking Eurasian woman in her fifties who had come with him from Hong Kong in ‘63 and knew all the secrets of Gavallan Holdings-his original cover operation - S-G, and Struan’s. “What’s new?”

“You had a row with the taipan, never mind.” She offered him the cup of tea, her voice lilting.

“Dammit, yes. How the hell did you know?” When she just laughed he laughed with her. “The hell with him. Have you got through to Mac yet?” This was Duncan McIver, head of S-G’s Iran operations and his oldest friend. “We’ve a laddie dialing from dawn to dusk but the Iran circuits are still busy. Telex isn’t answering either. Duncan must be just as anxious as you to talk.” She took his coat and hung it on the peg in his office. “Your wife called - she’s picking up Electra from nursery school and wanted to know if you’d be home for dinner. I told her I thought yes but it might be late - you’ve the conference call with ExTex in half an hour.”

“Yes.” Gavallan sat down behind his desk and made sure the file was ready. “Check if the telex to Mac’s working yet, would you, Liz?” At once she began to dial. His office was large and tidy, looking out on the airfield. On the clean desk there were some framed family photographs of Kathy with Melinda and Scot, when they were small, the great Castle Avisyard behind them, and another of Maureen holding up their baby. Nice faces, smiling faces. Just one oil painting on the wall by Aristotle Quance of a corpulent Chinese mandarin - a gift from Ian Dunross to celebrate their first successful landing on a North Sea rig that McIver had done, and the start of an era.

“Andy,” Dunross had said, beginning it all, “I want you to take Kathy and the kids and leave Hong Kong and go home to Scotland. I want you to pretend to resign from Struan’s - of course you’ll still be a member of the Inner Office but that’ll be secret for the time being. I want you to go to Aberdeen and quietly buy the best property, wharfs, factory areas, a small airfield, potential heliports - Aberdeen’s still a backwater so you can get the best cheaply. This’s a secret operation, just between us. A few days ago I met a strange fellow, a seismologist called Kirk who convinced me the North Sea’s over an enormous oil field. I want the Noble House to be ready to supply the rigs when they’re developed.”

“My God, Ian, how could we do that? The North Sea? Even if there’s oil there, which sounds impossible, those seas are the worst in the world for most of the year. Wouldn’t be possible, all the year round - and anyway the expense’d be prohibitive! How could we do it?”

“That’s your problem, laddie.”

Gavallan remembered the laugh and the brimming confidence and, as always, he was warmed. So he had left Hong Kong, Kathy delighted to leave, and he had done everything asked of him.

Almost at once, like a miracle, North Sea oil began to blossom and the major U.S. companies - headed by ExTex, the enormous Texas oil conglomerate, and BP, British Petroleum - rushed in with huge investments. He had been superbly positioned to take advantage of the new El Dorado and the first to recognize that the only efficient way to service the vast discoveries in those violent waters was by helicopter, the first - with Dunross’s power - to raise the massive funds needed for helicopter leasing, the first to shove major helicopter manufacturers into size, safety, instrumentation, and performance standards undreamed of, and the first to prove that all-weather flying in those foul seas was practical. Duncan McIver had done that for him, the flying and developing the necessary techniques quite unknown then. The North Sea had led to the Gulf, Iran, Malaysia, Nigeria, Uruguay, South Africa - Iran the jewel in his crown, with its enormous potential, vastly profitable, with the very best connections into the ultimate seat of power, the Court, that his Iranian partners had assured him would be equally powerful enough, even though the Shah had been deposed. “Andy,” General Java-dab, the senior partner, stationed in London, had told him yesterday, “there’s nothing to worry about. One of our partners is related to Bakhtiar and, just in case, we’ve the highest level of contracts with Khomeini’s inner circle. Of course, the new era will be more expensive than before….” Gavallan smiled. Never mind the added expense and that each year the partners become a little more greedy, there’s still more than enough left over to keep Iran as our flagship - just so long as she gets back to normal quickly. Ian’s gamble paid off a thousandfold for the Noble House - pity he resigned when he did, but then he’d carried Struan’s for ten years. That’d be enough for any man - even me. Linbar’s right that I want that slot. If I don’t get it, by God, Scot will. Meanwhile, onward and upward, the X63s’ll put us way out ahead of Imperial and Guerney and make us one of the biggest helicopter-leasing companies in the world. “In a couple of years, Liz, we’ll be the biggest,” he said with total confidence. “The X63’s a smash! Mac’ll be fractured when I tell him.”

“Yes,” she said and put down the phone. “Sorry, Andy, the circuits are still busy. They’ll let us know the very moment. Did you tell the taipan the rest of the good news?”

“It wasn’t exactly a perfect moment, never mind.” They laughed together. “I’ll reserve that for the board meeting.” An old ship’s clock on a bureau began to chime six o’clock. Gavallan reached over and switched on the multiband radio that was on the filing cabinet behind him. Sound of Big Ben tolling the hour….

TEHRAN - MCIVER’S APARTMENT: Last of the chimes dying away, radio reception minimal, heavy with static. “This is the BBC World Service, the time is 1700 Greenwich Mean Time…” 5:00 P.M. London time was 8:30 P.M. local Iranian time.

The two men automatically checked their watches. The woman just sipped her vodka martini. The three of them were huddled around the big shortwave battery radio, the broadcast signal faint and heterodyning badly. Outside the apartment the night was dark. There was a distant burst of gunfire. They took no notice. She sipped again, waiting. Inside the apartment it was cold, the central heating cut off weeks ago. Their only source of warmth now was a small electric fire that, like the dimmed electric lights, was down to half power.

“… at 1930 GMT there will be a special report on Iran ‘From Our Own Correspondent’…”

“Good,” she muttered and they all nodded. She was fifty-one, young for her age, attractive, blue-eyed and fair-haired, trim, and she wore dark-rimmed glasses. Genevere McIver, Genny for short.

“… but first a summary of the world news: in Britain nineteen thousand workers again struck the Birmingham plant of British Leyland, the country’s largest automobile manufacturer, for higher pay: union negotiators representing public-service workers reached an agreement for pay increases of 16 percent though Prime Minister Callaghan’s Labour Government wants to maintain 8.8 percent: Queen Elizabeth will fly to Kuwait on Monday to begin a three-week visit of the Persian Gulf states: in Washington, Pres - ” The transmission faded completely. The taller man cursed. “Be patient, Charlie,” she said gently. “It’ll come back.” “Yes, Genny, you’re right,” Charlie Pettikin answered. Another burst of machine-gun fire in the distance.

“A bit dicey sending the queen to Kuwait now, isn’t it?” Genny said. Kuwait was an immensely wealthy oil sheikdom just across the Gulf, flanking Saudi Arabia and Iraq. “Pretty stupid at a time like this, isn’t it?” “Bloody stupid. Bloody government’s got its head all the way up,” Duncan McIver, her husband, said. “All the bloody way to Aberdeen.” She laughed. “That’s a pretty long way, Duncan.”

“Not far enough for me, Gen!” McIver was a heavyset man of fifty-eight, built like a boxer, with grizzled gray hair. “Callaghan’s a bloody twit and th - ” He stopped, hearing faint rumbles of a heavy vehicle going past in the street below. The apartment was on the top floor, the fifth, of the modern residential building in the northern suburbs of Tehran. Another vehicle passed.

“Sounds like more tanks,” she said.

“They are tanks, Genny,” Charlie Pettikin said. He was fifty-six, ex-RAF, originally from South Africa, his hair dark and gray-flecked, senior pilot, Iran, and chief of S-G’s Iranian Army and Air Force helicopter training program.

“Perhaps we’re in for another bad one,” she said.

For weeks now every day had been bad. First it was martial law in September when public gatherings had been banned and a 9:00 P.M. to 5:00 A.M. curfew imposed by the Shah had only further inflamed the people. Particularly in the capital Tehran, the oil port of Abadan, and the religious cities of Qom and Meshed. There had been much killing. Then the violence had escalated, the Shah vacillating, then abruptly canceling martial law in the last days of December and appointing Bakhtiar, a moderate, prime minister, making concessions, and then, incredibly, on January 16 leaving Iran for “a holiday.” Then Bakhtiar forming his government and Khomeini - still in exile in France - decrying it and anyone who supported it. Riots increasing, the death toll increasing. Bakhtiar trying to negotiate with Khomeini, who refused to see him or talk to him, the people restive, the army restive, then closing all airports against Khomeini, then opening them to him. Then, equally incredibly, eight days ago on February 1, Khomeini returning. Since then the days have been very bad, she thought.

That dawn she, her husband, and Pettikin had been at Tehran’s International Airport. It was a Thursday, very cold but crisp with patches of snow here and there, the wind light. To the north the Elburz Mountains were white-capped, the rising sun blooding the snow. The three of them had been beside the 212 that was standing on the airport apron, well away from the tarmac in front of the terminal. Another 212 was on the other side of the airfield, also ready for instant takeoff - both ordered here by Khomeini’s supporters. This side of the terminal was deserted, except for twenty or so nervous airport officials, most of whom carried submachine guns, waiting near a big black Mercedes and a radio car that was tuned to the tower. It was quiet here - in violent contrast to the inside of the terminal and outside the perimeter fence. Inside the terminal building was a welcoming committee of about a thousand specially invited politicians, ayatollahs, mullahs, newsmen, and hundreds of uniformed police and special Islamic Guards with green armbands - nicknamed Green Bands - the mullahs’ illegal revolutionary private army. Everyone else had been kept away from the airport, all access roads blocked, guarded, and barricaded. But just the other side of these barricades were tens of thousands of anxious people of all ages. Most women wore the chador, the long, shroudlike robe that covered them from head to foot. Beyond these people, lining the ten-mile route, all the way to Behesht-Zahra Cemetery where the Ayatollah was to make his first speech, were five thousand armed police, and around them, crammed together on balconies, in windows, on walls, and in the streets was the biggest gathering of people Iran had ever known, a sea of people-most of Tehran’s population. Nearly five million lived in and around the city. All anxious, all nervous, all afraid that there would be a last-moment delay or that perhaps the airport would be closed once more against him or that perhaps the air force would shoot him down - with or without orders. Prime Minister Shahpur Bakhtiar, his cabinet, and the generals of all the armed services were not at the airport. By choice. Nor were there any of their officers or soldiers. These men waited in their barracks or airfields or ships - all equally anxious and impatient to move.

“I wish you’d stayed at home, Gen,” McIver had said uneasily. “I wish we’d all stayed at home,” Pettikin said, equally ill at ease. A week before, McIver had been approached by one of Khomeini’s supporters to supply the helicopter to take Khomeini from the airport to Behesht-Zahra. “Sorry, that’s not possible, I haven’t the authority to do that,” he had said, aghast. Within an hour the man was back with Green Bands, McIver’s office and the outer offices jammed with them, young, tough, angry-looking men, two with Soviet AK47 automatic rifles over their shoulders, one with a U.S. M16.

“You will supply the helicopter as I have said,” the man told him arrogantly. “In case crowd control becomes too difficult. Of course all Tehran will be there to greet the Ayatollah, the Blessings of God be upon him.”

“Much as I would like to do that, I can’t,” McIver had told him carefully, trying to buy time. He was in an untenable position. Khomeini was being allowed to return, but that was all; if the Bakhtiar government knew that S-G was supplying their archenemy with a chopper for a triumphal entry into their capital, they would be very irritated indeed. And even if the government agreed, if anything went wrong, if the Ayatollah was hurt, S-G would be blamed and their lives not worm a bent farthing. “All our aircraft are leased and I don’t have the necessary authority to g-” “I give you the necessary authority on behalf of the Ayatollah,” the man had said angrily, his voice rising. “The Ayatollah is the only authority in Iran.”

“Then it should be easy for you to get an Iranian Army or Air Force helicopter t - ”

“Quiet! You have had the honor to be asked. You will do as you are told. In the Name of Allah, the komiteh has decided you will supply a 212 with your best pilots to take the Ayatollah to where we say, when we say, as we say.” This was the first time McIver had been confronted by one of the komitehs - small groups of young fundamentalists - that had appeared, seemingly miraculously, the moment the Shah had left Iran, in every village, hamlet, town, and city to seize power, attacking police stations, leading mobs into the streets, taking control wherever they could. Most times a mullah led them. But not always. In the Abadan oil fields the komitehs were said to be left-wing fedayeen - literally “those who are prepared to sacrifice themselves.”

“You will obey!” The man shook a revolver in his face.

“I’m certainly honored by your confidence,” McIver had said, the men crowding him, the heavy smell of sweat and unwashed clothes surrounding him. “I will ask the government for perm - ”

“The Bakhtiar government is illegal and not acceptable to the People,” the man had bellowed. At once the others took up the shout and the mood became ugly. One man unslung his automatic rifle. “You will agree or the komiteh will take further action.”

McIver had telexed Andrew Gavallan in Aberdeen, who gave immediate approval provided S-G’s Iranian partners approved. The partners could not be found. In desperation McIver contacted the British embassy for advice: “Well, old boy, you can certainly ask the government, formally or informally, but you’ll never get an answer. We’re not even certain they’ll really allow Khomeini to land, or that the air force won’t take matters into their own hands. After all the bloody fellow’s an out-and-out revolutionary, openly calling for insurrection against the legal government that everyone else recognizes - Her Majesty’s Government to boot. Either way, if you’re silly enough to ask, the government will certainly remember you embarrassed them and you’re damned either way.”

Eventually McIver had worked out an acceptable compromise with the komiteh. “After all,” he had pointed out with enormous relief, “it would look very strange if a British aircraft ferried your revered leader into town. Surely it would be better if he was in an Iranian Air Force plane, flown by an Iranian. I’ll certainly have one of ours standing by, two in fact, in case of accidents. With our best pilots. Just call us on the radio, call for a CASEVAC and we’ll respond at once….”

And now he was here, waiting, praying that there was no CASEVAC to which they would have to respond.

The Air France 747 jumbo jet appeared out of the pink haze. For twenty minutes she circled, waiting for clearance to land.

McIver was listening to the tower on the 212’s radio. “Still some problem about security,” he told the other two. “Wait a minute… she’s cleared!” “Here we go,” Pettikin muttered.

They watched her come on to final. The 747 was gleaming white, the French colors sparkling. She inched her way earthward on a perfect approach, then, at the last moment, the pilot put on full power, aborting the landing. “What the hell’s he playing at?” Genny said, her heart fluttering. “Pilot says he wanted to take a closer look,” McIver told her. “I think I would too - just to make sure.” He looked at Pettikin who would fly any CASEVAC call from the komiteh. “I hope to Christ the air force don’t do anything crazy.”

“Look!” Genny said.

The jet came on to final and touched down, smoke belched from the tires, her massive engines roaring into reverse thrust to slow her. At once a Mercedes rushed to intercept her, and as the news spread to those in the terminal, thence to the barricades, thence to the streets, the multitudes went berserk with joy. The chant began: “Allah-u Akbar… Agha uhmad,” God is Great… the Master has returned….

It seemed to take forever for the steps to arrive and the doors to open and the stern-faced, black-turbaned, heavily bearded old man to come down the steps, helped by one of the French stewards. He walked through the hastily assembled honor guard of a few mullahs and the Iran Air France crew, to be surrounded by his top aides and the nervous officials and quickly bundled into the car which headed for the terminal. There he was greeted by bedlam as the cheering, screaming, frenzied guests fought with one another to get near him, to touch him, newspapermen from all the world fighting each other for the best position with their barrage of flash cameras, TV cameras - everyone shouting, Green Bands and police trying to protect him from the crush. Genny could just see him for a moment, a graven statue among the frenzy, then he was swallowed up.

Genny sipped her martini, remembering, her eyes fixed on the radio, trying to will the broadcast to continue, to blot out the memory of that day and Khomeini’s speech at Behesht-Zahra Cemetery, chosen because so many of those massacred on Bloody Friday - martyrs he called them - were buried there. To blot out the TV pictures they had all seen later of the raging sea of bodies surrounding the motorcade as it inched along - all ideas of security gone - tens of thousands of men, women, and young people shouting, struggling, shoving to get closer to him, scrambling all over the Chevy van that he was in, trying to reach him, to touch him, the Ayatollah sitting in the front seat in seeming serenity, occasionally raising his hands at the adulation. People clambering on the hood and on the roof, weeping and shouting, calling to him, fighting to keep others off - impossible for the driver to see, he at times braking hard to shake people off, at others simply accelerating blindly. To blot out the memory of a youth in a rough brown suit who had scrambled onto the hood but could not get a proper grip and slowly rolled off and under the wheels.

Dozens like the youth. Eventually Green Bands had fought their way around and onto the van and called down the helicopter and she remembered the way the helicopter carelessly plummeted down onto the mob that scattered from the blades, bodies everywhere, injured everywhere, then the Ayatollah walking in the center of his pack of Islamic Guards to be helped into the copter, stern-faced, impassive, then the helicopter taking off into the skies to the never-ending torrent of “Allah-uuuuu Akbar… Agha uhmad…” “I need another drink,” she said and got up to hide a shiver. “Can I fix yours, Duncan?”

“Thanks, Gen.”

She went toward the kitchen for some ice. “Charlie?”

“I’m fine, Genny, I’ll get it.”

She stopped as the radio came back strongly: “… China reports that there have been serious border clashes with Vietnam and denounces these attacks as further evidence of Soviet hegemony: In Fran - ” Again the signal vanished, leaving only static.

After a moment Pettikin said, “I had a drink at the club on the way here. There’s a rumor amongst the journalists that Bakhtiar’s readying a showdown. Another was that there’s heavy fighting in Meshed after a mob strung up the chief of police and half a dozen of his men.”

“Terrible,” she said, coming back from the kitchen. “Who’s controlling the mobs, Charlie, really controlling them? Is it the Communists?” Pettikin shrugged. “No one seems to know for certain but the Communist Tudeh’ve got to be stirring it up, outlawed or not. And all the leftists, particularly the mujhadin-al-khalq, who believe in a sort of marriage between the religions of Islam and Marx, Soviet sponsored. The Shah, the U.S., and most Western governments know it’s them, aided and heavily abetted by the Soviets north of the border, so of course all the Iranian press agree. So do our Iranian partners, though they’re scared out of their pants, not knowing which way to jump, trying to support the Shah and Khomeini equally. I wish to God they’d all settle down. Iran’s a great place and I don’t plan to move.”

“What about the press?”

“The foreign press’re mixed. Some of the Americans agree with the Shah as to who is to blame. Others say it’s pure Khomeini, purely religious, and led by him and the mullahs. Then there’re those who blame the left-wing fedayeen, or the hard-core fundamentalist Muslim Brotherhood - there was even one sport, I think he was French, who claimed Yasir Arafat and the PLO’re…” He stopped. The radio came in for a second then went back to emitting static. “It must be sunspots.”

“Enough to make you want to spit blood,” McIver said. Like Pettikin, he was ex-RAF. He had been the first pilot to join S-G, and now as director of Iran operations, he was also managing director of IHC - Iran Helicopter Company - the fifty-fifty joint venture with the obligatory Iranian partners that S-G leased their helicopters to, the company that got their contracts, made their deals, held the money - without whom there would be no Iranian operations. He leaned forward to adjust the tuning, changed his mind. “It’ll come back, Duncan,” Genny said confidently. “I agree Callaghan’s a twit.”

He smiled at her. They had been married thirty years. “You’re not bad, Gen. Not bad at all.”

“For that you can have another whisky.”

“Thanks, but this time put some in with the wat - ”

“ - partment of Energy spokesman says that the new 14 percent OPEC hike will cost the U.S. $51 billion for imported oil next year. Also in Washington, President Carter announced, because of the deteriorating situation in Iran, a carrier force has been ordered to proceed from the Philip - ” The announcer’s voice was drowned by another station, then both faded. In silence they waited, very tense. The two men glanced at each other, trying to hide their shock. Genny walked over to the whisky bottle that was on the sideboard. Also on the sideboard, taking up most of the space, was the HF radio, McIver’s communicator with their helicopter bases all over Iran - conditions permitting. The apartment was big and comfortable, with three bedrooms and two sitting rooms. For the last few months, since martial law and the subsequent escalating street violence, Pettikin had moved in with them - he was single now, divorced a year ago - and this arrangement pleased them all.

A slight wind rattled the windowpanes. Genny glanced outside. There were a few dim lights from the houses opposite, no streetlamps. The low rooftops of the huge city stretched away limitlessly. Snow on them, and on the ground. Most of the five to six million people who lived here lived in squalor. But this area, to the north of Tehran, the best area, where most foreigners and well-to-do Iranians lived, was well policed. Is it wrong to live in the best area if you can afford it? she asked herself. This world’s a very strange place, whichever way you add it up.

She made the drink light, mostly soda, and brought it back. “There’s going to be a civil war. There’s no way we can continue here.”

“We’ll be all right, Gen. Carter won’t let…” Abruptly the lights died and the electric fire went out.

“Bugger,” Genny said. “Thank God we’ve the butane cooker.” “Maybe the power cut’ll be a short one.” McIver helped her light the candles that were already in place. He glanced at the front door. Beside it was a five-gallon can of gasoline - their emergency fuel. He hated the idea of having gasoline in the apartment, they all did, particularly when they had to use candles most evenings. But for weeks now it had taken from five to twenty-four hours of lining up at a gas station and even then the Iranian attendant would more than likely turn you away because you were a foreigner. Many times their car had had its tank drained - locks made no difference. They were luckier than most because they had access to airfield supplies, but for the normal person, particularly a foreigner, the lines made life miserable. Black-market gasoline cost as much as 160 rials a liter - $2 a liter, $8 a gallon, when you could get it. “Mind the iron rations,” he said with a laugh.

“Mac, maybe you should stand a candle on it, just for old times’ sake,” Pettikin said.

“Don’t tempt him, Charlie! You were saying about Carter?” “The trouble is if Carter panics and puts in even a few troops - or planes - to support a military coup, it will blow the top off everything. Everyone’ll scream like a scalded cat, the Soviets most of all, and they’ll have to react and Iran‘11 become the set piece for World War Three.” McIver said, “We’ve been fighting World War Three, Charlie, since ‘45…” A burst of static cut him off, then the announcer came back again. “… for illicit intelligence work: It is reported from Kuwait by the chief of staff of the armed forces that Kuwait has received shipments of arms from the Soviet Union….”

“Christ,” both men muttered.

“… In Beirut, Yasir Arafat, the PLO leader, declared his organization will continue to actively assist the revolution of Ayatollah Khomeini: At a press conference in Washington, President Carter reiterated the U.S. support for Iran’s Bakhtiar government and the ‘constitutional process’: And finally from Iran itself, Ayatollah Khomeini has threatened to arrest Prime Minister Bakhtiar unless he resigns, and has called on the people to ‘destroy the terrible monarchy and its illegal government,’ and on the army ‘to rise up against their foreign-dominated officers and flee their barracks with their weapons.’ Throughout the British Isles exceptionally heavy snow, gales, and floods have disrupted much of the country, closing Heathrow Airport and grounding all aircraft. And that ends the news summary. The next full report will be at 1800, GMT. You’re listening to the World Service of the BBC. And now a report from our international farm correspondent, ‘Poultry and Pigs.’ We begin…”

McIver reached over and snapped it off. “Bloody hell, the whole world’s falling apart and the BBC gives us pigs.”

Genny laughed. “What would you do without the BBC, the telly, and the football pools? Gales and floods.” She picked up the phone on the off chance. It was dead as usual. “Hope the kids are all right.” They had a son and a daughter, Hamish and Sarah, both married now and on their own and two grandchildren, one from each. “Little Karen catches cold so badly and Sarah! Even at twenty-three she needs reminding to dress properly! Will that child never grow up?”

Pettikin said, “It’s rotten not being able to phone when you want.” “Yes. Anyway, it’s time to eat. The market was almost empty today for the third straight day. So it was a choice of roast ancient mutton again with rice, or a special. I chose the special and used the last two cans. I’ve corned beef pie, cauliflower au gratin, and treacle tart, and a surprise hors d’oeuvre” She took a candle and went off to the kitchen and shut the door behind her.

“Wonder why we always get cauliflower au gratin?” McIver watched the candlelight flickering on the kitchen door. “Hate the bloody stuff! I’ve told her fifty times…” The nightscape suddenly caught his attention. He walked over to the window. The city was empty of light because of the power cut. But southeastward now a red glow lit up the sky. “Jaleh, again,” he said simply.

On September 8, five months ago, tens of thousands of people had taken to the streets of Tehran to protest the Shah’s imposition of martial law. There was widespread destruction, particularly in Jaleh - a poor, densely populated suburb - where bonfires were lit and barricades of burning tires set up. When the security forces arrived, the raging, milling crowd shouting “Death to the Shah” refused to disperse. The clash was violent. Tear gas didn’t work. Guns did. Estimates of the death toll ranged from an official 97 to 250 according to some witnesses, to 2,000 to 3,000 by the militant opposition groups.

In the following crackdown to that “Bloody Friday,” a vast number of opposition politicians, dissidents, and hostiles were arrested and detained - later the government admitted 1,106 - along with two ayatollahs, which further inflamed the multitudes.

McIver felt very sad, watching the glow. If it weren’t for the ayatollahs, he thought, particularly Khomeini, none of it would have happened. Years ago when McIver had first come to Iran he had asked a friend in the British embassy what ayatollah meant. “It’s an Arabic word, ayat’Allah, and means ‘Reflection of God.”’

“He’s a priest?”

“Not at all, there are no priests in Islam, the name of their religion - that’s another Arabic word, it means ‘submission,’ submission to the Will of God.”

“What?”

“Well,” his friend had said with a laugh, “I’ll explain but you’ve got to be a little patient. First, Iranians are not Arabs but Aryans, and the vast majority are Shi’ite Muslims, a volatile sometimes mystical breakaway sect. Arabs are mostly orthodox Sunni - they make up most of the world’s billion Muslims - and the sects are somewhat like our Protestants and Catholics and they’ve fought each other just as viciously. But all share the same overarching belief, that there is one God, Allah - the Arabic word for God - that Mohammed, a man of Mecca who lived from A.D. 570 to 632 was His Prophet, and the words of the Koran proclaimed by him and written down by others over many years after his death came directly from God and contain all instruction that is necessary for an individual or society to live by.” “Everything? That’s not possible.”

“For Muslims it is, Mac, today, tomorrow, forever. But ‘ayatollah’ is a title peculiar to Shi’ites and granted by consensus and popular acclaim by the congregation of a mosque - another Arabic word meaning ‘meeting place,’ which is all it is, a meeting place, absolutely not a church - to a mullah who exhibits those characteristics most sought after and admired amongst the Shi’ites: piety, poverty, learning - but only the Holy Books, the Koran and the Sunna - and leadership, with a big emphasis on leadership. In Islam there’s no separation between religion and politics, there can be none, and the Shi’ite mullahs of Iran, since the beginning, have been fanatic guardians of the Koran and Sunna, fanatic leaders and whenever necessary fighting revolutionaries.”

“If an ayatollah or mullah’s not a priest, what is he?”

“Mullah means ‘leader,’ he who leads prayers in a mosque. Anyone can be a mullah, providing he’s a man, and Muslim. Anyone. There’s no clergy in Islam, none, no one between you and God, that’s one of the beauties of it, but not to Shi’ites. Shi’ites believe that, after the Prophet, the earth should be ruled by a charismatic, semidivine infallible leader, the Imam, who acts as an intermediary between the human and the divine - and that’s where the great split came about between Sunni and Shi’ite, and their wars were just as bloody as the Plantagenets. Where Sunnis believe in consensus, Shi’ites would accept the Imam’s authority if he were to exist.” “Then who chooses the man to be Imam?”

“That was the whole problem. When Mohammed died - by the way he never claimed to be anything other than mortal although last of the Prophets-he left neither sons nor a chosen successor, a Caliph. Shi’ites believed leadership should remain with the Prophet’s family and the Caliph could only be Ali, his cousin and son-in-law who had married Fatima, his favorite daughter. But the orthodox Sunnis, following historic tribal custom which applies even today, believed a leader should only be chosen by consensus. They proved to be stronger, so the first three Caliphs were voted in - two were murdered by other Sunnis - then, at long last for the Shi’ites, Ali became Caliph, in their fervent belief the first Imam.”

“They claimed he was semidivine?”

“Divinely guided, Mac. Ali lasted five years, then he was murdered - Shi’ites say martyred. His eldest son became Imam, then was thrust aside by a usurping Sunni. His second son, the revered, twenty-five-year-old Hussain, raised an army against the usurper but was slaughtered - martyred - with all his people, including his brother’s two young sons, his own five-year-old son, and suckling babe. That happened on the tenth day of Muharram, in A.D. 650 by our counting, 61 by theirs, and they still celebrate Hussain’s martyrdom as their most holy day.”

“That’s the day they have the processions and whip themselves, stick hooks into themselves, mortify themselves?”

“Yes, mad from our point of view. Reza Shah outlawed the custom but Shi’ism is a passionate religion, needing outward expressions of penitence and mourning. Martyrdom is deeply embedded in Shi’ites, and in Iran venerated. Also rebellion against usurpers.”

“So the battle is joined, the Faithful against the Shah?” “Oh, yes. Fanatically on both sides. For the Shi’ites, the mullah is the sole interpreting medium which therefore gives him enormous power. He is interpreter, lawgiver, judge, and leader. And the greatest of mullahs are ayatollahs.”

And Khomeini is the Grand Ayatollah, McIver was thinking, staring at the bloody nightscape over Jaleh. He’s it, and like it or not, all the killing, all the bloodshed and suffering and madness, have to be laid at his doorstep, justified or not….

“Mac!”

“Oh, sorry, Charlie,” he said, coming back to himself. “I was miles away. What?” He glanced at the kitchen door. It was still closed. “Don’t you think you should get Genny out of Iran?” Pettikin asked quietly. “It’s getting pretty smelly indeed.”

“She won’t bloody go. I’ve told her fifty times, asked her fifty times, but she’s as obstinate as a bloody mule - like your Claire,” McIver replied as quietly. “She just bloody smiles and says: ‘When you go, I go.’” He finished his whisky, glanced at the door, and hastily poured himself another. Stronger. “Charlie, you talk to her. She’ll listen to y - ” “The hell she will.”

“You’re right. Bloody women. Bloody obstinate. They’re all the bloody same.” They laughed.

After a pause, Pettikin said, “How’s Sharazad?”

McIver thought a moment. “Tom Lochart’s a lucky man.”

“Why didn’t she go back with him on leave and stay in England until Iran settles down?”

“There’s no reason for her to go - she has no family or friends there. She wanted him to see his kids, Christmas and all that. She said she felt she’d stir things up and be in the way if she went along. Deirdre Lochart’s still very pissed off with the divorce, and anyway Sharazad’s family’s here and you know how strong Iranians are on family. She won’t leave until Tom goes and even then I don’t know. And as for Tom, if I tried to post him I think he’d quit. He’ll stay forever. Like you.” He smiled. “Why do you stay?” “Best posting I’ve ever had, when it was normal. Can fly all I want, ski winters, sail summers…. But let’s face it, Mac, Claire always hated it here. For years she spent more time in England than here so she could be near Jason and Beatrice, her own family, and our grandchild. At least the parting of the ways was friendly. Chopper pilots shouldn’t be married anyway, have to move about too much. I’m born expatriate, I’ll die one. Don’t want to go back to Cape Town - hardly know that place anyway - and can’t stand those bloody English winters.” He sipped his beer in the semidarkness. “Insha’Allah,” he said with finality. In God’s hands. The thought pleased him.

Unexpectedly the telephone jangled, startling them. For months now the phone system had been unreliable - for the last few weeks impossible and almost nonexistent, with perpetually crossed lines, wrong numbers, and no dial tones that miraculously cleared for no apparent reason for a day or an hour, to fall back like a shroud again, equally for no reason.

“Five pounds it’s a bill collector,” Pettikin said, smiling at Genny who came out of the kitchen, equally startled at hearing the bell. “That’s no bet, Charlie!” Banks had been on strike and closed for two months in response to Khomeini’s call for a general strike, so no one - individuals, companies, or even the government - had been able to get any cash out and most Iranians used cash and not checks.

McIver picked up the phone not knowing what to expect. Or who. “Hello.” “Good God, the bloody thing’s working,” the voice said. “Duncan, can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I can. Just. Who’s this?”

“Talbot, George Talbot at the British embassy. Sorry, old boy, but the stuff is hitting the fan. Khomeini’s named Mehdi Bazargan prime minister and called for Bakhtiar’s resignation or else. About a million people are in the streets of Tehran right now looking for trouble. We’ve just heard there’s a revolt of airmen at Doshan Tappeh - and Bakhtiar’s said if they don’t quit he’ll order in the Immortals.” The Immortals were crack units of the fanatically pro-Shah Imperial Guards. “Her Majesty’s Government, along with the U.S., Canadian, et al., are advising all nonessential nationals to leave the country at once….”

McIver tried to keep the shock out of his face and mouthed to the others, “Talbot at the embassy.”

“… Yesterday an American of ExTex Oil and an Iranian oil official were ambushed and killed by ‘unidentified gunmen’ in the southwest, near Ahwaz” - McIver’s heart skipped another beat - “… you’re operating down there still, aren’t you?”

“Near there, at Bandar Delam on the coast,” McIver said, no change in his voice.

“How many British nationals do you have here, excluding dependents?” McIver thought for a moment. “Forty-five, out of our present complement of sixty-seven, that’s twenty-six pilots, thirty-six mechanic/engineers, five admin, which’s pretty basic for us.”

“Who’re the others?”

“Four Americans, three German, two French, and one Finn - all pilots. Two American mechanics. But we’ll treat them all as British if necessary.” “Dependents?”

“Four, all wives, no children. We got the rest out three weeks ago. Genny’s still here, one American at Kowiss and two Iranians.”

“You’d better get both the Iranian wives into their embassies tomorrow - with their marriage certificates. They’re in Tehran?”

“One is, one’s in Tabriz.”

“You’d better get them new passports as fast as possible.” By Iranian law all Iranian nationals coming back into the country had to surrender their passports to Immigration at the point of entry, to be held until they wished to leave again. To leave they had to apply in person to the correct government office for an exit permit for which they needed a valid identity card, a satisfactory reason for wanting to go abroad, and, if by air, a valid prepaid ticket for a specific flight. To get this exit permit might take days or weeks. Normally.

“Thank God we don’t have that problem,” McIver said. “We can thank God we’re British,” Talbot went on. “Fortunately we don’t have any squabbles with the Ayatollah, Bakhtiar, or the generals. Still, any foreigners are liable for a lot of flak so we’re formally advising you to send dependents off, lickety-split, and cut the others down to basic - for the time being. The airport’s going to be a mess from tomorrow on - we estimate there are still about five thousand expats, most of them American - but we’ve asked British Airways to cooperate and increase flights for us and our nationals. The bugger of it is that all civilian air traffic controllers are still totally out on strike. Bakhtiar’s ordered in the military controllers and they’re even more punctilious if that’s possible. We’re sure it’s going to be the exodus over again.”

“Oh, God!”

A few weeks ago, after months of escalating threats against foreigners - mostly against Americans because of Khomeini’s constant attacks on American materialism as “the Great Satan” - a rampaging mob went berserk in the industrial city of Isfahan, with its enormous steel complex, petrochemical refinery, ordnance and helicopter factories, and where a large proportion of the fifty thousand-odd American expats and their dependents worked and lived. The mobs burned banks - the Koran forbade lending money for profit - liquor stores - the Koran forbade the drinking of alcohol - and two movie houses - places of “pornography and Western propaganda,” always particular targets for the fundamentalists - then attacked factory installations, peppered the four-story Grumman Aircraft HQ with Molotov cocktails, and burned it to the ground. That precipitated the “exodus.”

Thousands converged on Tehran Airport, mostly dependents, clogging it as would-be passengers scrambled for the few available seats, turning the airport and its lobbies into a disaster area with men, women, and children camping there, afraid to lose their places, barely enough room to stand, patiently waiting, sleeping, pushing, demanding, whining, shouting, or just stoic. No schedules, no priorities, each airplane overbooked twenty times, no computer ticketing, just slowly handwritten by a few sullen officials - most of whom were openly hostile and non-English-speaking. Quickly the airport became foul and the mood ugly.

In desperation some companies chartered their own airplanes to pull out their own people. United States Air Force transports came to take out the military dependents while all embassies tried to play down the extent of the evacuation, not wanting to further embarrass the Shah, their stalwart ally of twenty years. Adding to the chaos were thousands of Iranians, all hoping to flee while there was still time to flee. The unscrupulous and the wealthy jumped the lines. Many an official became rich and then more greedy and richer still. Then the air traffic controllers struck, shutting down the airport completely.

For two days no flights came in or left. The crowds streamed away or stayed. Then some of the controllers went back to work and it began again. Rumors of incoming flights. Rushing to the airport with the kids and the luggage of years, or with no luggage, for a guaranteed seat that never was, back to Tehran again, half a thousand waiting in the taxi rank ahead of you, most taxis on strike - back to the hotel at length, your hotel room long since sold to another, all banks closed so no money to grease the ever-open hands. 41 At length most foreigners who wanted to leave left. Those who stayed to keep the businesses running, the oil fields serviced, airplanes flying, nuclear plants abuilding, chemical plants working, tankers moving - and to protect their gigantic investments - kept a lower profile, particularly if they were American. Khomeini had said, “If the foreigner wants to leave, let him leave; it is American materialism that is the Great Satan…” McIver held the phone closer to his ear as the volume slipped a fraction, afraid that the connection would vanish. “Yes, George, you were saying?” Talbot continued: “I was just saying, Duncan, we’re quite sure everything’s going to work out eventually. There’s no way in the world the pot will completely blow up. An unofficial source says a deal’s already in place for the Shah to abdicate in favor of his son Reza - the compromise HM Government advocates. The transition to constitutional government may be a bit wobbly but nothing to worry about. Sorry, got to dash - let me know what you decide.”

The phone went dead.

McIver cursed, jiggled the connectors to no avail, and told Genny and Charlie what Talbot had said. Genny smiled sweetly. “Don’t look at me, the answer’s no. I agr - ” “But, Gen, Tal - ”

“I agree the others should go but this one’s staying. Food’s almost ready.” She went back to the kitchen and closed the door, cutting off further argument.

“Well she’s bloody going and that’s it,” McIver said. “My year’s salary says she won’t - until you leave. Why don’t you go for God’s sake? I can look after everything.”

“No. Thanks, but no.” Then McIver beamed in the semidarkness. “Actually it’s like being back in the war, isn’t it? Back in the bloody blackout. Nothing to worry about except get with it and look after the troops and obey orders.” McIver frowned at his glass. “Talbot was right about one thing: we’re bloody lucky to be British. Tough on the Yanks. Not fair.” “Yes, but you’ve covered ours as best you can.” “Hope so.” When the Shah had left and violence everywhere increased, McIver had issued British IDs to all Americans. “They should be all right unless the Green Bands, police, or SAVAK check them against their licenses.” By Iranian law all foreigners had to have a current visa, which had to be canceled before they could leave the country, a current ID card giving their corporate affiliate - and all pilots a current annual Iran pilot’s license. For a further measure of safety McIver had had corporate IDs made and signed by the chief of their Iranian partners in Tehran, General Valik. So far there had been no problems. To the Americans, McIver had said, “Better you have these to show if necessary,” and had issued orders for all personnel to carry photographs of both Khomeini and the Shah. “Make sure you use the right one if you’re stopped!” Pettikin was trying to call Bandar Delam on the HF with no success. “We’ll try later,” McIver said. “All bases’ll be listening out at 0830 - that’ll give us time to decide what to do. Christ, it’s going to be bloody difficult. What do you think? Status quo, except for dependents?” Very concerned, Pettikin got up and took a candle and peered at the operations map pinned to the wall. It showed the status of their bases, crew, ground staff, and aircraft. The bases were scattered over Iran, from air force and army training bases at Tehran and Isfahan, to high-altitude oil-rig support in the Zagros, a logging operation in Tabriz in the northwest, a uranium survey team near the Afghan border, from a pipeline survey on the Caspian, to four oil operations on or near the Gulf, and the last, far to the southeast, another at Lengeh on the Strait of Hormuz. Of these only five were operational now: Lengeh, Kowiss, Bandar Delam, Zagros, and Tabriz. “We’ve fifteen 212s, including two nonoperational on their two-thousand-hour checks, seven 206s, and three Alouettes, all supposed to be working at the moment….”

“And all leased on binding legal contracts, none of which have been rescinded, but none of which we’re being paid for,” McIver said testily. “There’s no way we can base them all at Kowiss - we can’t even legally remove any one of them without the approval of the contractor, or our dear partners’ approval - not unless we could declare force majeure.” “There isn’t any yet. It has to be status quo, as long as we can. Talbot sounded confident. Status quo.”

“I wish it was status quo, Charlie. My God, this time last year we had almost forty 212s working and all the rest.” McIver poured himself another whisky.

“You’d better go easy,” Pettikin said quietly. “Genny‘11 give you hell. You know your blood pressure’s up and you’re not to drink.”

“It’s medicinal, for Christ’s sweet sake.” A candle guttered and went out. McIver got up and lit another and went back to staring at the map. “I think we’d better get Azadeh and the Flying Finn back. His 212’s on its fifteen-hundred-hour so he could be spared for a couple of days.” This was Captain Erikki Yokkonen and his Iranian wife, Azadeh, and their base was near Tabriz in East Azerbaijan Province, to the far northwest, near the Soviet border. “Why not take a 206 and fetch them? That’d save him three hundred and fifty miles of lousy driving and we’ve got to take him some spares.” Pettikin was beaming. “Thanks, I could do an outing. I’ll file a flight plan by HF tonight and leave at dawn, refuel at Bandar-e Pahlavi, and buy us some caviar.”

“Dreamer. But Gen’d like that. You know what I think of the stuff.” McIver turned away from the map. “We’re very exposed, Charlie, if things got dicey.” “Only if it’s in the cards.”

McIver nodded. Absently his eyes fell on the telephone. He picked it up. Now there was a dial tone. Excitedly he began to dial: 00, international; 44, British Isles; 224, Aberdeen in Scotland, 765-8080. He waited and waited, then his face lit up. “Christ, I’m through!”

“S-G Helicopters, hold the line, please,” the operator said before he could interrupt and put him on hold. He waited, fuming. “S-G Helico - ” “This’s McIver in Tehran, give me the Old Man, please.” “He’s on the phone, Mr. McIver.” The girl sniffed. “I’ll give you his secretary.” “Hello, Mac!” Liz Chen said almost at once. “Hang on a tick, I’ll get Himself. You all right? We’ve been trying to get you for days; hang on.” “All right, Liz.”

A moment, then Gavallan said happily, “Mac? Christ, how did you get through? Wonderful to hear from you - I’ve got a laddie permanently dialing you, your office, your apartment, ten hours a day. How’s Genny? How did you get through?”

“Just luck, Andy. I’m at home. I’d better be fast in case we’re cut off.” McIver told him most of what Talbot had said. He had to be circumspect because rumor had it that SAVAK, the Iranian secret police, often tapped telephones, particularly of foreigners. It was standing company procedure for the last two years to presume someone was listening - SAVAK, CIA, MI5, KGB, someone.

There was a moment’s silence. “First, obey the embassy and get all our dependents out at once. Alert the Finnish embassy for Azadeh’s passport. Tell Tom Lochart to expedite Sharazad’s - I got him to apply two weeks ago, just in case. He’s, er, got some mail for you, by the way.” McIver’s heart picked up a beat. “Good, he’ll be in tomorrow.” “I’ll get on to BA and see if I can get them guaranteed seating. As backup, I’ll send our company 125. She’s scheduled for Tehran tomorrow. If you’ve any problem with BA, send all dependents and spare bods out by her, starting tomorrow. Tehran’s still open, isn’t it?”

“It was today,” McIver said carefully.

He heard Gavallan say equally carefully, “The authorities, thank God, have everything under control.”

“Yes.”

“Mac, what do you recommend about our Iranian ops?”

McIver took a deep breath. “Status quo.”

“Good. All indications here, up to the highest levels, say it should be business as usual soon. We’ve got lots of face in Iran. And future. Listen, Mac, that rumor about Guerney was correct.”

McIver brightened perceptibly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. A few minutes ago I got a telex from IranOil confirming we’ll get all Guerney contracts at Kharg, Kowiss, Zagros, and Lengeh to begin with. Apparently the order to squeeze came from on high, and I did have to make a generous pishkesh contribution to our partners’ slush fund.” A pishkesh was an ancient Iranian custom, a gift given in advance for a favor that might be granted. It was also ancient custom for any official legitimately to keep pishkesh given him in the course of his work. How else could he live? “But never mind that, we’ll quadruple our Iranian profits, laddie.” “That’s wonderful, Andy.”

“And that’s not all: Mac, I’ve just ordered another twenty 212s and today I confirmed the order for six X63s - she’s a smasher!”

“Christ, Andy, that’s fantastic - but you’re pushing it, aren’t you?” “Iran may be, er, in temporary difficulties, but the rest of the world’s scared fartless about alternate sources of oil. The Yanks have their knickers in a twist, laddie.” The voice picked up another beat. “I’ve just confirmed another huge deal with ExTex for new contracts in Nigeria, Saudi, and Borneo, another with All-Gulf Oil in the Emirates. In the North Sea it’s just us, Guerney, and Imperial Helicopters.” Imperial Helicopters was a subsidiary of Imperial Air, the second semi-government airline in opposition to British Airways. “It’s paramount you keep everything stable in Iran - our contracts, aircraft, and spares’re part of our collateral for the new aircraft. For God’s sake keep our dear partners on the straight and narrow. How are the dear sweet people?”

“Just the usual.”

Gavallan knew this meant rotten as usual. “I’ve just had a session with General Javadah in London myself.” Javadah had left Iran with all his family a year ago, just before the troubles became overt. For the past three months two of their other Iranian partners, and families, had been visiting London “for medical reasons,” four others were in America also with their families. Three remained in Tehran. “He’s bullish - though expensive.” McIver put him away for more important problems. “Andy, I’ve got to have some money. Cash.”

“It’s in the post.”

McIver heard the rich laugh and felt the warmer for it. “Up yours, Chinaboy!” he said. Chinaboy was his private nickname for Gavallan who, before going to Aberdeen, had spent most of his previous life as a China trader, based first in Shanghai, then with Struan’s in Hong Kong where they had first met. At that time McIver had had a small, struggling helicopter service in the colony. “For God’s sake, we’re way behind paying our ground crews, there’s all the pilots’ expenses, almost everything’s got to be bought on the …” He stopped himself in time. In case someone was listening. He was going to say black market. “The bloody banks are still closed and the little cash I’ve left is for heung yau.” He used the Cantonese expression, literally meaning “fragrant grease,” the money used to grease palms.

“Javadah’s promised that General Valik in Tehran’ll give you half a million rials tomorrow. I’ve got a telex confirming.”

“But that’s barely $6,000 and we’ve bills for twenty times that amount.” “I know that, laddie, but he says both Bakhtiar and the Ayatollah want the banks open so they’ll open within the week. As soon as they’re open he swears IHC will pay us everything they owe.”

“Meanwhile has he released A stock yet?” This was a code that McIver and Gavallan used for funds held outside Iran by IHC, almost $6 million. IHC was almost $4 million behind on payments to S-G.

“No. He claims that he has to have the partners’ formal approval. The standoff stays.”

Thank God for that, McIver thought. Three signatures were needed on this account, two from the partners, one from S-G, so neither side could touch this particular fund without the other. “It’s pretty dicey, Andy. With the down payment on the new aircraft, lease payments on our equipment here, you’re on the edge, aren’t you?”

“All life’s on the edge, Mac. But the future’s rosy.”

Yes, McIver thought, for the helicopter business. But here in Iran? Last year the partners had forced Gavallan to assign real ownership of all S-G helicopters and spares in Iran to IHC. Gavallan had agreed, providing he could buy everything back at a moment’s notice, without a refusal on their part, and provided they kept up the lease payments on the equipment on time and made good any bad debts. Since the crisis began and the banks closed, IHC had been in default and Gavallan had been making the lease payments on all Iranian-based helicopters from S-G funds in Aberdeen - the partners claiming it was not their fault the banks had closed, Javadah and Valik saying as soon as everything’s normal of course we’ll repay everything - don’t forget, Andrew, we’ve got you all the best contracts for years; we got them, we did; without us S-G can’t operate in Iran. As soon as everything’s normal…

Gavallan was saying, “Our Iranian contracts’re still very profitable, we can’t fault our partners on that, and with Guerney’s we’ll be like pigs in wallah!” Yes, McIver thought, even though they’re squeezing and squeezing and each year our share gets smaller and theirs fatter. “.. .They’ve a lock on the country, always have had, and they swear by all that’s holy, it’ll all settle down. They have to have choppers to service their fields. Everyone here says it’ll blow over. The minister, their ambassador, ours. Why shouldn’t it? The Shah did his best to modernize, the people’s income’s up, illiteracy down. Oil revenues are huge - and’ll go higher once this mess’s over, the minister says. So do my contacts in Washington, even old Willie in ExTex, for God’s sake, and he should know if anyone does. The betting’s fifty to one it’ll all be normal in six months, with the Shah abdicating in favor of his son Reza and a constitutional monarchy. Meanwhile I think we sh - ”

The line went dead. McIver jigged the plunger anxiously. When the line came back it was just a constant busy signal. Angrily he slammed the receiver down. The lights came on suddenly.

“Bugger,” Genny said, “candlelight’s so much prettier.”

Pettikin smiled and switched the lights off. The room was prettier, more intimate, and the silver sparkled on the table she had laid earlier. “You’re right, Genny, right again.”

“Thanks, Charlie. You get an extra helping. Dinner’s almost up. Duncan, you can have another whisky, not as strong as the one you sneaked - don’t look so innocent - but after speaking to our Fearless Leader even I need extra sustenance. You can tell me what he said over dinner.” She left them. McIver told Pettikin most of what Gavallan had said - Pettikin was not a director of S-G or IHC so, of necessity, McIver had to keep his own counsel on much of it. Deep in thought, he wandered over to the window, glad to have talked to his old friend. It’s been a lot of years, he thought. Fourteen. In the summer of ‘65 when the Colony was poised on revolution with Mao Tse-tung’s Red Guards rampaging all over Mainland China, tearing the motherland apart and now spilling over into the streets of Hong Kong and Kowloon, Gavallan’s letter had arrived. At that time McIver’s helicopter business was on the edge of disaster, he was behind on lease payments on his small chopper, and Genny was trying to cope with two teenage children in a tiny, noisy flat in Kowloon where the riots were the worst.

“For God’s sake, Gen, look at this!” The letter said: “Dear Mr. McIver, You may remember we met once or twice at the races when I was with Struan’s a few years back - we both won a bundle on a gelding called Chinaboy. The taipan, Ian Dunross, suggested I write to you as I have great need of your expertise immediately - I know that you taught him to fly a chopper, and he recommends you highly. North Sea oil is a fait accompli. I have a theory that the only way to supply the rigs in all weather conditions is by helicopter. That is presently not possible - I think you’d call it Instrument Flight Rules, IFR. We could make it possible. I’ve got the weather, you’ve got the skill. One thousand pounds a month, a three-year contract to prove or disprove, a bonus based on success, transportation for you and your family back to Aberdeen, and a case of Loch Vay whisky at Christmas. Please phone as soon as possible….”

Without saying a word Genny had casually handed him back the letter and started out of the room, the constant noise of the great city - traffic, Klaxons, street vendors, ships, jets, blaring discordant Chinese music through the windows that rattled in the wind.

“Where the hell’re you going?”

“To pack.” Then she laughed and ran back and hugged him. “It’s a gift from heaven, Duncan, quick, call him, call him now….”

“But Aberdeen? IFR in all weather? My God, Gen, it’s never been done. There isn’t the instrumentation, I don’t know if it’s poss - ”

“For you it is, my lad. Of course. Now, where the devil have Hamish and Sarah gone?”

“Today’s Saturday, they’ve gone to the movies an - ”

A brick crashed through one of the windows, and the tumult of a riot began again. Their apartment was on the second floor and faced a narrow street in the heavily populated Mong Kok area of Kowloon. McIver pulled Genny to safety then cautiously looked out. In the street below, five to ten thousand Chinese, all shouting, Mao, Mao, Kwai Loh! Kwai Loh - Foreign Devil, Foreign Devil - their usual battle cry, were surging toward the police station a hundred yards away where a small detachment of uniformed Chinese police and three British officers waited silently behind a barricade. “My God, Gen, they’re armed!” McIver gasped. Usually the police just had batons. Yesterday the Swiss consul and his wife had been burned to death nearby when a mob had overturned their car and set it on fire. Last night on radio and television the governor had warned that he had ordered the police to take whatever steps necessary to stop all rioting. “Get down, Gen, out of the way. …”

His words were drowned by police loudspeakers as the superintendent commanded the massed rioters in Cantonese and English to disperse. The mob paid no attention and attacked the barricade. Again the order to stop was disregarded. Then the firing began and those in front panicked and were trampled as others fought to get away. Soon the street was clear except for the dozen or so bodies lying in the dirt. It was the same on Hong Kong Island. The next day the whole Colony was once more at peace; there were no more serious riots, only a few pockets of hard-core Red Guards trying to whip up the crowds who were quickly deported.

Within the week McIver sold his interest in his helicopter business, flew to Aberdeen ahead of Genny, and hurled himself into his new job with gusto. It had taken her a month to pack, settle their apartment, and sell what they didn’t need. By the time she arrived he had found an ideal apartment near the McCloud heliport that she promptly declined: “For goodness’ sake, Duncan, it’s a million miles away from the nearest school. An apartment in Aberdeen? Now that you’re as rich as Dunross, we, my lad, we are renting a house….”

He smiled to himself, thinking about those early days, Genny loving being back in Scotland - she had never really liked Hong Kong, life so difficult there with little money and children to care for - he loving his work, Gavallan a great man to work for and with, but hating the North Sea, all the cold and the wet and the aches that the salt-heavy air brought. But the five-odd years then had been worth it, renewing and increasing his old contacts in the still tiny international helicopter world - most of the pilots ex RAF, -RCAF, -RAAF, -USAF, and all the allied services - against the day they could expand. Always a generous bonus a Christmas, carefully put away for retirement, and always the case of Loch Vay: “Andy, that was the one condition that really go me!” Gavallan always the driving force, living up to his motto for the company, Be Bold. In East Scotland nowadays, Gavallan was known as “the Laird,” from Aberdeen to Inverness and south a far as Dundee, with tentacles reaching to London, New York Houston - wherever there was oil power. Yes, old Chinaboy’s: great and he can also wrap you and most men around his little finger, McIver thought without rancor. Look how you go here….

“Listen, Mac,” Andrew Gallavan had said one day in the late sixties, “I’ve just met a top general in the Iranian General Staff a a shoot. General Beni-Hassan. Great shot, he got twenty brace to my fifteen! Over the weekend I spent a lot of time with him and sold him on close-support helicopters for infantry and tank regiments along with a whole program for training their army and air force - as well as helicopters for their oil business. We, laddie, are in like Flynn.”

“But we’re not equipped to do half of that.”

“Beni-Hassan’s a smashing fellow and the Shah’s a really go-ahead monarch - with great plans for modernization. You know anything about Iran?” “No, Chinaboy,” McIver had said, suspiciously, recognizing the twinkling exuberance. “Why?”

“You’re booked on Friday for Bahrain, you and Genny… now wait a moment, Mac! What do you know about Sheik Aviation?”

“Genny’s happy in Aberdeen, she doesn’t want to move, the kids are finishing school, we’ve just put the down payment on a house, we’re not moving and Genny’ll kill you.”

“Of course,” Gavallan said airily. “Sheik Aviation?”

“It’s a small but good helicopter company that services the Gulf. They’ve three 206s and a few fixed-wing feeder planes, based in Bahrain. Well thought of and they do a lot of work for ARAMCO, ExTex, and I think IranOil. Owned and operated by Jock Forsyth, ex-paras and pilot who formed the company in the fifties with an old chum of mine, Scrag Scragger, an Aussie. Scrag’s the real owner, ex-RAAF, APC and Bar, DFC and Bar, now a chopper fanatic. First they were based in Singapore where I first met Scrag. We, er, we were on a bender and I don’t remember who started it but the others said it was a draw. Then they moved to the Gulf with an ex-ExTex executive who happened to have a great contract to launch them there. Why?” “I’ve just bought them. You take over as managing director on Monday. Scragger and all their pilots and personnel will stay on or not, as you suggest, but I think we’ll need their knowledge - I found them all good fellows - Forsyth’s happy to retire to Devon. Curious, Scragger didn’t mention he knew you, but then I only spent a few moments with him and dealt with Forsyth. From now on we’re S-G Helicopters Ltd. Next Friday I want you to go to Tehran … listen, for Christ’s sake… on Friday to set up an HQ there. I’ve made a date for you to meet Beni-Hassan and sign the papers for the air force deal. He said he’d be glad to introduce us to the right people, all over. Oh, yes, you’ve 10 percent of all profits, 10 percent of the stock in the new Iran subsidiary, you’re managing director of Iran - which includes the rest of the Gulf for the time being …” Of course McIver had gone. He could never resist Andrew Gavallan and he had enjoyed every moment, but he had never found out how Gavallan had persuaded Genny. When he had gone home that night she had his whisky and soda ready and wore a sweet smile. “Hello, dear, did you have a nice day?” “Yes, what’s up?” he asked suspiciously.

“You’re what’s up. Andy says there’s a wonderful new opportunity for us in some place called Tehran in some place called Persia.”

“Iran. It used to be called Persia, Gen, modern word’s Iran. I, er, I th - ” “How exciting! When are we leaving?”

“Er, well, Gen, I thought we’d talk it over and if you like I’ve fixed it so that I could do two months on and one month off back here an - ” “And what do you plan to do for the two months, nights and Sundays?” “I, er, well I’ll be working like the devil and there wo - ” “Sheik Aviation? You and old Scragger east of Suez together drinking and cavorting?”

“Who, me? Come on there’ll be so much to do we won’t ha - ” “No, you won’t, my lad. Huh! Two on and one off? Over Andy’s dead body and I mean dead. We go as a family by God or we don’t go by God!” Even more sweetly, “Don’t you agree, darling heart?”

“Now look here, Gen - ”

Within a month they were once more starting afresh, but it had been exciting and the best time he had ever had, meeting all sorts of interesting people, laughing with Scrag and the others, finding Charlie and Lochart and JeanLuc and Erikki, making the company into the most efficient, the safest flying operation in Iran and the Gulf, molding it the way he alone decided. His baby. His alone.

Sheik Aviation was the first of many acquisitions and amalgamations Gavallan made. “Where the hell do you get all the money, Andy?” he had once asked. “Banks. Where else? We’re a triple-A risk and Scots to boot.” It wasn’t until much later that he discovered, quite by chance, that the S of S-G Helicopters really stood for Struan’s that was also the secret source of all their financing and civilian intelligence, and S-G their subsidiary. “How did you find out, Mac?” Gavallan had asked gruffly.

“An old friend in Sydney, ex-RAF, who’s in mining, wrote to me and said he’d heard Linbar spouting about S-G being part of the Noble House - I didn’t know but it seems Linbar’s running Struan’s in Australia.” “He’s trying to. Mac, between us, Ian wanted Struan’s involvement kept quiet - David wants to continue the pattern so I’d prefer you to keep it to yourself,” Gavallan had said quietly. David was David MacStruan, the then taipan.

“Of course, not even Genny. But it explains a lot and gives me a grand feeling to know the Noble House’s covering us. I often wondered why you left.”

Gavallan had smiled but not answered. “Liz knows about Struan’s, of course, the Inner Office, and that’s all.”

McIver had never told anyone. S-G had thrived and grown as the oil business had grown. So had his profits. So had the value of his stock in the Iran venture. When he retired in six or seven years he would be comfortably well off. “Isn’t it time to quit?” Genny would say every year. “There’s more than enough money, Duncan.”

“It’s not the money,” he would always say….

McIver was staring at the red glow to the southeast over Jaleh that now had deepened and spread. His mind was in turmoil.

Jaleh’s got to make it hit the fan again all over Tehran, he thought. He sipped his whisky. No extra need to be nervous, he thought, the weight of it all bearing down. What the devil was Chinaboy going to say when we were cut off? He’ll get me word if it was important - he’s never failed yet. Terrible about Stanson. That’s the third civilian, all American, to be murdered by “unknown gunmen” in the last few months - two ExTex and one from Guerney. Wonder when they’ll start on us - Iranians hate the British just as much as the Yanks. Where to get more cash? We can’t operate on half a million rials a week. Somehow I’ll have to lean on the partners, but they’re as devious as anyone on earth and past masters at looking after number one. He took the last swallow of his whisky. Without the partners we’re stymied, even after all these years - they’re the ones who know who to talk to, which palm to touch with how much or what percentage, who to flatter, who to reward. They’re the Farsi speakers, they’ve the contacts. Even so, Chinaboy was right: whoever wins, Khomeini, Bakhtiar, or the generals, they have to have choppers….

In the kitchen Genny was almost in tears. The secret can of haggis that she had kept hidden so carefully for half a year and had just opened was defective and the contents ruined. And Duncan loves it so. How could he, a mess up of minced sheep heart and liver and lungs and oatmeal, onion, suet, seasonings, and stock, all stuffed into a bag made from the poor bloody sheep’s stomach, then boiled for several hours. “Ugh! Bugger everything!” She had had young Scot Gavallan - sworn to secrecy - bring the can back after his last leave for this special occasion.

Today was their wedding anniversary and this was her secret surprise for Duncan. Sod everything!

It’s not Scot’s fault the bloody tin’s defective, she thought in misery. Even so, shit shit shit! I’ve planned this whole bloody dinner for months and now it’s ruined. First the bloody butcher lets me down even though I’d paid twice as much as usual in advance, sod his “Insha’Allah,” and then because the bloody banks are closed I’ve no cash to bribe the rotten sod’s rival to sell me the leg of good fresh lamb not old mutton he’d promised, then the grocery store pulls a sudden strike, then …

The window of the small kitchen was half open and she heard another burst of machine-gun fire. Closer this time. Then wafted on the wind came the distant, deep-throated sound of the mobs: “Allahhh-u Akbarrr… Allahhh-u Akbarrr…” repeated over and over. She shivered, finding it curiously menacing. Before the troubles began she used to find the muezzin’s call to prayer five times daily from the minarets reassuring. But not now, not from the throats of the mobs. I hate this place now, she thought. Hate the guns and hate the threats. There was another in the mailbox, their second - like the other, badly typed and copied on the cheapest of paper: “On December 1 we gave you and family one month to leave our country. You are still here. You are now our enemies and we will fight you categorically.” No signature. Almost every expat in Iran got one. Hate the guns, hate the cold and no heat and no light, hate their rotten toilets and squatting like an animal, hate all the stupid violence and destruction of something that was really very nice. Hate standing in queues. Sod all queues! Sod the rotten bugger who screwed up the tin of haggis, sod this rotten little kitchen and sod corned beef pie! For the life of me I can’t understand why the men like it. Ridiculous! Canned corned beef mixed with boiled potatoes, a little onion butter and milk if you have it, bread crumbs on top, and baked till it’s brown. Ugh! And as for cauliflower, the smell of it cooking makes me want to puke but I read it’s good for diverticulitis and anyone can see Duncan’s not as well as he should be. So silly to think he can fool me. Has he fooled Charlie? I doubt it. And as for Claire, what a fool to leave such a good man! I wonder if Charlie ever found out about the affair she had with that Guerney pilot. No harm in that I suppose if you’re not caught - difficult being left so much alone and if that’s what you want. But I’m glad they parted friends though I thought she was a selfish bitch.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Automatically she straightened her hair and stared at her reflection. Where’s all your youth gone? I don’t know, but it’s gone. At least mine has, Duncan’s hasn’t, he’s still young, young for his age - if only he’d look after himself. Damn Gavallan! No, Andy’s all right. So glad he remarried such a nice girl. Maureen‘11 keep him in line and so will little Electra. I was so afraid he was going to marry that Chinese secretary of his. Ugh! Andy’s all right and so was Iran. Was. Now it’s time to leave and to enjoy our money. Definitely. But how? She laughed out loud. More of the same, I suppose.

Carefully she opened the oven, blinked against the heat and smell, then shut the door again. Can’t stand corned beef pie, she told herself irritably. Dinner was very good, the corned beef pie golden brown on top, just as they liked it. “Will you open the wine, Duncan? It’s Persian, sorry, but it’s the last bottle.” Normally they were well stocked with both French and Persian wines but the mobs had smashed and burned all Tehran’s liquor shops, encouraged by the mullahs, following Khomeini’s strict fundamentalism - drinking any form of alcohol being prohibited by the Koran. “The man in the bazaar told me there’s none officially on sale anywhere and even drinking in the Western hotels is officially forbidden now.”

“That won’t last, the people won’t stand for it - or fundamentalism - for long,” Pettikin said. “Can’t, not in Persia. Historically, the Shahs’ve always been tolerant and why not? For almost three thousand years Persia’s been famous for the beauty of its women - look at Azadeh and Sharazad - and their vineyards and wines. What about the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, isn’t that a hymn to wine, women, and song? Persia forever, I say.” “‘Persia’ sounds so much better than ‘Iran,’ Charlie, so much more exotic, as it used to be when we first came here, so much nicer,” Genny said. For a moment she was distracted by more firing, then went on, talking to cover her nervousness. “Sharazad told me they’ve always called it Iran, or Ayran themselves. Seems that Persia was what the ancient Greeks called it, Alexander the Great and all that. Most Persians were happy when Reza Shah decreed Persia was to be henceforth Iran. Thank you, Duncan,” she said and accepted the glass of wine, admiring its color, and smiled at him. “Everything’s grand, Gen,” he said and gave her a little hug. The wine had been savored. And the pie. But they were not merry. Too much to wonder about. More tanks going by. More firing. The red glow over Jaleh spreading. The chant of distant mobs. Then halfway through the dessert - trifle, another McIver favorite - one of their pilots, Nogger Lane, staggered in, his clothes badly torn, his face deeply bruised, helping a girl. She was tall and dark-haired and dark-eyed, rumpled and in shock, mumbling pathetically in Italian, one sleeve almost ripped out of her coat, her clothes and face and hands and hair filthy, as though she had fallen in the gutter.

“We got caught between … between the police and some bastard mobs,” he said in a rush, almost incoherently. “Some bugger’d siphoned my tank so… but the mob, there were thousands of them, Mac. One moment the street was normal, then everyone else started running and they… the mobs, they came out of a side street and a lot had guns… it was the God cursed chanting over and over, Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbar, that made your blood curdle …I’d never… then stones, firebombs, tear gas - the lot - as the police and troops arrived. And tanks. I saw three, and I thought the bastards were going to open up. Then someone started firing from the crowd, then there were guns everywhere and … and bodies all over the place. We ran for our lives, then a swarm of the bastards saw us and started shrieking ‘American Satan’ and charged after us and cornered us in an alley. I tried to tell ‘em I was English and Paula, Italian, and not… but they were crowding me and… and if it hadn’t been for a mullah, a big bastard with a black beard and black turban, this … this bugger called them off and Christ, they let us go. He cursed us and told us to piss off….” He accepted the whisky and gulped it, trying to catch his breath, his hands and knees shaking uncontrollably now, quite unnoticed by him. McIver, Genny, and Pettikin were listening aghast. The girl was sobbing quietly.

“Never, never been in the middle of a nightmare like that, Charlie,” Nogger Lane continued shakily. “Troops were all as young as the mobs and they all seemed scared shitless, too much to take night after night, mobs screaming and throwing stones. … A Molotov cocktail caught a soldier in the face and he burst into flames, screaming through the flames with no… and then those bastards cornered us and started manhandling Paula, trying to get at her, pawing her, tearing at her clothes. I went a bit mad myself and got hold of one bastard and smashed his face in, I know I hurt him because his nose went into his head and if it hadn’t been for this mullah …”

“Take it easy, laddie,” Pettikin said worriedly, but the youth paid no attention and rushed onward.

“.. . if it hadn’t been for this mullah who pulled me off I’d’ve gone on smashing until that bugger was pulp; I wanted to claw out his eyes, Jesus Christ, I tried to, I know I did… Jesus Christ, I’ve never killed anything with my hands, never wanted to until tonight but I did and would have….” His hands were trembling as he brushed his fair hair out of his eyes, his voice edged now and rising. “Those bastards, they had no right to touch us but they were grabbing Paula and… and…” The tears began gushing, his mouth worked but no words came out, a fleck of foam was at the corners of his lips, “and… and … kill… I wanted to killlll - ” Abruptly Pettikin leaned over and belted the young man backhanded across the face, knocking him spread-eagled on the sofa.

The others almost leaped out of themselves at the suddenness. Lane was momentarily stunned, then he groped to his feet to hurl himself at his attacker.

“Hold it, Nogger!” Pettikin roared. The command stopped the youth in his tracks. He stared at the older man stupidly, fists bunched. “What the bloody hell’sthematterwithyou, youdamn near broke my bloodyjaw,” he said furiously. But the tears had stopped and his eyes were clean again. “Eh?” “Sorry, lad, but you were going, flipping, I’ve seen it aco - ” “The bloody hell I was,” Lane said menacingly, his senses back, but it took them time to explain and to calm him and calm her. Her name was Paula Giancani, a tall girl, a stewardess from an Alitalia flight. “Paula, dear, you’d better stay here tonight,” Genny said. “It’s past curfew. You understand?”

“Yes, understand. Yes, I speak English, I th - ”

“Come along, I’ll lend you some things. Nogger, you take the sofa.” Later Genny and McIver were still awake, tired but not sleepy, gunfire somewhere in the night, chanting somewhere in the night. “Like some tea, Duncan?”

“Good idea.” He got up with her. “Oh, damnit, I forgot.” He went over to the bureau and found the little box, badly wrapped. “Happy anniversary. It’s not much, just a bracelet I got in the bazaar.”

“Oh, thank you, Duncan.” As she unwrapped it she told him about the haggis. “What a bugger! Never mind. Next year we’ll have it in Scotland.” The bracelet was rough amethysts set in silver. “Oh, it’s so pretty, just what I wanted. Thank you, darling.”

“You too, Gen.” He put his arm around her and kissed her absently. She didn’t mind about the kiss. Most kisses nowadays, hers as well, were just affectionate, like patting a beloved dog. “What’s troubling you, dear?” “Everything’s fine.”

She knew him too well. “What - that I don’t know yet?”

“It’s getting hairier and hairier. Every hour on the hour. When you were out of the room with Paula, Nogger told us they’d come from the airport. Her Alitalia flight - it’d been chartered by the Italian government to evacuate their nationals and had been grounded for two days - had got clearance to leave at midday, so he’d gone to see her off. Of course takeoff was delayed and delayed, as usual, then just before dusk the flight was grounded again, the whole airport closed down, and everyone was told to leave. All Iranian staff just vanished. Then almost immediately a group of heavily armed, and he meant heavily armed revolutionaries, started spreading out all over the place. Most of ‘em were wearing green armbands, but some had IPLO on them, Gen, the first Nogger’d seen. ‘Iranian Palestine Liberation Organization.’” “Oh, my God,” she said, “then it’s true that the PLO’s helping Khomeini?” “Yes, and if they’re helping, it’s a different game, civil war’s just started, and we’re in the bloody middle.”

Chapter 3

AT TABRIZ ONE: 11:05 P.M. Erikki Yokkonen was naked, lying in the sauna that he had constructed with his own hands, the temperature 107 degrees Fahrenheit, the sweat pouring off him, his wife Azadeh nearby, also lulled by the heat. Tonight had been grand with lots of food and two bottles of the best Russian vodka that he had purchased black market in Tabriz and had shared with his two English mechanics, and their station manager, Ali Dayati. “Now we’ll have sauna,” he had said to them just before midnight. But they had declined, as usual, with hardly enough strength to reel off to their own cabins. “Come on, Azadeh!”

“Not tonight, please, Erikki,” she had said, but he had just laughed and lifted her in his great arms, wrapped her fur coat around her clothes, and carried her through the front door of their cabin, out past the pine trees heavy with snow, the air just below freezing. She was easy to carry, and he went into the little hut that abutted the back of their cabin, into the warmth of the changing area and then, unclothed, into the sauna itself. And now they lay there, Erikki at ease, Azadeh, even after a year of marriage, still not quite used to the nightly ritual.

He lay on one arm and looked at her. She was lying on a thick towel on the bench opposite. Her eyes were closed and he saw her breast rising and falling and the beauty of her - raven hair, chiseled Aryan features, lovely body, and milky skin - and as always he was filled with the wonder of her, so small against his six foot four.

Gods of my ancestors, thank you for giving me such a woman, he thought. For a moment he could not remember which language he was thinking in. He was quadrilingual, Finnish, Swedish, Russian, and English. What does it matter? he told himself, giving himself back to the heat, letting his mind waft with the steam that rose from the stones he had laid so carefully. It satisfied him greatly that he had built his sauna himself - as a man should - hewing the logs as his ancestors had done for centuries.

This was the first thing he had done when he was posted here four years ago - to select and fell the trees. The others had thought him crazy. He had shrugged good-naturedly. “Without a sauna life’s nothing. First you build the sauna, then the house; without sauna a house is not a house; you English, you know nothing - not about life.” He had been tempted to tell them that he had been bom in a sauna, like many Finns - and why not, how sensible when you think of it, the warmest place in the home, the cleanest, quietest, most revered. He had never told them, only Azadeh. She had understood. Ah, yes, he thought, greatly content, she understands everything.

Outside, the threshold of the forest was silent, the night sky cloudless, the stars very bright, snow deadening sound. Half a mile away was the only road through the mountains. The road meandered northwest to Tabriz, ten miles away, thence northward to the Soviet border a few miles farther on. Southeast it curled away over the mountains, at length to Tehran, three hundred and fifty miles away.

The base, Tabriz One, was home for two pilots - the other was on leave in England - two English mechanics, the rest Iranians: two cooks, eight day laborers, the radio op, and the station manager. Over the hill was their village of Abu Mard and, in the valley below, the wood-pulp factory belonging to the forestry monopoly, Iran-Timber, they serviced under contract. The 212 took loggers and equipment into the forests, helped build camps and plan the few roads that could be built, then serviced the camps with replacement crews and equipment and flew the injured out. For most of the landlocked camps the 212 was their only link with the outside, and the pilots were venerated. Erikki loved the life and the land, so much like Finland that sometimes he would dream he was home again. His sauna made it perfect. The tiny, two-room hut at the back of their cabin was screened from the other cabins, and built traditionally with lichen between the logs for insulation, the wood fire that heated the stones well ventilated. Some of the stones, the top layer, he had brought from Finland. His grandfather had fished them from the bottom of a lake, where all the best sauna stones come from, and had given them to him on his last home leave eighteen months ago. “Take them, my son, and with them surely there’ll go a good Finnish sauna tonto” - the little brown elf that is the spirit of the sauna - “though what you want to marry one of those foreigners for and not your own kind, I really don’t know.”

“When you see her, Grandfather, you’ll worship her also. She has blue-green eyes and dark dark hair an - ”

“If she gives you many sons - well, we’ll see. It’s certainly long past the time you should be married, a fine man like you, but a foreigner? You say she’s a schoolteacher?”

“She’s a member of Iran’s Teaching Corps, they’re young people, men and women, volunteers as a service to the state, who go to villages and teach villagers and children how to read and write, but mostly the children. The Shah and the empress started the corps a few years ago, and Azadeh joined when she was twenty-one. She comes from Tabriz where I work, teaches in our village in a makeshift school and I met her seven months and three days ago. She was twenty-four then….”

Erikki glowed, remembering the first time he ever saw her, neat in her uniform, her hair cascading, sitting in a forest glade surrounded by children, then her smiling up at him, seeing the wonder in her eyes at his size, knowing at once that this was the woman he had waited his life to find. He was thirty-six then. Ah, he thought, watching her lazily, once more blessing the forest tonto - spirit - that had guided him to that part of the forest. Only three more months then two whole months of leave. It will be good to be able to show her Suomi - Finland.

“It’s time, Azadeh, darling,” he said.

“No, Erikki, not yet, not yet,” she said half asleep, drowsed by the heat but not by alcohol, for she did not drink. “Please, Erikki, not y - ” “Too much heat isn’t good for you,” he said firmly. They always spoke English together, though she was also fluent in Russian - her mother was half Georgian, coming from the border area where it was useful and wise to be bilingual. Also she spoke Turkish, the language most used in this part of Iran, Azerbaijan, and of course Farsi. Apart from a few words, he spoke no Farsi or Turkish. He sat up and wiped the sweat off, at peace with the world, then leaned over and kissed her. She kissed him back and trembled as his hands sought her and hers sought him back. “You’re a bad man, Erikki,” she said, then stretched gloriously. “Ready?” “Yes.” She clung to him as he lifted her so easily into his arms, then walked out of the sauna into the changing area, then opened the door and went outside into the freezing air. She gasped as the cold hit her and hung on as he scooped up some snow and rubbed it over her, making her flesh tingle and burn but not painfully. In seconds she was glowing within and without. It had taken her a whole winter to get used to the snow bath after the heat. Now, without it, the sauna was incomplete. Quickly she did the same for him, then rushed happily back into the warm again, leaving him to roll and thrash in the snow for a few seconds. He did not notice the group of men and the mullah standing in a shocked group up the rise, half hidden under the trees beside the path, fifty yards away. Just as he was closing the door he saw them. Fury rushed through him. He slammed the door. “Some villagers are out there. They must have been watching us. Everyone knows this is off limits!” She was equally enraged and they dressed hurriedly. He pulled on his fur boots and heavy sweater and pants and grabbed the huge ax and rushed out. The men were still there and he charged them with a roar, his ax on high. They scattered as he whirled at them, then one of them raised the machine gun and let off a burst into the air that echoed off the mountainside. Erikki skidded to a halt, his rage obliterated. Never before had he been threatened with guns, or had one leveled at his stomach.

“Put ax down,” the man said in halting English, “or I kill you.” Erikki hesitated. At that moment Azadeh came charging between them and knocked the gun away and began shouting in Turkish: “How dare you come here! How dare you have guns - what are you, bandits? This is our land - get off our land or I’ll have you put in jail!” She had wrapped her heavy fur coat over her dress but was shaking with rage.

“This is the land of the people,” the mullah said sullenly, keeping out of range. “Cover your hair, woman, cover y - ”

“Who’re you, mullah? You’re not of my village! Who are you?” “I’m Mahmud, mullah of the Hajsta mosque in Tabriz. I’m not one of your lackeys,” he said angrily and jumped aside as Erikki lunged at him. The man with the gun was off balance but another man, safely away, cocked his rifle: “By God and the Prophet, stop the foreign pig or I’ll blow you both to the hell you deserve!”

“Erikki, wait! Leave these dogs to me!” Azadeh called out in English, then shouted at them, “What do you want here? This is our land, the land of my father Abdollah Khan, Khan of the Gorgons, kin to the Qajars who’ve ruled here for centuries.” Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now and she peered at them. There were ten of them, all young men, all armed, all strangers, all except one, the kalandar - chief - of their village. “Kalandar, how dare you come here!”

“I’m sorry, Highness,” he said apologetically, “but the mullah said I was to lead him here by this trail and not by the main path and so - ” “What do you want, parasite?” she said, turning on the mullah. “Show respect, woman,” the mullah said even more angrily. “Soon we’ll be in command. The Koran has laws for nakedness and loose living: stoning and the lash.”

“The Koran has laws for trespass and bandits and threatening peaceful people, and rebellion against their chiefs and liege lords. I’m not one of your frightened illiterates! I know you for what you are and what you’ve always been, the parasites of the villages and the people. What do you want?”

From the base, people were hurrying up with flashlights. At their head were the two bleary-eyed mechanics, Dibble and Arberry, with Ali Dayati carefully in tow. All were sleep ruffled, hastily dressed, and anxious. “What’s going on?” Dayati demanded, thick glasses on his nose, peering at them. His family had been protected by and had served the Gorgon Khans for years. “These dogs,” Azadeh began hotly, “came out of the nigh - ” “Hold your tongue, woman,” the mullah said angrily, then turned on Dayati. “Who’re you?”

When Dayati saw the man was a mullah, his demeanor changed and at once he became deferential. “I’m… I’m Iran-Timber’s manager here, Excellency. What’s the matter, please, what can I do for you?”

63 “The helicopter. At dawn I want it for a flight around the camps.” “I’m sorry, Excellency, the machine is in pieces for an overhaul. It’s the foreigner’s policy an - ”

Azadeh interrupted angrily, “Mullah, by what right do you dare to come here in the middle of the night to - ” “Imam Khomeini has issued ord - ” “Imam?” she echoed, shocked. “By what right do you call Ayatollah Khomeini that?”

“He is Imam. He has issued orders an - ” “Where does it say in the Koran or the Sharia that an ayatollah can claim to be Imam, can order one of the Faithful? Where does it sa - ”

“Aren’t you Shi’ite?” the mullah asked, enraged, conscious of his followers listening silently.

“Yes, I’m Shi’ite, but not an illiterate fool, mullah!” The way she used the word it was a curse. “Answer!”

“Please, Highness,” Dayati said, pleading with her. “Please leave this to me, please, I beg you.”

But she began to rage and the mullah to rage back, and the others joined in, the mood becoming ugly, until Erikki raised his ax and let out a bellow of rage, infuriated that he could not understand what was being said. The silence was sudden, then another man cocked his machine pistol. “What’s this bastard want, Azadeh?” Erikki said. She told him. “Dayati, tell him he can’t have my 212 and to get off our land now or I’ll send for the police.”

“Please, Captain, please allow me to deal with it, Captain,” Dayati said, sweating with anxiety, before Azadeh could interrupt. “Please, Highness, please leave now.” Then turned to the two mechanics. “It’s all right, you can go back to bed. I’ll deal with it.”

It was then that Erikki noticed Azadeh was still barefoot. He scooped her up into his arms. “Dayati, you tell that matyeryebyets and all of them if they come here again at night I’ll break their necks - and if he or anyone touches one hair of my woman’s head I’ll crawl into hell after him if need be.” He went off, massive in his rage, the two mechanics following. A voice in Russian stopped him. “Captain Yokkonen, perhaps I could have a word with you in a moment?”

Erikki looked back. Azadeh, still in his arms, was tense. The man stood at the back of the pack, difficult to see, seemingly not very different from the others, wearing a nondescript parka. “Yes,” Erikki told him in Russian, “but don’t bring a gun into my house, or a knife.” He stalked off.

The mullah went closer to Dayati, his eyes stony. “What did the foreign devil say, eh?”

“He was rude, all foreigners are rude, Her High - the woman was rude too.” The mullah spat in the snow. “The Prophet set laws and punishments against such conduct, the People have laws against hereditary wealth and stealing lands, the land belongs to the People. Soon correct laws and punishments will govern us all, at long last, and Iran will be at peace.” He turned to the others. “Naked in the snow! Flaunting herself in the open against all the laws of modesty. Harlot! What are the Gorgons but lackeys of the traitor Shah and his dog Bakhtiar, eh?” His eyes went back to Dayati. “What lies are you telling about the helicopter?”

Trying to hide his fear, Dayati said at once that the fifteen-hundred-hour check was according to foreign regulations imposed upon him and the aircraft and further ordered by the Shah and the government.

“Illegal government,” the mullah interrupted.

“Of course, of course illegal,” Dayati agreed at once and nervously led them into the hangar and lit the lights - the base had its own small generating system and was self-contained. The engines of the 212 were laid out neatly, piece by piece, in regimented lines. “It’s nothing to do with me, Excellency, the foreigners do what they like.” Then he added quickly, “And although we all know Iran-Timber belongs to the people, the Shah took all the money. I’ve no authority over them, foreign devils or their regulations. There’s nothing I can do.”

“When will it be airworthy?” the Russian-speaking man asked in perfect Turkish.

“The mechanics promise two days,” Dayati said and prayed silently, very afraid, though he tried hard not to show it. It was clear to him now that these men were leftist mujhadin believers in the Soviet-sponsored theory that Islam and Marx were compatible. “It’s in the Hands of God. Two days; the foreign mechanics are waiting for some spares that’re overdue.” “What are they?”

Nervously he told him. They were some minor parts and a tail rotor blade. “How many hours do you have on the rotor blade?”

Dayati checked the logbook, his fingers trembling. “One thousand seventy-three.”

“God is with us,” the man said, then turned to the mullah. “We could safely use the old one for fifty hours at least.”

“But the life of the blade… the airworthy certificate’s invalidated,” Dayati said without thinking. “The pilot wouldn’t fly because air regulations requi - ”

“Satan’s regulations.”

“True,” the Russian speaker interrupted, “some of them. But laws for safety are important to the People, and even more important, God laid down rules in the Koran for camels and horses and how to care for them, and these rules can apply equally to airplanes which also are the gift of God and also carry us to do God’s work. We must therefore care for them correctly. Don’t you agree, Mahmud?”

“Of course,” the mullah said impatiently and his eyes bore into Dayati who began to tremble. “I will return in two days, at dawn. Let the helicopter be ready and the pilot ready to do God’s work for the People. I will visit every camp in the mountains. Are there other women here?” “Just…just two wives of the laborers and… my wife.”

“Do they wear chador and veil?”

“Of course,” Dayati lied instantly. To wear the veil was against the law of Iran. Reza Shah had outlawed the veil in 1936, made the chador a matter of choice and Mohammed Shah had further enfranchised women in ‘64. “Good. Remind them God and the People watch, even in the foreigner’s vile domain.” Mahmud turned on his heel and stomped off, the others going with him.

When he was alone, Dayati wiped his brow, thankful that he was one of the Faithful and that now his wife would wear the chador, would be obedient, and act as his mother acted with modesty and not wear jeans like Her Highness. What did the mullah call her to her face? God protect him if Abdollah Khan hears about it… even though, of course, the mullah’s right, and of course Khomeini’s right, God protect him.

IN ERIKKI’S CABIN: 11:23 P.M. The two men sat at the table opposite each other in the main room of the cabin. When the man had knocked on the door, Erikki had told Azadeh to go into the bedroom but he had left the inner door open so that she could hear. He had given her the rifle that he used for hunting. “Use it without fear. If he comes into the bedroom, I am already dead,” he had said, his pukoh knife sheathed under his belt in the center of his back. The pukoh knife was a haft knife and the weapon of all Finns. It was considered unlucky - and dangerous - for a man not to carry one. In Finland it was against the law to wear one openly - that might be considered a challenge. But everyone carried one, and always in the mountains. Erikki Yokkonen’s matched his size.

“So, Captain, I apologize for the intrusion.” The man was dark-haired, a little under six feet, in his thirties, his face weather-beaten, his eyes dark and Slavic - Mongol blood somewhere in his heritage. “My name is Fedor Rakoczy.”

“Rakoczy was a Hungarian revolutionary,” Erikki said curtly. “And from your accent you’re Georgian. Rakoczy’s not Georgian. What’s your real name - and KGB rank?”

The man laughed. “It is true my accent is Georgian and that I am Russian from Georgia, from Tbilisi. My grandfather came from Hungary but he was no relation to the revolutionary who in ancient times became prince of Transylvania. Nor was he Muslim, like my father and me. There, you see, we both know a little of our history, thanks be to God,” he said pleasantly. “I’m an engineer on the Iran-Soviet natural gas pipeline, based just over the border at Astara on the Caspian - and pro-Iran, pro-Khomeini, blessings be upon him, anti-Shah and anti-American.”

He was glad that he had been briefed about Erikki Yokkonen. Part of his cover story was true. He certainly came from Georgia, from Tbilisi, but he was not a Muslim, nor was his real name Rakoczy. His real name was Igor Mzytryk and he was a captain in the KGB, a specialist attached to the 116th Airborne Division that was deployed just across the border, north of Tabriz, one of the hundreds of undercover agents who had infiltrated northern Iran for months and now operated almost freely. He was thirty-four, a KGB career officer like his father, and he had been in Azerbaijan for six months. His English was good, his Farsi and Turkish fluent, and although he could not fly, he knew much about the piston-driven Soviet Army close-support helicopters of his division. “As to my rank,” he added in his most gentle voice, “it is friend. We Russians are good friends of Finns, aren’t we?” “Yes, yes, that’s true. Russians are - not Party members. Holy Russia was a friend in the past, yes, when we were a grand duchy of Russia. Soviet Russia was friendly after ‘17 when we became independent. Soviet Russia is now. Yes, now. But not in ‘39. Not in the Winter War. No, not then.” “Nor were you in ‘41,” Rakoczy said sharply. “In ‘41 you went to war against us with the stinking Nazis; you sided with them against us.” “True, but only to take back our land, our Karelian, our province you’d stolen from us. We didn’t walk on to Leningrad as we could have done.” Erikki could feel the knife in the center of his back and he was very glad of it. “Are you armed?”

“No. You said not to come armed. My gun is outside the door. I have no pukoh knife nor need to use one. By Allah, I’m a friend.”

“Good. A man has need of friends.” Erikki watched the man, loathing what he represented: the Soviet Russia that, unprovoked, had invaded Finland in ‘39 the moment Stalin had signed the Soviet-German nonaggression pact. Finland’s little army had fought back alone. They had beaten off the Soviet hordes for one hundred days in the Winter War and then they had been overrun. Erikki’s father had been killed defending Karelian, the southern and eastern province, where the Yokkonens had lived for centuries. At once Soviet Russia had annexed the province. At once all Finns left. All of them. Not one would stay under a Soviet flag, so the land became barren of Finns. Erikki was just ten months old then and in that exodus thousands died. His mother had died. It was the worst winter in living memory.

And in ‘45, Erikki thought, bottling his rage, in ‘45 America and England betrayed us and gave our lands to the aggressor. But we’ve not forgotten. Nor have the Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, East Germans, Czechs, Hungarians, Bulgars, Slavs, Romanians - the list endless. There will be a day of reckoning with the Soviets, oh, yes, one day there will surely be a day of reckoning with the Soviets - most of all by Russians who suffer their lash most of all. “For a Georgian you know a lot about Finland,” he said calmly.

“Finland is important to Russia. The détente between us works, is safe, and a lesson to the world that anti-Soviet American imperialistic propaganda is a myth.”

Erikki smiled. “This is not the time for politics, eh? It’s late. What do you want with me?”

“Friendship.”

“Ah, that’s easily asked, but as you would know, for a Finn, given with difficulty.” Erikki reached over to the sideboard for an almost empty vodka bottle and two glasses. “Are you Shi’ite?”

“Yes, but not a good one, God forgive me. I drink vodka sometimes if that’s what you ask.”

Erikki poured two glasses. “Health.” They drank. “Now, please come to the point.”

“Soon Bakhtiar and his American lackeys will be thrown out of Iran. Soon Azerbaijan will be in turmoil, but you will have nothing to fear. You are well thought of here, so is your wife and her family, and we would like your… your cooperation in bringing peace to these mountains.” “I’m just a helicopter pilot, working for a British company, contracted to Iran-Timber, and I’m without politics. We Finns have no politics, don’t you remember?”

“We’re friends, yes. Our interests of world peace are the same.” Erikki’s great right fist slammed down on the table, the sudden violence making the Russian flinch as the bottle skittered away and fell to the floor. “I’ve asked you politely twice to come to the point,” he said in the same calm voice. “You have ten seconds.”

“Very well,” the man said through his teeth. “We require your services to ferry teams into the camps within the next few days. We…” “What teams?”

“The mullahs of Tabriz and their followers. We requ - ”

“I take my orders from the company, not mullahs or revolutionaries or men who come with guns in the night. Do you understand?”

“You will find it is better to understand us, Captain Yokkonen. So will the Gorgons. All of them,” Rakoczy said pointedly, and Erikki felt the blood go into his face. “Iran-Timber is already struck and on our side. They will provide you with the necessary orders.”

“Good. In that case I will wait and see what their orders are.” Erikki got up to his great height. “Good night.”

The Russian got up too and stared at him angrily. “You and your wife are too intelligent not to understand that without the Americans and their fornicating CIA, Bakhtiar’s lost. That motherless madman Carter has ordered U.S. Marines and helicopters into Turkey, an American war fleet into the Gulf, a task force with a nuclear carrier and support vessels, with marines and nuclear-armed aircraft - a war fleet an - ”

“I don’t believe it!”

“You can. By God, of course they’re trying to start a war, for of course we have to react, we have to match war game with war game, for of course they’ll use Iran against us. It’s all madness - we don’t want nuclear war….” Rakoczy meant it with all his heart, his mouth running away with him. Only a few hours ago his superior had warned him by code radio that all Soviet forces on the border were on Yellow Alert - one step from Red - because of the approaching carrier fleet, all nuclear missiles on equal alert. Worst of all, vast Chinese troop movements had been reported all along the five thousand miles of shared border with China. “That motherfucker Carter with his motherfucking Friendship Pact with China’s going to blow us all to hell if he gets half a chance.”

“If it happens, it happens,” Erikki said.

“Insha’Allah, yes, but why become a running dog for the Americans, or their equally filthy British allies? The People are going to win, we are going to win. Help us and you won’t regret it, Captain. We only need your skills for a few da - ”

He stopped suddenly. Running footsteps were approaching. Instantly Erikki’s knife was in his hand and he moved with catlike speed between the front door and the bedroom door as the front door burst open.

“SAVAK!” a half-seen man gasped, then took to his heels.

Rakoczy jumped for the doorway, scooped up his machine pistol. “We require your help, Captain. Don’t forget!” He vanished into the night. Azadeh came out into the living room. With the gun ready, her face white. “What was that about a carrier? I didn’t understand him.” Erikki told her. Her shock was clear. “That means war, Erikki.” “Yes, if it happens.” He put on his parka. “Stay here.” He closed the door after him. Now he could see lights from approaching cars that were racing along the rough dirt road that joined the base to the main Tabriz-Tehran road. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out two cars and an army truck. In a moment the lead vehicle stopped and police and soldiers fanned out into the night. The officer in charge saluted. “Ah, Captain Yokkonen, good evening. We heard that some revolutionaries were here, or Communist Tudeh - firing was reported,” he said, his English perfect. “Her Highness is all right? There’s no problem?”

“No, not now, thank you, Colonel Mazardi.” Erikki knew him quite well. The man was a cousin of Azadeh, and chief of police in this area of Tabriz. But SAVAK? That’s something else, he thought uneasily. If he is, he is, and I don’t want to know. “Come in.”

Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coming and they told him what had occurred.

“The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?” he asked. “Yes, but it was obviously a lie,” Erikki said. “He had to be KGB.” “And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?” “No.”

The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. “So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic-Marxist - that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.” He was tall and very good-looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. “Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea-bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar‘11 give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini - we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.” He got up. “Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.”

He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, “Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

“There’s no need to leave, Erikki.”

“If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.” “There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian, Erikki.” He looked at her. “I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force, and why the KGB think ‘you and your wife are much too intelligent,’ why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they ‘require’ my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while mere’s time.”

SATURDAY February 10 Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coming and they told him what had occurred.

“The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?” he asked. “Yes, but it was obviously a lie,” Erikki said. “He had to be KGB.” “And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?” “No.”

The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. “So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic-Marxist - that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.” He was tall and very good-looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. “Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea-bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar‘11 give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini - we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.” He got up. “Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.”

He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, “Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

“There’s no need to leave, Erikki.”

“If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.” “There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian, Erikki.” He looked at her. “I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force, and why the KGB think ‘you and your wife are much too intelligent,’ why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they ‘require’ my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while mere’s time.”

SATURDAY - February 10

Chapter 4

AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 3:32 A.M. Led by the mullah, Hussain Kowissi, the shouting mob was pressing against the barred, floodlit main gate and the nearby barbed-wire fence that surrounded the huge base, the night dark, very cold, with snow everywhere. There were three to four thousand of them, youths mostly, a few armed, some young women in chadors well to the front, adding their cries to the tumult: “God is Great God is Great…” Inside the gate, facing the mob, platoons of nervous soldiers were spread out on guard, their rifles ready, other platoons in reserve, all officers with revolvers. Two Centurion tanks, battle ready, waited in the center of the roadway, engines growling, the camp commander and a group of officers nearby. Behind them were trucks filled with more soldiers, headlights trained on the gate and the fence - soldiers outnumbered twenty or thirty to one. Behind the trucks were the hangars, base buildings, barracks, and the officers’ mess, knots of milling, anxious service men everywhere, all hastily dressed, for the mob had arrived barely half an hour ago demanding possession of the base in the name of Ayatollah Khomeini. Again the voice of the camp commander came over the loudspeakers. “You will disperse at once!” His voice was harsh and threatening, but the mob’s chant overpowered him, “Allah-u Akbarrr…”

The night was overcast, obscuring even the southern foothills of the snowcapped Zagros Mountains that towered behind the base. The base was S-G’s main HQ in southern Iran as well as home for two Iranian Air Force squadrons of F4s and, since martial law, a detachment of Centurions and the soldiers. Outside the fence, eastward, the giant oil refinery sprawled over hundreds of acres, the tall stacks belching smoke, many sending jets of flame into the night as the excess gas was burned off. Though the whole plant was struck and shut down, parts were floodlit: a skeleton staff of Europeans and Iranians were permitted by the strike komiteh to try to keep the refinery and its feeder pipelines and storage tanks safe.

“God is Great…” Hussain shouted again, and at once the mob took up the cry and again the cry went into the heads and hearts of the soldiers. One of those in the front rank was Ali Bewedan, a conscript like all the others, young like all the others, not so long ago a villager like all the others and those outside the fence. Yes, he thought, his head hurting, heart pounding, I’m on the side of God and ready to be martyred for the Faith and for the Prophet, whose Name be praised! Oh, God, let me be a martyr and go straight to Paradise as promised to the Faithful. Let me spill my blood for Islam and Khomeini but not for protecting the evil servants of the Shah! The living words of Khomeini kept pounding in his ears, words from the cassette their mullah had played in the mosque two days ago: “… Soldiers: join with your brothers and sisters doing God’s work, flee your barracks with your arms, disobey the illegal orders of the generals, tear down the illegal government! Do God’s work, God is Great…”

His heart picked up tempo as he heard the voice again, the rich, deep peasant voice of the leader of leaders, that made everything clear. “God is Great, God is Great…”

The young soldier did not realize that now he was shouting with the mob, his eyes fixed on his mullah who was outside the gate, on God’s side, outside, clawing at the gate, leading what he knew were his brothers and sisters, trying to break it down. His brother soldiers nearby shifted, even more nervously, staring at him, not daring to say anything, the baying going into their heads and hearts equally. Many of those inside the fence wished to open the gate. Most would have done so if it were not for their officers and sergeants and the inevitable punishments, even death, that all knew was the reward for mutiny. “On God’s side, outside …”

The young man’s brain seemed to explode with the words and he did not hear the sergeant shouting at him, nor see him, but only the gate that was closed against the Faithful. He flung down his rifle and ran for the gate, fifty yards away. For an instant there was a vast silence, all eyes within and without riveted on him, transfixed.

Colonel Mohammed Peshadi, the camp commander, stood near his lead tank, a lithe man with graying hair, his uniform immaculate. He watched the youth screaming, “Allahhhh-u Akk-barrr…” the only voice now. When the youth was five yards from the fence, the colonel motioned to the senior sergeant beside him. “Kill him,” he said quietly.

The sergeant’s ears were filled with the battle cry of the youth who now was tearing at the bolts. In one fluid motion, he jerked the rifle from the nearest soldier, cocked it, leaned momentarily on the side of the tank, put the sights on the back of the youth’s head, and pulled the trigger. He saw the face blow outward, showering those on the other side of the gate. Then the body slumped and hung obscenely on the barbed wire.

For a moment there was an even vaster silence. Then, as one, Hussain leading, the mob surged forward, a roaring, senseless, mindless being. Those in front tore at the wires, careless of the barbs that ripped their hands to shreds. Urged on by those behind, they began to climb the wires. A submachine gun began to chatter among them. At that moment the colonel stabbed a finger at the officer in the tank.

At once a tongue of flame leaped from the barrel of the four-inch gun that was aimed just over the heads of the crowd and loaded with a blank charge, but the suddenness of the explosion sent attackers reeling from the gate in panic, half a dozen soldiers dropped their rifles in equal shock, a few fled, and many of the unarmed watchers scattered in fright. The second tank fired, its barrel closer to the ground, the shaft of flame lower. The mob broke. Men and women fled from the gate and the fence, trampling one another in their haste. Again the lead tank fired and again the tongue of flame and again the earsplitting detonation and the mob redoubled its effort to get away. Only the mullah Hussain remained at the gate. He reeled drunkenly, momentarily blinded and deafened, then his hands caught the stanchions of the gate and he hung on. Immediately, instinctively, many went forward to help him, soldiers, sergeants, and one officer. “Stay where you are!” Colonel Peshadi roared, then took the microphone on the long lead and switched to full power. His voice blasted the night. “All soldiers stay where you are! Safety catches on! SAFETY CATCHES ON! All officers and sergeants take charge of your men! Sergeant, come with me!” Still in shock, the sergeant fell into step beside his commander who went forward toward the gate. Scattered in front of the gates were thirty or forty who had been trampled on. The mass of rioters had stopped a hundred yards away and was beginning to re-form. Some of the more zealous began to charge. Tension soared.

“STOP! Everyone STAND STILL!”

This time the commander was obeyed. At once. He could feel the sweat on his back, his heart pumping in his chest. He glanced briefly at the corpse impaled on the barbs, glad for him - hadn’t the youth been martyred with the Name of God on his lips, and wasn’t he therefore already in Paradise? - then spoke harshly into the mouthpiece. “You three… yes, you three, help the mullah. NOW!” Instantly, the men outside the fence he had pointed at rushed to do his bidding. He jerked an angry thumb at some soldiers. “You! Open the gate! You, take the body away!”

Again he was obeyed instantly. Behind him, some groups of men began to move, and he roared, “I said, STAND STILL! THE NEXT MAN WHO MOVES WITHOUT MY ORDER’S A DEAD MAN!” Everyone froze. Everyone.

Peshadi waited a moment, almost daring someone to move. No one did. Then he glanced back at Hussain whom he knew well. “Mullah,” Peshadi said quietly, “are you all right?” He was standing beside him now. The gate was open. A few yards away the three villagers waited, petrified.

There was a monstrous ache in Hussain’s head and his ears hurt terribly. But he could hear and he could see and though his hands were bloody from the barbs, he knew he was undamaged and not yet the martyr he had expected and had prayed to be. “I demand …” he said weakly, “I demand this … this base in the name of Khomeini.”

“You will come to my office at once,” the colonel interrupted, his voice and face grim. “So will you three, as witnesses. We will talk, mullah. I will listen and then you will listen.” He turned on the loudspeaker again and explained what was going to happen, his voice even grimmer, the words echoing, cutting the night apart. “He and I will talk. We will talk peacefully and then the mullah will return to the mosque and you will all go to your homes to pray. The gate will remain open. The gate will be guarded by my soldiers and my tanks, and, by God and the Prophet on whose Name be praised, if one of you sets foot inside the gate or comes over the fence uninvited, my soldiers will kill him. If twenty or more of you charge into my base I will lead my tanks into your villages and I will burn your villages with you in them! Long live the Shah!” He turned on his heel and strode off, the mullah and the three frightened villagers following slowly. No one else moved.

And on the veranda of the officers’ mess, Captain Conroe Starke, leader of the S-G contingent, sighed. “Good sweet Jesus,” he muttered with vast admiration to no one in particular, “what cojones!”

5:21 A.M. Starke stood at the window of the officers’ mess, watching Peshadi’s HQ building across the street. The mullah had not yet come out. Here in the main lounge of the officers’ mess it was very cold. Freddy Ayre hunched deeper into his easy chair, pulling his flight jacket closer around him, and looked up at the tall Texan who rocked gently on his heels. “What do you think?” he asked wearily, stifling a yawn.

“I think it’ll be dawn in an hour odd, old buddy,” Starke said absently. He also wore a flight jacket and warm flying boots. The two pilots were in a corner window of the second-floor room overlooking most of the base. Scattered around the room were a dozen of the senior Iranian officers who had also been told to stand by. Most were asleep in easy chairs, bundled in their flight jackets or army greatcoats - heating throughout the base had been off for weeks to conserve fuel. A few weary orderlies, also in overcoats, were clearing up the last of the debris from the party that the mob had interrupted.

“I feel wrung out. You?”

“Not yet, but how come I always seem to draw duty on high days and holidays, Freddy?”

“It’s the Fearless Leader’s privilege, old chum,” Ayre said. He was second-in-command of the S-G contingent, ex-RAF, a good-looking man of twenty-eight, with sloe-blue eyes, his accent Oxford English. “Sets a good example to the troops.”

Starke glanced toward the open main gate. No change: it was still well guarded. Outside, half a thousand of the villagers still waited, huddled together for warmth. He went back to staring at the HQ building. No change there either. Lights were on in the upper floor where Peshadi had his offices. “I’d give a month’s pay to be kibitzing on that one, Freddy.” “What? What’s that mean?”

“To be listening to Peshadi and the mullah.”

“Oh!” Ayre looked across the street at the offices. “You know, I thought we’d had it when those miserable buggers started climbing the wire. Bloody hell! I was all set to hare off to old Nellie, crank her up, and say farewell to Kublai Khan and his Mongol hordes!” He chuckled to himself as he imagined himself running for his 212. “Of course,” he added dryly, “I’d have waited for you, Duke.” He used their nickname for Starke who was Texan like John Wayne and built like John Wayne and just as handsome. Starke laughed.“Thanks, old buddy. Come to think of it, if they’d bust in I’d’ve been ahead of you.” His blue eyes crinkled with the depth of his smile, his accent slight. Then he turned back to the window, hiding his concern. This was the base’s third confrontation with a mob, always led by the mullah, each more serious than the last. And now the first deliberate death. Now what? That death’ll lead to another and to another. If it hadn’t been for Colonel Peshadi someone else would have gone for the gate and been shot and now there’d be bodies all over. Oh, Peshadi would’ve won - this time. But soon he won’t, not unless he breaks the mullah. To break Hussain he’ll have to kill him - can’t jail him, the mob’ll bust a gut, and if he kills him, they’ll bust a gut, if he exiles him, they’ll bust a gut, so he’s onto a no-win play. What would I do?

I don’t know.

He looked around the room. The Iranian officers didn’t seem concerned. He knew most of them by sight, not one of them intimately. Though S-G had shared the base since it was built some eight years before, they had had little to do with the military or air force personnel. Since Starke had taken over as chief pilot last year, he had tried to expand S-G’s contacts with the rest of the base but without success. The Iranians preferred their own company.

That’s okay too, he thought. It’s their country. But they’re tearing it apart and we’re in the middle and now Manuela’s here. He had been overjoyed to see his wife when she had arrived by helicopter five days ago - McIver not trusting her to the roads - though a little angry that she had talked her way onto a lone incoming BA flight that had slipped back into Tehran. “Damnit, Manuela, you’re in danger here!”

“No more than in Tehran, Conroe darlin’. Insha’Allah,” she had said with a beam.

“But how’d you talk Mac into letting you come down here?” “I just smiled at him, honey, and promised to go on the first available flight back to England. Meanwhile, darlin’, let’s go to bed.” He smiled to himself and let his mind drift. This was his third two-year tour in Iran and his eleventh year with S-G. Eleven good years, he thought. First Aberdeen and the North Sea, then Iran, Dubai, and Al Shargaz just across the Gulf, then Iran again where he’d planned to stay. The best years here, he thought. But not anymore. Iran’s changed since ‘73 when the Shah quadrupled the price of oil - from $1 to $4 or thereabouts. It was like B.C. and A.D. for Iran. Before, they were friendly and helpful, good to live among and to work with. After? Increasingly arrogant, more and more puffed up by the Shah’s constant overriding message about the “inherent superiority of Iranians” because of their three thousand years of civilization and how within twenty years Iran would be a world leader as was her divine right - would be the fifth industrial power on earth, sole guardian of the crossroads between East and West, with the best army, the best navy, the best air force, with more tanks, helicopters, refrigerators, factories, telephones, roads, schools, banks, businesses than anyone else here in the center of the world. And based on all of this, with the rest of the world listening attentively, Iran under his leadership would be the real arbiter of East and West, and real fountain of all wisdom - his wisdom. Starke sighed. He had come to understand the message, loud and clear over the years, but he blessed Manuela for agreeing to hurl themselves into the Iranian way of life, learning Farsi, going everywhere and seeing everything - new sights and tastes and smells, learning about Persian carpets and caviar, wines and legends and making friends - and not living their life out like many of the expat pilots and engineers who elected to leave their families at home, to work two months on and one off and sat on their bases on days off, saving money, and waiting for their leaves home - wherever home was.

“Home’s here from now on,” she had said. “This’s where we’ll be, me and the kids,” she had added with the toss of her head he admired so much, and the darkness of her hair, the passion of her Spanish heritage. “What kids? We haven’t got any kids and we can’t afford them yet on what I make.”

Starke smiled. That had been just after they were married, ten years ago. He had gone back to Texas to marry her as soon as his place with S-G was firmed. Now they had three children, two boys and a girl, and he could afford them all, just. Now? Now what’s going to happen? My job here’s threatened, most of our Iranian friends’ve gone, there’re empty shops where there was plenty - and fear where there’d only been laughter. Goddamn Khomeini and these goddamn mullahs, he thought. He’s certainly messed up a great way of life and a great place. I wish Manuela’d take the kids and leave London and fly home to Lubbock until Iran stabilizes. Lubbock was near the Panhandle of Texas where his father still ran the family ranch. Eight thousand acres, a few cattle, some horses, some farming, enough for the family to live comfortably. I wish she was there already, but then there’d be no mail for weeks and the phones’re sure to be out. Goddamn Khomeini for frightening her with his speeches - wonder what he’ll say to God and God‘11 say to him when they meet, as they will.

He stretched and sat back in the easy chair. He saw Ayre watching him, his eyes bleary. “You really hung one on.”

“It was my day off, my two days in fact, and I hadn’t planned on the hordes. Actually I had intended to drink to oblivion, I miss my Better Half, bless her, and anyway Hogmanay’s important to us Scots an - ”

“Hogmanay was New Year’s Eve and today’s February tenth and you’re no more Scots than I am.”

“Duke, I’ll have you know the Ayres are an ancient clan and I can play the bagpipes, old boy.” Ayre yawned mightily. “Christ, I’m tired.” He burrowed deeper into the chair, trying to settle himself more comfortably, then glanced out of the window. At once his tiredness dropped away. An Iranian officer was hurrying out of the HQ entrance, heading across the street toward them. It was Major Changiz, the base adjutant.

When he came in, his face was taut. “All officers will report to the commandant at seven o’clock,” he said in Farsi. “All officers. There will be a full parade of all military and air force personnel at eight o’clock in the square. Anyone absent - anyone,” he added darkly, “except for medical reasons approved by me in advance - can expect immediate and severe punishment.” His eyes searched the room until he found Starke. “Please follow me, Captain.”

Starke’s heart skipped a beat. “Why, Major?” he asked in Farsi. “The commandant wants you.”

“What for?”

The major shrugged and walked out.

Starke said quietly to Ayre, “Better alert all our guys. And Manuela. Huh?” “Got it,” Ayre said, then muttered, “Christ.”

As Starke walked across the street and up the stairs, he felt the eyes on him as a physical weight. Thank God I’m a civilian and work for a British company and not in the U.S. Army anymore, he thought fervently. “Goddamn,” he muttered, remembering his year’s stint in Vietnam in the very early days when there were no U.S. forces in Vietnam, “only a few advisers.” Shit! And that sonofabitching spit-and-polish meathead Captain Ritman who ordered all our base’s helicopters - in our jungle base a million miles from anywhere, for crissake - to be painted with bright red, white, and blue stars and stripes: “Yes, goddamnit, all over! Let the gooks know who we are and they’ll rush their asses all the way to goddamn Russia.” The Viet Cong could see us coming from fifty miles and I got peppered to hell and back and we lost three Hueys with full crews before the sonofabitch was posted to Saigon, promoted and posted. No wonder we lost the goddamn war. He went into the office building and up the stairs, past the three petrified villagers who had been banished to the outer office, into the camp commandant’s lair. “Morning, Colonel,” he said cautiously in English. “Morning, Captain Starke.” Peshadi switched to Farsi. “I’d like you to meet the mullah, Hussain Kowissi.”

“Peace be upon you,” Starke said in Farsi, very conscious of the speckles of blood from the dead youth that still marred the man’s white turban and black robe.

“Peace be upon you.”

Starke put out his hand to shake hands as was correct custom. Just in time he noticed the coagulated rips in the man’s palms that the barbed wire had caused. He made his grip gentle. Even so he saw a shaft of pain go across the mullah’s face. “Sorry,” he said in English.

The mullah just stared back and Starke felt the man’s hatred strongly. “You wanted me, Colonel?”

“Yes. Please sit down.” Peshadi motioned at the empty chair opposite his desk. The office was Spartan, meticulously tidy. A photograph of the Shah and Farah, his wife, in court dress was the only wall decoration. The mullah sat with his back toward it. Starke took the chair facing the two men. Peshadi lit another cigarette and saw Hussain’s disapproving eyes drop to the cigarette, then glare into his face. He stared back. Smoking was forbidden in the Koran - according to some interpretation. They had argued this point for over an hour. Then he had said with finality, “Smoking is not forbidden in Iran, not yet. I am a soldier. I have sworn to obey orders. Ir - ”

“Even the illegal ord - ”

“I repeat: the orders of His Imperial Majesty, Shahinshah Mohammed Pahlavi or his representative, Prime Minister Bakhtiar, are still legal according to the law of Iran. Iran is not yet an Islamic state. Not yet. When it is I will obey the orders of whoever leads the Islamic state.” “You will obey the Imam Khomeini?”

“If Ayatollah Khomeini becomes our legal ruler, of course.” The colonel had nodded agreeably, but he was thinking: before that day comes there’s going to be a lot of blood spilled. “And me, if I’m elected leader of this possible Islamic state, will you obey me?”

Hussain had not smiled. “The leader of the Islamic state will be the Imam, the Whirlwind of God, and after him another ayatollah, then another.” And now the stony, uncompromising eyes still glared at him, and Peshadi wanted to smash the mullah into the ground and take his tanks and smash everyone else who would not obey the orders of the Shahinshah, their God-given ruler. Yes, he thought, our God-given leader who like his father stood against you mullahs and your grasp for power, who curbed your archaic dogmatism and brought Iran out of the Dark Ages into our rightful greatness, who single-handedly bulldozed OPEC to stand up to the enormous power of the foreign oil companies, who slung the Russians out of Azerbaijan after World War II and has kept even them at bay, licking his hands like lapdogs. By God and the Prophet, he told himself, enraged, staring back at Hussain, I cannot understand why fornicating mullahs don’t recognize the truth about that senile old man Khomeini who screams lies from his deathbed, won’t realize that the Soviets are sponsoring him, feeding him, protecting him, to stir them up to enflame the peasants to wreck Iran and make it a Soviet protectorate?

We only need one single order: Stamp out rebellion forthwith! With that order, by God, within three days I’d have Kowiss and a hundred miles around quiet, peaceful, and prosperous, mullahs happily in the mosques where they belong, the Faithful praying five times a day - within a month the armed forces’d have all Iran as it was last year and Khomeini solved permanently. Within minutes of the order I’d arrest him, publicly shave off half his beard, strip him naked, and trundle him through the streets in a dung cart. I’d let the people see him for what he is: a broken, beaten old man. Make him a loser and all the people would turn their faces and ears from him. Then accusers would come from the ayatollahs who adore life and love and power and land and talking, accusers would come from the mullahs and bazaaris and from the people and together they would snuff him out. So simple to deal with Khomeini or any mullah - by God if I’d been in charge I’d’ve dragged him from France months ago. He puffed his cigarette and very carefully kept his thoughts off his face and out of his eyes. “Well, mullah, Captain Starke is here.” Then he added, as though it was unimportant. “You can speak to him in Farsi or English, as you wish - he speaks Farsi as you speak English. Fluently.”

The mullah turned on Starke. “So,” he said, his English American accented, “you are CIA.”

“No,” Starke said, instantly on his guard. “You were at school in the States?”

“I was a student there, yes,” Hussain said. Then, because of his pain and tiredness, his temper snapped. He switched to Farsi and his voice harshened. “Why did you learn Farsi if not to spy on us for the CIA - or your oil companies, eh?”

“For my interest, just for my interest,” Starke replied politely in Farsi, his knowledge and accent good, “I’m a guest in your country, invited here by your government to work for your government in partnership with Iranians. It’s polite for guests to be aware of their hosts’ taboos and customs, to learn their language, particularly when they enjoy the country and hope to be guests for many years.” His voice edged. “And they’re not my companies.” “They’re American. You’re American. The CIA’s American.

All our problems come from America. The Shah’s greed’s American. All our problems come from America. For years Iran’s been spat on by Americans.” “Bullshit,” Starke said in English, now equally angry, knowing the only way to deal with a bully was to come out swinging. At once. He saw the man flush. He looked back, unafraid, letting the silence hang. The seconds ticked by. His eyes held the mullah’s. But he couldn’t dominate him. Unsettled but trying to appear calm, he glanced at Peshadi who waited and watched, smoking quietly. “What’s this all about, Colonel?” “The mullah has asked for one of your helicopters to visit all the oil installations in our area. As you’re aware we don’t plan your routes or participate in your operations. You will arrange for one of your best pilots to do this. Today, starting at midday.”

“Why not use one of your airplanes? Perhaps I could supply a navig - ” “No. One of your helicopters with your personnel. At midday.” Starke turned to the mullah. “Sorry, but I only take orders from IranOil, through our base manager and their area rep, Esvandiary. We’re under contract to them and they’re exclus - ”

“The airplanes you fly, they’re Iranian,” the mullah interrupted harshly, his exhaustion and pain welling up again, wanting a finish. “You will provide one as required.”

“They’re Iranian registry, but owned by S-G Helicopters Ltd of Aberdeen.” “Iranian registry, in Iranian skies, filled with Iranian gasoline, authorized by Iranians, servicing Iranian rigs pumping Iranian oil, by God. They’re Iranian!” Hussain’s thin mouth twisted. “Esvandiary will give the necessary flight orders by noon. How long will it take to visit all your sites?”

After a pause Starke said, “Airtime, maybe six hours. How long do you plan to spend at each setdown?”

The mullah just looked at him. “After that I want to follow the pipeline to Abadan and land where I choose.”

Starke’s eyes widened. He glanced at the colonel but saw that the man was still pointedly watching the spirals of smoke from his cigarette. “That one’s more difficult, mullah. We’d need clearances. Radar’s not working, most of that airspace’s controlled by Kish Air Traffic Control and that’s, er, air force controlled.”

“Whatever clearance is needed you will get,” Hussain said with finality and turned his eyes inflexibly on Peshadi. “In the Name of God, I come back at noon: if you stand in my way, the guns begin.”

Starke could feel his heart pumping and the mullah could feel his heart pumping and so could Peshadi. Only the mullah was content - there was no need for him to worry, he was in the Hands of God, doing God’s work, obeying orders: “Press the enemy in every way. Be like water flowing downhill to the dam. Press against the dam of the usurper Shah, his lackeys, and the armed forces. We have to win them over with courage and blood. Press them in every way, you do God’s work. …”

A wind rattled the window and, involuntarily, they glanced at it and at the night beyond. The night was still black, the stars brilliant, but to the east there was the glimmer of dawn, the sun just under the rim of the sky. “I will return at noon, Colonel Peshadi, alone or with many. You choose,” Hussain said quietly, and Starke felt the threat - or promise - with all of his being. “But now, now it is time for prayer.” He forced himself to his feet, his hands still burning with pain, his back and head and ears still aching monstrously. For a moment he felt he was going to faint but he fought off the giddiness and the pain and strode out.

Peshadi got up. “You will do as he asks. Please,” he added as a great concession. “It is a temporary truce and temporary compromise - until we have final orders from His Imperial Majesty’s legal government when we will stop all this nonsense.” Shakily he lit a cigarette from the butt of the last. “You have no problem. He will provide the necessary permissions so it will be a routine VIP flight. Routine. Of course you must agree because of course I can’t allow one of my military airplanes to service a mullah, particularly Hussain who’s renowned for his sedition! Of course not! It was a brilliant finesse on my part and you will not destroy it.” Angrily he stubbed out the cigarette, the ashtray full now, the air nicotine-laden, and he almost shouted, “You heard what he said. At noon! Alone or with many. Do you want more blood spilled? Eh?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then do what you’re told!” Peshadi stormed off.

Grimly Starke went to the window. The mullah had taken his place near the gate, raised his arms, and, like every muezzin from every minaret at every dawn in Islam, called the Faithful to first prayer in the time-honored Arabic: “Come to prayer, come to progress, prayer is better than sleep. There is no other God but God…”

And as Starke watched, Peshadi devoutly took his place at the head of all the men of the base, all ranks, who obediently, and with obvious gladness, had streamed out of their barracks, soldiers laying down their rifles on the ground beside them, villagers outside the fence equally devout. Then, following the lead of the mullah, they all turned toward Mecca, and began the obligatory movements, prostrations, and Shahada litany: “I testify there is no other God but God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God…” When the prayer was finished there was a great silence. Everyone waited. Then the mullah called out loudly: “God, the Koran, and Khomeini.” Then he went through the gates toward Kowiss. Obediently, the villagers followed him.

Starke shivered in spite of himself. That mullah’s so full of hate it’s coming out of his pores. And so much hate’s got to blow something or someone to hell. If I fly him maybe it’ll make him worse. If I assign someone or ask for a volunteer that’s ducking it because it’s my responsibility. “I have to fly him,” he muttered. “Have to.”

Chapter 5

OFF LENGEH: 6:42 A.M. The 212, with two pilots and a full load of thirteen passengers, was on a routine flight, outward bound into the Strait of Hormuz from her S-G base at Lengeh, heading over the placid water of the Gulf for the French-developed Sin oil field. The sun just over the horizon with the promise of another fine cloudless day, though haze, routine over the Gulf, brought visibility down to a few miles.

“Chopper EP-HST, this is Kish radar control, turn to 260 degrees.” Obediently, she went on to her new heading. “260 at one thousand,” Ed Vossi answered.

“Maintain one thousand. Report overhead Sin.” Unlike most of Iran, radar here was good, with stations at Kish Island and Lavan Island, manned by excellent USAF-trained Iranian Air Force operators - both ends of the Gulf were equally strategic and equally well serviced.

“HST.” Ed Vossi was an American - ex-USAF, thirty-two, and built like a linebacker. “Radar’s jumpy today, huh, Scrag?” he said to the other pilot. “Too right. Must be their piles.”

Ahead now was the small island of Siri. It was barren, desolate, and lowlying, with a small dirt airstrip, a few barracks for oil personnel, and a cluster of huge storage tanks that were fed by pipes laid on the seabed from rigs that were westward in the Gulf. The island lay about sixty miles off the Iranian coast, just inside the international boundary that bisected the Strait of Hormuz and separated Iranian waters from those of Oman and the United Arab Emirates.

Directly over the oil tanks, the chopper banked smoothly, heading westward, her first stop some miles away on the oil rig called Siri Three. At present the field had six working rigs, all operated by the French semigovemment consortium, EPF, that had developed the field for IranOil against future shipments of oil. “Kish radar control, HST over Siri at one thousand feet,” Ed Vossi said into the boom mike.

“Roger HST. Maintain one thousand,” came back instantly. “Report before you let down. You have outbound traffic ahead of you at ten o’clock, climbing.” “We have them in sight.” The two pilots watched the flight of four closely packed fighter jets soaring into the high skies, going past them for the mouth of the strait.

“They’re in a hurry,” the older man said and shifted in his seat. “You can say that again. Lookit! Jesus, they’re USAF, F15s!” Vossi was astonished. “Shit, I didn’t know any were in this area. You seen any before, Scrag?”