Whirlwind

“And the secret, numbered Swiss bank accounts - all the more reason to come at once.”

“Yes, but don’t forget something serious might have happened in Tbilisi to make for the delay - Soviets’re just as pissed off and anxious as we are about Iran.”

They saw the man climb back into the Chevy and begin talking volubly. The driver let in the clutch and turned back for the main road. “Let’s get back to our car.”

The way back down the rise was fairly easy going, traffic heavy on the Julfa-Tabriz road below, a few headlights already on and no way for their prey to escape the ambush if they decided to stage it. “Hashemi, another possibility’s that Mzytryk could have found out in the nick that he’s been betrayed by his son, and he’s sent“‘a warning to the Khan whose cover would also have been blown. Don’t forget we still haven’t found out what happened to Rakoczy since your late departed friend General Janan let him go.” “That dog’d never do it on his own,” Hashemi said with a twisted smile, remembering his vast joy when he had touched the transmit button and had seen the resultant car bomb explosion obliterate that enemy, along with his house, his future, and his past. “That would be ordered by Abrim Pahmudi.” “Why?”

Hashemi veiled his eyes and glanced at Armstrong but read no hidden guile therein. You know too many secrets, Robert, know about the Rakoczy tapes, and worst of all about my Group Four and that I assisted Janan into hell - where the Khan will soon join him, as Talbot’s due to in a couple of days, and you, my old friend, at my leisure. Should I tell you Pahmudi has ordered Talbot punished for his crimes against Iran? Should I tell you I’m happy to oblige? For years I’ve wanted Talbot removed but’ve never dared to go against him alone. Now Pahmudi is to blame, may God burn him, and another irritant will be out of my way. Ah, yes, and Pahmudi himself this coming week - but you, Robert, you’re the chosen assassin for that, probably to perish. Pahmudi’s not worth one of my real assassins.

He chortled to himself, trudging down the hill, not feeling the cold, not worried about Mzytryk’s nonappearance. I’ve more important worries, he was thinking. At all costs I’ve got to protect my Group Four assassins - my guarantee for an earthly paradise with power over even Khomeini himself. “Pahmudi’s the only one who could have ordered Rakoczy’s release,” he said. “Soon I’ll find out why and where he is. He’s either in the Soviet embassy, a Soviet safe house, or in a SA-VAMA interrogation dungeon.” “Or safely out of the country by now.”

“Then he’s safely dead - the KGB don’t tolerate traitors.” Hashemi smiled sardonically. “What’s your bet?”

For a moment Armstrong did not answer, thrown by the question mat was unusual for Hashemi who disapproved of gambling, as he did. Now. The last time he had bet was in Hong Kong in ‘63 with bribe money mat had been put into his desk drawer when he was a superintendent, CID. Forty thousand Hong Kong dollars - about seven thousand U.S. men. Against all his principles, he had taken the heung yau, the Fragrant Grease as it was called there, out of the drawer and, at the races that afternoon, had bet it all on the nose of a horse called Pilot Fish, all in one insane attempt to recoup his gambling losses - horses and the stock market.

This was the first bribe money he had ever taken in eighteen years in the force though it was always readily available in abundance. That afternoon he had won heavily and had replaced the money before the police sergeant giver had noticed it had been touched - with more than enough left over for his debts. Even so he had been disgusted with himself and appalled at his stupidity. He had never bet again, nor touched heung yau again though the opportunity was always there. “You’re a bloody fool, Robert,” some of his peers would say, “no harm in a little dolly money for retirement.” Retirement? What retirement? Christ, twenty years a copper in Hong Kong on the straight and narrow, eleven years here, equally so, helping these bloodthirsty twits, and it’s all up the bloody spout. Thank God I’ve only me to worry about, no wife now or kids or close relations, just me. Still, if I get bloody Suslev who’ll lead me to one of our high-up murdering bloody traitors, it’ll all have been worth it.

“Like you, I’m not a betting men, Hashemi, but if I was…” He stopped and offered his packet of cigarettes and they lit up gratefully. The smoke mixed with the cold air and showed clear in the falling light. “If I was, I’d say it was odds-on that Rakoczy was your Pahmudi’s pishkesh to some Soviet VIP, just to play it safe.”

Hashemi laughed. “You’re becoming more Iranian every day. I’ll have to be more careful.” They were almost to the car now and his assistant got out to open the rear door for him. “We’ll go straight to the Khan, Robert.” “What about the Chevy?”

“We’ll leave others to tail it, I want to get to the Khan first.” The colonel’s face darkened. “Just to make sure that traitor’s more on our side than theirs.”

Chapter 48

AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 6:35 P.M. Starke stared at Gavallan in total shock. “Whirlwind in six days?”

“‘Fraid so, Duke.” Gavallan unzipped his parka and put his hat on the hall stand. “Wanted to tell you myself - sorry, but there it is.” The two men were in Starke’s bungalow, and he had stationed Freddy Ayre outside to make sure they were not overheard. “I heard this morning all our birds are going to be grounded, pending nationalization. We’ve six safe days to plan and execute Whirlwind - if we do it. That makes it next Friday. On Saturday we’re on borrowed time.”

“Jesus.” Absently Starke unzipped his flight jacket and clomped over to the sideboard, his flying boots leaving a little trail of snow and water droplets on the carpet. At the back of the bottom drawer was his last bottle of beer. He nipped the top off, poured half into a glass and gave it to Gavallan. “Health,” he said, drinking from the bottle, and sat on the sofa. “Health.”

“Who’s in, Andy?”

“Scrag. Don’t know yet about the rest of his lads but I’ll know tomorrow. Mac’s come up with a schedule and an overall three-phase plan that’s full of holes but possible. Let’s say it’s possible. What about you and your lads?” “What’s Mac’s plan?”

Gavallan told him.

“You’re right, Andy. It’s full of holes.”

“If you were to do a bunk, how’d you plan it from here - you’ve got the longest distances and the most difficulty.”

Starke went over to the flight map on the wall and pointed at a line that went from Kowiss to a cross a few miles out in the Gulf, indicating a rig. “This rig’s called Flotsam, one of our regulars,” he said, and Gavallan noticed how tight his voice had become. “It takes us about twenty minutes to reach the coast and another ten to get to the rig. I’d cache fuel on the shore near that bearing. I think it could be done without causing too much suspicion; it’s just sand dunes and no huts within miles and a lot of us used to picnic there. An ‘emergency’ landing to safety-check flotation gear before going out to sea shouldn’t get radar too itchy though they get worse every day. We’d have to cache two forty-gallon drums per chopper to get us across the Gulf and we’d have to refuel in flight by hand.” It was almost dusk. Windows looked out on the runway and beyond it to the air force base. The 125, with priority clearance onward to Al Shargaz, was parked on the apron, waiting for the fuel truck to arrive. Officious, nervous Green Bands surrounded her. Refueling was not really necessary but Gavallan had told John Hogg to request it anyway to give him more time with Starke. The other two passengers, Arberry and Dibble, being sent on leave after their escape from Tabriz - and crammed between a full load of crates of spares hastily packed and marked in English and Farsi: FOR IMMEDIATE REPAIR AND RETURN TO TEHRAN - were not allowed to land, even to stretch their legs. Nor the pilots, except to ground-check and to supervise the fueling when the truck arrived.

“You’d head for Kuwait?” Gavallan asked, breaking the silence. “Sure. Kuwait’d be our best bet, Andy. We’d have to refuel in Kuwait, then work our way down the coast to Al Shargaz. If it was up to me I guess I’d park more fuel against an emergency.” Starke pinpointed a tiny speck of an island off Saudi. “Here’d be good - best to stay offshore Saudi, no telling what they’d do.” Queasily he stared at all the distances. “The island’s called Jellet, the Toad, which’s what it looks like. No huts, no nothing, but great fishing. Manuela and I went out there once or twice when I was stationed at Bahrain. I’d park fuel there.”

He took off his flight cap and wiped the droplets off his forehead then put his cap back on again, his face more etched and tired than usual, all flights more harassed than usual, canceled then reordered, and canceled again, Esvandiary more foul than usual, everyone edgy and irritable, no mail or contact with home for weeks, most of his people, including himself, overdue leave and replacement. Then there’s the added problems of the incoming Zagros Three personnel and airplanes and what to do with old Effer Jordon’s body when it arrives tomorrow. That had been Starke’s first question when he had met Gavallan at the 125 steps. “I’ve got that in hand, Duke,” Gavallan had said heavily, the wind ten knots and chill. “I’ve got ATC’s permission for the 125 to come back tomorrow afternoon to pick up the coffin. I’ll ship it back to England on the first available flight. Terrible. I’ll see his wife as soon as I get back and do what I can.” “Lousy luck - thank God young Scot’s okay, huh?” “Yes, but lousy that anyone got hurt, lousy.” What if it was Scot’s corpse and Scot’s coffin? Gavallan was thinking again, the question never ending. What if it had been Scot, could you still compartmentalize the murder so easily? No, of course not. All you can do is bless your joss this time and do the best you can - just do the best you can. “Curiously, Tehran ATC and the airport komiteh were as shocked as we were, and very helpful. Let’s go and chat - I’ve not much time. Here’s mail for some of the lads and one from Manuela. She’s fine, Duke. She said not to worry. Kids’re fine and want to stay in Texas. Your folks’re fine too - she asked me to tell you first thing when I caught up with you…”

Then Gavallan had delivered the bombshell of six days and now Starke’s mind was in a fog. “With Zagros’s birds here, I’ll have three 212s, one Alouette, and three 206s plus a load of spares. Nine pilots, including Tom Lochart and JeanLuc, and twelve mechanics. That’s way too many for a caper like Whirlwind, Andy.”

“I know.” Gavallan looked out the window. The fueling truck was lumbering alongside the 125 and he saw Johnny Hogg come down the steps. “How long will she take to refuel?”

“If Johnny doesn’t hurry them up, three quarters of an hour, easy.”

“Not much time to make a plan,” Gavallan said. He looked back at the map. “But then there’d never be enough. Is there a rig near that bearing that’s empty - still closed down?”

“Dozens. There’re dozens that’re still as the strikers left them months ago - doors welded closed, crazy, huh? Why?”

“Scrag said one of them might be an ideal spot to park gasoline and refuel.” Starke frowned. “Not in our area, Andy. He’s got some big platforms - ours’re little bitty ones mostly. We’ve none that could take more than one chopper at a time, and we sure as hell wouldn’t want to wait around. What’d old Scrag say?”

Gavallan told him.

“You think he’ll get to go see Rudi?”

“He said in the next few days. I can’t wait that long now. Could you find an excuse to get down to Bandar Delam?”

Starke’s eyes narrowed. “Sure. Maybe we could send a couple of our birds there an’ say we’re redeploying them - even better, tell Hotshot we’re putting ‘em on loan for a week. We can still get occasional clearances - so long as that sonofabitch’s out of the way.”

Gavallan sipped the beer, making it last. “We can’t operate any longer in Iran. Poor old Jordon should never have happened, and I’m damned sorry I didn’t order an evacuation weeks ago. Damned sorry.”

“He wasn’t your fault, Andy.”

“In a way he was. In any event we have to pull out. With or without our planes. We have to try to salvage what we can - without risking personnel.” “Any caper’s going to be goddamn risky, Andy.” Starke’s voice was gentle. “I know. I’d like you to ask your lads if they’d be part of Whirlwind.” “There’s no way we could get out all our choppers. No way.” “I know, so I propose we concentrate on our 212s only.” Gavallan saw Starke look at him with more interest. “Mac agreed. Could you fly your three out?” Starke thought a moment. “Two’s max that I could handle - we’d need two pilots, with say one mechanic per chopper for emergencies and some extra hands to handle the spare drums or inflight refuel - that’d be minimum. It’d be tricky but if we got lucky…” He whistled tonelessly, “Maybe we could send the other 212 to Rudi at Bandar Delam? Sure, why the hell not? I’d tell Hotshot she’s on loan for ten days. You could send me a confirm telex asking for the transfer. But hell, Andy, we’d still have three pilots here an - ”

The interbase phone rang. “Goddamn,” he said irritably, getting up and going over to it. “I’m so used to having the phones out, every time one rings I jump like a scalded cat expecting Armageddon. Hello, this’s Starke. Yeah?” Gavallan watched Starke, tall, lean, and so strong. Wish I was as strong, he thought.

“Ah, thanks,” Starke was saying. “Okay… sure, thanks, Sergeant. Who?… Sure, put him on.” Gavallan noticed the change in the voice and his attention increased. “Evening… No, we can’t, not now…. NO! We can’t! Not now, we’re busy.” He put the phone down with a muttered “sonofabitch.” “Hotshot, wanting to see us. ‘I want you both over in my office at once!’ Asshole!” He sipped some beer and felt better. “It was also Wazari in the tower reporting the last of our birds has just touched down.” “Who?” “Pop Kelly, he’s been on the Flotsam run, ferrying a few oilers from rig to rig - they’re way down in strength, except in fat-ass komitehs who’re more concerned with prayer meetings and kangaroo courts than pumping oil.” He shivered. “I tell you, Andy, the komitehs are Satan-sponsored.” Gavallan noted the word but said nothing as Starke continued, “They’re the pits.” “Yes. Azadeh nearly got killed - by stoning.” “What?”

Gavallan told him about the village and her escape from the village. “We still don’t know where the hell old Erikki is - I saw her before I left and she was… glazed is about the only word, still not over the shock.” Starke’s face became even grimmer. With an effort he shook off his anger. “Say we can get the 212s out, what about the guys? We’ve still three pilots and maybe ten mecs to get out before the caper, what about them? And what about all the spares? We’d be leaving three 206s and the Alouette… and what about all our household bits and pieces, our bank accounts, apartments in Tehran, photos, and all the kids’ stuff - hell, not just ours but all the other guys’, the ones we got out in the exodus? If we shove off, everything’ll be lost. Everything.”

“The company’ll reimburse everyone. I can’t do the bric-a-brac but we’ll pay bank accounts and cover the rest. Most’re minimal as most of you keep your funds in England and draw on them as you need them. For the last few months - certainly since the banks went on strike - we’ve been crediting all pay and allowances in Aberdeen. We’ll pay to replace furniture and personal stuff. Seems to me we can’t get most of it out anyway - ports are still clogged, practically no truckers, railways aren’t working, air freight almost nonexistent. Everyone’ll be reimbursed.”

Starke nodded slowly. He finished his beer to the dregs. “Even if we get the 212s out, you’re going to take a bath.”

Gavallan said patiently, “No. Add it up for yourself. Each 212’s worth $1 million, each 206 $150,000, an Alouette $500,000. We’ve twelve 212s in Iran. If we could get them out we’d be okay, still in business, and I could absorb Iran’s losses. Just. Business’s booming and twelve 212s would keep us going. Any spares we could get out’d be an extra bonus - again we could concentrate on 212 spares only. With our 212s we’re in business.”

He tried to maintain his confidence, but it was waning. So many hurdles to jump, mountains to scale, gorges to cross. Yes, but don’t forget that a journey often thousand leagues begins with one step. Be a little Chinese, he told himself. Remember your childhood in Shanghai and old Nanny Ah Soong and how she taught you about joss - part luck, part karma: “Joss is joss, young Master, good or bad. Sometimes you can pray for good joss and get it, sometimes not. But ayeeyah, don’t trust the gods too far - gods are like people. They sleep, go out to lunch, get drunk, forget what they’re supposed to do, lie, and promise, and lie again. Pray all you want but don’t depend on gods - only yourself and your family and even with them depend on yourself. Remember gods don’t like people, young Master, because people remind them of themselves….”

“Of course we’ll get the lads out, every last one. Meanwhile, would you ask for volunteers to fly out your two birds if, if I push the button on Whirlwind?”

Starke glanced back at the map. Then he said, “Sure. It’ll be me and either Freddy or Pop Kelly - the other guy can take the 212 to Rudi and join him in his plan, they’ve not so far to go.” He smiled wryly. “Okay?” “Thanks,” Gavallan said, feeling very good inside. “Thanks. Did you mention Whirlwind to Tom Lochart when he was here?”

“Sure. He said to count him out, Andy.”

“Oh.” The good feeling vanished. “Then that’s it. If he stays we can’t go forward.”

“He’s a ‘go,’ Andy, whether he likes it or not,” Starke said compassionately. “He’s committed - with or without Sharazad. That’s the tough part, with or without. He can’t escape HBC, Valik, and Isfahan.” After a moment Gavallan said, “I suppose you’re right. Unfair, isn’t it?” “Yes. Tom’s all right, he’ll understand eventually. I’m not so sure about Sharazad.”

“Mac and I tried to see her in Tehran. We went to the Bakravan house and knocked for ten minutes. No answer. Mac went yesterday too. Maybe they’re just not answering the door.”

“Not like Iranians.” Starke took off his flight jacket and hung it up in the small hall. “Soon as Tom gets back here tomorrow, I’ll send him to Tehran if there’s enough daylight left - latest, Monday morning. I was going to clear it with Mac tonight on our regular call.”

“Good idea.” Gavallan went on to the next problem. “Damned if I know what to do about Erikki either. I saw Talbot and he said he’d see what he could do, then I went to the Finnish embassy and saw a first secretary called Tollonen and told him too. He seemed very concerned - and just as helpless. “That’s rather a wild country and the border’s as fluid as the rebellion, insurrection, or fighting that’s going on there. If the KGB’s involved…’ He left it hanging, Duke, just like that. ‘If the KGB’s involved “What about Azadeh, can’t her daddy, the Khan, help?” “Seems they all had a huge row. She was very shook. I asked her to forget her Iranian papers and get on the 125 and wait for Erikki in Al Shargaz, but that went down like a lead balloon. She won’t move till Erikki reappears. I pointed out the Khan’s a law unto himself - he can reach into Tehran and kidnap her back too easily if he wants. She said, ‘Insha’Allah.’”

“Erikki‘11 be okay. I’d bet on that.” Starke was confident. “His ancient gods’ll guard him.”

“Hope so.” Gavallan had kept his parka on. Even so he was still feeling cold. Out of the window he could see the fueling still continuing. “How about a cuppa before I leave?”

“Sure.” Starke went to the kitchen. Above the sink was a mirror and over the butane stove opposite was an old, worn needlepoint mounted in frame that a friend in Falls Church had given to Manuela as a wedding present: SCREW HOME COOKING. He smiled, remembering how they had laughed when they had got it, then noticed the reflection of Gavallan in the mirror brood ing at the map. I must be crazy, he thought, zeroing back to six days and two choppers. How the hell’re we gonna clean out the base and still keep ourselves in one piece ‘cause Andy’s right that one way or another we’re finished here. I must be crazy to volunteer. But what the hell? You can’t ask one of your guys to volunteer if you don’t do it yourself. Yeah, bu - There was a knock on the front door and it opened immediately. Freddy Ayre said softly, “Hotshot’s heading this way with a Green Band.” “Come on in, Freddy, and shut the door,” Starke said. They waited in silence. An imperious knock. He opened the door, saw the arrogant sneer on Esvandiary, instantly recognizing the young Green Band as one of the mullah Hussain’s men and also a member of the komiteh at his questioning. “Salaam,” he said politely.

“Salaam, Agha,” the Green Band said with a shy smile. He had thick, cracked glasses and threadbare clothes and an M16.

Abruptly, Starke’s mind went into overload and he heard himself say, “Mr. Gavallan, I think you know Hotshot.”

“My name’s Esvandiary - Mr. Esvandiary!” the man said angrily. “How many times do you have to be told? Gavallan, it would help your operation greatly to get rid of this man before we throw him out as an undesirable!” Gavallan flushed at the rudeness. “Now just a minute, Captain Starke’s the best capt - ”

“You’re Hotshot, you’re also a sonofabitch,” Starke exploded, bunching his fists, suddenly so dangerous that Ayre and Gavallan were aghast, Esvandiary backed off a foot, and the young Green Band gaped. “You’ve always been Hotshot and I’d call you Esvandiary or whatever goddamn name you want but for what you did to Captain Ayre. You’r a sonofabitch with no balls and need pasting and before you’re very much older you’re gonna get it!” “I’ll have you before the komiteh torn - ” “You’re a yellow-bellied eater of camel dung, so go blow it outta your ass.” Contemptuously Starke turned to the Green Band who was still gaping at him, and without missing abeat, switched to Farsi, his voice now polite and deferential. “Excellency, I told this dog,“he jerked his thumb rudely at Esvandiary, “that he is an eater of camel dung, with no courage, who needs men with guns to protect him while he orders other men to beat and threaten unarmed peaceful members of my tribe against the law, who will not…”

Choked with rage, Esvandiary tried to interrupt but Starke overrode him, “… who will not stand against me as a man - with knife or sword or gun or fist - according to custom among the Bedouin to avoid a family blood feud, and according to my custom also.”

“Blood feud? You’ve gone mad! In the Name of God, what blood feud? Blood feuds’re against the law…” Esvandiary shouted and continued the tirade, Gavallan and Ayre watching helplessly, not understanding Farsi and completely thrown by Starke’s outburst.

But the young Green Band closed his ears to Esvandiary, then held up his hand, still awed by Starke and his knowledge and not a little envious. “Please, Excellency Esvandiary,” he said, his eyes magnified by the thickness of the old, cracked lenses, and when there was quiet he said to Starke, “You claim the ancient right of blood feud against this man?” Starke could feel his heart pumping, and he heard himself say firmly, “Yes,” knowing it was a dangerous gamble but he had to take it, “yes.”

“How can an Infidel claim such a right?” Esvandiary said furiously. “This is not the Saudi desert, our laws forbid blo - ”

“I claim that right!”

“As God wants,” the Green Band said and looked at Esvandiary. “Perhaps this man is not an Infidel, not truly. This man can claim what he likes, Excellency.”

“Are you mad? Of course he’s an Infidel and don’t you know blood feuds’re against the law. You fool, it’s against the law, it’s ag - ”

“You’re not a mullah!” the youth said, angry now. “You’re not a mullah to say what is the law and what isn’t! Shut your mouth! I’m no illiterate peasant, I can read and write and I’m a member of the komiteh to keep the peace here and now you threaten the peace.” He glared at Esvandiary who once more backed off. “I will ask the komiteh and mullah Hussain,” he said to Starke. “There is little chance that they would agree but… as God wants. I agree the law is the law and that a man does not need other men with guns to beat unarmed innocents against the law - or even to punish the evil, however evil, only the strength of God. I leave you to God.” He turned to go. “A moment, Agha,” Starke said. He reached over and took a spare parka that hung on a hook beside the still-open door. “Here,” he said, offering the coat, “please accept this small gift.”

“I could not possibly do that,” the youth said, eyes wide and filled with longing.

“Please, Excellency, it is so insignificant that it hardly bears noticing.”

Esvandiary began to say something but stopped as the youth looked over at him, then again turned his attention to Starke. “I could not possibly accept it - it is so rich and I could not possibly accept it from His Excellency.” “Please,” Starke said patiently, continuing the formality, then at length held the coat up for the youth to slip on.

“Well, if you insist…“the youth said, pretending reluctance. He gave Ayre the M16 while he slipped into the coat, the others not knowing quite what was going on, except Esvandiary who watched and waited, swearing revenge. “It is wonderful,” the youth said, zipping it up, feeling warm for the first time in many months. Never in all his life had he had such a coat. “Thank you, Agha.” He saw the look on Esvandiary’s face and his disgust for him increased - wasn’t he just accepting pishkesh as was his right? “I shall try to persuade the komiteh to grant the right His Excellency asks,” he said, then contentedly went off into the gloaming.

At once Starke whirled on Esvandiary. “Now what the hell did you want?” “Many pilots’ licenses and resident permits’re out of date an - ” “No British or American pilot’s license’s out of date - only Iranian and they’re automatic if the others are okay! Of course they’re out of date! Haven’t your offices been closed for months - pull your head out of your ass!”

Esvandiary went beet red and the moment he started to reply, Starke turned his back on him and looked directly at Gavallan for the first time. “It’s clearly impossible to operate here any longer, Mr. Gavallan - you’ve seen it for yourself now, we’re harassed, Freddy here was beaten, we’re overruled, and there’s no way we can work with this sort of crap. I think you should close down the base for a couple of months. At once!” he added. Gavallan suddenly understood. “I agree,” he said and grabbed the initiative. Starke sighed with relief, pushed past, and sat down with pretended sullenness, heart racing in his chest. “I’m closing the base at once. We’ll send all our choppers and personnel elsewhere. Freddy, get five men overdue leave and put them aboard the 125 right now with their luggage, right now an - ”

“You can’t close down the base,” Esvandiary snarled. “Nor can y - ” “It’s closed, by God,” Gavallan said, working himself into a towering rage. “They’re my aircraft and my personnel and we’re not going to suffer all this harassment and beating. Freddy, who’s overdue leave?”

Blankly Ayre began to give names and Esvandiary was in shock. To close down the base did not suit him at all. Wasn’t Minister Ali Kia visiting here on Thursday and wasn’t he then going to offer him an extraordinary pishkesh? If the base was closed that would ruin all his plans.

“You can’t take our helicopters out of this area without my approval,” he shouted. “They’re Iranian property!”

“They’re the property of the joint venture when they’re paid for,” Gavallan shouted back, more than a little imposing in rage. “I’m going to complain to higher authority you’re interfering with the Imam’s direct order to get production back to normal. You are! Y - ”

“You’re forbidden to close down. I’ll have the komiteh put Starke in jail for mutiny if y - ”

“Balderdash! Starke, I’m ordering you to close the base down. Hotshot, you seem to forget we’re well connected. I’ll complain directly to Minister Ali Kia. He’s adviser to our board now and he’ll deal with you and IranOil!” Esvandiary blanched. “Minister Kia’s on… on the… on the board?”

“Yes, yes, he is.” For a split second Gavallan was nonplussed. He had used Kia’s name as the only one he knew in the present government and was astonished at the impact it had had on Esvandiary. But hardly missing a beat, he pressed home his advantage. “My close friend Ali Kia will deal with all this! And with you. You’re a traitor to Iran! Freddy, get five men aboard the 125 right now! And Starke, send every aircraft we have to Bandar Delam at first light - at first light!”

“Yessir!”

“Wait,” Esvandiary said, seeing his whole plan in ruins. “There’s no need to close down the base, Mr. Gavallan. There may have been misunderstandings, mostly due to Petrofi and that man Zataki. I wasn’t responsible for that beating, it wasn’t me!” He forced his voice to be reasonable but inside he wanted to shout with rage and see them all in jail, flogged and screaming for mercy they would never get. “No reason to close the base down, Mr. Gavallan. Flying can stay normal!”

“It’s closed,” Gavallan said imperiously and glanced at Starke for guidance. “Much as I’m against it.”

“Yessir. You’re right.” Starke was very deferential. “Of course you can close the base. We can redeploy the choppers or mothball them. Bandar Delam needs an immediate 212 for… for the Iran-Toda contract. Perhaps we could send ‘em one of ours, and close down the rest.”

Esvandiary said quickly, “Mr. Gavallan, work is getting more normal every day. The revolution is successful and over, the Imam in charge. The komitehs… the komitehs’ll soon disappear. There’ll be all the Guerney contracts to service, double the number of 212s needed. As to overdue license renewals - Insha’Allah! We will wait thirty days. No need to close operations. No need to be hasty, Mr. Gavallan, you’ve been on this base a long time, you’ve a big investment here an - ”

“I know what our investment is,” Gavallan snapped with real anger, hating the unctuous undercurrent. “Very well, Captain Starke, I’ll take your advice and by God you’d better be right. Put two men on the 125 tonight, their replacements will be back next week. Send the 212 to Bandar Delam tomorrow - how long is she to be on loan?”

“Six days, sir, back next Sunday.”

Gavallan said to Esvandiary, “She’ll come back, pending an improved situation here.”

“The 212 is ours… the 212 is the base’s equipment, Mr. Gavallan,” Esvandiary corrected himself quickly. “We carry it on our manifests. It will have to come back. As to personnel, the rule is that incoming pilots and mechanics arrive first to replace those going on leave an - ” “Then we’re going to bend the rules - Mister Esvandiary - or I close the base now,” Gavallan said curdy and held on to his hope. “Starke, put two men on the plane tonight, all but a skeleton staff on the Thursday flight, and we’ll send her back with full replacements on Friday, pending the situation coming back to normal.”

Starke saw Esvandiary’s rage returning so he said quickly, “We’re not allowed to fly on Holy Day, sir. The full crew should come first thing Saturday morning.” He glanced at Esvandiary. “Don’t you agree?” For a moment Esvandiary thought he was going to explode, his pent-up rage almost overcoming his resolve. “If you… if you apologize - for the foul names and your foul manners.”

There was a big silence, the door still open, the room chill, but Starke felt the sweat on his back as he weighed his answer. They had achieved so much - if Whirlwind was to come to pass - but Esvandiary was no fool and a quick acquiescence would make him suspicious, as a refusal might jeopardize their gains. “I apologize for nothing - but I will call you Mr. Esvandiary in future,” he said.

Without a word Esvandiary turned on his heel and stormed off. Starke closed the door, his shirt under his sweater sticking to him.

“What the hell was all that about, Duke?” Ayre said angrily. “Are you bonkers?”

“Just a moment, Freddy,” Gavallan said. “Duke, will Hotshot go along with it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Starke sat down, his knees trembling. “Jesus.”

“If he does… if he does… Duke, you were brilliant! It was a brilliant idea, brilliant.”

“You caught the ball, Andy, you made the touchdown.”

“If it is a touchdown.” Gavallan wiped the sweat off his own brow. He began to explain to Ayre, stopped as the phone rang.

“Hello? This’s Starke… Sure, hang on… Andy, it’s the tower. McIver’s on the HF for you. Wazari asks if you want to go over right away or call him back - McIver says to tell you he’s gotten a message from a guy called Avisyard.”

In the control room, Gavallan touched the send switch, almost sick with worry, Wazari watching him, another English-speaking Green Band as attentive. “Yes, Captain McIver?”

“Evening, Mr. Gavallan, glad I caught you.” McIver’s voice was heavy with static and noncommittal. “How do you read?”

“Three by five, Captain McIver, go ahead.”

“I’ve just got a telex from Liz Chen. It says: ‘Please forward to Mr. Gavallan the following telex, dated 25 Feb., just arrived: “Your request is approved, [signed] Masson Avisyard.” A copy has gone to Al Shargaz.’ Message ends.”

For a moment Gavallan did not believe his ears. “Approved?” “Yes. I repeat: ‘Your request is approved.’ Telex’s signed Masson Avisyard. What should I reply?”

Gavallan was hard put to keep the glow off his face. Masson was the name of his friend in the Aviation Registration Office in London and the “request” was to put all their Iranian-based helicopters temporarily back onto British registry. “Just acknowledge it, Captain McIver.”

“We can proceed with planning.”

“Yes. I agree. I’m off in a couple of minutes, is there anything else?”

“Not for the moment - just routine. I’ll bring Captain Starke up to date tonight at our regular time. Very glad about Masson, happy landings.” “Thanks, Mac, and you.” Gavallan clicked off the switch and handed the mike back to young Sergeant Wazari. He had noticed the bad bruising, broken nose, and that some of his teeth were missing. But he said nothing. What was there to say, “Thank you, Sergeant?” Wazari motioned out of the windows at the apron below where the refueling crew had started winding in the long hoses. “She’s all gassed, s - ” He just stopped the automatic “sir.” “We’ve, er, we’ve no runway lights operating so you’d best be aboard soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” Gavallan felt almost light-headed as he walked for the stairs. The interbase HF crackled into life. “This’s the base commander. Put Mr. Gavallan on.”

At once Wazari clicked the send switch. “Yessir.” Nervously he handed the mike to Gavallan whose caution had soared. “He’s Maj - sorry, he’s now Colonel Changiz.”

“Yes, Colonel? Andrew Gavallan.”

“Aliens are forbidden to use the HF for code messages - who is Masson Avisyard?”

“A design engineer,” Gavallan said. It was the first thought that came into his head. Watch yourself, this bastard’s clever. “I certainly wasn’t tr - ” “What was your ‘request’ and who is…” There was a slight pause and muffled voices. “… who is Liz Chen?”

“Liz Chen is my secretary, Colonel. My request was to…” To what? he wanted to shout, then all at once the answer came to him. “… to confine seating to a configuration six rows of two seats either side of a gangway of a new chopper, the X63. The manufacturers wanted a different configuration but our engineers believe that this six by four would enhance safety and make for speedy exit in case of emergency. It would also save money and m - ” “Yes, very well,” the colonel interrupted him testily. “I repeat, the HF is not to be used except with prior approval until the emergency is over, and certainly not for code. Your refueling is completed, you’re cleared for immediate takeoff. Tomorrow’s landing to pick up the body of the Zagros casualty is not approved. EchoTangoLimaLima may land Monday between 1100 and 1200, subject to confirm by HQ that will be sent to Kish radar. Good night.” “But we already have Tehran’s formal approval, sir. My pilot gave it to your landing chief the moment he arrived.”

The colonel’s voice hardened even more: “The Monday clearance is subject to confirmation by Iran Air Force HQ. Iran Air Force HQ. This is an Iran Air Force base, you are subject to Iran Air Force regulation and discipline and will abide by Iran Air Force regulations and discipline. Do you understand?” After a pause, Gavallan said, “Yes, sir, I understand, but we’re a civilian oper - ”

“You’re in Iran, on an Iran Air Force base and therefore subject to Iran Air Force regulations and discipline.” The channel went dead. Nervously Wazari tidied his already meticulous desk.

Sunday - February 25

Chapter 49

ZAGROS - RIG BELLISSIMA: 11:05 A.M. In the biting cold Tom Lochart watched Jesper Almqvist, the down-hole expert, handle the big plug that now was suspended by a wire over the exposed drilling hole. All around was the burned-out wreckage of the rig and trailers from the terrorist firebomb attack, already half buried in new snow.

“Lower away,” the young Swede shouted. At once his assistant in the small, self-contained cabin started the winch. Awkwardly fighting the wind, Jesper guided the plug down into the well’s metal casing. The plug consisted of an explosive charge over two metal half cups fixed around a rubber sealing ring. Lochart could see how tired both men were. This was the fourteenth well they had capped over the last three days, still five more to go, the sunset deadline only seven hours away, each well a two-to three-hour job in good conditions - once they were on site.

“Sonofabitching conditions,” Lochart muttered, equally weary. Too many flying hours since the Green Band of the komiteh had decreed the deadline, too many problems: scrambling to close down the whole field with its eleven sites, rushing to Shiraz to fetch Jesper, airlifting crews to Shiraz from dawn to dusk, spares to Kowiss - deciding what to take and what to leave, impossible to do everything at such short notice. Then the death of Jordon and Scot being clipped.

“That’s it, hold her there!” Jesper shouted, then hurried back through the snow to the cabin. Lochart watched him check the depth gauge, then stab a button. There was a muffled explosion. A puff of smoke came out of the drill hole. At once his assistant winched in the remains of the wire as Jesper went back, fought the pipe rams closed over the drill hole, and it was done - “The explosive charge blows the two cups together,” Jesper had explained earlier; “this forces the rubber seal against the steel casing and she’s capped, the seal good for a couple of years. When you want to open her, we come back and with another special tool drill out the plug and she’s as good as new. Maybe.”

He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Let’s get the hell out, Tom!” He trudged back to the cabin, turned the main electric switch off, stuffed all the computer printouts into a briefcase, closed and locked the door. “What about all the gear?”

“It Stays. The cabin’s okay. Let’s get aboard, I’m frozen to hell.” Jesper headed for the 206 that was parked on the helipad. “Soon as I get back to Shiraz I’ll see IranOil and get ‘em to get us permission to come back and pick the cabin up, along with the others. Eleven cabins’re one hell of an investment to leave lying around and not working. Weatherwise they’re good for a year, locked up. They’re designed to take a lot of weather beating, though not vandalizing.” He motioned to the wreckage around them. “Stupid!” “Yes.”

“Stupid! Tom, you should’ve seen the IranOil execs when I told them you’d been ordered out and Mr. Sera was closing down the field.” Jesper grinned, fair hair, blue eyes. “They screamed like slitted pigs and swore there were no komiteh orders to stop production.”

“I still don’t see why they didn’t come back with you and overrule the bastards here.”

“I invited them and they said next week. This’s Iran, they’ll never come.” He looked back at the site. “That well alone’s worth sixteen thousand barrels a day.” He got into the left seat beside Lochart, his assistant, a taciturn Breton, clambered into the back and pulled the door closed. Lochart started up, heat to maximum. “Next, Rig Maria, okay?”

Jesper thought a moment. “Better leave her till last. Rig Rosa’s more important.” He stifled another yawn. “We’ve two producers to cap there and the one still drilling. Poor bastards haven’t had time to tip out about seven thousand feet of pipe so we’ll have to plug her with it all in. Sonofabeetching waste.” He clipped his seat belt on and huddled closer to the heat fan.

“What happens then?”

“Routine.” The young man laughed. “When you want to open her up, we core the plug, then start fishing the pipe out piece by piece. Slow, tedious, and expensive.” Another huge yawn. He closed his eyes and was almost instantly asleep.

Mimmo Sera met the 206 at Rig Rosa. A 212 was also on the pad, engine idling, JeanLuc at the controls, men loading luggage and getting aboard. “Buon giorno, Tom.”

“Hi, Mimmo. How’s it go?” Lochart waved a greeting to JeanLuc. “These are the last of my men except for a roustabout to help Jesper.” Mimmo Sera was bleary with fatigue. “There was no time to tip pipe out of Three.” “No problem - we’ll cap her as is.”

“Si.” A tired smile. “Think of all the money you’ll make tipping it out.” Jesper laughed. “Seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty feet at - maybe we’ll make you a special price.”

Good-naturedly the older man made an expressive Italian gesture. Lochart said, “I’ll leave you two to it. When do you want me to come back for you?”

Jesper looked at his watch. It was near noon. “Come for us at four-thirty. Okay?”

“Four-thirty on the dot. Sunset’s at six-thirty-seven.” Lochart went over to the 212.

JeanLuc was muffled against the cold but still managed to look elegant. “I’ll take this batch direct Shiraz - they’re the last - except for Mimmo and your crew.”

“Good. How’s it below?”

“Chaos.” JeanLuc swore with great passion. “I smell disaster, more disaster.”

“You expect disaster all the time - except when you’re bedding. Not to worry, JeanLuc.”

“Of course to worry.” JeanLuc watched the loading for a moment - almost completed now, suitcases, knapsacks, two dogs, two cats, with a full load of men waiting impatiently - then turned back, lowered his voice, and said seriously, “Tom, the sooner we’re out of Iran the better.” “No. Zagros’s just an isolated case. Anyway, I’m still hoping Iran works out.” HBC swirled up into the front of Lochart’s brain, and Sharazad, and Whirlwind. He had told no one here about Whirlwind and his talk with Starke: “I’ll leave that to you, Duke,” he had said just before he left. “You can put the case better than me - I’m totally against it.”

“Sure. That’s your privilege. Mac approved your trip to Tehran Monday.” “Thanks. Has he seen Sharazad yet?”

“No, Tom, not yet.”

Where the hell is she? he thought, another twinge going through him. “I’ll see you at the base, JeanLuc. Have a safe trip.”

“Make sure Scot and Rodrigues are ready when I get back. I’ll have to do a quick turnaround if I’m to get to Al Shargaz tonight.” The cabin door slammed shut, JeanLuc glanced around, and got the thumbs-up. He acknowledged, then turned back again. “I’m off - make sure Scot slips aboard quietly, eh? I don’t want to get shot out of the skies - I still say Scot was their target, no one else.”

Lochart nodded bleakly, headed for his 206.

He had been en route back from Kowiss when the dawn disaster had happened yesterday. JeanLuc was getting up at the time and, by chance, had been looking out of his window. “The two of them, Jordon and Scot, were very close together, carrying spares between them, loading HIW,” he had told Lochart as soon as he had landed. “I didn’t see the first shots, just heard them, but I saw Jordon stagger and cry out, hit in the head, and Scot look off toward the trees at the back of the hangar. Then Scot bent down and tried to help Jordon - I’ve seen enough men shot to know poor Effer was dead before he touched the snow. Then there were more shots, three or four, but it wasn’t a machine gun, more like an M16 on automatic. This time Scot got one in the shoulder and it spun him around and he fell into the snow beside Jordon, half covered by him - Jordon between him and the trees. Then the bullets started pumping again… at Scot, Tom, I’m sure of it.” “How can you be sure, JeanLuc?”

“I’m certain. Effer was directly in the line of fire, directly, and took them all - the attackers weren’t spraying the base, just aiming at Scot. I grabbed my Very pistol and charged out, saw no one, but fired anyway in the general direction of the trees. When I got to Scot, he had the shakes and Jordon was a mess, hit perhaps eight times. We got Scot to the medic - he’s all right, Tom, shoulder wound, I watched him patched myself, wound’s clean and the bullet went right through.”

Lochart had gone at once to see Scot in the trailer room they called the infirmary. Kevin O’Sweeney, the medic, said, “He’s okay, Captain.” “Yes,” Scot echoed, his face white and still in shock. “Really okay, Tom.” “Let me talk to Scot a moment, Kevin.” When they were alone he said quietly, “What happened while I was away, Scot, you see Nitchak Khan? Anyone from the village?”

“No. No one.”

“And you told no one about what happened in the square?”

“No, no, not at all. Why, what’s all this about, Tom?”

“JeanLuc thinks you were the target, not Jordon or the base, just you.” “Oh, Christ! Old Effer bought it because of me?”

Lochart remembered how distraught Scot had been. The base had been filled with gloom, everyone still working frantically, boxing spares, loading the two 212s, the 206, and the Alouette for today, last day at Zagros. The only bright spot yesterday was dinner - a barbecued haunch of fresh wild goat that JeanLuc had cooked with plenty of delicious Iranian rice and horisht. “Great barbecue, JeanLuc,” he had said.

“Without French garlic and my skill this would taste like old English mutton, ugh!”

“The cook buy it in the village?”

“No, it was a gift. Young Darius - the one who speaks English - he brought us the whole carcass on Friday as a gift from Nitchak’s wife.” Abruptly the meat in Lochart’s mouth tasted foul. “His wife?” “Oui. Young Darius said she’d shot it that morning. Mon Dieu, I didn’t know she was a hunter, did you? What’s the matter, Tom?”

“It was a gift to whom?”

JeanLuc frowned. “To me and to the base… actually Darius said, ‘This is from the kalandaran for the base and to give thanks for France’s help to the Imam, may God protect him.’ Why?”

“Nothing,” Lochart had said but later he had taken Scot aside. “Were you there when Darius delivered the goat?”

“Yes, yes, I was. I happened to be in the office and just thanked him an - ” The color had left Scot’s face. “Now that I think of it, Darius said as he was leaving, ‘It’s fortunate that the kalandaran is a great shot, isn’t it?’ I think I said, ‘Yes, fantastic.’ That’d be a dead giveaway, wouldn’t it?” “Yes - if you add it to my slip which now, now I mink’s got to be a deliberate trap. I was trapped too, so now Nitchak’s got to know there’re two of us who could be witnesses against the village.”

Last night and all today Lochart had been wondering what to do, how to get Scot and himself out, and he still had no solution.

Absently he climbed into the 206, waited until JeanLuc was clear, and took off. Now he was flying over the Ravine of the Broken Camels. The road that led to the village was still buried under tons of snow the avalanche had brought. They’ll never dig that out, he thought. On the rolling plateau he could see herds of goats and sheep with their shepherds. Ahead was Yazdek village. He skirted it. The schoolhouse was a scar in the earth, black amid the whiteness. Some villagers were in the square and they looked up briefly then went about their business. I won’t be sorry to leave, he thought. Not with Jordon murdered here. Zagros Three‘11 never be the same. The base was in chaos, men milling about - the last of those brought from other rigs and due to go to Shiraz, thence out of Iran. Cursing, exhausted mechanics were still packing spares, piling boxes and luggage for transshipment to Kowiss. Before he could get out of the cockpit, the refueling tender arrived with Freddy Ayre jauntily sitting on the hood. Yesterday, at Starke’s suggestion, Lochart had brought Ayre and another pilot, Claus Schwartenegger, to substitute for Scot. “I’ll take her now, Tom,” Ayre said. “You go and eat.”

“Thanks, Freddy. How’d it go?”

“Ropy. Claus’s taken another load of spares to Kowiss and he’ll be back in good time for the last one. Come sunset I’ll take the Alouette, she’s loaded to the gills and a bit more. What d’you want to fly out?” “The 212 - I’ll have Jordon aboard. Claus can take the 206. You’re off to Shiraz?”

“Yes. We’ve still got ten bods to get there - I was, er, thinking of taking five passengers instead of four for two trips. Eh?”

“If they’re small enough - no luggage - and so long as I don’t see you. Okay?”

Ayre laughed, the cold making his bruises more livid. “They’re all so anxious I don’t think they care much about luggage - one of the guys from Rig Maria said they heard shooting nearby.”

“One of the villagers hunting, probably.” The specter of the huntress with her high-powered rifle or for that matter any of the Kash’kai - all expert marksmen - filled him with dread. We’re so goddamn helpless, he thought, but kept it off his face. “Have a safe trip, Freddy.” He went to the cookhouse and got some hot horisht.

“Agha,” the cook said nervously, the other four helpers crowding around. “We’re due two months’ pay - what’s going to happen to our pay and to us?” “I’ve already told you, Ali. We’ll take you back to Shiraz where you came from. This afternoon. We pay you off there and as soon as I can I’ll send you the month’s severance pay we owe you. You keep in touch through IranOil as usual. When we come back you get your jobs back.”

“Thank you, Agha.” The cook had been with them for a year. He was a thin, pale man with stomach ulcers. “I don’t want to stay among these barbarians,” he said nervously. “When this afternoon?”

“Before sunset. At four o’clock you start cleaning up and get everything neat and tidy.”

“But, Agha, what’s the point of that? The moment we leave, the lice-covered Yazdeks will come and steal everything.”

“I know,” Lochart said wearily. “But you will leave everything neat and tidy and I will lock the door and maybe they won’t.”

“As God wants, Agha. But they will.”

Lochart finished his meal and went to the office. Scot Gavallan was there, face drawn, arm painfully in a sling. The door opened. Rod Rodrigues came in, dark rings around his eyes, his face pasty. “Hi, Tom, you haven’t forgotten, huh?” he asked anxiously. “I’m not on the manifest.” “No problem. Scot, Rod’s going with HJX. He’s going with you and JeanLuc to Al Shargaz.”

“Great, but I’m fine, Tom. I think I’d rather go to Kowiss.” “For Christ’s sake, you’re out to Al Shargaz and that’s the end of it!” Scot flushed at the anger. “Yes. All right, Tom.” He walked out. Rodrigues broke the silence. “Tom, what you want we send with HJX?” “How the hell do I know, for Ch - ” Lochart stopped. “Sorry, I’m getting tired. Sorry.”

“No sweat, Tom, so’re we all. Maybe we send her empty, huh?” With an effort Lochart put away his fatigue. “No, put the spare engine aboard - and any other 212 spares to make up the load.”

“Sure. That’d be good. Maybe y - ” The door opened and Scot came back in quickly. “Nitchak Khan! Look out the window!”

Twenty or more men were coming up the track from the village. All were armed. Others were already spreading out over the base, Nitchak Khan heading for the office trailer. Lochart went to the back window, jerked it open. “Scot, go to my hut, keep away from the windows, don’t let ‘em see you and don’t move until I come get you. Hurry!”

Awkwardly Scot climbed out and rushed off. Lochart pulled the window closed. The door opened. Lochart got up. “Salaam, Kalandar.”

“Salaam. Strangers have been seen in the forests nearby. The terrorists must be back so I have come to protect you.” Nitchak Khan’s eyes were hard. “As God wants, but I would regret it if there were more deaths before you leave. We will be here until sunset.” He left.

“What’d he say?” Rodrigues asked, not understanding Farsi. Lochart told him and saw him tremble. “No problem, Rod,” he said, covering his own fear. There was no way they could take off or land without being over forest, low, slow, and in sitting-duck range. Terrorists? Bullshit! Nitchak knows about Scot, knows about me, and I’ll bet my life he’s got marksmen planted all around, and if he’s here till sunset there’s no way to sneak off, he’ll know which chopper we’re on. Insha’Allah. Insha’Allah, but meanwhile what the hell’re you going to do?

“Nitchak Khan knows the countryside,” he said easily, not wanting to panic Rod, enough fear on the base already without adding to it. “He’ll protect us, Rod - if they’re there. Is the spare engine crated?”

“Huh? Sure, Tom, sure, she’s crated.”

“You take care of the loading. I’ll see you later. No sweat.” For a long time Lochart stared at the wall. When it was time to return to Rig Rosa, Lochart went to find Nitchak Khan. “You will Want to see that Rig Rosa’s been closed down properly, Kalandar, isn’t it on your land?” he said, and though the old man was reluctant, to his great relief he managed to persuade him with flattery to accompany him. With the Khan aboard, Lochart knew he would be safe for the time being.

So far so good, he thought. I’ll have to be the last away. Until we’re well away, Scot and I, I have to be very clever. Too much to lose now: Scot, the lads, Sharazad, everything.

AT RIG ROSA: 5:00 P.M. Jesper was driving their unit truck fast along the path through the pines that led to the last well to be capped. Beside him was Mimmo Sera, the roustabout and his assistant were in the back, and he was humming to himself, mostly to keep awake. The plateau was large, almost half a mile between wells, the countryside beautiful and wild. “We’re overdue,” Mimmo said wearily, looking at the lowering sun. “Stronzo!” “We’ll give it a go,” Jesper said. In the side pocket was the last of the energy-giving chocolate bars. The two men shared it. “This looks a lot like Sweden,” Jesper said, skidding a bend, the speed exhilarating him. “Never been to Sweden. There she is,” Mimmo said. The well was in a clearing, already on stream and producing about 12,000 barrels daily, the whole field immensely rich. Over the well was a giant column of valves and pipes, called the Christmas Tree, that connected it to the main pipeline. “This was the first we drilled here,” he said absently. “Before your time.” When Jesper switched the engine off, the silence was eerie, no pumps needed here to bring the oil to the surface - abundant gas pressure trapped in the oil dome thousands of feet below did that for them and would do so for years yet. “We’ve no time to cap it properly, Mr. Sera - unless you want to overstay our welcome.”

The older man shook his head, pulled his woolen cap down over his ears. “How long will the valves hold?”

Jesper shrugged. “Should be as long as you want - but unattended or inspected from time to time? Don’t know. Indefinitely - unless we get a gas surge - or one of the valves or seals’re faulty.”

“Stronzo!”

“Stronzo,” Jesper said agreeably, motioned to his assistant and the roustabout and went forward. “We’ll just shut it down, no capping.” The snow crunched underfoot. Wind rustled the treetops and then they heard the incoming engine of the chopper back from the base. “Let’s get with it.” They were hidden from the helipad and main buildings of Rosa, half a mile away. Irritably, Mimmo lit a cigarette and leaned against the hood and watched the three men work diligently, fighting the valves, some stuck, then fetching the huge wrench to unglue them, then the bullet ricocheted off the Christmas Tree and the following crackkkkkkkkk echoed through the forest. All of them froze. They waited. Nothing.

“You see where it came from?” Jesper muttered. No one answered him. Again they waited. Nothing. “Let’s finish,” he said and again put his weight onto the wrench. The others came forward to help. At once mere was another shot and the bullet went through the windshield of the truck, tore a hole in the cabin wall, and ripped a computer screen and some electrical gear apart before going out the other side. Silence.

No movement anywhere. Just wind and a little snow falling, disturbed by the wind. Sound of the chopper jets shrieking now in the landing flare. Mimmo Sera shouted out in Farsi, “We just shut down the well, Excellencies, to make it safe. We shut it down and then we leave.” Again they waited. No answer. Again, “We only make the well safe! Safe for Iran - not for us! For Iran and the Imam - it’s your oil not ours!”

Waiting again and never a sound but the sounds of the forest. Branches crackling. Somewhere far off an animal cried. “Mamma mia,” Mimmo said, his voice hoarse from shouting, then walked over and picked up the wrench and the bullet sang past his face so close he felt its wake. His shock was sudden and vast. The wrench slipped from his gloves. “Everyone in the truck. We leave.”

He backed away and got into the front seat. The others followed. Except Jesper. He retrieved the wrench and when he saw the havoc the errant bullet had caused in his cabin, to his equipment, his face closed, his anger exploded, and he hurled the wrench impotently at the forest with a curse and stood there a moment, feet slightly apart, knowing he was an easy target but suddenly not caring. “Forbannades shitdjävlarrrrrrr!”

“Get in the car,” Mimmo called out.

“Förbannades shitdjävlar,” Jesper muttered, the Swedish obscenity pleasing him, then got into the driver’s seat. The truck went back the way it had come and when it was out of sight a fusillade of bullets from both sides of the forest slammed into the Christmas Tree, denting parts of the metal, screaming away into the snow or sky. Then silence. Then someone laughed and called out, “Allahhhh-u Akbarrr…” The cry echoed. Then died away.

AT ZAGROS THREE: 6:38 P.M. The sun touched the horizon. Last of the spares and luggage being put aboard. All four choppers were lined up, two 212s, the 206, and the Alouette, pilots ready, JeanLuc stomping up and down - departures delayed by Nitchak Khan who had, earlier, arbitrarily ordered all aircraft to leave together which had made it impossible for JeanLuc to make Al Shargaz, only Shiraz, there to overnight as night flying was forbidden in Iranian skies.

“Explain to him again, Tom,” JeanLuc said angrily.

“He’s already told you no, told me no, so it’s no and it’s too goddamn late anyway! You all set, Freddy?”

“Yes,” Ayre called out irritably. “We’ve been waiting an hour or more!” Grimly Lochart headed for Nitchak Khan who had heard the anger and irritation and saw with secret delight the discomfiture of the strangers. Standing beside Nitchak Khan was the Green Band Lochart presumed was from the komiteh, and a few villagers. The rest had drifted away during the afternoon. Into the forest, he thought, his mouth dry. “Kalandar, we are almost ready.”

“As God wants.”

Lochart called out, “Freddy, last load, now!” He took off his peaked cap and the others did likewise as Ayre, Rodrigues, and two mechanics carried the makeshift coffin out of the hangar across the snow and carefully loaded it into JeanLuc’s 212. When it was done, Lochart stepped aside. “Shiraz party board.” He shook hands with Mimmo, Jesper, the roustabout, and Jesper’s assistant as they climbed aboard, settling themselves amid the luggage, spares, and coffin. Uneasily Mimmo Sera and his Italian roustabout crossed themselves, then locked their seat belts.

JeanLuc climbed into the pilot’s seat, Rodrigues beside him. Lochart turned back to the rest of the men. “All aboard!”

Watched carefully by Nitchak Khan and the Green Band, the remainder went aboard, Ayre flying the Alouette, Claus Schwartenegger the 206, all seats full, tanks full, cargo belly full, external skid carriers lashed with spare rotor blades. Lochart’s 212 was crammed and over maximum: “By the time we get to Kowiss we’ll’ve used a lot of fuel so we’ll be legal - anyway it’s downhill all the way,” he had told all pilots when he had briefed them earlier.

Now he stood alone on the snow of Zagros Three, everyone else belted in and doors closed. “Start up!” he ordered, his tension mounting. He had told Nitchak Khan he had decided to act as takeoff master.

Nitchak Khan and the Green Band came up to Lochart. “The young pilot, the one who was wounded, where is he?”

“Who? Oh, Scot? If he’s not here, he’s in Shiraz, Kalandar,” Lochart said and saw anger rush into the old man’s face and the Green Band’s mouth drop open. “Why?”

“That’s not possible!” the Green Band said.

“I didn’t see him board so he must have gone on an earlier flight…” Lochart had to raise his voice over the growing scream of the jets, all engines now up to speed, “… on an earlier flight when we were at Rig Rosa and Maria, Kalandar. Why?”

“That’s not possible, Kalandar,” the Green Band repeated, frightened, as the old man turned on him. “I was watching carefully!”

Lochart ducked under the whirling blades and went to the pilot’s window of JeanLuc’s 212, taking out a thick white envelope. “Here, JeanLuc, bonne chance,” he said and gave it to him. “Take off!” For an instant he saw the glimmer of a smile before he hurried to safety, JeanLuc shoved on maximum power for a quick takeoff, and she lifted and trundled away, the wash from the blades ripping at his clothes and those of the villagers, the jets drowning out what Nitchak Khan was shouting.

Simultaneously - also by prearrangement - Ayre and Schwartenegger gunned their engines, easing away from each other before lumbering in a slow labored climb for the trees. Lochart held on to his hope and then the furious Green Band caught him by the sleeve and pulled him around. “You lied,” the man was shouting, “you lied to the kalandar - the young pilot did not leave earlier! I would have seen him, I watched carefully - tell the kalandar you lied!”

Abruptly Lochart ripped his sleeve away from the young man, knowing that every second meant a few more feet of altitude, a few more yards to safety. “Why should I lie? If the young pilot’s not in Shiraz then he’s still here! Search the camp, search my airplane - come on, first let us search my airplane!” He stalked off toward his 212 and stood at the open door, from the corners of his eyes seeing JeanLuc’s 212 now over the tree line, Ayre so overloaded barely making it, and the 206 still climbing. “In all the Names of God, let’s search,” he said, willing their attention onto him and away from the escaping choppers, willing them not to search his airplane but the camp itself. “How can a man hide here? Impossible. What about the office or the trailers, perhaps he’s hiding…”

The Green Band pulled the gun off his shoulder and aimed at him. “Tell the kalandar you lied or you die!”

With hardly any effort, Nitchak Khan angrily ripped the gun out of the youth’s hands and threw it into the snow. “I’m the law in Zagros - not you! Go back to the village!” Filled with fear, the Green Band obeyed instantly. The villagers waited and watched. Nitchak Khan’s face was graven and his small eyes went from chopper to chopper. They were away now, but not yet out of range of those he had posted around the base - to fire only on his signal, only his. One of the smaller choppers was banking, still climbing as fast as possible, coming around in a big circle. To watch us, Nitchak Khan thought, to watch what happens next. As God wants.

“Dangerous to shoot down the sky machines,” his wife had said. “That will bring wrath down upon us.”

“Terrorists will do that - we will not. The young pilot saw us, and the Farsispeaking kalandar pilot knows. They must not escape. Terrorists have no mercy, they care nothing for law and order, and how can their existence be disproved? Aren’t these mountains ancient havens for brigands? Haven’t we chased these terrorists to the limit of our power? What could we do to prevent the tragedy - nothing.”

And now before him was the last of the Infidels, his main enemy, the one who had cheated him and lied and whisked the other devil away. At least this one will not escape, he thought. The barest tip of the sun was just above the horizon. As he watched, it vanished. “Peace be with you, pilot.” “And with you, Kalandar, God watch you,” Lochart said thinly. “That envelope I gave to my French pilot. You saw me give it to him?”

“Yes, yes, I saw it.”

“That was a letter addressed to the Revolutionary Komiteh in Shiraz, with a copy to the Iranian kalandar in Dubai across the Great Sea, signed by the young pilot, witnessed by me, telling exactly what occurred in the village square, what was done by whom, to whom, who was shot, the number of men bound in the Green Band truck before it went into the Ravine of the Broken Camels, the manner of Nasiri’s murder, your terr - ”

“Lies, all lies! By the Prophet what is this word murder? Murder? That is for bandits. The man died - as God wants,” the old man said sullenly, aware of the villagers gaping at Lochart. “He was a known supporter of the Satanic Shah who surely you will meet in hell soon.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps my loyal servant who was murdered here by cowardly sons of dogs has already told the One God and the One God knows who is telling the truth!”

“He was not Muslim, he did not serve Islam an - ”

“But he was a Christian and Christians serve the One God and my tribesman was murdered by cowards from ambush, sons of dogs with no courage who shot from ambush - surely eaters of shit and men of the Left Hand and accursed! It’s true he was murdered like the other Christian at the rig. By God and the Prophet of God, their deaths will be avenged!”

Nitchak Khan shrugged. “Terrorists,” he blustered, very afraid, “terrorists did that, of course it was terrorists! As to the letter it’s all lies, lies, the pilot was liar, we all know what happened in the village. It’s all lies what he said.”

“All the more reason that the letter should not be delivered.” Lochart was choosing his words very carefully. “Therefore please protect me from the ‘terrorists’ as I fly away. Only I can prevent the letter being delivered.” His heart was beating heavily as he saw the old man take out a cigarette, weighing the pros and cons, and light the cigarette with Jordon’s lighter and he wondered again how he could have vengeance for Jordon’s murder, still an unresolved part of the plan that so far had worked perfectly: his taking the too vigilant Nitchak Khan away, Scot Gavallan sneaking into the makeshift coffin to be carried aboard JeanLuc’s 212, Jordon’s shrouded body already put into the long crate that once housed tail rotors to be loaded into his 212, then the letter and the three choppers flying off together, all perfectly as planned.

And now it was time to finish. Ayre in the Alouette circled overhead in station, well out of range. “Salaam, Kalandar, God’s justice be with you,” he said and headed for his cockpit.

“I have no control over terrorists!” And when Lochart did not stop, Nitchak Khan shouted louder, “Why would you stop delivery of the lies, eh?” Lochart got into the cockpit, wanting to be away, hating this place now and the old man. “Because, before God, I deplore lies.” “Before God, you would stop the delivery of these lies?”

“Before God I will see that letter burned. God’s justice be with you, Kalandar, and with Yazdek.” He pressed the starter. The first jet fired up. Above him the blades began to turn. More switches. Now the second engine caught and all the time he was watching the old man. Rot in hell, old man, he thought, Jordon’s blood’s on your head, and Gianni’s, I’m sure of it though I’ll never prove it. Perhaps mine too.

Waiting. Now all needles in the Green. Liftoff.

Nitchak Khan watched the chopper shudder into the air, hesitate, then turn slowly and begin to leave. So easy to raise my hand, he thought, and so soon the Infidel and that howling monster become a funeral pyre falling out of the sky, and as to the letter, lies, all lies.

Two men dead? All know that it’s their own fault they’re dead. Did we invite them here? No, they came to exploit our land. If they had not come here they would still be alive and waiting for the hell that inevitably is their due. His eyes never left the air machine. There was plenty of time yet. He smoked slowly, enjoying the cigarette greatly, enjoying the knowledge that he could terminate such a great machine just by raising his hand. But he did not. He remembered the advice of the kalandaran and lit another cigarette from the stub and smoked that, waiting patiently. Soon the hateful sound of the engines was distant, fading quickly, and then, overhead, he saw the smaller air machine break off circling and also head south and west. When all Infidel sound had quite gone he judged that peace had once more come to his Zagros. “Fire the base,” he said to the others. Soon the flames were high. Without regret he cast the lighter into the flames and, contentedly, he strolled home.

Monday - February 26

Chapter 50

NEAR BANDAR DELAM AIR BASE: 9:16 A.M. In torrential rain the Subaru station wagon with the Iran-Toda insignia on the doors hurried along the road, windshield wipers full speed, the road potholed and waterlogged in parts, the driver Iranian. Scragger sat uneasily beside him, his seat belt tight, and in the back a Japanese radio mechanic hung on as best he could. Ahead through the heavy rain splats, Scragger saw an old bus hogging most of the road and, not far away, oncoming traffic.

“Minoru, tell him to slow down. Again,” he said. “He’s witless.” The young Japanese leaned forward and spoke sharply in Farsi, and the driver nodded benignly and paid no attention, jabbed his palm on the horn, and kept it there as he swerved out almost onto the other shoulder, overtaking the bus, accelerated when he should have braked, skidded, recovered, and just made the narrowing gap between the bus and the oncoming car, all three vehicles with their horns shrieking.

Scragger muttered another curse. Beaming, the driver, a young bearded man, took his attention off the road and said something in Farsi, bouncing through a large pothole in a shower of water. Minoru interpreted: “He says with the Help of God we’ll be at the airfield in a few minutes, Captain Scragger.”

“With the Help of God we’ll be there in one piece and not fifty.” Scragger would have preferred to drive but it had not been allowed, nor were any Iran-Toda personnel allowed to drive themselves. “We’ve found it to be good policy, Captain Scragger, the roads and the rules and Iranians being what they are,” Watanabe, the engineer in charge, had said. “But Mohammed is one of our best drivers and very reliable. See you this evening.” To Scragger’s relief he saw the airfield ahead. Green Bands guarded the gate. The driver paid them no attention, just barreled through and pulled up in a shower of water outside the two-story office building. “Allah-u Akbar,” he said proudly.

Scragger exhaled. “Allah-u Akbar it is,” he said, unlocked his seat belt, readying his umbrella as he looked around, his first time here. Big apron and small tower, some windows smashed, others boarded up, the two-story office building derelict with more broken windows, S-G company trailers, good hangars now closed against the storm, with bullet holes all over and in the walls of the trailers. He whistled, remembering being told about the fight here between the Green Bands and the mujhadin. Must’ve been a lot worse than Duke let on, he thought.

Two Royal Iran Air twin jet passenger airplanes were parked haphazardly - the “Royal” now crudely slashed out with black paint - tires flat, cockpit windows smashed, and left to rot. “Bloody sacrilege,” he muttered, seeing the rain pouring into the cockpits.

“Minoru, me son, tell Mohammed here not to move a muscle till we’re ready to leave, okay?”

Minoru did as he was asked, then followed Scragger out into the rain. Scragger stood beside the car, not knowing where to go. Then one of the trailer doors opened.

“Mein Gott, Scrag! I thought it was you - what the hell’re you doing here?” It was Rudi Lutz, beaming. Then he saw Starke join Rudi and his heart picked up.

“Hi, me sons!” He shook hands warmly with both of them, all three talking together for a moment. “Well, Duke, this’s a pleasant surprise!” “What the hell’re you doing here, Scrag?”

“First things first, me son. This’s Minoru Fuyama, radio mec with Iran-Toda. My UHF was acting up on the way in - I’m on a beaut charter from Lengeh. Minoru’s pulled the box and it’s in the car, can you replace her?”

“No problem. Come along, Mr. Fuyama.” Rudi went next door to find Fowler Joines to make the arrangements.

“I’m damn glad to see you, Scrag - lots to talk about,” Starke said. “Like weather problems and whirlwinds?”

“Yes, yes, I’d say the weather’s been on my mind a lot.” Starke seemed older, his eyes ranging the base, the downpour even heavier than before, the day warm and tacky.

“I saw Manuela at Al Shargaz, she’s same as usual, pretty as a picture - anxious, but okay.”

Rudi rejoined them, splashing through the rain, and led the way back into his office trailer. “You won’t be flying in this mess, Scrag. Would you like a beer?”

“No thanks, mate, but I’d love a cuppa.” Scragger said it automatically though his thirst for a cool beer was monumental. But ever since his first medical with Dr. Nutt just after he had sold Sheik Aviation to Gavallan, and Dr. Nutt had said, “Scrag, unless you quit smoking and cut down on the beer you’ll be grounded in a couple of years,” he had been extra careful. Too bloody right, he thought. No fags, no booze, no food, and plenty of sheilas. “You still have supplies, Rudi? At Lengeh it’s getting rough ‘cept for de Plessey and his wine.”

“I got some off a tanker that’s tied up down at the port,” Rudi called back from the small kitchen, putting on the kettle. “CASEVAC, seaman with his head and face smashed up. The captain said he’d had a fall but it looked more like a bad fight. Not surprisingly really, the ship’s been stuck at anchor for three months. Mein Gott, Scrag, did you see the pileup in the port when you came in? Must be a hundred ships waiting to unload, or to take on oil.”

“Same at Kharg and all along the coast, Rudi, everywhere’s clogged. Wharfs sky-high with crates, bales, an’ Gawd knows what, all left rotting in the sun or rain. Enough of that, wot’re you doing here, Duke?” “I ferried a 212 from Kowiss yesterday. But for the weather I’d’ve left at dawn - glad I didn’t now.”

Scragger heard the caution in the voice and looked around. No one listening that he could see. “Problem?” He saw Starke shake his head. Rudi turned on the music cassette. Wagner. Scragger hated Wagner. “Wot’s up?” “Just cautious - these damn walls are too thin - and I caught one of the staff eavesdropping. I think most of them are spies. Then we’ve a new base manager, Numir, Nasty Numi we call him. He’s off today, otherwise you’d be explaining why you’re here in triplicate.” Rudi made his voice lower. “There are whirlwinds to talk about. But what are you doing here, Scrag? Why didn’t you call us?”

“Came into Iran-Toda yesterday on a charter fora guy called Kasigi who’s the big buyer of Siri crude and a bigwig with Iran-Toda - old Georges de Plessey arranged it. I’m here for today, leave tomorrow early. Andy asked me to see you to sound you out and this was as soon as I could make it. I couldn’t raise you on the UHF coming in - could’ve been the storm, I just snuck in in time. Couldn’t get permission to fly over here, so I pulled a wire off the pot just in case and ‘urgently needed a repair.’ Duke, Andy told you wot we talked about in Al Shargaz?”

“Yes, yes, he did. And you better know there’s a new twist. Andy’s been told we’re being grounded pending nationalization and we’ve only five days - five safe days only. If we’re to do it, at the latest it should be Friday.” “Jesus H, Christ!” Scragger felt his chest tighten. “Duke, there’s no way I can get ready by Friday.”

“Andy says we take out 212s only.”

“Eh?”

Starke explained what had happened at Kowiss and what, hopefully, would happen “if Andy pushes the go.”

“Come off it - not if, when. Andy has to. The question is, do we stick our necks out?”

Starke laughed. “You already have. I said I’m in if everyone else is - with two 212s it’s possible for me, and now that… well, now that our birds’re back on British registry once we’re out, that makes it legit.” “The hell it does,” Rudi said. “It’s just not legal. I told you last night and Pop Kelly agreed. Scrag, how’re - ”

“Pop’s here?”

“Sure,” Starke said. “He came down with me.” He explained why, then added, “Hotshot approved the ‘loan,’ we got two guys out on the 125 and the rest scheduled for Thursday but I’m not so sure about that. Colonel Changiz said in future all personnel movements’re to be approved by him, not just by Hotshot.”

“How’re you getting back?”

“I’ll take a 206.” Starke looked out of the window at the rain. “Goddamn front!”

“She’ll be through by tonight, Duke,” Scragger said confidently. Rudi said, “How’re you going to get your men out, Scrag? Hein?” “If it’s just my two 212s, that makes it much easier. Much.” Scragger saw Rudi quaff some of his ice-cold beer, the beads on the can glistening, and his thirst increased. “Friday’d be a good day for a caper because Iranians’ll be at prayer meetings or whatever.”

“I’m not so sure, Scrag,” Rudi said. “Friday they still man the radar - they’ll have to know something’s up with my four birds charging across the Gulf, let alone your three and Duke’s two. Abadan’s itchy as all hell about choppers - particularly after HBC.”

“There been any more inquiries about her, Rudi?”

“Yes. Last week Abbasi came by, he’s the pilot who blew her out of the sky. Same questions, nothing more.”

“Does he know his brother was HBC’s pilot?”

“Not yet, Scrag.”

“Tom Lochart was bloody lucky. Bloody lucky.”

“We’ve all been ‘bloody lucky.’ So far,” Starke said. “Except Erikki.” He brought Scragger up to date with the little they knew.

“Christ, wot next? How’re we going to do Whirlwind with him still in Iran?” “We can’t Scrag - that’s what I think,” Rudi said. “We can’t leave him.” “That’s right but maybe…” Starke drank some coffee, his own anxiety making him feel a little bilious. “Maybe Andy won’t push the button. Meanwhile we hope to God Erikki gets away, or is let go before Friday. Then Andy can. Shit, if it was up to me, just me, goddamned if I’d risk Whirlwind.” “Nor me.” Rudi was equally queasy.

“If they were all your planes and your company and your future, bet you would. Know I would.” Scragger beamed. “Me, I’m for Whirlwind. I got to be for it, sport, no bloody company’ll employ me at my age so I bloody have to keep Dirty Dunc and Andy the Gav in biz if I’m to keep flying.” The kettle began singing. He got up. “I’ll make it, Rudi. Wot about you? You in or out?”

“Me, I’m in if you two are, and if it’s a possible - but I like it not a bit and I’m telling you straight I’ll only lead my four out if I really think we’ve a chance. We talked to the other pilots last night, Scrag. Marc Dubois and Pop Kelly said they’d have a go, Block and Forsyth said thanks, but no thanks, so we’ve three pilots for four 212s. I’ve asked Andy to send me a volunteer.” Rudi mirrored his disquiet. “But reissen mit scheissen! I’ll have four to get airborne somehow, all at the same time, when we’re supposed to have start-up clearance - with Green Bands all over the base, our radio op Janan no idiot, and then there’s Nasty Numi…” His eyebrows soared. “You’ve no problem, old cock,” Scragger said airily. “Tell ‘em you’re going to do a flyby victory salute for Khomeini over Abadan!”

“Up yours, Scrag!” The music ended and Rudi turned the tape over. Then his face hardened. “But I agree with you that Andy will push the button and the when’s Friday. Me, I say if one of us aborts we all abort - agreed?” Scragger broke the silence. “If Andy says go, I go. I have to.”

BANDAR DELAM PORT: 3:17 P.M. Scragger’s station wagon turned off a main road in the sprawling, noisy town into a lesser road, cut down it, then turned into a square in front of a mosque, Mohammed driving as usual, his finger on the horn almost constantly. The rain had lessened appreciably but the day was still miserable. In the backseat Minoru dozed, cradling the replacement radio. Scragger was absently staring ahead, so much to think about, plans, codes, and what about Erikki? Poor old bugger! But if anyone can make it he will. Swear to God old Erikki‘11 make it somehow. Say he doesn’t or Andy doesn’t push go, wot you going to do for a job? I’ll worry about that next week.

He did not see the police car come charging out of a side turning, skid on the slippery surface, and smash into the back of them. There was no way that Mohammed could have avoided the accident, and the speed of the police car, added to his own, hurtled them broadside across the road into a street stall and the crowds, killing one old woman, decapitating another, and injuring many as the wheels fell into the joub, the momentum rolling the car over to smash it against the high walls with a howling screech of metal. Instinctively Scragger had put his hands over his face but the final crash bashed his head against the side, stunning him momentarily, the seat belt saving him from real damage. The driver had gone through the windshield and now was half in and half out of the car, badly injured. In the back, the seat had protected Min-oru and he was the first to recover, the radio still protectively in his lap. Amid the screams and pandemonium he fought his door open and scrambled out, covered by the melee of pedestrians and injured, unnoticed as a passenger, Japanese from Iran-Toda normal in the streets here. At that moment the occupants of the police car that now was swiveled half across the road - its front crumpled - ran over. The police shoved their way up to the station wagon, took one look at the driver then pulled the side door open and hauled Scragger out.

Angry shouts of “Amerikan!” and more screams and noise, Scragger still half stunned. “Tha… thanks, I’m… I’m okay…” but they held him firmly, shouting at him.

“For Christ’s sake…” he gasped, “I wasn’t driving … what the hell happ - ” Around him was a tumult of Farsi and panic and anger and one of the police snapped handcuffs on him and then they dragged him roughly to the other car, pushed him into the backseat and got in, still cursing him. The driver started up.

On the other side of the road, Minoru was futilely trying to push through the crowd to help Scragger. He stopped, crestfallen, as the car hurtled away down the street.

Chapter 51

NEAR DOSHAN TAPPEH: 3:30 P.M. McIver was driving along the empty perimeter road outside the barbed-wire fence of the military airfield. The fenders were badly bent and there were many more dents than before. One headlight was cracked and roughly taped, the red glass of one taillight missing, but the engine still sounded sweet and her snow tires were firm on the surface. Snow banked the roadway. No sun came through the overcast that was barely twelve hundred feet and obscured all but the foothills of the northern mountains. It was cold and he was late.

On the inside of his windshield was a big green permit and, seeing it, the motley group of Green Band and air force guards stationed near the gate waved him through, then crowded back around the open fire to warm themselves. He headed for the S-G hangar. Before he could reach it, Tom Lochart came out of a side door to intercept him.

“Hi Mac,” he said, getting in quickly. He was wearing flight gear and carried his flight bag and had just flown in from Kowiss. “How’s Sharazad?” “Sorry to take so long, traffic was terrible.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No, not yet. Sorry.” He saw Lochart’s immediate tension. “I went again early this morning. A servant answered the door but didn’t seem to understand me - I’ll get you there as soon as I can.” He let in the clutch and turned for the gate. “How was Zagros?”

“Rotten, I’ll fill you in on that in a second,” Lochart said hurriedly. “Before we can leave we’ve got to report to the base commander.” “Oh? Why?” McIver put on the brake.

“They didn’t say. They left a message with the clerk that when you came in today to report to base commander. Any problems?”

“Not that I know of.” McIver let in the clutch and swung around. Now what? he thought, holding down his anxiety.

“Could it be HBC?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“What happened to Lulu? You have a prang?”

“No, just some street vandals,” McIver said, his mind on HBC. “Every day it gets rougher. Any news of Erikki?”

“Nothing. He’s just vanished. Azadeh sits by the phone all day in the office.”

“She’s still staying with you?”

“No, she went back to her own apartment on Saturday.” McIver was heading for the buildings on the other side of the runway. “Tell me about Zagros.” He listened without comment until Lochart had finished. “Awful, just awful!” “Yes, but Nitchak Khan didn’t give the signal to shoot us down. If he had he’d’ve gotten away with it. Goddamn hard to break the ‘terrorist’ story. Anyway, when we got to Kowiss, Duke and Andy had had a fracas with Hotshot.” Lochart told him about that. “But the ruse seems to be working; yesterday Duke and Pop ferried the 212 to Rudi and this morning EchoTangoLimaLima came in for Jordon’s body.”

“Terrible. Feel very responsible for old Effer.”

“Guess we all do.” Ahead they could see the HQ building with sentries outside it. “We all turned out and put the coffin aboard, young Freddy played a lament on the pipes, not much else we could do. Curiously Colonel Changiz sent an air force honor guard and gave us a proper coffin. Iranians’re strange, so strange.

They seemed genuinely sorry.” Lochart was talking automatically, sick with anxiety at the delays - having to wait at Kowiss, then flying here and ATC harassing him, then no transport and waiting interminably for McIver to arrive and now another delay. What’s happened to Sharazad? They were near the office building that housed the base commander’s suite and officers’ mess where they both had spent many good times in the past. Doshan Tappeh had been an elite base - the Shah had kept some of his private jet fleet and his Fokker Friendship here. Now the walls of the two-story building were scored by bullets and broken here and there by shellfire, most windows out, a few boarded up. Outside a few Green Bands and slovenly airmen lolled around as sentries.

“Peace be with you! Excellency McIver and Lochart to see the camp commandant,” Lochart said in Farsi. One of the Green Bands waved them into the building. “Where is the office, please?”

“Inside.”

They walked up the steps toward the main door, the air heavy with the smell of fire and cordite and drains. Just as they reached the top step, the main door slammed open and a mullah with some Green Bands hurried out, dragging two young air force officers between them, their hands bound and uniforms torn and filthy. Lochart gasped, recognizing one of them. “Karim!” he burst out and now McIver recognized the youth also - Karim Peshadi, Sharazad’s adored cousin, the man he had asked to try to retrieve HBC’s clearance from the tower.

“Tom! In the Name of God tell them I’m not a spy or traitor,” Karim shouted, in English. “Tom, tell them!”

“Excellency,” Lochart said in Farsi to the mullah, “surely there’s some mistake. This man is Pilot Captain Peshadi, a loyal helper of the Ayatollah, a supp - ”

“Who’re you, Excellency?” asked the mullah, dark-eyed, short, stocky. “American?”

“My name is Lochart, Excellency, Canadian, a pilot for IranOil, and this is the leader of our company across the airfield, Captain McIver, an - ” “How do you know this traitor?”

“Excellency, I’m sure there’s a mistake, he can’t possibly be a traitor, I know him because he is a cousin of my wife and the so - ” “Your wife is Iranian?”

“Yes, Excell - ”

“You are Muslim?”

“No, Excellen - ”

“Better then she divorces and so saves her soul from pollution. As God wants. There’s no mistake about these traitors - mind your own business, Excellency.” The mullah motioned to the Green Bands. At once they went on down the steps, half carrying, half dragging the two young officers who shouted and protested their innocence, then he turned back for the main door.

“Excellency,” Lochart called out urgently, catching up to him. “Please, in the Name of the One God, I know that young man to be loyal to the Imam, a good Muslim, a patriot of Iran, I know for a fact that he was one of those who went against the Immortals here at Doshan Tappeh and helped the revolu - ”

“Stop!” The mullah’s eyes hardened even more. “This is not your affair, foreigner. No longer do foreigners or foreign laws or a foreign-dominated Shah rule us. You are not Iranian, nor a judge, nor a lawgiver. Those men were tried and judged.”

“I beg your patience, Excellency, there must be some mistake, there mus - ” Lochart whirled as a volley of rifle shots exploded nearby. The sentries below were staring across the road at some barracks and buildings. From his position atop the steps he could not see what they saw. Then the Green Bands reappeared from behind one of the barracks, shouldering their arms. They trooped back up the steps. The mullah motioned them back inside. “The law is the law,” the mullah said, watching Lochart. “Heresy must be removed. Since you know his family you can tell them to beg forgiveness of God for harboring such a son.”

“What was he supposed to have been guilty of?”

“Not ‘supposed,’ Excellency,” the mullah said, an angry edge creeping into his voice. “Karim Peshadi openly admitted stealing a truck and leaving the base without permission, openly admitted joining forbidden demonstrations, openly declared against our forthcoming absolute Islamic state, openly opposed the abolition of the anti-Islamic Marriage Act, openly advocated acts contrary to Islamic law, was caught in suspected acts of sabotage, openly decried the total absoluteness of the Koran, openly defied the Imam’s right to be faqira - he who is above the law and final arbiter of the law.” He pulled his robes closer about him against the cold. “Peace be with you.” He went back into the building.

For a moment Lochart could not speak. Then he explained to McIver what had been said. ‘“Suspected acts of sabotage,’ Tom? Was he caught in the tower?” “What does it matter?” Lochart said bitterly. “Karim’s dead - for crimes against God.”

“No, laddie,” McIver said kindly, “not against God, against their version of truth spoken in the Name of the God they will never know.” He squared his shoulders and led the way inside the building. At length they found the base commander’s office and were ushered in.

Behind the desk was a major. The mullah sat beside him. Above them, the only decoration in the small untidy room was a big photograph of Khomeini. “I’m Major Betami, Mr. McIver,” the man said crisply in English. “This is the mullah Tehrani.” Then he glanced at Lochart and switched to Farsi. “As His Excellency Tehrani does not speak English, you will interpret for me. Your name, please.”

“Lochart, Captain Lochart.”

“Please sit down, both of you. His Excellency says you are married to an Iranian. What was her maiden name?”

Lochart’s eyes hardened. “My private life is my private life, Excellency.” “Not for a foreign helicopter pilot in the middle of our Islamic revolution against foreign domination,” the major said angrily, “nor one who knows traitors to the state. Do you have something to hide, Captain?” “No, no, of course not.”

“Then please answer the question.”

“Are you police? By what authority do y - ”

The mullah said, “I am a member of the Doshan Tappeh komiteh - you prefer to be summoned officially? Now? This minute?”

“I prefer not to be questioned about my private life.”

“If you have nothing to hide you can answer the question. Please choose.” “Bakravan.” Lochart saw the name register on both men. His stomach became even more queasy.

“Jared Bakravan - the bazaari moneylender? One of his daughters?” “Yes.”

“Her name, please.”

Lochart held on to his blinding rage, compounded by Karim’s murder. It is murder, he wanted to shout, whatever you say. “Her Excellency, Sharazad.” McIver had been watching intently. “What’s all this about, Tom?” “Nothing. Nothing, I’ll tell you later.”

The major made a note on a piece of paper. “What is your relationship to the traitor Karim Peshadi?”

“I’ve known him for about two years, he was one of my student pilots. He’s my wife’s first cousin - was my wife’s first cousin - and I can only repeat it’s inconceivable that he would be a traitor to Iran or Islam.” The major made another note on the pad, the pen scratching loudly. “Where are you staying, Captain?”

“I… I’m not sure. I was staying at the Bakravan house near the bazaar. Our… our apartment was commandeered.”

The silence gathered in the room, making it claustrophobic. The major finished writing then picked up a page of notes and looked directly at McIver. “First, no foreign helicopters may be moved in or out of Tehran airspace without air force HQ clearance.”

Lochart translated and McIver nodded noncommittally. This was nothing new, except that the komiteh at Tehran International Airport had just issued official written instructions on behalf of the all-powerful Revolutionary Komiteh that the komiteh alone could authorize and grant such clearances. McIver had got permission to send out his remaining 212 and one of his Alouettes to Kowiss “on temporary loan” just in time, he thought grimly, concentrating on the major, but wondering what the sharp Farsi exchange with Lochart had been all about.

“Second: we require a complete list of all helicopters under your present control, where they are in Iran, their engine numbers, and the amount and type of spares you are carrying per helicopter.”

Lochart saw McIver’s eyes widen, his own mind locked into Sharazad and why they wanted to know where he lived and her relationship with Karim, hardly listening to the words as he translated back and forth. “Captain McIver says: ‘Very well. It will take me a little time, because of communications, but I will get it for you as soon as possible.’”

“I would like it tomorrow.”

“If I can get it by then, Excellency, rest assured you will have it. You will have it as soon as possible.”

“Third: all your helicopters in the Tehran area will be assembled here starting tomorrow, and from now on will operate only out of here.” “I will certainly inform my superiors in IranOil of your request, Major. Instantly.”

The major’s face hardened. “The air force is the arbiter of this.” “Of course. I will inform my superiors at once. Was that all, Major?” The mullah said, “About the helicopter.” He referred to a note on the desk in front of him. “HBC. We w - ”

“HBC!” McIver allowed his panic to explode into a righteous anger that Lochart had a hard time keeping up with: “Security’s the responsibility of the air force on the base and how they could have been so lax to allow HBC to be hijacked I don’t know! Time and again I’ve complained about laxness, sentries never appearing, no guards at night. A million dollars of theft! Irreplaceable! I am instituting a claim against the air force for negligence an - ”

“It wasn’t our fault,” the major began angrily, but McIver paid no attention and continued the offensive, allowing him no opening, nor did Lochart, who turned McIver’s tirade into apt Iranian words and phrases for an even more slashing attack on air force perfidy.

“…unbelievable negligence - I might even say deliberate treachery and collusion by other officers - to allow some unknown American to get into our hangar under the very noses of our supposed guardians, to be given clearance to fly off by our supposed protectors, and then allowed to do damage to the great Iranian state! Unforgivable! Of course it was treachery and preplanned by ‘persons unknown holding officer rank,’ and I must ins - ” “How dare you imply th - ”

“Of course it must have been with air force officer collusion - who controls the base? Who controls the airwaves, who sits in the tower? We hold the air force responsible and I’m registering the complaint to the highest level of IranOil demanding restitution and… and next week, next week I will apply for redress to the illustrious Revolutionary Komiteh and the Imam himself, may God protect him! Now, Excellency, if you will excuse us we will go about our business. Peace be with you!”

McIver went for the door, Lochart following, both men overloaded with adrenaline, McIver feeling terrible, his chest aching.

“Wait!” the mullah ordered.

“Yes, Excellency?”

“How do you explain that the traitor Valik - who ‘happens’ to be a partner of your company and kinsman of the usurer and Shah supporter Bakravan - arrived in Isfahan in this helicopter to pick up other traitors, one of whom was General Seladi, another kinsman of Jared Bakravan - father-in-law to one of your senior pilots?” Lochart’s mouth was very dry as he spoke the doom-filled words but McIver did not hesitate and came back to the attack. “I did not appoint General Valik to our board, he was appointed by high-up Iranians according to your then current law - we did not seek Iranian partners, it was Iranian law that we had to have them, they were forced upon us. Nothing to do with me. As to the rest, Insha’Allah - the Will of God!” Heart thundering, he opened the door and stalked off. Lochart finished translating. “Salaam.” He followed. “You’ve not heard the last of this,” the major shouted after him.

NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 6:07 P.M. They were lying side by side on soft carpets in front of the wood fire that burned merrily in the pleasant room. Sharazad and Ibrahim Kyabi. They were not touching, just watching the fire, listening to the good, modern music from the cassette player, lost in thought, each too aware of the other.

“Thou, gift of the Universe,” he murmured, “thou of the ruby lips and breath like wine, thou, tongue of Heaven …”

“Oh, Ibrahim,” she laughed. “What is this ‘tongue of Heaven’?” He raised himself onto an elbow and looked down at her, blessing fate that had allowed him to save her from the insane zealot at the Women’s March, the same fate that would soon guide him to Kowiss to revenge his father’s murder. “I was quoting the Rubáiyát,” he said, smiling at her. “I don’t believe a word of it! I think you made it up.” She returned his smile, then shielded her eyes from the glow of his love by looking again at the embers.

After the first Protest March, now six days ago, long into that evening they had talked together, discussing the revolution and finding common cause in the murder of her father and his father, both of them children of loneliness now, their mothers not understanding, only weeping and Insha’Allah and never the need for revenge. Their lives turned upside down like their country, Ibrahim no longer a Believer - only in the strength and purpose of the People - her belief shaken, questioning for the first time, wondering how God could permit such evil and all the other evils that had come to pass, the corruption of the land and its spirit. “I agree, Ibrahim, you’re right. We haven’t rid ourselves of one despot to acquire another! You’re right, the despotism of the mullahs daily becomes more clear,” she had said. “But why does Khomeini oppose the rights that the Shah gave to us, reasonable rights?”

“They’re your inalienable rights as a human being, not the Shah’s to give, or anyone’s - like your body’s your own, not a ‘field to be plowed.’” “But why is the Imam opposed?”

“He’s not an Imam, Sharazad, just an ayatollah, a man and a fanatic. It’s because he’s doing what priests have always done throughout history: he’s using his version of religion to drug the people into senselessness, to keep them dependent, uneducated, to secure mullahs in power. Doesn’t he want only mullahs responsible for education? Doesn’t he claim mullahs alone understand ‘the law,’ study ‘the law,’ have the knowledge of ‘the law’? As if they alone have all knowledge!”

“I never thought of it like that, I accepted so much, so very much. But you’re right, Ibrahim, you make everything so clear to me. You’re right, mullahs believe only what’s in the Koran - as if what was correct for the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him, should apply today! I refuse to be a chattel without the vote and the right to choose …”

Finding so many common grounds of thought, he a modern, university trained, she wanting to be modern but unsure of her way. Sharing secrets and longings, understanding each other instantly, using the same nuances, belonging to the same heritage - he so very much like Karim in speech and looks they could be brothers.

That night she had slept blissfully and the next morning slipped out early to meet him again, drinking coffee in a little café, she chadored for safety and secrecy, laughing so much together, for no reason or every reason, serious sometimes. Both aware of the currents, no need to speak them. Then the second Protest March, bigger than the first, better and with little opposition.

“When do you have to be back, Sharazad?”

“I, I told Mother I would be late, that I’d visit a friend on the other side of the city.”

“I’ll take you there now, quickly, and you can leave quickly and then, if you like we could talk some more, or even better I’ve a friend who has an apartment and some wonderful records …”

That was five days ago. Sometimes his friend, another Tudeh student leader, would be here, sometimes other students, young men and women, not all of them Communist - new ideas, free exchange, heady ideas of life and love and living free. Occasionally they were alone. Heavenly days, marching and talking and laughing and listening to records and peace-filled nights at home near the bazaar.

Yesterday victory. Khomeini had relented, publicly, saying that women were not forced to wear chador, provided they covered their hair and dressed modestly. Last night celebrating, dancing with joy in the apartment, all of them young, embracing and then going home again. But last night her sleep had been all about him and her together. Erotic. Lying there half asleep this morning, afraid yet so excited.

The cassette ended. It was one of the Carpenters, slow, romantic. He turned it and now the other side was even better. Dare I? she asked herself dreamily, feeling his eyes on her. Through a crack in the curtains she could see that the sky was darkening. “It’s almost time to go,” she said, not moving, a throb in her voice.

“Jari can wait,” he said tenderly. Jari, her maid, was party to their secret visits. “Better no one knows,” he had said on the second day. “Even her.” “She has to know, Ibrahim, or I can never get out alone, never see you. I’ve nothing to hide but I am married and it’s…” No need to articulate “dangerous.” Every moment they were alone screamed danger. So he had shrugged and petitioned fate to protect her, as he did now. “Jari can wait.”

“Yes, yes, she can, but first we’ve got to do some errands and my dear brother Meshang won’t - tonight I have to have dinner with him and Zarah.” Ibrahim was startled. “What’s he want? He doesn’t suspect you?” “Oh, no, it’s just family, just that.” Languorously she looked at him. “What about your business in Kowiss? Will you wait another day or will you go tomorrow?”

“It’s not urgent,” he said carelessly. He had delayed and delayed even though his Tudeh controller had said that every extra day he stayed in Tehran was dangerous: “Have you forgotten what happened to Comrade Yazernov? We hear Inner Intelligence was involved! They must have spotted you going into the building with him, or coming out of it.”

“I’ve shaved off my beard, I’ve not gone home, and I’m avoiding the university. By the way, comrade, it’s better we don’t meet for a day or two - I think I’m being followed.” He smiled to himself, remembering the alacrity with which the other man, an old-time Tudeh supporter, had vanished around the street corner.

“Why the smile, my darling?”

“Nothing. I love you, Sharazad,” he said simply and cupped her breast as he kissed her.

She kissed him back but not completely. His passion grew, and hers, though she tried to hold back, his hands caressing her, fire in their wake. “I love you, Sharazad… love me.”

She did not wish to pull away from the heat, or his hands, or the pressure of his limbs, or the thunder of her heart. But she did. “Not now, my darling,” she murmured and gained a breathing space and then, when the thunder lessened, she looked up at him, searching his eyes. She saw disappointment but no anger. “I’m… I’m not ready, not for love, not now…”

“Love happens. I’ve loved you from the first moment. You’re safe, Sharazad, your love will be safe with me.”

“I know, oh, yes, I know that. I…” She frowned, not understanding herself, only that now was wrong. “I have to be sure of what I’m doing. Now I’m not.” He debated with himself, then leaned down and kissed her, not forcing the kiss on her - quite confident that soon they would be lovers. Tomorrow. Or the next day. “You’re wise as always,” he said. “Tomorrow we will have the apartment to ourselves. I promise. Let’s meet as usual, coffee at the usual place.” He got up, and helped her up. She held on to him and thanked him and kissed him and he unlocked the front door. Silently she wrapped the chador around her, blew him another kiss, and left, perfume in her wake. Then that too vanished.

With the door relocked he went back and put on his shoes, the ache still present. Thoughtfully he picked up his M16 that stood in the comer of the room, checked the action and the magazine. Away from her spell he had no illusions about the danger or the realities of his life - and early death. His excitement quickened.

Death, he thought. Martyrdom. Giving my life for a just cause, freely embracing death, welcoming it. Oh, I will, I will. I can’t lead an army like the Lord of the Martyrs, but I can revolt against Satanists calling themselves mullahs and extract revenge on the mullah Hussain of Kowiss for murdering my father in the name of false gods, and for desecrating the Revolution of the People!

He felt his ecstasy growing. Like the other. Stronger than the other. I love her with all my soul but I should go tomorrow. I don’t need a team with me, alone it would be safer. I can easily catch a bus. I should go tomorrow. I should but I can’t, I can’t, not yet. After we’ve made love …

AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 6:17 P.M. Almost eight hundred miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was standing at the heliport watching the 212 coming in to land. The evening was balmy, the sun on the horizon. Now he could see JeanLuc at the controls with one of the other pilots beside him, not Scot as he had first thought and expected. His anxiety increased. He waved and then, as the skids touched, impatiently went forward to the cabin door. It swung open. He saw Scot unbuckling one-handed, his other arm in a sling, his face stretched and pale but in one piece. “Oh, my son,” he said, heart pounding with relief, wanting to rush forward and hug him but standing back and waiting until Scot had walked down the steps and was there on the tarmac beside him.

“Oh, laddie, I was so worried…”

“Not to worry, Dad. I’m fine, just fine.” Scot held his good arm tightly around his father’s shoulders, the reassuring contact so necessary to both of them, oblivious of the others. “Christ, I’m so happy to see you. I thought you were due in London today.”

“I was. I’m on the red-eye in an hour.” Now I am, Gavallan was thinking, now that you’re here and safe. “I’ll be there first thing.” He brushed a tear away, pretending it was dust, and pointed at a car nearby. Genny was at the wheel. “Don’t want to fuss you but Genny‘11 take you to the hospital right away, just X ray, Scot, it’s all arranged. No fuss, promise - you’ve a room booked next door to mine at the hotel. All right?”

“All right, Dad. I, er, I… I could use an aspirin. I admit I feel lousy - the ride was bumpy to hell. I, er, I… you’re on the redeye? When’re you back?”

“Soon as I can. In a day or so. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” Scot hesitated, his face twisting. “Could you… perhaps … perhaps you could come with me - I can fill you in about Zagros, would you have time?” “Of course. It was bad?”

“No and yes. We all got out - except Jordon - but he was shot because of me, Dad, he was…” Tears filled Scot’s eyes though his voice stayed controlled and firm. “Can’t do anything about it… can’t.” He wiped the tears away and mumbled a curse and hung on with his good hand. “Can’t do anything… don’t, don’t know how to…”

“Not your fault, Scot,” Gavallan said, torn by his son’s despair, frightened for him. “Come along, we’ll… let’s get you started.” He called out to JeanLuc, “I’m taking Scot off for X ray, be back right away.”

TEHRAN - AT MCIVER’S APARTMENT: 6:35 P.M. In candlelight, Charlie Pettikin and Paula were sitting at the dining table, clinking wine-filled glasses with Sayada Bertolin, a large bottle of Chianti open, plates with two big salamis, one partially eaten, a huge slice of dolce latte cheese as yet untouched, and two fresh French baguettes that Sayada had brought from the French Club, one mostly gone: “There may be a war on,” she had said with forced gaiety when she had arrived uninvited, half an hour ago, “but whatever happens, the French must have proper bread.”

“Vive la France, and viva l’Italia,” Pettikin had said, reluctantly inviting her in, not wanting to share Paula with anyone. Since Paula had terminated any interest in Nogger Lane, he had rushed into the breech, hoping against hope. “Paula came in on this afternoon’s Alitalia flight, smuggled in all the swag at the risk of her life and - and doesn’t she look superisssssirna?”

Paula laughed. “It’s the dolce latte, Sayada; Charlie told me it was his favorite.”

“Isn’t it the best cheese on earth? Isn’t everything Italian the best on earth?”

Paula brought out the corkscrew and handed it to him, her green-flecked eyes sending more shivers down his spine. “For you, caro!”

“Magnifico! Are all young ladies of Alitalia as thoughtful, brave, beautiful, efficient, tender, sweet-smelling, loving, and, er, cinematic?” “Of course.”

“Join the feast, Sayada,” he had said. When she came closer into the light he saw her properly, noticing the strangeness to her. “You all right?” “Oh, yes, it’s, it’s nothing.” Sayada was glad for the candlelight to hide behind. “I, er, thanks I won’t stay, I… I just miss JeanLuc, wanted to find out when he’s back, I thought you could use the baguettes.”

“Delighted you arrived - we haven’t had a decent loaf for weeks, thanks, but stay anyway. Mac’s gone to Doshan Tappeh to pick up Tom. Tom‘11 know about JeanLuc - they should be back any moment.” “How’s Zagros?” “We’ve had to close it down.” As he busied himself getting glasses and setting up the table, Paula helping and doing most of it, he told them why, and about the terrorist attack on Rig Bellissima, Gianni’s being killed, then later, Jordon, and Scot Gavallan being wounded. “Bloody business, but there you are.”

“Terrible,” Paula said. “That explains why we’re routed back through Shiraz with instructions to keep fifty seats open. Must be for our nationals from the Zagros.”

“What rotten luck,” Sayada said, wondering if she should pass that information on. To them - and him. The Voice had called yesterday, early, asking what time she had left Teymour on Saturday. “About five, perhaps five-fifteen, why?”

“The cursed building caught fire just after dark - somewhere on the third floor, trapping the two above. The whole building’s gutted, many people killed, and there’s no sign of Teymour or the others. Of course the fire department was too late…”

No problem to find real tears and to let her agony pour out. Later in the day the Voice had called again: “Did you give Teymour the papers?” “Yes … yes, yes, I did.”

There had been a muffled curse. “Be at the French Club tomorrow afternoon. I will leave instructions in your box.” But there was no message so she had wheedled the loaves from the kitchen and had come here - nowhere else to go and still very frightened.

“So sad,” Paula was saying.

“Yes, but enough of that,” Pettikin said, cursing himself for telling them - none of their problem, he thought. “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry.” “For tomorrow we die?” Sayada said.

“No.” Pettikin raised his glass, beamed at Paula. “For tomorrow we live. Health!” He touched glasses with her, then Sayada, and he thought what a smashing pair they make but Paula’s far and away the most… Sayada was thinking: Charlie’s in love with this siren harpy who’ll consume him at her whim and spew out the remains with hardly a belch, but why do they - my new masters, whoever they are - why do they want to know about JeanLuc and Tom and want me to be Armstrong’s mistress and how do they know about my son, God curse them.

Paula was thinking: I hate this shit-roll of a city where everyone’s so gloomy and doom-ridden and downbeat like this poor woman who’s obviously got the usual man trouble, when there’s Rome and sunshine and Italy and the sweet life to become drunk with, wine and laughter and love to be enjoyed, children to bear with a husband to cherish but only so long as the devil behaves - why are all men rotten and why do I like this man Charlie who is too old and yet not, too poor and yet not, too masculine and yet… “Alora,” she said, the wine making her lips more juicy, “Charlie, amore, we must meet in Rome. Tehran is so… so depression, scusa, depressing.” “Not when you’re around,” he said.

Sayada saw them smiling at each other, and envied them. “I think I’ll come back later,” she said, getting up. Before Pettikin could say anything, a key turned in the lock and McIver came in. “Oh, hello,” he said, trying to throw off his weariness. “Hi, Paula, hi, Sayada - this is a pleasant surprise.” Then he noticed the table. “What’s this, Christmas?” He took off his heavy coat and gloves.

“Paula brought it - and Sayada the bread. Where’s Tom?” Pettikin asked, immediately sensing something was wrong. “I dropped him off at Bakravan’s, near the bazaar.” “How is she?” Sayada asked. “I haven’t seen her since… since the day of the march, the first march.”

“Don’t know, lassie, I just dropped him off and came on.” McIver accepted a glass of wine, returned Pettikin’s look levelly. “Traffic was rotten. Took me an hour to get here. Health! Paula, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You staying tonight?”

“If that’s all right? I’m off early in the morning, no need for transport, caro, one of the crew dropped me off and will pick me up. Genny said I could use the spare room - she thought it might need a spring clean but it looks fine.” Paula got up and both men, unknowingly, were instantly magnetized by the sensuousness of her movements. Sayada cursed her, envying her, wondering what it was, certainly not the uniform that was quite severe though beautifully tailored, knowing that she herself was far more beautiful, far better dressed - but not in the same race. Cow!

Paula reached into her handbag and found the two letters and gave them to McIver. “One from Genny and one from Andy.” “Thanks, thanks very much,” McIver said. “I was just going, Mac,” Sayada said. “Just wanted to ask when JeanLuc’ll be back.”

“Probably on Wednesday - he’s ferrying a 212 to Al Shargaz. He should be there today and back Wednesday.” McIver glanced at the letters. “No need to go, Sayada… excuse me a second.”

He sat down in the easy chair by the electric fire that was at half power, switched on a nearby lamp. The light took away much of the romance of the room. Gavallan’s letter read: “Hi, Mac, this in a hurry, courtesy of the fairest of them all! I’m waiting for Scot. Then redeyeing it to London tonight, if he’s all right, but I’ll be back in two days, three at the most. Finessed Duke out of Kowiss down to Rudi in case Scrag’s delayed - he should be back Tuesday. Kowiss is very dicey - I had a big run-in with Hotshot - so’s Zagros. Have just talked to Masson from here and that’s fact. So I’m pushing the button for planning. It’s pushed. See you Wednesday. Give Paula a hug for me and Genny says don’t you bloody dare!”

He stared at the letter, then sat back a moment, half listening to a story Paula was telling about their incoming flight to Tehran. So the button’s pushed. Don’t delude yourself, Andy, I knew you’d push it from the first moment - that’s why I said, All right, provided I can abort Whirlwind if I think it’s too risky and my decision’s final. I think you must push the button all the way - you’ve no alternative if you want to survive. The wine tasted very good. He finished the glass, then opened Genny’s letter. It was just news about home and the kids, all of them healthy and in place, but he knew her too well not to read the underlying concern: “Don’t worry, Duncan, and don’t sweat out winds, any winds. And don’t think I plan on a rose-covered cottage in England. It’s us for the Casbah and me for a yashmak and I’m practicing belly dancing so you’d better hurry. Luv, Gen.” McIver smiled to himself, got up, and poured himself some wine, calmer now. “Here’s to women, bless ‘em.” He touched glasses with Pettikin. “Smashing wine, Paula. Andy sends you a hug…” At once she smiled and reached over and touched him and he felt the current rush up his arm. What the hell is it about her? he asked himself, unsettled, and quickly said to Sayada, “He’d send one to you too if he knew you were here.” A candle on the mantelpiece was guttering. “I’ll get it. Any messages?”

“One from Talbot. He’s doing all he can to find Erikki. Duke’s delayed at Bandar Delam by a storm but he should be back at Kowiss tomorrow.” “And Azadeh?”

“She’s better today. Paula and I walked her home. She’s okay, Mac. You better have something to eat, there’s bugger all for dinner.” Sayada said, “How about dining at the French Club? The food’s still passable.”

“I’d love to,” Paula said brightly and Pettikin cursed. “What a wonderful idea, Sayada! Charlie?”

“Wonderful. Mac?”

“Sure, if it’s my treat and you don’t mind an early night.” McIver held his glass up to the light, admiring the color of the wine. “Charlie, I want you to take the 212 to Kowiss bright and early, Nogger’ll take the Alouette - you can help Duke out for a couple of days. I’ll send Shoesmith in a 206 to bring you back Saturday. All right?”

“Sure,” Pettikin said, wondering why the change of plan that had been for McIver, Nogger, and him to get aboard the Wednesday flight, two other pilots to go to Kowiss tomorrow. Why? Must be Andy’s letter. Whirlwind? Is Mac aborting?

IN THE SLUMS OF JALEH: 6:50 P.M. The old car stopped in the alleyway. A man got out of the side door and looked around. The alley was deserted, high walls, a joub to one side that long ago was buried under snow and refuse. Across from where the car had stopped, dimly seen in the reflection from the headlights, was a broken-down square. The man tapped on the roof. The headlights were doused. The driver got out and went to help the other man who had opened the trunk. Together they carried the body, wrapped and bound in a dark blanket, across the square.

“Wait a moment,” the driver said in Russian. He took out his flashlight and switched it on briefly. The circle of light found the opening in the far wall they sought.

“Good,” the other said and they went through it, then once more stopped to get their bearings. Now they were in a cemetery, old, almost derelict. The light went from gravestone to gravestone - some of the writing Russian, some in Roman letters - to find the open grave, newly dug. A shovel stood upright in the mound of earth.

They went and stood on the lip. The taller man, the driver, said, “Ready?” “Yes.” They let the body fall into the hole. The driver shone the light onto it. “Straighten him up.”

“He won’t give a shit,” the other man said and took up the shovel. He was broad-shouldered and strong and he began to fill the grave. The driver lit a cigarette, irritably threw the match into the grave. “Maybe you should say a prayer for him.”

The other laughed. “Marx-Lenin wouldn’t approve - nor old Stalin.” “That mother fornicator - may he rot!”

“Look what he did for Mother Russia! He made us an empire, the biggest in the world, he screwed the British, outsmarted the Americans, built the biggest and best army, navy, air force, and made the KGB all powerful.” “For damn near every rouble we’ve got and twenty million lives. Russian lives.”

“Expendables! Scum, fools, the dregs, plenty more where they came from.” The man was sweating now and he gave the shovel to the other. “What the hell’s the matter with you anyway - you’ve been pissed off all day.” “Tired, I’m just tired. Sorry.”

“Everyone’s tired. You need a few days off. Apply for Al Shargaz - I had a great three days, didn’t want to come back. I’ve applied for a transfer there - we’ve quite an operation now, growing every day, the Israelis have stepped up their ops too - so’ve the CIA. What’s happened since I was away?” “Azerbaijan’s warming up nicely. There’s a rumor old Abdollah Khan’s dying or dead.”

“The Section 16/a?”

“No, heart attack. Everything else’s normal. You really had a good time?” The other laughed. “There’s an Intourist secretary who’s very accommodating.” He scratched his scrotum at the thought. “Who is this poor sod anyway?”

“His name wasn’t listed,” the driver said.

“Never is. So who was he?”

“Agent called Yazernov, Dimitri Yazernov.”

“Means nothing to me. To you?”

“He was an agent from Disinformation on the university detail; I worked with him for a short time, a year back. Smartass, university type, full of ideological bullshit. It seems he was caught by Inner Intelligence and interrogated seriously.”

“Bastards! They killed him, eh?”

“No.” The taller man stopped shoveling a moment and looked around. No chance of them being overheard and while he did not believe in ghosts or God or anything but the Party and the KGB - the spearhead of the Party - he did not like this place. He lowered his voice. “When he was sprung, almost a week ago, he was in bad shape, unconscious, should never’ve been moved, not in his state. SAVAMA got him away from Inner Intelligence - the director thinks SAVAMA worked him over too before handing him back.” He leaned on the shovel a moment. “SAVAMA gave him to us with the report that they thought he’d been cleared out through the third level. The director said to find out who he was fast, if he had other secret clearances, or was an internal spy or a plant from higher up, and what the hell he’d told them - who the hell he was. He’s not carried on our files as anything other than an agent on the university detail.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and began shoveling again. “I heard the team waited and waited for him to regain consciousness, then today gave up waiting and tried to wake him up.”

“A mistake? Someone gave him too much?” “Who knows - the poor sod’s dead.” “That’s the one thing that scares me,” the other said with a shiver. “Getting fed too much. Nothing you can do about it. He never woke up? Never said anything?”

“No. Not a damned thing. The shit’s that he was caught at all. It was his own fault - the mother was working on his own.” The other cursed. “How’d he get away with that?” “Buggered if I know! I remember him as one of those who think they know it all and sneer at the Book. Smart? Bullshit! These bastards cause more trouble than they’re worth.” The taller man worked strongly and steadily. When he was tired the other took a turn. Soon the grave was filled. The man patted the earth flat, his breathing heavy. “If this mother got himself caught, why’re we taking all this trouble, then?”

“If the body can’t be repatriated, a comrade’s entitled to be buried properly, that’s in the Book. This’s a Russian cemetery, isn’t it?” “Sure, of course it is, but damned if I’d like to be buried here.” The man wiped the dirt off his hands then turned and relieved himself on the nearest gravestone.

The taller man was working a gravestone loose. “Give me a hand.” Together they lifted the stone and replanted it at the head of the grave they had just filled.

Damn the young bastard for dying, he thought, cursing him. Not my fault he died. He should’ve withstood the dose. Sodding doctors! They’re supposed to know! We had no option, the bastard was sinking anyway and there were too many questions to be answered, like what was so important about him that that arch-bastard Hashemi Fazir did the interrogation himself, along with that sonofabitch Armstrong? Those two high-flying professionals don’t waste their time on small fry. And why did Yazernov say “Fedor…” just before he croaked? What’s the significance of that?

“Let’s go home,” the other man said. “This place’s foul and it stinks, it stinks worse than normal.” He took the shovel and trudged off into the night.

Just then the writing on the stone caught the driver’s eye but it was too dark to read. He switched on the light momentarily. The writing said, “Count Alexi Pokenov, Plenipotentiary to Shah Nasiru’dDin, 1830-1862.” Yazernov’d like that, he thought, his smile twisted.

AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE, NEAR THE BAZAAR: 7:15 P.M. The outer door in the wall swung open. “Salaam, Highness.” The servant watched Sharazad as she swept past happily, followed by Jari, into the forecourt and pulled the chador off and was now shaking her hair and puffing it with her fingertips more comfortably. “The… your husband’s back, Highness; he came back just after sunset.”

For a moment Sharazad was frozen in the light of the oil lamps that flickered in the snow-covered courtyard leading to the front door. Then it’s over, she was thinking. Over before it began. It almost began today, I was ready and yet not… and now, now I’m saved from… from my lust - was it lust or love, was that what I was trying to decide? I don’t know, I don’t know but… but tomorrow I’ll see him a last time, I have to see him once more, have to, just… just once more … just to say good-bye….

Tears filled her eyes and she ran into the house and into the rooms and salons and up the stairs and into their suite and into his arms. “Oh, Tommyyyyyy, you’ve been away such a long time!”

“Oh, I’ve missed you, where have you… Don’t cry, my darling, there’s no need to cry….”

His arms were around her and she caught the faint, familiar oil-gasoline smell that came from his flight clothes hanging on a peg. She saw his gravity. HBC flared into her head but she put it all away and, not giving him a second, she stood on tiptoe, kissed him, and said in a rush, “I’ve such wonderful news, I’m with child, oh, yes, it’s true and I’ve seen a doctor and tomorrow I’ll get the result of the test but I know!” Her smile was vast and true. “Oh, Tommy,” she continued in the same rush, feeling his arms tighten even more, “will you marry me, please please please?” “But we are mar - ”

“Say it, oh, please, please say it!” She looked up and saw he was still pale and smiling only a very little but that was enough for the moment, and she heard him say, Of course I’ll marry you. “No, say it properly, I marry you, Sharazad Bakravan. I marry you I marry you I marry you,” then hearing him say it and that made everything perfect. “Perfect,” she burst out and hugged him back, then pushed away and ran over to the mirror to repair her makeup. She caught sight of Lochart in the mirror, his face so severe, unsettled. “What is it?”

“You’re sure, sure about the child?”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m sure, but the doctor needs proof, husbands need proof. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes … yes, it is.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I love you!” In her head she heard the other I love you that had been said with such passion and longing, and she thought how strange that though her husband’s love was sure and proven, Ibrahim’s was not - yet Ibrahim’s was without reservation whereas, even after her wonderful news, her husband frowned at her.

“The year and a day have gone, Tommy, the year and a day you wanted,” she said gently and got up from the dressing table, put her hands around his neck, smiling up at him, knowing that it was up to her to help him: “Foreigners aren’t like us, Princess,” Jari had said, “their reactions are different, training different, but don’t worry, just be your own delightful self and he will be clay in your hands….” Tommy‘11 be the best father ever, she promised herself, irrepressibly happy that she had not melted this afternoon, that she had made her announcement, and now they would live happily ever after. “We will, Tommy, won’t we?”

“What?”

“Live happily ever after.”

For a moment her joy obliterated his misery about Karim Peshadi and about what to do and how to do it. He caught her up in his arms and sat in the deep chair, cradling her. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, we will. There’s so much to talk ab - ” Jari’s knock on the door interrupted him.

“Come in, Jari.”

“Please excuse me, Excellency, but His Excellency Meshang and Her Highness have arrived and are waiting to have the pleasure of seeing you both when convenient.”

“Tell His Excellency we’ll be there as soon as we’ve changed.” Lochart did not notice Jari’s relief as Sharazad nodded and beamed at her. “I’ll run your bath, Highness,” Jari said and went into the bathroom. “Isn’t it wonderful about Her Highness, Excellency? Oh, many congratulations, Excellency, many congratulations…”

“Thank you, Jari,” Lochart said, not listening to her, thinking about the child to be, and Sharazad, lost in worry and happiness. So complicated now, so difficult.

“Not difficult,” Meshang said after dinner.

Conversation had been boring with Meshang dominating it as he always did now that he was head of the household, Sharazad and Zarah hardly talking, Lochart saying little - no point in mentioning Zagros as Meshang had always been totally disinterested in his opinions or what he did. Twice he had almost blurted out about Karim - no reason to tell them yet, he had thought, hiding his despair. Why be the bearer of bad tidings?

“You don’t find life in Tehran difficult now?” he said. Meshang had been moaning about all the new regulations implanted on the bazaar. “Life is always difficult,” Meshang said, “but if you’re Iranian, a trained bazaari, with care and understanding, with hard work and logic, even the Revolutionary Komiteh can be curbed - we’ve always curbed tax collectors and overloads, shahs, commissars, or Yankee and British pashas.” “I’m glad to hear it, very glad.”

“And I’m very glad you’re back, I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Meshang said. “My sister has told you about the child to be?”

“Yes, yes, she has. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, yes, it is. God be praised. What are your plans?”

“How do you mean?”

“Where are you going to live? How are you going to pay for everything now?” The silence was vast. “We’ll manage,” Lochart began. “I int - ” “I don’t see how you can, logically. I’ve been going through last year’s bills an - ” Meshang stopped as Zarah got up.

“I don’t think this is a good time to talk about bills,” she said, her face suddenly white, Sharazad’s equally so.

“Well, I do,” Meshang said harshly. “How’s my sister going to survive? Sit down, Zarah, and listen! Sit down! And when I say you will not go on a protest march or anything else in future you will obey or I’ll whip you! Sit down!” Zarah obeyed, shocked at his bad manners and violence. Sharazad was stunned, her world collapsing. She saw her brother turn on Lochart. “Now, Captain, your bills for the last year, the bills paid by my father, not counting the ones still owing and due, are substantially more than your salary. Is that true?”

Sharazad’s face was burning with shame and anger and before Lochart could answer she said quickly in her most honeyed voice, “Darling Meshang, you’re quite right to be concerned about us but the apar - ”

“Kindly keep quiet! I have to ask your husband, not you, it’s his problem, not yours. Well, Cap - ”

“But darling Mesh - ”

“Keep quiet! Well, Captain, is it true or isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Lochart replied, desperately seeking a way out of the abyss. “But you’ll remember His Excellency gave me the apartment, in fact the building, and the other rents paid the bills and the rest was for an allowance to give to Sharazad for which I was eternally grateful. As to the future, I’ll take care of Sharazad, of course I will.”

“With what? I’ve read your divorce settlement and it’s clear that with the payments you make to your previous wife and child there’s little chance you can keep my sister out of penury.”

Lochart was choked with rage. Sharazad shifted in her chair and Lochart saw her fear and dominated his urge to smash Meshang into the table. “It’s all right, Sharazad. Your brother has the right to ask. That’s fair, he has the right.” He read the smugness under the etched handsome face and knew that the fight was joined. “We’ll manage, Meshang, I’ll manage. Our apartment, it won’t be commandeered forever, or we can take another. We’ll m - ” “There is no apartment, or building. It burned down on Saturday. It’s all gone, everything.”

They gaped at him, Sharazad the most shocked. “Oh, Meshang, you’re sure? Why didn’t you tell me? Wh - ”

“Is your property so abundant you don’t check it from time to time? It’s gone, all of it!”

“Oh, Christ!” Lochart muttered.

“Better you don’t blaspheme,” Meshang said, finding it hard not to gloat openly. “So there’s no apartment, no building, nothing left. Insha’Allah. Now, now how do you intend to pay your bills?”

“Insurance!” Lochart burst out. “There’s got to be in - ” A bellow of laughter drowned him, Sharazad knocked over a glass of water that no one noticed. “You think insurance will be paid?” Meshang jeered. “Now? Even if there was any? You’ve taken leave of all your senses, there is no insurance, there never was. So, Captain: many debts, no money, no capital, no building - not that it was even legally yours, merely a face-saving way my father arranged to provide you with the means to look after Sharazad.” He picked up a piece of halvah and popped it into his mouth. “So what do you propose?”

“I’ll manage.”

“How, please tell me - and Sharazad, of course, she has the right, the legal right to know. How?”

Sharazad muttered, “I’ve jewelry, Tommy, I can sell that.” Cruelly Meshang left the words hanging in the air over the table, delighted that Lochart was at bay, humiliated, stripped naked. Filthy Infidel! If it wasn’t for the Locharts in our world, the rapacious foreigners, exploiters of Iran, we’d be free of Khomeini and his mullahs, my father would still be alive, Sharazad married properly. “Well?”

“What do you suggest?” Lochart said, no way out of the trap. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

“Meanwhile you’ve no house, very substantial bills, and soon you’ll be jobless - I doubt if your company will be allowed to operate here very much longer; quite correctly foreign companies are persona non grata.” Meshang was delighted that he had remembered the Latin phrase, “no longer needed, wanted, or necessary.”

“If that happens I’ll resign and apply to fly choppers for Iranian companies. They’ll need pilots immediately. I can speak Farsi, I’m an expert pilot and trainer. Khomeini… the Imam wants oil production brought back to normal immediately, so of course they’ll need trained pilots.” Meshang laughed to himself. Yesterday Minister Ali Kia had come to the bazaar, correctly humble and anxious to please, bringing an exquisite pishkesh - wasn’t his annual “consulting fee” due for renewal soon? - and had told him of his plans to acquire all partnership airplanes and freeze all bank accounts. “We’ll have no problem to get all the mercenaries we need to fly our helicopters, Excellency Meshang,” Kia had said. “They’ll flock to us at half their normal salaries.”

Yes, they will, but not you, temporary husband of my sister, not even for a tenth salary. “I suggest you be more practical.” Meshang examined his beautifully manicured nails that this afternoon had fondled the fourteen-year-old Ali Kia had given him: “the first of many, Excellency!” Lovely white Circassian skin, the temporary marriage for this afternoon that he had gladly extended for the week so easily arranged. “The present rulers of Iran are xenophobic, particularly about Americans.”

“I’m Canadian.”

“I doubt if that matters. It’s logical to presume you won’t be permitted to stay.” He looked sharply at Sharazad, “Or to return.”

“Surmise,” Lochart said through his teeth, seeing the look on her face. “Captain, my late father’s charity can no longer be supported - times are hard. I want to know how you intend to support my sister and her forthcoming child, where you intend to live and how.”

Abruptly Lochart got up, startling everyone else. “You’ve made your point, clearly, Excellency Meshang. I’ll answer you tomorrow.”

“I want an answer now.”

Lochart’s face closed. “First I’ll talk to my wife and then I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Come on, Sharazad.” He stalked out. In tears she stumbled after him and closed the door.

Meshang smiled sardonically, picked up another sweet, and began to eat it. Zarah exhaled, enraged. “What in the Name of G - ”

He reached over and smashed her openhanded around the face. “Shut up!” he shouted. It was not the first time he had hit her but never before with such violence. “Shut up or I’ll divorce you! I’ll divorce you, you hear? I’m going to take another wife anyway - someone young, not dry and an old nagging hag like you. Don’t you understand Sharazad’s in danger, we’re all in danger because of that man? Go beg God’s forgiveness for your foul manners! Get out!” She fled. He hurled a cup after her.

* IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS: 9:14 P.M. Azadeh drove the small, badly dented car fast along the street that was lined with fine houses and apartment buildings - most of them dark, a few vandalized - headlights carelessly on bright, dazzling the oncoming traffic, her horn blaring. She braked, skidded as she cut dangerously across the traffic, narrowly avoiding an accident, and headed into the garage of one of the buildings with a screech of rubber. The garage was dark. In the side pocket was a flashlight. She turned it on, got out, and locked the car. Her coat was well cut and warm, skirt and boots and fur mits and hat, her hair flowing. On the other side of the garage was a staircase and a switch for the lights. When she tried it, the nearest bulb sparked and died. She went up the stairs heavily. Four apartments on each landing. The apartment that her father had lent her and Erikki was on the third landing, facing the street. Today was Monday. She had been here since Saturday. “It’s not risky, Mac,” she had said when she announced she was going and he had tried to persuade her to remain in his apartment, “but if my father wants me back in Tabriz, staying here with you won’t help me at all. In the apartment I’ve a phone, I’m only half a mile away and can walk it easily, I’ve clothes there and a servant. I’ll check every day and come into the office and wait, that’s all I can do.”

She had not said that she preferred to be away from him and Charlie Pettikin. I like them both dearly, she thought, but they’re rather old and pedantic and nothing like Erikki. Or Johnny. Ah, Johnny, what to do about you, dare I see you again?

The third landing was dark but she had the flashlight and found her key, put it in the lock, felt eyes on her, and whirled in fright. The swarthy, unshaven lout had his pants open and he waved his stiff penis at her. “I’ve been waiting for you, princess of all whores, and God curse me if it’s not ready for you front or back or sideways …” He came forward mouthing obscenities and she backed against the door in momentary terror, grabbed the key, turned it, and flung the door open.

The Doberman guard dog was there. The man froze. An ominous growl, then the dog charged. In panic the man screamed and tried to beat the dog off, then took to his heels down the steps, the dog growling and snarling and ripping at his legs and back, tearing his clothes, and Azadeh shouted after him, “Now show it to me!”

“Oh, Highness, I didn’t hear you knock, what’s going on?” the old manservant called out, rushing from the kitchen area.

Angrily she wiped the perspiration off her face and told him. “God curse you, Ali, I’ve told you twenty times to meet me downstairs with the dog. I’m on time, I’m always on time. Have you no brains?”

The old man apologized but a rough voice behind her cut him short. “Go and get the dog!” She looked around. Her stomach twisted.

“Good evening, Highness.” It was Ahmed Dursak, tall, bearded, chilling, standing in the doorway of the living room. Insha’Allah, she thought. The waiting is over and now it begins again. “Good evening, Ahmed.” “Highness, please excuse me, I didn’t realize about people in Tehran or I would have waited downstairs myself. Ali, get the dog!”

Afraid and still mumbling apologies, the servant scuttled down the stairs. Ahmed closed the door and watched Azadeh use the heel fork to take off her boots, slip her small feet into curved Turkish slippers. She went past him into the comfortable, West-em-style living room and sat down, her heart thumping. A fire flickered in the grate. Priceless carpets, others used as wall hangings. Beside her was a small table. On the table was the kookri that Ross had left her. “You have news of my father and my husband?” “His Highness the Khan is ill, very ill an - ” “What illness?” Azadeh asked, at once genuinely concerned. “A heart attack.”

“God protect him - when did this happen?” “On Thursday last.” He read her thought. “That was the day you and… and the saboteur were in the village of Abu Mard. Wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so. The last few days have been very confused,” she said icily. “How is my father?”

“The attack on Thursday was mild, thanks be to God. Just before midnight Saturday he had another. Much worse.” He watched her.

“How much worse? Please don’t play with me! Tell me everything at once!” “Ah, so sorry, Highness, I did not mean to toy with you.” He kept his voice polite and his eyes off her legs, admiring her fire and pride and wanting to toy with her very much. “The doctor called it a stroke and now the left side of His Highness is partially paralyzed; he can still talk - with some difficulty - but his mind is as strong as ever. The doctor said he would recover much quicker in Tehran but the journey is not possible yet.” “He will recover?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Highness. As God wants. To me he seems very sick. The doctor, I don’t think much of him, all he said was His Highness’s chances would be better if he was here in Tehran.” “Then bring him here as soon as possible.” “I will, Highness, never fear. Meanwhile I have a message for you. The Khan, your father, says, ‘I wish to see you. At once. I do not know how long I will live but certain arrangements must be made-and confirmed. Your brother is with me now and - ’”

“God protect him,” Azadeh burst out. “Is my father reconciled with Hakim?” “His Highness has made him his heir. But pl - ” “Oh, that’s wonderful, wonderful, God be praised! But h - ” “Please be patient and let me finish his message: ‘Your brother Hakim is with me now and I have made him my heir, subject to certain conditions, from you and from him.’” Ahmed hesitated and Azadeh wanted to rush into the gap, her happiness brimming and her caution brimming. Her pride stopped her.

“‘It is therefore necessary that you return with Ahmed at once.’ That is the end of the message, Highness.”

The front door opened. Ali relocked it and unleashed the dog. At once the dog loped into the living room and put his head in Azadeh’s lap. “Well done, Reza,” she said petting him, welcoming the moment to collect her wits. “Sit. Go on, sit! Sit!” Happily the dog obeyed, then lay at her feet, watching the door and watching Ahmed who stood near the other sofa. Absently her hand played with the hilt of the kookri, its touch giving her reassurance. Obliquely Ahmed was conscious of it and its implications. “Before God you have told me the truth?” “Yes, Highness. Before God.”

“Then we will go at once.” She got up. “You came by car?” “Yes, Highness. I brought the limousine and chauffeur. But there’s a little more news - good and bad. A ransom note came to His Highness. His Excellency your husband is in the hands of bandits, tribesmen…” She tried to maintain her composure, her knees suddenly weak. “… somewhere near the Soviet border. Both him and his helicopter. It seems that these… these bandits claim to be Kurds but the Khan doubts it. They surprised theing his clothes, and Azadeh shouted after him, “Now show it to me!”

“Oh, Highness, I didn’t hear you knock, what’s going on?” the old manservant called out, rushing from the kitchen area.

Angrily she wiped the perspiration off her face and told him. “God curse you, Ali, I’ve told you twenty times to meet me downstairs with the dog. I’m on time, I’m always on time. Have you no brains?”

The old man apologized but a rough voice behind her cut him short. “Go and get the dog!” She looked around. Her stomach twisted.

“Good evening, Highness.” It was Ahmed Dursak, tall, bearded, chilling, standing in the doorway of the living room. Insha’Allah, she thought. The waiting is over and now it begins again. “Good evening, Ahmed.” “Highness, please excuse me, I didn’t realize about people in Tehran or I would have waited downstairs myself. Ali, get the dog!”

Afraid and still mumbling apologies, the servant scuttled down the stairs. Ahmed closed the door and watched Azadeh use the heel fork to take off her boots, slip her small feet into curved Turkish slippers. She went past him into the comfortable, West-em-style living room and sat down, her heart thumping. A fire flickered in the grate. Priceless carpets, others used as wall hangings. Beside her was a small table. On the table was the kookri that Ross had left her. “You have news of my father and my husband?” “His Highness the Khan is ill, very ill an - ” “What illness?” Azadeh asked, at once genuinely concerned. “A heart attack.”

“God protect him - when did this happen?” “On Thursday last.” He read her thought. “That was the day you and… and the saboteur were in the village of Abu Mard. Wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so. The last few days have been very confused,” she said icily. “How is my father?”

“The attack on Thursday was mild, thanks be to God. Just before midnight Saturday he had another. Much worse.” He watched her.

“How much worse? Please don’t play with me! Tell me everything at once!” “Ah, so sorry, Highness, I did not mean to toy with you.” He kept his voice polite and his eyes off her legs, admiring her fire and pride and wanting to toy with her very much. “The doctor called it a stroke and now the left side of His Highness is partially paralyzed; he can still talk - with some difficulty - but his mind is as strong as ever. The doctor said he would recover much quicker in Tehran but the journey is not possible yet.” “He will recover?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Highness. As God wants. To me he seems very sick. The doctor, I don’t think much of him, all he said was His Highness’s chances would be better if he was here in Tehran.” “Then bring him here as soon as possible.” “I will, Highness, never fear. Meanwhile I have a message for you. The Khan, your father, says, ‘I wish to see you. At once. I do not know how long I will live but certain arrangements must be made-and confirmed. Your brother is with me now and - ’”

“God protect him,” Azadeh burst out. “Is my father reconciled with Hakim?” “His Highness has made him his heir. But pl - ” “Oh, that’s wonderful, wonderful, God be praised! But h - ” “Please be patient and let me finish his message: ‘Your brother Hakim is with me now and I have made him my heir, subject to certain conditions, from you and from him.’” Ahmed hesitated and Azadeh wanted to rush into the gap, her happiness brimming and her caution brimming. Her pride stopped her.

“‘It is therefore necessary that you return with Ahmed at once.’ That is the end of the message, Highness.”

The front door opened. Ali relocked it and unleashed the dog. At once the dog loped into the living room and put his head in Azadeh’s lap. “Well done, Reza,” she said petting him, welcoming the moment to collect her wits. “Sit. Go on, sit! Sit!” Happily the dog obeyed, then lay at her feet, watching the door and watching Ahmed who stood near the other sofa. Absently her hand played with the hilt of the kookri, its touch giving her reassurance. Obliquely Ahmed was conscious of it and its implications. “Before God you have told me the truth?” “Yes, Highness. Before God.”

“Then we will go at once.” She got up. “You came by car?” “Yes, Highness. I brought the limousine and chauffeur. But there’s a little more news - good and bad. A ransom note came to His Highness. His Excellency your husband is in the hands of bandits, tribesmen…” She tried to maintain her composure, her knees suddenly weak. “… somewhere near the Soviet border. Both him and his helicopter. It seems that these… these bandits claim to be Kurds but the Khan doubts it. They surprised the Soviet Cimtarga and his men and killed them all, capturing His Excellency and the helicopter, early Thursday they claimed. Then they flew to Rezaiyeh where he was seen and appeared unharmed before flying off again.”

“Praise be to God,” was all her pride allowed herself. “Is my husband ransomed?”

“The ransom note arrived late on Saturday, through intermediaries. As soon as His Highness regained consciousness yesterday he gave me the message for you and sent me here to fetch you.”

She heard the “fetch” and knew its seriousness but Ahmed made nothing of it openly and reached into his pocket. “His Highness Hakim gave me this for you.” He handed her the sealed envelope. She ripped it open, startling the dog. The note was in Hakim’s handwriting: “My darling, His Highness has made me his heir and reinstated both of us, subject to conditions, wonderful conditions, easy to agree. Hurry back, he’s very ill, and he will not deal with the ransom until he sees you. Salaam.”

Swamped with happiness she hurried out, packed a bag in almost no time, scribbled a note for McIver, telling Ah’ to deliver it tomorrow. As an afterthought she picked up the kookri and walked out, cradling it. Ahmed said nothing, just followed her.

Tuesday - February 27

Chapter 52

BANDAR DELAM: 8:15 A.M. Kasigi was hurrying after the grim-faced police officer through the drab crowded corridors of the hospital - the radio mechanic, Minoru, a few paces behind him. Sick and wounded men and women and children were on stretchers or chairs or standing or simply lying on the floor, waiting for someone to help them, the very sick mixed with the lightly sick, a few relieving themselves, a few eating and drinking provisions brought by their visiting relatives who abounded - and all who could, complained loudly. Harassed nurses and doctors went in and out of rooms, all medical women dressed in chador except a few British, Queen Alexandra nurses whose severe headdress was almost the equivalent and acceptable.

Eventually the policeman found the door he sought and pushed his way into the crowded ward. Beds lined both sides with another row in the middle, all occupied by men patients - their visiting families chattering or complaining, children playing, and over in one comer, an old woman cooking on a portable stove.

Scragger had one wrist and one ankle handcuffed to an old iron bedstead. He was lying on a straw mattress in his clothes and shoes, a bandage around his head, unshaven and dirty. When he saw Kasigi and Minoru behind the policeman his eyes lit up. “Hello, mates,” he said, his voice raw.

“How are you, Captain?” Kasigi said, appalled by the handcuffs. “If I could get free I’d be fine.”

Irritably the policeman interrupted loudly in Farsi for the benefit of the watchers, “This is the man you wanted to see?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Minoru said for Kasigi.

“So now you’ve seen him. You can report to your government or whomever you wish that clearly he’s been given treatment. He will be tried by the traffic komiteh.” Pompously he turned to go.

“But the captain pilot wasn’t the driver,” Kasigi said patiently in English, Minoru translating for him, having said it for most of the night and since dawn this morning to various policemen of various ranks, always getting varying degrees of the same answer: “If the foreigner wasn’t in Iran the accident would never have happened, of course he’s responsible.” “It doesn’t matter he wasn’t the driver, he’s still responsible!” the policeman said angrily, his voice echoing off the walls. “How many times must you be told? He was in charge of the car. He ordered it. If he hadn’t ordered it the accident would never have happened, people were killed and injured, of course he’s responsible!”

“But, I repeat, my assistant here was an eyewitness and will give evidence that the accident was caused by the other car.”

“Lies in front of the komiteh will be dealt with seriously,” the man said darkly, one of those who had been in the police car.

“Not lies, Agha. There are other witnesses,” Kasigi said, not that he had any, his voice sharpening. “I insist this man be released. He’s an employee of my government which has invested billions of dollars in our Iran-Toda petrochemical plant, to the benefit of Iran and particularly all people in Bandar Delam. Unless he is released at once, at once, I will order all Japanese out and cease all work!” His biliousness increased, for he did not have the authority, nor would he issue such orders. “Everything will stop!” “By the Prophet, we’re no longer subject to foreign blackmail,” the man blustered and turned away. “You’ll have to discuss this with the komiteh!” “Unless he’s released at once, all work ceases and there’ll be no more jobs. None!” As Minoru translated, Kasigi noticed a difference in the silence and the mood of those around. And even in the police officer himself, nastily aware that all eyes were on nun and sensing the sudden hostility. One youth nearby wearing a green band on his grimy pajamas said thickly, “You want to jeopardize our jobs, eh? Who’re you? How do we know you’re not a Shah man? Have you been cleared by the komiteh?” “Of course I have! By the One God I’ve been for the Imam for years!” the man replied angrily but a wave of fear went through him. “I helped the revolution, everyone knows. You,” he pointed at Kasigi, silently cursing him for causing all this trouble, “you follow me!” He pushed a way through the onlookers.

“I’ll be back, Captain Scragger, don’t worry.” Kasigi and Minoru rushed off in pursuit.

The police officer led the way down a flight of stairs and along a corridor and down other stairs, all of them crowded. Kasigi’s nervousness increased as they descended deeper into the hospital. Now the man opened the door with a notice in Farsi on it.

Kasigi broke out in a cold sweat. They were in the morgue. Marble slabs with bodies covered with grimy sheets. Many of them. Odor of chemicals and dried blood and offal and excrement. “Here!” the police officer said and tore back a sheet. Beneath it was the headless corpse of a woman. Her head was obscenely near the trunk, eyes open. “Your car caused her death, what about her and her family?” Kasigi heard the “your” and a freezing current went through him. “And here!” He ripped away another sheet. A badly mashed woman, unrecognizable. “Well?”

“We’re… we’re deeply sorry of course… of course we’re deeply sorry that anyone was hurt, deeply sorry, but that is karma, Insha’Allah, not our fault or the fault of the pilot upstairs.” Kasigi was hard put to hold his nausea down. “Deeply sorry.”

Minoru translated, the police officer leaning insolently against the slab. Then he replied and the young Japanese’s eyes widened: “He says, he says the bail, the fine to release Mr. Scragger immediately is 1 million rials. At once. What the komiteh decides is nothing to do with him.” One million rials was about $12,000. “That’s not possible, but we could certainly pay 100,000 rials within the hour.”

“A million,” the man shouted. He grabbed the woman’s head by the hair and held it up to Kasigi who had to force himself to stand erect. “What about her children who are now condemned forever to be motherless? Don’t they deserve compensation? Eh?”

“There’s… there’s not that amount of cash in … in the whole plant, so sorry.”

The policeman swore and continued to haggle but then the door opened. Orderlies with a trolley and another body came in, eyeing them curiously. Abruptly the policeman said, “Very well. We will go to your office at once.” They went and got the last amount Kasigi had offered, 250,000 rials - about $3,000 - but no receipt, only a verbal agreement that Scragger could leave. Not trusting the man, Kasigi gave him half in the office and put the rest into an envelope that he kept in his pocket. They returned to the hospital. There he waited in the car while Minoru and the man went inside. The waiting seemed interminable but finally Minoru and Scragger came down the steps with the policeman. Kasigi got out and gave the policeman the envelope. The man cursed all foreigners and went away truculently.

“So,” Kasigi said and smiled at Scragger. They shook hands, Scragger thanking him profusely, apologizing for all the trouble, both men cursing fate, blessing it, getting into the car quickly. The Iranian chauffeur swerved out into the traffic, swore loudly at an overtaking car that had the right of way and almost collided with him, jabbing the horn. “Tell him to slow down, Minoru,” Kasigi said. Minoru obeyed and the driver nodded and smiled and obeyed. The slowdown lasted a few seconds. “Are you all right, Captain?”

“Oh, yes. Headache’s a beaut but okay. The worst was wanting to pee.” “What?”

“The bastards kept me handcuffed to the bed and wouldn’t let me get to the loo. I just couldn’t do it in my pants, or in the bed, and it wasn’t till early this morning a nurse brought me a bottle. Christ, I thought my bladder was bust.” Scragger rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. “No problem, old sport. I owe you one. Plus the ransom! How much was it?”

“Nothing, nothing to you. We have a fund for these hazards.” “It’s no problem, Andy Gavallan‘11 pay - oh, that reminds me, he said he knew your boss some years ago, Toda, Hiro Toda.”

“Ah so desu ka?” Kasigi was genuinely surprised. “Gavallan has choppers in Japan?”

“Oh, no. It was when he was a China trader, out of Hong Kong, when he was working for Struan’s.” The name sent a warning bolt through Kasigi that he kept bottled. “You ever heard of them?” “Yes, a fine company. Toda’s do, or did business with Struan’s,” Kasigi said smoothly, but he docketed the information for future consideration - wasn’t it Linbar Struan who unilaterally canceled five ship-leasing contracts two years ago that almost broke us? Perhaps Gavallan could be an instrument to recoup, one way or another. “Sorry you had such a bad time.” “Not your fault, cobber. But Andy’d want to pay the ransom. Wot’d they stick us for?”

“It was very modest. Please, let it be a gift - you saved my ship.” After a pause Scragger said, “Then I owe you two, old sport.” “We selected the driver - it was our fault.”

“Where is he, where’s Mohammed?”

“So sorry, he’s dead.”

Scragger swore. “It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t at all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. We have given his family compensation, and we will do the same for the victims.” Kasigi was trying to read how shaken Scragger was, wanting to know very much when he would be fit to fly, and greatly irritated with the day’s delay. It was imperative to get back to Al Shargaz as soon as possible, thence home to Japan. His work here was finished. Chief Engineer Watanabe was now totally on his side, the copies of his private reports would cement his own corporate position and enormously help him - and Hiro Toda - to reopen the possibility of persuading the government to declare Iran-Toda a National Project.

Not possibility, certainty! he thought, more confident than he had ever been. We’ll be saved from bankruptcy, we’ll bury our enemies, the Mitsuwari and Gyokotomo, and gain nothing but face ourselves - and profit, vast profit! Oh, yes. And the added piece of good fortune, Kasigi allowed himself a cynical smile, the explosively important copy of dead Chief Engineer Kasusaka’s private report to Gyokotomo, dated and signed, that Watanabe had miraculously “found” in a forgotten file while I was in Al Shargaz! I’ll have to be very careful how I use it, oh, very careful indeed, but it makes it all the more important that I get home as soon as possible. The streets and alleys were clogged with traffic. Above, the sky was still overcast but the storm had passed through and he knew the weather was flyable. Ah, I wish I had my own airplane, he thought. Say a Lear jet. The reward for all my work here should be substantial.

He let himself drift happily, enjoying his sense of achievement and power. “It looks like we will be able to begin construction very soon now, Captain.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The head of the new komiteh assured us of their cooperation. It seems he knows one of your pilots, a Captain Starke - his name’s Zataki.” Scragger glanced at him sharply. “He’s the one Duke, Duke Starke, saved from the leftists and flew to Kowiss. If I were you, cobber, I’d, er, watch him.” He told Kasigi how volatile the man was. “He’s a right madman.” “He didn’t give that appearance, not at all. Curious - Iranians are very… very curious. But more important, how are you feeling?”

“I’m bonzer now.” Scragger exaggerated blithely. Yesterday and all night had been very bad, all the cursing and shouting and being handcuffed, not being able to make anyone understand, surrounded by hostility, eyes everywhere. Lost. And afraid. The pain increasing. Time agonizingly slow, hope fading, sure that Minoru was injured or dead along with the driver so that no one would know where he was or what had happened.

“Nothing that a good cup of tea won’t cure. If you’d like to leave at once, I’m okay. Just a quick bath and shave and cuppa and some grub and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“Excellent. Then we’ll leave the moment you’re ready - Minoru has installed the radio and checked it.”

All the way to the refinery and during the flight back to Lengeh, Kasigi was in very good spirits. Near Kharg they thought they spotted the huge hammerhead shark Scragger had once mentioned. They kept low and close inshore, the clouds still low and heavy, nimbus here and there with an occasional flash of lightning menacing them but not badly, only a little bumpy now and then. Radar surveillance and clearances were efficient and immediate which increased Scragger’s foreboding. Two days to Whirlwind, not counting today, was in the forefront of his mind. Losing a day makes it all the more hairy, he thought anxiously. Wot’s happened since I was away? Well past Kharg he landed to refuel and take a break. His stomach still ached nastily and he noticed a little blood in his urine. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. Sure to be a little hemorrhage after an accident like that. Shit in a bucket but I was lucky! They were on a sandbank, finishing a packed lunch - cold rice and pieces of fish and pickles. Scragger had a big hunk of Iranian bread he had scrounged from the spotless cookhouse and lots of cold yakatori chicken and soy sauce that he enjoyed very much. Kasigi was sipping Japanese beer that Scragger had refused: “Thanks, but drinking and driving don’t mix.” Kasigi ate sparingly, Scragger hungrily and quickly. “Good grub,” he said. “Soon as you’re ready we’d better get on.”

“I’m finished.” Soon they were airborne again. “Will there be time to get me on to Al Shargaz or Dubai today?”

“Not if we go to Lengeh.” Scragger adjusted his headset slightly. “Tell you wot, when we get into Kish Traffic Control I’ll ask if I can divert to Bahrain. You could pick up an international or local flight there. We’ll need to refuel at Lavan but they’ll approve that if they agree. As I said, I owe you a couple.”

“You owe us nothing.” Kasigi smiled to himself. “At the komiteh meeting yesterday, this man Zataki asked how soon we’d have our chopper fleet up to strength. I promised immediate action. As you know Guerney no longer services us. What I’d like is three of your 212s and two 206s for the next three months, a year-long contract to be negotiated then, depending on our needs, renewable annually - with you in charge. Would that be possible?” Scragger hesitated, not knowing how to reply. Normally such an offer would send glad tiding bells ringing all the way to Aberdeen, Gavallan would be on the phone personally, and everyone would be in for a huge bonus. But with Whirlwind scheduled, Guerney out of the picture, and no one else available, there was no way to help Kasigi. “When, er, when would you need the birds to start?” he asked to give himself time to think.

“Immediately,” Kasigi continued blithely, watching a tanker below. “I guaranteed Zataki and the komiteh that if they cooperated we’d start up at once. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Perhaps you could ask your head office temporarily to divert some of the 212s stationed at Bandar Delam and not being used to capacity. Yes?”

“I’ll certainly ask, as soon as we land.”

“For a week or so we’ll need a temporary air link with Kuwait to pick up and replace crews from Japan - Zataki said their komiteh’d arrange with the Abadan airport komiteh today to open it for us, certainly by the end of the week. …”

Scragger was only half listening to the confident plans of this man who had befriended him, without whom he would still be handcuffed to the bed. His choice was simple: you tell him about Whirlwind or you leave him in the shit. But if you tell him you betray a bigger trust, a long-term trust. Kasigi might let Whirlwind slip. He’s bound to tell de Plessey. The question is how far can I trust him - and de Plessey?

Greatly unsettled he glanced out of his window and rechecked his position. “Sorry to interrupt but I’ve got to report in.” He pressed the send button: “Kish radar, this is HotelSierraTango, do you read?”

“HST, Kish radar, we read you four by five, go ahead.”

“HST on charter from Iran-Toda inbound to home base in Lengeh, approaching Lavan at one thousand, one passenger aboard. Request permission to refuel at Lavan and divert to Bahrain to drop my passenger who has urgent business on behalf of Iran.”

“Request refused, maintain one thousand and present heading.” “My passenger is Japanese, head of Iran-Toda, and urgently needs to consult his Japanese government on behalf of the Iran government’s wish to resume immediate operations. Request special consideration in this instance.” “Request refused. No trans-Gulf flights are authorized without a twenty-four-hour notice. Turn to 095 degrees for direct Lengeh, report abeam Kish, not overhead Kish. Do you copy?”

Scragger glanced at Kasigi who could also hear the exchange. “Sorry, mate.” He eased onto the new heading. “HST copies. Request clearance for Al Shargaz at dawn tomorrow with one passenger.”

“Standby One.” Static cracked in their earphones. To starboard the sea bridge of tankers continued, inbound and outbound, from or to the Gulf terminals of Saudi, the Emirates, Abu Dhabi, Bahrain, Kuwait, and Iraq. None were loading at Kharg or Abadan where normally a dozen would be serviced with another dozen waiting. Now there were only the swarms of ships waiting, some over two months. The sky was still overcast and nasty. “HST, this is Kish. In this instance your request is approved to go from Lengeh to Al Shargaz, tomorrow Wednesday twenty-eighth, noon departure. Until further notice all, repeat, all trans-Gulf flights will require a twenty-four-hour notice, and all, repeat, all engine starts require clearance. Do you copy?” Scragger swore, then acknowledged.

“What is it?” Kasigi asked.

“We’ve never had to get clearance to start engines before. The bastards are really getting touchy.” Scragger was thinking about Friday and his two 212s to start up and Kish too nosy and too efficient. “Crummy lot!” “Yes. Will you be able to head up our chopper requirements?” “There’re lots of better guys than me.”

“Ah, so sorry, but it would be important to me. I would know that the operation would be in good hands.”

Again Scragger hesitated. “Thanks, if I could, I would, sure, sure I would.” “Then it’s settled. I’ll formally apply to your Mr. Gavallan.” Kasigi glanced at Scragger. Something’s changed, he thought. What? Now that I think of it, the pilot didn’t react with the amount of enthusiasm I would have forecast when I announced the deal - he certainly would understand the value of the contract he’s being offered. What’s he hiding? “Could you contact Bandar Delam through your base at Kowiss to ask them about supplying us with at least one 212 tomorrow?” he asked, beginning to probe. “Yes, yes, of course … soon as we arrive.”

Ah, Kasigi thought, having watched and listened very carefully, I was right, something’s very definitely different now. The friendliness is gone. Why? I’ve certainly not said anything to offend him. It can’t be the deal - that’s too good for any chopper company. His health? “Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh, fine, old sport, I’m fine.”

Ah, the smile was real that time and the voice as usual. Then it has to be something to do with the choppers. “If I don’t have your help, it will make things very difficult for me.”

“Yes, I know. Me, I’d like to help you all I can.”

Ah, the smile vanished and the voice became serious again. Why? And why the “me, I’d like to help” as though he would help but is forbidden to help by someone else. Gavallan? Could it be he knows that Gavallan, because of Struan’s, wouldn’t help us?

For a long time Kasigi considered all manner of permutations but could not come up with a satisfactory answer. Then he fell back on the one, almost infallible, ploy to use with a foreigner such as this one. “My friend,” he said, using his most sincere voice, “I know something’s the matter, please tell me what it is?” Seeing Scragger’s face become even more solemn, he added the coup de grace. “You can tell me, you can trust me, I really am your friend.”

“Yes … yes, I know that, mate.”

Kasigi watched Scragger’s face and waited, watched the fish wriggling on the hook that was held by a line so thin and so strong that stretched back to a broken rotor blade, a handshake, shared danger aboard the Rikumaru, shared war service, and common reverence for dead comrades. So many of us dead, so young. Yes, he thought with a sudden anger, but if we’d had a tenth of their airplanes, their armaments and their ships and a twentieth part of their oil and raw materials we would have been invincible and the emperor would never have had to terminate the war as he did. We’d have been invincible - but for the bomb, the two bombs. All gods torment for all eternity those who invented the bomb that broke his will that took preference over ours. “What is it?”

“I, er, can’t tell you, just yet - sorry.”

Danger signals went through Kasigi. “Why, my friend? I assure you, you can trust me,” he said soothingly.

“Yes … yes, but it’s not just up to me. In Al Shargaz, tomorrow, bear with me, will you?”

“If it’s that important, I should know now, shouldn’t I?” Again Kasigi waited. He knew the value of waiting and of silence at a time like this. No need to remind the other man of the “I owe you two.” Yet. Scragger was remembering. At Bandar Delam, Kasigi saved my bloody neck and no doubt about that. Aboard his ship at Siri he proved he’s got balls and today he’s proved a good friend, he needn’t’ve gone to all that trouble so fast, tomorrow or the next day wouldn’t have mattered to him. His eyes were scanning the instruments and the outside and he saw no dangers within or without, Kish coining up soon to starboard and he glanced across at Kasigi. Kasigi was staring ahead, his strong, good-looking face set, frowning slightly. Shit, old sport, if you don’t perform, Zataki’s likely to go berserk! But you can’t perform. You can’t, old sport, and it’s so hard to see you just sitting there, not reminding me wot I owe you. “Kish, this is HST. Abeam Kish, steady at one thousand.”

“Kish. Maintain one thousand. You have traffic due east at ten thousand.” “I have them in sight.” They were two fighters. He pointed for Kasigi who had not seem them. “They’re FMs, probably out of Bandar Abbas,” he said. Kasigi did not reply, just nodded, and this made Scragger feel worse. The minutes passed. Droning onward. Then Scragger decided, hating having to do it. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, “but you’ll have to wait until Al Shargaz. Andy Gavallan can help, I can’t.” “He can help? In what way? What’s the trouble?”

After a pause Scragger said, “If anyone can help, he can. Let’s leave it at that, cobber.”

Kasigi heard the finality but dismissed it and let the matter rest for a moment, his mind abuzz with fresh danger signals. That Scragger had not fallen into his trap and told him the secret made him respect the man more. But that doesn’t forgive him, he thought, his fury building. He’s told me enough to forewarn me, now it’s up to me to find out the rest. So Gavallan’s the key? To what?

Kasigi felt his head about to burst. Haven’t I promised that madman Zataki we would be in business at once? How dare these men jeopardize our whole project - our National Project. Without choppers we can’t start! It’s tantamount to treason against Japan! What is it they’re planning? With a great effort he kept his face bland. “I’ll certainly see Gavallan as soon as possible, and let’s hope you’ll head up our new operation, eh?” “Whatever Andy Gavallan says, it’s up to him.”

Don’t be too sure, Kasigi was thinking, because whatever happens I will have choppers, at once - yours, Guerney’s, I don’t care whose. But by my samurai ancestors, the Iran-Toda will not be put to further risk! It will not! Nor will I!

Chapter 53

TABRIZ - AT THE KHAN’S PALACE: 10:50 A.M. Azadeh followed Ahmed into the Western-style room and over to the four-poster bed, and now that she was again within the walls she felt her skin crawling with fear. Sitting near the bed was a nurse in a starched white uniform, a book half open in her lap, watching them curiously through her glasses. Musty brocade curtains covered the windows against drafts. Lights were dimmed. And the stench of an old man hung in the air.

The Khan’s eyes were closed, his face pasty and breathing strangled, his arm connected to a saline drip that stood beside the bed. Half asleep in a chair nearby was Aysha, curled up and tiny, her hair disheveled and her face tear-stained. Azadeh smiled at her tentatively, sorry for her, then said to the nurse in a voice not her own, “How is His Highness, please?” “Fair. But he mustn’t have any excitement, or be disturbed,” the nurse said softly in hesitant Turkish. Azadeh looked at her and saw that she was European, in her fifties, dyed brown hair, a red cross on her sleeve. “Oh, you’re English, or French?”

“Scots,” the woman replied in English with obvious relief, her accent slight. She kept her voice down, watching the Khan. “I’m Sister Bain from the Tabriz Hospital and the patient is doing as well as can be expected - considering he will no’ do as he’s told. And who might you be, please?” “I’m his daughter, Azadeh. I’ve just arrived from Tehran - he sent for me. We’ve… we’ve traveled all night.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, surprised that someone so beautiful could have been created by a man so ugly. “If I might suggest, lassie, it would be better to leave him sleeping. As soon as he wakes I’ll tell him you’re here and send for you. Better he sleeps.”

Ahmed said irritably, “Please, where’s His Highness’s guard?” “There’s no need for armed men in a sickroom. I sent him away.”

“There will always be a guard here unless the Khan orders him out or I order him out.” Angrily Ahmed turned and left. Azadeh said, “It’s just a custom, Sister.” “Aye, very well. But that’s another custom we can do without.” Azadeh looked back at her father, hardly recognizing him, trying to stop the terror that possessed her. Even like that, she thought, even like that he can still destroy us, Hakim and me - he still has his running dog Ahmed. “Please, really, how is he?”

The lines on the nurse’s face creased even more. “We’re doing all we can.” “Would it be better for him to be in Tehran?” “Aye, if he has another stroke, yes, it would.” Sister Bain took his pulse as she talked. “But I wouldna recommend moving him, not at all, not yet.” She made a notation on a chart and then glanced at Aysha. “You could tell the lady there’s no need to stay, she should get some proper rest too, poor child.”

“Sorry, I may not interfere. Sorry, but that’s a custom too. Is … is it likely he’ll have another stroke?”

“You never know, lassie, that’s up to God. We hope for the best.” They looked around as the door opened. Hakim stood there beaming. Azadeh’s eyes lit up and she said to the nurse, “Please call me the instant His Highness awakes,” then hurried across the room, out into the corridor, closed the door, and hugged him.

“Oh, Hakim, my darling, it’s been such a long time,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, is it really true?”

“Yes, yes, it is but how did…” Hakim stopped, hearing footsteps. Ahmed and a guard turned into the corridor and came up to them. “I’m glad you’re back, Ahmed,” he said politely. “His Highness will be happy too.” “Thank you, Highness. Has anything happened in my absence?” “No, except that Colonel Fazir came this morning to see Father.” Ahmed was chilled. “Was he allowed in?”

“No. You left instructions no one was to be admitted without His Highness’s personal permission; he was asleep at the time and he’s been asleep most of the day - I check every hour and the nurse says he’s unchanged.” “Good. Thank you. Did the colonel leave a message?”

“Only that he was going to Julfa today as arranged with his ‘associate.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, Highness,” Ahmed lied blandly. He glanced from one to the other but before he could say anything, Hakim said, “We’ll be in the Blue Salon; please summon us the moment my father awakens.”

Ahmed watched them go arm in arm down the corridor, the young man tall and handsome, the sister willowy and desirable. Traitors? Not much time to get the proof, he thought. He went back into the sickroom and saw the pallor of the Khan, his nostrils rebelling against the smell. He squatted on his haunches, careless of the disapproving nurse, and began his vigil. What did that son of a dog Fazir want? he asked himself. Saturday evening when Hashemi Fazir and Armstrong had come back from Julfa without Mzytryk, Fazir had angrily demanded to see the Khan. Ahmed had been present when the Khan had seen them, declared himself as mystified as they that Mzytryk was not with the helicopter. “Come back tomorrow - if the man brings me a letter you can see it,” the Khan had said.

“Thank you, but we will wait - the Chevy can’t be far behind us.” So they had waited, the Khan seething but unable to do anything, Hashemi’s men spread around the palace in ambush. An hour later the Chevy had arrived. He himself had admitted the chauffeur while Hashemi and the Farsispeaking Infidel hid in the room next door. “I have a private message for His Highness,” the Soviet had said.

In the sickroom the Soviet said, “Highness, I’m to give it to you when you’re alone.”

“Give it to me now. Ahmed is my most trusted counselor. Give it to me!” Reluctantly the man obeyed and Ahmed remembered the sudden flush that had rushed into the Khan’s face the moment he began to read it. “There is an answer?” the Soviet had said truculently.

Choked with rage the Khan had shaken his head and dismissed the man and had handed Ahmed the letter. It read: “My friend, I was shocked to hear about your illness and would be with you now but I have to stay here on urgent matters. I have bad news for you: it may be that you and your spy ring are betrayed to Inner Intelligence or SAVAMA - did you know that turncoat Abrim Pahmudi now heads this new version of SAVAK? If you’re betrayed to Pahmudi, be prepared to defect at once or you’ll quickly see the inside of a torture chamber. I have alerted our people to help you if necessary. If it appears safe, I will arrive Tuesday at dusk. Good luck.”

The Khan had had no option but to show the message to the two men. “Is it true? About Pahmudi?”

“Yes. He’s an old friend of yours, isn’t he?” Fazir had said, taunting him. “No… no he is not. Get out!”

“Certainly, Highness. Meanwhile this palace is under surveillance. There’s no need to defect. Please do nothing to interfere with Mzytryk’s arrival on Tuesday, do nothing to encourage any more revolt in Azerbaijan. As to Pahmudi and SAVAMA, they can do nothing here without my approval. I’m the law in Tabriz now. Obey and I’ll protect you, disobey and you’ll be his pishkesh!”

Then the two men had left, and the Khan had exploded with rage, more angry than Ahmed had ever seen him. The paroxysm became worse and worse then suddenly it ceased, the Khan was lying on the floor, and he was looking down on him, expecting to see him dead but he was not. Just a waxen pallor and twitching, breathing choked.

“As God wants,” Ahmed muttered, not wanting to relive that night.

IN THE BLUE SALON: 11:15 A.M. When they were quite alone, Hakim swung Azadeh off her feet. “Oh, it’s wonderful wonderful wonderful to see you again…” she began, but he whispered, “Keep your voice down, Azadeh, there are ears everywhere and someone’s sure to misinterpret everything and lie again.” “Najoud? May she be cursed forever an - ”

“Shushhhh, darling, she can’t hurt us now. I’m the heir, officially.” “Oh, tell me what happened, tell me everything!”

They sat on the long cushion sofa and Hakim could hardly get the words out fast enough. “First about Erikki: the ransom is 10 million rials, for him and the 212 an - ”

“Father can bargain that down and pay, he can certainly pay, then find them and have them torn apart.”

“Yes, yes, of course he can and he told me in front of Ahmed as soon as you’re back he’ll start and it’s true he’s made me his heir provided I swear by God to cherish little Hassan as I would cherish you - of course I did that happily at once - and said that you would also swear by God to do the same, that we would both swear to remain in Tabriz, me to learn how to follow him and you to be here to help me and oh we’re going to be so happy!” “That’s all we have to do?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes,, that’s all - he made me his heir in front of all the family - they looked as though they would die but that doesn’t matter, Father named the conditions in front of them, I agreed at once, of course, as you will - why shouldn’t we?”

“Of course, of course - anything! God is watching over us!” Again she embraced him, burying her face into his shoulder so that the tears of joy would be dried away. All the way back from Tehran, the journey rotten and Ahmed uncommunkative, she had been terrified what the “conditions” would be. But now? “It’s unbelievable, Hakim, it’s like magic! Of course we’ll cherish little Hassan and you’ll pass the Khanate on to him or his successors if that’s Father’s wish. God protect us and protect him and Erikki, and Erikki can fly as much as he likes - why shouldn’t he? Oh, it’s going to be wonderful.” She dried her eyes. “Oh, I must look awful.”

“You look wonderful. Now tell me what happened to you - I know only that you were caught in the village with… with the British saboteur and then somehow escaped.”

“It was another miracle, only with the help of God, Hakim, but at the time terrible, that vile mullah - I can’t remember how we got out only what Johnny… what Johnny told me. My Johnny Brighteyes, Hakim.” His eyes widened. “Johnny from Switzerland?”

“Yes. Yes it was him; he was the British officer.”

“But how… It seems impossible.”

“He saved my life, Hakim, and oh, there’s so much to tell.” “When Father heard about the village he… you know the mullah was shot by Green Bands, don’t you?”

“I don’t remember it but Johnny told me.”

“When Father heard about the village he had Ahmed drag the kalandar here, questioned him, then sent him back, had him stoned, the hands of the butcher cut off, and then the village burned. Burning the village was my idea - those dogs!”

Azadeh was greatly shocked. The whole village was too terrible a vengeance. But Hakim allowed nothing to interrupt his euphoria. “Azadeh, Father’s taken off the guard and I can go where I like - I even took a car and went into Tabriz today alone. Everyone treats me as heir, all the family, even Najoud, though I know she’s gnashing her teeth and has to be guarded against. It’s … it’s not what I expected.” He told her how he had been almost dragged from Khoi, expecting to be killed, or mutilated. “Don’t you remember when I was banished, he cursed me and swore Shah Abbas knew how to deal with traitorous sons?”