Whirlwind

She trembled, recollecting that nightmare, the curses and rage and so unfair, both of them innocent. “What made him change? Why should he change toward you, toward us?”

“The Will of God. God’s opened his eyes. He has to know he’s near death and must make provision… he’s, he’s the Khan. Perhaps he’s frightened and wants to make amends. We were guilty of nothing against him. What does the reason matter? I don’t care. We’re free of the yoke at long last, free.”

IN THE SICKROOM: 11:16 A.M. The Khan’s eyes opened. Without moving his head he looked to his limits. Ahmed, Aysha, and the guard. No nurse. Then he centered on Ahmed who was sitting on the floor. “You brought her?” He stammered the words with difficulty.

“Yes, Highness. A few minutes ago.”

The nurse came into his field of vision. “How do you feel, Excellency?” she said in English as he had ordered her, telling her her Turkish was vile. “S’ame.”

“Let me make you more comfortable.” With great tenderness and care - and strength - she lifted him and straightened the pillows and bed. “Do you need a bottle, Excellency?”

The Khan thought about that. “Yes.”

She administered it and he felt befouled that it was done by an Infidel woman, but since she had arrived he had learned she was tremendously efficient, very wise and very good, the best in Tabriz, Ahmed had seen to that - so superior to Aysha who had proved to be totally useless. He saw Aysha smile at him tentatively, big eyes, frightened eyes. I wonder if I’ll ever thrust it in again, up to its hilt, stiff as bone, like the first time, her tears and writhing improving the act, momentarily.

“Excellency?”

He accepted the pill and the sip of water and was glad for the cool of the nurse’s hands that guided the glass. Then he saw Ahmed again and he smiled at him, glad his confidant was back. “Good jour’ney?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Will’ingly? Or with for’ce?”

Ahmed smiled. “It was as you planned, Highness. Willingly. Just as you planned.”

“I dinna think you should talk so much, Excellency,” the nurse said. “Go aw’ay.”

She patted his shoulder kindly. “Would you like some food, perhaps a little horisht?”

“Halvah.”

“The doctor said sweets were not good for you.”

“Halvah!”

Sister Bain sighed. The doctor had forbidden them and then added, “But if he insists you can give him them, as many as he wants, what does it matter now? Insha’Allah.” She found them and popped one into his mouth and wiped the saliva away, and he chewed it with relish, nutty but smooth and oh so sweet. “Your daughter’s arrived from Tehran, Excellency,” she said. “She asked me to tell her the moment you awoke.”

Abdollah Khan was finding talking very strange. He would try to say the sentences, but his mouth did not open when it was supposed to open and the words stayed in his mind for a long time and then, when a simple form of what he wanted to say came out, the words were not well formed though they should have been. But why? I’m not doing anything differently than before. Before what? I don’t remember, only a massive blackness and blood roaring and possessed by red-hot needles and not being able to breathe. I can breathe now and hear perfectly and see perfectly and my mind’s working perfectly and filled with plans as good as ever. It’s just getting it all out. “Ho’w?” “What, Excellency?” Again the waiting. “How ta’lk better?” “Ah,” she said, understanding at once, her experience of strokes great. “Dinna worry, you’ll find it just a wee bit difficult at first. As you get better, you’ll regain all your control. You must rest as much as you can, that’s very important. Rest and medicine, and patience, and you’ll be as good as ever. All right?” “Y’es.”

“Would you like me to send for your daughter? She was very anxious to see you, such a pretty girl.”

Waiting. “Late’r. See late’r. Go ‘way, everyone not Ahm’d.” Sister Bain hesitated, then again patted his hand kindly. “I’ll give you ten minutes - if you promise to rest afterward All right?” “Y’es.” When they were alone Ahmed went closer to the bed. “Yes, Highness?” “Wat time?”

Ahmed glanced at his wristwatch. It was gold and ornate and he admired it very much. “It’s almost eleven-thirty on Tuesday.” “Pe’tr?” “I don’t know, Highness.” Ahmed told him what Hakim had related. “If Petr comes today to Julfa, Fazir will be waiting for him.”

“Insha’Allah. Az’deh?”

“She was genuinely worried about your health and agreed to come here at once. A moment ago I saw her together with your son. I’m sure she will agree to anything to protect him - as he will to protect her.” Ahmed was trying to say everything clearly and concisely, not wanting to tire him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Ev’thing.” Everything I’ve discussed with you and a little more, the Khan thought with relish, his excitement picking up: Now that Azadeh’s back, cut the throat of the ransom messenger so the tribesmen in fury will do the same to the pilot; find out if those whelps’re traitors by whatever means you want, and if they are, take out Hakim’s eyes and send her north to Petr. If they’re not, cut up Najoud slowly and keep them close-confined here, until the pilot’s dead by whatever means, then send her north. And Pahmudi! Now I’m putting a price on his head that would tempt even Satan. Ahmed, offer it first to Fazir and tell him I want vengeance, I want Pahmudi racked, poisoned, cut up, mutilated, castrated…

His heart began creaking, palpitating, and he lifted his hand to rub his chest but his hand did not move. Not an inch. Even now as he looked down at it lying on the bedspread, willing it to move, there was no motion. Nothing. Nor feeling. Neither in his hand nor in his arm. Fear gushed through him. Don’t be afraid, the nurse said, he reminded himself desperately, sound of waves roaring in his ears. You’ve had a stroke, that’s all, not a bad one the doctor said and he said many people have strokes. Old Komargi had one a year or so ago and he’s still alive and active and claims he can still bed his young wife. With modern treatment… you’re a good Muslim and you’ll go to Paradise so there’s nothing to fear, nothing to fear, nothing to fear… nothing to fear, if I die I go to Paradise…

I don’t want to die, he shrieked. I don’t want to die, he shrieked again, but it was only in his head and no sound came out.

“What is it, Highness?”

He saw Ahmed’s anxiety and that calmed him a little. God be thanked for Ahmed. I can trust Ahmed, he thought, sweat pouring out of him. Now what do I want him to do? “Fam’ly, all he’re later. First Az’deh, H’kim, Naj’oud - under’s’d?”

“Yes, Highness. To confirm the succession?”

“Y’es.”

“I have your permission to question Her Highness?”

He nodded, his eyelids leaden, waiting for the pain in his chest to lessen. While he waited he moved his legs, feeling pins and needles in his feet. But nothing moved, not the first time, only the second, and only then with an effort. Terror rushed back into him. In panic he changed his mind: “Pay ran’som quick’ly, get pil’ot here, Erikki here, me to Teh’ran. Under’stand?” He saw Ahmed nod. “Quickly,” he mouthed and motioned him to go but his left hand still did not move. Terrified he tried his right hand and it worked, not easily, but it moved. Part of his panic subsided. “Pay ran’som no’w - kee’p secr’t. Get nur’se.”

*

AT THE JULFA TURNOFF: 6:25 P.M. Hashemi Fazir and Armstrong were once more in ambush under the snow-laden trees. Below the Chevy waited, lights off, windows open, two men in the front seat, just as before. Down the slope behind them both sides of the Julfa-Tabriz road were primed for the intercept with half a hundred paramilitary poised. The sun had vanished over the mountains and now the sky was blackening perceptibly. “He’s not got much more time,” Hashemi muttered again.

“He arrived at dusk last time. It’s not dusk yet.”

“Piss on him and his ancestors - I’m chilled to the bone.” “Not long now, Hashemi, old chap!” If it was up to him, Armstrong knew he would wait forever to catch Mzytryk, alias Suslev, alias Brodnin. He had offered to wait in Tabriz after the debacle on Saturday: “Leave me the men, Hashemi, I’ll lead the ambush Tuesday. You go back to Tehran, I’ll wait here and get him and bring him to you.”

“No, I’ll leave at once and be back early Tuesday. You can stay here.” “Here” was a safe house, an apartment overlooking the Blue Mosque, warm and stocked with whisky. “You really meant what you said to Abdollah Khan, Hashemi, that now you’re the law here and SAVAMA and Pahmudi are powerless without your support?”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

“Pahmudi really got under Abdollah’s skin. What’s that all about?” “Pahmudi had Abdollah banned from Tehran.”

“Christ! Why?”

“Old enmity, goes back years. Ever since Abdollah became Khan in ‘53, he truculently advised various prime ministers and court officials to be cautious over political reforms and so-called modernizations. Pahmudi, the well-bred, European-trained intellectual, despised him, was always against him, always blocking him from private access to the Shah. Unfortunately for the Shah, Pahmudi had the Shah’s ear.”

“To betray him in the end.”

“Oh, yes, Robert, perhaps even from the beginning. The first time Abdollah Khan and Pahmudi clashed openly was in ‘63 over the Shah’s proposed reforms, giving the women the vote, giving the voting franchise to non-Muslims and allowing non-Muslims to be elected to the Majlis. Of course. Abdollah, along with every thinking Iranian, knew this would bring an immediate outcry from all religious leaders, particularly Khomeini who was just getting into his stride then.”

“Almost unbelievable that no one could get to the Shah,” Armstrong had said, “to warn him.”

“Many did, but no one with enough influence. Most of us agreed with Khomeini, openly or secretly. I did. Abdollah lost round after round with Pahmudi - against all our advice the Shah changed the calendar from the Islamic one as sacred to Muslims as B.C. and A.D. are to Christians and tried to force a phony counting back to Cyrus the Great… of course that blew the minds of all Muslims, and after near revolution it was withdrawn …” Hashemi finished his drink and poured another. “Then, publicly, Pahmudi told Abdollah to piss off, literally - I have it all documented - taunted him that he was stupid, behind the times, living in the Dark Ages, ‘Is it any wonder coming from Azerbaijan,’ and to stay out of Tehran until he was summoned or he would be arrested. Worse he jeered at him, at a major function, and had thinly veiled cartoons published in the press.” “I never took Pahmudi for that much of a fool,” Armstrong said to encourage him to continue, wondering if he would make a slip and reveal something of value.

“Thank God he is - and why his days are numbered.”

Armstrong remembered the strange confidence that had pervaded Hashemi and how unsettled he had been. The feeling had stayed with him all during the waiting for Hashemi to return to Tabriz, unwise to wander the streets that were still filled with rival mobs trying to possess them. During the day the police and loyalist army maintained the peace in the name of the Ayatollah - at night, it was difficult if not impossible to stop small groups of fanatics bent on violence from terrorizing parts of the city: “We can still stamp them out, easily, if that old devil Abdollah will help us,” Hashemi had said angrily.

“Abdollah Khan still has so much power, even like that, half dead?” “Oh, yes, he’s still hereditary chief of a vast tribe - his wealth, hidden and real, would rival a shah’s, not Mohammed Reza Shah’s but certainly his father’s.”

“He’s going to die soon. What then?”

“His heir’ll have the same power - presuming that poor sonofabitch Hakim stays alive to use it. Did I tell you he’s made him heir?” “No. What’s strange about that?”

“Hakim is his eldest son who’s been banished to Khoi for years in disgrace. He’s been brought back and reinstated.”

“Why? Why was he banished?”

“The usual - he was caught plotting to send his father on - as Abdollah did his father.”

“You’re sure?”

“No, but curiously Abdollah’s father died at your Mzytryk’s dacha in Tbilisi.” Hashemi smiled sardonically at the effect of his information. “Of apoplexy.”

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough. We’ll ask your Mzytryk if it’s true when we catch him. We will catch him, though it’d certainly be easier with Abdollah alive.” Hashemi became grimmer. “I hope he stays alive long enough to order support for us to stop the war. Then he can rot. I hate that vile old man for double-dealing and double-crossing and using us all for his own purposes, that’s why I taunted him with Pahmudi. Sure I hate him, even so I’d never deliver him to Pahmudi, he’s too much of a patriot in his own vile way. Well I’m off to Tehran, Robert, you know where to find me. You’d like company for your bed?”

“Just hot and cold running water.”

“You should experiment a little, try a boy for a change. Oh, for the love of God don’t be so embarrassed. There’re so many times you disappoint me, I don’t know why I’m so patient with you.”

“Thanks.”

“You English’re all so depraved and twisted about sex, too many of you overt or covert homosexuals which the rest of you find disgusting and sinful and vile in the extreme, against the laws of God - which it isn’t. And yet in Arabia where connection between men is historically normal and ordinary - because by law it’s hands off a woman unless you’re married to her or else - homosexuality as you understand it is unknown. So a man prefers sodomy, so what? That doesn’t interfere with his masculinity here. Give yourself a new experience - life is short, Robert. Meanwhile, she’ll be here to use if you wish. Don’t insult me by paying her.”

“She” had been Caucasian, Christian, attractive, and he had partaken of her without need or passion, for politeness, and had thanked her and let her sleep in the bed and stay the next day, to clean and cook and entertain him and then, before he awoke this morning, she had vanished. Now Armstrong looked up into the western sky. It was much darker than before, the light going fast. They waited another half an hour. “The pilot won’t be able to see to land now, Robert. Let’s leave.” “The Chevy hasn’t moved yet.” Armstrong took out his automatic and checked the action. “I’ll leave when the Chevy leaves. Okay?”

The thickset Iranian stared at him, his face hard. “There’ll be a car below, parked facing Tabriz. It’ll take you to our safe house. Wait for me there-I’m going back to Tehran now; there are some important things that cannot wait, more important than this son of a dog - I think he knows we’re on to him.”

“When will you be back here?”

“Tomorrow - there’s still the problem of the Khan.” He stomped off into the darkness, cursing.

Armstrong watched him go, glad to be alone. Hashemi was becoming more and more difficult, more dangerous than usual, ready to explode, nerves too taut, too taut for a head of Inner Intelligence with so much power and a private band of trained assassins in secret. Robert, it’s time to begin a bailout. I can’t, I can’t, not yet. Come on, Mzytryk, mere’s plenty of moonlight to land with, for God’s sake.

Just after ten o’clock the Chevy’s lights came on. The two men wound up the windows and drove away into the night. Carefully Armstrong lit a cigarette, his gloved hand cupping the tiny flame against the wind. The smoke pleased him greatly. When he had finished he threw the stub into the snow and stubbed it out. Then he too left.

NEAR THE IRAN-SOVIET BORDER: 11:05 P.M. Erikki was pretending to sleep in the small, crude hut, his chin stubbled. A wick, floating in oil in an old chipped clay cup, was guttering and cast strange shadows. Embers in the rough stone fireplace glowed in the drafts. His eyes opened and he looked around. No one else was in the hut. Noiselessly he slid from under the blankets and animal skins. He was fully dressed. He put on his boots, made sure his knife was under his belt and went to the door, opened it softly. For a moment he stood there, listening, head slightly on one side. Layers of high clouds misted the moon and the wind moved the lightest of the pine branches. The village was quiet under its coverlet of snow. No guards that he could see. No movement near the lean-to where the 212 was parked. Moving as a hunter would move, he skirted the huts and headed for the lean-to.

The 212 was bedded down, skins and blankets where they were most needed, all the doors closed. Through a side window of the cabin he could see two tribesmen rolled up in blankets sprawled full length on the seats, snoring. Rifles beside them. He eased forward slightly. The guard in the cockpit was cradling his gun, wide awake. He had not yet seen Erikki. Quiet footsteps approaching, the smell of goat and sheep and stale tobacco preceding them. “What is it, pilot?” the young Sheik Bayazid asked softly. “I don’t know.”

Now the guard heard them and he peered out of the cockpit window, greeted his leader, and asked what was the matter. Bayazid replied, “Nothing,” waved him back on guard and searched the night thoughtfully. In the few days the stranger had been in the village he had come to like him and respect him, as a man and as a hunter. Today he had taken him into the forest, to test him, and then as a further test and for his own pleasure he had given him a rifle. Erikki’s first shot killed a distant, difficult mountain goat as cleanly as he could have done. Giving the rifle was exciting, wondering what the stranger would do, if he would, foolishly, try to turn it on him or even more foolishly take off into the trees when they could hunt nun with great enjoyment. But the Redhead of the Knife had just hunted and kept his thoughts to himself, through they could all sense the violence simmering. “You felt something - danger?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Erikki looked out at the night and all around. No sounds other than the wind, a few night animals hunting, nothing untoward. Even so he was unsettled. “Still no news?”

“No, nothing more.” This afternoon one of the two messengers had returned. “The Khan is very sick, near death,” the man had said. “But he promises an answer soon.”

Bayazid had reported all this faithfully to Erikki. “Pilot, be patient,” he said, not wanting trouble.

“What’s the Khan sick with?”

“Sick - the messenger said they’d been told he was sick, very sick. Sick!” “If he dies, what then?”

“His heir will pay - or not pay. Insha’Allah.” The Sheik eased the weight of his assault rifle on his shoulder. “Come into the lee, it’s cold.” From the edge of the hut now they could see down intoNow Armstrong looked up into the western sky. It was much darker than before, the light going fast. They waited another half an hour. “The pilot won’t be able to see to land now, Robert. Let’s leave.” “The Chevy hasn’t moved yet.” Armstrong took out his automatic and checked the action. “I’ll leave when the Chevy leaves. Okay?”

The thickset Iranian stared at him, his face hard. “There’ll be a car below, parked facing Tabriz. It’ll take you to our safe house. Wait for me there - I’m going back to Tehran now; there are some important things that cannot wait, more important than this son of a dog - I think he knows we’re on to him.”

“When will you be back here?”

“Tomorrow - there’s still the problem of the Khan.” He stomped off into the darkness, cursing.

Armstrong watched him go, glad to be alone. Hashemi was becoming more and more difficult, more dangerous than usual, ready to explode, nerves too taut, too taut for a head of Inner Intelligence with so much power and a private band of trained assassins in secret. Robert, it’s time to begin a bailout. I can’t, I can’t, not yet. Come on, Mzytryk, mere’s plenty of moonlight to land with, for God’s sake.

Just after ten o’clock the Chevy’s lights came on. The two men wound up the windows and drove away into the night. Carefully Armstrong lit a cigarette, his gloved hand cupping the tiny flame against the wind. The smoke pleased him greatly. When he had finished he threw the stub into the snow and stubbed it out. Then he too left.

NEAR THE IRAN-SOVIET BORDER: 11:05 P.M. Erikki was pretending to sleep in the small, crude hut, his chin stubbled. A wick, floating in oil in an old chipped clay cup, was guttering and cast strange shadows. Embers in the rough stone fireplace glowed in the drafts. His eyes opened and he looked around. No one else was in the hut. Noiselessly he slid from under the blankets and animal skins. He was fully dressed. He put on his boots, made sure his knife was under his belt and went to the door, opened it softly. For a moment he stood there, listening, head slightly on one side. Layers of high clouds misted the moon and the wind moved the lightest of the pine branches. The village was quiet under its coverlet of snow. No guards that he could see. No movement near the lean-to where the 212 was parked. Moving as a hunter would move, he skirted the huts and headed for the lean-to.

The 212 was bedded down, skins and blankets where they were most needed, all the doors closed. Through a side window of the cabin he could see two tribesmen rolled up in blankets sprawled full length on the seats, snoring. Rifles beside them. He eased forward slightly. The guard in the cockpit was cradling his gun, wide awake. He had not yet seen Erikki. Quiet footsteps approaching, the smell of goat and sheep and stale tobacco preceding them. “What is it, pilot?” the young Sheik Bayazid asked softly. “I don’t know.”

Now the guard heard them and he peered out of the cockpit window, greeted his leader, and asked what was the matter. Bayazid replied, “Nothing,” waved him back on guard and searched the night thoughtfully. In the few days the stranger had been in the village he had come to like him and respect him, as a man and as a hunter. Today he had taken him into the forest, to test him, and then as a further test and for his own pleasure he had given him a rifle. Erikki’s first shot killed a distant, difficult mountain goat as cleanly as he could have done. Giving the rifle was exciting, wondering what the stranger would do, if he would, foolishly, try to turn it on him or even more foolishly take off into the trees when they could hunt nun with great enjoyment. But the Redhead of the Knife had just hunted and kept his thoughts to himself, through they could all sense the violence simmering. “You felt something - danger?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Erikki looked out at the night and all around. No sounds other than the wind, a few night animals hunting, nothing untoward. Even so he was unsettled. “Still no news?”

“No, nothing more.” This afternoon one of the two messengers had returned. “The Khan is very sick, near death,” the man had said. “But he promises an answer soon.”

Bayazid had reported all this faithfully to Erikki. “Pilot, be patient,” he said, not wanting trouble.

“What’s the Khan sick with?”

“Sick - the messenger said they’d been told he was sick, very sick. Sick!” “If he dies, what then?”

“His heir will pay - or not pay. Insha’Allah.” The Sheik eased the weight of his assault rifle on his shoulder. “Come into the lee, it’s cold.” From the edge of the hut now they could see down into the valley. Calm and quiet, a few specks of headlights from time to time on the road far, far below. Barely thirty minutes from the palace and Azadeh, Erikki was thinking. And no way to escape.

Every time he started engines to recharge his batteries and circulate the oil, five guns were pointing at him. At odd times he would stroll to the edge of the village or, like tonight, he would get up, ready to run and chance it on foot but never an opportunity, guards too alert. During the hunting today he had been sorely tempted to try to break out, useless of course, knowing they were just playing with him.

“It’s nothing, pilot, go back to sleep,” Bayazid said. “Perhaps there’ll be good news tomorrow. As God wants.”

Erikki said nothing, his eyes raking the darkness, unable to be rid of his foreboding. Perhaps Azadeh’s in danger or perhaps… or perhaps it’s nothing and I’m just going mad with the waiting and the worry and what’s going on? Did Ross and the soldier make a break for it and what about Petr matyeryebyets Mzytryk and Abdollah? “As God wants, yes, I agree, but / want to leave. The time has come.”

The younger man smiled, showing his broken teeth. “Then I will have to tie you up.”

Erikki smiled back, as mirthlessly. “I’ll wait tomorrow and tomorrow night, then the next dawn I leave.”

“No.”

“It will be better for you and better for me. We can go to the palace with your tribesmen, I can Ian - ”

“No. We wait.”

“I can land in the courtyard, and I’ll talk to him and you’ll get the ransom and th - ”

“No. We wait. We wait here. It’s not safe there.”

“Either we leave together or I leave alone.”

The Sheik shrugged. “You have been warned, pilot.”

AT THE PALACE OF THE KHAN: 11:38 P.M. Ahmed drove Najoud and her husband Mahmud down the corridor before him like cattle. Both were tousled and still in their bedclothes, both petrified, Najoud in tears, two guards behind them. Ahmed still had his knife out. Half an hour ago he had rushed into their quarters with the guards, dragged them out of their carpet beds, saying the Khan at long last knew they’d lied about Hakim and Azadeh plotting against him, because tonight one of the servants admitted he had overheard the same conversation and nothing wrong had been said.

“Lies,” Najoud gasped, pressed against the carpet bed, half blinded by the flashlight that one of the guards directed at her face, the other guard holding a gun at Mahmud’s head, “all lies…”

Ahmed slid out his knife, needle sharp, and poised it under her left eye. “Not lies, Highness! You perjured yourself to the Khan, before God, so I am here at the Khan’s orders to take out your sight.” He touched her skin with the point and she cried out, “No please I beg you I beg you please don’t… wait wait…”

“You admit lying?”

“No. I never lied. Let me see my father he’d never order this without seeing me fir - ”

“You’ll never see him again! Why should he see you? You lied before and you’ll lie again!”

“I… I never lied never lied …”

His lips twisted into a smile. For all these years he had known she had lied. It had mattered nothing to him. But now it did. “You lied, in the Name of God.” The point pricked the skin. The panic-stricken woman tried to scream but he held his other hand over her mouth and he was tempted to press the extra half inch, then out and in again the other side and out and all finished, finished forever. “Liar!”

“Mercy,” she croaked, “mercy, in the Name of God…”

He relaxed his grip but not the point of the knife. “I cannot grant you mercy. Beg the mercy of God, the Khan has sentenced you!” “Wait… wait,” she said frantically, sensing his muscles tensing for the probe, “please… let me go to the Khan… let me ask his mercy I’m his daugh - ”

“You admit you lied?”

She hesitated, eyes fluttering with panic along with her heart. At once the knife point went in a fraction and she gasped out, “I admit… I admit I exagg - ”

“In God’s name, did you lie or didn’t you?” Ahmed snarled. “Yes … yes… yes I did… please let me see my father… please.” The tears were pouring out and he hesitated, pretending to be unsure of himself, then glared at her husband who lay on the carpet nearby quivering with terror. “You’re guilty too!”

“I knew nothing about this, nothing,” Mahmud stuttered, “nothing at all, I’ve never lied to the Khan never never I knew nothing…” Ahmed shoved them both ahead of him. Guards opened the door of the sickroom. Azadeh and Hakim and Aysha were there, summoned at a moment’s notice, in nightclothes, all frightened, the nurse equally, the Khan awake and brooding, his eyes bloodshot. Najoud went down on her knees and blurted out that she had exaggerated about Hakim and Azadeh and when Ahmed came closer she suddenly broke, “I lied I lied I lied please forgive me Father please forgive me… forgive me … mercy… mercy…” in a mumbling gibberish. Mahmud too was moaning and crying, saying he knew nothing about this or he would have spoken up, of course he would have, before God, of course he would, both of them begging for mercy - everyone knowing there would be none.

The Khan cleared his throat noisily. Silence. All eyes on him. His mouth worked but no sound came out. Both the nurse and Ahmed came closer. “Ah’med stay an’d Hakim, Aza’deh… res’t go - them un’der gu’ard.” “Highness,” the nurse said gently, “can it no’ wait until tomorrow? You’ve tired yourself very much. Please, please make it tomorrow.” The Khan shook his head. “N’ow.”

The nurse was very tired. “I dinna accept any responsibility, Excellency Ahmed. Please make it as short as possible.” Exasperated, she walked out. Two guards pulled Najoud and Mahmud to their feet and dragged them away. Aysha followed shakily. For a moment the Khan closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Now only his heavy, throttled breathing broke the silence. Ahmed and Hakim and Azadeh waited. Twenty minutes passed. The Khan opened his eyes. For him the time had been only seconds. “My so’n, trus’t Ahmed as fir’st confid’ant.” “Yes, Father.”

“Swea’r by G’d, bo’th of you.”

He listened carefully as they both chorused, “I swear by God I will trust Ahmed as first confidant.” Earlier they had both sworn before all the family the same thing and everything else he required of them: to cherish and guard little Hassan; for Hakim to make Hassan his heir; for the two of them to stay in Tabriz, Azadeh to stay at least two years in Iran without leaving: “This way, Highness,” Ahmed had explained earlier, “no alien outside influence, like that of her husband, could spirit her away before she’s sent north, whether guilty or innocent.”

That’s wise, the Khan thought, disgusted with Hakim - and Azadeh - that they had allowed Najoud’s perjury to be buried for so many years and to let it go unpunished for so many years - loathing Najoud and Mahmud for being so weak. No courage, no strength. Well, Hakim’ll learn and she’ll learn. If only I had more time…

“Aza’deh.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Naj’oud. Wh’at punish ‘ment?”

She hesitated, frightened again, knowing how his mind worked, feeling the trap close on her. “Banishment. Banish her and her husband and family.” Fool, you’ll never breed a Khan of the Gorgons, he thought, but he was too tired to say it so he just nodded and motioned her to leave. Before she left, Azadeh went to the bed and bent and kissed her father’s hand. “Be merciful, please be merciful, Father.” She forced a smile, touched him again, and then she left.

He watched her close the door. “Hak’im?”

Hakim also had detected the trap and was petrified of displeasing his father, wanting vengeance but not the malevolent sentence the Khan would pronounce. “Internal banishment forever, penniless,” he said. “Let them earn their own bread in future and expel them from the tribe.” A little better, thought Abdollah. Normally that would be a terrible punishment. But not if you’re a Khan and them a perpetual hazard. Again he moved his hand in dismissal. Like Azadeh, Hakim kissed his father’s hand and wished a good night’s sleep.

When they were alone, Abdollah said, “Ah’med?”

“Tomorrow banish them to the wastelands north of Meshed, penniless, with guards. In a year and a day when they’re sure they’ve escaped with their lives, when they’ve got some business going or house or hut, burn it and put them to death - and their three children.”

He smiled. “G’ood, do i’t.”

“Yes, Highness.” Ahmed smiled back at him, very satisfied. “Now sl’eep.”

“Sleep well, Highness.” Ahmed saw the eyelids close and the face fall apart. In seconds the sick man was snoring badly.

Ahmed knew he had to be most careful now. Quietly he opened the door. Hakim and Azadeh were waiting in the corridor with the nurse. Worriedly, the nurse went past him, took the Khan’s pulse, peering at him closely. “Is he all right?” Azadeh asked from the doorway.

“Who can say, lassie? He’s tired himself, tired himself badly. Best you all leave now.”

Nervously Hakim turned to Ahmed, “What did he decide?”

“Banished to the lands north of Meshed at first light tomorrow, penniless and expelled from the tribe. He will tell you himself tomorrow, Highness.” “As God wants.” Azadeh was greatly relieved that worse had not been ordered. Hakim was glowing that his advice had been taken. “My sister and I, we, er, we don’t know how to thank you for helping us, Ahmed, and, well, for bringing the truth out at long last.”

“Thank you, Highness, but I only obeyed the Khan. When the time comes I will serve you as I serve His Highness, he made me swear it. Good night.” Ahmed smiled to himself and closed the door and went back to the bed. “How is he?” “No’ so good, Agha.” Her back was aching and she was sick with tiredness. “I must have a replacement tomorrow. We should have two nurses and a sister in charge. Sorry, but I canna continue alone.”

“Whatever you want you will have, provided you stay. His Highness appreciates your care of him. If you like I will watch him for an hour or two. There’s a sofa in the next room and I can call you in case anything happens.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Thank you, I could use a wee rest, but call me if he wakes, and anyway in two hours.”

He saw her into the next room, told the guard to relieve him in three hours and dismissed him, then began a vigil. Half an hour later he quietly peered in at her. She was deeply asleep. He came back into the sickroom and locked the door, took a deep breath, tousled his hair and rushed for the bed, shaking the Khan roughly. “Highness,” he hissed as though in panic, “wake up, wake up!”

The Khan clawed his way out of leaden sleep, not knowing where he was or what had happened or if he was nightmaring again. “Wh’at… wh’at…” Then his eyes focused and he saw Ahmed, seemingly terrified which was unheard of. His spirit shuddered. “Wh’a - ”

“Quick, you’ve got to get up, Pahmudi’s downstairs, Abrim Pahmudi with SAVAMA torturers, they’ve come for you,” Ahmed panted; “someone opened the door to them, you’re betrayed, a traitor betrayed you to him, Hashemi Fazir’s given you to Pahmudi and SAVAMA as a pishkesh, quick, get up, they’ve overpowered all the guards and they’re coming to take you away…” He saw the Khan’s gaping horror, the bulging eyes, and he rushed on: “There’re too many to stop! Quick, you’ve got to escape …” Deftly he undipped the saline drip and tore the bedclothes back, started to help the frantic man to get up, abruptly shoved him back, and stared at the door. “Too late,” he gasped, “listen, here they come, here they come, Pahmudi at the head, here they come!”

Chest heaving, the Khan thought he could hear their footsteps, could see Pahmudi, could see his thin gloating face and the instruments of torture in the corridor outside, knowing there would be no mercy and they would keep him alive to howl his life away. Demented he shouted at Ahmed, Quick, help me. I can get to the window, we can climb down if you help me! In the Name of God, Ahmeddddddd… but he could not make the words come out. Again he tried but still his mouth did not coordinate with his brain, his neck muscles stretched with effort, the veins overloaded.

It seemed forever he was screaming and shouting at Ahmed who just stood watching the door, not helping him, footsteps coming closer and closer. “He’lp,” he managed to gasp, fighting to get out of bed, the sheets and coverlet weighing him down, restricting him, drowning him, chest pains growing and growing, monstrous now like the noise.

“There’s no escape, they’re here, I’ve got to let them in!” At the limit of his terror he saw Ahmed start for the door. With the remains of his strength he shouted at him to stop but all that happened was a strangled croak. Then he felt something twist in his brain and something else snap. A spark leaped across the wires of his mind. Pain ceased, sound ceased. He saw Ahmed’s smile. His ears heard the quiet of the corridor and silence of the palace and he knew that he was truly betrayed. With a last, all-embracing effort, he lunged for Ahmed, the fires in his head lighting his way down into the funnel, red and warm and liquid, and there, at the nadir, he blew out all the fire and possessed the darkness. Ahmed made sure the Khan was dead, glad that he had not had to use the pillow to smother him. Hastily he reconnected the saline drip, checked that there were no telltale leaks, partially straightened the bed, and then, with great care, examined the room. Nothing to give him away that he could see. His breathing was heavy, his head throbbing, and his exhilaration immense. A second check, then he walked over to the door, quietly unlocked it, noiselessly returned to the bed. The Khan was lying sightlessly against the pillows, blood hemorrhaged from his nose and mouth.

“Highness!” he bellowed. “Highness …” then leaned forward and grabbed him for a moment, released him, and rushed across the room, tore open the door. “Nurse!” he shouted and rushed into the next room, grabbed the woman out of her deep sleep and half carried, half dragged her back to the Khan. “Oh, my God,” she muttered, weak with relief that it had not happened while she was alone, perhaps to be blamed by this knife-wielding, violent bodyguard or these mad people, screaming and raving. Sickly awake now, she wiped her brow and pushed her hair into shape, feeling naked without her headdress. Quickly she did what she had to and closed his eyes, her ears hearing Ahmed moaning and grief-stricken. “Nothing anyone could do, Agha,” she was saying. “It could have happened any time. He was in a great deal of pain, his time had come, better this way, better than living as a vegetable.”

“Yes… yes, I suppose so.” Ahmed’s tears were real. Tears of relief. “Insha’Allah. Insha’Allah.”

“What happened?”

“I… I was dozing and he just… just gasped and started to bleed from his nose and mouth.” Ahmed wiped some of the tears away, letting his voice break. “I grabbed him as he was falling out of bed and then … then I don’t know I… he just collapsed and … and I came running for you.” “Dinna worry, Agha, nothing anyone could do. Sometimes it’s sudden and quick, sometimes not. Better to be quick, that’s a blessing.” She sighed and straightened her uniform, glad it was over and now she could leave this place. “He, er, he should be cleaned before the others are summoned.” “Yes. Please let me help, I wish to help.”

Ahmed helped her sponge away the blood and make him presentable and all the time he was planning: Najoud and Mahmud to be banished before noon, the rest of their punishment a year and a day from now; find out if Fazir caught Petr Oleg; make sure the ransom messenger’s throat was cut this afternoon as he had ordered in the Khan’s name.

Fool, he said to the corpse, fool to think I’d arrange to pay ransom to bring back the pilot to fly you to Tehran to save your life. Why save a life for a few more days or a month? Dangerous to be sick and helpless with your sickness, minds become deranged, oh, yes, the doctor told me what to expect, losing more of your mind, more vindictive than ever, more dangerous man ever, dangerous enough to perhaps turn on me! But now, now the suc cession is safe, I can dominate the whelp and with the help of God marry Azadeh. Or send her north - her hole’s like any other. The nurse watched Ahmed from time to time, his deft strong hands and their gentleness, for the first time glad of his presence and not afraid of him, now watching him combing the beard People are so strange, she thought. He must have loved this evil old man very much.

Wednesday - February 28

Chapter 54

TEHRAN: 6:55 A.M. McIver continued sorting through the files and papers he had taken from the big office safe, putting only those that were vital into his briefcase. He had been at it since five-thirty mis morning and now his head ached, his back ached, and the briefcase was almost full. So much more I should be taking, he thought, working as fast as he could. In an hour, perhaps less, his Iranian staff would arrive, and he would have to stop. Bloody people, he thought irritably, never here when we wanted them but now for the last few days, can’t get rid of them, like bloody limpets: “Oh, no, Excellency, please allow me to lock up for you, I beg you for the privilege…” or “Oh, no, Excellency, I’ll open the office for you, I insist, that is not the job of Your Excellency.” Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but it’s just as though they’re spies, ordered in to watch us, the partners more nosy than ever. Almost as though someone’s on to us. And yet, so far - touch wood - everything’s working like a well-tuned jet: us out by noon today or a little after; already Rudi’s poised for Friday with all of his extra bods and a whole load of spares already out of Bandar Delam by road to Abadan where a BA Trident snuck in, cleared by Duke’s friend Zataki to evacuate British oilers; at Kowiss, by now Duke should have cached the extra fuel, all his lads still cleared to leave tomorrow on the 125 - touch more wood - already three truckloads of spares out to Bushire for transshipment to Al Shargaz; Hotshot, Colonel Changiz, and that damned mullah, Hussain, still behaving themselves, fifty times touch wood; at Lengeh Scrag‘11 be having no problems, plenty of coastal ships available for his spares and nothing more to do but wait for D - no, not D day - W day. Only bad spot, Azadeh. And Erikki. Why the devil didn’t she tell me before leaving on a wild-goose chase after poor old Erikki? My God, she escapes Tabriz with the skin of her skin and then goes and puts her pretty little head back in it. Women! They’re all crazy. Ransom? Balls! I’ll bet it’s another trap set by her father, the rotten old bastard. At the same time, it’s just as Tom Lochart said: She would have gone anyway, Mac, and would you have told her about Whirlwind?

His stomach began churning. Even if the rest of us get out there’s still the problem of Erikki and Azadeh. Then there’s poor old Tom and Sharazad. How the hell can we get those four to safety? Must come up with something. We’ve two more days, perhaps by th - He whirled, startled, not having heard the door open. His chief clerk, Gorani, stood in the doorway, tall and balding, a devout Shi’ite, a good man who had been with them for many years. “Salaam, Agha.”

“Salaam. You’re early.” McIver saw the man’s open surprise at all the mess - normally McIver was meticulously tidy - and felt as though he’d been caught with his hand in the chocolate box.

“As God wants, Agha. The Imam’s ordered normality and everyone to work hard for the success of the revolution. Can I help?”

“Well, er, no, no, thank you, I, er, I’m just in a hurry. I’ve lots to do today, I’m off to the embassy.” McIver knew his voice was running away from him but he was unable to stop it. “I’ve, er, appointments all day and must be at the airport by noon. I have to do some homework for the Doshan Tappeh komiteh. I won’t come back to the office from the airport so you can close early, take the afternoon off - in fact you can take the day off.” “Oh, thank you, Agha, but the office should remain open until the us - ” “No, we’ll close for the day when I leave. I’ll go straight home and be there if I’m needed. Please come back in ten minutes, I want to send some telexes.”

“Yes, Agha, certainly, Agha.” The man left.

McIver hated the twistings of the truth. What’s going to happen to Gorani? he asked himself again, to him and all the rest of our people all over Iran, some of them fine, them and their families?

Unsettled, he finished as best he could. There were 100,000 rials in the cashbox. He left the notes, relocked the safe, and sent some inconsequential telexes. The main one he had sent at five-thirty this morning to Al Shargaz with a copy to Aberdeen in case Gavallan had been delayed: “Air freighting the five crates of parts to Al Shargaz for repairs as planned.” Translated, the code meant that Nogger, Pettikin and he, and the last two mechanics he had not yet been able to get out of Tehran, were readying to board the 125 today, as planned, and it was still all systems go.

“Which crates are these, Agha?” Somehow Gorani had found the copies of the telex.

“They’re from Kowiss, they’ll go on the 125 next week.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll check it for you. Before you go, could you please tell me when does our 212 return? The one we lent to Kowiss.”

“Next week, why?”

“Excellency Minister and Board Director Ali Kia wanted to know, Agha.” McIver was instantly chilled. “Oh? Why?”

“He probably has a charter for it, Agha. His assistant came here last night, after you had left, and he asked me. Minister Kia also wanted a progress report today of our three 212s sent out for repairs. I, er, I said I would have it today - he’s coming this morning so I can’t close the office.” They had never discussed the three aircraft, or the peculiarly great number of spares they had been sending out by truck, car, or as personal baggage - no aircraft space for freight. It was more than possible that Gorani would know the 212s did not need repair. He shrugged and hoped for the best. “They’ll be ready as planned. Leave a note on the door.”

“Oh, but that would be very impolite. I will relay that message. He said he would return before noon prayer and particularly asked for an appointment with you. He has a very private message from Minister Kia.” “Well, I’m going to the embassy.” McIver debated a moment. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Irritably he picked up the briefcase and hurried down the stairs, cursing Ali Kia and then adding a curse for Ali Baba too. Ali Baba - so named because he reminded McIver of the Forty Thieves - was the wheedling half of their live-in couple who had been with them for two years but had vanished at the beginning of the troubles. Yesterday at dawn Ali Baba came back, beaming and acting as though he had just been away for the weekend instead of almost five months, happily insisting he take their old room back: “Oh, most definitely, Agha, the home has to be most clean and prepared for the return of Her Highness; next week my wife will be here to do that but meanwhile I bring you tea-toast in a most instant as you ever liked. May I be sacrificed for you but I bargained mightily today for fresh bread and milk from the market at the oh so reasonable best price for me only, but the robbers charge five times last year’s, so sad, but please give me the money now, and as most soon as the bank is opened you can pay me my mucroscupic back salary…”

Bloody Ali Baba, the revolution hasn’t changed him a bit. “Microscopic”? It’s still one loaf for us and five for him, but never mind, it was fine to have tea and toast in bed - but not the day before we sneak out. How the hell are Charlie and I going to get our baggage out without him smelling the proverbial rat?

In the garage he unlocked his car. “Lulu, old girl,” he said, “sorry, there’s bugger all I can do about it, it’s time for the Big Parting. Don’t quite know how I’m going to do it, but I’m not leaving you as a burnt offering or for some bloody Iranian to rape.”

Talbot was waiting for him in a spacious, elegant office. “My dear Mr. McIver, you’re bright and early, I heard all the adventures of young Ross - my word we were all very lucky, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes, we were, how is he?”

“Getting over it. Good man, did a hell of a good job. I’m seeing him for lunch and we’re getting him out on today’s BA flight - just in case he’s been spotted, can’t be too careful. Any news of Erikki? We’ve had some inquiries from the Finnish embassy asking for help.”

McIver told him about Azadeh’s note. “Bloody ridiculous.” Talbot steepled his fingers. “Ransom doesn’t sound too good. There’s, er, there’s a rumor the Khan’s very sick indeed. Stroke.”

McIver frowned. “Would that help or hurt Azadeh and Erikki?” “I don’t know. If he does pop off, well, it’ll certainly change the balance of power in Azerbaijan for a while, which will certainly encourage our misguided friends north of the border to agitate more than usual, which’ll cause Carter and his powers-that-be to fart more dust.”

“What the devil’s he doing now?”

“Nothing, old boy, sweet Fanny Adams - that’s the trouble. He scattered his peanuts and scarpered.”

“Anything more on us being nationalized - Armstrong said it’s imminent.” “It might well be you’ll lose positive control of your aircraft imminently,” Talbot said with studied care and McIver’s attention zeroed. “It, er, might be more of a personal acquisition by interested parties.” “You mean Ali Kia and the partners?” Talbot shrugged. “Ours not to reason why, eh?” “This is official?”

“My dear chap, good Lord, no!” Talbot was quite shocked. “Just a personal observation, off the record. What can I do for you?”

“Off the record, on Andy Gavallan’s instructions, all right?” “Let’s have it on the record.”

McIver saw the slightly pink humorless face and got up, relieved. “No way, Mr. Talbot. It was Andy’s idea to keep you in the picture, not mine.” Talbot sighed with practiced eloquence. “Very well, off the record.” McIver sat. “We’re, er, we’re transferring our HQ to Al Shargaz today.” “Very wise. So?”

“We’re going today. All remaining expat personnel. On our 125.” “Very wise. So?”

“We’re, er, we’re closing down all operations in Iran. On Friday.” Talbot sighed wearily. “Without personnel I’d say that’s axiomatic. So?” McIver was finding it very hard to say what he wanted to say. “We, er, we’re taking our aircraft out on Friday - this Friday.”

“Bless my soul,” Talbot said in open admiration. “Congratulations! How on earth did you twist that rotter Kia’s arm to get the permits? You must’ve promised him a life membership at the Royal Box at Ascot!” “Er, no, no, we didn’t. We decided not to apply for exit permits, waste of time.” McIver got up. “Well, see you soo - ” Talbot’s face almost fell off his face. “No permits?” “No. You know yourself our birds’re going to be nicked, nationalized, taken over, whatever you want to call it, there’s no way we could get exit permits so we’re just going.” McIver added airily, “Friday we flit the coop.”

“Oh, my word!” Talbot was shaking his head vigorously, his fingers toying with a file on his desk. “Bless my soul, very very unbloody-wise.” “There isn’t any alternative. Well, Mr. Talbot, that’s all, have a nice day. Andy wanted to forewarn you so you could… so you could do whatever you want to do.”

“What the hell is that?” Talbot exploded.

“How the hell do I know?” McIver was equally exasperated. “You’re supposed to protect your nationals.”

“But y - ”

“I’m just not going to be put out of business and that’s the end of it!” Talbot’s fingers drummed nervously. “I think I need a cup of tea.” He clicked on the intercom. “Celia, two cups of the best and I think you better insert a modest amount pf Nelson’s Blood into the brew.”

“Yes, Mr. Talbot,” the adenoidal voice said and sneezed.

“Bless you,” Talbot said automatically. His fingers stopped drumming and he smiled sweetly at McIver. “I’m awfully glad you didn’t tell rne anything about anything, old boy.”

“So’m I.”

“Rest assured, should I ever hear that you’re in pokey doing - what’s the expression? Ah, yes, ‘doing porridge’ - I shall be glad to visit you on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government and attempt to extricate you from the errors of your ways.” Talbot’s eyebrows went off his forehead. “Grand larceny! Bless my soul, but jolly good luck, old boy.”

IN AZADEH’S APARTMENT: 8:10 A.M. The old maidservant carried the heavy silver breakfast tray along the corridor - four boiled eggs, toast and butter and marmalade, two exquisite coffee cups, steaming coffeepot, and the finest Egyptian cotton napkins. She put the tray down and knocked. “Come in.”

“Good morning, Highness. Salaam.”

“Salaam,” Sharazad said dully. She was propped against the many pillows of the carpet bed, her face puffy from tears. The bathroom door was ajar, sound of water running. “You can put it here, on the bed.”

“Yes, Highness.” The old woman obeyed. With a sidelong glance at the bathroom, she left silently.

“Breakfast, Tommy,” Sharazad called out, trying to sound bright. No answer. She half shrugged to herself, sniffed a little, more tears not far away, then looked up as Lochart came back into the bedroom. He was shaved and dressed in winter flying gear - boots, trousers, shirt, and heavy sweater. “Coffee?” she asked with a tentative smile, hating his set face and the air of disapproval that he wore.

“In a minute,” he said without enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

“I… I ordered everything just as you like it.”

“Looks good - don’t wait for me.” He went over to the bureau and began to tie his tie.

“It really was wonderful of Azadeh to lend us the apartment while she’s away, wasn’t it? So much nicer than home.”

Lochart looked at her in the mirror. “You didn’t say that at the time.” “Oh, Tommy, of course you’re right but please don’t let’s quarrel.” “I’m not. I’ve said it all and so have you.” I’ve had that, he thought, anguished, knowing she was as miserable as he was but unable to do anything about it. When Meshang had challenged him in front of her and Zarah, two nights ago, the nightmare had begun that continued even now, tearing them apart, bringing him to the edge of madness. Two days and nights of broken tears and him saying over and over, “No need to worry, we’ll manage somehow, Sharazad,” and then discussing the future. What future? he asked his reflection, once more wanting to explode.

“Here’s your coffee, darling Tommy.”

Glumly he took it, sat on a chair facing her, not looking at her. The coffee was hot and excellent but it did not take away the foul taste in his mouth, so he left it almost untouched and got up and went for his flight jacket. Thank God I’ve today’s ferry to Kowiss, he thought. Goddamn everything! “When do I see you, darling, when do you come back?”

He watched himself shrug, hating himself, wanting to take her in his arms and tell her the depth of his love but he had been through that agony four times in the last two days and she was still as relentless and inflexible as her brother: “Leave Iran? Leave home forever?” she had cried out. “Oh, I can’t, I can’t!”

“But it won’t be forever, Sharazad. We’ll spend some time in Al Shargaz then go to England, you’ll love England and Scotland and Aberd - ” “But Meshang says th - ”

“Screw Meshang!” he had shouted and saw the fear in her and that only served to whip his anger into a frenzy. “Meshang’s not God Almighty, for Christ’s sake! What the goddamn hell does he know?” and she had sobbed like a terrified child, cowering away from him. “Oh, Sharazad, I’m so sorry…” Taking her into his arms, almost crooning his love to her, she safe in his arms.

“Tommy, listen, my darling, you were right and I was wrong, it was my fault, but I know what to do, tomorrow I’ll go and see Meshang, I’ll persuade him to give us an allowance and… what’s the matter?”

“You haven’t heard a goddamned word I’ve said.”

“Oh, but I have, yes, indeed, I listened very carefully, please don’t be angry again, you’re right of course to be angry but I list - ” Flaring back: “Didn’t you hear what Meshang said? We’ve no money - the money’s finished, the building’s finished, he has total control over the family money, total, and unless you obey him and not me you’ll get nothing more. But that’s not important, I can make enough for us! I can! The point is we have to leave Tehran. Leave for… for a little while.” - “But I haven’t any papers, I haven’t, Tommy, and can’t get any yet and Meshang’s right when he says if I leave without papers they’ll never let me back, never, never.”

More tears and more arguing, not being able to get through to her, more tears, then going to bed, trying to sleep, no sleep for either of them. “You can stay here, Tommy. Why can’t you stay here, Tommy?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sharazad, Meshang made that very clear. I’m not wanted and foreigners are out. We’ll go somewhere else. Nigeria, or Aberdeen, somewhere else. Pack a suitcase. You’ll get on the 125 and we’ll meet at Al Shargaz - you’ve a Canadian passport. You’re Canadian!” “But I can’t leave without papers,” she wailed and sobbed and the same arguments, over and over, and more tears.

Then, yesterday morning, hating himself, he had put aside his pride and had gone to the bazaar to reason with Meshang, to get him to relent - all that he was going to say painstakingly worked out. But he had come up against a wall as high as the sky. And worse.

“My father held a controlling interest in the IHC partnership, which of course I inherit.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, that makes all the difference, Meshang.” “It makes no difference at all. The point is how do you intend to pay your debts, pay your ex-wife, and pay for my sister and her child without a very great infusion of charity?”

“A job’s not charity, Meshang, it’s not charity. It could be mightily profitable for both of us. I’m not suggesting a partnership, anything like that, I’d work for you. You don’t know the helicopter business, I do, inside out. I could run the new partnership for you, make it instantly profitable. I know pilots and how to operate. I know all of Iran, most of the fields. That would solve everything for both of us. I’d work like hell to protect the family interests, we’d stay in Tehran, Sharazad could have the baby here an - ”

“The Islamic state will require Iranian pilots only, Minister Kia assures me. One hundred percent.”

Sudden understanding. His universe abruptly ripped asunder. “Ah, now I get it, no exceptions, eh, particularly me?”

He had seen Meshang shrug disdainfully. “I’m very busy. To be blunt, you cannot stay in Iran. You’ve no future in Iran. Out of Iran Sharazad has no future of any value with you and she will never permanently exile herself - which will happen if she goes without my permission and without proper papers. Therefore you must divorce.”

“No.”

“Send Sharazad back from the Khan’s apartment this afternoon - more charity by the way - and leave Tehran immediately. Your marriage wasn’t Muslim so it’s unimportant - the Canadian civil ceremony will be annulled.” “Sharazad will never agree.”

“Oh? Be at my house at 6:00 P.M. and we will make final this matter. After you’ve left I’ll settle your Iranian debts - I cannot have bad debts hanging over our good name. 6:00 P.M. sharp. Good morning.”

Not remembering how he got back to the apartment but telling her and more tears and then to the Bakravan house that evening and Meshang repeating what he had said, infuriated with Sharazad’s abject begging: “Don’t be ridiculous, Sharazad! Stop howling, this is for your own good, your son’s good, and the family’s good. If you leave on a Canadian passport without proper Iranian papers you’ll never be allowed back. Live in Aberdeen? God protect you, you’d die of cold in a month and so would your son…. Nanny Jari won’t go with you, not that he could pay for her; she’s not mad, she won’t leave Iran and her family forever. You’ll never see us again, think of that… think of your son…” over and over until Sharazad was reduced to incoherence and Lochart to pulp.

“Tommy.”

This brought him out of his reverie. “Yes?” he asked, hearing the old tone to her voice.

“Thou, art thou leaving me forever?” she said in Farsi.

“I can’t stay in Iran,” he said, at peace now, the “thou” helping so very much. “When we’re closed down there’s no job for me here, I’ve no money, and even if the place hadn’t burned down… well, I was never one for handouts.” His eyes were without guile. “Meshang’s right about a lot of things: there wouldn’t be much of a life with me and you’re right to stay, certainly without papers it’d be dangerous to leave, and you’ve to think of the child, I know that. There’s also… no, let me finish,” he said kindly, stopping her. “There’s also HBC.” This reminded him about her cousin, Karim. Another horror yet to arrive. Poor Sharazad… “Thou, art thou leaving me forever?” “I’m leaving today for Kowiss. I’ll be there a few days then I’ll go to Al Shargaz. I’ll wait there, I’ll wait a month. This will give you time to think it through, what you want. A letter or telex care of Al Shargaz Airport will find me. If you want to join me, the Canadian embassy’ll arrange it at once, priority, I’ve already fixed that… and of course I’ll keep in touch.”

“Through Mac?”

“Through him or somehow.”

“Thou, art thou divorcing me?”

“No, never. If you want that or… let me put it another way, if you think it’s necessary to protect our child, or for whatever reason, then whatever you want I will do.”

The silence grew and she watched him, a strange look in her huge dark eyes, somehow older than before and yet so much younger and more frail, the translucent nightgown enhancing the sheen of her golden skin, her hair flowing around her shoulders and breasts.

Lochart was consumed with helplessness, dying inside, wanting to stay, knowing there was no longer any reason to stay. It’s all been said and now it’s up to her. If I was her I wouldn’t hesitate, I’d divorce, I’d’ve never have married in the first place. “Thou,” he said in Farsi, “fare thee well, Beloved.”

“And thee, Beloved.”

He picked up his jacket and left. In a moment she heard the front door close. For a long time she stared after him, then, thoughtfully, poured some coffee and sipped it, hot and strong and sweet and life-giving. As God wants, she told herself, at peace now. Either he will come back or he will not come back. Either Meshang will relent or he will not relent. Either way I must be strong and eat for two and think good thoughts while I build my son.

She decapitated the first of the eggs. It was perfectly cooked and tasted delicious.

AT MCIVER’S APARTMENT: 11:50 A.M. Pettikin came into the living room carrying a suitcase and was surprised to see the servant, Ali Baba, tentatively polishing the sideboard. “I didn’t hear you come back. I thought I’d given you the day off,” he said irritably, putting down the suitcase. “Oh, yes, Agha, but there is most much to do, the place she is filth-filled and the kitchen…” His lush brown eyebrows rose to heaven. “Yes, yes, that’s true but you can start in tomorrow.” Pettikin saw him looking at the suitcase and swore. Directly after breakfast he had sent Ali Baba off for the day with instructions to be back at midnight, which normally would mean that he would not come back until the next morning. “Now off you go.”

“Yes, Agha, you are going on holiday or on the leaves?”

“No, I’m, er, I’m going to stay with one of the pilots for a few days, so make sure my room’s cleaned tomorrow. Oh, yes, and you better give me your key, I’ve misplaced mine.” Pettikin held out his hand, cursing himself for not thinking of it before. With curious reluctance, Ali Baba gave it to him. “Captain McIver wants the place to himself, he has work to do and doesn’t want to be disturbed. See you soon, good-bye!”

“But, Agha…”

“Good-bye!” He made sure Ali Baba had his coat, opened the door, half shoved him out, and closed it again. Nervously he glanced again at his watch. Almost noon and still no McIver and they were supposed to be at the airport by now. He went into the bedroom, reached into the cupboard for the other suitcase, also packed, then came back and put it beside the other one, near the front door.

Two small cases and a carryall, he thought. Not much to show for all the years in Iran. Never mind, I prefer to travel light and perhaps this time I can get lucky and make more money or start a business on the side and then there’s Paula. How in the hell can I afford to get married again? Married? Are you mad? An affair’s about all you could manage. Yes, but God damn, I’d like to marry her an - The phone rang and he almost jumped out of himself, so unused to its ringing. He picked it up, his heart pounding. “Hello?”

“Charlie? It’s me, Mac, thank God the bloody thing’s working, tried it on the off chance. I’ve been delayed.”

“You’ve a problem?”

“Don’t know, Charlie, but I’ve got to go and see Ali Kia - bastard’s sent his bloody assistant and a Green Band to fetch me.”

“What the hell does Kia want?” Outside, all over the city, muezzins began calling the Faithful to noon prayer, distracting him.

“Don’t know. The appointment’s in half an hour. You’d better go on out to the airport and I’ll get there as soon as I can. Get Johnny Hogg to delay.” “Okay, Mac. What about your gear, is it in the office?”

“I snuck it out early this morning while Ali Baba was snoring, and it’s in Lulu’s boot. Charlie, there’s one of Genny’s needlepoints in the kitchen, ‘Down with corn-beef pie.’ Stick it in your suitcase for me, will you? She’d have my guts for garters if I forgot that. If I’ve time I’ll come back and make sure everything’s okay.”

“Do I shut the gas off, or electricity?”

“Christ, I don’t know. Leave it, okay?”

“All right. You sure you don’t want me to wait?” he asked, the metallic, loudspeaker voices of muezzins adding to his disquiet. “I don’t mind waiting. Might be better, Mac.”

“No, you go on out. I’ll be there right smartly. “Bye.”

‘“Bye.” Pettikin frowned, then, having a dialing tone, he dialed their office at the airport. To his astonishment the connection went through. “Iran Helicopters, hello?”

He recognized the voice of their freight manager. “Morning, Adwani, this’s Captain Pettikin. Has the 125 come in yet?”

“Ah, Captain, yes it’s in the pattern and should be landing any minute.” “Is Captain Lane there?”

“Yes, just a moment please…”

Pettikin waited, wondering about Kia.

“Hello, Charlie, Nogger here - you’ve friends in high places?” “No, the phone just started working. Can you talk privately?” “No. Not possible. What’s cooking?”

“I’m still at the flat. Mac’s been delayed - he’s got to go and see Ali Kia. I’m on my way to the airport now and he’ll come directly from Kia’s office. Are you ready to load?”

“Yes, Charlie, we’re sending the engines for repairs and reconditioning as Captain McIver ordered. Everything as ordered.”

“Good, are the two mecs there?”

“Yes. Both those spares are also ready for shipping.”

“Good. No problem that you can see?”

“Not yet, old chum.”

“See you.” Pettikin hung up. He packed the needlepoint and looked around the apartment a last time, now curiously saddened. Good times and bad times but the best when Paula was staying. Out of the window he noticed distant smoke over Jaleh and now as the muezzins’ voices died away, the usual sporadic gunfire. “The hell with all of them,” he muttered. He got up and went out with his luggage and locked the door carefully. As he drove out of the garage he saw Ali Baba duck back into a doorway across the road. With him were two other men he had never seen before. What the hell’s that bugger up to? he thought uneasily.

AT THE MINISTRY OF TRANSPORT: 1:07 P.M. The huge room was freezing in spite of a log fire, and Minister Ali Kia wore a heavy, expensive Astrakhan overcoat with a hat to match, and he was angry. “I repeat, I need transport to Kowiss tomorrow and I require you to accompany me.”

“Can’t tomorrow, sorry,” McIver said, keeping his nervousness off his face with difficulty. “I’d be glad to join you next week. Say Monday an - ” “I’m astonished that after all the ‘cooperation’ I’ve given you it’s necessary even to argue! Tomorrow, Captain, or… or I shall cancel all clearances for our 125 - in fact, I’ll hold it on the ground today, impound it today pending investigations!”

McIver was standing in front of the vast desk, Kia sitting behind it in a big carved chair that dwarfed him. “Could you make it today, Excellency? We’ve an Alouette to ferry to Kowiss. Captain Lochart’s leav - ” “Tomorrow. Not today.” Kia flushed even more. “As ranking board director you are ordered: you will come with me, we will leave at ten o’clock. Do you understand?”

McIver nodded bleakly, trying to figure a way out of the trap. Then pieces of a tentative plan fell into place. “Where do you want to meet?” “Where’s the helicopter?”

“Doshan Tappeh. We’ll need a clearance. Unfortunately there’s a Major Delami there, along with a mullah, and both’re rather difficult, so I don’t see how we can do it.”

Kia’s face darkened even more. “The PM’s given new orders about mullahs and interference with the legal government and the Imam agrees wholeheartedly. They both better behave. I will see you at ten tomorrow an - ” At that moment there was a large explosion outside. They rushed to the window but could see only a cloud of smoke billowing into the cold sky from around the bend in the road. “Sounded like another car bomb,” McIver said queasily. Over the last few days there had been a number of assassination attempts and car bomb attacks by left-wing extremists, mostly on high-ranking ayatollahs in the government.

“Filthy terrorists, may God burn their fathers, and them!” Kia was clearly frightened, which pleased McIver.

“The price of fame, Minister,” he said, his voice heavy with concern. “Those in high places, important people like you, are obvious targets.” “Yes … yes … we know, we know. Filthy terrorists…”

McIver smiled all the way back to his car. So Kia wants to go to Kowiss. I’ll see he bloody gets to Kowiss and Whirlwind continues as planned. Around the corner, the main road ahead was partially blocked with debris, a car still on fire, others smoldering, and a hole in the roadbed where the parked car bomb had exploded, blowing out the front of a restaurant and the shuttered foreign bank beside it, glass from them and other shop windows scattered everywhere. Many injured, dead or dying. Agony and panic and the stink of burning rubber.

Traffic was jammed both ways. There was nothing to do but wait. After half an hour an ambulance arrived, some Green Bands, and a mullah began directing traffic. In time McIver was waved forward, cursed forward. Easing past the wreckage, all traffic enraged and blaring, he did not notice the headless body of Talbot half buried under the restaurant debris, nor recognize Ross dressed in civvies, lying unconscious nearby, half against the wall, his coat ripped, blood seeping from his nose and ears.

AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT FOYER - ACROSS THE GULF: 2:05 P.M. Scot Gavallan was among the crowd waiting outside the Custom and Immigration area, his right arm in a sling. From the loudspeaker came air traffic announcements in Arabic and English, and the big arrival and departure board clattered, fixing schedules and boarding gates, the whole terminal thriving. He saw his father come through the green door, his face lit up, and he went forward to intercept him. “Hi, Dad!”

“Oh, Scot, laddie!” Gavallan said happily and hugged him back but carefully, because of bis shoulder. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Dad, really. I told you, I’m fine now.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Since Gavallan had left on Monday he had spoken to his son by phone many times. But talking on the phone’s not the same, he thought. “I - I was so worried…”

Gavallan had not wanted to leave at all but the English doctor at the hospital had assured him Scot was all right, and there were urgent business problems in England and the postponed board meeting to deal with. “The X rays show no bone damage, Mr. Gavallan. The bullet’s gone through part of the muscle, the wound nasty but repairable.” To Scot the doctor had said: “It’ll ache a lot and you won’t be flying for two months or more. As to the tears … no need to worry either. It’s just a fairly normal reaction to a gunshot wound. The flight from Zagros didn’t help - you escaped in a coffin, you say? That’s enough to give you the heebie-jeebies, let alone being shot. It would me. We’ll keep you overnight.”

“Is that necessary, Doctor? I’m… I’m feeling much better…” Scot had got up, his knees had given way on him, and he would have fallen if Gavallan had not been ready to catch him.

“First we have to fix you up. A good sleep and he’ll be as right as rain, Mr. Gavallan, promise you.” The doctor gave Scot a sedative and Gavallan had stayed with him, reassuring him about Jordon’s death. “If anyone’s responsible, it’s me, Scot. If I’d ordered an evacuation before the Shah left, Jordon’d still be alive.”

“No, that’s not right, Dad… the bullets were meant for me…” Gavallan had waited until he was asleep. By this time he had missed his connection but just caught the midnight flight and was in London in good time.

“What the hell’s going to happen in Iran?” Linbar had asked without preamble.

“What about the others?” Gavallan had said tightly. Only one other director was in the room, Paul Choy, nicknamed “Profitable,” who had flown in from Hong Kong. Gavallan respected him greatly for his business acumen - the only cloud between them Choy’s close involvement at David MacStruan’s accidental death and Linbar’s subsequent succession. “We should wait for them, don’t you think?”

“No one else is coming,” Linbar rapped. “I canceled them and don’t need them. I’m taipan and can do whatever I like. Wh - ”

“Not with S-G Helicopters, you can’t.” Tightly Gavallan looked across at Choy. “I propose we postpone.”

“Sure we can,” Profitable Choy said easily, “but hell, Andy, I came in special and the three of us can constitute a quorum, if we want to vote it.” “I vote it,” Linbar said. “What the hell’re you afraid of?” “Nothing. Bu - ”

“Good. Then we’ve a quorum. Now what about Iran?”

Gavallan held on to his temper. “Friday’s D day, weather permitting. Whirlwind’s set up as best we can.”

“I’m sure of that, Andy.” Profitable Choy’s smile was friendly. “Linbar says you plan only to try to get 212s out?” He was a good-looking, immensely wealthy man in his late thirties, a director of Struan’s and many of its subsidiary boards for a number of years, who had major interests outside of Struan’s, in shipping, pharmaceutical manufacturing in Hong Kong and Japan, and in the Chinese Stock Exchange. “What about our 206s and Alouettes?”

“We have to leave them - can’t possibly fly them out. No way.” A silence followed his explanation.

Paul Choy said, “What’s the final Whirlwind plan?” “Friday at 7:00 A.M., weather permitting, I radio the code that Whirlwind’s a go. All flights get airborne. We’ll have four 212s positioned at Bandar Delam under Rudi, they’ll head for Bahrain, refuel, then on to Al Shargaz; our two 212s at Kowiss have to refuel on the coast then head for Kuwait for more fuel, then to Jellet - that’s a small island off Saudi where we’ve cached fuel - then on to Bahrain and Al Shargaz. The three at Lengeh under Scragger shouldn’t have any problem, they just head for Al Shargaz direct. Erikki gets out through Turkey. As soon as they arrive we start stripping them for loading into the 747s I’ve already chartered and get out as fast as possible.”

“What odds’re you giving on not losing a man or a chopper?” Profitable Choy asked, his eyes suddenly hard. He was a famous gambler and racehorse owner and a steward of Hong Kong’s Jockey Club. Rumor had it he was also a member of Macao’s gambling syndicate.

“I’m not a betting man. But the chances are good - otherwise I wouldn’t even contemplate it. McIver’s already managed to get three 212s out, that’s a saving of better than $3 million. If we get all our 212s out and most of the spares S-G’ll be in good shape.”

“Rotten shape,” Linbar said curtly.

“Better shape than Struan’s will be this year.”

Linbar flushed. “You should have been prepared for this catastrophe, you and bloody McIver. Any fool could see the Shah was on his last legs.” “Enough of this, Linbar,” Gavallan snapped. “I didn’t come back to quarrel, just to report, so let’s finish and I can get my plane back. What else, Profitable?”

“Andy, even if you get ‘em out what about Imperial undercutting you in the North Sea, taking twenty-odd contracts from you - then there’s your commitment for the six X63s?” “A bloody stupid and ill-timed decision,” Linbar said. Gavallan dragged his eyes off Linbar and concentrated. Choy had the right to ask and he had nothing to hide. “So long as I’ve my 212s I can get back to normal; there’s a huge amount of work for them. I’ll start dealing with Imperial next week - I know I’ll get some of the contracts back. The rest of the world’s frantic for oil, so ExTex will come around with the new Saudi, Nigerian, and Malaysian contracts, and when they get our report on the X63 they’ll double their business with us - and so will all the other majors. We’ll be able to give them better than ever service, more safety in all weather conditions, at less cost per mile per passenger. The market’s great, soon China’ll open up an - ”

“Pipe dream,” Linbar said. “You and bloody Dunross have your heads in the clouds.”

“China‘11 never be any good for us,” Profitable Choy said, his eyes curious. “I agree with Linbar.”

“I don’t.” Gavallan noticed something odd about Choy but his rage took him onward. “We’ll wait on that one. China has to have oil somewhere, in abundance. To finalize, I’m in good shape, great shape, last year profits were up fifty percent and this year we’re the same if not better. Next week I’ll b - ”

Linbar interrupted. “Next week you’ll be out of business.” “This weekend will tell it one way or another.” Gavallan’s chin came out. “I propose we reconvene on Monday next. That’ll give me time to get back.” “Paul and I return to Hong Kong on Sunday. We’ll reconvene there.” “That’s not possible for me an - ”

“Then we will have to get on without you.” Linbar’s temper broke. “If Whirlwind fails you’re finished, S-G Helicopters will be liquidated, a new company, North Sea Helicopters, already formed by the way, will acquire the assets, and I doubt if we’ll pay half a cent on the dollar.” Gavallan flushed. “That’s bloody robbery!”

“Just the price of failure! By God if S-G goes down you’re finished and none too soon for me, and if you can’t afford to buy your own plane ticket to board meetings you won’t be missed.”

Gavallan was beside himself with suppressed rage, but he held on. Then at a sudden thought, he looked across at Profitable Choy. “If Whirlwind’s a success, will you help me finance a Struan buy-out?”

Before Choy could answer Linbar bellowed, “Our controlling interest’s not for sale.”

“Maybe it should be, Linbar,” Profitable Choy said thoughtfully. “That way maybe you ease out of the hole you’re in. Why not unload an irritant - you two guys hack all the time and for what? Why not call it a day, huh?” Linbar said tightly, “Would you finance the buy-out?”

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe, but only if you agreed, Linbar, only then. This’s a family matter.”

“I’ll never agree, Profitable.” Linbar’s face twisted and he glared at Gavallan. “I want to see you rot - you and bloody Dunross!” Gavallan got up. “I’ll see you at the next meeting of the Inner Office. We’ll see what they say.”

“They’ll do what I tell them to do. I’m taipan. By the way, I’m making Profitable a member.”

“You can’t, it’s against Dirk’s rules.” Dirk Struan, founder of the company, had set down that members of the Inner Office could only be family, however loosely connected, and Christian. “You swore by God to uphold them.” “The hell with Dirk’s rules,” Linbar slammed back at him; “you’re not party to all of them or to Dirk’s legacy, only a taipan is, by God, and what I swore to uphold’s my own business. You think you’re so goddamned clever, you’re not! Profitable’s become Episcopalian, last year he was divorced, and soon he’s going to marry into the family, one of my nieces, with my blessing - he’ll be more family than you!” He laughed uproariously. Gavallan did not. Nor did Profitable Choy. They watched each other, the die cast now. “I didn’t know you were divorced,” Gavallan said. “I should congratulate you on… on your new life and appointment.” “Yeah, thanks,” was all his enemy said.

In the Al Shargaz airport, Scot bent down to pick up his father’s suitcase, other passengers bustling past, but Gavallan said, “Thanks, Scot, I can manage.” He picked it up. “I could use a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Hate flying at night.”

“Genny’s got the car outside.” Scot had noticed his father’s tiredness from the first moment. “You had a rough time back home?”

“No, no, not at all. So glad you’re okay. What’s new here?” “Everything’s terrific, Dad, going according to plan. Like clockwork.”

IN TEHRAN’S NORTHERN SUBURBS: 2:35 P.M. JeanLuc, debonair as always in his tailored flying gear and custom-made boots, got out of the taxi. As promised, he took out the hundred-dollar bill and carefully tore it in half. “Voilŕ!”

The driver examined his half of the note closely. “Only one hour, Agha? In God’s name, Agha, no more?”

“One hour and a half, as we agreed, then straight back to the airport. I’ll have some luggage.”

“Insha’Allah.” The driver looked around nervously. “I can’t wait here - too many eyes. One hour and half hour. I around corner, there!” He pointed ahead, then drove off.

JeanLuc went up the stairs and unlocked the door of Apartment 4a that overlooked the tree-lined road and faced south. This was his pad, though his wife, Marie-Christene, had found it and arranged it for him and stayed here on her rare visits. One bedroom with a big low double bed, well-equipped kitchen, living room with a deep sofa, good hi-fi and record player: “To beguile your lady friends, chéri, so long as you don’t import one into France!”

“Me, chérie? Me, I’m a lover not an importer!”

He smiled to himself, glad to be home and only a little irritated that he had to leave so much - the hi-fi was the best, the records wonderful, the sofa seductive, the bed oh so resilient, the wine so painstakingly smuggled in, and then there were his kitchen utensils. “Espčce de con,” he said out loud and went into the bedroom and tried the phone. It wasn’t working. He took a suitcase out of the neat wall bureau and started packing, quickly and efficiently, for he had given it much thought. First his favorite knives and omelette pan, then six bottles of the very best wines, the remaining forty-odd bottles would stay for the new tenant, a temporary tenant in case he ever came back, who was renting the whole place from him from tomorrow - with payment in good French francs, monthly in advance into Switzerland, with another good cash deposit for breakages, also in advance. The deal had been simmering since before he went on Christmas leave. While everyone else wore blinkers, he chortled, I was ahead of the game. But then of course I have an extreme advantage over the others. I’m French. Happily he continued packing. The new owner was also French, an elderly friend in the embassy who for weeks had desperately needed an immediate, well-equipped garçonničre for his teenage Georgian-Circassian mistress who was swearing to leave him unless he delivered: “JeanLuc, my dearest friend, let me rent it for a year, six months, three - I tell you emphatically, soon the only Europeans resident here will be diplomats. Tell no one else, but I have it on the highest authority from our inside contact with Khomeini in Neauphle-le-Chateau! Frankly we know everything that’s going on - aren’t many of his closest associates French speaking and French university trained? Please, I beg you, I simply have to satisfy the light of my life.” My poor old friend, JeanLuc thought sadly. Thank God I’ll never have to kowtow to any woman - how lucky Marie-Christene is that she’s married to me who can wisely guard her fortune!

The last items he packed were his flight instruments and half a dozen pairs of sunglasses. All his clothes he had put away in one locked cupboard. Of course I shall be reimbursed by the company and buy new ones. Who needs old clothes?

Now he was finished, everything neat and tidy. He looked at the clock. It had taken him only twenty-two minutes. Perfect. The La Doucette in the freezer was cool, the freezer still working in spite of the electricity cuts. He opened the bottle and tried it. Perfect. Three minutes later the door knocker sounded. Perfect.

“Sayada, chérie, how beautiful you are,” he said warmly and kissed her, but he was thinking, you don’t look good at all, tired and weary. “How are you, chérie?”

“I’ve had a chill, nothing to worry about,” she said. This morning she had seen her worry lines and the dark rings in her mirror and knew JeanLuc would notice. “Nothing serious and I’m over it now. And you, chéri?” “Today fine, tomorrow?” He shrugged, helped her off with her coat, lifted her easily into his arms and sank into the embrace of the sofa. She was very beautiful and he was saddened to leave her. And Iran. Like Algiers, he thought.

“What’re you thinking about, JeanLuc?”

“‘63, being shoved out of Algiers. Just like Iran in a way, we’re being forced out the same.” He felt her stir in his arms. “What is it?” “The world’s so awful sometimes.” Sayada had told him nothing about her real life. “So unfair,” she said sickened, remembering the ‘67 war in Gaza and the death of her parents, then fleeing - her story much like his - remembering more the catastrophe of Teymour’s murder and them. Nausea swept into her as she pictured little Yassar and what they would do to her son if she misbehaved. If only I could find out who they are…

JeanLuc was pouring the wine that he had put on the table in front of them. “Bad to be serious, chérie. We’ve not much time. Santé!”

The wine tasted cool and delicate and of spring. “How much time? Aren’t you staying?”

“I must leave in an hour.”

“For Zagros?”

“No, chérie, for the airport, then Kowiss.”

“When will you be back?”

“I won’t,” he said and felt her stiffen. But he held her firmly and, in a moment, she relaxed again, and he continued - never a reason not to trust her implicitly. “Between us, Kowiss is temporary, very. We’re pulling out of Iran, the whole company - it’s obvious we’re not wanted, we can’t operate freely anymore, the company’s not being paid. We’ve been tossed out of the Zagros … one of our mechanics was killed by terrorists a few days ago and young Soot Gavallan missed getting killed by a millimeter. So we’re pulling out. C’est fini.”

“When?”

“Soon. I don’t know exactly.”

“I’ll… I will miss… will miss you, JeanLuc,” she said and nestled closer.

“And I’ll miss you, chérie,” he said gently, noticing the silent tears now flooding her cheeks. “How long are you staying in Tehran?” “I don’t know.” She kept the misery out of her voice. “I’ll give you an address in Beirut, they’ll know where to find me.”

“You can find me through Aberdeen.”

They sat there on the sofa, she lying in his arms, the clock on the mantelpiece over the fireplace ticking, normally so soft but now so loud, both of them conscious of the time that passed and the ending that had occurred - not of their volition.

“Let’s make love,” she murmured, not wanting to but knowing that bed was expected of her.

“No,” he said gallantly, pretending to be strong for both of them, knowing that bed was expected of him and then they would get dressed and be French and sensible about the ending of their affair. His eyes strayed to the clock. Forty-three minutes left.

“You don’t want me?”

“More than ever.” His hand cupped her breast and his lips brushed her neck, her perfume light and pleasing, ready to begin.

“I’m glad,” she murmured in the same sweet voice, “and so glad that you said no. I want you for hours, my darling, not for a few minutes - not now. It would spoil everything to hurry.”

For a moment he was nonplussed, not expecting that gambit in the game they played. But now that it was said he was glad too.

How brave of her to forgo such pleasure, he thought, loving her deeply. Much better to remember the great times than to thrash around hurriedly. It certainly saves me a great deal of sweat and effort and I didn’t check if there’s any hot water. Now we can sit and chat and enjoy the wine, weep a little and be happy. “Yes, I agree. For me too.” Again his lips brushed her neck. He felt her tremble and for a moment he was tempted to inflame her. But decided not to. Poor baby, why torment her?

“How are you all leaving, my darling?”

“We’ll fly out together. Wine?”

“Yes, yes, please, it’s so good.” She sipped the wine, dried her cheeks, and chatted with him, probing this extraordinary “pullout.” Both they and the Voice will find all this very interesting, perhaps even bring me to discover who they are. Until I know I can’t protect my son. Oh, God, help me to corner them.

“I love you so much, chéri,” she said.

AT TEHRAN AIRPORT: 6:05 P.M. Johnny Hogg, Pettikin, and Nogger stared at McIver blankly. “You’re staying - you’re not leaving with us?” Pettikin stuttered.

“No. I told you,” McIver said briskly. “I’ve got to accompany Kia to Kowiss tomorrow.” They were beside his car in their parking lot, away from alien ears, the 125 on the apron, laborers loading the last few crates, the inevitable group of Green Band guards watching. And a mullah. “The mullah’s one we’ve never seen before,” Nogger said nervously, like all of them trying to hide it.

“Good. Is everyone else ready to board?”

“Yes, Mac, except JeanLuc.” Pettikin was very unsettled. “Don’t you think you’d better chance leaving Kia?”

“That’d really be crazy, Charlie. Nothing to worry about. You can set up everything at Al Shargaz Airport with Andy. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll get on the 125 tomorrow at Kowiss with the rest of the lads.” “But for God’s sake they’re all cleared, you’re not,” Nogger said. “For God’s sake, Nogger, none of us’re cleared from here, for God’s sake,” McIver added with a laugh. “How the hell will we be sure of our Kowiss lads until they’re airborne and out of Iran airspace? Nothing to worry about. First things first, we’ve got to get this part of the show in the air.” He glanced at the taxi skidding to a stop. JeanLuc got out, gave the driver the other half of the note, and strolled over carrying a suitcase.

“Alors, mes amis,” he said with a contented smile. “Ça marche?” McIver sighed. “Jolly sporting of you to advertise you’re going on a holiday, JeanLuc.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” McIver liked JeanLuc, for his ability, his cooking, and single-mindedness. When Gavallan had told JeanLuc about Whirlwind, JeanLuc had said at once, “Me, I will certainly fly out one of the Kowiss 212s - providing I can be on the Wednesday flight to Tehran and go into Tehran for a couple of hours.”

“To do what?”

“Mon Dieu, you Anglais! To say adieu to the Imam perhaps?” McIver grinned at the Frenchman. “How was Tehran?”

“Magnifique!” JeanLuc grinned back, and thought, I haven’t seen Mac so young in years. Who’s the lady? “Et toi, mon vieux?”

“Good.” Behind him, McIver saw Jones, the copilot, come down the steps two at a time, heading for them. Now there were no more crates left on the tarmac and their Iranian ground crew were all strolling back to the office. “You all set aboard?”

“All set, Captain, except for passengers,” Jones said, matter of fact. “ATC’s getting itchy and says we’re overdue. Quick as you can, all right?” “You’re still cleared for a stop at Kowiss?”

“Yes, no problem.”

McIver took a deep breath. “All right, here we go, just as we planned, except I’ll take the papers, Johnny.” Johnny Hogg handed them to him and the three of them, McIver, Hogg, and Jones, went ahead, straight to the mullah, hoping to distract him. By prearrangement the two mechanics were already aboard, ostensibly loaders. “Good day, Agha,” McIver said, and ostentatiously handed the mullah the manifest, their position blocking a direct view of the steps. Nogger, Pettikin, and JeanLuc went up them nimbly to vanish inside.

The mullah leafed through the manifest, clearly not accustomed to it. “Good. Now inspect,” he said, his accent thick.

“No need for that, Agha, ev - ” McIver stopped. The mullah and the two guards were already going for the steps. “Soon as you’re aboard, start engines, Johnny,” he said softly and followed.

The cabin was piled with crates, the passengers already seated, seat belts fastened. All eyes studiously avoided the mullah. The mullah stared at them. “Who men?”

McIver said brightly, “Crews for replacements, Agha.” His excitement picked up as the engines began to howl. He motioned haphazardly at JeanLuc. “Pilot for Kowiss replacement, Agha,” then more hurriedly, “Tower komiteh wants the aircraft to leave now. Hurry, all right?”

“What in crates?” The mullah looked at the cockpit as Johnny Hogg called out in perfect Farsi, “Sorry to interrupt, Excellency, as God wants, but the tower orders us to take off at once. With your permission, please?” “Yes, yes, of course, Excellency Pilot.” The mullah smiled. “Your Farsi is very good, Excellency.”

“Thank you, Excellency, God keep you, and His blessings on the Imam.” “Thank you, Excellency Pilot, God keep you.” The mullah left. On his way out McIver leaned into the cockpit. “What was that all about, Johnny? I didn’t know you spoke Farsi.”

“I don’t,” Hogg told him dryly - and what he had said to the mullah. “I just learned that phrase, thought it might come in handy.”

McIver smiled. “Go to the top of the class!” Then he dropped his voice. “When you get to Kowiss get Duke to arrange with Hotshot, however he can, to pull the lads’ ferry forward, early as possible in the morning. I don’t want Kia there when they take off - get ‘em out early however he can. Okay?” “Yes, of course, I’d forgotten that. Very wise.”

“Have a safe flight - see you in Al Shargaz.” From the tarmac he gave them a beaming thumbs-up as they taxied away.

The second they were airborne, Nogger exploded, with a cheer, “We did it!” that everyone echoed, except JeanLuc who crossed himself superstitiously and Pettikin touched wood. “Merde,” JeanLuc called out. “Save your cheers, Nogger, you may be grounded in Kowiss. Save your cheers for Friday, too much dust to blow across the Gulf between now and then!”

“Right you are, JeanLuc,” Pettikin said, sitting in the window seat beside him, watching the airport receding. “Mac was in good humor. Haven’t seen him that happy for months and he was pissed off this morning. Curious how people can change.”

“Yes, curious. Me, I would be very pissed off indeed to have such a change of plan.” JeanLuc was getting himself comfortable and sat back, his mind on Sayada and their parting that had been significant and sweet sorrow. He glanced at Pettikin and saw the heavy frown. “What?”

“I suddenly wondered how Mac’s getting to Kowiss.”

“By chopper, of course. There’re two 206s and an Alouette left.” “Tom ferried the Alouette to Kowiss today, and there aren’t any pilots left.”

“So he is going by car, of course. Why?”

“You don’t think he’d be crazy enough to fly Kia himself, do you?” “Are you mad? Of course not, he’s not that cr - ” JeanLuc’s eyebrows soared. “Merde, he’s that crazy.”

AT INNER INTELLIGENCE HQ: 6:30 P.M. Hashemi Fazir stood at the window of his vast office, looking out over the roofs of the city and the minarets, huge mosque domes among the modern tall high-rise hotels and buildings, the last of the muezzins’ sunset calls dying away. A few more city lights on than usual. Distant gunfire. “Sons of dogs,” he muttered, then, without turning added sharply, “That’s all she said?”

“Yes, Excellency. ‘In a few days.’ She said she was ‘fairly sure’ the Frenchman did not know exactly when they were leaving.”

“She should have made sure. Careless. Careless agents are dangerous. Only 212s, eh?”

“Yes, she was sure about that. I agree she’s careless and should be punished.”

Hashemi heard the malicious pleasure in the voice but did not let it disturb his good humor, just let his mind wander, deciding what to do about Sayada Bertolin and her information. He was very pleased with himself. Today had been excellent. One of his secret associates had been appointed number two to Abrim Pahmudi in SAVAMA. At noon a telex from Tabriz had confirmed the death of Abdollah Khan. Immediately he had telexed back to arrange a private appointment tomorrow with Hakim Khan and requisitioned one of SAVAMA’s light, twin-engined airplanes. Talbot’s assist into hell had gone perfectly, and he had found no traces of the men responsible - a Group Four team - when he had inspected the bomb area, for, of course, he had been instantly summoned. Those nearby had seen no one park the car: “One moment there was God’s peace, the next Satan’s rage.”

An hour ago Abrim Pahmudi had called personally, ostensibly to congratulate him. But he had avoided the trap and had carefully denied the explosion had anything to do with him - better not to draw attention to the similarity with the first car bomb that blew General Janan to pieces, better to keep Pahmudi guessing and off guard and under pressure. He had hid his laughter and said gravely, “As God wants, Excellency, but clearly this was another cursed leftist terrorist attack. Talbot wasn’t the target though his convenient demise certainly eliminates that problem. Sorry to tell you but the attack was again against the favored of the Imam.” Blaming terrorists and claiming the attack was against the ayatollahs and mullahs who frequented the restaurant would frighten them and it nicely led the trail away from Talbot and so would avoid possible British retaliation - certainly from Robert Armstrong if he ever found out - and so squashed several scorpions with one stone.

Hashemi turned and looked at the sharp-faced man, Suliman al Wiali, the Group Four team leader who had planted today’s car bomb - the same man who had caught Sayada Bertolin in Teymour’s bedroom. “In a few minutes I’m leaving for Tabriz. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. A tall Englishman, Robert Armstrong, will be with me. Assign one of your men to follow him, make sure the man knows where Armstrong lives, then have him finish him off somewhere in the streets, after dark. Don’t do it yourself.” “Yes, Excellency. When?”

Hashemi thought through his plan again and could find no flaw. “Holy Day.” “This is the same man you wanted the Sayada woman to fornicate with?” “Yes. But now I’ve changed my mind.” Robert’s no longer of any value, he thought. More than that, his time has come.

“Do you have any other work for her, Excellency?”

“No. We’ve broken the Teymour ring.”

“As God wants. May I make a suggestion?”

Hashemi studied him. Suliman was his most efficient, trustworthy, and deadly Group Four leader with a cover job as a minor agent for Inner Intelligence reporting directly to him. Suliman claimed that originally he came from the Shrift Mountains north of Beirut before his family was murdered and he was driven out by Christian militiamen, and Hashemi had inducted him five years ago after bribing him out of a Syrian prison where he had been condemned to death for murder and banditry on both sides of the borders, his sole defense: “I only killed Jews and Infidels as God ordered, so I do God’s work. I am an Avenger.”

“What suggestion?” he asked.

“She’s an ordinary PLO courier, not a very good one and in her present state dangerous and a possible threat - easy to be subverted by Jews or CIAs and used against us. Like good farmers we should plant seeds where we can to reap a future crop.” Suliman smiled. “You’re a wise farmer, Excellency. My suggestion is I tell her it’s time to go back to Beirut, that we, the two of us who caught her in her harlotry, now want her to work for us there. We let her overhear us talking privately-and we pretend to be part of a cell of Christian militiamen from southern Lebanon, acting under Israeli orders for their CIA masters.” The man laughed quietly, seeing his employer’s surprise. “And then?”

“What would turn a lukewarm, anti-Israeli, Palestinian Copt into a permanent, fanatic hellcat bent on vengeance?” Hashemi looked at him. “What?”

“Say some of these same ‘Christian militiamen, acting under Israeli orders for their CIA masters,’ maliciously, openly hurt her child, hurt him badly, the day before she arrived back, then vanished - wouldn’t that make her a fiendish enemy of our enemies?” Hashemi lit a cigarette to hide his disgust. “I agree only that her usefulness is over,” he said and saw a flash of irritation.

“What value has her child, and what future?” Suliman said scornfully. “With such a mother and living with Christian relatives he will remain Christian and go to hell.”

“Israel is our ally. Stay out of Middle Eastern affairs or they will eat you up. It’s forbidden!”

“If you say it is forbidden it is forbidden, Master.” Suliman bowed and nodded agreement. “On the head of my children.”

“Good. You did very well today. Thank you.” He went to the safe and took a bundle of used dollars off the stacks there. He saw Suliman’s face light up. “Here’s a bonus for you and your men.”

“Thank you, thank you, Excellency, God protect you! The man Armstrong may be considered dead.” Very gratefully, Suliman bowed again and left. Now that he was alone Hashemi unlocked a drawer and poured himself a whisky. A thousand dollars is a fortune to Suliman and his three men, but a wise investment, he thought contentedly. Oh, yes. Glad I decided about Robert. Robert knows too much, suspects too much - wasn’t it he who named my teams ? “Group Four teams must be used for good and not evil, Hashemi,” he had said in that know-all voice of his. “I just caution you, their power could be heady and backfire on you. Remember the Old Man of the Mountains. Eh?” Hashemi had laughed to cover his shock that Armstrong had read his most secret heart. “What have al-Sabbah and his assassins to do with me? We’re living in the twentieth century and I’m not a religious fanatic. More important, Robert, I don’t have a Castle Alamut!”

“There’s still hashish - and better.”

“I don’t want addicts or assassins, just men I can trust.” Assassin was derived from hashshashin, they who take hashish. Legend told that in the eleventh century at Alamut - Hasan ibn al-Sabbah’s impregnable fortress in the mountains near Qazvin - he had had secret gardens made just like the Gardens of Paradise described in the Koran, where wine and honey flowed from fountains and beautiful, compliant maidens lay. Here hashish-drugged devotees would be secretly introduced and given a foretaste of the promised, eternal, and erotic bliss that awaited them in Paradise after death. Then, in a day or two or three, the “Blessed One” would be brought “back to earth,” to be guaranteed quick passage back - in return for absolute obedience to his will.

From Alamut, Hasan ibn al-Sabbah’s fanatical band of simpleminded, hashish-taking zealots - the Assassins - terrorized Persia, soon to reach into most of the Middle East. This continued for almost two centuries. Until 1256. Then a grandson of Genghiz Khan, Hulugu Khan, came down into Persia and set his hordes against Alamut, tore it stone by stone from its mountain peaks, and stamped the Assassins into the dust.

Hashemi’s lips were in a thin line. Ah, Robert, how did you pierce the veil to see my secret plan: to modernize al-Sabbah’s idea, so easy to do now that the Shah has gone and the land’s in ferment. So easy with psychedelic drugs, hallucinogens, and a never-ending pool of simpleminded zealots already imbued with the wish for martyrdom, who just have to be guided and pointed in the right direction - to remove whomever I choose. Like Janan and Talbot. Like you!

But what carrion I have to deal with for the greater glory of my fief. How can people be so cruel? How can they openly enjoy such wanton cruelty, like cutting off that man’s genitals, like contemplating hurting a child? Is it just because they’re of the Middle East, live in the Middle East, and belong nowhere else? How terrible that they can’t learn from us, can’t benefit from our ancient civilization. The Empire of Cyrus and Darius must come to pass again, by God - in that the Shah was right. My assassins will lead the way, even to Jerusalem.

He sipped his whisky, very pleased with his day’s work. It tasted very good. He preferred it without ice.

Thursday - March 1

Chapter 55

IN THE VILLAGE NEAR THE NORTH BORDER: 5:30 A.M. In the light of false dawn, Erikki pulled on his boots. Now on with his flight jacket, the soft, well-worn leather rustling, knife out of the scabbard and into his sleeve. He eased the hut door open. The village was sleeping under its snow coverlet. No guards that he could see. The chopper’s lean-to was also quiet but he knew she would still be too well guarded to try. Various times during the day and night he had experimented. Each time the cabin and cockpit guards had just smiled at him, alert and polite. No way he could fight through the three of them and take off. His only chance by foot, and he had been planning it ever since he had had the confrontation with Sheik Bayazid the day before yesterday.

His senses reached out into the darkness. The stars were hidden by thin clouds. Now! Surefooted he slid out of the door and along the line of huts, making for the trees, and then he was enmeshed in the net that seemed to appear out of the sky and he was fighting for his life.

Four tribesmen were on the ends of the net used for trapping and curbing wild goats. Skillfully they wound it around him tighter and tighter, and though he bellowed with rage and his immense strength ripped some of the ropes asunder, soon he was helplessly thrashing in the snow. For a moment he lay there panting, then again tried to break his bonds, the feeling of impotence making him howl. But the more he fought the ropes, the more they seemed to knot tighter. Finally he stopped fighting and lay back, trying to catch his breath, and looked around. He was surrounded. All the village was awake, dressed, and armed. Obviously they had been waiting for him. Never had he seen or felt so much hatred.

It took five men to lift him and half carry, half drag him into the meeting hut and throw him roughly on the dirt floor in front of the Sheik Bayazid who sat cross-legged on skins in his place of honor near the fire. The hut was large, smoke blackened, and filled with tribesmen.

“So,” the Sheik said. “So you dare to disobey me?” Erikki lay still, gathering his strength. What was there to say? “In the night one of my men came back from the Khan.” Bayazid was shaking with fury. “Yesterday afternoon, on the Khan’s orders, my messenger’s throat was cut against all the laws of chivalry! What do you say to mat? His throat cut like a dog! Like a dog!”

“I… I can’t believe the Khan would do that,” Erikki said helplessly. “I can’t believe it.”

“In all the Names of God, his throat was cut. He’s dead and we’re dishonored. All of us, me! Disgraced, because of you!” “The Khan’s a devil. I’m sorry but I’m no - ” “We treated with the Khan honorably, and you honorably, you were spoils of war won from the Khan’s enemies and ours, you’re married to his daughter and he’s rich with more bags of gold than a goat has hairs. What’s 10 million rials to him? A piece of goat’s shit. Worse, he’s taken away our honor. God’s death on him!”

A murmur went through those who watched and waited, not understanding the English but hearing the jagged barbs of anger.

Again the hissing venom: “Insha’Allah! Now we release you as you want, on foot, and then we will hunt you. We will not kill you with bullets, nor will you see the sunset, and your head will be a Khan’s gift.” The Sheik repeated the punishment in his own tongue and waved his hand. Men surged forward. “Wait, wait!” Erikki shouted as his fear thrust an idea at him. “You wish to beg for mercy?” Bayazid said contemptuously. “I thought you were a man - that’s why I didn’t order your throat cut while you sleep.”

“Not mercy, vengeance!” Then Erikki roared, “Vengeance!” There was an astonished silence. “For you and for me! Don’t you deserve vengeance for such dishonor?”

The younger man hesitated. “What trickery is this?”

“I can help you regain your honor - I alone. Let us sack the palace of the Khan and both be revenged on him,” Erikki prayed to his ancient gods to make his tongue golden.

“Are you mad?”

“The Khan is my enemy more than yours, why else would he disgrace both of us if not to infuriate you against me? I know the palace. I can get you and fifteen armed men into the forecourt in a split second an - ” “Madness,” the Sheik scoffed. “Should we throw our lives away like hashish-infected fools? The Khan has too many guards.”

“Fifty-three on call within the walls, no more than four or five on duty at any one time. Are your fighters so weak they can’t deal with fifty-three? We have surprise on our side. A sudden commando attack from the sky, a relentless charge to avenge your honor - I could get you in and out the same way in minutes. Abdollah Khan’s sick, very sick, guards won’t be prepared, nor the household. I know the way in, where he sleeps, everything….” Erikki heard his voice pick up excitement, knowing it could be done: the violent flare over the walls and sudden touchdown, jumping out, leading the way up the steps and in, up the staircase onto the landing, down the corridor, knocking aside Ahmed and whoever stood in the way, into the Khan’s room, then stepping aside for Bayazid and his men to do what they wanted, somehow getting to the north wing and Azadeh and saving her, and if she was not there or hurt, then killing and killing, the Khan, guards, these men, everyone.

His plan possessed him now. “Wouldn’t your name last a thousand years because of your daring? Sheik Bayazid, he who dared to humble, to challenge the Khan of all the Gorgons inside his lair for a matter of honor? Wouldn’t minstrels sing songs about you forever at the campfires of all the Kurds? Isn’t that what Saladin the Kurd would do?”

He saw the eyes in the firelight glowing differently now, saw Bayazid hesitate, the silence growing, heard him talk softly to his people - then one man laughed and called out something that others echoed and then, with one voice, they roared approval.

Willing hands cut him loose. Men fought viciously for the privilege of being on the raid. Erikki’s fingers trembled as he pressed Engine Start. The first of the jets exploded into life.

IN THE PALACE OF THE KHAN: 6:35 A.M. Hakim came out of sleep violently. His bodyguard near the door was startled. “What is it, Highness?” “Nothing, nothing, Ishtar, I was… I was just dreaming.” Now that he was wide awake, Hakim lay back and stretched luxuriously, eager for the new day. “Bring me coffee. After my bath, breakfast here - and ask my sister to join me.”

“Yes, Highness, at once.”

His bodyguard left him. Again he stretched his taut body. Dawn was murky. The room ornate and vast and drafty and chilly but the bedroom of the Khan. In the huge fireplace a fire burned brightly fed by the guard through the night, no one else allowed in, the guard chosen by him personally from the fifty-three within the palace, pending a decision about their future. Where to find those to be trusted, he asked himself, then got out of bed, wrapping the warm brocade dressing gown tighter - one of a half a hundred that he had found in the wardrobe - faced Mecca and the open Koran in the ornately tiled niche, knelt, and said the first prayer of the day. When he had finished he stayed there, his eyes on the ancient Koran, immense, bejeweled, hand-calligraphed, and without price, the Gorgon Khan’s Koran - his Koran. So much to thank God for, he thought, so much still to learn, so much still to do - but a wonderful beginning already made.

Not long after midnight yesterday, before all the assembled family in the house, he had taken the carved emerald and gold ring - symbol of the ancient khanate - from the index finger of his father’s right hand and put it on his own. He had had to fight the ring over a roll of fat and close his nostrils to the stink of death that hung in the room. His excitement had overcome his revulsion, and now he was truly Khan. Then all the family present knelt and kissed his ringed hand, swearing allegiance, Azadeh proudly first, next Aysha trembling and frightened, then the others, Najoud and Mahmud outwardly abject, secretly blessing God for the reprieve.

Then downstairs in the Great Room with Azadeh standing behind him, Ahmed and the bodyguards also swore allegiance - the rest of the far-flung family would come later, along with other tribal leaders, personal and household staff and servants. At once he had given orders for the funeral and then he allowed his eyes to see Najoud. “So.”

“Highness,” Najoud said unctuously, “with all our hearts, before God, we congratulate you, and swear to serve you to the limits of our power.” “Thank you, Najoud,” he had said. “Thank you. Ahmed, what was the Khan’s sentence decreed on my sister and her family before he died?” Tension in the Great Room was sudden.

“Banishment, penniless to the wastelands north of Meshed, Highness, under guard - at once.”

“I regret, Najoud, you and all your family will leave at dawn as decreed.” He remembered how her face had gone ashen and Mahmud’s ashen and she had stammered, “But, Highness, now you are Khan, your word is our law. I did not expect… you’re Khan now.”

“But the Khan, our father, gave the order when he was the law, Najoud. It is not correct to overrule him.”

“But you’re the law now,” Najoud had said with a sickly smile. “You do what’s right.”

“With God’s help I will certainly try, Najoud. But I can’t overrule my father on his deathbed.”

“But, Highness…” Najoud had come closer. “Please, may … may we discuss this in private?”

“Better here before the family, Najoud. What did you want to say?” She had hesitated and come even closer and he felt Ahmed tense and saw his knife hand ready, and the hair on his neck stiffened. “Just because Ahmed says that the Khan gave such an order doesn’t mean that it… does it?” Najoud had tried to whisper but her words echoed off the walls. Breath sighed out of Ahmed’s lips. “May God burn me forever if I lied.” “I know you didn’t, Ahmed,” Hakim had said sadly. “Wasn’t I there when the Khan decided? I was there, Najoud, so was Her Highness, my sister, I regret th - ”

“But you can be mercifulll!” Najoud had cried out. “Please, please be merciful!”

“Oh, but I am, Najoud. I forgive you. But the punishment was for lying in the Name of God,” he had said gravely, “not punishment for lying about my sister and me, causing us years of grief, losing us our father’s love. Of course we forgive you that, don’t we, Azadeh?”

“Yes, yes, that is forgiven.”

“That is forgiven openly. But lying in the Name of God? The Khan made a decree. I cannot go against it.”

Mahmud burst out over her pleadings, “I knew nothing about this, Highness, nothing, I swear before God, I believed her lies. I divorce her formally for being a traitor to you, I never knew anything about her lies!” In the Great Room everyone watched them both grovel, some loathing them, some despising them for failing when they had had the power. “At dawn, Mahmud, you are banished, you and your family,” he had said so sadly, “penniless, under guard… pending my pleasure. As to divorce it is forbidden in my house. If you wish to do that north of Meshed… Insha’Allah. You are still banished there, pending my pleasure….” Oh, you were perfect, Hakim, he told himself delightedly, for of course everyone knew this was your first test. You were perfect! Never once did you gloat openly or reveal your true purpose, never once did you raise your voice, keeping calm and gentle and grave as though you really were sad with your father’s sentence but, rightly, unable to overrule it. And the benign, sweet promise of “pending my pleasure”? My pleasure’s that you’re all banished forever and if I hear one tiny threat of a plot, I will snuff you all out as quickly as an old candle. By God and the Prophet, on whose Name be praised, I’ll make the ghost of my father proud of this Khan of all the Gorgons - may he be in hell for believing such wanton lies of an evil old hag.

So much to thank God for, he thought, mesmerized by the firelight flickering in the Koran’s jewels. Didn’t all the years of banishment teach you secretiveness, deception, and patience? Now you’ve your power to cement, Azerbaijan to defend, a world to conquer, wives to find, sons to breed, and a lineage to begin. May Najoud and her whelps rot!

At dawn he had “regretfully” gone with Ahmed to witness their departure. Wistfully he had insisted that none of the rest of the family see them off. “Why increase their sorrow and mine?” There, on his exact instructions, he had watched Ahmed and guards tear through their mountains of bags, removing anything of value until there was but one suitcase each for them and their three children who watched, petrified.

“Your jewelry, woman,” Ahmed had said.

“You’ve taken everything, everything… please, Hakim … Highness, please…” Najoud sobbed. Her special jewel satchel, secreted in a pocket of her suitcase, had already been added to the pile of valuables. Abruptly Ahmed reached out and ripped off her pendant and tore the neck of her dress open. A dozen necklaces weighed her down, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

“Where did you get these?” Hakim had said, astonished.

“They’re … they’re my… my mother’s and mine I bought over the ye - ” Najoud stopped as Ahmed’s knife came out. “All right… all right…” Frantically she pulled the necklaces over her head, unfastened the rest, and gave them to him. “Now you have everyth - ”

“Your rings!”

“But, Highness, leave me someth - ” She screamed as Ahmed impatiently grabbed a finger to cut it off with the ring still on it, but she pulled away, tore the rings off and also the bracelets secreted up her sleeve, howling with grief, and threw them on the floor. “Now you’ve everything….” “Now pick them up and hand them to His Highness, on your knees!” Ahmed hissed, and when she did not obey instantly, he grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face on the floor, and now she was groveling and obeying. Ah, that was a feast, Hakim thought, reliving every second of their humiliation. After they’re dead, God will burn them.

He made another obeisance, put God away until next prayer at noon, and jumped up, brimming with energy. A maid Was on her knees pouring the coffee, and he saw the fear in her eyes and was very pleased. The moment he became Khan, he had known it was vital to work quickly to take over the reins of power. Yesterday morning he had inspected the palace. The kitchen was not clean enough for him, so he had had the chef beaten senseless and put outside the walls, then promoted the second chef in his place with dire warnings. Four guards were banished for oversleeping, two maids whipped for slovenliness. “But, Hakim, my darling,” Azadeh had said when they were alone, “surely there was no need to beat them?”

“In a day or two there won’t be,” he had told her. “Meanwhile the palace will change to the way I want it.”

“Of course you know best, my darling. What about the ransom?” “Ah, yes, at once.” He had sent for Ahmed.

“I regret, Highness, the Khan your father ordered the messenger’s throat cut yesterday afternoon.”

Both he and Azadeh, had been appalled. “But that’s terrible! What can be done now?” she had cried out.

Ahmed said, “I will try to contact the tribesmen - perhaps, because now the Khan your father is dead they will… they will treat with you newly. I will try.”

Sitting there in the Khan’s place, Hakim had seen Ahmed’s suave confidence and realized the trap he was in. Fear swept up from his bowels. His fingers were toying with the emerald ring on his finger. “Azadeh, come back in half an hour, please.”

“Of course,” she said obediently, and when he was alone with Ahmed, he said, “What arms do you carry?”

“A knife and an automatic, Highness.”

“Give them to me.” He remembered how his heart had throbbed and there was an unusual dryness in his mouth but this had had to be done and done alone. Ahmed had hesitated then obeyed, clearly not pleased to be disarmed. But Hakim had pretended not to notice, just examined the action of the gun and cocked it thoughtfully. “Now listen carefully, Counselor: you won’t try to contact the tribesmen, you will do it very quickly and you will make arrangements to have my sister’s husband returned safely - on your head, by God and the Prophet of God!”

“I - of course, Highness.” Ahmed tried to keep the anger off his face. Lazily Hakim pointed the gun at his head, sighting down it. “I swore by God to treat you as first counselor and I will - while you live.” His smile twisted. “Even if you happen to be crippled, perhaps emasculated, even blinded by your enemies. Do you have enemies, Ahmed Dursak the Turkoman?” Ahmed laughed, at ease now, pleased with the man who had become Khan and not the whelp that he had imagined - so much easier to deal with a man, he thought, his confidence returning. “Many, Highness, many. Isn’t it custom to measure the quality of a man by the importance of his enemies? Insha’Allah! I didn’t know you knew how to handle guns.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Ahmed,” he had said with grim satisfaction, an important victory gained. He had handed him back the knife, but not the automatic. “I’ll keep this as pishkesh. For a year and a day don’t come into my presence armed.”

“Then how can I protect you, Highness?”

“With wisdom.” He had allowed a small measure of the violence he had kept pent up for years to show. “You have to prove yourself. To me. To me alone. What pleased my father won’t necessarily please me. This is a new era, with new opportunities, new dangers. Remember, by God, the blood of my father rests easily in my veins.” The remainder of the day and well into the evening he had received men of importance from Tabriz and Azerbaijan and asked questions of them, about the insurrection and the leftists, the mujhadin, and fedayeen and other factions. Bazaaris had arrived and mullahs and two ayatollahs, local army commanders and his cousin, the chief of police, and he had confirmed the man’s appointment. All of them had brought suitable pishkesh. And so they should, he thought, very satisfied, remembering their contempt in the past when his fortune had been zero and his banishment to Khoi common knowledge. Their contempt will be very costly, to every last one… “Your bath is ready, Highness, and Ahmed’s waiting outside.” “Bring him in, Ishtar. You stay.” He watched the door open. Ahmed was tired and crumpled.

“Salaam, Highness.”

“What about the ransom?”

“Late last night I found the tribesmen. There were two of them. I explained that Abdollah Khan was dead and the new Khan had ordered me to give them half the ransom asked at once as a measure of faith, promising them the remainder when the pilot is safely back. I sent them north in one of our cars with a trusted driver and another car to follow secretly.” “Do you know who they are, where their village is?”

“They told me they were Kurds, one named Ishmud, the other Alilah, their chief al-Drah and their village was called Broken Tree in the mountains north of Khoi - I’m sure all lies, Highness, and they’re not Kurds though they claim to be. I’d say they were just tribesmen, bandits mostly.” “Good. Where did you get the money to pay them?”

“The Khan, your father, put twenty million rials into my safekeeping against emergencies.”

“Bring the balance to me before sunset.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Are you armed?”

Ahmed was startled. “Only with my knife, Highness.”

“Give it to me,” he said, hiding his pleasure that Ahmed had fallen into the trap he had set for him, accepting the knife, hilt first. “Didn’t I tell you not to come into my presence armed for a year and a day?” “But as… you gave my knife back to me I thought… I thought the knife…” Ahmed stopped, seeing Hakim standing in front of him, knife held correctly, eyes dark and hard and the pattern of the father. Behind him, the guard Ishtar watched open-mouthed. The hackles on Ahmed’s neck twisted. “Please excuse me, Highness, I thought I had your permission,” he said in real fear. For a moment Hakim Khan just stared at Ahmed, the knife poised in his hand, then he slashed upward. With great skill only the point of the blade went through Ahmed’s coat, touched the skin but only enough to score it then came out again in perfect position for the final blow. But Hakim did not make it, though he wanted to see blood flow and this a good time, but not the perfect time. He still had need of Ahmed.

“I give you back your… your body.” He chose the word and all it implied with great deliberation. “Intact, just - this - once.”

“Yes, Highness, thank you, Highness,” Ahmed muttered, astonished that he was still alive, and went down on his knees. “I… it will never happen again.” “No, it won’t. Stay there. Wait outside, Ishtar.” Hakim Khan sat back on the cushions and toyed with the knife, waiting for the adrenaline to subside, remembering that vengeance was a dish best eaten Cold. “Tell me everything you know about the Soviet, this man called Mzytryk: what holds he had over my father, my father over him.”

Ahmed obeyed. He told him what Hashemi Fazir had said in the 125, what the Khan had told him in secret over the years, about the dacha near Tbilisi that he too had visited, how the Khan contacted Mzytryk, their code words, what Hashemi Fazir had said and threatened, what was in Mzytryk’s letter, what he had overheard and what he had witnessed a few days ago. The air hissed out of Hakim’s mouth. “My father was going to take my sister to… he was going to take her to this dacha and give her to Mzytryk?” “Yes, Highness, he even ordered me to send her north if… if he had to leave here for hospital in Tehran.”

“Send for Mzytryk. Urgently. Ahmed, do it now. At once.”

“Yes, Highness,” Ahmed said and trembled at the contained violence. “Best, at the same time, best to remind him of his promises to Abdollah Khan, that you expect them fulfilled.”

“Good, very good. You’ve told me everything?”

“Everything I can remember now,” Ahmed told him sincerely. “There must be other things - in time I can tell you all manner of secrets, Khan of all the Gorgons, and I swear again before God to serve you faithfully.” I’ll tell you everything, he thought fervently, except the manner of the Khan’s death and that now, more than ever, I want Azadeh as wife. Some way I will make you agree - she’ll be my only real protection against you, spawn of Satan!

JUST OUTSIDE TABRIZ: 7:20 A.M. Erikki’s 212 came over the rise of the forest, inbound at max revs. All the way Erikki had been at treetop level, avoiding roads and airfields and towns and villages, his mind riveted on Azadeh and vengeance against Abdollah Khan, all else forgotten. Now, suddenly ahead, the city was rushing toward them. As suddenly a vast unease washed over him. - “Where’s the palace, pilot?” Sheik Bayazid shouted gleefully. “Where is it?” “Over the ridge, Agha,” he said into the boom mike, part of him wanting to add, We’d better rethink this, decide if the attack’s wise, the other part shouting, This’s the only chance you’ve got, Erikki, you can’t change plans, but how in the hell’re you going to escape with Azadeh from the palace and from this bunch of maniacs? “Tell your men to fasten their seat belts, to wait until the skids touch down, not to take off their safety catches until they’re on the ground, and then to spread out, tell two of them to guard the chopper and protect it with their lives. I’ll count down from ten for the landing and… and I’ll lead.”

“Where’s the palace, I can’t see it.”

“Over the ridge, a minute away - tell them!” The trees were blurring as he went closer to them, his eyes on the col in the mountain ridge, horizon twisting. “I want a gun,” he said, sick with anticipation. Bayazid bared his teeth. “No gun until we possess the palace.” “Then I won’t need one,” he said with a curse. “I’ve got to ha - ” “You can trust me, you have to. Where’s this palace of the Gorgons?” “There!” Erikki pointed to the ridge just above them. ‘Ten… nine… eight…”

He had decided to come in from the east, partially covered by the forests, city well to his right, the col protecting him. Fifty yards to go. His stomach tightened.

The rocks hurtled at them. He felt more than saw Bayazid cry out and hold up his hands to protect himself against the inevitable crash, then Erikki slid through the col and swung down, straight for the walls. At the exact last moment he cut all power, hauled the chopper up over the wall with inches to spare, flaring into an emergency stop procedure, banked slightly for the forecourt, and let her fall out of the air, cushioned the fall perfectly, and set down on the tiles to skid forward a few yards with a screech, then stop. His right hand jerked the circuit breakers out, his left unsnapped the seat belt and shoved the door open, and he was still easily first on the ground and rushing for the front steps. Behind him Bayazid was now following, the cabin doors open and men pouring out, falling over one another in their excitement, the rotor still turning but the engines dying. As he reached the front door and swung it open, servants and an astonished guard came running up to see what all the commotion was about. Erikki tore the assault rifle out of his hands, knocked him unconscious. The servants scattered and fled, a few recognizing him. For the moment the corridor ahead was clear. “Come on!” he shouted, then as Bayazid and some of the others joined him, rushed down the hallway and up the staircase toward the landing. A guard poked his head over the banister, leveled his gun, but a tribesman peppered him. Erikki jumped over the body and rushed the corridor, A door opened ahead. Another guard came out, gun blazing. Erikki felt bullets slice through his parka but he was untouched. Bayazid blew the man against the doorjamb, and together they charged toward the Khan’s room. Once there Erikki kicked the door open. Sustained gunfire came at him, missed him and the Sheik but caught the man next to him and spun the man around. The others scattered for cover and the badly hurt tribesman went forward toward his tormentor, taking more bullets and more but firing back even after he was dead.

For a second or two there was a respite, then to Erikki’s shock Bayazid pulled the pin out of a grenade and tossed it through the doorway. The explosion was huge. Smoke billowed out into the corridor. At once Bayazid leaped through the opening, gun leveled, Erikki beside him. The room was wrecked, windows blown out, curtains ripped, the carpet bed torn apart, the remains of the guard crumpled against a wall. In the alcove at the far end of the huge room, half-covered from the main bedroom, the table was upended, a serving maid moaning, and two inert bodies half buried under tablecloth and smashed dishes. Erikki’s heart stopped as he recognized Azadeh. In panic he rushed over and shoved the debris off her - in passing noticed the other person was Hakim - lifted her into his arms, her hair flowing, and carried her into the light. His breathing did not start again until he was sure she was still alive - unconscious, only God knew how damaged, but alive. She wore a long blue cashmere peignoir that hid all of her, but promised everything. The tribesmen pouring into the room were swept by her beauty. Erikki took off his flight jacket and wrapped it around her, oblivious to them, “Azadeh… Azadeh …” “Who this, pilot?” Through his fog Erikki saw Bayazid was beside the wreckage. “That’s Hakim, my wife’s brother. Is he dead?”

“No.” Bayazid looked around furiously. Nowhere else for the Khan to hide. His men were crowding through the doorway and he cursed them, ordering them to take up defensive positions at either end of the corridor and for others to go outside onto the wide patio and to guard that too. Then he scrambled over to Erikki and Azadeh and looked at her bloodless face and breasts and legs pressing against the cashmere. “Your wife?” “Yes.”

“She’s not dead, good.”

“Yes, but only God knows if she’s hurt. I’ve got to get a doctor…” “Later, first we ha - ” “Now! She may die!”

“As God wants, pilot,” Bayazid said, then shouted angrily, “You said you knew everything, where the Khan would be, in the Name of God where is he?” “I don’t know. These… these were his private quarters, Agha, private, I’ve never seen anyone else here, heard of anyone else here, even his wife could only come here by invitation an - ” A burst of firing outside stopped Erikki. “He’s got to be here if Azadeh and Hakim are here!” “Where? Where can he hide?”

In turmoil Erikki looked around, settled Azadeh as best he could, then rushed for the windows - they were barred, the Khan could not have escaped this way. From here, a defensible corner abutment of the palace, he could not see the forecourt or the chopper, only the best view of the gardens and orchards southward, past the walls to the city a mile or so distant below. No other guards threatening them yet. As he turned, his peripheral vision caught a movement from the alcove, he saw the automatic, shoved Bayazid out of the way of the bullet that would have killed him, and lunged for Hakim who lay in the debris. Before other tribesmen could react he had the young man pinioned, the automatic out of his hand, and was shouting at him, trying to get him to understand, “You’re safe, Hakim, it’s me, Erikki, we’re friends, we came to rescue you and Azadeh from the Khan… we came to rescue you!”

“Rescue me… rescue me from what?” Hakim was staring at him blankly, still numb, still dazed, blood seeping from a small wound in his head. “Rescue?” “From the Khan an - ” Erikki saw terror come into the eyes, whirled and caught the butt of Bayazid’s assault rifle just in time. “Wait, Agha, wait, it’s not his fault, he’s dazed… wait, he was … he was aiming at me not you, wait, he’ll help us. Wait!”

“Where’s Abdollah Khan?” Bayazid shouted, his men beside him now, guns cocked and ready to kill. “Hurry and tell me or you’re both dead men!” And when Hakim didn’t answer at once, Erikki snarled, “For God’s sake, Hakim, tell him where he is or we’re all dead.”

“Abdollah Khan’s dead, he’s dead… he died last night, no … the night before last. He died the night before last, near midnight …” Hakim said weakly and they stared at him with disbelief, his mind coming back slowly and he still could not understand why he was lying here, head pounding, legs numb, Erikki holding him when Erikki was kidnapped by tribesmen, when he was having breakfast with Azadeh, then guns exploding and diving for cover, guards firing, and then the explosion and half the ransom’s already been paid.

Abruptly his mind cleared. “In God’s name,” he gasped. He tried to get up and failed. “Erikki, in God’s name why did you fight in here, half your ransom’s been paid… why?”

Erikki got up angrily. “There’s been no ransom, the messenger’s throat was cut, Abdollah Khan had the man’s throat cut!”

“But the ransom - half was paid, Ahmed did it last night!” “Paid, paid to whom?” Bayazid snarled. “What lies are these?” “Not lies, half was paid last night, half paid by the new Khan as… as an act of faith for the… the mistake about the messenger. Before God, I swear it. Half’s paid!”

“Lies,” Bayazid scoffed, and aimed the gun at him. “Where’s the Khan?” “Not lies! Should I lie before God? I tell you before God! Before God! Send for Ahmed, send for the man Ahmed, he paid them.”

One of the tribesmen shouted something, Hakim blanched and repeated in Turkish: “In the Name of God, half the ransom’s already paid! Abdollah Khan’s dead! He’s dead and half the ransom was paid.” A murmur of astonishment went through the room. “Send for Ahmed, he’ll tell you the truth - why are you fighting here, there’s no reason to fight!” Erikki rushed in: “If Abdollah Khan’s dead and half’s been paid, Agha, other half promised, your honor’s vindicated. Agha, please do as Hakim asks, send for Ahmed - he’ll tell you who he paid and how.”

Fear in the room was very high now, Bayazid and his men hating the closeness here, wanting to be in the open, in the mountains, away from these evil people and place, feeling betrayed. But if Abdollah’s dead and half’s paid… “Pilot, go and get his man Ahmed,” Bayazid said, “and remember, if you cheat me, you will find your wife noseless.” He ripped the automatic out of Erikki’s hand. “Go and get him!”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Erikki… first help me up,” Hakim said, his voice throaty and weak. Erikki was helplessly trying to make sense of all this as he lifted him easily and pushed through the men crowding near, and settled him on the sofa cushions beside Azadeh. Both saw her pallid face, but both also noticed her regular breathing. “God be thanked,” Hakim muttered.

Then once more Erikki was half in nightmare, walking out of the room unarmed to the head of the stairs, shouting for Ahmed not to shoot, “Ahmed, Ahmed, I’ve got to talk to you, I’m alone…”

Now he was downstairs and still alone, still no firing. Again he shouted for Ahmed but his words just echoed off the walls and he wandered into rooms, no one around, everyone vanished and then a gun was in his face, another in his back. Ahmed and a guard, both nervous.

“Ahmed, quick,” he burst out, “is it true that Abdollah’s dead and there’s a new Khan and that half the ransom’s paid?”

Ahmed just gaped at him.

“For Christ’s sake is it true?” he snarled.

“Yes, yes, that’s true. But th - ”

“Quick, you’ve got to tell them!” Relief flooding over him, for he had only half believed Hakim. “Quick, they’ll kill him and kill Azadeh - come on!” “Then the… they’re not dead?”

“No, of course not, come on!”

“Wait! What exactly did th… did His Highness say?”

“What the hell difference do - ”

The gun jammed into Erikki’s face. “What did he say exactly?” Erikki searched his memory and told him as best he could, then added, “Now for the love of God, come on!”

For Ahmed time stopped. If he went with the Infidel he would probably die, Hakim Khan would die, his sister would die and the Infidel who was responsible for all this trouble would probably escape with his devil tribesmen. But then, he thought, if I could persuade them to let the Khan live and his sister live, persuade them to leave the palace, I will have proved myself beyond all doubt, both to the Khan and to her, and I can kill the pilot later. Or I can kill him now and escape easily and live - but only as a fugitive despised by all as one who betrayed his Khan. Insha’Allah! His face creased into a smile. “As God wants!” He took out his knife and gave it and his gun to the white-faced guard and walked around Erikki. “Wait,” Erikki said. “Tell the guard to send for a doctor. Urgently. Hakim and my wife… they may be hurt.”

Ahmed told the man to do it and went along the corridor and into the hall and up the staircase. On the landing, tribesmen searched him roughly for arms then escorted him into the Khan’s room, crowding after him, shoving him into the vast, empty space - Erikki they held at the door, a knife at his throat - and when Ahmed saw his Khan was truly alive, sitting bleakly on the cushions near Azadeh who was still unconscious, he muttered, “Praised be to God,” and smiled at him. “Highness,” he said calmly, “I’ve sent for a doctor.” Then he picked out Bayazid.

“I am Ahmed Dursak the Turkoman,” he said proudly, speaking Turkish with great formality. “In the Name of God: it’s true that Abdollah Khan is dead, true that I paid half the ransom - 5 million rials - last night on the new Khan’s behalf to two messengers of the chief al-Drah of the village of Broken Tree, as an act of faith because of the unwarranted dishonor to your messenger ordered by the dead Abdollah Khan. Their names were Ishmud and Alilah and I hurried them north in a fine car.” A murmur of astonishment went through the room. There could be no mistake, for all knew these false names, code names, given to protect the village and the tribe. “I told them, on behalf of the new Khan, the second half would be paid the moment the pilot and his air machine were released safely.”

“Where is this new Khan, if he exists?” Bayazid scoffed. “Let him talk for himself.”

“I am Khan of all the Gorgons,” Hakim said, and there was a sudden silence. “Hakim Khan, eldest son of Abdollah Khan.”

All eyes left him and went to Bayazid who noticed the astonishment on Erikki’s face. He scowled, unsure. “Just because you say it doesn’t mean th - ”

“You call me a liar in my own house?”

“I only say to this man,” Bayazid jerked a thumb at Ahmed, “that just because he says he paid the ransom, half of it, does not mean he paid it and did not then have them ambushed and killed - like my other messenger, by God!”

“I told you the truth, before God, and say again before God that I sent them north, safely with the money. Give me a knife, you take a knife, and I will show you what a Turkoman does to a man who calls him liar!” The tribesmen were horrified that their leader had put himself into such a bad position. “You call me liar and my Khan liar?”

In the silence Azadeh stirred and moaned, distracting them. At once Erikki began to go to her but the tribesman’s knife never wavered, the tribesman muttered a curse, and he stopped. Another little moaning sigh that almost drove him mad, then he saw Hakim awkwardly move closer to his sister and hold her hand and this helped him a little.

Hakim was afraid, aching everywhere, knowing he was as defenseless as she was defenseless and needing a doctor urgently, that Ahmed was under siege, Erikki impotent, his own life threatened and his Khanate in ruins. Nonetheless he gathered his courage back. I didn’t outfox Abdollah Khan and Najoud and Ahmed to concede victory to these dogs! Implacably he looked up at Bayazid. “Well? Do you call Ahmed a liar - yes or no?” he said harshly in Turkish so all could understand him and Ahmed loved him for his courage. All eyes now on Bayazid. “A man must answer that question. Do you call him a liar?”

“No,” Bayazid muttered. “He spoke the truth, I accept it as truth.” Someone said, “Insha’Allah,” fingers loosened off triggers but nervousness did not leave the room.

“As God wants,” Hakim said, his relief hidden, and rushed onward, every moment more in command. “More fighting will achieve nothing. So, half the ransom is already paid and the other half promised when the pilot is released safely. The…” He stopped as nausea threatened to overwhelm him but dominated it, easier this time than before. “The pilot’s there and safe and so is his machine. Therefore I will pay the rest at once!” He saw the greed and promised himself vengeance on all of them. “Ahmed, over by the table, Najoud’s satchel’s somewhere there.” Ahmed shoved through the tribesmen arrogantly, to begin searching the debris for the soft leather purse. Hakim had been showing it to Azadeh just before the attack began, happily telling her the jewels were family heirlooms that Najoud had admitted stealing and, in complete contrition, had given him before she left. “I’m glad you didn’t relent, Hakim, very glad,” Azadeh had said. “You’d never be safe with her and her brood close to you.” I’ll never be safe again, he thought without fear, watching Ahmed. I’m glad I left Ahmed whole, he thought, and glad we had the sense, Azadeh and I, to stay in the alcove under cover of the wall at the first sound of firing. If we’d been here in the room…

Insha’Allah. His fingers gripped her wrist and the warmth pleased him, her breathing still regular. “God be praised,” he murmured, then noticed the men threatening Erikki. “You,” he pointed imperiously at them, “let the pilot go!” Nonplussed the rough, bearded men looked at Bayazid who nodded. At once Erikki went through them to Azadeh, eased his heavy sweater away to give him readier access to the knife in the center of his back, then knelt, holding her hand, and faced Bayazid, his bulk protecting her and Hakim. “Highness!” Ahmed gave Hakim Khan the purse. Leisurely he opened it, spilling the jewels into his hands. Emeralds and diamonds and sapphires, necklaces, encrusted golden bracelets, pendants. A great sigh went through the room. Judiciously Hakim chose a ruby necklace worth 10 to 15 million rials, pretending not to notice how all eyes were concentrated and the almost physical smell of greed that permeated the room. Abruptly he discarded the rubies and chose a pendant worth twice as much, three times as much.

“Here,” he said still speaking Turkish, “here is full payment.” He held up the diamond pendant and offered it to Bayazid who, mesmerized by the fire glittering from the single stone, came forward, his hand out. But before Bayazid could take it, Hakim closed his fist. “Before God you accept it as full payment?”

“Yes… yes, as full payment, before God,” Bayazid muttered, never believing that God would grant him so much wealth - enough to buy herds and guns and grenades and silks and warm clothes. He held out his hand. “I swear it before God!”

“And you will leave here at once, in peace, before God?”

Bayazid pulled his brain off his riches. “First we have to get to our village, Agha, we need the airplane and the pilot.”

“No, by God, the ransom’s for the safe return of the airplane and the pilot, nothing more.” Hakim opened his hand, never taking his eyes off Bayazid who now only saw the stone. “Before God?”

Bayazid and his men stared at the liquid fire in the rock-steady hand. “What’s… what’s to prevent me taking all of them, everything,” he said sullenly, “what’s to prevent me killing you - killing you and burning the palace and taking her hostage to force the pilot, eh?”

“Nothing. Except honor. Are Kurds without honor?” Hakim’s voice rasped and he was thinking, how exciting this is, life the prize and death for failure. “This is more than full payment.”

“I… I accept it before God as payment in full, for the pilot and the… and the airplane.” Bayazid tore his eyes off the gem. “For the pilot and the airplane. But for you, you and the woman…” The sweat was trickling down his face. So much wealth there, his mind was shouting, so much, so easy to take, so easy but there is honor in this, oh, yes, very much. “For you and the woman there should be a fair ransom too.”

Outside a car gunned its engine. Men rushed to the broken window. The car was racing for the main gate and as they watched, it hurtled through, heading for the city below.

“Quick,” Bayazid said to Hakim, “make up your mind.”

“The woman is worthless,” Hakim said, afraid of the lie, aware that he had to bargain or they were still lost. His fingers chose a ruby bracelet and offered it. “Agreed?”

“To you the woman may be worthless - not to the pilot. The bracelet and the necklace, that one, together with the bracelet with the green stones.” “Before God that’s too much,” Hakim exploded, “this bracelet’s more than enough - that’s more than the value of the pilot and the airplane!” “Son of a burnt father! This one, the necklace and that other bracelet, the one with the green stones.”

They haggled back and forth, angrier and angrier, everyone listening intently except Erikki who was still locked in his own private hell, only concerned with Azadeh and where was the doctor and how he could help her and help Hakim. His hand was stroking her hair, his nerves pushed near the breaking point by the enraged voices of the two men as they reached the crescendo, the insults ever more violent. Then Hakim judged the moment right and let out a wail that was also part of the game of bargaining, “You’re too good a negotiator for me, by God! You’ll beggar me! Here, my final offer!” He put the diamond bracelet and the smaller of the emerald necklaces and the heavy gold bracelet onto the carpet. “Do we agree?”

It was a fair price now, not as much as Bayazid wanted but far more than he had expected. “Yes,” he said and scooped up his prize and contentment rilled the room. “You swear by God not to pursue us? Not to attack us?” “Yes, yes, before God.”

“Good. Pilot, I need you to take us home…” Bayazid said in English now and saw the rage soar into Hakim’s face and added hastily, “I ask, not order, Agha. Here,” he offered Erikki the gold bracelet, “I wish to hire your services, this’s paym - ” He stopped and looked off as one of his men guarding the patio, called out urgently, “There’s a car coming up from the city!”

Bayazid was sweating more now. “Pilot, I swear by God I’ll not harm you.” “I can’t take you,” Erikki said. “There’s not enough gasoline.” “Then not all the way, halfway, just halfw - ”

“There’s not enough gasoline.”

“Then take us and drop us in the mountains - just a little way. I ask you - ask not order,” Bayazid said, then added curiously, “By the Prophet I treated you fairly and him fairly and… have not molested her. I ask you.” They had all heard the thread under the voice, perhaps a threat, perhaps not, but Erikki knew beyond any doubt that the fragile bubble of “honor” or “before God” would vanish with the first bullet, that it was up to him now to try to correct the disaster that the attack had become, chasing a Khan already dead, the ransom already half paid, and now Azadeh lying there, hurt as only God knows, and Hakim almost killed. Set-faced he touched her a last time, glanced at the Khan, nodded, half to himself, then got up, abruptly jerked the Sten gun out of the nearest tribesman’s hands. “I’ll accept your word before God and I’ll kill you if you cheat. I’ll drop you north of the city, in the mountains. Everyone in the chopper. Tell them!” Bayazid hated the idea of the gun in the hands of this brooding, revenge-seeking monster. Neither of us has forgotten I threw the grenade that perhaps has killed a houri, he thought. “Insha’Allah!” Quickly he ordered the retreat. Taking the body of their dead comrade with them, they obeyed. “Pilot, we will leave together. Thank you, Agha Hakim Khan, God be with you,” he said and backed to the door, weapon held loosely, but ready. “Come on!”

Erikki raised his hand in farewell to Hakim, consumed with anguish at what he had precipitated. “Sorry…”

“God be with you, Erikki, and come back safely,” Hakim called out and Erikki felt better for that. “Ahmed, go with him, he can’t fly and use a gun at the same time. See that he gets back safely.” Yes, he thought icily, I’ve still a score to settle with him for the attack on my palace!

“Yes, Highness. Thank you, pilot.” Ahmed took the gun from Erikki, checked the action and magazine, then smiled crookedly at Bayazid. “By God and the Prophet, on whose Name be praised, let no man cheat.” Politely he motioned Erikki to leave, then followed him. Bayazid went last.

AT THE FOOTHILLS TO THE PALACE: 11:05 A.M. The police car was racing up the winding road toward the gates, other cars and an army truck filled with troops following. Hashemi Fazir and Armstrong were in the back of the lead car which skidded through the gate into the forecourt where an ambulance was already parked. They got out and followed the guard into the Great Room. Hakim Khan was waiting for them in his place of honor, pale and drawn but regal, guards around him, this part of the palace undamaged.

“Highness, God be praised you were not hurt - we’ve just heard about the attack. May I introduce myself? I’m Colonel Hashemi Fazir of Inner Intelligence and this is Superintendent Armstrong who has assisted us for years and is an expert in certain areas that could concern you - he speaks Farsi by the way. Would you please tell us what happened?” The two men listened intently as Hakim Khan related his version of the attack - they had already heard the rumored details - both of them impressed with his bearing. Hashemi had come prepared. Before leaving Tehran yesterday evening he had meticulously gone through Hakim’s files. For years both he and SAVAK had had him under surveillance in Khoi: “I know how much he owes and to whom, Robert, what favors and to whom, what he likes to eat and read, how good he is with gun, piano, or a knife, every woman he’s ever bedded and every boy.” Armstrong had laughed. “What about his politics?”

“He has none. Unbelievable - but true. He’s Iranian, Azerbaijani, and yet he hasn’t joined any group, taken any sides, none, not said anything even a little seditious - even against Abdollah Khan - and Khoi’s always been a festering bed of nettles.”

“Religion?”

“Shi’ite, but calm, conscientious, orthodox, neither right nor left. Ever since he was banished, no, that’s not quite true, since he was seven when his mother died and he and his sister went to live in the palace, he’s been a feather wafted by his father’s merest breath, waiting in fear for inevitable disaster. As God wants, but it’s a miracle he’s Khan, a miracle that that vile son of a dog died before doing him and his sister harm. Strange! One moment his head’s on the block, and now he controls untold riches, untold power, and I’ve got to deal with him.”

“That should be easy - if what you say’s true.”

“You’re suspicious, always suspicious - is that the strength of the English?”

“Just the lesson an old cop’s learned over the years.”

Hashemi had smiled to himself and now he did it again, concentrating on the young man, Khan of all the Gorgons, in front of him, watching him closely, studying him for clues. What’re your secrets - you’ve got to have secrets! “Highness, how long ago did the pilot leave?” Armstrong was asking. Hakim glanced at his watch. “About two and a half hours ago.” “Did he say how much fuel he had with him?”

“No, only that he would take them a little way and drop them.” Hashemi and Robert Armstrong were standing in front of the raised platform with its rich carpets and cushions, Hakim Khan dressed formally in warm brocades, a string of pearls around his neck with a diamond pendant four times the size of the one he had bartered their lives for. “Perhaps,” Hashemi said delicately, “perhaps Highness, the pilot was really in league with the Kurdish tribesmen, and won’t come back.”

“No, and they weren’t Kurds though they claimed to be, just bandits, and they’d kidnapped Erikki and forced him to lead them against the Khan, my father.” The young Khan frowned, then said firmly, “The Khan my father should not have had their messenger killed. He should have bartered the ransom down, then paid it - and then had them killed for their impertinence.”

Hashemi docketed the clue. “I will see they are all hunted down.” “And all my property recovered.”

“Of course. Is there anything, anything at all, I or my department can do for you?” He was watching the young man closely and saw, or thought he saw, a flash of sardonic amusement and it rattled him. At that moment the door opened and Azadeh came in. He had never met her though he had seen her many times. She should be possessed by an Iranian, he thought, not by a rotten foreigner. How could she contain that monster? He did not notice Hakim scrutinizing him as intently. Armstrong did, watching the Khan without watching him.

She was dressed in Western clothes, gray green that set off her green-flecked eyes, stockings and soft shoes - her face very pale and made up just enough. Her walk was slow and somewhat painful, but she bowed to her brother with a sweet smile. “Sorry to interrupt you, Highness, but the doctor asked me to remind you to rest. He’s about to leave, would you like to see him again?”

“No, no, thank you. You’re all right?”

“Oh, yes,” she said and forced a smile. “He says I’m fine.” “May I present Colonel Hashemi Fazir and Mr. Armstrong, Superintendent Armstrong - Her Highness, my sister, Azadeh.”

They greeted her and she greeted them back. “Superintendent Armstrong?” she said in English with a little frown. “I don’t remember ‘Superintendent’ but we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Highness, once at the French Club, last year. I was with Mr. Talbot of the British embassy and a friend of your husband’s from the Finnish embassy, Christian Tollonen - I believe it was your husband’s birthday party.” “You’ve a good memory, Superintendent.”

Hakim Khan smiled strangely. “That’s a characteristic of MI6, Azadeh.” “Just of ex-policemen, Highness,” Armstrong said easily. “I’m just a consultant to Inner Intelligence.” Then to Azadeh: “Colonel Fazir and I were both so relieved that neither you nor the Khan was hurt.” “Thank you,” she said, her ears and head still aching badly and her back giving her problems. The doctor had said, “We’ll have to wait for a few days, Highness, although we will X-ray you both as soon as possible. Best you go to Tehran, both of you, they have better equipment. With an explosion like that… you never know, Highness, best to go, I wouldn’t like to be responsible …”

Azadeh sighed. “Please excuse me for interrup - ” She stopped abruptly, listening, head slightly tilted. They listened too. Just the wind picking up and a distant car. “Not yet,” Hakim said kindly. She tried to smile and murmured, “As God wants,” then went away. Hashemi broke the small silence. “We should leave you too, Highness,” he said deferentially, in Farsi again; “it was kind of you to see us today. Perhaps we could come back tomorrow?” He saw the young Khan take his eyes off the door and look at him under his dark eyebrows, the handsome face in repose, fingers toying with the jeweled ornamental dagger at his belt. He must be made of ice, he thought, politely waiting to be dismissed. But instead Hakim Khan dismissed all his guards, except one he stationed at the door, well out of listening range, and beckoned the two men closer. “Now we will speak English. What is it you really want to ask me?” he said softly.

Hashemi sighed, sure that Hakim Khan already knew, and more than sure now that here he had a worthy adversary, or ally. “Help on two matters, Highness: your influence in Azerbaijan could immeasurably help us to put down hostile elements in rebellion against the state.”

“What’s second?”

He had heard the touch of impatience and it amused him. “Second is somewhat delicate. It concerns a Soviet called Petr Oleg Mzytryk, an acquaintance of your father, who for some years, from time to time, visited here - as Abdollah Khan visited his dacha in Tbilisi. While Mzytryk posed as a friend of Abdollah Khan and Azerbaijan, in reality he’s a very senior KGB officer and very hostile.”

“Ninety-eight out of every hundred Soviets who come to Iran are KGB, therefore enemy, and the other two GRU, therefore enemy. As Khan, my father would have to deal with all manner of enemies” - again a fleeting sardonic smile that Hashemi noted - “all manner of friends and all those in between. So?”

“We would very much like to interview him.” Hashemi waited for some reaction but there was none and his admiration for the young man increased. “Before Abdollah Khan died he had agreed to help us. Through him we heard the man intended secretly to come over the border last Saturday and again on Tuesday, but both times he did not appear.”

“How was he entering?”

Hashemi told him, not sure how much Hakim Khan knew, feeling his way with greater caution. “We believe the man may contact you - if so, would you please let us know? Privately.”

Hakim Khan decided it was time to put this Tehrani enemy and his British dog lackey in place. Son of a burnt father, am I so naive I don’t know what’s going on? “In return for what?” he said bluntly.

Hashemi was equally blunt. “What do you want?”

“First: all senior SAVAK and police officers in Azerbaijan put on suspension at once, pending review - by me - and all future appointments to be subject to my prior approval.”

Hashemi flushed. Not even Abdollah Khan had ever had this. “What’s second?” he asked dryly.

Hakim Khan laughed. “Good, very good, Agha. Second will wait until tomorrow or the next day, so will third and perhaps fourth. But about your first point, at 10:00 A.M. tomorrow bring me specific requests how I could help stop all fighting in Azerbaijan - and how you, personally, if you had the power, how you would…” He thought a moment, then added, “How you would make us safe against enemies from without, and safe from enemies from within.” He turned his attention to Armstrong.

Armstrong had been hoping the exchange would go on forever, ecstatic that he was having the opportunity to witness this new Khan at firsthand going against a hardened adversary like Hashemi. Great balls of fire, if this little bugger can operate so confidently like this on day two of becoming Khan after being almost blown to kingdom come a couple of hours ago, Her Majesty’s Government better put him high on the S danger list, “Slowly, slowly catchee monkee!” Now he saw the eyes fix on him. With an effort he kept his face bland, groaning inwardly: Now it’s your rum! “You’re an expert in what certain areas that would concern me?” “Well, Your Highness, I, er, I was in Special Branch and understand a little about intelligence and, er, counterintelligence. Of course good information, private information’s essential to someone in your position. If you wanted, perhaps I could, in conjunction with Colonel Fazir, suggest ways to improve this for you.”

“A good thought, Mr. Armstrong. Please give me your views in writing - as soon as possible.”

“I’d be glad to.” Armstrong decided to gamble. “Mzytryk could provide you rapidly with a lot of the answers you need, most of the important answers you need on the ‘within and without’ you mentioned, particularly if the Colonel could, er, chat with him in private.” The words hung in the air. Beside him, he saw Hashemi shift his feet nervously. I’ll bet my life you know more than you’re letting on, Hakim, me lad, and bet my balls you didn’t spend all those years just a bloody “feather”! Christ, I need a cigarette! The eyes were boring into him and he would have loved to light up and say airily, For Christ’s sake, stop all this sodding about and shit or get off the pot… Then his mind pictured this Khan of all the Gorgons squatting on a lavatory seat, everything hanging out, and he had to cough to stop his sudden laugh. “Sorry,” he said, trying to sound meek.

Hakim Khan frowned. “How would I have access to the information?” he said, and both men knew that he was hooked.

“However you want, Highness,” Hashemi said, “however you want.” Another small silence. “I’ll consider what y - ” Hakim Khan stopped, listening. Now they all heard the approaching puttputt-putt of rotors and the sound of the jets. Both men started for the tall windows. “Wait,” Hakim said. “One of you please give me a hand.”

Astonished, they helped him stand. “Thank you,” he said painfully. “That’s better. It’s my back. In the explosion I must have twisted it.” Hashemi took some of his weight and between them he hobbled to the tall windows that overlooked the forecourt.

The 212 was coming in slowly, drifting down to her landing. As she got closer they recognized Erikki and Ahmed in the front seats but Ahmed was slumped down, clearly hurt. A few bullet holes in the airframe, a great chunk of plastic out of a side window. She settled into a perfect landing. At once the engines began to die. Now they saw the blood staining Erikki’s white collar and sleeve.

“Christ…” Armstrong muttered.

“Colonel,” Hakim Khan said urgently to Hashemi, “see if you can stop the doctor from leaving.” Instantly Hashemi rushed off.

From where they were they could see the front steps. The huge door opened and Azadeh hobbled out and stood there a moment, a statue, others gathering beside her now, guards and servants and some of the family. Erikki opened his side door and got out awkwardly. Tiredly he went toward her. But his walk was firm and tall and then she was in his arms.

Chapter 56

IN KOWISS TOWN: 12:10 P.M. Ibrahim Kyabi waited impatiently in ambush for the mullah Hussain to come out of the mosque into the crowded square. He sat slumped against the fountain opposite the huge door, his arms cradling the canvas bag that camouflaged his cocked Ml6. His eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness, his whole body aching from his 350-odd-mile journey from Tehran. Idly he noticed a tall European among the crowds. The man was following a Green Band, and wore dark clothes, parka, and peaked cap. He watched the two of them bypass the mosque and disappear into the alley beside it. Nearby was the maw of the bazaar. Its darkness and warmth and safety tempted him to leave the cold.

“Insha’Allah,” he muttered automatically, then dully reminded himself to stop using that expression, pulled the old overcoat closer around him, and settled more comfortably against the fountain that, when winter’s ice had gone, would once more trickle for passersby to drink or ritually to wash their hands and faces before going to prayers.

“What’s this mullah Hussain like?” he had asked the street vendor who was ladling him a portion of the steaming bean horisht out of the cauldron that hung over the charcoal. It was morning then and he had just arrived after interminable delays, fifteen hours overdue. “What’s he like?” The man was old and toothless and he shrugged. “A mullah.” Another customer nearby swore at him. “May you be sacrificed! Don’t listen to him, stranger, the mullah Hussain is a true leader of the people, a man of God, who owns nothing but a gun and ammunition to kill the enemies of God.” Other customers echoed this unshaven youth and told about the taking of the air base. “Our mullah’s a true follower of the Imam, he’ll lead us into Paradise, by God.”

Ibrahim had almost cried out in rage. Hussain and all mullahs deserve death for feeding these poor peasants such nonsense. Paradise? Fine raiments and wine and forty perpetual virgins on silk couches?

I won’t think of loving, I won’t think of Sharazad, not yet. His hands caressed the hidden strength of the gun. This took away some of his fatigue and hunger, but none of his utter loneliness. Sharazad. Now part of a dream. Better this way, much better: he had been waiting for her at the coffee shop when Jari had accosted him and muttered, “In the Name of God, the husband has returned. That which never began is finished forever,” then had vanished into the crowds. At once he had left and fetched his gun and walked all the way to the bus station. Now he was waiting, soon to be martyred taking vengeance in the name of the Masses against blind tyranny. So soon now. Soon into blackness or into light, oblivion or understanding, alone or with others: prophets, imams, devils, who?

In ecstasy he closed his eyes. Soon I’ll know what happens when we die and where we go. Do we, at long last, find the answer to the great riddle: Was Mohammed the last Prophet of God, or madman? Is the Koran true? Is there God?

In the alley beside the mosque, the Green Band leading Starke stopped and motioned toward a hovel. Starke stepped across the befouled joub and knocked. The door opened. “Peace be upon you, Excellency Hussain!” he said in Farsi, tense and on guard. “You sent for me?”

“Salaam, Captain. Yes, yes, I did,” the mullah Hussain replied in English and motioned him to enter.

Starke had to stoop to go inside the one-room hut. Two babes were sleeping fitfully on their straw pallet on the dirt floor. A young boy stared back at him, hands clasped around an old rifle, and he recognized him as the same child at the fight between Hussain’s men and Zataki’s men. A well-serviced AK47 leaned against a wall. Over by the sink a nervous old woman in a black, stained chador sat on a rickety chair.

“These are my sons and this is my wife,” Hussain said.

“Salaam.” Starke hid his astonishment that she should be so old. Then he looked closer and saw the age was not in years.

“I sent for you for three reasons: First for you to see how a mullah fives. Poverty is one of a mullah’s prime duties.”

“And learning, leadership, and lawgiving. That apart, Agha, I know you’re a hundred percent sincere in your beliefs,” and trapped by them, Starke wanted to add, loathing this room with the terrible, never-ending poverty it represented, its stench and the helplessness that he knew need not be but would exist for all the days of the lives here - and in countless other homes of all religions, all the world over. But not with my family, thank God! Thank God I was born Texan, thank God ten billion trillion times that I know better and my kids won’t, won’t, by God, won’t have to live in the dirt like these poor little critters. With an effort he stopped himself from brushing their flies away, wanting to curse Hussain for enduring that which need not be endured.

“You said three reasons, Agha?”

“The second is: Why are all but a few men scheduled to leave today?” “They’re long overdue leave, Agha. Work’s slow at the base, this’s a perfect time.” Starke’s anxiety increased. This morning, before he had been summoned here, there had already been three telexes and two calls on the HF from their HQ in Tehran, the last from Siamaki, now the ranking board member, demanding to know where Pettikin, Nogger Lane, and the others were. He had sluffed him off, saying that McIver would call him back the instant he arrived with Minister Kia, very conscious of Wazari’s curiosity. Yesterday had been the first he had heard of Ali Kia’s visit. Charlie Pettikin, during his brief stopover outward bound for Al Shargaz, had told him what had happened to McIver and their fears about him. “Jesus …” was all he could mutter.

But yesterday had not been all bad. John Hogg had brought Gavallan’s provisional schedule for Whirlwind with codes and times and coordinates of refueling alternates set up on the other side of the Gulf. “Andy said to tell you they’ve all been passed on to Scrag at Lengeh and Rudi at Bandar Delam and take into account the problems of all three bases,” Hogg had told him. “Two 747 freighters are booked for Al Shargaz, dawn Friday. That’ll give us plenty of time, Andy says. I’ll bring another update when I come for the lads, Duke. The final button’s not to be pressed until 7:00 A.M. Friday or same time Saturday or Sunday. Then it’s no go.”

None of Esvandiary’s spies had been around so Starke had managed to squeeze another crate of very valuable 212 avionics aboard the 125. And there was more good luck: All their personnel exit permits were still valid, enough forty-gallon drums of fuel had been cached safely on the shore, and Tom Lochart had come in from Zagros on time, now a committed Whirlwind pilot. “Why the change, Tom? Thought you were dead set against it,” he had said, perturbed by Lochart’s manner. But his friend had just shrugged and he had left it at that.

Still, the thought of their 212s making a rush for it worried him very much. They had no real plan, just several possibilities. With an effort he concentrated, the room becoming increasingly claustrophobic. “They’re overdue leave,” he said again.

“When will their replacements be arriving?”

“Saturday, that’s when they’re scheduled.”

“Esvandiary says you’ve been sending out many spares.”

“Spares need replacement and checking from time to time, Agha.” Hussain studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. “What caused the accident that nearly killed Esvandiary?”

“The load shifted. It’s a tricky operation.”

Another small silence. “Who is this man Kia, Ali Kia?”

Starke was not expecting any of these questions, wondering if he was being tested again, and how much the mullah knew. “I was told he was a minister for Prime Minister Bazargan on a tour of inspection.” Then added, “Also that he was, or is, a consultant to our joint partnership, IHC, maybe even a director, but I don’t know about that.”

“When is he arriving?”

“I’m not sure. Our director, Captain McIver, was ordered to escort him.” “Ordered?”

“Ordered, so I understand.”

“Why should a minister be a consultant to a private company?” “I imagine you’d have to ask him, Agha.”

“Yes, I agree,” Hussain’s face hardened. “The Imam has sworn that corruption will cease. We’ll go to the base together.” He picked up the AK47 and slung it over his shoulder. “Salaam,” he said to his family.

Starke and the Green Band followed Hussain along the alley to a side door of the mosque. There the mullah kicked off his shoes, picked them up and went inside. Starke and the Green Band did the same, except that Starke also took off his peaked hat. Along a passageway and through another door and then they were in the mosque itself, a single room under the dome, covered with carpets and no ornaments. Just decorative tiles, here and there, with exquisite inlaid Sanskrit quotations from the Koran. A lectern with an open Koran, nearby a modem cassette player and loudspeakers, wires carelessly strung, all electric lights bare and dim. From the loudspeakers came the muted singsong of a man reading from the Koran.

Men were praying, others gossiping, some sleeping. Those who saw Hussain smiled at him and he smiled back, leading the way to a columned alcove. There he stopped and put down his shoes and gun, waved the Green Band away. “Captain, have you thought any more about what we discussed at the questioning?”

“In what way, Agha?” Starke’s apprehension soared, his stomach queasy. “About Islam, about the Imam, God’s peace upon him, about going to see him?” “It’s not possible for me to see him, even if I wanted to.” “Perhaps I could arrange it. If you saw the Imam, watched him talk, listened to him, you would find God’s peace you seek. And the truth.” Starke was touched by the mullah’s obvious sincerity. “If I had the chance I’d sure… I’d sure take it up, if I could. You said three things, Agha?” “This was the third. Islam. Become Muslim. There is not a moment to lose. Submit to God, accept that there is only One God and that Mohammed is His Prophet, accept it and have life everlasting in Paradise.” The eyes were dark and penetrating. Starke had experienced them before and found them almost hypnotic. “I… I told you already, Agha, perhaps I will, in… in God’s time.” He pulled his eyes away and felt the dominating force lessen. “If we’re going back, we’d better go now. I don’t want to miss seeing my guys off.”

It was almost as though he had not spoken. “Isn’t the Imam the Most Holy of men, the most stalwart, the most relentless against oppression? The Imam is, Captain. Open your eyes and spirit to him.”

Starke heard the underlying emphasis through the fervor and once more the seeming sacrilege disquieted him. “I wait, patiently.” He looked back at the eyes that seemed to be looking through him, through the walls, into infinity. “If we’re going, we’d better go,” he said as gently as he could. Hussain sighed. The light went out of his eyes. He shouldered his gun and led the way out. At the main door he stepped into his shoes, waited for Starke to do the same. Four more Green Bands joined them. “We’re going to the base,” Hussain told them.

“I parked my car just outside the square,” Starke said, enormously relieved to be in the open again and out of the man’s spell. “It’s a station wagon, we can go in that if you like.”

“Good. Where is it?”

Starke pointed and walked off, weaving through the stalls. He was almost a head taller than most of the crowd and now his mind was buzzing with thought and counterthought, sifting what the mullah had said, trying to plan what to do about Whirlwind.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, swamped by the danger. I hope Rudi aborts, then I will, whatever Scrag does. Automatically his eyes were scanning as they would in a cockpit, and he noticed a commotion ahead by the fountain. Because of his great height he was the first to see the youth with the gun, the crowds scattering. He stopped, frozen with disbelief, Hussain coming alongside. But there was no mistake, the shrieking, berserk youth was charging through the people directly at him. “Assassin,” he gasped, the men and women in front fleeing in terror, running, tripping, falling out of the man’s path, and now the way was clear. Blankly he saw the man skid to a stop and point the gun directly at him.

“Look out!” But before he could dive for the ground and the cover of a stall, the impact of the first bullet spun him, slammed him back against one of the Green Bands. More bullets, someone nearby screamed, then another gun opened up, deafening him.

It was Hussain. His reflexes had been very good. At once he had realized the assassin attack was against him and the moment of respite that Starke had given him was enough. With one smooth movement he had swung his gun off his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger, his mind shouting, “There is no other God but…” His fire was coldly accurate and holed Ibrahim Kyabi, thrusting the life out of him, tearing the gun from the dead hands and putting him into the dirt. Numbly the mullah stopped firing and found he was still upright, disbelieving that he was not hit, impossible for the assassin to miss, impossible that he was not martyred and on the path to Paradise. Shakily he looked around in the pandemonium, wounded being helped, others wailing and cursing, one of his Green Bands splayed out, dead, many bystanders hurt. Starke was crumpled on the ground, half under the stalls. “Praise be to God, Excellency Hussain, you’re unhurt,” a Green Band called out.

“As God wants… God is Great…” Hussain went over to Starke and knelt beside him. He saw blood was dripping from his left sleeve, his face was white. “Where are you hit?”

“I’m… I’m not sure. It’s my… I think it’s my shoulder or chest.” It was the first time Starke had ever been shot. When the bullet had smashed him backward onto the ground, there was no pain but his mind was screaming: I’m dead, the bastard’s killed me, I’ll never see Manuela, never get home, never see the kids, I’m dead… Then he had had a blinding urge to run - to flee from his own death. He had wanted to jump to his feet but the pain tore the strength out of him and now Hussain was kneeling beside him. “Let me help you,” Hussain said, then to the Green Band, “Take his other arm.”

He cried out as they turned him and tried to help him up. “Wait… for crissake…” When the spasm had passed he found he could not move his left arm at all, but his right worked. With his good right hand he felt himself, moved his legs. No pain there. Everything seemed to be working, except his left arm and shoulder, and his head was bleary. Gritting his teeth he opened his parka and pulled away his shirt. Blood seeped from the hole that was in the center of his shoulder but it wasn’t pumping out, and there was no unbearable discomfort in his breathing, just a stabbing pain if he moved incautiously. “It’s… I don’t think it’s … it’s in my lungs…” “Son of a burnt father, pilot,” the Green Band said with a laugh. “Look, there’s another hole in the back of your jacket, it’s bleeding too, the bullet must’ve gone right through you.” He started to probe the hole with a dirty finger and Starke cursed him violently. “Curse yourself, Infidel,” the man said. “Curse yourself, not me. Perhaps God in his mercy gave you your life back, though why God would do that…” He shrugged and got up, looked at his dead comrade nearby and the other wounded, shrugged again, and sauntered over to Ibrahim Kyabi who lay in the dirt like a bag of old rags, and began to go through his pockets.

The crowd in the square was pressing forward, encroaching on the two of them, so Hussain got up and waved them away. “God is Great, God is Great,” he shouted. “Keep back. Help those who are hurt!” When they had space again he knelt beside Starke. “Didn’t I warn you your time was short? God protected you this time to give you another chance.”

But Starke hardly heard him. He had found his handkerchief and was stuffing it against the hole, trying to stanch the blood, feeling the warm trickle down his back, muttering and cursing, now over his black terror, but not over the fear that he would still shame himself by running away. “What the hell was that bastard trying to kill me for?” he muttered. “Son of a bitch, goddamn crazy!”

“He was trying to kill me, not you.”

Starke stared up at him. “Fedayeen, mujhadin?”

“Or Tudeh. What does it matter, he was an enemy of God. God killed him.” Another pain knifed into Starke’s chest. He muffled a curse, hating all this God talk, not wanting to think about God but only about the kids and Manuela and normality and getting the hell out: I’m sick to death of all this madness and killing in the name of their own narrow version of God. “Sonsofbitches!” he muttered, his words swallowed in the noise. His shoulder was throbbing, the pain spreading. As best he could he balled the handkerchief, using it as a dressing, and closed his parka, muttering obscenities.

What the hell’m I gonna do now, for crissake? Goddamn crazy bastard, how the hell’m I gonna fly now? He shifted his position slightly. Pain dragged another involuntary groan from him and he cursed again, disgusted with himself, wanting to be stoic.

Hussain came out of his reverie, anguished that God had decided to leave him alive when, again, he should have been martyred. Why? Why am I so cursed? And this American, impossible for the spray of bullets not to have killed him also - why was he too left alive? “We’ll go to your base. Can you stand up?”

“I’ll… sure, just a moment.” Starke readied. “Okay, careful … oh, sweet Jesus…” Even so he stood, weaving slightly, pain nauseating him. “Can one of your men drive?”

“Yes.” Hussain called out to the Green Band kneeling beside Kyabi, “Firouz, hurry up!” Obediently the man came back.

“Just these coins in his pockets, Excellency, and this. What’s it say?” Hussain examined it closely. “It’s a current Tehran University identity card.”

The photo showed a handsome youth smiling at the camera. IBRAHIM KYABI, 3D YEAR, ENGINEERING SECTION. BIRTH DATE 12 MARCH 1955. Hussain glanced at the back of the card. “There’s a Tehran address on it.”

“Stinking universities,” another young Green Band said. “Hotbeds of Satan and Western evil.”

“When the Imam reopens them, God grant him peace, mullahs will be in charge. We’ll stamp out all Western, anti-Islam ideas forever. Give the card to the komiteh, Firouz. They can pass it on to Tehran. Komitehs in Tehran will interrogate his family and friends, and deal with them.” Hussain saw Starke looking at him. “Yes, Captain?”

Starke had seen the photo. “I was just thinking, in a few days he’d’ve been twenty-four. Kind of a waste, isn’t it.”

“God punished his evil. Now he is in hellfire.”

NORTH OF KOWISS: 4:10 P.M. The 206 was cruising nicely over the Zagros foothills, McIver at the controls, Ali Kia dozing beside him. McIver was feeling very good. Ever since he had decided to fly Kia himself he had been light-headed. It was the perfect solution, the only one. So my medical’s not current, so what? We’re in a war operation, we have to take risks, and I’m still the best bloody pilot in the company.

He looked across at Kia. If you weren’t such a horse’s arse, I’d hug you for giving me the excuse. He beamed and clicked on the sender. “Kowiss, this is HotelTangoX ray at one thousand, heading 185 degrees inbound from Tehran with Minister Ali Kia aboard.”

“HTX. Maintain heading, report at Outer Marker.” His flight and refueling at Isfahan International Airport had been uneventful, except for a few minutes after landing when excited, shouting Green Bands had surrounded the helicopter threateningly, even though he had had clearance to land and refuel. “Get on the radio and insist the station supervisor come at once,” Kia had said to McIver, seething. “I represent the government!” McIver had obliged. “The, er, the tower says if we’re not refueled and away within the hour the komiteh will impound us.” He added sweetly, delighted to pass on the message, “They, er, said, ‘Foreign pilots and foreign airplanes are not welcome in Isfahan, nor running dogs of Bazargan’s foreign-dominated government!’”

“Barbarians, illiterate peasants,” Kia had said disgustedly, but only when they were safely airborne again, McIver enormously relieved that he had been allowed into the civilian airport and had not had to use the air force base where Lochart had refueled.

McIver could see the whole Kowiss air base now. On the far side of the field near their IHC complex he saw the company 125 and his heart did a flip. I told Starke to get the lads off early, he thought irritably. “IHC Control, HTX from Tehran with Minister Kia aboard.”

“IHC Control. HTX, land on helipad 2. Wind’s thirty to thirty-five knots at 135 degrees.”

McIver could see Green Bands on the main gate, some near the helipad with Esvandiary and the Iranian staff. A group of mechanics and pilots was also collecting nearby. My reception committee, he thought, recognizing John Hogg, Lochart, JeanLuc, and Ayre. No Starke yet. So I’m illegal. What can they do? I outrank them but if the ICAA find out they could be plenty bloody mad. He had his speech all ready, in case: “I apologize but the exigencies of Minister Kia’s order necessitated an immediate decision. Of course it won’t happen again.” It wouldn’t have happened at all if Whirlwind wasn’t planned. He leaned over and shook Kia awake. “We’ll be landing in a couple of minutes, Agha.”

Kia rubbed the fatigue out of his face, glanced at his watch, then straightened his tie, combed his hair and carefully readjusted his Astrakhan hat. He studied the people below, the neat hangars, and all the helicopters neatly lined up - two 212s, three 206s, two Alouettes - my helicopters, he thought with a glow. “Why was the flight so slow?” he said curtly. “We’re on time, Minister. We’ve had a bit of a headwind.” McIver was concentrating on the landing, needing to make it very good. It was. Esvandiary swung Kia’s door open. “Excellency Minister, I’m Kuram Esvandiary, chief of IranOil in this area, welcome to Ko-wiss. Agha Managing Director Siamaki called to make sure we were prepared for you. Welcome!”

“Thank you.” Ostentatiously Kia said to McIver, “Pilot, be ready to take off at 10:00 A.M. tomorrow. I may want to go around some oil sites with Excellency Esvandiary before going back. Don’t forget, I have to be in Tehran for my 7:00 P.M. meeting with the prime minister.” He got out and was bustled off to inspect the choppers. Immediately Ayre, Lochart, and the others ducked under the blades and came quickly alongside McIver’s window. He disregarded their faces and beamed. “Hello, how’re tricks?” “Let me finish the shutdown for you, Mac,” Ayre said, “we’ve as - ” “Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable,” McIver said crisply, then into the mike, “HTX closing down.” He saw Lochart’s face and sighed again. “So I’m slightly out of whack, Tom. So?”