Whirlwind

AT THE BAHRAIN SHORE: The beach had good white sand, but was almost empty of people right here, many sailing boats and other pleasure craft out to sea, flocks of windsurfers in the fine breeze, the day balmy. Up the shore was the Hotel Starbreak, brilliant white, with palm trees and gardens and multicolored sunshades dotting the terraces and beaches. Rudi’s 212 came out of the haze fast, rotors windmilling, jets coughing and no longer useful. His line of descent gave him little choice, but he was thankful that it would be a hard landing and not a sea landing. The beach was rushing toward them and he chose the exact point of landing just past a lonely sunshade slightly up the beach toward the road. He was into wind now and very close, steadied, then pulled the collective, altering the pitch of the blades to give momentary lift enough to cushion the fall and he skidded forward a few yards on the uneven surface, tipped a fraction but not enough to do any damage and they were safe.

“Bloody hell…” Faganwitch said, breathing again, heart working again, sphincter locked.

Rudi began the shutdown, the silence eerie, his hands and knees trembling now. On the beach ahead sunbathers and people on the terraces had got up and were looking at them. Then Faganwitch gasped, frightening him. He turned around and gasped too. She wore dark glasses and little else under the lonely sunshade, topless, as good as bottomless, blond and beautiful and propped on one elbow watching them. Without hurrying she got up and slipped on the excuse of a bikini top.

“Christalmighty…” Faganwitch was speechless. Rudi waved and called out throatily, “Sorry, I ran out of fuel.” She laughed, then Kelly came out of the sky and spoiled it all and they both cursed him, as the wash of his rotors tugged at the sunshade and her long hair, blowing her towel away and scattering sand. Now Kelly saw her too, politely backed downwind nearer the road and, as distracted as the others, promptly landed a foot high.

AT BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:13 A.M.

JeanLuc and the mechanic Rod Rodrigues came out of the building at a run and headed across the tarmac toward a small tanker truck marked GAdeF - Gulf Air de France - that he had arranged to borrow. The airfield was busy, the modern terminal and allied buildings grand and gleaming white. Many jets of many nations loading or unloading, a JAL jumbo just landing. “On y va, let’s go,” JeanLuc said.

“Of course, Sayyid.” The driver turned up the volume of the intercom, and with one smooth movement started the engine, got into gear,” and was in motion. He was a slim, young Palestinian Christian wearing dark glasses and company overalls. “Where should we go?”

“You know Abu Sabh beach?”

“Oh, yes, Sayyid.”

“Two of our choppers’ve landed there out of fuel. Let’s go!” “We are almost there!” The driver did a racing change and increased speed. Over his intercom loudspeaker came: “Alpha Four?” He picked up the hand mike and continued to drive flamboyantly one-handed. “This is Alpha Four.” “Give me Captain Sessonne.”

JeanLuc recognized the voice of Mathias Delarne, the Gulf Air de France manager for Bahrain - an old friend from French Air Force days and Algeria. “This’s JeanLuc, old friend,” he said in French.

In French, Delarne said quickly, “The tower called me to say another chopper’s just come into the system on your expected heading, Dubois or Petrofi, eh? Tower keeps calling her but cannot make contact yet.” “Just one?” JeanLuc was abruptly concerned.

“Yes. She’s on a correct VFR approach for helipad 16. The problem we discussed, eh?”

“Yes.” JeanLuc had told his friend what was really happening and the problem of the registrations. “Mathias, tell the tower for me she’s G-HTTE in transit,” he said, giving the third of his four allocated call signs. “Then phone Andy and tell him I’ll send Rodrigues to deal with Rudi and Kelly. We’ll deal with Dubois or Sandor - you and me - bring the second batch of stuff. Where do we meet?”

“My God, JeanLuc, after this lot we’ll have to join the Foreign Legion. Meet me in front of the office.”

JeanLuc acknowledged, hung the mike back on its hook. “Stop here!” The truck stopped instantly. Rodrigues and JeanLuc almost went through the windshield. “Rod, you know what to do.” He jumped out. “Off you go!” “Listen I’d rather walk an - ” The rest of it was lost as JeanLuc ran back and the truck rushed off again with a screech of tires, out through the gate and onto the road that led to the sea.

AT KOWISS, IN THE TOWER: 11:17 A.M. Lochart and Wazari were watching McIver’s distant 206 climbing up into the Zagros Mountains. “Kowiss, this is HCC,” McIver was saying over the VHF, “leaving your system now. Good day.” “HCC, Kowiss. Good day,” Wazari said.

Over the HF loudspeaker, in Farsi: “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran, have you heard from Kowiss yet?”

“Negative. Al Shargaz, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static, then the call repeated, now silence again.

Wazari wiped his face. “You think Cap Ayre’d be at your rendezvous yet?” he asked, desperately anxious to please. It was not hard to sense Lochart’s dislike of him, or his distrust. “Huh?”

Lochart just shrugged, thinking about Tehran and what to do. He had told McIver to send both mechanics with Ayre: “Just in case I get caught, Mac, or Wazari’s discovered or betrays us.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Tom, like going to Tehran in the 212, with or without Wazari.”

“There’s no way I could sneak back to Tehran without alerting the whole system and screwing Whirlwind. I’d have to refuel and they’d stop me.” Is there a way? he asked himself, then saw Wazari watching him. “What?”

“Is Cap McIver gonna give you a sign or call when he’s dumped Kia?” When Lochart just looked back at him, Wazari said bleakly, “Goddamnit, don’t you see you’re my only hope to get out…”

Both men whirled, feeling eyes. Pavoud was peering at them through the stair banisters.

“So!” he said softly. “As God wants. You’re both caught in your betrayals.” Lochart took a step toward him. “I don’t know what’s bothering you,” he began, throat parched. “There’s noth - ”

“You’re caught. You and the Judas! You’re all escaping, running off with our helicopters!”

Wazari’s face contorted and he hissed, “Judas, eh? You get your Commie ass up here! I know all about you and your Tudeh comrades!”

Pavoud had gone white. “You’re talking nonsense! You’re the one who’s caught, you’re th - ”

“You’re the Judas, you lousy Commie bastard! Corporal Ali Fedagi’s my roommate and he’s commissar on the base and he’s your boss. I know all about you - he tried to get me to join the Party months ago. Get your ass up here!” And when Pavoud hesitated, Wazari warned, “If you don’t I’m calling the komiteh and blowing you, Fedagi, along with Mohammed Berani and a dozen others an’ I don’t give a shit…” His fingers went to the VHF send switch but Pavoud gasped out, “No,” and came onto the landing and stood there shakily. For a moment nothing happened, then Wazari grabbed the whimpering, petrified man and shoved him down into a corner, picked up a spanner to smash his head in. Lochart caught the blow just in time.

“Why’re you stopping me, for crissake?” Wazari was shaking with fear. “He’ll betray us!”

“No need… no need for that.” Lochart had difficulty talking for a moment. “Be patient. Listen, Pavoud, if you keep quiet, we’ll keep quiet.” “I swear by God, of course I’ll ke - ”

Wazari hissed, “You can’t trust these bastards.”

“I don’t,” Lochart said. “Quick. Write it all down! Quick! All the names you can remember. Quick - and make three copies!” Lochart shoved a pen into the young man’s hand. Wazari hesitated then grabbed the pad and began to scribble. Lochart went closer to Pavoud who cringed from him, begging mercy. “Shut up and listen. Pavoud, I’ll make a deal, you say nothing, we’ll say nothing.”

“By God, of course I won’t say anything, Agha, haven’t I faithfully served the company, faithfully all these years, haven’t I been ev - ” “Liar,” Wazari said, then added to Lochart’s shock, “I’ve overheard you and the others lying and cheating and slobbering after Manuela Starke, peeping at her in the night.”

“Lies, more lies, don’t belie - ”

“Shut up, you bastard!” Wazari said.

Pavoud obeyed, petrified by the venom, and huddled back into the corner. Lochart tore his eyes off the quaking man and took one of the lists, put it into his pocket. “You keep one, Sergeant. Here,” he said to Pavoud, shoving the third into his face. The man tried to back away, couldn’t, and when the list was thrust into his hand, he moaned and dropped it as though it were on fire. “If we get stopped I promise you before God this goes to the first Green Band and don’t forget we both speak Farsi and I know Hussain! Understand?” Numbly Pavoud nodded. Lochart leaned down and picked the list up and stuffed it into the man’s pocket. “Sit down over there!” He pointed to a seat in the corner, then wiped his sweating hands on his trousers and switched on the VHF, picked up the mike.

“Kowiss calling inbound choppers from Bandar Delam, do you read?” Lochart waited, then repeated the call. Then, “Tower, this is base, do you read?” After a pause a weary, heavily accented voice said, “Yes, we hearing you.” “We’re expecting four inbound choppers from Bandar Delam that’re only equipped with VHF. I’m going to get airborne and try to raise them. We’ll be off the air until I get back. Okay?” “Okay.”

Lochart switched off. From the HF came: “Kowiss, this is Tehran, do you read?”

Lochart asked, “What about him?” Both of them looked at Pavoud who seemed to shrink into his chair.

The stabbing pain behind Wazari’s eye was the worst it had ever been. I’m gonna have to kill Pavoud, that’s the only way I can prove I’m on Lochart’s side. “I’ll deal with him,” he said and got up.

“No,” Lochart said. “Pavoud, you’re taking the rest of the day off. You walk downstairs, you tell the others you’re sick, and you’re going home. You say nothing else and leave at once. We can see you and hear you from here. If you betray us, by the Lord God, you and every man on this list’ll be betrayed too.”

“You swear you … you’ll…” the words started to pour out, “you swear you’ll tell no one, you swear?”

“Get out and go home! And it’s on your head not ours! Go on, get out!” They watched him totter away. And when they saw him on his bicycle pedaling slowly down the road toward the town, they both felt a little easier. “We should have killed him… we should have, Cap. I’d’ve done it.” “This way’s just as safe and… well, killing him wouldn’t solve anything.” Nor help me with Sharazad, Lochart thought.

Again over the HF, again the nagging: “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?”

“It’s not safe to leave those bastards broadcasting, Cap. Tower’s gotta pick ‘em up, however untrained and inefficient they are.”

Lochart put all his mind on the problem. “Sergeant, get on the HF for an instant, pretend you’re a radio mec who’s pissed off with having his holiday screwed up. Tell ‘em in Farsi to shut up, to stay the hell off our channel until we’re repaired, that this lunatic Lochart’s gone aloft to raise the four choppers on the VHF, perhaps one of them had an emergency and the others are with him on the ground. Okay?”

“Got it!” Wazari did it all, perfectly. When he switched off he held his head in his hands a moment, pain blinding him. Then he looked up at Lochart. “You trust me now?”

“Yes.”

“I can come with you? Honest?”

“Yes.” Lochart put out his hand. “Thanks for the help.” He pulled the company HF frequency crystal out, mutilated it, and put it back, then pulled out the breaker of the VHF and pocketed it. “Come on.”

In the office downstairs he stopped a moment. “I’m going aloft,” he told the three clerks who stared at him strangely. “I’m going to try to raise the Bandar choppers on the VHF.” The three men said nothing, but Lochart felt they knew the secret too. Then he turned to Wazari. “See you tomorrow, Sergeant.”

“Hope it’s okay to quit. My head hurts like hell.”

“See you tomorrow.” Lochart pottered in the office, conscious of the scrutiny, to give Wazari enough tune to pretend to saunter off, actually to go around the hangar and sneak aboard: “Once you’re out of the office you’re on your own,” Lochart had told him, “I won’t check the cabin, I’ll just take off.”

“God help us all, Captain.”

Chapter 63

AT BAHRAIN AIRPORT: 11:28 A.M. JeanLuc and Mathias Delarne were standing beside a station wagon near the helipad watching the incoming 212, shading their eyes against the sun, still unable to recognize the pilot. Mathias was a short, thickset man, with dark wavy hair, half a face, the other half badly bum-scarred when he had bailed out on fire not far from Algiers. “It’s Dubois,” he said.

“No, you’re wrong, it’s Sandor.” JeanLuc waved, motioning him to land crosswind. The moment the skids touched, Mathias rushed under the rotors for the left cockpit door - paying no attention to Sandor who was shouting across at him. He carried a large paintbrush and a can of quick-drying airplane paint and he slapped the white paint over the Iran registration letters just below the door’s window. JeanLuc used the stencil they had prepared and black paint and his brush, then carefully peeled the stencil off. Now she was G-HXXI and legal.

Meanwhile, Mathias had gone to the tail boom and painted out IHC, ducked under the boom to do the same on the other side. Sandor just had time to move his arm out of the way of the door as, enthusiastically, JeanLuc stenciled the second G-HXXI.

“Voilá!” JeanLuc gave his material back to Mathias who went to the station wagon to stash it under a tarpaulin, while JeanLuc wrung Sandor Petrofi’s hand and told him about Rudi and Kelly and asked about Dubois. “Don’know, old buddy,” Sandor said. “After the pileup” - he explained about the near miss - “Rudi waved us off to head here independently. I never saw any of them again. Me, I put her into minimum consumption, stuck to the waves, and prayed. I’ve been on empty, warning lights on, for maybe ten goddamn minutes and crapping for twenty. What about the others?” “Rudi and Kelly landed on Abu Sabh beach - Rod Rodrigues’s looking after them - nothing yet on Scrag, Willi, or Vossi, but Mac’s still at Kowiss.”

“Jesusss!”

“Oui, along with Freddy and Tom Lochart, at least they were, ten or fifteen minutes ago.” JeanLuc turned to Mathias who came up to them, “Are you tuned into the tower?”

“Yes, no problem.”

“Mathias Delarne, Sandor Petrofi - Johnson, our mec.”

They greeted each other and shook hands. “How was your trip - merde, best you don’t tell me,” Mathias added, then saw the approaching car. “Trouble,” he warned.

“Stay in the cockpit, Sandor,” JeanLuc ordered. “Johnson, back in the cabin.”

The car was marked OFFICIAL and it stopped broadside to the 212 twenty yards away. Two Bahraini men got out, a uniformed Immigration captain and an officer from the tower, the latter wearing a long-flowing white dishdasha and headcloth with a twisted black coil holding it in place. Mathias went to meet them. “Morning, Sayyid Yusuf, Sayyid Bin Ahmed. This is Captain Sessonne.”

“Morning,” both said politely, and continued to study the 212. “And the pilot?”

“Captain Petrofi. Mr. Johnson, a mechanic, is in the cabin.” JeanLuc felt sick. The sun was glistening off the new paint but not the old, and the bottom of the / had a dribble of black from each corner. He waited for the inevitable remark and then the inevitable question, “What was her last point of departure?” and then his airy, “Basra, Iraq,” as the nearest possible. But so simple to check there and no need to check, just walk forward and draw a finger through the new paint to find the permanent letters below. Mathias was equally perturbed. Easy for JeanLuc, he thought, he doesn’t live here, doesn’t have to work here.

“How long will G-HXXI be staying, Captain?” the Immigration officer asked. He was a cleanshaven man with sad eyes.

JeanLuc and Mathias groaned inwardly at the accent on the letters. “She’s due to leave for Al Shargaz at once, Sayyid,” Mathias said, “for Al Shargaz, at once - the very moment she’s refueled. Also the others who, er, ran out of fuel.”

Bin Ahmed, the tower officer, sighed. “Very bad planning to run out of fuel. I wonder what happened to the legal thirty minutes of reserve.” “The, er, the headwind, I expect, Sayyid.”

“It is strong today, that’s certain.” Bin Ahmed looked out into the Gulf, visibility about a mile. “One 212 here, two on our beach, and the fourth… the fourth out there.” The dark eyes came back onto JeanLuc. “Perhaps he turned back for… for his departure point.”

JeanLuc gave him his best smile. “I don’t know, Sayyid Bin Ahmed,” he answered carefully, wanting to end the cat-and-mouse game, wanting to refuel and backtrack for half an hour to search.

Once more the two men looked at the chopper. Now the rotor stopped. The blades trembled a little in the wind. Casually Bin Ahmed took out a telex. “We’ve just received this from Tehran, Mathias, about some missing helicopters,” he said politely. “From Iran’s Air Traffic Control. It says, ‘Please be on the lookout for some of our helicopters that have been exported illegally from Bandar Delam. Please impound them, arrest those aboard, inform our nearest embassy which will arrange for immediate deportation of the criminals and repatriation of our equipment.” He smiled again and handed it to him. “Curious, eh?”

“Very,” Mathias said. He read it, glazed, then handed it back. “Captain Sessonne, have you been to Iran?”

“Yes, yes, I have.”

‘Terrible, all those deaths, all the unrest, all the killing, Muslim killing Muslim. Persia’s always been different, troublesome to others who live in the Gulf. Claiming our Gulf as the Persian Gulf as though we, this side, did not exist,” Bin Ahmed said, matter-of-factly. “Didn’t the Shah even claim our island was Iranian just because three centuries ago Persians conquered us for a few years, we who have always been independent?” “Yes, but he, er, he renounced the claim.”

“Ah, yes, yes, that is true - and occupied the oil islands of Turns and Abu Musa. Very hegemonistic are Persian rulers, very strange, whoever they are, wherever they come from. Sacrilege to plant mullahs and ayatollahs between man and God. Eh?”

“They, er, they have their way of life,” JeanLuc agreed, “others have theirs.”

Bin Ahmed glanced into the back of the station wagon. JeanLuc saw part of the handle of a paintbrush sticking out from under the tarpaulin. “Dangerous times we’re having in the Gulf. Very dangerous. Anti-God Soviets closer every day from the north, more anti-God Marxists south in Yemen arming every day, all eyes on us and our wealth - and Islam. Only Islam stands between them and world dominance.”

Mathias wanted to say, “What about France - and of course America?” Instead he said, “Islam‘11 never fail. Nor will the Gulf states if they’re vigilant.”

“With the Help of God, I agree.” Bin Ahmed nodded and smiled at JeanLuc. “Here on our island we must be very vigilant against all those who wish to cause us trouble. Eh?”

JeanLuc nodded. He was finding it hard not to look at the telex in the man’s hand; if Bahrain had one, the same would have gone to every tower this side of the Gulf.

“With the Help of God we will succeed.”

The Immigration officer nodded agreeably. “Captain, I would like to see the pilot’s papers, and the mechanic’s. And them. Please.”

“Of course, at once.” JeanLuc walked over to Sandor. “Tehran’s telexed them to be on the lookout for Iran registereds,” he whispered hastily and Sandor went pasty. “No need for panic, mon vieux, just show your passports to the Immigration officer, volunteer nothing, you too, Johnson, and don’t forget you’re G-HXXI out of Basra.”

“But, Jesus,” Sandor croaked, “we’d have to’ve been stamped outta Basra, Iraq, and I got Iranian stamps over most every page.”

“So you were in Iran, so what? Start praying, mon brave. Come on.” The Immigration officer took the American passport. Punctiliously he studied the photograph, compared it to Sandor who weakly took off his sunglasses, then handed it back without leafing through the other pages. “Thank you,” he said and accepted Johnson’s British passport. Again the studious look at the photograph only. Bin Ahmed went a pace nearer the chopper. Johnson had left the cabin door open.

“What’s aboard?”

“Spares,” Sandor, Johnson, and JeanLuc said together.

“You’ll have to clear customs.”

Mathias said politely, “Of course he is in transit, Sayyid Yusuf, and will take off the moment he’s refueled. Perhaps it would be possible to allow him to sign the transit form, guaranteeing he lands nothing and carries no arms or drugs or ammunition.” He hesitated. “I would guarantee it too, if it was of value.”

“Your presence is always of value, Sayyid Mathias,” Yusuf said. It was hot on the tarmac and dusty and he sneezed, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose, then went up to Bin Ahmed - still with Johnson’s passport in his hand. “I suppose for a British plane in transit, it would be all right, even for the other two on the beach. Eh?”

The tower man turned his back on the chopper. “Why not? When those two arrive we’ll set them down here, Sayyid Captain Sessonne. You meet them with the fuel truck and we’ll clear them for Al Shargaz as soon as they’re refueled.” Again he looked out to sea and his dark eyes showed his concern. “And the fourth, when she arrives? What about her - I presume she’s also British registered?”

“Yes, yes, she is,” JeanLuc heard himself say, giving him the new registration. “With… with your permission, the three will backtrack for half an hour, then go on to Al Shargaz.” It’s worth a try, he thought, saluting the two men with Gallic charm as they left, hardly able to grasp the miracle of the reprieve.

Is it because their eyes were blind or because they did not wish to see? I don’t know, I don’t know, but blessed be the Madonna for looking after us again.

“JeanLuc, you’d better phone Gavallan about the telex,” Mathias said.

OFFSHORE AL SHARGAZ: Scragger and Benson were staring at the oil and pressure gauges on number one engine. Warning lights were on, the needle of the temperature gauge at maximum, top of the red, oil pressure needle falling, almost at zero. Now they were flying at seven hundred feet, in good but hazy weather, past the international boundary with Siri and Abu Musa just behind them, and Al Shargaz directly ahead. The tower was three by five in their headsets, guiding traffic.

“I’m going to shut her down, Benson.”

“Yes, don’t want her seizing up.”

Sound lessened and the chopper sank a hundred feet but when Scragger had increased power on number two and made adjustments she held her altitude. Still, both men were uneasy without the backup.

“No reason for her to go like that, Scrag, none at all. I did her check myself a few days ago. How we doing?”

“Just fine. Home’s not too far ahead.”

Benson was very uneasy. “Is there anywhere we could land in an emergency? Sandbanks? A rig?”

“Sure, sure there are. Lots,” Scragger lied, eyes and ears seeking danger but finding none. “You hear something?”

“No… no, nothing. Bloody hell, I can hear every bloody parched cog.” Scragger laughed. “So can I.”

“Shouldn’t we call Al Shargaz?”

“Plenty of time, me son, I’m waiting for Vossi or Willi.” They flew onward and every flicker of turbulence, decibel of pitch change from the engine, or tremble of a needle made the sweat greater. “How far we got to go, Scrag?” Benson loved engines but hated flying, particularly in choppers. His shirt was clammy and chilled. Then, in their headsets was Willi’s voice: “Al Shargaz, this’s EP-HBB inbound with EP-HGF at seven hundred, course 140 degrees. ETA twelve minutes,” and Scragger groaned and held his breath, for Willi had automatically given their full Iranian call signs when they all had agreed to see if they could get away with the last three letters only. The very English voice of the controller came back loud and brittle: “Chopper calling Al Shargaz, we understand you’re in transit, inbound on 140 and, er, your transmission was garbled. Please confirm you are, er, G-HYYR and G-HFEE? I say again. GOLF HOTEL YANKEE YANKEE ROMEO and GOLF HOTEL FOXTROT ECHO ECHO?” Bursting with excitement, Scragger let out a cheer. “They’re expecting us!” Willi’s voice was hesitant and Scragger’s temperature went up twenty points: “Al Shargaz, this… this is G-HY… YR…” then Vossi excitedly cut in over him: “Al Shargaz, this is GolfHotelFoxtrotEchoEcho and GolfHotelYankeeYankeeRomeo reading you loud and clear; we’ll be with you in ten minutes and request landing at the north helipad, please inform S-G.” “Certainly, G-HFEE,” the controller said and Scragger could almost see the man’s relief, “you’re cleared for the north helipad and please call S-G on 117.7. Welcome! Welcome to Al Shargaz, maintain course and altitude.” “Yes, sir! Yessir indeedeee, 117.7,” Vossi said. At once Scragger switched to the same channel and again Vossi: “Sierra One, this is HFEE and HYYR do you read?”

“Loud and wonderfully clear. Welcome all - but where’s GolfHotelSierra VictorTango?”

AT AL SHARGAZ OFFICE: “He’s in back of us, Sierra One,” Vossi was saying. Gavallan, Scot, Nogger, and Starke were listening on the VHF loudspeaker on their company frequency, the tower frequency also being monitored, everyone very conscious that any transmission could be overheard, particularly their HF by Siamaki in Tehran and Numir at Bandar Delam. “He’s in back of us a few minutes, he, er, he ordered us to go on independently.” Vossi was being pointedly careful. “We don’t, er, we don’t know what happened.” Then Scragger cut in and they all heard the beam in his voice, “This is G-HSVT on your tails, so clear the decks…”

The room erupted in a sudden cheer, Gavallan mopped his brow, and muttered “Thank God,” sick with relief, then jerked his thumb at Nogger, “Get going, Nogger!”

Gleefully the young man left and almost knocked over Manuela who, set-faced, was approaching from the corridor with a tray of cold drinks. “Scrag, Willi, and Ed are about to land,” he called out on the run, by now at the far end. “Oh, how wonderful!” she said and hurried into the room. “Isn’t that…” She stopped. Scragger was saying, “… am on one engine, so I’ll request a straight in, best get a fire truck ready just in case.”

Willi’s voice at once: “Ed, do a 180 and join up with Scrag, bring him in. How’re you on gas?”

“Plenty. I’m on my way.”

“Scrag, this’s Willi. I’ll take care of the landing request and straight in. How’re you for gas?”

“Plenty. HSVT, eh? That’s a lot better than HASVD!” They heard his laugh and Manuela felt better.

For her the strain of this morning, trying to contain her fears, had been awful, hearing the disembodied voices so far away and yet so near, all of them related to persons that she liked or loved, or hated - those of the enemy: “That’s what they are,” she had said fiercely a few minutes ago, near tears because their wonderful friend Marc Dubois and old Fowler were missing missing missing and oh God it could have been Conroe and there may be others: “Janan’s enemy! Siamaki, Numir, they all are, all of them.” Then Gavallan had said gently, “No, they’re not, Manuela, not really, they’re just doing their job…” But the gentleness had only goaded her, infuriated her, adding to her worry that Starke was here and not in bed at the hospital, the operation only last night, and she had flared: “It’s a game, that’s all Whirlwind is to all of you, just a goddamn game! You’re a bunch a gung-ho glory boys and you… and you…” Then she had run out and gone to the ladies’ room and wept. When the storm had passed she gave herself a good talking to for losing her control, reminding herself that men were stupid and infantile and would never change. Then she blew her nose and redid her makeup and fixed her hair and went to get the drinks.

Quietly Manuela put down the tray now. No one noticed her. Starke was on the phone to Ground Control explaining what was necessary, Scot on the VHF. “We’ll take care of everything, Scrag,” Scot said.

“Sierra One. How’s tricks?” Scragger asked. “Your Deltas and Kilos?” Scot looked at Gavallan. Gavallan leaned forward and said dully, “Delta-Three are fine, Kilo Two… Kilo Two are still in place, more or less.” Silence on the loudspeakers. On the tower frequency they heard the English controller clearing some inbounds. A bristle of static. Scragger’s voice was different now. “Confirm Delta Three”

“Confirm Delta Three,” Gavallan said, still in shock at the news about Dubois and the Bahrain telex that JeanLuc had phoned in a few minutes ago, expecting an imminent explosion from their own tower, and from Kuwait. To JeanLuc he had said, “Air-sea rescue? We’d better call a Mayday.” “We’re the air-sea rescue, Andy. There isn’t any other. Sandor’s already taken off to search. As soon as Rudi and Pop are refueled they’ll go too - I’ve worked out a block search for them - then they’ll head direct Al Shargaz like Sandor. We can’t hang around here, mon Dieu, you can’t imagine how close we were to disaster. If he’s afloat, they’ll find him - there’re dozens of sandbanks to land on.”

“Won’t that stretch their range, JeanLuc?”

“They’ll be okay, Andy. Marc didn’t put out a Mayday so it must’ve been sudden or perhaps his radio failed or more probably he put down somewhere. There’re a dozen good possibilities - he could have put down on a rig for fuel, if he went into the sea, he could’ve been picked up - any of a dozen things - don’t forget radio silence was one of the primes. No sweat, mon cher ami.”

“Very much sweat.”

“Anything on the others?”

“Not yet…”

Not yet, he thought again and a twinge went through him.

“Who’s Delta Four?” It was Willi asking.

“Our French friend and Fowler,” Gavallan said matter-of-factly, not knowing who might be listening. “A full report when you land.”

“Understand.” Static, then, “Ed, how you doing?”

“Fine and dandy, Willi. Climbing to one thousand and doing fine. Hey, Scrag, what’s your heading and altitude?”

“142, at seven hundred, and if you’d open your eyes and look two o’clock you’d see me ‘cause I can see you.”

Silence for a moment. “Scrag, you done it again!”

Gavallan got up to stretch and saw Manuela, “Hello, m’dear.” She smiled, a little tentatively. “Here,” she said, offering a bottle, “you’re entitled to a beer, and a ‘sorry.’”

“No sorries, none. You were right.” He gave her a hug and drank gratefully. “Oh, that’s good, thank you, Manuela.”

“How about me, darlin’?” Starke said.

“All you’ll get from me, Conroe Starke, is water and a thick ear if you weren’t plain muscle between the ears.” She opened the bottle of mineral water and gave it to him, but her eyes were smiling and she rested her hand lightly on him, loving him.

“Thank you, honey,” he said, so relieved that she was here and safe and others were safe, though Dubois and Fowler were question marks and many others still to go. His shoulder and chest were aching badly and he was becoming increasingly nauseated, his head throbbing. Doc Nutt had given him a painkiller and told him it was’ good for a couple of hours: “It’ll hold you till noon, Duke, not much longer and perhaps less. You’d better be a noontime Cinderella or you’ll be very bloody uncomfortable indeed…. I mean bloody as in hemorrhage.” He glanced past Manuela at the clock: 12:04 P.M. “Conroe, darlin’, won’t you please come back to bed, please?” His eyes changed. “How about in four minutes?” he said softly.

She reddened at his look, then laughed and dug her nails lightly into his neck as a cat would when purring. “Seriously, darlin’, don’t you think - ” “I’m serious.”

The door opened and Doc Nutt came in. “Beddy-bye, Duke! Say good night like a good boy!”

“Hi, Doc.” Obediently Starke started to get up, failed the first time, just managed to cover his lapse, and stood erect, cursing inside. “Scot, we got a walkie-talkie or a radio with the tower frequencies?”

“Sure, sure we have.” Scot reached into a side drawer and gave him the small portable. “We’ll keep in touch - you’ve a phone by the bed?” “Yes. See you later - honey, no I’m fine, you stay in case of the Farsi. Thanks,” then his eyes focused out of the window. “Hey, look at that!”

For a moment all their cares were forgotten. The London-Bahrain Concorde was taxiing out, needle-sharp, peerless, her nose dropped for takeoff. Cruising speed, fifteen hundred miles per hour at sixty-five thousand feet, the forty-three-hundred-mile flight - three hours sixteen minutes. “She’s gotta be the most beautiful bird alive,” Starke said as he left. Manuela sighed, “I’d just love to go in her once, just once.” “The only way to travel,” Scot said dryly. “I heard they’re stopping this run next year, aren’t they?” Most of his attention monitoring Willi and Scragger and Vossi talking back and forth, no problem there yet. From his position he could see the truck with Nogger, mechanics, paint and stencils speeding for the helipad near the far end of the runway, a fire truck already standing by.

“They’re bloody idiots,” Gavallan said, talking to hide his grinding anxiety - his eyes seeking the incomers. “Bloody government doesn’t know its arse from a hole in the ground, French the same. They should just write off research and development costs - they’re written off already in actuality - then she’s a perfectly viable business proposition for certain runs and priceless. LA to Japan’s a natural, to Australia, Buenos Aires too… Anyone see our birds yet?”

“Tower’s in a better position, Dad.” Scot eased up the tower frequency. “Concorde 001 you’re next for takeoff. Bon voyage,” the controller was saying. “When airborne call Baghdad on 119.9.”

“Thank you, 119.9.” Concorde was moving proudly, supremely confident that all eyes were on her.

“By God, she’s worth looking at.”

“Tower, this is Concorde 001. What’s the fire truck for?” “We’ve three choppers inbound for the north helipad, one on one engine…”

IN THE CONTROL TOWER: “… Would you like us to divert them until you’re off?” the controller asked. His name was Sinclair and he was English, an ex-RAF officer like many of the controllers employed in the Gulf. “No, no thanks, just curious.”

Sinclair was a short, stocky, bald man, and he sat in a swivel chair at a low desk with a panoramic view. Around his neck hung a pair of high-powered binoculars. He put them to his eyes and focused. Now he could see the three choppers in V formation. Earlier he had positioned the one with the failed engine at the head of the V - he knew it was Scragger but pretended not to know. Around him in the tower was an abundance of first-class radar and communication equipment, telexes, with three Shargazi trainees and a Shargazi controller. The controller was concentrating on his radar screen, positioning the other six airplanes presently in the system. Without losing the choppers in his binoculars, Sinclair clicked on his sender: “HSVT, this is the tower, how are you doing?”

“Tower, HSVT.” Scragger’s voice was clear and precise. “No problem. Everything in the Green. I see Concorde approaching for takeoff - would you like me to hold or hurry up?”

“HSVT, continue your direct approach at safety maximum. Concorde, go into position and hold.” Sinclair called out to one of the trainees on the Ground Control, “Mohammed, soon as the chopper lands I turn him over to you, all right?” “Yes, Sayyid.”

“Are you in contact with the fire truck?” “No, Sayyid.”

“Then do it quickly! That’s your responsibility.” The youth started to apologize. “Don’t worry, you made a mistake, that’s over, get on with it!” Sinclair adjusted the focus a hair. Scragger was fifty feet off, approach perfect. “Mohammed, tell the fire truck to get with it - come on for God’s sake, those buggers should be ready with the foam hoses.” He heard the young controller cursing the fire fighters again, then saw them piling out, readying their hoses. Again he moved the glasses over to the Concorde waiting patiently, lined up in the center of the runway, ready for takeoff, nowhere near any danger even if all three choppers blew up. Holding the Concorde for thirty seconds against a million-to-one chance her wake turbulence could cause a freak whirlwind for the wounded chopper was a small price. Whirlwind. Godalmighty!

The rumor that S-G was going to stage an illegal pullout of Iran had been all over the field for two days now. His binoculars went from the Concorde back to Scragger’s chopper. Her skids touched down. The fire fighters closed in. No fire. “Concorde 001, you’re cleared for takeoff,” he said calmly, “HFEE and HYYR land when convenient, Pan Am 116 you’re cleared to land, runway 32, wind twenty knots at 160.”

Behind him a telex chattered. He paused a moment watching the Concorde take off, marveling at her power and angle of climb, then again centered on Scragger, deliberately not noticing the tiny figures ducking under the rotors with stencils and paint. Another man, Nogger Lane, who on Gavallan’s instructions had privately given him advance notice of what was going on - though long after he already knew - was waving the fire truck away. Scragger was to one side retching, and the other man, he assumed the second pilot, was urinating monstrously. The other two choppers settled into their landings. Painters swarmed over to them. Now what on earth are they doing?

“Good,” he murmured, “no fire, no fuss, no farting about.” “Sayyid Sinclair, you should read this telex perhaps.”

“Uh?” Absently he glanced at the youth who was awkwardly trying to use the spare binoculars on the choppers. One look at the telex was enough. “Mohammed, have you ever used binoculars backward?” he asked. “Sayyid?” The youth was perplexed.

Sinclair took the glasses from him, unfocused them, and gave them back reversed. “Train them on the choppers and tell me what you see?” It took the youth a few moments to get the image centered. “They’re so far away I can hardly make the three of them out.”

“Interesting. Here, sit in my chair a moment.” Puffed with pride the youth obeyed. “Now, call Concorde and ask for a position report.” The other trainees were filled with envy, all else forgotten. Mohammed’s fingers trembled with excitement holding down the transmit. “Concorde, this … this is Bahrain Tower, please, your position report, please.” “Tower, 001, going through thirty-four thousand for sixty-two thousand, Mach 1.3 for Mach 2” - fifteen hundred miles per hour - “heading 290, leaving your area now.”

“Thank you, Concorde, good day… oh, call Baghdad 119.9, good day!” he said beaming and when the time was correct Sinclair pointedly picked up the telex and frowned.

“Iranian choppers?” He gave the youth the spare glasses. “Do you see any Iranian choppers here?”

After examining the three incoming strangers very carefully, the youth shook his head. “No, Sayyid, those are British, the only others here we know are Shargazi.”

“Quite right.” Sinclair was frowning. He had noticed that Scragger was still slumped on the ground, Lane and some of the others standing around him. Not like Scragger, he thought. “Mohammed, send a medic and ambulance over to those British choppers on the double.” Then he picked up the phone, dialed. “Mr. Gavallan, your birds are down safe and sound. When you have a moment could you drop by the tower?” He said it in the peculiarly casual, understated English way that only another Englishman would detect at once meant “urgently.”

IN THE S-G OFFICE: Gavallan said into the phone, “I’ll be there right away, Mr. Sinclair. Thanks.”

Scot saw his face. “More trouble, Dad?”

“I don’t know. Call me if anything happens.” At the door, Gavallan stopped. “Damn, I forgot about Newbury. Call him and see if he’s available this afternoon. I’ll go to his house, anywhere - fix whatever you can. If he wants to know what’s going on, just say, ‘Six out of seven so far, one on standby and two to go.’” He hurried away with, “‘Bye, ‘bye, Manuela. Scot, try Charlie again and find out where the devil he is.”

“Okay.” Now they were alone, Scot and Manuela. His shoulder was aching and intruding more and more. He had noticed her depression. “Dubois‘11 turn up, you’ll see,” he said, wanting to sound very confident and mask his own fear they were lost. “And nothing could kill old Fowler.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” she said, her tears near. She had seen her husband stumble and was achingly aware of the extent of his pain. Soon I’m going to have to leave for the hospital and the hell with Farsi. “It’s the waiting.” “Only a few more hours, Manuela, two more birds and five bods. Then we can celebrate,” Scot added, hoping against hope, and thinking: Then the weight’ll be off the Old Man too, he’ll smile again and live a thousand years.

My God, give up flying? I love flying and don’t want a desk job. Hong Kong for part of the year’d be fine but Linbar? I can’t deal with Linbar! The Old Man‘11 have to deal with him - I’d be lost…

The old, nagging question leaped into his mind: What’d I do if the Old Man wasn’t around? A chill went through him. Not if, when, it’s going to happen someday…. It could happen any day. Look at Jordon, Talbot - or Duke or me. A fraction of an inch and you’re dead - or you’re alive. The Will of God? Karma? Joss? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter! All I’m sure of is since I was hit I’m different, my whole life’s different, my certainty that nothing would ever touch me has vanished forever and all that’s left is a God-cursed, icy, stench-ridden certainty of being very mortal. Christ Almighty! Does that always happen? Wonder if Duke feels the same? He looked at Manuela. She was staring at him. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he said and began to dial Newbury.

“I just said, ‘Isn’t it three birds and eight bods? You forgot Erikki and Azadeh - nine if you count Sharazad.”

TEHRAN, AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 1:14 P.M. Sharazad stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, naked, examining the profile of her stomach, seeing if there was an added roundness yet. This morning she had noticed that her nipples seemed more sensitive and her breasts appeared tight. “No need to worry,” Zarah, Meshang’s wife, had laughed. “Soon you’ll be like a balloon and in tears, you’ll be wailing that you’ll never be able to get into your clothes again and oh how ugly you look! Don’t worry, you will - get into your clothes - and you won’t look ugly.”

Sharazad was very happy today, dawdling, and she frowned at herself and peered closer to see if she had any wrinkles, looking at herself this way and that, trying her hair up and down, bunched or to one side, contented and pleased with what she saw. The bruises were fading. Her body was quite dry from her bath and she powdered herself, stepped into her underclothes. Jari bustled in. “Oh, Princess, aren’t you ready yet? His Eminence your brother is expected back for lunch any minute and the whole house is frightened he’ll be in another of his rages, oh, please hurry, we don’t want to excite him now do we?.. .” Automatically she pulled the plug out of the bath, began tidying, all the time fussing and muttering and coaxing Sharazad along. In moments Sharazad was dressed. Stockings - no panty hose on sale for months now, even on the black market - no need for a bra. Warm blue cashmere dress of Paris cut with matching short-sleeved shawl coat. A quick brush and her naturally wavy hair was perfect, the barest touch of lip makeup, a line of kohl around her eyes.

“But, Princess, you know how your brother doesn’t like makeup!” “Oh, but I’m not going out, and Meshang’s not…” Sharazad was going to say “my father” but stopped herself, not wanting to bring back that tragedy from the recesses of her mind. Father’s in Paradise, she told herself firmly. His Day of Mourning, the fortieth day since he died, is still twenty-five days away and until then we must get on with living.

And loving?

She had not asked Jari what had happened at the coffee shop, the day she had sent her there to tell him her husband had returned and that what had never begun was ended. I wonder where he is, if he’ll continue to visit me in my dreams?

There was a commotion downstairs and they knew Meshang had arrived. She checked herself a last time, then went to meet him.

After the night of his clash with Lochart, Meshang had moved back into the house with his family. The house was very big, Sharazad still had her rooms and was delighted that Zarah and her three children noised away the crushing silence and gloom that had previously been pervading it. Her mother was a recluse now, in her own wing, even eating there, served only by her own maid, praying and weeping most of the day. Never coming out, never inviting any of them in: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” was all she would whimper through the locked door.

During the hours that Meshang was in the house, Sharazad, Zarah, and others in the family were careful to cajole and flatter him. “Don’t worry,” Zarah had told her. “He’ll be to heel soon enough. He thinks I’ve forgotten he insulted me and hit me and dares to flaunt the young whore that that vile son of a dog Kia tempted him with! Oh, don’t worry, darling Sharazad, I’ll have my revenge - it was unforgivable bad manners to treat you and … your husband like that. Soon we’ll be able to travel again… Paris, London, even New York… I doubt if he’ll have the time to go with us and then, ah, and then we’ll kick up our heels, wear see-throughs, and have fifty suitors each!”

“I don’t know about New York - putting oneself in so much danger of Satan,” Sharazad had said. But in her secret heart she trembled with excitement at the thought. I’ll go to New York with my son, she promised herself. Tommy will be there. Soon we’ll be normal again, the power of the mullahs over Khomeini will be broken, may God open his eyes, their control of the Green Bands eliminated, the Revolutionary Komiteh disbanded, we’ll have a true, fairly elected democratic Islamic government with Prime Minister Bazargan its leader under God, women’s rights will never be touched again, the Tudeh no longer outlawed but working for all and there will be peace in the land - just as he said would happen.

I’m glad I am who I am, Sharazad thought. “Hello, darling Meshang, how nice you look today but so tired, oh, you mustn’t work so hard for all of us. Here, let me pour you some more cool lemon and water, just the way you like it.”

“Thank you.” Meshang was lounging on the carpets, propped against cushions, his shoes off, already eating. A small brazier was ready to barbecue the kebabs, and twenty or thirty dishes of horisht and rice and vegetables and sweetmeats and fruit were within easy reach. Zarah was nearby and she beckoned Sharazad to sit on the carpet beside her.

“How do you feel today?”

“Wonderful, not the least bit sick.”

Meshang’s face became sour. “Zarah was sick all the time, and moping, not like a normal woman. Let’s hope you’re normal, but you’re so thin… Insha’Allah.”

Both women put on a smile, hiding their loathing, understanding each other. “Poor Zarah,” Sharazad said. “How was your morning, Meshang? It must be terribly difficult for you with so much to do, so many of us to look after.” “It’s difficult because I’m surrounded by fools, dear Sister. If I had efficient staff, trained as I am, it would all be so easy.” And so much easier if you had not beguiled my father, twisted him, failed your first husband, and disgraced us with your choice of the second. So much anguish you’ve caused me, dear Sister, you with your consumptive-looking face and body and stupidity - me who has worked all hours to rescue you from yourself. Praise be to God my efforts have borne such fruits! “It must be terribly hard for you, Meshang, I wouldn’t know where to start,” Zarah was saying and she was thinking, Simple to run the business providing you know where the keys are, the bank accounts, the debtors’ paper - and all the skeletons. You don’t want us to have equality and the vote because we’d easily work you into the joub and take the best jobs.

The rich lamb horisht and crisped golden rice was delicious, fragrantly spiced just as he liked, and he ate with enjoyment. Mustn’t eat too much, he told himself. I don’t want to get too tired before little Yasmin this afternoon. I never realized how succulent a zinaat could be, or lips so grasping. If she gets with child then I shall marry her and Zarah can rot. He glanced at his wife. Immediately she stopped eating, smiled at him, and gave him a napkin to take the grease and dribbles of soup from his beard. “Thank you,” he said politely and once more concentrated on his plate. After I’ve had Yasmin, he was thinking, after her I can sleep an hour and then back to work. I wish that dog Kia was back, we’ve much to talk about, much to plan. And Sharazad will ha - “Meshang, dearest, did you hear the rumor the generals have decided to launch their coup,” Zarah asked, “and that the army’s ready to take over?” “Of course, it’s all over the bazaar.” Meshang felt a twinge of anxiety. He had hedged as best he could in case it was true. “The son of Mohammed the goldsmith swears his cousin who is a telephone operator at army headquarters overheard one of the generals saying they’ve waited to give an American task force time to get in range, and it’ll be supported by an airborne landing.” Both women were shocked. “Parachutists! Then we should leave at once, Meshang,” Zarah said. “It won’t be safe in Tehran, we’d better go to our house in the Caspian and wait for the war to end. When could you leave? I’ll start packing immed - ”

“What house on the Caspian! We don’t have any house on the Caspian!” Meshang said irritably. “Wasn’t it confiscated along with all our other property that we worked generations to acquire? God curse the thieves after all we’ve done for the revolution and for mullahs over the generations?” He was red in the face. A dribble of horisht went into his beard. “And now…” “Do forgive me, you’re right, dearest Meshang, you’re right as usual. Do forgive me, I spoke without thinking. You’re right as usual but if it pleases you we could go and stay with my uncle Agha Madri, they have a spare villa on the coast, we could take that and we could leave tomorr - ” “Tomorrow? Don’t be ridiculous! Do you think I won’t have enough warning?” Meshang wiped his beard, somewhat mollified by her abject apology, and Sharazad thought how fortunate she had been with her two husbands who had never mistreated her or shouted at her. I wonder how Tommy’s getting on at Kowiss or wherever he is. Poor Tommy, as if I could leave my home and family and go into exile forever.

“Of course we bazaaris will have warning,” Meshang said again. “We’re not empty-headed fools.”

“Yes, yes, of course, dear Meshang,” Zarah said soothingly. “I’m sorry, I only meant I was worried for your safety and wanted to be prepared.” However foul he is, she thought, her insides fluttering, he’s our only defense against the mullahs and their equally vile Green Band thugs. “Do you believe the coup will happen?”

“Insha”Allah,” he said and belched. Either way I’ll be prepared, with the Help of God. Either way, whoever wins, they’ll still need us bazaaris, they always have and always will - we can be as modem as any foreigners, and smarter, some of us can be, certainly me. Son of a dog Paknouri, may he and his fathers be in hell for endangering us! The Caspian! Her uncle Madri’s a good idea, the perfect idea. I would have thought of it myself in a moment. Zarah may be used up and her zinaat as dry as summer’s dust, but she’s a good mother and her council - if you forget her foul humor - is always wise. “Another rumor’s that our glorious ex-Prime Minister Bakhtiar is still in hiding in Tehran, under the protection and roof of his old friend and colleague, Prime Minister Bazargan.” Zarah gasped. “If the Green Bands catch him there…” “Bazargan’s useless. Pity. No one obeys him anymore, or even listens to him. The Revolutionary Komiteh would execute both of them if they’re caught.”

Sharazad was trembling. “Jari said there was a rumor in the market this morning that Excellency Bazargan has resigned already.”

“That’s not true,” Meshang said shortly, passing on another rumor as though it were private knowledge. “My friend close to Bazargan told me he offered Khomeini his resignation but the Imam refused it, telling him to stay where he was.” He held out his plate for Zarah to give him some more. “That’s enough horisht, a little more rice.”

She gave him the crisped part and he began to eat again, almost replete. The most interesting rumor today, whispered in enormous secrecy from ear to ear, was that the Imam was near death, either from natural causes or poisoned by Communist Tudeh agitators or mujhadin or CIA and, even worse, that Soviet legions were waiting just over the border ready to march into Azerbaijan again, and on to Tehran the moment he was dead.

Nothing but death and disaster’re ahead if that’s true, he thought. No, that won’t happen, can’t happen. The Americans will never let the Soviets conquer us, they can’t allow them to take control of Hormuz - even Carter will see that! No. Let’s just hope the first part’s true - that the Imam is going to Paradise quickly. “As God wants,” he said piously, waved the servants away, and when they were alone he turned his full attention onto his sister. “Sharazad, your divorce is all arranged, but for the formalities.” “Oh,” she said, at once on guard, hating her brother for disturbing her calm, sending her brain into overdrive: I don’t want to divorce, Meshang could easily have given us money from all the Swiss accounts and not been so nasty to my Tommy and then we could have gone - don’t be silly, you couldn’t leave without papers and exile yourself and Tommy left you, it was his decision. Yes, but Tommy said it would be for a month, didn’t he, that he’d wait for a month? In a month so many things can happen.

“Your divorce presents no problem. Nor your remarriage.”

She gaped at him, speechless.

“Yes, I’ve agreed to a dowry, much more than I expected for…” He was going to say for a twice-divorced woman carrying an Infidel’s child, but she was his sister and it was a great match, so he did not. “The marriage will be next week and he’s admired you for years. Excellency Farazan.” For a moment both women could hardly believe their ears. Sharazad felt a sudden flush, disoriented even more. Keyvan Farazan was from a rich bazaari family, twenty-eight, handsome, recently back from Cambridge University, and they had been friends all of her life. “But… I thought Keyvan’s going to be ma - ”

“Not Keyvan,” Meshang said, irritated by her stupidity. “Everyone knows Keyvan’s about to be betrothed. Daranoush! Excellency Daranoush Farazan.” Sharazad was transfixed. Zarah gasped and tried to cover her lapse. Daranoush was the father, recently widowed of his second wife who had died in childbirth like his first, a very wealthy man who owned the monopoly for the collection of waste in the whole bazaar area. “It’s… it’s not possible,” she muttered.

“Oh, yes it is,” Meshang said, almost glowing with pleasure, totally misreading her. “I never believed it myself when he broached the idea after hearing about your divorce. With his riches and connections, together we become the most powerful conglomerate in the bazaar, togeth - ” Sharazad burst out, “But he’s loathsome and small and old, old and bald and ugly and he likes boys, and everyone knows he’s aped - ”

“And everyone knows you’re twice divorced, used, you’re with child by a foreigner,” Meshang exploded, “that you go on marches and disobey, your head’s filled with Western nonsense and you’re stupid!” He knocked over some of the plates in his fury. “Don’t you understand what I’ve done for you? He’s one of the richest men in the bazaar, I persuaded him to accept you - you’re redeemed and now you - ”

“But, Meshang, ha - ”

“Don’t you understand, you ungrateful bitch,” he bellowed, “he’s even agreed to adopt your child! By all the Names of God, what more do you want?” Meshang was almost purple, quivering with rage, his fist bunched, shaking it in Sharazad’s face, Zarah staring at her and then him, aghast at his fury as he ranted on.

Sharazad heard nothing, saw nothing, except what Meshang had decreed for her: the rest of her life joined to that little man, the butt of a thousand bazaari jokes, who stank perpetually of urine, fertilizing her once a year to bear and live and bear again until she died in childbirth or because of it - like his other two wives. Nine children from the first, seven from the second. She was doomed. Nothing she could do. Princess Night Soil until she died.

Nothing.

Nothing except I could die now, not by suicide, for then I’m forbidden Paradise and condemned to hell. Not suicide. Never. Never suicide but death doing God’s work, death with God’s name on my lips. What?

Chapter 64

KOWISS BASE: 1:47 P.M. Colonel Changiz, the mullah Hussain, and some Green Bands jumped out of their car. The Green Bands spread out over the base searching while the colonel and Hussain hurried into the office building. In the office the two remaining clerks were in shock at the suddenness of the colonel’s arrival. “Yes… yes, Excellency?”

“Where is everyone?” Changiz shouted. “Eh?”

“God knows we don’t know anything, Excellency Colonel, except Excellency Captain Ayre is gone with spares to Rig Abu Sal and Excellency Captain McIver with Excellency Minister Kia to Tehran and Excellency Captain Lochart went to search for the incoming 212s an - ”

“What incoming 212s?”

“The four 212s Excellency Captain McIver ordered here from Bandar Delam with pilots and other personnel and we’re getting… we’re getting ready to… to receive them.” The clerk, whose name was Ishmael, wilted under the penetrating stare of the mullah. “As God knows, the captain went alone, to look alone for them as they’ve no HF and an airborne VHF could perhaps reach them.”

Changiz was greatly relieved. He said to Hussain, “If the 212s are all coming here, there’s been a panic for no reason.” He mopped his brow. “When are they due?”

“I would imagine soon, Excellency,” Ishmael said.

“How many foreigners are on the base now?”

“I… I don’t know, Excellency, we’ve… we’ve been diligently busy trying to make up a manifest an - ”

A Green Band ran into the office. “We can’t find any foreigners, Excellency,” he said to Hussain. “One of the cooks said the last two mechanics went with the big helicopters this morning. Iranian laborers said they heard replacement crews were due on Sunday or Monday.” “Saturday, Excellencies, tomorrow we were told, Excellencies,” Ishmael interjected. “But with the incoming four 212s, they’ve mechanics on board as well as pilots and personnel, Excellency McIver said. Do you need mechanics?”

The Green Band was saying, “Some of the rooms - it looks as if the Infidels packed hurriedly, but there are three helicopters still in the hangars.” Changiz turned on Ishmael. “What’re those?”

“One… no two 206s and a French one, an Alouette.”

“Where’s Chief Clerk Pavoud?”

“He was sick, Excellency Colonel, he left sick just after noon prayers, and went home. Isn’t that so, Ali?” he said to the other clerk. “Yes, yes, he was sick and he left saying he would be back tomorrow…” the words trailed off.

“Captain McIver ordered the 212s here from Bandar Delam?” “Yes, yes, Excellency, that’s what he told Excellency Pavoud, I heard him tell him that exactly, with the pilots and other personnel, wasn’t that so, Ali?”

“Yes, before God, that’s what happened, Excellency Colonel.” “All right, that’s enough.” To Hussain the colonel said, “We’ll radio Lochart.” To the clerk he said, “Is Sergeant Wazari in the tower?” “No, Excellency Colonel, he went back to the base just before Excellency Captain Lochart took off to search for the four 212s that should arr - ” “Enough!” Colonel Changiz thought a moment, then said rudely to the Green Band, “You! Get my corporal on the double to the tower.”

The youthful Green Band flushed at the tone and glanced at Hussain who said coldly, “The colonel means, please find Corporal Borgali and bring him to the tower quickly.”

Changiz started blustering, “I meant no impoliteness of cour - ” “Of course.” Hussain stalked down the corridor toward the staircase that led to the tower. Very much chastened, Changiz followed.

Half an hour before, a telex had arrived at the air base from Tehran ATC asking for an immediate check on all IHC foreign personnel and helicopters at Kowiss: “.. .four 212s have been reported missing from IHC base at Bandar Delam by IHC Managing Director Siamaki, who believes they might have been illegally flown out of Iran to one of the Gulf states.”

At once Changiz had been summoned by the duty Green Band who had already taken the telex to Hussain and the komiteh. The komiteh was in session on the base, painstakingly continuing investigations into Islamic reliability of all officers and men, and into crimes committed against God in the name of the Shah. Changiz felt nauseated. The komiteh was pitiless. No one who had been pro-Shah had yet escaped. And though he was commandant, appointed by the komiteh with Hussain’s approval, confirmation from the all-powerful Revolutionary Komiteh had not yet arrived. Until that happened, Changiz knew he was on trial. And hadn’t he taken an oath of allegiance to the Shah personally, like every man in the forces?

In the tower he saw Hussain staring at the equipment. “Can you work the radios, Colonel?” the mullah asked, his robes old but clean, turban white and freshly washed, but old too.

“No, Excellency, that’s why I sent for Borgali.” Corporal Borgali came up the stairs two at a time and stood to attention. “VHF and HF,” the colonel ordered.

“Yessir.” Borgali switched on. Nothing. A quick check and he found the mutilated crystal and that the VHF circuit breaker was missing. “Sorry, sir, this equipment’s nonfunctioning.”

“You mean sabotaged,” Hussain said softly and looked at Changiz. Changiz was numb. God burn all foreigners, he was thinking in despair. If it’s deliberate sabotage… then this is proof they’ve fled and taken our choppers with them. That dog McIver must have known they were going to do it this morning when I was asking about the 125.

Prickles of ice needles went through him. No 125 now, no private escape route, no chance of taking Lochart or one of the other pilots hostage on a trumped-up charge, then secretly bartering the man’s “escape from jail” for a seat for himself - if necessary. His entrails heaved. What if the komiteh finds out my wife and family are already in Baghdad, not as supposed at Abadan where my poor mother is “dying”? The nightmare devils were always jeering, shouting the truth: “What mother? Your mother’s been dead for seven or eight years! You’ve planned to flee, you’re guilty of crimes against God and the Imam and the revolution…”

“Colonel,” Hussain said in the same chilling voice, “if the radios are sabotaged does it not follow that Captain Lochart is not searching for the other helicopters, he’s not searching but has fled like the other one, and that McIver lied about ordering the other 212s here?”

“Yes… yes, Excellency, yes it does an - ”

“And then it also follows that they have fled illegally and taken two helicopters from here illegally, apart from the four from Bandar Delam?” “Yes… yes, that would be true too.” “As God wants, but you are responsible.” “But, Excellency, surely you must realize that it’s not possible to have foreseen a secret, illegal operation like…” He saw the eyes and read them and his words faded away. “So you’ve been duped?” “Foreigners are sons of dogs who lie and cheat all the time…” Changiz stopped as a thought filled his mind. He grabbed the phone, cursed finding it inoperative. In a different voice he said quickly, “Excellency, a 212 can’t fly across the Gulf without refueling, it’s not possible, and McIver’s got to refuel too to get to Tehran with Kia - he’ll have to refuel too so we can catch them.” To Borgali he said, “On the double, go back to our tower and find out where the 206 cleared for Tehran with McIver and Minister Kia is scheduled to refuel. Tell the duty officer to alert the base and arrest the pilot, detain the helicopter, an send Minister Kia on to Tehran… by road.” He looked at Hussain. “You agree, Excellency?” Hussain nodded. “Good. Off you go!” The corporal rushed down the stairs.

It was cold in the tower, the wind blustering. A small rain squall pelted the windows for a moment then passed by. Hussain’ did not notice it, his eyes on Changiz.

“We’ll catch that dog, Excellency. Minister Kia will thank us.” Hussain did not smile. He had already arranged a reception komiteh for Kia at Tehran Airport, and if Kia could not explain all manner of curiosities in his behavior, soon the government would be less one corrupt minister. “Perhaps Kia is part of the plot and he’s fleeing Iran with McIver, have you thought of that, Colonel?” The colonel gaped. “Minister Kia? Do you think so?” “Do you?”

“By God, it’s… it’s certainly possible, if you think so,” Changiz replied cautiously, trying as never before to be alert. “I’ve never met the man in my life. You’d know better than me, Excellency, about Kia, you questioned him in front of the komiteh.” And exonerated him, he thought with malicious delight. “When we catch McIver we can use him as a hostage to bring back the rest, we’ll catch him, Excellency…”

Hussain saw the fear on the colonel’s face and he wondered what the man was guilty of, was the colonel also part of the escape plan that had been obvious to him since he had questioned Starke yesterday and McIver this morning?

“And if it was obvious,” he had imagined a religious superior asking, “why did you keep it secret and why didn’t you prevent it?”

“Because of Starke, Eminence. Because I truly believe that somehow that man, though Infidel, is an Instrument of God and God-protected. Three times he prevented forces of evil giving me the blessed peace of Paradise. Because of him my eyes have been opened to the truth of God’s wish that I must no longer seek martyrdom but must remain on an earthly path to become a relentless scourge for God and the Imam, against enemies of Islam and his enemies.”

“But the others? Why allow them to escape?”

“Islam needs neither foreigners nor their helicopters. Should Iran need helicopters, in Isfahan there are a thousand others.”

Hussain was completely sure he was right, as right as this pro-Shah, American-supporting turncoat colonel was wrong. “So, Colonel, what about the two 212s, will you catch them too? How?”

Changiz went to the wall map quite sure that though both of them had been duped he was commandant and responsible if the mullah wanted to make him responsible. But don’t forget this is the mullah who made a deal with Colonel Peshadi the night of the first attack on the base, this is the same one who befriended the American Starke and the odious maniac Zataki from Abadan. And am I not a supporter of the Imam and the revolution? Didn’t I • correctly give over the base to the soldiers of God?

Insha’Allah. Concentrate on the foreigners. If you can catch them, even one of them, you’ll be safe from this mullah and his Green Band thugs. Several standard flight paths were drawn on the map from Kowiss to various oil sites and to rigs out into the Gulf. “That dog clerk said spares to Abu Sal,” he muttered. “Now if I were them, where would I refuel?” His finger stabbed the rigs. “One of these, Excellency,” he said excitedly. “That’s where they’d refuel.”

“The rigs carry spare fuel?”

“Oh, yes, in case of an emergency.”

“And how are you going to catch them?”

“Fighters.”

ON SHORE AT THE RENDEZVOUS: 2:07 P.M. The two 212s were parked on the desolate, undulating beach in light rain. Dejectedly Freddy Ayre and Lochart sat in the open door of one of the cabins, their two mechanics and Wasari in the other, all of them tired from handling the big, cumbersome forty-gallon drums of fuel and taking turns pumping the gasoline into the tanks. Never had two 212s been refueled faster, nor full spares heaved aboard into each and secured faster, in case of an emergency. Freddy Ayre had arrived here about eleven-thirty, Lochart just after twelve, half an hour to refuel, and they had been waiting ever since.

“We’ll give him another half an hour,” Lochart said.

“Christ, you’re acting as if we have all the time in the world.” “It’s stupid for both of us to wait, safer for you to go separately - how many times do I have to say it? Take everyone and I’ll wait.” “When Mac arrives we can all g - ”

“Goddamnit, take the mechanics and Wazari and I’ll wait. That’s what Mac’d say if he was here and you were waiting for me. For crissake, stop trying to play hero and push off.”

“No. Sorry, but I’m waiting until he arrives or we both leave.” Lochart shrugged, his spirit as drab as the day. As soon as he had arrived he had worked out McIver’s tentative schedule: “Freddy, Mac was safe out of the Kowiss system by eleven-twenty. Say at the very outside he flies on for another half an hour, then another half an hour, maximum, to fake the emergency, land and get rid of Kia, maximum an hour to get here, absolute max, at the very outside means one-thirty. My bet’s he’ll be here one to one-fifteen.”

But it was after two and no Mac yet and maybe no Mac at all - there’s got to’ve been a foul-up. He studied the clouds, seeking answers in the weather, and refining plans and counterplans. Empty drums were in a neat pile, another five still full. The drums had been brought here during routine runs to the rigs and cached under tarpaulins and camouflaged with sand and seaweed. Out to sea, barely visible, was a rig, high above the water level, perched on stilts.

He had had no trouble getting here from Kowiss. As soon as they were airborne and it was safe, Wazari had crawled forward. “Best you stay under cover until we’re launched into the Gulf,” Lochart had said. But once they had landed, Wazari had become very sick so he had changed his mind and told the others what had happened. Now Wazari had recovered and was accepted. But still considered suspect.

The shore stank of rotting fish and seaweed. Wind, steady at about thirty knots, throbbed the rotor blades, still adverse to their planned escape route to Kuwait. The murky ceiling had lowered, now down to about two hundred feet. But little of this registered on Lochart. More and more his mind was pulled northward to Tehran and Sharazad - while his hearing reached out over the wind and the waves for the sound of the 206. Come oh, Mac, he prayed. Come on, don’t let me down. Come on Mac, don’t let me down… Then he heard her. A few seconds to make sure, and he jumped out of the cabin, mouth slightly open to increase the strength of his hearing and directional ability. Now Ayre came out of his reverie and was beside him, both of them peering into the overcast, listening now, the engine growing louder, out to sea, then passing them by and Lochart cursed. “He’s missed us!”

“VHF?” Ayre asked.

“Too goddamn dangerous… not yet… he’ll make another pass, he’s too good not to.”

Again waiting, sound of the engines dying, dying, then the level holding. The engine sound grew. Again the chopper made a pass and missed them and began to die away, then once more turned back. Engine sounds growing and growing, then she came down through the murk half a mile up the beach, spotted them and began her approach. No doubt now that she was theirs, McIver the pilot and alone. They cheered.

IN THE 206 COCKPIT: McIver had had a very hard time finding the rendezvous, mud flats all looking the same, coastline the same, with conditions bad. Then he had remembered the non-working rig just offshore and had eased out to find it and, using that as a marker, had come inland.

When his skids were solid on the ground he muttered, “Thank God for that,” and exhaled, stomach aching and desperate to urinate, opened the cockpit door at once, and said over their questions, “Sorry, got to pee. Freddy, shut her down for me, will you?” Lochart, who was closer, said, “I’ll do her, Mac.”

“Thanks.” McIver had unsnapped his seat belt, scrambled out, and hurried under the blades for the nearest dune. When he could speak he glanced around, saw Ayre waiting for him, the others over by the 212s. “My back teeth’ve been floating for an hour or more.”

“I know how it feels.”

McIver shook himself, zipped up, and noticed Wazari. “What the hell’s he doing here?”

“Tom thought it best to bring him, safer than leaving him and he did help. We’d better get going, Mac. We’re all refueled. What about the 206?” “We’ll have to leave her.” She was not equipped with long-range tanks and it would take too much time to rig a temporary inflight refueling system. Even then, this adverse wind would gulp fuel and make the voyage not possible. McIver pointed out to sea, “I thought about parking her on the rig in the hope we could come back and pick her up, but that’s a pipe dream. There’s not enough space to land her and a 212 at the same time to pick me up. Bloody shame, but there you are.” “No problem with Kia?”

“No. He was a bit of a pain in the butt an - ” He whirled. Behind them Lochart had gunned the 206 and now she was lifting and backing away. “For God’s sake, Tom…” he bellowed and ran for the helicopter but Lochart backed faster and hauled her up twenty feet. ‘Tommrnm!”

Lochart leaned out of the cockpit window. “Don’t wait for me, Mac!” he shouted.

“But you’re almost out of fuel…”

“There’s plenty for the moment - I’ll wait till you’re gone then I’ll refuel. See you in Al Shargaz!”

“What the hell’s he playing at?” Ayre said dumbfounded.

“Sharazad,” McIver said, cursing himself for forgetting. “He must’ve had fifty plans to take the 206, one way or another.“Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Tom, you’ll screw up Whirlwind for Christ’s sake! You’ve got to come with us!”

“They’ll never make me a hostage, Mac! Never! It’s on my head, not yours… it’s my decision, by God. Now push off!”

McIver thought a second, then bellowed, “Land now, we’ll refuel for you, save you trouble.” He saw Lochart shake his head, point at the 212s. “I’m going back for Sharazad,” Lochart shouted. “Don’t try and stop me or wait me out… it’s my neck not yours… Happy Landings.” He waved then moved away to safety down the beach, turned into wind facing them and landed. But the engines were kept up, ready for instant takeoff. “No way to rush him,” McIver muttered, furious with himself for not being prepared.

“We… we could wait till he runs out of fuel,” Ayre said. “Tom’s too smart to be trapped.” Almost in panic McIver glanced at his watch, his mind giddy. “Bloody fools, me and Tom.” He saw all the others looking at him.

“What’re we going to do, Mac?” Ayre said.

McIver forced himself to think clearly: You’re the leader. Decide. We’re terribly late. Tom’s decided after everything I said. That’s his privilege. Sorry but that means he’s on his own. Now think of the others. Erikki’s got to be all right. Rudi and Scragger and their lads’re safe - let’s presume they’re safe - so get into the 212 and begin the next leg.

He wanted to groan aloud, the thought of having to nurse a 212 to Kuwait at low level for the next two and a half hours plus almost crushed him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. The others still watched him. And waited. “Tom’s going back to get his wife - we’ll leave him to it.”

“But if he gets caught, won’t that screw Whirlwind?” Ayre asked. “No. Tom’s on his own. You heard what he said. We’re leaving for Kuwait as planned. Everyone into Freddy’s 212, I’ll take Lochart’s. Off you all go and we’ll stay low and close. Radio silence until we’re well across the line.” McIver went for the other 212. Uneasily they looked at one another. They had all noticed his pallor and all knew about his lack of a medical. Kyle, the short, lithe mechanic went after him. “Mac, no point in going alone, I’ll fly with you.”

“Thanks, but no. Everyone in Freddy’s machine! Come on, get with it!” Ayre said, “Mac, I’ll go and talk to Tom. He must be crazy, I’ll persuade him to come to Kuw - ”

“You won’t. If it was Gen, I’d be just as crazy. Everyone get aboard!” At that moment, the sound of two jet fighters at low level going through the sound barrier drowned the beach. The silence they left behind was vast. “Jesus.” Wazari shivered. “Captain, if you’ll have me along, I’ll fly with you?”

“No, everyone with Freddy, I’d prefer to fly alone.” “Your nortlicense makes no odds to me.” Wazari shrugged. “Insha’Allah! I’ll monitor the radio.” He jerked his thumb skyward: “Those bastards won’t speak English.” He turned for the 212 and got into the left seat.

Ayre said, “It’s a good idea, Mac.”

“All right. We’ll stay close and low as planned. Freddy, if one of us runs into trouble the other goes on.” At Ayre’s look, “I mean any trouble.” A last look at Lochart, McIver waved again and went aboard. He was very glad not to be alone. “Thanks,” he said to Wazari. “I don’t know what’ll happen at Kuwait, Sergeant, but I’ll help all I can.” He locked his seat belt and pressed Engine Start on Number One.

“Sure. Thanks. Hell, I got nothing to lose; my head’s busting, I’ve had every aspirin outta the medical packs… What happened with Kia?” McIver adjusted the volume of his headset, pressed Engine Start on Number Two, checking fuel tanks and instruments as he spoke. “I had to do the emergency a little later than I planned - landed about a mile from a village - but it went fine, too fine, the bugger fainted and then I couldn’t get him out of the cockpit. Somehow he’d entwined himself in his seat and shoulder belts and I couldn’t get him free. Didn’t have a bloody knife to cut him loose. I tried every way, pushing and pulling, but the catch had stuck so I gave up and waited for him to come around. While I waited I got his luggage out and put it nearer to the road where he’d find it. When he came to, I had the hell’s own job getting him to leave the cockpit.” McIver’s fingers went accurately from switch to switch. “Eventually I pretended we had a fire and jumped out, leaving him. That did it and he somehow got the catch undone and left in a hurry. I’d kept the engines running, bloody dangerous but had to chance it, and once he was clear, I rushed back and took off. Scraped a rock or two but no sweat…”

His heart had been pounding, his throat dry at the frantic takeoff, Kia clawing at the door handle, raving at him, hanging on, one foot on the skid, McIver afraid he would have to land again. Fortunately Kia’s nerve failed and he let go and dropped back the few feet they were off the ground, and now McIver was free and away. He had circled once to make sure Kia was all right. The last he saw of Kia, he was shaking his fist and red with rage. Then he had set course for the coast, hugging the undulating trees and rocks. And though he was safe, the pounding in his chest did not lessen. Waves of nausea and heat began to sweep through him.

It’s just the strain of the last week or so catching up, he had told himself grimly. Just strain and trying to haul that bugger out of the cockpit, along with worries over Whirlwind, and being scared fartless by the mullah’s questioning.

For a few more minutes after leaving Kia, he had flown onward. Difficult to concentrate. Pain increasing. Controls unfamiliar. A spasm of nausea and he almost lost control so decided to land and rest a moment. He was still in the mountain foothills, rocks and clumps of trees and snow, the ceiling low and fairly thin. Through a haze of sickness he chose the first possible plateau and landed. The landing was not good and that, more than anything, frightened him very much. Nearby was a stream, partially frozen, the water frothing as it tumbled down the rocks. The water beckoned him. In bad pain he shut down, stumbled over to it, lay on the snow and drank deeply. The shock of the cold made him retch and when the spasm had passed he cleansed his mouth and drank sparingly. This and the cold of the air helped him. A handful of snow rubbed into the back of his neck and temples made him feel even better. Gradually the pain lessened, the tingling in his left arm went away. When it had almost gone he groped to his feet and, stumbling a little, made the cockpit, sank back in his seat.

His cockpit was warm and cozy and familiar - enclosing. Automatically he snapped his seat belt. Silence filled his ears and his head. Only the sound of the wind, and the water, no engines or traffic or static, nothing but the softness of the wind and water. Peacefulness. His eyelids were heavier than they had ever been. He closed them. And slept.

His sleep was deep and barely half an hour and very good. When he awoke he was revitalized - no pain, no discomfort, just a little light-headed as though he had dreamed the pain. He stretched gloriously. Tiny sound of metal clinking against metal. He looked around. Seated on a small mountain pony, watching him silently, was a youth, a tribesman. In a saddle sheath was a rifle and another was across his back with a bandolier of cartridges. The two of them stared at each other, then the youth smiled and the plateau seemed to light up. “Salaam, Agha.”

“Salaam; Agha.” McIver smiled back, surprised that he was completely unafraid, somehow put at his ease by the wild beauty of the youth. “Loftan befarma’ id shoma ki hastid?” He used one of his few stock phrases: May I ask who you are?

“Agha Mohammed Rud Kahani,” and then some words McIver did not understand and he finished with another smile and, “Kash’kai.”

“Ah, Kash’kai.” McIver nodded, understanding that the youth was one of the nomadic tribes that spread across the Zagros. He pointed at himself. “Agha McIver,” and added another stock phrase, “Mota assef an, man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam.” Sorry, I don’t speak your language. “Insha’Allah. America?”

“English. Englishman.” He was watching himself and the other man. Helicopter and horse, pilot and tribesman, gulfs between them but no threat, one to the other. “Sorry, I must go now,” he said in English, then parodied, flying away with his hands. “Khoda hoe-fez,” good-bye, “Agha Mohammed Kash’kai.” The youth nodded and raised his hand in salute. “Khoda hoe-fez, Agha,” then moved his horse to safety and stood there watching him. When the engines were up to power, McIver waved once and left. All the way to the rendezvous he had thought about the youth. No reason for that youth not to shoot me, or perhaps no reason to shoot me. Did I dream him, dream the pain? No, I didn’t dream the pain. Did I have a heart attack?

Now, ready to leave for Kuwait, for the first time he faced the question. Disquiet returned and he glanced at Wazari who was staring disconsolately out the side window at the sea. How dangerous am I now? he asked himself. If I had one attack, even a mild one, I could have another, so am I risking his life as well as my own? I don’t think so. I’ve only high blood pressure and that’s under control, I take the two pills a day and no problem. I can’t leave a 212 just because Tom’s gone mad. I’m tired, but okay, and Kuwait’s only a couple of hours. I’d be happier not to be flying. My God, I never thought I’d ever feel that. Old Scrag can have the flying, I’m done with it forever.

His ears were listening to the pitch of the engines. Ready for takeoff now, no real need to check the instruments. Through the rain speckles on his windshield he saw Ayre give him a thumbs-up, also ready. Down the beach he could see Lochart in the 206. Poor old Tom. Bet he’s cursing us to hurry, anxious to refuel and rush north to a new destiny. Hope he succeeds - at least he’ll have a following wind.

“Okay to switch on the VHF?” Wazari asked, distracting him. “I’ll tune into military frequencies.”

“Good.” McIver smiled at Wazari, pleased to have him for company. Lots of static in his headphones, then Farsi voices. Wazari listened awhile then said throatily, “It’s the fighters talking to Kowiss. One of them said, ‘In all the Names of God, how’re we going to find two choppers in this pool of dog shit?”

“They won’t, not if I have anything to do with it.” McIver tried to sound confident over a sudden tide of foreboding. He got Ayre’s attention, pointed upward, indicating the fighters and motioned across his throat. Then he pointed a last time out into the Gulf and gave a thumbs-up. A glance at his watch: 2:21 P.M.

“Here we go, Sergeant,” he said and twisted the throttles full open, “next stop Kuwait. ETA 4:40 P.M., or thereabouts.”

AT KUWAIT AIRPORT: 2:56 P.M. Genny and Charlie Pettikin were sitting in the open-air restaurant on the upper level of the sparkling, newly opened terminal. It was a grand, sunny day, sheltered from the wind. Bright yellow tablecloths and umbrellas, everyone eating and drinking with enjoyment and gusto. Except for them. Genny had hardly touched her salad, Pettikin had picked at his rice and curry.

“Charlie,” Genny said abruptly, “I think I’ll have a vodka martini after all.”

“Good idea,” Pettikin waved for a waiter and ordered for her. He would have liked to join her but he was expecting to replace or spell either Lochart or Ayre on the next leg down the coast to Jellet Island - at least one refueling stop, perhaps two, before reaching Al Shargaz - God curse this sodding wind. “Won’t be long now, Genny.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, how many times do you have to say it, Genny wanted to scream, sick of waiting. Stoically she kept up her pretense of calm. “Not long, Charlie. Any moment now.” Their eyes went seaward. The distant seascape was hazed, visibility poor, but they would know the instant the choppers came into Kuwait radar range. The Imperial Air rep was waiting in the tower.

How long is long? she asked herself, trying to pierce the heat haze, all her energy pouring out, seeking Duncan, sending prayers and hopes and strengths that he might need. The word that Gavallan had passed on this morning had not helped: “What on earth’s he flying Kia for, Andy? Back to Tehran? What does that mean?”

“Don’t know, Genny. I’m telling you as he said it. Our interpretation is that Freddy was sent to the fuel rendezvous first. Mac took off with Kia - he’s either taking him to the rendezvous or he’ll put him off en route. Tom’s holding the fort for a time to give the others a breathing space, then he’ll head for the RV. We got Mac’s initial call at 10:42. Give him till 11:00 A.M. for him and Freddy to take off. Give them another hour to get to the RV and refuel, add two hours thirty flight time, they should arrive Kuwait around 2:30 at the earliest. Depending on how long they wait at the RV it could be anytime, from 2:30 onwards …”

She saw the waiter bringing her drink. On the tray was a mobile phone. “Phone call for you, Captain Pettikin,” the waiter said as he put the glass in front of her. Pettikin pulled out the antenna, held the phone to his ear. “Hello? Oh, hello, Andy.” She watched his face, “No… no, not yet… Oh?…” He listened intently for a long time, just an occasional grunt and nod, nothing showing outwardly, and she wondered what Gavallan was saying that she was not supposed to hear. “… Yes, sure … no… yes, everything’s covered as far as we can… Yes, yes, she is … all right, hang on.” He passed the phone over. “He wants to say hello.” “Hello, Andy, what’s new?”

“Just reporting in, Genny. Not to worry about Mac and the others - no telling how long they had to wait at the RV.”

“I’m fine, Andy. Don’t worry about me. What about the others?” “Rudi, Pop Kelly, and Sandor are en route from Bahrain - they refueled at Abu Dhabi and we’re in contact with them - John Hogg’s our relay station - their ETA here’s in twenty minutes. Scrag’s fine, Ed and Willi no problem, Duke’s sleeping and Manuela’s here. She wants to say hello…” A moment and then Manuela’s voice: “Hi, darlin’, how are ya, and don’t say great!” Genny smiled halfheartedly. “Great. Is Duke all right?” “Sleepin’ like a baby, not that babies sleep quiet all the time. Just wanted you to know we’re sweating it out too. I’ll pass you back to Andy.”

A pause, then: “Hello, Genny. Johnny Hogg’ll be in your area about now and he’ll be listening too. We’ll keep in touch. Can I speak to Charlie again, please.”

“Of course, but what about Marc Dubois and Fowler?” A pause. “Nothing yet. We’re hoping they’ve been picked up - Rudi, Sandor, and Pop backtracked and searched as long as they could. No wreckage, there’re lots of ships in those waters and platforms. We’re sweating them out.”

“Now tell me what Charlie’s supposed to know but I’m not.” She scowled into the dead silence on the phone, then heard Gavallan sigh.

“You’re one for the book, Genny. All right. I asked Charlie if any telex had arrived from Iran yet, like the one we got here, in Dubai and Bahrain. I’m trying to pull all the strings I can through Newbury and our Kuwaiti embassy in case of a foul-up, though Newbury says not to expect much, Kuwait being so close to Iran and not wanting to offend Khomeini and petrified he’ll send or allow a few export fundamentalists to stir up the Kuwaiti Shi’as. I told Charlie that I’m trying to get word to Ross’s parents in Nepal and to his regiment. That’s the lot.” In a more kindly voice, “I didn’t want to upset you more than necessary. Okay?”

“Yes, thanks. Yes, I’m… I’m fine. Thanks, Andy.” She passed the phone back and looked at her glass. Beads of moisture had formed. Some were trickling. Like the tears on my cheeks, she thought and got up. “Back in a sec.” Sadly Pettikin watched her go. He listened to Gavallan’s final instructions. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Don’t worry, Andy, I’ll take care of… I’ll take care of Ross, and I’ll call the very moment we have them on the screen. Bloody awful about Dubois and Fowler, we’ll just have to think good thoughts and hope. Great about the others. ‘Bye.”

Finding Ross had shattered him. The moment he had got Gavallan’s call this morning he had rushed to the hospital. Today being Friday, with minimum staff, there was just one receptionist on duty and he spoke only Arabic. The man smiled and shrugged and said, “Bokrah,” - tomorrow. But Pettikin had persisted and eventually the man had understood what he wanted, and had made a phone call. At length a male nurse arrived and beckoned him. They went along corridors and then through a door and there was Ross naked on a slab. It was the suddenness, the totality of nakedness, of seeming defilement, and the obliteration of any shred of dignity that had torn Pettikin apart, not the fact of death. This man who had been so fine in life had been left like a carcass. On another slab were sheets. He took one and covered him and that seemed to make it better.

It had taken Pettikin more than an hour to find the ward where Ross had been, to track down an English-speaking nurse and to find his doctor.

“So very sorry, so very sorry, sir,” the doctor, a Lebanese, had said in halting English. “The young man arrived yesterday in a coma. He had a fractured skull and we suspected brain damage; it was from a terrorist bomb we were told. Both eardrums were broken and he had a number of minor cuts and bruises. We X-rayed him, of course, but apart from binding his skull there was little we could do but wait. He had no internal damage or hemorrhage. He died this morning with the dawn. The dawn was beautiful today, wasn’t it? I signed the death certificate - would you like a copy? We’ve given one to the English embassy - together with his effects.” “Did he … did he recover consciousness before he died?” “I do not know. He was in intensive care and his nurse… let me see.” Laboriously the doctor had consulted his lists and found her name. “Sivin Tahollah. Ah, yes. Because he was English we assigned her to him.”

She was an old woman, part of the flotsam of the Middle East, knowing no forebears, part of many nations. Her face was ugly and pockmarked but she was not, her voice gentle and calming, her hands warm. “He was never conscious, Effendi,” she said in English, “not truly.”

“Did he say anything particularly, anything you could understand, anything at all?”

“Much that I understood, Effendi, and nothing.” The old woman thought a moment. “Most of what he said was just mind wanderings, the spirit fearing what should not be feared, wanting that which could not be had. He would murmur ‘azadeh’ - azadeh means ‘born free’ in Farsi though it is also a woman’s name. Sometimes he would mutter a name like ‘Erri’ or ‘Ekki’ or ‘Kookri,’ and then again ‘azadeh.’ His spirit was at peace but not quite though he never wept like some do, or cry out, nearing the threshold.” “Was there anything more - anything?”

She toyed with the watch she wore on her lapel. “From time to time his wrists seemed to bother him and when I stroked them he became calm again. In the night he spoke a tongue I have never heard before. I speak English, a little French, and many dialects of Arabic, many. But this tongue I have never heard before. He spoke it in a lilting way, mixed with wanderings and ‘azadeh,’ sometimes words like…” She searched her memory. “Like ‘regiment’ and ‘edelweiss’ and ‘highlands’ or ‘high land,’ and sometimes, ah, yes, words like ‘gueng’ and ‘tens’ng,’ sometimes a name like ‘Roses’ or ‘Rose mountain’ - perhaps it was not a name but just a place but it seemed to sadden him.” Her old eyes were rheumy. “I’ve seen much of death, Effendi, very much, always different, always the same. But his passing was peaceful and his going over the threshold without hurt. The last moment was just a great sigh - I think he went to Paradise, if Christians go to Paradise, and found his Azadeh…”

Chapter 65

TABRIZ - AT THE KHAN’S PALACE: 3:40 P.M. Azadeh walked slowly along the corridor toward the Great Room where she was meeting her brother, her back still troubling her from the grenade explosion yesterday. God in heaven, was it only yesterday that the tribesmen and Erikki almost killed us? she thought. It seems more like a thousand days, and a light-year since Father died.

It was another lifetime. Nothing good in that lifetime except Mother and Erikki and Hakim, Erikki and… and Johnny. A lifetime of hatreds and killings and terrors and madness, madness living like pariahs, Hakim and I, surrounded by evil, madness at the Qazvin roadblock and that vile, fat-faced mujhadin squashed against the car, oozing like a swatted fly, madness of our rescue by Charlie and the KGB man - what was his name, ah yes, Rakoczy - Rakoczy almost killing all of us, madness at Abu Mard that has changed my life forever, madness at the base where we’d had so many fine times, Erikki and I, but where Johnny killed so many so fast and so cruelly. She had told Erikki everything last night - almost everything. “At the base he… he became a killing animal. I don’t remember much, just flashes, giving him the grenade in the village, watching him rush the base… grenades and machine guns, one of the men wearing a kookri, then Johnny holding up his severed head and howling like a banshee… I know now the kookri was Gueng’s. Johnny told me in Tehran.”

“Don’t say any more now. Leave it until tomorrow, leave the rest until tomorrow, my darling. Go to sleep, you’re safe now.”

“No. I’m afraid to sleep, even now in your arms, even with all the glorious news about Hakim, when I sleep I’m back in the village, back at Abu Mard and the mullah’s there, cursed of God, the kalandar’s there and butcher’s got his carving knife.”

“There’s no more village or mullah, I’ve been there. No more kalandar, nor butcher. Ahmed told me about the village, part of what had happened there.” “You went to the village?”

“Yes, this afternoon, when you were resting. I took a car and went there. It’s a heap of burned rubble. Just as well,” Erikki had said ominously. In the corridor Azadeh stopped a moment and held on to the wall until the fit of trembling passed. So much death and killing and horror. Yesterday when she had come out onto the steps of the palace and had seen Erikki in the cockpit, blood streaming down his face and into his stubbled beard, more dripping from his sleeve, Ahmed crumpled beside him, she had died and then, seeing him get out and stand tall and walk to her, her own legs useless, and catch her up into his arms, she had come to life again, all her terrors had poured out with her tears. “Oh, Erikki, oh, Erikki, I’ve been so afraid, so afraid…”

He had carried her into the Great Room and the doctor was there with Hakim, Robert Armstrong and Colonel Hashemi Fazir. A bullet had torn away part of Erikki’s left ear, another had scored his forearm. The doctor had cauterized the wounds and bound them up, injecting him with antitetanus serum and penicillin, more afraid of infection than of loss of blood: “Insha’ Allah, but there’s not much I can do, Captain, you’re strong, your pulse is good, a plastic surgeon can make your ear look better, your hearing’s not touched, praised be to God! Just beware of infection…”

“What happened, Erikki?” Hakim had asked.

“I flew them north into the mountains and Ahmed was careless - it wasn’t his fault, he got airsick - and before we knew what was happening Bayazid had a gun to his head, another tribesman had one to mine and Bayazid said, ‘Fly to the village, then you can leave.’

“‘You swore a holy oath you wouldn’t harm me!’ I said.

‘“I swore I wouldn’t harm you and I won’t, but my oath was mine, not of my men,’ Bayazid said, and the man with a gun to my head laughed and shouted, ‘Obey our Sheik or by God you will be so filled with pain you will beg for death.’”

“I should have thought of that,” Hakim said with a curse. “I should have bound them all with the oath. I should have thought of that.” “It wouldn’t have made any difference. Anyway it was all my fault; I’d brought them here and almost ruined everything. I can’t tell you how sorry I am but it was the only way to get back and I thought I’d find Abdollah Khan, I never thought that matyeryebyets Bayazid would use a grenade.” “We’re not hurt, through God’s will, Azadeh and I. How could you know Abdollah Khan was dead, or that half your ransom was paid? Go on with what happened,” Hakim had said and Azadeh noticed a strangeness under the voice. Hakim’s changed, she thought. I can’t understand what’s in his mind like I used to. Before he became Khan, really Khan, I could but not now. He’s still my darling brother but a stranger. So much has changed, so fast. I’ve changed. So has Erikki, my God how much! Johnny hasn’t changed….

In the Great Room, Erikki had continued: “Flying them away was the only way to get them out of the palace without further trouble or killing. If Bayazid hadn’t insisted, I would have offered - no other way’d’ve been safe for you and Azadeh. I had to gamble that somehow they’d obey the oath. But whatever happened, it was them or me, I knew it and so did they, for of course I was the only one who knew who they were and where they lived and a Khan’s vengeance is serious. Whatever I did, drop them off halfway or go to the village, they’d never let me go. How could they - it was the village or me and their One God would vote for their village along with them, whatever they’d agreed or sworn!” “That’s a question only God could answer.” “My gods, the ancient gods, don’t like to be used as an excuse, and they don’t like this swearing in their name. They disapprove of it greatly, in fact they forbid it.” Azadeh heard the bitterness and touched him gently. He had held her hand. “I’m fine now, Azadeh.”

“What happened next, Erikki?” Hakim asked. “I told Bayazid there wasn’t enough gasoline and tried to reason with him and he just said, ‘As God wants,’ stuck the gun into Ahmed’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. ‘Go to the village! The next bullet goes into his stomach.’ Ahmed passed out and Bayazid reached over him for the Sten gun that had slipped to the floor of the cockpit, half under the seat, but he couldn’t quite get it. I was strapped in, so was Ahmed, they weren’t, so I shifted her around the skies in ways I didn’t think a chopper could stand, then let her drop out and made a landing. It was a bad one; I thought I’d broken a skid but later I found it was only bent. As soon as we’d stopped I used the Sten and my knife and killed those who were conscious and hostile, disarmed the unconscious ones, and dumped them out of the cabin. Then, after a time, I came back.” “Just like that,” Armstrong had said. “Fourteen men.” “Five, and Bayazid. The others…” Azadeh had her arm on his shoulder and she felt the shrug and the following tremor. “I left them.”

“Where?” Hashemi Fazir had said. “Could you describe where, Captain?” Erikki had done so, accurately, and the colonel had sent men to find them. Erikki put his good hand into his pocket and brought out the ransom jewels and gave them to Hakim Khan. “Now I think I would like to talk to my wife, if it pleases you. I’ll tell you the rest later.” Then she and he had gone to their own rooms and he said nothing more, just held her gently in his great embrace. Her presence soothed away his anguish. Soon to sleep. She slept barely at all, at once back in the village to tear herself in panic from its suffocating grasp. She had stayed quiet for a time in his arms, then moved to a chair and half dozed, content to be with him. He had slept dreamlessly until it was dark, then awoke.

“First a bath and then a shave and then some vodka and then we will talk,” he had said, “I’ve never seen you more beautiful nor loved you more and I’m sorry, sorry I was jealous - no, Azadeh, don’t say anything yet. Then I want to know everything.”

In the dawn she had finished telling all there was to tell - as much as she would ever tell - and he his story. He had hidden nothing, not his jealousy, or the killing rage and the joy of battle or the tears he had shed on the mountainside, seeing the savagery of the mayhem he had dealt to the tribesmen. “They … they did treat me fairly in their village… and ransom is an ancient custom. If it hadn’t been for Abdollah murdering their messenger … that might have made the difference, perhaps, perhaps not. But that doesn’t forgive the killings. I feel I’m a monster, you married a madman, Azadeh. I’m dangerous.” “No, no, you’re not, of course you’re not.” “By all my gods, I’ve killed twenty or more men in half that number of days and yet I’ve never killed before except those assassins, those men who charged in here to murder your father before we were married. Outside of Iran I’ve never killed anyone, never hurt anyone - I’ve had plenty of fights with or without pukoh but never serious. Never. If that kalandar and the village had existed, I would have burned him and them without a second thought. I can understand your Johnny at the base; I thank all gods for bringing him to us to protect you and curse him for taking away my peace though I know I’m in his immortal debt. I can’t deal with the killings and I can’t deal with him. I can’t, I can’t, not yet.”

“It doesn’t matter, not now, Erikki. Now we’ve time. Now we’re safe, you’re safe and I’m safe and Hakim’s safe, we’re safe, my darling. Look at the dawn, isn’t it beautiful? Look, Erikki, it’s a new day now, so beautiful, a new life. We’re safe, Erikki.”

IN THE GREAT ROOM: 3:45 P.M. Hakim Khan was alone except for Hashemi Fazir. Half an hour ago Hashemi had arrived unbidden. He had apologized for the intrusion, handing him a telex. “I thought you’d better see this at once, Highness.”

The telex read: “URGENT. To Colonel Fazir, Inner Intelligence, Tabriz: Arrest Erikki Yokkonen, husband of Her Highness, Azadeh Gorgon, for crimes committed against the State, for complicity in air piracy, hijacking, and high treason. Put him in chains and send him at once to my Headquarters here. Director, SAVAMA, Tehran.”

Hakim Khan dismissed his guards. “I don’t understand, Colonel. Please explain.”

“The moment I’d decoded it, I phoned for further details, Highness. It seems last year S-G Helicopters sold a number of helicopters to IHC an - ” “I don’t understand.”

“Sorry, to Iran Helicopter Company, an Iranian company, Captain Yokkonen’s present employer. Among them were - are - ten 212s including his. Today the other nine, valued at perhaps $9 million, were stolen and illegally flown out of Iran by IHC pilots - SAVAMA presumes to one of the Gulf states.” Hakim Khan said coldly, “Even if they have, this doesn’t affect Erikki. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“We don’t know that for certain, Highness. SAVAMA says perhaps he knew of the conspiracy - it certainly had to have been planned for some time because three bases are involved - Lengeh, Bandar Delam, and Kowiss - as well as their Tehran Head Office. SAVAMA are very, very agitated because it’s also been reported that vast quantities of valuable Iranian spares have been whisked away. No mo - ”

“Reported by whom?”

“The IHC managing director, Siamaki. Even more serious, all IHC foreign personnel, pilots and mechanics and office staff, have vanished as well. Everyone, so of course it was a conspiracy. It seems that yesterday there were perhaps twenty of them all over Iran, last week forty, today none. There are no S-G, or more correctly IHC foreigners left in all Iran. Except Captain Yokkonen.”

At once the implication of Erikki’s importance leaped into Hakim’s mind and he cursed himself for allowing his face to give him away when Hashemi said blithely, “Ah, yes, of course you see it too! SAVAMA told me that even if the captain is innocent of complicity in the conspiracy, he’s the essential means to persuade the ringleaders and criminals, Gavallan and McIver - and certainly the British government which must have been party to the treason - to return our airplanes, our spares, to pay an indemnity of very serious proportions, to return to Iran and stand trial for crimes against Islam.” Hakim Khan shifted uneasily on his cushions, the pain in his back surfacing, and wanted to shout with rage because all the pain and anguish had been unnecessary, and now, hardly able to stand without pain, he might be permanently injured. Put that aside for later, he told himself grimly, and deal with this dangerous son of a dog who sits there patiently like an accomplished salesman of precious carpets who has laid out his wares and now waits for the negotiation to begin. If I want to buy.

To buy Erikki out of the trap I shall have to give this dog a personal pishkesh, of value to him not SAVAMA, God curse them by any name. What? Petr Oleg Mzytryk at least. I could pass him over to Hashemi without a belch, if he comes, when he comes. He’ll come. Yesterday Ahmed sent for him in my name - I wonder how Ahmed is, did his operation go well? I hope the fool doesn’t die; I could use his knowledge for a while more. Fool to be caught off guard, fool! Yes he’s a fool but this dog isn’t. With the gift of Mzytryk and more help in Azerbaijan, and a promise of future friendship, I can buy Erikki out of the trap. Why should I?

Because Azadeh loves him? Unfortunately she is sister to the Khan of all the Gorgons and this is a khan’s problem, not a brother’s problem. Erikki’s a hazard to me and to her. He’s a dangerous man with blood on his hands. The tribesmen, be they Kurds or not, will seek vengeance - probably. He’s always been a bad match though he brought her great joy, still brings her happiness - but no children - and now he cannot stay in Iran. Impossible. No way for him to stay. I couldn’t buy him two years of protection and Azadeh’s sworn by God to stay here at least two years - how cunning my father was to give me power over her. If I buy Erikki out of the trap she can’t go with him. In two years many estrangements could happen by themselves. But if he’s no good for her, why buy him out? Why not let them take Erikki to checkmate a treason? It’s treason to steal our property. “This is too serious a matter to answer at once,” he said. “There is nothing for you to answer, Highness. Only Captain Yokkonen. I understand he’s still here.”

“The doctor ordered him to rest.”

“Perhaps you would send for him, Highness.”

“Of course. But a man of your importance and learning would understand there are rules of honor and hospitality in Azerbaijan, and in my tribe. He is my brother-in-law and even SAVAMA understands family honor.” Both men knew this was just an opening gambit in a delicate negotiation - delicate because neither wanted SAVAMA’s wrath on their heads, neither knew yet how far to go, or even if a private deal was wanted. “I presume many know of this… this treason?”

“Only me, here in Tabriz, Highness. At the moment,” Hashemi said at once, conveniently forgetting Armstrong to whom he had suggested this phony telex this morning: “There’s no way that son of a dog, Hakim, can expose it as a hoax, Robert,” he had said, delighted with his own brilliance. “He’s got to barter. We barter the Finn for Mzytryk at no cost to ourselves. That bloodthirsty maniac Finn can fly off into the sunset when we get what we want - until then we bottle him up.”

“Say Hakim Khan won’t agree, won’t or can’t deliver Mzytryk?” “If he doesn’t want to barter, we seize Erikki anyway. Whirlwind’s bound to leak soon and I can use Erikki for all sorts of concessions - he’s hostage at least for $15 million worth of planes… or perhaps I barter him to the tribesmen as a peace offering… The fact that he’s a Finn helps. I could link him closely with Rakoczy and the KGB and cause the Soviets all sorts of mischief, equally the CIA, eh? Even MI6, eh?” “The CIA’ve never harmed you. Or MI6.” “Insha’Allah! Don’t interfere in this, Robert. Erikki and the Khan are an internal Iranian matter. On your own head, don’t interfere. With the Finn I can get important concessions.” But important only to me, Robert, not to SAVAMA, Hashemi had thought and smiled to himself. Tomorrow or the next day we will return to Tehran and then my assassin follows you into the night and then, poof, you’re blown out like a candle. “He’ll deliver him,” he had said calmly.

“If Hakim gives up Erikki, he’ll get hell and damnation and no peace from his beloved sister. I think she’d go to the stake for him.” “She may have to.”

Hashemi remembered the glow of joy he had felt and now it was even better. He could see Hakim Khan’s disquiet and was sure he had him trapped. “I’m sure you’ll understand, Highness, but I have to answer this telex quickly.” Hakim Khan decided on a partial offer. “Treason and conspiracy should not go unpunished. Anywhere it is to be found. I’ve sent for the traitor you wanted. Urgently.”

“Ah. How long will it take for Mzytryk to answer?” “You’d have a better idea of that than me. Wouldn’t you?”

Hashemi heard the flatness and cursed himself for making the slip. “I would be astonished if Your Highness wasn’t answered very quickly,” he said with great politeness. “Very quickly.” “When?”

“Within twenty-four hours, Highness. Personally or by messenger.” He saw the young Khan shift painfully and tried to decide whether to delay or to press home his advantage, sure the pain was genuine. The doctor had given him a detailed diagnosis of the Khan’s possible injuries and those of his sister. To cover every eventuality he had ordered the doctor to give Erikki some heavy sedation tonight, just in case the man tried to escape. “The twenty-four hours will be up at seven this evening, Colonel.” “There is so much to do in Tabriz, Highness, following your advice of this morning, that I doubt if I could deal with the telex before then.” “You destroy the leftist mujhadin headquarters tonight?”

“Yes, Highness,” now that we have your permission, and your guarantee of no repercussions from the Tudeh, Hashemi wanted to add but did not. Don’t be stupid! This young man’s not as three-faced as the dog Abdollah, may he burn in hell. This one’s easier to deal with - providing you have more cards than he has and are not afraid to show your fangs when needed. “It would be unfortunate if the captain was not available for… for questioning this evening.”

Hakim Khan’s eyes narrowed at the unnecessary threat. As if I didn’t understand, you rude son of a dog. “I agree.” There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

Azadeh opened it. “Sorry to interrupt, Highness, but you told me to remind you half an hour before it was time to go to the hospital for X rays. Greetings, peace be with you, Colonel.”

“And God’s peace be with you, Highness.” I’m glad such beauty will be forced into chador soon, Hashemi was thinking. She’d tempt Satan, let alone the unwashed illiterate scum of Iran. He looked back at the Khan. “I should be going, Highness.”

“Please come back at seven, Colonel. If I’ve any news before then I’ll send for you.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

She closed the door after him. “How’re you feeling, Hakim, darling?” “Tired. Lots of pain.”

“Me too. Do you have to see the colonel later?”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter. How’s Erikki?”

“Asleep.” She was joyous. “We’re so lucky, the three of us.” * IN TABRIZ CITY: 4:06 P.M. Robert Armstrong checked the action of the small automatic, his face grim. “What’re you going to do?” Henley asked, not liking the gun at all. He was also English, but much smaller, with a wispy mustache, and he wore glasses and sat behind the desk in the untidy, grubby office, under a picture of Queen Elizabeth.

“Best you don’t ask that. But don’t worry, I’m a copper, remember? This’s just in case some villain tries to do me. Can you get the message to Yokkonen?”

“I can’t go to the palace uninvited, what the hell’d be my excuse?” Henley’s eyebrows soared. “Do I say to Hakim Khan, ‘Terribly sorry, old boy, but I want to speak to your brother-in-law about getting a chum out of Iran by private helicopter.’” His banter vanished. “You’re quite wrong about the colonel, Robert. There’s no proof whatsoever the colonel’s responsible for Talbot.”

“If you had you wouldn’t admit it,” Armstrong said, angry with himself for exploding when Henley had told him about the “accident.” Again his voice rasped. “Why the devil did you wait till today to tell me Talbot was blown up? For God’s sake it happened two days ago!”

“I don’t decide policy, I just carry messages and anyway we’ve just heard. Besides, you’ve been difficult to track down. Everyone thought you’d left, last seen boarding a British aircraft bound for Al Shargaz. Damn it, you’ve been ordered out for almost a week and you’re still here, not on any assignment I know of, and whatever you’ve decided to do, don’t, except kindly remove yourself from Iran because if you’re caught and they get you to the third level, a lot of people are going to be very bloody peed off.” “I’ll try not to disappoint them.” Armstrong got up and put on his old raincoat with the fur collar. “See you soon.”

“When?”

“When I bloody choose.” Armstrong’s face tightened. “I’m not under your authority and what I do and when I come and go is not up to you. Just see my report’s kept in the safe until you’ve a diplomatic bag to pass it urgently to London, and keep your bloody mouth shut.”

“You’re not usually so rude, or so touchy. What the hell’s up, Robert?” Armstrong stalked out and down the steps and out into the cold of the day. It was overcast and promised to snow again. He went down the crowded street. Passersby and street merchants pretended not to notice him, presumed he was Soviet, and cautiously went about their own business. Though he was watching to see if he was being followed, his mind was sifting ways and means to deal with Hashemi. No time to consult his superiors, and no real wish to. They would have shaken their heads: “Good God, our old friend Hashemi? Send him onwards on suspicion he levitated Talbot? First we’d need proof…”

But there’ll never be any proof and they won’t believe about Group Four teams or about Hashemi fancying himself as a modern Hasan ibn al-Sabbah. But I know. Wasn’t Hashemi bursting with happiness about assassinating General Janan? Now he’s got bigger fish to skewer. Like Pahmudi. Or the whole Rev Komiteh, whoever they are - I wonder if he’s pegged them yet? I wonder if he’d go for the Imam himself? No telling. But one way or another he’ll pay for old Talbot - after we’ve got Petr Oleg Mzytryk. Without Hashemi I’ve no chance of getting him, and through him the sodding traitors we all know are operating up top in Whitehall, Philby’s bosses, the fourth, fifth, and sixth man - in the Cabinet, MI5, or MI6. Or all three.

His rage was all possessive, making his head ache. So many good men betrayed. The touch of his automatic pleased him. First Mzytryk, he thought, then Hashemi. All that’s left to decide is when and where.

BAHRAIN - AT THE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 4:24 P.M. JeanLuc was on the phone in Mathias’s office. “… No, Andy, we’ve nothing either.” He glanced at Mathias who listened, and gravely made a thumbs-down to him. “Charlie’s beside himself,” Gavallan was saying. “I just got off the phone to him. Damn shame but nothing we can do but wait. Same with Dubois and Fowler.” JeanLuc could hear the great weariness in Gavallan’s voice. “Dubois will turn up - after all he’s French. By the way I told Charlie if…when,” he corrected himself hastily, “when Tom Lochart and Freddy Ayre land, to tell them to refuel at Jellet and not come here, unless there’s an emergency. Mathias put the spare fuel on Jellet himself so we know it’s there. Andy, you’d better call Charlie and add your authority because Bahrain could be difficult, I don’t want to risk another confrontation - their warning was clear whether we’re flying on British registry or not. I still don’t know how we squeaked Rudi, Sandor, and Pop through. I’m certain they’ll impound any Iran registers, and the crews - and next time they’ll check the paint and papers.”

“All right, I’ll tell him at once. JeanLuc, there’s no reason for you to come back to Al Shargaz; why not go direct to London tomorrow, then up to Aberdeen? I’m posting you to the North Sea until we get sorted out, all right?”

“Good idea. I’ll report in Aberdeen on Monday,” JeanLuc said quickly, stealing a free weekend. Mon Dieu, I’ve earned it, he thought, and changed the subject to give Gavallan no time to argue. “Has Rudi arrived yet?” “Yes, safe and sound. All three of them’re bedded down. So’re Vossi and Willi too. Scrag’s fine. Erikki’s out of danger, Duke’s mending slowly but surely… if it wasn’t for Dubois and Fowler, Mac, Tom and their lot… Hallelujah! I’ve got to go, ‘bye.”

“Au revoir.” Then to Mathias, “Merde, I’m posted to the North Sea.” “Merde.”

“What’s Alitalia’s extension?”

“It’s 22134. Why?”

“If I have to invoke the pope himself, I’m on the early flight to Rome tomorrow with the connection to Nice - I need Marie-Christene, the kids, and some decent food. Espčce de con on the North Sea!” Worriedly he looked at the clock. “Espčce de con on this waiting! Where’re our Kowiss birds, eh?”

KUWAIT - OFFSHORE: 4:31 P.M. The red fuel-warning light came on. McIver and Wazari saw it instantly and both cursed. “How much we got left, Captain?” “With this bloody wind, not much.” They were just ten feet off the waves. “How far we got to go?”

“Not far.” McIver was exhausted and feeling terrible. The wind had freshened to nearly thirty-five knots, and he had been nursing the 212, trying to eke out their fuel, but there was not much he could do at this low level. Visibility was still poor, the overcast thinning rapidly as they neared the coast. He looked out of his window across at Ayre, pointed at his instrument panel, and gave a thumbs-down. Ayre nodded. His warning light had not yet come on. Now it did.

“Bloody hell,” Kyle, Ayre’s mechanic said. “We’ll be in the open in a few minutes and sitting bloody ducks.”

“Not to worry. If Mac doesn’t call Kuwait soon, I’m going to.” Ayre peered upward, thought he glimpsed the fighters above them, but it was just two seabirds. “Christ, for a moment…”

“Those bastards wouldn’t dare follow us this far, would they?” “I don’t know.” Since leaving the coast they had been playing hide-and-seek with the two jet fighters. Abeam Kharg, happily sneaking past in the rain and haze, not varying their height over the waves, he and McIver had been spotted: “This is Kharg radar control: choppers illegally outward bound on heading 275 degrees, climb to one thousand and hold - climb to one thousand and hold.”

For a moment they were in shock, then McIver waved Ayre to follow him, turned 90 degrees due north away from Kharg, and went even lower to the sea. In a few minutes his earphones were filled with the Farsi from the fighters to air force control and back again. “They’re being given our coordinates, Captain,” Wazari gasped. “Orders to arm their rockets… now they’re reporting they’re armed…

“This is Kharg! Choppers illegally on course 270, climb to one thousand and hold. If you do not obey you will be intercepted and shot down; I repeat you will be intercepted and shot down.”

McIver took his hand off the collective to rub his chest, the pain returning, then doggedly held the course as Wazari gave him snatches of what was being said, “… the leader’s saying follow me down… now the wingman says all rockets armed… how’re we going to find them in this shit…I’m slowing down… we don’t want to miss them… Ground controller says, ‘Confirm rockets armed, confirm kill…’ Jesus, they’re confirming rockets armed and on collision course with us.”

Then the two jet fighters had come hurtling at them from out of the murk ahead but to the right and fifty feet above them and then they were past and vanished. “Christ, did they see us?”

“Jesus, Captain, I don’t know but those bastards carry heat seekers.” McIver’s heart was racing as he motioned to Ayre and went into hover, just above the waves, to throw the hunters off. “Tell me what they’re saying, Wazari, for Christ’s sake!”

“Pilots’re cursing… reporting they’re at two thousand, two hundred knots… one’s saying there’re no holes in the soup and the ceiling’s around four hundred… difficult to see the surface … Controller’s saying go ahead to international line and get between it and the pirates…. Jesus, pirates? Get between them and Kuwait … see if the cloud cover’s any thinner… stay in ambush at two thousand…”

What to do? McIver was asking himself. We could bypass Kuwait and head direct Jellet. No good - with this wind we’d never make it. Can’t turn back. So it’s Kuwait and hope we can slither past them.

At the international line the clouds were just enough to hide them. But the fighters were lurking somewhere there in a holding pattern, waiting for a window, or for the clouds to thin, or for their prey to presume they were safe and climb up into regulation and approach height. For a quarter of an hour the military channel had been silent. They could hear Kuwait controllers now.

“I’m going to cut one engine to save gas,” McIver said.

“You want me to call Kuwait, Skipper?”

“No, I’ll do that. In a minute. You’d better go back into the cabin and prepare to hide. See if you can find some sea overalls, there’re some in the locker. Use a sea safety coverall. Dump your uniform over the side and have a Mae West handy.”

Wazari blanched. “We’re going into the sea?”

“No. Just camouflage, in case we’re inspected,” McIver lied, not expecting to make the coast. His voice was calm and his head was calm though his limbs were leaden.

“What’s the plan when we land, Skipper?”

“We’ll have to play that as it happens. Do you have any papers?” “Only my operator licenses, American and Iranian. Both say I’m Iran Air Force.”

“Stay undercover, I don’t know what’s going to happen… but we’ll hope.” “Skipper, we should climb out of this crap, no need to press our luck,” Wazari said. “We’re over the line, safe now.”

McIver looked aloft. The cloud and haze cover was thinning very fast, now hardly any cover for them at all. The red warning light seemed to fill his horizon. Better climb, eh? Wazari’s right, no need to press our luck, he thought. “We’re only safe when we’re on the ground,” he said out loud. “You know that.”

KUWAIT AIRPORT TOWER: 4:38 P.M. The big room was fully staffed. Some British controllers, some Kuwaiti. The best modem equipment. Telex and phones and efficiency. The door opened and Charlie Pettikin came in. “You wanted me, sir?” he said anxiously to the duty controller, a rotund, florid-faced Irishman wearing a headset with a thin-tubed boom mike and single tiny earpiece.

“Yes, yes indeed I did, Captain Pettikin,” the man said curtly, and at once Pettikin’s anxiety increased. “My name’s Sweeney, look!” He used his grease pencil as a pointer. On the outer periphery of his screen at the twenty-mile line was a small blip of light. “That’s a chopper, possibly two. He, or they have just appeared, haven’t reported in yet. ‘Tis yourself who’s expecting two inbounds, so I’m told, in transit from the UK, is that it now?”

“Yes,” Pettikin said, wanting to cheer that, at long last, one or both were in the system - they had to be from Kowiss on such a course - at the same time achingly aware they were a long way yet from being safe. “That’s correct,” he said with a prayer.

“Perhaps they’re not yours at all for, glory be, that’s the deevil of a curious course to use, approaching from the east, if he or they’re transiting from the UK.” Pettikin said nothing under Sweeney’s scrutiny. “Supposing he or they belong to yourself, now what would their call signs be?”

Pettikin’s discomfort increased. If he gave the new British ones and the choppers reported in on their Iran registrations - as they were legally bound to do - they were all in trouble. The actual call letters had to be seen from the tower when the choppers came in to land - no way that controllers would not see them. But if he gave Sweeney the Iranian registrations… that would blow Whirlwind. The bastard’s trying to trap you, he thought, a great emptiness inside him. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I don’t know. Our paperwork’s not the best. Sorry.”

The phone on the desk purred softly. Sweeney picked it up. “Ah yes, yes, Commander?… Yes… no, not at the moment… we think it’s two… yes, yes, I agree… no, it’s fine now. It goes out from time to time… yes, very well.” He hung up, once more concentrating on the screen. Uneasily Pettikin looked at the screen again. The all-important blip did not seem to be moving.

Then Sweeney switched to maximum range and the screen picture reached out far into the Gulf, westward the few miles to the Kuwaiti border with Iraq, northwest to the Iraq-Iran border, both so very close. “Our long range’s been out for a while or we’d’ve seen them sooner, now she’s fine, glory be to God. Lots of fighter bases there,” he said absently, his grease pencil indicating the Iran side of the Shatt-al-Arab border waterway toward Abadan. Then the pencil moved out into the Gulf on a line from Kowiss to Kuwait and poised over a blip. “These’re your choppers, if there are two - and if they belong to yourself.” The point moved north a little to two other rapidly moving dots. “Fighters. Not ours. But in our area.” He looked up and Pettikin was chilled. “Unbidden and not cleared, so hostiles.” “What’re they doing?” he asked, sure now he was being toyed with. “That’s what we’d all like to know, indeed we would.” Sweeney’s voice was not friendly. With his grease pencil he indicated two other blips, outward bound from the Kuwaiti military strip. “They’re ours, going to have a look.” He handed Pettikin a spare earpiece, clicked on his sender. “This is Kuwait: inbound chopper or choppers heading 274 degrees, what is your call sign and altitude?”

Static. The call repeated patiently. Then Pettikin recognized McIver’s voice. “Kuwait this is chopper… this is chopper Boston Tango with chopper Hotel Echo in transit for Al Shargaz, going through six hundred for seven hundred.” McIver had given only the last two letters of the Iranian registration, instead of all the letters required on the initial call, including the prefix EP for Iran.

Astonishingly Sweeney accepted the call: “Choppers Boston Tango and Hotel Echo report at outer marker,” he said, and Pettikin saw that he was distracted, concentrating on the two hostile blips that were now closing on the choppers fast, tracking them with his pencil on the glass. “They’re flat out,” he muttered. “Ten miles eastern.”

McIver’s voice in their earphones: “Kuwait, please confirm outer marker. Request straight in, we’re low on fuel.”

“Straight in approved, report outer marker.”

Pettikin heard the inflexibility and suppressed a groan. Sweeney began humming. The senior controller, a Kuwaiti, quietly got up from his desk and came over to stand behind them.

They watched the circling trace leaving a picture of the land and the blips of light in its wake, seeing them not as blips but as two hostile fighters and two far slower Kuwaiti interceptors still far away, two choppers helpless between them. Closer. The hostiles were almost merged with the choppers now, then they moved off and away, heading eastward back across the Gulf. For a moment all three men held their breath. Rockets took time to reach their targets. Seconds passed. Chopper blips remained. Kuwaiti interceptor blips remained, closing on the choppers, then they too turned back for home. Momentarily Sweeney switched into their channel and listened to the Arabic. He glanced up at the senior controller and spoke to him in Arabic. The man said, “Insha’Allah,” nodded briefly at Pettikin, and went out of the room.

“Our interceptors reported seeing nothing,” Sweeney said to Pettikin, his voice flat. “Except two choppers. 212s. They saw nothing.” He went back into the regular band, airplanes reporting in and being channeled for takeoff and landing, then he switched the radar to closer range. Now the choppers were separated into two blips, still well out to sea. Their approach seemed interminably slow against the tracks of incoming and outgoing jets.

McIver’s voice cut through the other voices, “Pan-pan-pan! Kuwait, this is chopper BT and HE, pan pan pan, both our warning lights are on, gauges empty, pan pan pan.” The emergency call, one step below Mayday. Sweeney said, “Permission to land on Messali Beach helipad directly ahead, near the hotel - we’ll alert them and send you fuel. Do you copy?” “Roger, Kuwait, thank you. I know the hotel. Please inform Captain Pettikin.”

“Wilco, at once.” Sweeney phoned and put their air-sea rescue helicopter on standby, ready for instant takeoff, sent a fire truck to the hotel then held out his hand for Pettikin’s earpiece, glanced at the door, and beckoned him closer. “Now listen to me,” he hissed, keeping his voice down. “‘Tis yourself who’ll meet them and refuel them, clear them through Customs and Immigration - if you can - and get them the deevil out of Kuwait within minutes or yourself and they and your high and mighty ‘important’ friends will all be in jail and good riddance! Holy Mother of God, how dare you jeopardize Kuwait with your madcap adventures against those trigger-happy Iran fanatics and make honest men risk their jobs for the likes of you. If one of your choppers was shot down … it was only the luck of the deevil himself stopped an international incident.” He reached into his pocket and shoved a piece of paper into Pettikin’s hand who was stunned by the venom and suddenness. “Read it, then flush it.”

Sweeney turned his back and got on the phone again. Weakly, Pettikin went out. When it was safe he glanced at the paper. It was a telex. The telex. From Tehran. Not a photocopy. The original.

Christ Almighty! Did Sweeney intercept it and cover for us? But didn’t he say, “clear them through Customs and Immigration - if you can”?

MESSALI BEACH HOTEL: The small fuel truck with Genny and Pettikin aboard swung off the coast road and into the vast hotel gardens, sprinklers going. The helipad was well west of the huge parking lot area. A fire truck already there and waiting. Genny and Pettikin jumped out, Pettikin with a shortwave walkie-talkie, both of them searching the haze out to sea. “Mac, do you read?”

They could hear the engines but not see them yet, then: “Two by five, Charlie…” much static… “but I… Freddy, you take the helipad, I’ll go alongside.” More static.

“There they are!” Genny cried. The 212s came out of the haze about six hundred feet. Oh, God, help them in…

“We have you in sight, Mac, fire trucks standing by, no problem.” But Pettikin knew they were in deep trouble, no possibility of changing the lettering with so many people watching. One engine missed and coughed but they did not know which chopper. Another cough.

Ayre’s voice, too dry, said, “Stand by below, I’m coming into the helipad.” They saw the left 212 detach slightly and start losing altitude, reaching for distance, engine spluttering. The fire fighters readied. McIver doggedly held course, maintaining altitude to give himself the best chance if his own engines cut.

“Shit,” Pettikin muttered involuntarily, seeing Ayre coming in fast, too fast, but then he flared maximum and set her down in dead center, safe, McIver into emergency approach now - for Christ’s sake, why’s he flying alone and where the hell’s Tom Lochart - committed now, no room to maneuver, no one breathing, and then the skids touched and at that moment the engines died.

Fire fighters, in radio contact with the airfield, reported, “Emergency over,” began packing their gear, and now Pettikin was pummeling McIver’s hand and he rushed over to Ayre to do the same. Genny stood beside McIver’s open cockpit door, beaming at him.

“Hello, Duncan,” Genny said, holding her hair out of her eyes. “Good trip?” “Worst I’ve ever had, Gen,” he said trying to smile, not quite with it yet. “In fact I never want to fly again, not fly myself, so help me! I’m still going to check Scrag - but only once a year!”

She laughed and gave him an awkward hug and would have released him but he held on to her, loving her - so relieved to see her and to be on ground again, his passenger safe, his bird safe, that he felt like crying. “You all right, luvey?”

That made her tears flow. He had not called her that for months, perhaps years. She hugged him even tighter. “Now look what you’ve made me do.” She found her handkerchief, let him go, then gave him a little kiss. “You deserve a whisky and soda. Two large ones!” For the first time she noticed his pallor. “You all right, luv?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. I’m a bit shook.” McIver looked over her to Pettikin who was laughing and talking excitedly with Ayre, the truck driver already pumping fuel into the tanks. Beyond them an official-looking car was pulling in from the road. “What about the others, what’s happened?”

“Everyone’s safe - except Marc Dubois and Fowler Joines. They’re still missing.” She told him what she knew about Starke and Gavallan and Scragger, Rudi and his men. “One fantastic piece of news is that Newbury, he’s a consulate man in Al Shargaz, got a message from Tabriz that Erikki and Azadeh are safe at her father’s place but her father’s dead, it seems, and now her brother’s Khan.” “My God, that’s wonderful! Then we’ve done it, Gen!” “Yes, yes, we have - damn this wind.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “And Andy and Charlie and the others think Dubois has a good ch - ” She stopped, her happiness evaporating, suddenly realizing what was wrong. She whirled and looked at the other 212. “Tom? Where’s Tom Lochart?”

SOUTH OF TEHRAN: 5:10 P.M. The deserted oil well was in desolate hills about a hundred miles from Tehran. Lochart knew it from the old days, his 206 was parked beside the fuel pump and he had refueled manually, almost finished now.

It was a way station for helicopters serving this area, part of the great northern pipeline that, in normal times, housed an Iranian maintenance crew. In a rough hut were a few spare bunks for overnighting if you were caught in one of the sudden storms endemic here. The original British owners of the site had called it “D’Arcy 1908” to commemorate the Englishman by that name who had first discovered oil in Iran in that year. Now it belonged to IranOil but they had kept the name, and kept the fuel tanks topped up. Thank God for that, Lochart thought again, the pumping tiring him. At the rendezvous on the coast, he had lashed two empty forty-gallon drums on the backseat against the possibility that D’Arcy 1908 would be open, and rigged a temporary pump. There was still enough fuel left at the shore to top up on the way out of Iran, and Sharazad could work the pump in flight. “Now we’ve a chance,” he said out loud, knowing where to land, how to park safely, and how to sneak into Tehran.

He was confident again, making plans and counterplans, what to say to Meshang, what to avoid, what to tell Sharazad and how they would escape. There’s got to be a way for her to get her rightful inheritance, enough to give her the security she needs…

Gasoline overflowed from the brimful tanks and he swore at his carelessness, capped them carefully, wiped the excess away. Now he was finished, the drums in the backseat already filled and the pump in place.

In one of the huts he had found some cans of corned beef and wolfed one of them - impossible to eat and fly, unless with his left hand, and he had been too long in Iran to do that - then picked up the bottle of beer he had set in the snow to chill, and sipped it sparingly. There was water in a barrel. He broke the ice and splashed water on his face to refresh himself but did not dare to drink it. He dried his face. The stubble of his beard rasped and again he swore, wanting to look his best for her. Then he remembered his flight bag and the razors there. One was battery-operated. He found it. “You can shave at Tehran,” he said to his reflection in the cockpit window, anxious to go on.

A last look around. Snow and rocks and not much else. In the far distance was the Qom-Tehran road. Sky overcast but the ceiling high. Some birds circled far overhead. Scavengers. Vultures of some sort, he thought, buckling his seat belt.

TEHRAN - AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 5:15 P.M. The door in the outer wall opened and two heavily chadored and veiled women came out, Sharazad and Jari unrecognizable. Jari closed the door, hastily waddled after Sharazad, who walked away quickly through the crowds. “Princess, wait… there’s no hurry…”

But Sharazad did not decrease her pace until she had turned the comer. Then she stopped and waited impatiently. “Jari, I’m leaving you now,” she said giving her no time to interrupt; “don’t go home but meet me at the coffee shop, you know the one, at six-thirty, wait for me if I’m late.” “But, Princess…” Jari could hardly talk, “but His Excellency Meshang… you told him we’re going to the doctor’s and there’s n - ” “At the coffee shop about six-thirty, six-thirty to seven, Jari!” Sharazad hurried off down the street, cut dangerously into the traffic and across the road to avoid her maid who started to come after her, went into an alley, down another, and soon she was free. “I’m not going to marry that awful man, I’m not I’m not I’m not!” she muttered out loud.

The derision had already begun this afternoon, though it was only at lunch that Meshang had announced the great evil. Her best girlfriend had arrived an hour ago to ask if the rumors were true that Sharazad was going to marry into the Farazan family: “It’s all over the bazaar, dearest Sharazad, I came at once to congratulate you.” “My brother has many plans, now that I am to be divorced,” she had said carelessly. “I have many suitors.”

“Of course, of course, but the rumor is that the Farazan dowry has already been agreed.”

“Oh? First I’ve heard of it, what liars people are!” “I agree, awful. Other vile rumormongers claim that the marriage is to take place next week and your… and the prospective husband is chortling that he outsmarted Meshang on the dowry.” “Someone outsmart Meshang? It has to be a lie!” “I knew the rumors were false! I knew it! How could you marry old Diarrhea Daranoush, Shah of the Night Soil? How could you?” Her friend had laughed uproariously. “Poor darling, which way would you turn?”

“What does it matter?” Meshang had screeched at her. “They’re only jealous! The marriage will take place, and tonight we will entertain him at dinner.” Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t, she thought seething. Perhaps the entertainment will not be what they expect.

Again she checked her directions, knees weak. She was going to his friend’s apartment, not far away now. There she would find the secret key in the niche downstairs and go in and look under the carpet in the bedroom and take up the board as she had seen him do. Then she would take out the pistol and the grenade - God be thanked for the chador to cover them and keep me hidden - then carefully replace the board and the carpet and come home again. Her excitement was almost choking her now. Ibrahim will be so proud of me, going into battle for God, to be martyred for God. Didn’t he go south to be martyred doing battle with evil in just the same way? Of course God will forgive his leftist silliness. How clever of him to show me how to take off the safety catch and to arm the gun and to hold the grenade, to pull the pin, then throw it at the enemies of Islam, shouting “God is Great, God is Great…“then charging them, shooting them, being lifted into Paradise, this evening if I can, tomorrow at the latest, the whole city rife with rumors that leftists at the university have begun their expected insurrection. We will stamp them out, my son and I, we will, Soldiers of God and the Prophet on whose name be praised, we will!

“God is Great. God is Great…” Just pull the pin and count to four and throw it, I remember everything he said exactly.

* KUWAIT - AT THE MESSALI BEACH HOTEL HELIPAD: 5:35 P.M. McIver and Pettikin watched the two Immigration and Customs men, the first peering impassively at the airplane papers, the other poking about in the cabin of the 212. So far their inspections had been perfunctory though time-consuming. They had collected all passports and airplane papers, but had just glanced at them and asked McIver his opinion of the current situation in Iran. They had not yet asked directly where the helicopters had come from. Any moment now, McIver and Pettikin thought, waiting queasily.

McIver had considered leaving Wazari in hiding, but had decided against the risk. “Sorry, Sergeant, you’ll have to take your chances.” “Who’s he?” the Immigration man had asked at once, Wazari’s complexion giving him away, and his fear.

“A radio-radar operator,” McIver said noncommittally.

The official had turned away and left Wazari standing there, sweating in the heavy, seaproofed plastic coverall, Mae West half done up. “So, Captain, you think there’ll be a coup in Tehran, a military coup?” “I don’t know,” McIver had told him. “Rumors abound like locusts. The English papers say it’s possible, very possible, and also that Iran’s caught up in a kind of madness - like the Terror of the French or Russian revolutions, the aftermath. May I get our mechanics to check everything while we wait?”

“Of course.” The man waited while McIver gave the orders, then he said, “Let’s hope the madness doesn’t spread across the Gulf, eh? No one wants any trouble this side of the Islamic Gulf.” He used the word with great deliberation, all the Gulf states loathing the term Persian Gulf. “It is the Islamic Gulf, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

“All maps will have to be changed. The Gulf is the Gulf, Islam is Islam and not just for the Shi’a sect.”

McIver said nothing, his caution increasing, adding to his disquiet. There were many Shi’as in Kuwait and most of the Gulf states. Many. Usually they were the poor. Rulers, the sheiks, were usually Sunni.

“Captain!” the Customs officer in the doorway of the 212 cabin parked on the helipad was beckoning to him. Ayre and Wazari had been told to wait away from the helicopters in the shade until inspections were finished. Mechanics were busy ground-checking. “Are you carrying arms of any kind?” “No, sir - apart from the regulation Very light pistol.” “Contraband of any kind?”

“No, sir. Just spares.” All the usual questions, interminably, that would be repeated as soon as they were released to the airport. At length the man thanked him and motioned him away. The Immigration officer had gone back to his car with their passports. The radio transmitter had been left on and McIver could hear Ground Control clearly. He saw the man scratch his beard thoughtfully, then pick up the mike and talk into it in Arabic. This increased his concern. Genny was sitting in the shade nearby and he went over to her. “Stiff upper lip,” she whispered. “How’s it going?” “Wish to God they’d let us get on with it,” McIver said irritably. “We’ll have to endure another hour at the airport and damned if I know what to do.” “Has Charlie sa - ”

“Captain!” The Immigration officer was beckoning him and Pettikin over to the car. “So you’re in transit, is that it?”

“Yes. To Al Shargaz. With your permission, we’ll leave at once,” McIver said. “We’ll go to the airport, file our flight plan, and take off as quickly as we can. Is that all right?” “Where did you say you are in transit to?” “Al Shargaz, via Bahrain for fuel.” McIver was getting sicker by the minute. Any airport official would know they would have to refuel before Bahrain even without this wind, and all airports between here and there were Saudi, so he would have to file a flight plan for a Saudi landing. Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Al Shargaz had all received the same telex. Kuwait too, and even if it had been intercepted here privately by a well-wisher, for whatever reason, the same would not be true of Saudi airports. Rightly, McIver thought, and saw the man look at the Iran registration letters under the cockpit windows. They had arrived under Iran registration, he would have to file the flight plan and leave under the same letters.

To their astonishment, the man reached into the pocket of his car and brought out a pad of forms. “I am inst - I will accept your flight plan here and clear you to Bahrain direct and you can leave at once. You can pay me the regulation landing fees and I’ll stamp your passports too. There’ll be no need to go to the airport.” “What?”

“I will accept your flight plan now and you can leave direct from here. Please make it out.” He handed the pad to McIver. It was the correct form. “As soon as you’ve done it, sign it and bring it back.”

Some flies circling in the car were bothering him and he waved them away. Then he picked up the radio mike, pointedly waited until McIver and Pettikin walked off, and talked quietly into it.

Hardly able to believe what had happened, they went to lean against their truck. “Jesus, Mac, do you think they know and are just letting us go?” “I don’t know what to think. Don’t waste time, Charlie.” McIver shoved the pad into his hands and said more irritably than he meant to, “Just make out the flight plan before he changes his mind: Al Shargaz - if we happen to have an emergency on Jellet, that’s our problem. For God’s sake do it and let’s get airborne as quick as we can.”

“Sure. Right away.”

Genny said, “You’re not flying, are you, Duncan?” “No, Charlie’s going to do that.”

Pettikin thought a moment, then took out a key and his money. “This’s my room key, Genny. Would you get my stuff for me, nothing there of any importance, pay the bill, and catch the next plane. Hughes - he’s the Imperial Air rep - he’ll get you a priority.” “What about your passport and license?” she asked. “Always carry them, frightened to death of losing them, and a $100 note - never know when you’ll need some baksheesh.” “Consider it done.” She pushed her dark glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, smiled at her husband. “What’ll you do, Duncan?”

Without noticing it, McIver exhaled heavily. “I’ll have to go on, Gen. Daren’t stay here - doubt if they’d let me. They’re desperate not to rock any boat and want to see the last of us. It’s obvious, isn’t it - who ever heard of being cleared from a beach? We’re a bloody embarrassment and a threat to the state, of course we are. That’s the truth! Do what Charlie says, Gen. We’ll refuel at Jellet - change the registrations there and hope for the best - do you have the stencils, Charlie?”

“Brushes, paint, everything.” Pettikin did not stop filling in the forms. “What about Wazari?”

“He’s crew until someone asks a question. Put him down as radio operator. That’s no lie. If they don’t challenge him at Bahrain, they certain will at Al Shargaz. Perhaps Andy can work something out for him.” “All right. He’s crew. That’s it, then.”

“Good. Gen, Jellet’s easy from here, Bahrain too, and Al Shargaz. Weather’s good, moon’ll be out, so a night jaunt’ll be fine. Do what Charlie says. You’ll be there in good time to meet us.”

“If you leave at once, you’ll need food and some bottled water,” she said. “We can get some here. I’ll get them, Charlie. Come along, Duncan, you need a drink.”

“Pour it for me at Al Shargaz, Gen.”

“I will. But I’ll pour you one now. You’re not flying, you need it, and so do I.” She went over to the Immigration officer and got permission to buy sandwiches and make a phone call.

“Back in a second, Charlie.” McIver followed her into the hotel lobby and went straight for the toilet. There he was very sick. It took him some tune to recover. When he came out she was getting off the phone. “Sandwiches any second, your drink’s poured, and I’ve booked you a call to Andy.” She led the way out to a table on the sumptuous bar terrace. Three ice-cold Perriers with sliced lemon, and a double tot of whisky straight, no ice, just the way he liked it. He downed the first Perrier without stopping. “My God, I needed that…” He eyed the whisky but did not touch it. Thoughtfully he sipped the second glass of Perrier, and watched her. When it was half gone he said, “Gen, I think I’d like you to come along.” She was startled. Then she said, “Thank you, Duncan. I’d like that. Yes, yes, I would.”

The lines in his face crinkled. “You’d’ve come anyway. Wouldn’t you?” She gave a little shrug. Her eyes dropped to the whisky. “You’re not flying, Duncan. The whisky would be good for you. It would settle the turn.” “You noticed, eh?”

“Only that you’re very tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen you, but you’ve done wonderfully, you’ve done a smashing job, and you should rest. You’ve… you’ve been taking your pills and all that rubbish?”

“Oh, yes, though I’ll need a refill soon. No problem, but I felt pretty bloody a couple of times.” At her sudden anxiety, “I’m fine now, Gen. Fine.” She knew better than to probe. Now that she was invited she could relax a little. Since he had landed she had been watching him very carefully, her concern growing. With the sandwiches she had ordered some aspirins, she had codeine-laced Veganin in her bag and the secret survival kit Dr. Nutt had given her. “What was it like flying again? Really?”

“From Tehran down to Kowiss was grand, the rest not so good. This last leg wasn’t good at all.” The thought of being hunted by the fighters and so near to disaster so many times made him feel bilious again. Don’t think about that, he ordered himself, that’s over. Whirlwind’s almost over, Erikki and Azadeh’re safe, but what about Dubois and Fowler, what the hell’s happened to them? And Tom? I could bloody strangle Tom, poor bugger. “You all right, Duncan?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just tired - it’s been quite a couple of weeks.” “What about Tom? What’ll you tell Andy?”

“I was just thinking about him. I’ll have to tell Andy.”

“That’s one hell of a spanner in Whirlwind, isn’t it?”

“He’s… he’s on his own, Gen. Maybe he can get Sharazad and sneak out again. If he’s caught… we’ll have to wait and see and hope,” he said. But he was thinking when he’s caught. McIver reached over and touched her, glad to be with her, not wanting to worry her more than she was now. Tough on her, all this. I think I’m going to die.

“Please excuse me, sahib, memsahib, your order’s been taken out to the helicopter,” the waiter said.

McIver handed him a credit card and the waiter left. “Which reminds me, what about your hotel bill, and Charlie’s? We’ll have to take care of them before we leave.”

“Oh, I phoned Mr. Hughes while you were in the loo,” she said, “and asked him if he’d take care of our bills and ship our bags and everything if I didn’t call back in an hour. I’ve my handbag, passport, and… what’re you smiling about?”

“Nothing… nothing, Gen.”

“It was just in case you asked me. I thought…” She watched the bubbles in her glass. Again the tiny shrug and she looked up and smiled so happily. “I’m ever so glad you asked me, Duncan. Thank you.”

AL SHARGAZ - ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY: 6:01 P.M. Gavallan got out of his car and walked briskly up the steps toward the front door of the Moroccan-style villa that was enclosed by high walls.

“Mr. Gavallan!”

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Newbury!” He changed direction to join the woman who was half hidden, kneeling down, planting some seedlings near the driveway. “Your garden looks wonderful.”

“Thank you. It’s such fun and keeps me fit,” she said. Angela Newbury was tall and in her thirties, her accent patrician.

“Roger’s in the gazebo and expecting you.” With the back of her gloved hand she wiped the perspiration off her forehead and left a smudge in its wake. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” he told her, omitting the news about Lochart. “Nine out of ten so far.”

“Oh, super, oh, that is a relief. Congratulations, we’ve all been so concerned. Wonderful, but for God’s sake don’t tell Roger I asked, he’d have a fit. Nobody’s supposed to know!”

He returned her smile and walked around the side of the house through the lovely gardens. The gazebo was in a clump of trees and flowerbeds, with chairs, side tables, portable bar and phone. His joy faded, seeing the look on Roger Newbury’s face. “What’s up?”

“You’re what’s up. Whirlwind’s what’s up. I made it perfectly clear that it was ill advised. How’s it going?”

“I’ve just heard our Kowiss two are safe in Kuwait and cleared on to Bahrain with no trouble, so that makes nine out of ten, if we include Erikki’s one in Tabriz, Dubois and Fowler’re still not accounted for but we’re hoping. Now what’s the problem, Roger?”

“There’s hell to pay all over the Gulf with Tehran screaming bloody murder and all our offices on alert. My Fearless Leader and yours truly, Roger Newbury Esquire, are cordially invited at seven-thirty to explain to the Illustrious Foreign Minister why there’s a sudden influx of helicopters here, albeit British registered, and how long they intend to stay.” Newbury, a short lean man with sandy hair and blue eyes and prominent nose, was clearly very irritated. “Glad about the nine out of ten, would you like a drink?”

“Thanks. A light Scotch and soda.”

Newbury went to fix it. “My Fearless Leader and I would be delighted to know what you suggest we say.”

Gavallan thought a moment. “The choppers are out the moment we can get them aboard the freighters.”

“When’s that?” Newbury gave him the drink.

“Thanks. The freighters’re promised by 6:00 P.M. Sunday. We’ll work all night and have them off Monday morning.”

Newbury was shocked. “Can’t you get them out before that?” “The freighters were ordered for tomorrow but I was let down. Why?” “Because, old boy, a few minutes ago we had a friendly, very serious high-level leak that so long as the choppers weren’t here by sunset tomorrow they might not be impounded.”

Now Gavallan was also shocked. “That’s not possible - can’t be done.” “I’m suggesting that you’d be wise to make it possible. Fly (hem out to Oman or Dubai or wherever.”

“If we do that… if we do that we’ll be deeper in the mire.” “I don’t think you can get any deeper, old boy. The way the leak put it was after sunset tomorrow you’ll be in over your eyeballs.” Newbury toyed with his drink, a lemon pressé. Blast all this, he was thinking. While we’re obliged to help our important trading interests salvage what they can from the Iran catastrophe we’ve got to remember the long term as well as the short. We can’t put Her Majesty’s Government at risk. Apart from that, my weekend’s mined, I should be having a nice tall vodka gimlet with Angela and here I am, sipping slop. “You’ll have to move them.”

“Can you get us a forty-eight-hour reprieve, explain that the freighters are chartered but it’s got to be Sunday?”

“Wouldn’t dare suggest it, Andy. That would admit culpability.” “Could you get us a forty-eight-hour transit permit to Oman?” Newbury grimaced. “I’ll ask Himself but we couldn’t feel them out until tomorrow, too late now, and my immediate reaction’s that the request would correctly be turned down. Iran has a considerable goodwill presence there; after all they really did help put down Yemen-backed Communist insurgents. I doubt that they’d agree to offend a very good friend however much the present fundamentalist line might displease them.”

Gavallan felt sick. “I’d better see if I can bring my freighters forward or get alternates - I’d say I’ve one chance in fifty.” He finished his drink and got up. “Sorry about all this.”

Newbury got up too. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said, genuinely sorry. “Keep me posted and I’ll do the same.”

“Of course. You said you might be able to get a message to Captain Yokkonen in Tabriz?”

“I’ll certainly try. What is it?”

“Just from me that he should, er, should leave as soon as possible, by the shortest route. Please sign it GHPLX Gavallan.”

Without comment Newbury wrote it down. “GHPLX?”

“Yes.” Gavallan felt sure that Erikki would understand this would be his new British registry number. “He’s not aware of, er, of certain developments so if your man could also privately explain the reason for haste I’d be very, very grateful. Thanks for all your help.”

“For your sake, and his, I agree the sooner he leaves the better, with or without his aircraft. There’s nothing we can do to help him. Sorry, but that’s the truth.” Newbury fiddled with his glass. “Now he represents a very great danger to you. Doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think so. He’s under the protection of the new Khan, his brother-in-law. He’s as safe as he could ever be,” Gavallan said. What would Newbury say if he knew about Tom Lochart? “Erikki’ll be okay. He’ll understand. Thanks again.”

Chapter 66

TABRIZ - AT THE INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL: 6:24 P.M. Hakim Khan walked painfully into the private room, the doctor and a guard following him. He was using crutches now and they made his walking easier, but when he bent or tried to sit, they did not relieve the pain. Only painkillers did that. Azadeh was waiting downstairs, her X ray better than his, her pain less than his.

Ahmed lay in bed, awake, his chest and stomach bandaged. The operation to remove the bullet lodged in his chest had been successful. The one in his stomach had done much damage, he had lost a great deal of blood, and internal bleeding had started again. But the moment he saw Hakim Khan he tried to raise himself.

“Don’t move, Ahmed,” Hakim Khan said, his voice kind. “The doctor says you’re mending well.”

“The doctor’s a liar, Highness.”

The doctor began to speak but stopped as Hakim said, “Liar or not, get well, Ahmed.”

“Yes, Highness. With the Help of God. But you, you are all right?” “If the X ray doesn’t lie, I’ve just torn ligaments.” He shrugged. “With the Help of God.”

“Thank you… thank you for the private room, Highness. Never have I had … such luxury.”

“It’s merely a token of my esteem for such loyalty.” Imperiously he dismissed the doctor and the guard. When the door was shut, he went closer. “You asked to see me, Ahmed?”

“Yes, Highness, please excuse me that I could not…could not come to you.” Ahmed’s voice was phlegmy, and he spoke with difficulty. “The Tbilisi man you want… the Soviet… he sent a message for you. It’s … it’s under the drawer… he taped it under the drawer there.” With an effort he pointed to the small bureau.

Hakim’s excitement picked up. Awkwardly he felt underneath the drawer. The adhesive bandages strapping him made bending difficult. He found the small square of folded paper and it came away easily. “Who brought it and when?” “It was today… sometime today…I’m not sure, I think it was this afternoon. I don’t know. The man wore a doctor’s coat and glasses but he wasn’t a doctor. An Azerbaijani, perhaps a Turk, I’ve never seen him before. He spoke Turkish - all he said was, ‘This is for Hakim Khan, from a friend in Tbilisi. Understand?’ I fold him yes and he left as quickly as he arrived. For a long time I thought he was a dream….”

The message was scrawled in writing Hakim did not recognize: “Many, many congratulations on your inheritance, may you live as long and be as productive as your predecessor. Yes, I would like to meet urgently too. But here, not there. Sorry. Whenever you’re ready I would be honored to receive you, with pomp or in privacy, whatever you want. We should be friends, there’s much to accomplish and we have many interests in common. Please tell Robert Armstrong and Hashemi Fazir that Yazernov is buried in the Russian Cemetery at Jaleh and he looks forward to seeing them when convenient.” There was no signature.

Greatly disappointed, he went back to the bed and offered the paper to Ahmed. “What do you make of that?”

Ahmed did not have the strength to take it. “Sorry, Highness, please hold it so I can read it.” After reading it, he said, “It’s not Mzytryk’s writing, I’d… I’d recognize his writing but it… I believe it genuine. He would have transmitted it to… to underlings to bring here.”

“Who’s Yazernov and what does that mean?” “I don’t know. It’s a code… it’s a code they’d understand.” “It is an invitation to a meeting, or a threat. Which?” “I don’t know, Highness. I would guess a meet - ” A spasm of pain went through him. He cursed in his own language.

“Is Mzytryk aware that both the last times they were in ambush? Aware that Abdollah Khan had betrayed him?”

“I… I don’t know, Highness. I told you he was cunning and the Khan your father very… very careful in his dealings.” The effort of talking and concentrating was taking much of Ahmed’s strength. “That Mzytryk knows they are in contact with you… that both of them are here now, means nothing, his spies abound. You’re Khan and of course… of course you know you’re… you’re spied on by all kinds of men, most of them evil, who report to their superiors - most of them even more evil.” A smile went over his face and Hakim pondered its meaning. “But then, you know all about hiding your true purpose, Highness. Not once… not once did Abdollah Khan suspect how brilliant you are, not once. If… if he’d known one hundredth part of who you really are… really are, he would have never banished you but made you… made you heir and chief counselor.”

“He would have had me strangled.” Not for a millionth of a second was Hakim Khan tempted to tell Ahmed that he had sent the assassins whom Erikki had killed, or about the poison attempt that had also failed. “A week ago he would have ordered me mutilated, and you would have done it happily.” Ahmed looked up at him, eyes deep-set and filled with death. “How do you know so much?”

“The Will of God.”

The ebb had begun. Both men knew it. Hakim said, “Colonel Fazir showed me a telex about Erikki.” He told Ahmed the contents. “Now I have no Mzytryk to barter with, not immediately. I can give Erikki to Fazir or help him escape. Either way my sister is committed to stay here and cannot go with him. What is your advice?”

“For you it is safer to give the Infidel to the colonel as a pishkesh and pretend to her there’s nothing you can do to prevent the… the arrest. In truth there isn’t if the colonel wants it that way. He of the Knife… he will resist and so he will be killed. Then you can promise her secretly to the Tbilisi… But never give her to him, then you will control… then you may control him…but I doubt it.”

“And if He of the Knife ‘happens’ to escape?”

“If the colonel allowed it… he will require payment.”

“Which is?”

“Mzytryk. Now or sometime… sometime in the future. While He of the Knife lives, Highness, she will never divorce him - forget the saboteur, he was another lifetime - and when the two years are… are over she will go to him, that is if… if he allows her to… to stay here. I doubt if even Your Highness…” Ahmed’s eyes closed and a tremor went through him. “What happened with Bayazid and the bandits? Ahmed…”

Ahmed did not hear him. He was seeing the steppes now, the vast plains of his homeland and ancestors, the seas of grass from whence his forebears came forth to ride near the cloak of Genghis Khan, and then that of the grandson Kubla Khan and his brother Hulagu Khan who came down into Persia to erect mountains of skulls of those who opposed him. Here in the golden lands since ancient times, Ahmed thought, lands of wine and warmth and wealth and women of great doe-eyed beauty and sensuality, prized since ancient times like Azadeh… ah, now I will never take her like she should be taken, dragged off by the hair as spoils of war, shoved across a saddle to be bedded and tamed on the skins of wolves …

From a long way off he heard himself say, “Please, Highness, I would beg a favor, I would like to be buried in my own land and in our own fashion…” Then I can live forever with the spirits of my fathers, he thought, the lovely space beckoning him.

“Ahmed, what happened with Bayazid and the bandits when you landed?” With an effort Ahmed came back. “They weren’t Kurds, just tribesmen pretending to be Kurds and He of the Knife killed them all, Highness, with very great brutality,” he said with strange formality. “In his madness he killed them all - with knife and gun and hands and feet and teeth, all except Bayazid who, because of his oath to you, would not come against him.” “He left him alive?” Hakim was incredulous.

“Yes, God give him peace. He… put a gun in my hand and held the Bayazid near the gun and I…” The voice trailed away, waves of grass beckoning as far as eyes could see…”

“You killed him?”

“Oh, yes, looking… looking into his eyes.” Anger came into Ahmed’s voice. “The son of a… a dog shot me in the back, twice, without honor, the son of a dog, so he died without honor and without… without manhood, the son of a dog.” The bloodless lips smiled and he closed his eyes. He was dying fast now, his words imperceptible. “I took vengeance.”

Hakim said quickly, “Ahmed, what haven’t you told me that I need to know?” “Nothing …” In a little while his eyes opened and Hakim saw into the pit. “There is no… no other God but God and…” A little blood seeped out of the side of his mouth. “.. .I made you Kh …” The last of the word died with him.

Hakim was uncomfortable under the frozen stare.

“Doctor!” he called out.

At once the man came in, and the guard. The doctor closed his eyes. “As God wills. What should we do with the body, Highness?”

“What do you usually do with bodies?” Hakim moved his crutches and walked away, the guard followed. So, Ahmed, he was thinking, so now you’re dead and I’m alone, cut from the past and obliged to no one. Made me Khan? Is that what you were going to say? Did you know there were spy holes in that room too?

A smile touched him. Then hardened. Now for Colonel Fazir, and Erikki, “He of the Knife” as you called him.

AT THE PALACE: 6:48 P.M. In the failing light Erikki was carefully repairing one of the bullet holes in the plastic windshield of the 212 with clear tape. It was difficult with his arm in a sling but his hand was strong and the forearm wound shallow - no sign of infection. His ear was heavily taped, part of his hair shaved away for cleanliness, and he was mending fast. His appetite was good. The hours of talk that he had had with Azadeh had given him a measure of peace.

That’s all it is, he thought, it’s only a measure, not enough to forgive the killings or the danger that I am. So be it. That’s what gods made me and that’s what I am. Yes, but what about Ross and what about Azadeh? And why does she keep the kookri so close by her: “It was his gift to you, Erikki, to you and to me.”

“It’s unlucky to give a man a knife without taking money, at once, just a token, in return. When I see him I will give him money and accept his gift.” Once again he pressed Engine Start. Once again the engine caught, choked, and died. What about Ross and Azadeh?

He sat back on the edge of the cockpit and looked at the sky. The sky did not answer him. Nor the sunset. The overcast had broken up in the west, the sun was down and the clouds menacing. Calls of the muezzins began. Guards on the gate faced Mecca and prostrated themselves; so did those inside the palace and those working in the fields and carpet factory and sheep pens. Unconsciously his hand went to his knife. Without wishing to, his eyes checked that the Sten gun was still beside his pilot’s seat and armed with a full clip. Hidden in the cabin were other weapons, weapons from the tribesmen. AK47s and M16s. He could not remember taking them or hiding them, had discovered them this morning when he made his inspection for damage and was cleaning the interior.

With the tape over his ear he did not hear the approaching car as soon as he would have normally, and was startled when it appeared at the gate. The Khan’s guards there recognized the occupants and waved the car through to stop in the huge forecourt

near the fountain. Again he pressed Engine Start, again the engine caught for a moment, then shuddered the whole airframe as it died. “Evening, Captain,” the two men said, Hashemi Fazir and Armstrong. “How are you feeling today?” the colonel asked.

“Evening. With luck, in a week or so I’ll be better than ever,” Erikki said pleasantly but his caution was complete.

“The guards say that Their Highnesses are not back yet - the Khan expects us, we’re here at his invitation.”

“They’re at the hospital being X-rayed. They left while I was asleep, they shouldn’t be long.” Erikki watched them. “Would you care for a drink? There’s vodka, whisky, and tea, of course coffee.”

“Thank you, whatever you have,” Hashemi said. “How’s your helicopter?” “Sick,” he said disgustedly. “I’ve been trying to start her for an hour. She’s had a miserable week.” Erikki led the way up the marble steps. “The avionics are messed. I need a mechanic badly. Our base’s closed as you know and I tried to phone Tehran but the phones are out again.” “Perhaps I can get you a mechanic, tomorrow or the next day, from the air base.”

“You could, Colonel?” His smile was sudden and appreciative. “That’d help a lot. And I could use fuel, a full load. Would that be possible?” “Could you fly down to the airfield?”

“I wouldn’t risk it, even if I could start her - too dangerous. No, I wouldn’t risk that.” Erikki shook his head. “The mechanic must come here.” He led the way along a corridor, opened the door to the small salon on the ground floor that Abdollah Khan had set aside for non-Islamic guests. It was called the European Room. The bar was well stocked. By custom, there were always full ice trays in the refrigerator, the ice made from bottled water, with club soda and soft drinks of many kinds - and chocolates and the halvah he had adored. “I’m having vodka,” Erikki said.

“Same for me, please,” Armstrong said. Hashemi asked for a soft drink. “I’ll have a vodka too, when the sun’s down.” Faintly the muezzins were still calling. “Prosit!” Erikki clinked glasses with Armstrong, politely did the same with Hashemi, and drank the tot in one swallow. He poured himself another. “Help yourself, Superintendent.” Hearing a car they all glanced out the window. It was the Rolls.

“Excuse me a minute, I’ll tell Hakim Khan you’re here.” Er-ikki walked out and greeted Azadeh and her brother on the steps. “What did the X rays show?” “No sign of bone damage for either of us.” Azadeh was happy, her face carefree. “How are you, my darling?”

“Fine. It’s wonderful about your backs. Wonderful!” His smile at Hakim was genuine. “I’m so pleased. You’ve some guests, the colonel and Superintendent Armstrong - I put them in the European Room.” Erikki saw Hakim’s tiredness. “Shall I tell them to come back tomorrow?”

“No, no thank you. Azadeh, would you tell them I’ll be fifteen minutes but to make themselves at home. I’ll see you later, at dinner.” Hakim watched her touch Erikki and smile and walk off. How lucky they are to love each other so much, and how sad for them. “Erikki, Ahmed’s dead, I didn’t want to tell her yet.”

Erikki was filled with sadness. “My fault he’s dead - Bayazid - he never gave him a chance. Matyeryebyets!”

“God’s will. Let’s go and talk a moment.” Hakim went down the corridor into the Great Room, leaning more and more on the crutches. The guards stayed at the door, out of listening range. Hakim went to a niche, put aside his crutches, faced Mecca, gasped with pain as he knelt, and tried to make obeisance. Even forcing himself, he failed again and had to be content with intoning the Shahada. “Erikki, give me a hand, will you please?” Erikki lifted him easily. “You’d better give that a miss for a few days.” “Not pray?” Hakim gaped at him.

“I meant… perhaps the One God will understand if you say it and don’t kneel. You’ll make your back worse. Did the doctor say what it was?” “He thinks it’s torn ligaments - I’ll go to Tehran as soon as I can with Azadeh and see a specialist.” Hakim accepted his crutches. “Thanks.” After a moment’s consideration he chose a chair instead of his usual lounging cushions and eased himself into it, then ordered tea.

Erikki’s mind was on Azadeh. So little time. “The best back specialist in the world’s Guy Beauchamp, in London. He fixed me up in five minutes after doctors said I’d have to lie in traction for three months or have two joints fused. Don’t believe an ordinary doctor about your back, Hakim. The best they can do is painkillers.”

The door opened. A servant brought in the tea. Hakim dismissed him and the guards, “See that I’m not disturbed.” The tea was hot, mint-flavored, sweet and drunk from tiny silver cups. “Now, we must settle what you’re to do. You can’t stay here.”

“I agree,” Erikki said, glad that the waiting was over. “I know I’m… I’m an embarrassment to you as Khan.”

“Part of Azadeh’s agreement and mine with my father, for us to be redeemed and me to be made heir, were the oaths we swore to remain in Tabriz, in Iran, for two years. So, though you must leave, she may not.” “She told me about the oaths.”

“Clearly you’re in danger, even here. I can’t protect you against police or the government. You should leave at once, fly out of the country. After two years when Azadeh can leave, she will leave.”

“I can’t fly. Fazir said he could give me a mechanic tomorrow, maybe. And fuel. If I could get hold of McIver in Tehran he could fly someone up here.” “Did you try?”

“Yes, but the phones are still out. I would have used the HF at our base but the office’s totally wrecked - I flew over the base coming back here, it’s a mess, no transport, no fuel drums. When I get to Tehran McIver can send a mechanic here to repair the 212. Until she can fly, can she stay where she is?”

“Yes. Of course.” Hakim poured himself some more tea, convinced now that Erikki knew nothing about the escape of the other pilots and helicopters. But that changes nothing, he told himself. “There aren’t any airlines servicing Tabriz or I’d arrange one of those for you. Still, I think you should leave at once; you are in very great danger, immediate danger.” Erikki’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sure?” “Yes?” “What?”

“I can’t tell you. But it’s not in my control, it’s serious, immediate, does not concern Azadeh at the moment but could, if we’re not careful. For her protection this must remain just between us. I’ll give you a car, any one you want from the garage. There’re about twenty, I believe. What happened to your Range Rover?”

Erikki shrugged, his mind working. “That’s another problem, killing that matyeryebyets mujhadin who took my papers, and Azadeh’s, then Rakoczy blasting the others.”

“I’d forgotten about Rakoczy.” Hakim pressed onward. “There’s not much time.”

Erikki moved his head around to ease the tension in his muscles and take away the ache. “How immediate a danger, Hakim?”

Hakim’s eyes were level. “Immediate enough to suggest you wait till dark, then take the car and go - and get out of Iran as quickly as you can,” he added deliberately. “Immediate enough to know that if you don’t, Azadeh will have greater anguish. Immediate enough to know you should not tell her before you leave.”

“You swear it?”

“Before God I swear that is what I believe.”

He saw Erikki frown and he waited patiently. He liked his honesty and simplicity but that meant nothing in the balance. “Can you leave without telling her?”

“If it’s in the night, nearer to dawn, so long as she’s sleeping. If I leave tonight, pretending to go out, say to go to the base, she’ll wait for me, and if I don’t come back, it will be very difficult - for her and for you. The village preys on her. She’ll have hysterics. A secret departure would be wiser, just before dawn. She’ll be sleeping then - the doctor gave her sedatives. She’ll be sleeping and I could leave a note.”

Hakim nodded, satisfied. “Then it’s settled.” He wanted no hurt or trouble for or from Azadeh either.

Erikki had heard the finality and he knew beyond any doubt, now, that if he left her he would lose her forever.

IN THE BATHHOUSE: 7:15 P.M. Azadeh lowered herself into the hot water up to her neck. The bath was beautifully tiled and fifteen yards square and many tiered, shallow at one end with lounging platforms, the hot water piped from the furnace room adjoining. The room was warm and large, a happy place with kind mirrors. Her hair was tied up in a towel and she rested against one of the tilted backrests, her legs stretched out, the water easing her. “Oh, that’s so good, Mina,” she murmured.

Mina was a strong, good-looking woman, one of Azadeh’s three maidservants. She stood over her in the water, wearing just a loincloth, gently massaging her neck and shoulders. The bathhouse was empty but for Azadeh and the maidservant - Hakim had sent the rest of the family to other houses in Tabriz: “to prepare for a fitting Mourning Day for Abdollah Khan,” had been the excuse, but all were aware that the forty days of waiting was to give him time to inspect the palace at his leisure and reapportion suites as it pleased him. Only the old Khanan was undisturbed, and Aysha and her two infants.

Without disturbing Azadeh’s tranquillity, Mina eased her into shallower water and onto another platform where Azadeh lay full length, her head propped comfortably on a pillow, so that she could work her chest and loins and thighs and legs, preparing for the real oil massage that would come later when the water’s heat had become deep-seated. “Oh, that’s so good,” Azadeh said again. She was thinking how much nicer this was than their own sauna - that raw strong heat and then the frightful plunge into the snow, the aftershock tingling and life-giving but not as good as this, the sensuality of the perfumed water and quiet and leisure and no aftershocks and oh that is so good… but why is the bathhouse a village square and now it’s so cold and there’s the butcher and the false mullah’s shouting, “First his right hand… stone the harlottttt!” She screamed soundlessly and leaped away.

“Oh, did I hurt you, Highness, I’m so sorry!” “No, no, it wasn’t you, Mina, it was nothing, nothing, please go on.” Again the soothing fingers. Her heart slowed. I hope soon I’ll able to sleep without… without the village. Last night with Erikki it was already a little better, in his arms it was better, just being near him. Perhaps tonight it will be better still. I wonder how Johnny is. He should be on his way home now, home to Nepal on leave. Now that Erikki’s back I’m safe again, just so long as I’m with him, near him. By myself I’m not… not safe, even with Hakim. I don’t feel safe anymore. I just don’t feel safe anymore.

The door opened and Aysha came in. Her face was lined with grief, her eyes filled with fear, the black chador making her appear even more emaciated. “Hello, Aysha dear, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. The world is strange and I’ve no… I’m centerless.” “Come into the bath,” Azadeh said, sorry for her, she looked so thin and old and frail and defenseless. Difficult to believe she’s my father’s widow with a son and daughter, and only seventeen. “Get in, it’s so good.” “No, no, thank you I… I just wanted to talk to you.” Aysha looked at Mina then dropped her eyes and waited. Two days ago she would have just sent for Azadeh who would have come at once and bowed and knelt and waited for orders, as now she knelt as petitioner. As God wills, she thought; except for my terror for the future of my children I would shout with happiness - no more of the foul stench and sleep-shattering snores, no more of the crushing weight and moans and rage and biting and desperation to achieve that which he could but rarely. “It’s your fault, your fault your fault…” How could it be my fault? How many times did I beg him to show me what to do to help, and I tried and tried and tried and yet it was only so rarely and then at once the weight was gone, the snoring would begin, and I was left awake to lie in the sweat and in the stink. Oh, how many times I wanted to die.

“Mina, leave us alone until I call you,” Azadeh said. She was obeyed instantly. “What’s the matter, Aysha dear?”

The girl trembled. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid for my son, and I came to beg you to protect him.”

Azadeh said gently, “You’ve nothing to fear from Hakim Khan and me, nothing. We’ve sworn by God to cherish you, your son and daughter, you heard us, we did it in front of… of your husband, our father, and then again, after his death. You’ve nothing to fear. Nothing.”

“I’ve everything to fear,” the girl stammered. “I’m not safe anymore, nor is my son. Please, Azadeh, couldn’t… couldn’t Hakim Khan… I’d sign any paper giving up any rights for him, any paper, I only want to live in peace and for him to grow up and live in peace.”

“Your life is with us, Aysha. Soon you will see how happy we’ll all be together,” Azadeh said. The girl’s right to be afraid, she thought. Hakim will never surrender the Khanate out of his line if he has sons of his own - he must marry now, I must help find him a fine wife. “Don’t worry, Aysha.” “Worry? You’re safe now, Azadeh, you who just a few days, ago lived in terror. Now I’m not safe and I’m in terror.”

Azadeh watched her. There was nothing she could do for her. Aysha’s life was settled. She was the widow of a Khan. She would stay in the palace, watched and guarded, living as best she could. Hakim would not dare to let her remarry, could not possibly allow her to give up a son’s rights granted by the public will of the dying husband. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Here.” Aysha pulled a bulky manila envelope from under her chador. “This is yours.”

“What is it?” Azadeh’s hands were wet and she didn’t want to touch it. The girl opened the envelope and showed her the contents. Azadeh’s eyes widened. Her passport, ID, and other papers, Erikki’s also, all the things that had been stolen from them by the mujhadin at the roadblock. This was a pishkesh indeed. “Where did you get them?”

The girl was sure there was no one listening, but still lowered her voice. “The leftist mullah, the same mullah of the village, he gave them to His Highness, the Khan, to Abdollah Khan two weeks ago, when you were in Tehran… the same mullah as at the village.” Incredulously Azadeh watched her. “How did he get them?” Nervously the girl shrugged her thin shoulders. “The mullah knew all about the roadblock and what happened there. He came here to try to take possession of the… of your husband. His Highness…” She hesitated, then continued in her halting whispers. “His Highness told him no, not until he approved it, sent him away, and kept the papers.”

“Do you have other papers, Aysha? Private papers?” “Not of yours or your husband’s.” Again the girl trembled. “His Highness hated you all so much. He wanted your husband destroyed, then he was going to give you to the Soviet, and your brother was to be… neutered. There’s so much I know that could help you and him, and so much I don’t understand. Ahmed… beware of him, Azadeh.”

“Yes,” Azadeh said slowly. “Did father send the mullah to the village?” “I don’t know. I think he did. I heard him ask the Soviet to dispose of Mahmud, ah, yes, that was that false mullah’s name. Perhaps His Highness sent him there to torment you and the saboteur, and also sent him to his own death - but God intervened. I heard the Soviet agree to send men after this Mahmud.” Azadeh said casually, “How did you hear that?” Aysha nervously gathered the chador closer around her and knelt on the edge of the bath. “The palace is a honeycomb of listening holes and spy holes, Azadeh. He… His Highness trusted no one, spied on everyone, even me. I think we should be friends, allies, you and I, we’re defenseless, even you, perhaps you more than any of us and unless we help each other we’re all lost. I can help you, protect you.” Beads of sweat were on her forehead. “I only ask you to protect my son, please. I can protect you.”

“Of course we should be friends,” Azadeh said, not believing that she was under any threat, but intrigued to know the secrets of the palace. “You will show me these secret places and share your knowledge?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I will.” The girl’s face lit up. “I’ll show you everything and the two years will pass so quickly. Oh, yes, we’ll be friends.” “What two years?”

“While your husband is away, Azadeh.”

Azadeh jerked upright, filled with alarm. “He’s going away?” Aysha stared at her. “Of course. What else can he do?”

EN THE EUROPEAN ROOM: Hashemi was handing Robert Armstrong the scrawled message from Mzytryk that Hakim had just given him. Armstrong glanced at it: “Sorry, Hashemi, I can’t read Turkish.”

“Ah, sorry, I forgot.” Hashemi read it out in English. Both men saw Armstrong’s disappointment. “Next time, Robert, we’ll get him. Insha’Allah.” Not to worry, Armstrong thought. It was a long shot anyway. I’ll get Mzytryk another time. I’ll get him, and I’ll get you, old friend Hashemi, rotten of you to murder Talbot. Why did you do that? Revenge because he knew many of your secrets? He’d done you no harm, on the contrary he put lots of bones of your way and smoothed lots of errors for you. Rotten! You didn’t give him a chance, why should you have one? Soon as my passage out’s arranged, you’ve had it. No reason to delay anymore now that Mzytryk knows I’m on to him and he’s jeering from safety. Perhaps the Brass‘11 send Special Branch or a Special Air Services team into Tbilisi now we know where he is - someone’ll get the bastard. Even if I don’t…