Whirlwind

He was distracted by Hakim Khan saying, “Colonel, what’s this about Yazernov and Jaleh Cemetery?” and Hashemi answered smoothly, “It’s an invitation, Highness. Yazernov’s an intermediary Mzytryk uses from time to time, acceptable to both sides, when something of importance to both sides has to be discussed.” Armstrong almost laughed, for Hashemi knew as well as he that it was a promise of a personal vendetta and of course an immediate Section 16/a. Clever of Mzytryk to use the name Yazernov and not Rakoczy. “‘As soon as convenient’ to meet Yazernov!” Hashemi said. “I think, Highness, we’d better return to Tehran tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Hakim said. Coming back in the car from the hospital with Azadeh, he had decided the only way to deal with Mzytryk’s message and these two men was head-on. “When will you come back to Tabriz?”

“If it pleases you, next week. Then we could discuss how to tempt Mzytryk here. With your help there’s much to do in Azerbaijan. We’ve just had a report that the Kurds are in open rebellion nearer to Rezaiyeh, now heavily provisioned with money and guns by the Iraqis - may God consume them. Khomeini has ordered the army to put them down, once and for all time.”

“The Kurds?” Hakim smiled. “Even he, God keep him safe, even he won’t do that - not once and for all.”

“This time he might, Highness. He has fanatics to send against fanatics.” “Green Bands can obey orders and die but they do not inhabit those mountains, they do not have Kurdish stamina nor their lust for earthly freedom en route to Paradise.”

“With your permission I will pass on your advice, Highness.” Hakim said sharply, “Will it be given any more credence than my father’s - or my grandfather’s - whose advice was the same?”

“I would hope so, Highness. I would hope…” His words were drowned as the 212 fired up, coughed, held for a moment, then died again. Out of the window they saw Erikki unclip one of the engine covers and stare at the complexity inside with a flashlight. Hashemi turned back to the Khan who sat on a chair, stiffly upright. The silence became complicated, three men’s minds racing, each as strong as the other, each bent on violence of some kind. Hakim Khan said carefully, “He cannot be arrested in my house or my domain. Even though he knows nothing of the telex, he knows he cannot stay in Tabriz, even Iran, nor may my sister go with him, even leave Iran for two years. He knows he must leave at once. His machine cannot fly. I hope he avoids arrest.”

“My hands are tied, Highness.” Hashemi’s voice was apologetic and patently sincere. “It is my duty to obey the law of the land.” Absently he noticed a piece of fluff on his sleeve and brushed it away. Armstrong got the signal at once. Brushing a left sleeve meant, “I need to talk to this man privately, he won’t talk in front of you. Make an excuse and wait for me outside.” Hashemi repeated with the perfect amount of sadness, “It’s our duty to obey the law.”

“I’m certain, quite certain, he was not part of any conspiracy, knows nothing about the flight of the others, and I would like him left alone to leave in peace.”

“I would be glad to inform SAVAMA of your wishes.” “I would be glad if you would do what I suggest.” Armstrong said, “Highness, if you’ll excuse me, the matter of the captain is not my affair, nor would I wish to rock any ship of state.”

“Yes, you may go, superintendent, when do I have your report on new security possibilities?”

“It will be in your hands when the colonel returns.”

“Peace be with you.”

“And with you, Highness.” Armstrong walked out, then strolled along the corridors to the steps. Hashemi will roast the poor sod, he thought. The evening was pleasant, nice nip in the air, a reddish tinge to the west. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. “Evening, Captain. Between you, me, and the gatepost, if your bus was working I’d suggest a quick trip to a border.”

Erikki’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Armstrong took out a cigarette. “Climate’s not very healthy around here, is it?” He cupped his hands around his lighter and flicked it. “If you light a cigarette with all this gasoline around here, your climate and mine’ll be not very healthy permanently.” Erikki pressed the switch. The engine began winding up perfectly for twenty seconds, and again spluttered into silence. Erikki cursed.

Armstrong nodded politely and went back to the car. The driver opened the door for him. He settled back, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply, not sure if Erikki had got the message. Hope so. Can’t give away the phony telex, or about Whirlwind, that’d put me against the nearest wall for treachery to Hashemi and the Khan for sticking my nose where it’s clearly not invited - I was warned. Fair enough. It is internal politics. Christ! I’m checker with all this. I need a holiday. A long holiday. Where? I could go back to Hong Kong for a week or two, look up my old chums, the few who’re left, or perhaps go up into the Pays d’Enhaut, the High Country, skiing. Haven’t been skiing for years and I could use some good Swiss cooking, roesti and wurst and good coffee with thick cream and lots of wine. Lots! That’s what I’ll do. First Tehran, then Hashemi concluded, and off into the Wild Blue. Perhaps I’ll meet someone nice…

But the likes of us don’t come in from the cold, nor change. What the hell am I going to do for future money now that my Iranian pension’s up the spout and my Hong Kong police pension’s worth less and less every day? “Hello, Hashemi, how’d it go?’

“Fine, Robert. Driver, go back to HQ.” The driver accelerated through the main gate and sped down the road toward the city.

“Erikki‘11 sneak off in the early hours, just before dawn. We follow him until it pleases us and then we take him, outside Tabriz.” “With Hakim’s blessing?”

“Private blessing, public outrage. Thanks.” Hashemi accepted the cigarette, clearly pleased with himself. “By that time, the poor fellow will probably be no more.”

Armstrong wondered what deal had been struck. “At Hakim’s suggestion?” “Of course.”

“Interesting.” That’s not Hakim’s idea. What’s Hashemi up to now? Armstrong asked himself.

“Yes, interesting. After we’ve burned the mujhadins tonight and made sure that maniac Finn is netted, one way or another, we’ll go back to Tehran.” “Perfect.”

TEHRAN - AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 8:06 P.M. Sharazad put the grenade and pistol into the shoulder bag and hid it under some clothes in the drawer of her bureau. The clothes she would wear under her chador later, ski jacket and heavy sweater and ski pants, were already chosen. Now she wore a pale green silk dress from Paris that enhanced her figure and long legs perfectly. Her makeup too was perfect. A last check of the room and then she went downstairs to join the reception for Daranoush Farazan, her husband-to- be.

“Ah, Sharazad!” Meshang met her at the door. He was perspiring and covered his nervousness with pretended good humor, not knowing what to expect from her. When she had come back from the doctor’s earlier, he had begun to harangue her and use dire threats, but, astonishingly, she had just dropped her eyes and said docilely, “There is no need to say any more, Meshang. God has decided, please excuse me, I will go and change.” And now she was here, still docile.

And so she should, he thought. “His Excellency Farazan has been dying to greet you.” He took her arm and led her through the twenty or so people in the room, mostly cronies of his and their wives, Zarah and some of her friends, none of Sharazad’s. She smiled at those she knew and then turned all her concentration to Daranoush Farazan.

“Greetings, Excellency,” she said politely and held out her hand. This was the first time she had ever been so close. He was shorter than she. She looked down on the few strands of dyed hair over his coarse pate, coarse skin, and even coarser hands, his bad breath infringing her space, his small black eyes glittering. “Peace be with you,” she said.

“Greetings, Sharazad, and peace be with you, but please, please don’t call me Excellency. How… how beautiful you are.”

“Thank you,” she said and watched herself take back her hand and smile and stand beside him and run to fetch him a soft drink, skirts flying, and bring it back as beautifully as it was possible to do, smiling at his droll pleasantries, greeting other guests, pretending to be oblivious of their stares and private laughter, never overdoing the performance, her mind centered on the riot at the university that had already begun, and upon the Protest March that had been forbidden by Khomeini but would take place. Across the room Zarah was watching Sharazad, astonished with the change but thanking God that she had accepted her lot and was going to obey which would make all their lives easier. What else could she do? Nothing! And nothing for me to do but accept that Meshang has a fourteen-year-old whore who already has her fangs out, boasting that soon she’ll become his second wife. “Zarah!”

“Oh! Yes, Meshang, my dear.”

“The evening’s perfect, perfect.” Meshang mopped his brow and accepted a soft drink from the tray that also contained glasses of champagne for those who cared for it. “I’m delighted that Sharazad got her senses back, for of course it’s a perfect match for her.”

“Perfect,” Zarah said agreeably. I suppose we should be thankful he arrived alone and did not bring one of his fancy boys - it’s true, he really does smell of the ordure he sells. “You’ve arranged everything perfectly, darling Meshang.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. It’s working out just as I planned.”

NEAR JALEH: To reach the small grass airstrip, once the home of an impoverished aero club now disused, Lochart had skirted the city and kept low to come under any radar. All the way in from D’Arcy 1908 he had tuned his radio to Tehran International but the airwaves were silent, the airport closed down for Holy Day, no flights permitted. He had been careful to arrive at sunset. When he cut the engine and heard the muezzins he was pleased. So far so good.

The hangar door was rusty. With some difficulty he managed to open it and wheeled the 206 inside. Then he reshut the door and began the long walk. He wore his flight clothes and, if he was stopped, he planned to say that he was an airline pilot whose car had broken down and was going to spend the night with friends.

As he reached Tehran’s outskirts, the roads became more and more crowded, people going home or coming from the mosques, no color or laughter among them, only a brooding apprehension.

There was not much traffic except army vehicles crammed with Green Bands. No troops or uniformed police. Traffic wardens were young Green Bands. The city was coming back into order. Never a woman in Western dress, all chadors. A few curses followed him, not many. A few greetings - his pilot’s uniform gave him standing. Deeper into the city he found a good place to wait for a taxi near a street market. While he waited he bought a bottled soft drink, took a wedge of warm fresh bread and munched it. The night wind picked up a little but the brazier was cheerful and inviting.

“Greetings. Your papers, please.”

The Green Bands were youths, polite, some with the beginnings of beards. Lochart showed them his ID that was stamped and current and they handed it back to him after some discussion. “Where are you going, may we ask?” Deliberately in atrocious Farsi he said, “Visit friends, near bazaar. Car break down. Insha’Allah.” He heard them talking among themselves, saying that pilots were safe, that this one was Canadian - isn’t that part of the Great Satan? No, I don’t think so. “Peace be with you,” they said and wandered off.

He went to the comer and watched the traffic, the smell of the city strong - gasoline, spices, rotting fruit, urine, body odor, and death. His sharp eyes saw a taxi with only two men in the back and one in the front at an intersection now blocked by a truck making a turn. Without hesitation he ducked through the cars, shouldered another man out of the way, jerked the back door open, and crammed himself inside, apologizing profusely in good Farsi, and begged the occupants to allow him to accompany them. After some cursing, some haggling, the driver discovered the bazaar was directly on the route that he had arranged with the others, all individual travelers who had also fought their way in. “With the Help of God, yours will be the second stop, Excellency.”

I’ve made it, he told himself exultantly, then allowed the other thought to surface: hope the others made it too. Duke and Scrag, Rudi, all of them, Freddy and good old Mac.

* BAHRAIN - INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 8:50 P.M. JeanLuc stood at the helipad and trained his binoculars on the two 212s that were over the end of the apron now, navigation lights winking. They had been cleared for a straight-in and approached fast. Beside him was Mathias, also using binoculars. Nearby was an ambulance, a doctor, and the Immigration officer, Yusuf. The sky was clear and star-filled, the night good with a warm fine wind. The lead 212 turned slightly and now JeanLuc could read the registration letters. G-HUVX. British. Thank God, they had time at Jellet, he thought, recognized Pettikin in the cockpit, then turned his glasses back to the other 212 and saw Ayre and Kyle, the mechanic.

Touchdown for Pettikin. Mathias and JeanLuc converged, Mathias for Pettikin and JeanLuc for the cabin door. He swung it open. “Hello, Genny, how is he?”

“He can’t seem to breathe.” Her face was white.

JeanLuc caught a glimpse of McIver stretched out on the floor, a life jacket under his head. Twenty minutes before, Pettikin had reported to Bahrain Tower that one of his crew, McIver, seemed to be having a heart attack, urgently requested a doctor and ambulance meet them. The tower had cooperated instantly.

The doctor hurried past him into the cabin and knelt beside McIver. One look was sufficient. He used the hyperdermic he had prepared. “This will settle him quickly and we’ll have him in the hospital in a few minutes.” In Arabic he called to the paramedics and they came on the run. He helped Genny down into the light, JeanLuc now with them. “I’m Dr. Lanoire, please tell me what happened.”

“Is it a heart attack?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, it is. Not a bad one,” the doctor said, wanting to gentle her. He was half-French, half-Bahrain, very good, and they had been fortunate to get him at such short notice. Behind them the paramedics had McIver on a stretcher and were easing him gently out of the helicopter. “He… my husband, he suddenly gasped and sort of croaked, ‘I can’t breathe,’ then doubled over in pain and fainted.” She wiped the sweat off her upper lip and continued in the same flat voice: “I thought it must be a heart attack and I didn’t know what to do, then I remembered what old Doc Nutt had said when he gave all us wives a lecture once and I loosened Duncan’s collar and we put him on the floor, then I found the… the capsules he’d given us and put one under his nose and crushed it…”

“Amyl nitrite?”

“Yes, yes that was it. Doc Nutt gave us each two of them and told us to keep them safe and secret and how to use them. It smelled awful but Duncan groaned and half came around then went off again. But he was breathing, kind of breathing. It was hard to hear or to see in the cabin but I thought he stopped breathing once and then I used the last capsule and that seemed to make it better again.”

The doctor had been watching the stretcher. As soon as it was safely in the ambulance, he said to JeanLuc, “Captain, please bring Madame McIver to the hospital in half an hour, here’s my card, they’ll know where I am.” Genny said quickly, “Don’t you think th - ”

The doctor said firmly, “You’ll help more by letting us do our job for half an hour. You’ve done yours, you’ve saved his life, I think.” He rushed off.

Chapter 67

TEHRAN - AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 8:59 P.M. Zarah was at the dining table, making a last check that all was ready. Plates and cutlery and napkins of white linen, bowls of various horisht, meats and vegetables, fresh breads and fresh fruits, sweetmeats and condiments. Only the rice left to arrive and that would be brought when she called for dinner. “Good,” she said to the servants and went into the other room.

Their guests were still chattering, but she saw that now Sharazad was standing by herself, near Daranoush who was deep in conversation with Meshang. Hiding her sadness, she went over to her. “My darling, you look so tired. Are you feeling all right?”

“Of course she’s all right,” Meshang called out with loud, brittle humor. Sharazad put a smile on a face that had become very pale. “It’s the excitement, Zarah, just all the excitement.” Then to Farazan, “If you don’t mind, Excellency Daranoush, I won’t join you for dinner tonight.” “Why, what’s the matter?” Meshang said sharply. “Are you sick?” “Oh, no, dearest brother, it’s just the excitement.” Sharazad put her attention back on the little man. “Perhaps I may be allowed to see you tomorrow? Perhaps dinner tomorrow?”

Before Meshang could answer for him, Daranoush said, “Of course, my dear,” and went closer, and kissed her hand, and it took all of her willpower not to heave. “We’ll have dinner tomorrow. Perhaps you and Excellency Meshang and Zarah will honor my poor house.” He chuckled. His face became even more grotesque. “Our poor house.”

“Thank you, I will treasure the thought. Good night, peace be with you.” “And with you.”

She was equally polite with her brother and Zarah, then turned and left them. Daranoush watched her walk away, the sway of her boyish hips and her buttocks. By God, look at her, he told himself with relish, imagining her naked, cavorting for him. I’ve made an even better arrangement than I imagined. By God, when Meshang proposed the marriage I was only persuaded by the dowry, along with the promises of political partnership in the bazaar - both substantial, which of course they should be for a woman pregnant with a foreigner’s child. But now, by God, I don’t think it will be so difficult to bed her, have her service me as I want to be served, and sometimes to make children of my own. Who’knows, perhaps it will be as Meshang said, “Perhaps she’ll lose the one she carries.” Perhaps she will, perhaps she will. He scratched absently until she left the room. “Now, where were we, Meshang?”

“About my suggestion for a new bank…”

Sharazad closed the door and ran lightly up the stairs. Jari was in her room, dozing in the big chair. “Oh Princess, how d - ”

“I’m going to bed now, Jari. You can leave now and I’m not to be disturbed, Jari, by anyone for any reason. We’ll talk at breakfast.” “But, Princess, I’ll sleep in the chair and b - ”

Sharazad stamped her foot, vexed. “Good night! And I am not to be disturbed!” Loudly she locked the door after her, even louder she kicked off her shoes, then, very quietly, changed quickly. Now the veil and chador. Cautiously she opened the French doors to the balcony and slipped out. Stairs went down to a patio garden and from there a passageway led to a back door. She eased off the bolts. The hinges creaked. Then she was out into the alley and had wedged the door shut. As she hurried away, her chador billowed out behind her like a great black wing.

In the reception room, Zarah glanced at her watch and walked over to Meshang. “Darling, would you like dinner to be served now?” “In a moment, can’t you see His Excellency and I are busy?” Zarah sighed, then went off to talk to a friend, but stopped as she saw the doorkeeper come in anxiously, look around the room for Meshang, then hurry over to him and whisper. Blood drained out of Meshang’s face. Daranoush Farazan gasped. She rushed over to them. “What on earth is it?” Meshang’s mouth worked but no sound came out. In the sudden hush, the frightened servant blurted out, “Green Bands’re here, Highness, Green Bands with a… with a mullah. They want to see His Excellency at once.” In the great silence everyone remembered Paknouri’s arrest and Jared’s summons and all the other arrests, executions, and rumors of more terror, more komitehs, jails filled with friends and customers and relations. Daranoush was almost spitting with rage that he was here in this house at this time, wanting to rend his clothes because he had foolishly agreed to ally himself with the Bakravan family, already damned because of Jared’s usury - the same usury that all bazaari moneylenders were guilty of but Jared was caught! Son of a burnt father and I’ve agreed publicly to the marriage and agreed in private to participate in Meshang’s plans, plans I can see now oh God protect me that are dangerously modem, dangerously Western, and clearly against the Imam’s dictates and wishes! Son of a burnt father, there must be a back way out of this house of the damned. Four Green Bands and the mullah were in the reception room the servant had shown them into, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the silk cushions. They had taken off their shoes and left them beside the door. The youths were wide-eyed at the richness of their surroundings, their guns on the carpets beside them. The mullah wore fine robes and a fine white turban and was an imposing man in his sixties with a white beard and heavy dark eyebrows, a strong face and dark eyes.

The door opened. Meshang tottered into the room like an automaton. He was pasty, and his head ached with the strength of his terror. “Greetings… greetings, Excellency…”

“Greetings. You are Excellency Meshang Bakravan?” Meshang nodded mutely. “Ah, then again greetings and peace be with you, Excellency, please excuse me that I arrive so late but I am the mullah Sayani and I come from the komiteh. We have just discovered about Excellency Jared Bakravan and I have come to tell you that though it was God’s will, His Excellency was never condemned according to the law, was mistakenly shot, his property mistakenly appropriated, and that it will all be returned at once.”

Meshang gaped at him, speechless.

“Islamic government is committed to uphold God’s law.” The mullah’s brow darkened as he continued: “God knows we cannot control all zealots or simpleminded, misguided people. God knows there are some who through zeal make errors. And God knows too there are many who use the revolution for evil, hiding under the cloak of ‘patriot,’ many who twist Islam for their filthy purposes, many who will not obey the word of God, many who scheme to bring us into disrepute, even many who falsely wear the turban, many who do not merit the turban, even some ayatollahs, even them, but with the help of God we will tear off their turbans, cleanse Islam, and stamp out the evil, whoever they are…”

The words were not reaching Meshang. His mind was exploding with hope. “He… my father… I get our… property back?”

“Our Islamic government is the government of law. Sovereignty belongs to God alone. The law of Islam has absolute authority over everyone - including the Islamic government. Even the Most Noble Messenger, upon whom be peace, was subject to the law that God alone revealed, alone expounded by the tongue of the Koran.” The mullah got up. “It was the Will of God but Excellency Jared Bakravan was not judged according to the law.”

“It’s… it’s true?”

“Yes, the Will of God, Excellency. Everything will be returned to you. Didn’t your father support us lavishly? How can Islamic government flourish without bazaari help and support, how can we exist without bazaaris to fight the enemies of Islam, the enemies of Iran and the Infidel? …”

OUTSIDE THE BAZAAR: The taxi stopped in the crowded square. Lochart got out and paid the driver as two of a mass of would-be passengers, a woman and a man, fought their way into the space he had vacated. The square was full of people streaming into and out of the mosque and the bazaar and surrounding the street stalls. They paid little attention to him, his uniform and cap giving him free passage. The night was chill and overcast. The wind had picked up again and guttered the flames of the oil lamps of street vendors. Across the square was the street of the Bakravan house and he walked briskly, rounded the corner, and stepped aside to let the mullah Sayani and the Green Bands pass, then went on again.

At the door in the high wall he stopped, took a deep breath, and knocked loudly. Then knocked again. Then again. He heard footsteps, saw an eye behind the spy hole. “Doorkeeper, it’s me, Excellency Captain Lochart,” he called out happily.

The door swung open. “Greetings, Excellency,” the doorkeeper said, still not over the shock of the abrupt arrival and departure of the mullah and Green Bands - bowed out humbly by Excellency Foul Temper himself, he thought in awe, who the very second the door was bolted had jumped up and down like a madman, drummed his feet on the ground, and rushed back silently into the house, and now here’s another apparition, by God, the Infidel who once was married to the betrothed of Excellency Piss. A squall blew dead leaves across the patio. Another pop-eyed servant stood at the open main door. “Greetings, Excellency,” he mumbled, “I’ll… I’ll tell Excellency Meshang you’ve arrived.”

“Wait!” Now Lochart could hear the excited buzz of voices coming from the dining salon, glasses clinking, laughter of a party. “Is my wife in there?” “Your wife?” The servant collected himself with difficulty. “The, er, Her Highness, Captain Excellency, she’s gone to bed.” Lochart’s anxiety soared. “Is she sick?” “She did not appear sick, Excellency, she went just before dinner. I’ll tell Excellency Meshang th - ”

“No need to disturb him and his guests,” he said, delighted with the opportunity of seeing her alone first. “I’ll see her, then come down and announce myself later.”

The servant watched him go up the stairs, two at a time, waited until he was out of sight, then hurried to find Meshang.

Lochart went along a corridor into another. He forced himself to walk, relishing how surprised she would be and so happy and then they would see Meshang and Meshang would listen to the plan. At last he was at their door and turned the handle. When the door did not open, he tapped and called out softly, “Sharazad, it’s me, Tommy.” His spirit sang while he waited. “Sharazad?” Waiting. Knocking. Waiting. Then knocking a little louder. “Sharazad!”

“Excellency!”

“Oh, hello, Jari,” he said, in his impatience not noticing that she was trembling. “Sharazad, darling, unlock the door, it’s me, Tommy!” “Her Highness said she was not to be disturbed.” “She didn’t mean me, of course not! Oh! She’s taken a sleeping pill?”

“Oh no, Excellency.”

He put all of his attention on her. “What’re you so frightened about?”

“Me? I’m not frightened, Excellency, why should I be frightened?” Something’s wrong, he thought. Impatiently he turned back to the door. “Sharazad!” Waiting waiting waiting. “This is ridiculous!” he muttered. “Sharazad!” Before he knew what he was doing he was hammering on the door. “Open the door, for crissake!”

“What are you doing here?”

It was Meshang, raw with rage. At the far end of the corridor, Lochart saw Zarah come into view and stop. “Good… good evening, Meshang,” he said, his heart pounding, trying to sound reasonable and polite and why the hell doesn’t she open the door and this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. “I came back to see my wife.”

“She’s not your wife, she’s divorced, now get out!”

Lochart stared at him blankly. “Of course she’s my wife!” “By God, are you simple? She was your wife. Now leave my house!” “You’re crazy, you can’t divorce her just like that!”

“GET OUT!”

“Get stuffed!” Again Lochart hammered on the door. “Sharazad!” Meshang whirled on Zarah. “Go and get some Green Bands! Go on, get some Green Bands! They’ll throw this madman out!”

“But, Meshang, isn’t it dangerous to involve them in ou - ” “Get them!”

Lochart’s temper snapped. His shoulder went into the door. It shuddered but did not give so he raised his foot, slammed his heel against the lock. The lock shattered and the door burst open. “Get Green Bands!” Meshang shrieked. “Don’t you understand they’re on our side now, we’re reinstated…” Then he rushed through the door too. Blankly he also saw the room was empty, bed empty, bathroom empty, nowhere else she could be. Both he and Lochart turned on Jari who stood at the doorway, staring with disbelief, Zarah cautiously behind her in the hall. “Where is she?” Meshang shouted.

“I don’t know, Excellency, she never left here, my room is next door and I’m a light sleeper…” Jari howled as Meshang belted her across the mouth, the blow sending her reeling onto her hands and knees.

“Where’s she gone?”

“I don’t know, Excellency, I thought she was in be - ” She shrieked as Meshang’s toe went into her side. “By God, I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know!”

Lochart was at the French doors. They opened easily, already unlatched. At once he went out onto the balcony, down the stairs, and to the back door. He came back slowly, in turmoil. Meshang and Zarah watched him from the balcony. “The back door was unlocked. She must’ve gone out this way.” “Gone where?” Meshang was flushed with rage, and Zarah turned on Jari who was still on her hands and knees in the bedroom, moaning and weeping with fear and pain. “Shut up you dog or I’ll whip you. Jari! If you don’t know where she’s gone, where do you think she’s gone?”

“I… I don’t know, Highness,” the old woman sobbed. “Thinkkk!” Zarah shrieked and slapped her. Jari howled. “I don’t knowwww! She’s been strange all day, Excellencies, strange, she sent me away this afternoon and went off by herself and I met her near seven o’clock and we came back together but she said nothing, nothing, nothing…” “By God, why didn’t you tell me?” Meshang shouted. “What was there to tell, Excellency? Please don’t kick me again, please!”

Meshang groped for a chair. The violent pendulum from total terror when the mullah and Green Bands were announced to total euphoria at his reprieve and reinstatement to fury finding Lochart here and Sharazad gone had momentarily unhinged him. His mouth moved but there was no sound and he saw Lochart questioning Jari but could not understand the words.

When he had rushed back into the dining room to stutter the God-given news there had been rejoicing, Zarah had wept with happiness and embraced him and so did the women, and the men had warmly wrung his hand. All except Daranoush. Daranoush was no longer there. He had fled. Out the back door. “He’s gone?”

“Like a bag full of fart!” someone called out. Everyone had started laughing, their private relief that they were no longer in any immediate danger of guilt by association, together with Meshang’s totally unexpected rocket back to wealth and power, making them light-headed. Someone had shouted, “You really can’t have Daranoush the Daring as a brother-in-law, Meshang!”

“No, no, by God,” he remembered saying, quaffing a glass of champagne. “How could you trust such a man?”

“Not even with a bucket of piss! By the Prophet, I’ve always thought Dirty Daranoush overcharged for his services. The bazaar should rescind his contract!”

Another cheer and general agreement and Meshang had drunk a second glass of champagne, gloating over the glorious new possibilities opened up before him: the new contract for the bazaar’s waste which he as the injured party would of course have, a new syndicate to finance the government under his guidance and greater profit, new associations with more important ministers than Ali Kia - where is that son of a dog? - new deals in the oil fields, monopolies to maneuver, a new match for Sharazad, so easy now for who would not want to be part of his family, the bazaari family? No need now to pay out a usurious dowry I agreed to only under duress. All my property back, the estates on the Caspian shores, streets of houses in Jaleh, apartments in the northern suburbs, lands and orchards and fields and villages, all of it back.

Then the servant destroying his elation, whispering that Lochart had returned, was already in his house, already upstairs. Rushing upstairs, and now helplessly watching the man he hated so much questioning Jari, Zarah listening as intently.

With an effort he concentrated. Jari was saying between sobs, “… I’m not sure, Excellency, she… she only… she only told me the young man that saved her life at the first Women’s Protest was a university student.” “Did she ever meet him alone?”

“Oh, no, Excellency, no, as I said we met him at the march and he asked us to take coffee to recover,” Jari said. She was petrified of being caught in the lie but more petrified of telling what had really happened. God protect us, she prayed. Where has she gone, where?

“What was his name, Jari?”

“I don’t know, Excellencies, it might have been Ibrahim or … or Ishmael, I don’t know. I already told you, he had no importance.”

Lochart’s head was pounding. No clue, nothing. Where would she have gone? To a friend’s? To the university? Another protest march? Don’t forget the rumors in the market about university students rioting again, more explosions expected tonight, more marches and countermarches, Green Bands versus the leftists, but all non-imam-sponsored marches forbidden by the Komiteh and the Komiteh’s patience ended. “Jari, you must have some idea, some way of helping us!”

Meshang said gutturally, “Whip her, she knows!”

“I don’t I don’t…” Jari wailed.

“Shut up, Jari!” Lochart turned on Meshang, his face pale and violence absolute. “I don’t know where she’s gone but I know the why: you forced the divorce, and I swear by the Lord God if she comes to harm, any harm, you will pay!”

Meshang blustered, “You left her, you left her penniless, you abandoned her and you’re divorced, yo - ”

“Remember, you will pay! And if you bar me from this house whenever I come back or she comes back, by God, be that on your head too!” On the edge of madness, Lochart stalked toward the French doors.

Zarah said quickly, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know … I… To the university. Perhaps she’s gone to join another march though why she’d run off to do that…” Lochart could not bring himself to articulate his real terror: that her revolt was so extreme that her mind was unhinged and she would kill herself - oh, not suicide, but how many times in the past had she said, “Never worry about me, Tommy. I am a Believer, I always try to do God’s work and so long as I die doing God’s work with God’s name on my lips I will go to Paradise.”

But what about our child-to-be? A mother wouldn’t, couldn’t, could she, someone like Sharazad?

The room was very still. For an eternity he stood there. Then, all at once, his being swept him into new waters. In a strange clear voice he said, “Bear witness for me: I attest that there is no other God but God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God… I attest that there is no other God but God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God…” and the third and last time. Now it was done. He was at peace with himself. He saw them staring at him. Stunned. Meshang broke the silence, no longer in anger. “Allah-u Akbar! Welcome. But saying the Shahada is not enough, not by itself.”

“I know. But it is the beginning.”

They watched him vanish into the night, all of them spellbound that they had witnessed a soul being saved, an unbeliever transmuted into a Believer, so unexpectedly. All of them were filled with joy, degrees of joy. “God is Great!”

Zarah murmured, “Meshang, doesn’t this change everything?” “Yes, yes and no. But now he will go to Paradise. As God wants.” Suddenly he was very tired. His eyes went to Jari, and she began to tremble again. “Jari,” he said with the same calm, “you are going to be whipped until you tell me all the truth or you are in hell. Come along, Zarah, we mustn’t forget our guests.”

“And Sharazad?”

“As God wills.”

* NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 9:48 P.M. Sharazad turned into the main road where Green Bands and their supporters were collecting. Thousands of them. The vast majority were men. All armed. Mullahs marshaled them, exorting them to maintain discipline, not to fire on the leftists until they were fired upon, to try to persuade them from their evil. “Don’t forget they’re Iranians, not satanic foreigners. God is Great… God is Great…”

“Welcome, child,” an old mullah said gently, “peace be upon you.” “And upon you,” she said. “We’re marching against the anti-God?” “Oh, yes, in a little while, there’s plenty of time.”

“I have a gun,” she said proudly, showing it to him. “God is Great.” “God is Great. But better that the killing should cease and the misguided should recognize the Truth, renounce their heresies, obey the Imam, and come back to Islam.” The old man saw her youth and resolution and was uplifted, and saddened. “Better the killing should cease but if those of the Left Hand do not cease to oppose the Imam, God’s peace on him, then with the Help of God we will hurry them into hell….”

Chapter 68

TABRIZ - AT THE PALACE: 10:05 P.M. The three of them were sitting in front of the wood fire drinking after-dinner coffee and watching the flames, the room small and richly brocaded, warm and intimate - one of Hakim’s guards beside the door. But there was no peace between them, though all had pretended otherwise, now and during the evening. The flames held their attention, each seeing different pictures therein. Erikki was watching the fork in the road, always the fork, one way the flames leading to loneliness, the other to fulfillment - perhaps and perhaps not. Azadeh watched the future, trying not to watch it.

Hakim Khan took his eyes off the fire and threw down the gauntlet. “You’ve been distracted all evening, Azadeh,” he said.

“Yes. I think we all are.” Her smile was not real. “Do you think we could talk in private, the three of us?”

“Of course.” Hakim motioned to the guard. “I’ll call if I need you.” The man obeyed and closed the door after him. Instantly the mood of the room changed. Now all three were adversaries, all aware of it, all on guard and all ready. “Yes, Azadeh?”

“Is it true that Erikki must leave at once?”

“Yes.”

“There must be a solution. I cannot endure two years without my husband.” “With the Help of God the time will pass quickly.” Hakim Khan sat stiffly upright, the pain eased by the codeine.

“I cannot endure two years,” she said again.

“Your oath cannot be broken.”

Erikki said, “He’s right, Azadeh. You gave the oath freely, Hakim is Khan and the price… fair. But all the killings - I must leave, the fault’s mine, not yours or Hakim’s.”

“You did nothing wrong, nothing, you were forced into protecting me and yourself, they were carrion bent on murdering us, and as to the raid… you did what you thought best, you had no way of knowing the ransom was part paid or Father was dead… he should not have ordered the messenger killed.” “That changes nothing. I have to go tonight. We can accept it, and leave it at that,” Erikki said, watching Hakim. “Two years will pass quickly.” “If you live, my darling.” Azadeh turned to her brother who looked back at her, his smile still the same, eyes the same.

Erikki glanced from brother to sister, so different and yet so similar. What’s changed her, why has she precipitated that which should not have been precipitated?

“Of course if I live,” he said, outwardly calm.

An ember fell into the hearth and he reached forward and moved it to safety. He saw that Azadeh had not taken her gaze off Hakim, nor he off her. The same calm, same polite smile, same inflexibility.

“Yes, Azadeh?” Hakim said.

“A mullah could absolve me from my oath.”

“Not possible. Neither a mullah nor I could do that, not even the Imam would agree.”

“I can absolve myself. This is between me and God, I can ab - ” “You cannot, Azadeh. You cannot and live at peace with yourself.” “I can. I can and be at peace.”

“Not and remain Muslim.”

“Yes,” she said simply, “I agree.”

Hakim gasped. “You don’t know what you say.”

“Oh, but I do. I’ve considered even that.” Her voice was toneless. “I’ve considered that solution and found it bearable. I will not endure two years of separation, nor will I endure any attempt on my husband’s life, or forgive it.” She sat back and left the battle for the moment, nauseous but glad she had brought the matter into the open but frightened all the same. Once more she blessed Aysha for forewarning her.

“I will not allow you to renounce Islam under any circumstances,” Hakim said.

She just looked back at the flames.

The minefield was all around them, all mines triggered, and though Hakim was concentrating on her, his senses probed Erikki, He of the Knife, knowing the man was waiting too, playing a different game now that the problem was before them. Should I have dismissed the guard? he asked himself, outraged by her threat, the smell of danger filling his nostrils. “Whatever you say, take me with him, I’ll escape somehow, I will, I swear it.” She glanced at Erikki. “If Mac and all the others have fled, you could be used as a hostage.”

“I know. I have to get out as fast as I can. But you have to stay. You can’t give up your religion just because of the two years, much as I loathe leaving you.”

“Would Tom Lochart leave Sharazad for two years?”

“That’s not the point,” Erikki said carefully. “You’re not Sharazad, you’re the sister of a Khan and you swore to stay.”

“That’s between me and God. Tommy wouldn’t leave Sharazad,” Azadeh said stubbornly, “Sharazad wouldn’t leave her Tommy, she lov - ” “I must know your plan,” Hakim interrupted coldly.

“Sorry, I trust no one in this.”

The Khan’s eyes narrowed to slits, and it took all of his will not to call the guard. “So there’s an impasse. Azadeh, pour me some coffee, please.” At once she obeyed. He looked at the huge man who stood with his back to the fire. “Isn’t there?”

“Please solve it, Hakim Khan,” Erikki said. “I know you to be a wise man and I would do you no harm, or Azadeh harm.”

Hakim accepted the coffee and thanked her, watched the fire, weighing arid sifting, needing to know what Erikki had in his mind, wanting an end to all this and Erikki gone and Azadeh here and as she always was before, wise and gentle and loving and obedient - and Muslim. But he knew her too well to be sure she would not do as she threatened, and he loved her too much to allow her to carry out the threat.

“Perhaps this would satisfy you, Erikki: I swear by God I will assist you, providing your plan does not negate my sister’s oath, does not force her to apostasize, does not put her in spiritual danger or political danger…” He thought a moment, “… does not harm her or harm me - and has a chance of success.”

Azadeh bridled angrily. “That’s no help, how can Erikki possib - ” “Azadeh!” Erikki said curtly. “Where are your manners? Keep quiet. The Khan was talking to me, not you. It’s my plan he wants to know, not yours.” “Sorry, please excuse me,” she said at once, meaning it. “Yes, you’re right. I apologize to both of you, please excuse me.”

“When we were married, you swore to obey me. Does that still apply?” he asked harshly, furious that she had almost ruined his plan, for he had seen Hakim’s eyes cross with rage and he needed him calm, not agitated. “Yes, Erikki,” she told him immediately, still shocked by what Hakim had said, for that closed every path except the one she had chosen - and that choice petrified her. “Yes, without reservation, provided you don’t leave me.”

“Without reservation - yes or no?”

Pictures of Erikki flashed through her mind, his gentleness and love and laughter and all the good things, along with the brooding violence that had never touched her but would touch anyone who threatened her or stood in his way, Abdollah, Johnny, even Hakim - particularly Hakim.

Without reservation, yes, she wanted to say, except against Hakim, except if you leave me. His eyes were boring into her. For the first time she was afraid of him. She muttered, “Yes, without any reservation. I beg you not to leave me.”

Erikki turned his attention to Hakim: “I accept what you said, thank you.” He sat down again. Azadeh hesitated, then knelt beside him, resting her arm on his knees, wanting the contact, hoping it would help to push away her fear and anger with herself for losing her temper. I must be going mad, she thought. God help me…

“I accept the rules you’ve set, Hakim Khan,” Erikki was saying quietly. “Even so I’m still not going to tell you my pl - Wait, wait, wait! You swore you’d help if I didn’t put you at risk, and I won’t. Instead,” he said carefully, “instead I’ll give you a hypothetical approach to a plan that might satisfy all your conditions.” Unconsciously his hand began stroking her hair and her neck. She felt the tension leaving her. Erikki watched Hakim, both men ready to explode. “All right so far?”

“Go on.”

“Say hypothetically my chopper was in perfect shape, that I’d been pretending I couldn’t start her properly to throw everyone off, and to get everyone used to the idea of the engines starting and stopping, say I’d lied about the fuel and there was enough for an hour’s flight, easily enough to get to the border an - ”

“Is there?” Hakim said involuntarily, the idea opening a new avenue. “For the sake of this hypothetical story, yes.” Erikki felt Azadeh’s grip tighten on his knee but pretended not to notice. “Say in a minute or two, before we all went to bed, I told you I wanted to try to start her again. Say I did just that, the engines caught and held enough to warm her and then died, no one’d worry - the Will of God. Everyone’d think the madman won’t leave well alone, why doesn’t he quit and let us sleep in peace? Then say I started her, pushed on all power and pulled her into the sky. Hypothetically I could be away in seconds - provided the guards didn’t fire on me, and provided there were no hostiles, Green Bands, or police with guns on the gate or outside the walls.”

The breath escaped from Hakim’s lips. Azadeh shifted a little. The silk of her dress rustled. “I pray that such a make-believe could come to pass,” she said.

Hakim said, “It would be a thousand times better than a car, ten thousand times better. You could fly all the way by night?”

“I could, providing I had a map. Most pilots who’ve spent time in an area keep a good map in their heads - of course, this is all make-believe.” “Yes, yes it is. Well, then, so far so good with your make-believe plan. You could escape this way, if you could neutralize the hostiles in the forecourt. Now, hypothetically, what about my sister?”

“My wife isn’t in on any escape, real or hypothetical. Azadeh has no choice: she must stay of her own accord and wait the two years.” Erikki saw Hakim’s astonishment and felt Azadeh’s instant rebellion under his fingers. But he did not allow his fingers to cease their rhythm on her hair and neck, soothing her, coaxing her, and he continued smoothly, “She is committed to stay in obedience to her oath. She cannot leave. No one who loves her, most of all me, would allow her to give up Islam because of two years. In fact, Azadeh, make-believe or not, it is forbidden. Understand?” “I hear what you say, husband,” she said through her teeth, so angry she could hardly speak and cursing herself for falling into his trap. “You are bound by your oath for two years, then you can leave freely. It’s ordered!”

She loooked up at him, and said darkly, “Perhaps after two years I might not wish to leave.”

Erikki rested his great hand on her shoulder, his fingers lightly around her neck. “Then, woman, I shall come back and drag you out by your hair.” He said it so quietly with such venom that it froze her. In a moment she dropped her eyes and looked at the fire, still leaning against his legs. He kept his hand on her shoulder. She made no move to remove it. But he knew she was seething, hating him. Still, he knew it was necessary to say what he had said.

“Please excuse me a moment,” she said, her voice like ice. The two men watched her leave.

When they were alone Hakim said, “Will she obey?”

“No,” Erikki said. “Not unless you lock her up and even then … No. Her mind’s made up.”

“I will never, never allow her to break her oath and renounce Islam, you must understand that, even… even if I have to kill her.” Erikki looked at him. “If you harm her, you’re a dead man - if I’m alive.”

AT THE NORTHERN SLUMS OF TABRIZ CITY: 10:36 P.M. In the darkness the first wave of Green Bands rushed the door in the high wall, blew the locks off, and went into the inner patio with guns blazing. Hashemi and Robert Armstrong were across the square in the comparative safety of a parked truck. Other men lurked in the alley to cut off any retreat. “Now!” Hashemi said into his walkie-talkie. At once the enemy side of the square was bathed in light from searchlights mounted on camouflaged trucks. Men were fleeing out of other doors but police and Green Bands opened up and the battle began. “Come on, Robert,” Hashemi said and led a careful rush closer.

Informers had whispered that tonight there would be a high-level meeting of Islamic-Marxist leaders here and that this building was connected to others on either side by a rabbit warren of secret doors and passages. With Hakim Khan’s assistance Hashemi had precipitated this first of a series of raids to deactivate extensive leftist opposition to the government, to seize the leaders and make a public example of them - for his own purposes. The first group of Green Bands had cleared the ground floor and were charging up the stairs, careless of their safety. The defenders, now that they were over their surprise, fought back with equal ferocity, well armed and well trained.

Outside in the square there was a lull, no more defenders wishing to run the gauntlet or to join those pinned down helplessly among the cars, some already on fire. The alley behind the building was ominously quiet, police and Green Bands blocking both ends, well entrenched behind their vehicles. “Why do we wait here like stinking, cowardly Iraqis,” one of the Green Bands said truculently. “Why don’t we carry the battle to them?” “You wait because that’s what the colonel ordered,” the sergeant of police said, “you wait because we can kill all the dogs safely and th - ” “I’m not subject to any dog colonel, only to God! God is greattttttttt!” With that the youth cocked his rifle and rushed out of ambush toward the back door of the target building. Others followed him. The sergeant cursed them and ordered them back but his words were buried by the fusillade that came down on the youths from small windows high in the walls and slaughtered them.

Hashemi and others had heard the firing in the alley and presumed that a breakout had been attempted. “The dogs can’t escape that way, Robert,” Hashemi shouted gleefully, “they’re trapped!” From where he was he could see that the attack on the main tenement was held up. He clicked on the sender. “Second wave into the HQ building.” Immediately a mullah and another bunch of youths shrieked their battle cry and rushed across the square - Robert Armstrong appalled that Hashemi would order them out like that, floodlit, such easy targets. “Don’t interfere, Robert! By God, I’m tired of you interfering,” Hashemi had said coldly when he had made some suggestions on how to contain the raid before the attack had started. “Keep your advice to yourself, this is internal, nothing to do with you!”

“But, Hashemi, not all the buildings are hostile or Marxist, there’re bound to be families, perhaps hundreds of innocen - ”

“Keep quiet or, by God, I’ll consider it treason!”

“Then I’ll stay behind. I’ll go back and watch the palace.” “I’ve said you’ll come on the raid! You think you British’re the only ones who can handle a few revolutionaries? You’ll stay beside me where I can see you - but first give me your gun!”

“But, Hashem - ”

“Your gun! By the Prophet, I don’t trust you anymore. Your gun!”

So he had given it to him and then Hashemi had come out of his rage and had seemed to relax and laughed the encounter off. But he had not returned the gun and Armstrong felt naked in the night, afraid that somehow he had been betrayed. He glanced at him, saw again that strangeness in Fazir’s eyes and the way his mouth was working, a little saliva at the comers. A burst of heavy firing pulled his attention back to the tenement. The automatic fire was coming from the upper windows against the new attack. Many youths were cut down but some got inside, the mullah among them, to reinforce those fighters still alive. Together they pulled away the bodies blocking the stairs, and fought their way up onto the next floor. In the square Hashemi was now ducked down behind a car, consumed with excitement and his sense of power. “More men into the HQ building!”

Never before had he been in control of a battle or even part of one. All his previous work had been secret, undercover, just a few men involved on each operation - even with his Group Four assassins all he had ever done was to give orders in safety and wait in safety, far from the action. Except the once that he had personally detonated the car bomb that had obliterated his SAVAMA enemy, General Janan. By God and the Prophet, his mind was shouting, this is what I was born for: battle and war!

“General assault!” he shouted into the walkie-talkie and then stood up and bellowed as loud as he could, “General assault!”

Men charged out of the night. Grenades over walls into patios and into windows indiscriminately. Explosions and billowing smoke, more firing, rifle and automatic and more explosions and then a giant explosion in the leftist headquarters as an ammunition and gasoline cache detonated, blowing off the top story and most of the façade. The wave of heat tore at Hashemi’s clothes, knocked Armstrong down, and Mzytryk who had been watching through binoculars from the safety of an upstairs window on the other side of the square saw them clearly in the floodlight and decided the time was perfect. “Now!” he said in Russian.

The sharpshooter beside him was already centered on the target through his telescopic sight, the rifle barrel resting on the window ledge. At once he flattened his index finger above the trigger guard, felt Mzytryk’s finger on the trigger, and began the countdown as ordered: “Three… two… one… fire!” Mzytryk squeezed the trigger. Both men saw the dumdum bullet go into Hashemi’s lower back, slam him spread-eagled against the car in front, then sprawling into the dirt.

“Good,” Mzytryk muttered grimly, regretting only that his own eyes and hands were not good enough to deal with his son’s murderers by himself. “Three… two… one…” The gunsight wavered. Both of them cursed, for they had seen Armstrong whirl around, look in their direction for an instant, then hurl himself through a gap in the cars and disappear behind one of them.

“He’s near the front wheel. He can’t escape. Be patient - fire when you can!” Mzytryk hurried out of the room to the stairwell and shouted in Turkish to the men waiting below, “Go!” then rushed back again. As he came through the doorway, he saw the sharpshooter fire. “Got him,” the man said with an obscenity.

Mzytryk trained his binoculars but could not see Armstrong. “Where is he?” “Behind the black car - he stuck his head around the front wheel for a second and I got him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, Comrade General. I was very careful, just as you ordered.” “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Comrade General, I got him in the shoulder, perhaps the chest.” The headquarters building burning furiously now, firing from the adjoining tenements sporadic, just pockets of resistance, attackers heavily outnumbering defenders, all of them whipped into a frenzy of brutality. Barbarians, Mzytryk thought contemptuously, then looked back at the sprawled body of Hashemi twitching and jerking and twitching again, half in and half out of the joub. Don’t die too quickly, matyeryebyets. “Can you see him, the Englishman?”

“No, Comrade General, but I’ve both sides covered.”

Then Mzytryk saw the broken-down ambulance arriving and men with Red Cross armbands fan out with stretchers to begin picking up the wounded, the battle mostly over now. I’m glad I came tonight, he thought, his rage not yet assuaged. He had decided to direct the retaliation personally the moment Hakim Khan’s message had arrived yesterday. The barely disguised “summons” - together with Pahmudi’s secret report of the manner of his son’s death at the hands of Hashemi and Armstrong - had sent him into a paroxysm of rage. Simple to arrange a helicopter and set down just outside Tabriz last night, simple to arrange a counterattack to ambush the two murderers. Simple to plan his vengeance that would cement relations with Pahmudi by removing his enemy Hashemi Fazir for him and at the same time save both his mujhadin and Tudeh much future trouble. And Armstrong, the elusive MI6 agent, another long-overdue elimination - curse that fornicator for appearing like a ghost after all these years. “Comrade General!”

“Yes, I see them.” Mzytryk watched the Red Cross men put Hashemi on a stretcher and carry him off toward the ambulance. Others went behind the car. The crossed lines of the telescopic sight followed them. Mzytryk’s excitement soared. The sharpshooter waited patiently. When the men reappeared, they were half carrying, half dragging Armstrong between them. “I knew I’d hit the bastard,” the sharpshooter said.

AT THE PALACE: 11:04 P.M. Silently the phosphorescent, red night-flying lights of the massed instrument panel came to life. Erikki’s finger pressed Engine Start. The jets caught, coughed, caught, hesitated as he eased the circuit breakers carefully in and out. Then he shoved them home. The engines began a true warm-up.

Floodlights at half power were on in the forecourt. Azadeh and Hakim Khan, heavy-coated against the night cold, stood just clear of the turning blades, watching him. At the front gate a hundred yards or so away two guards and Hashemi’s two police also watched but idly. Their cigarettes glowed. The two policemen shouldered their Kalashnikovs and strolled nearer. Once more the engines spluttered and Hakim Khan called out over the noise, “Erikki, forget it for tonight!” But Erikki did not hear him. Hakim moved away from the noise, nearer to the gate, Azadeh following him reluctantly. His walk was ponderous and awkward, and he cursed, unused to his crutches. “Greetings, Highness,” the policemen said politely.

“Greetings. Azadeh,” Hakim said irritably, “your husband’s got no patience, he’s losing his senses. What’s the matter with him? It’s ridiculous to keep trying the engines. What good would it do even if he could start them?” “I don’t know, Highness.” Azadeh’s face was white in the pale light and she was very uneasy. “He’s… since the raid he’s been very strange, very difficult, difficult to understand - he frightens me.”

“I don’t wonder! He’s enough to frighten the Devil.”

“Please excuse me, Highness,” Azadeh said apologetically, “but in normal times he’s… he’s not frightening.”

Politely the two policemen turned away, but Hakim stopped them, “Have you noticed any difference in the pilot?”

“He’s very angry, Highness. He’s been angry for hours. Once I saw him kick the machine - but different or not is difficult to say. I’ve never been near to him before.” The corporal was in his forties and wanted no trouble. The other man was younger and even more afraid. Their orders were to watch and wait until the pilot left by car, or any car left, not to hinder its leaving but to report to HQ at once by their car radio. Both of them realized the danger of their position - the arm of the Gorgon Khan had a very long reach. Both knew of the servants and guards of the late Khan accused by him of treason, still rotting in police dungeons. But both also knew the reach of Inner Intelligence was more certain. “Tell him to stop it, Azadeh, to stop the engines.” “He’s never before been so… so angry with me, and tonight …” Her eyes almost crossed in her rage. “I don’t think I can obey him.” “You WILL!”

After a pause she muttered, “When he’s even a little angry, I can do nothing with him.”

The policemen saw her paleness and were sorry for her but more sorry for themselves - they had heard what had happened on the mountainside. God protect us from He of the Knife! What must it be like to many such a barbarian who everyone knows drank the blood of the tribesmen he slaughtered, worships forest spirits against the law of God, and rolls naked in the snow, forcing her to do the same.

The engines spluttered and began to die and they saw Erikki bellow with rage and smash his great fist on the side of the cockpit, denting the aluminum with the force of his blow.

“Highness, with your permission I will go to bed - I think I will take a sleeping pill and hope that tomorrow is a better…” Her words trailed off. “Yes. A sleeping pill is a good idea. Very good. I’m afraid I’ll have to take two, my back hurts terribly and now I can’t sleep without them.” Hakim added angrily, “It’s his fault! If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be in pain.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Fetch my guards on the gate, I want to give them instructions. Come along, Azadeh.”

Painfully he walked off, Azadeh obediently and sullenly at his side. The engines started shrieking again. Irritably Hakim Khan turned and snapped at the policemen, “If he doesn’t stop in five minutes, order him to stop in my name! Five minutes, by God!”

Uneasily the two men watched them leave, the bodyguard with the two gate guards hurrying after them up the steps. “If Her Highness can’t deal with him, what can we do?” the older policeman said.

“With the Help of God the engines will continue until the barbarian is satisfied, or he stops them himself.”

The lights in the forecourt went out. After six minutes the engines were still starting and stopping. “We’d better obey.” The young policeman was very nervous. “The Khan said five. We’re late.” “Be prepared to run and don’t irritate him unnecessarily. Take your safety catch off.” Nervously they went closer. “Pilot!” But the pilot still had his back to them and was half inside the cockpit. Son of a dog! Closer, now up to the whirling blades. “Pilot!” the corporal said loudly. “He can’t hear you, who can hear anything? You go forward, I’ll cover you.” The corporal nodded, commended his soul to God, and ducked into the wash of air. “Pilot!” He had to go very close, and touch him. “Pilot!” Now the pilot turned, his face grim, said something in barbarian that he did not understand. With a forced smile and forced politeness, he said, “Please, Excellency Pilot, we would consider it an honor if you would stop the engines, His Highness the Khan has ordered it.” He saw the blank look, remembered that He of the Knife could not speak any civilized language, so he repeated what he had said, speaking louder and slower and using signs. To his enormous relief, the pilot nodded apologetically, turned some switches, and now the engines were slowing and the blades were slowing. Praise be to God! Well done, how clever you are, the corporal thought, gratified. “Thank you, Excellency Pilot. Thank you.” Very pleased with himself he imperiously peered into the cockpit. Now he saw the pilot making signs to him, clearly wishing to please him - as so he should, by God - inviting him to get into the pilot’s seat. Puffed with pride, he watched the barbarian politely lean into the cockpit and move the controls and point at instruments.

Not able to contain his curiosity the younger policeman came under the blades that were circling slower and slower, up to the cockpit door. He leaned in to see better, fascinated by the banks of switches and dials that glowed in the darkness.

“By God, Corporal, have you ever seen so many dials and switches? You look as though you belong in that seat!”

“I wish I was a pilot,” the corporal said. “I th - ” He stopped, astonished, as his words were swallowed by a blinding red fog that sucked the breath out of his lungs and made the darkness complete.

Erikki had rammed the younger man’s head against the corporal’s, stunning both of them. Above him the rotors stopped. He looked around. No movement in the darkness, just a few lights on in the palace. No alien eyes or presence that he could sense.

Quickly he stowed their guns behind the pilot’s seat. It took only seconds to carry the two men to the cabin and lay them inside, force their mouths open, put in the sleeping pills that he had stolen from Azadeh’s cabinet, and gag them. A moment to collect his breath before he went forward and checked that all was ready for instant departure. Then he came back to the cabin. The two men had not moved. He leaned against the doorway ready to silence them again if need be. His throat was dry. Sweat beaded him. Waiting. Then he heard dogs and the sound of chain leashes. Quietly he readied the Sten gun. The wandering patrol of two armed guards and the Doberman pinschers passed around the palace but did not come near him. He watched the palace, his arm no longer in the sling.

IN THE NORTHERN SLUMS: The ramshackle, canvas-colored ambulance trundled through the potholed streets. In the back were two medics and three stretchers and Hashemi lay on one, howling, hemorrhaging, most of the front of his loins torn out.

“In the Name of God, give him morphine,” Armstrong gasped through his own pain. He was slumped on his stretcher, half propped against the swaying side, holding a surgical dressing tightly against the bullet hole in his upper chest, quite oblivious of the blood pumping from the wound in his back that was soaking the crude dressing one of the medics had stuffed through the rent in his trenchcoat. “Give him morphine. Hurry!” he told them again, cursing them in Farsi and English, hating them for their stupidity and rough handling - still in shock from the suddenness of the bullet and the attack that had come out of nowhere. Why why why?

“What can I do, Excellency?” came out of the darkness. “We have none of this morphine. It’s God’s will.” The man switched on a flashlight and almost blinded him, turned it onto Hashemi, then to the third stretcher. The youth there was already dead. Armstrong saw they had not bothered to close his eyes. Another burbling scream came from Hashemi.

“Put out the light, Ishmael,” the other medic said. “You want to get us shot?”

Idly, Ishmael obeyed. Once more in darkness, he lit a cigarette, coughed, and cleared his throat noisily, pulled the canvas side screen aside for a moment to get his bearings. “Only a few more minutes, with the Help of God.” He leaned down and shook Hashemi out of his unconscious peace into waking hell. “Only a few more minutes, Excellency Colonel. Don’t die yet,” he said helpfully. “Only a few more minutes and you’ll get proper treatment.” They all lurched as a wheel went into a pothole. Pain blazed through Armstrong. When he felt the ambulance stop, he almost wept with relief. Other men pulled away the canvas tail cover and scrambled in. Rough hands grabbed his feet and dragged him down onto the stretcher and bound him with the safety straps. Through the hell mist of pain he saw Hashemi’s stretcher being carried off info the night, then men lifted him carelessly, the pain was too much, and he fainted.

The stretcher bearers stepped over the joub and went through the doorway in the high wall, into the sleazy corridor and along it, down a flight of stairs, and into a large cellar that was lit with oil lamps. Mzytryk said, “Put him there!” He pointed to the second table. Hashemi was already on the first one, also strapped to his stretcher. Leisurely Mzytryk examined Armstrong’s wounds, then Hashemi’s, both men still unconscious. “Good,” he said. “Wait for me upstairs, Ishmael.”

Ishmael took off the grimy Red Cross armband and threw it into a corner with the others. “Many of our people were martyred in the building. I doubt if any escaped.”

“Then you were wise not to join the meeting.”

Ishmael clomped upstairs to rejoin his friends who were noisily congratulating themselves on their success in grabbing the enemy leader and his running dog, the foreigner. All were trusted, hard-core Islamic-Marxist fighters, not a medic among them.

Mzytryk waited until he was alone, then took a small penknife and probed Hashemi deeply. The bellowing scream pleased him. When it subsided he lifted the pail of icy water and dashed it into the colonel’s face. The eyes opened and the terror and pain therein pleased him even more. “You wanted to see me, Colonel? You murdered my son, Fedor. I’m General Petr Oleg Mzytryk.” He used the knife again. Hashemi’s face became grotesque as he howled, screaming and babbling incoherently, trying to fight out of his bonds. “This’s for my son… and this for my son… and this for my son…” Hashemi’s heart was strong, and he lasted minutes, begging for mercy, begging for death, the One God for death and for vengeance. He died badly. For a moment Mzytryk stood over him, his nostrils rebelling against the stench. But he did not need to force himself to remember what these two had done to his son to drag him down to the third level. Pahmudi’s report had been explicit. “Hashemi Fazir, you’re repaid, you shiteater,” he said and spat in his face. Then he turned and stopped. Armstrong was awake and watching him from the stretcher on the other side of the cellar. Cold blue eyes. Bloodless face. The lack of fear astonished him. I’ll soon change that, he thought, and took out the penknife. Then he noticed Armstrong’s right arm was out of the straps, but before he could do anything Armstrong had reached up for the lapel of his trenchcoat and now held the tip and the hidden cyanide capsule it contained near his mouth. “Don’t move!” Armstrong warned.

Mzytryk was too seasoned to consider rushing him, the distance too far. In his side pocket was an automatic but before he could get it out he was sure that Armstrong’s teeth would crush the capsule and three seconds left was not nearly enough time for vengeance. His only hope was that Armstrong’s pain would make him faint, or lose concentration. He leaned back against the other table and cursed him.

When the stretcher bearers had tightened Armstrong’s straps in the darkness of the ambulance, he had instinctively used his strength against the straps to give himself just enough space to pull out his arm - in case the pain became too much for him. Another capsule was secreted in his shirt collar. He had trembled through Hashemi’s dying, thanking God for the respite that had allowed him to drag his arm free, the effort terrible. But once he had touched the capsule, his terror had left him and with it, much of his pain. He had made peace with himself at the edge of death where life is so utterly sublime.

“We’re… we’re professionals,” he said. “We didn’t murder your… your son. He was alive when… when General Janan took him away for Pahmudi.” “Liar!” Mzytryk heard the weakness in the voice and knew he would not have to wait much longer. He readied.

“Read the official… official documents… SAVAMA must have made some… and those of your God-cursed KGB.”

“You think I’m such a fool you can set me against Pahmudi before you die?” “Read the reports, ask questions, you could get the truth. But you KGB bastards never like the truth. I tell you he was alive when SAVAMA took him.”

Mzytryk was put off balance. It wouldn’t be normal for a professional like Armstrong - near death, one way or another, to waste time suggesting such an investigation without being certain of the outcome. “Where are the tapes?” he said, watching him carefully, seeing the eyes beginning to flicker, great tiredness from loss of blood. Any second now. “Where are the tapes?”

“There weren’t any. Not… not from the third level.” Armstrong’s strength was ebbing. The pain had gone now - along with time. It took a bigger and bigger effort every second to concentrate. But the tapes must be protected, a copy already safely en route to London along with a special report. “Your son was brave and strong and gave away nothing to us. What… what Pahmudi hacked… hacked out of him I don’t know… Pahmudi’s thugs… it was them or your own scum. He was al… alive when your lot took him. Pahmudi told Hashemi.”

That’s possible, Mzytryk thought uneasily. Those motherless shiteaters in Tehran messed up Iran, misread the Shah for years, and befouled our work of generations. “I’ll find out. By my son’s head I’ll find out but that won’t help you - comrade!”

“One favor deserves … one deserves ano… another. You knocked off Roger, Roger Crosse, eh?”

Mzytryk laughed, happy to taunt him and exploit the waiting. “I arranged it, yes. And AMG, remember him? And Talbot, but I told Pahmudi to use this shiteater Fazir for that 16/a.” He watched the cold blue eyes narrow and wondered what was behind them.

Armstrong was searching his memory. AMG? Ah, yes, Alan Medford Grant, bom 1905, dean of counterintelligence agents. In 1963, as Ian Dunross’s secret informant, he fingered a mole in the Noble House. And another in my Special Branch who turned out to be my best friend. “Liar! AMG was killed in a motorcycle accident in ‘63.”

“It was assisted. We’d had a 16/a out on that traitor for a year or more - and his Jap wife.” “He wasn’t married.”

“You bastards know nothing. Special Branch? Turd heads. She was Jap Intelligence. She had an accident in Sydney the same year.” Armstrong allowed himself a little smile. The AMG motorcycle “accident” had been organized by the KGB but had been re-staged by MI6. The death certificate was genuine, someone else’s, and Alan Medford Grant still operates successfully though with a different face and different cover that even I don’t know. But a wife? Japanese? Was that another smoke screen, or another secret? Wheels within wheels within…

The past beckoned Armstrong. With an effort he put his mind on what he truly wanted to know, to check if he was right or wrong, no time to waste anymore, none. “Who’s the fourth man - our arch traitor?”

The question hung in the cellar. Mzytryk was startled and then he smiled, for Armstrong had given him the key to have his revenge psychologically. He told him the name and saw the shock. And the name of the fifth man, even the sixth. “MI6’s riddled with our agents, not just moles, so’s MI5, most of your trade unions - Ted Everly’s one of ours, Broadhurst and Lord Grey - remember him from Hong Kong? - and not just Labour though they’re our best seeding ground. Names?” he said gloating, knowing he was safe. “Look in Who’s Who! High up in the banks, the City, in the Foreign Office - Henley’s another of ours and I’ve already had a copy of your report - up to Cabinet, perhaps even into Downing Street. We’ve half a thousand professionals of our own in Britain, not counting your own traitors.” His laugh was cruel. “And Smedley-Taylor?”

“Oh, yes, him too an - ” Abruptly Mzytryk’s gloating ceased, his guard slammed shut. “How do you know about him? If you know about him… Eh?” Armstrong was satisfied. Fedor Rakoczy had not lied. All those names on the tapes already gone, already safe, Henley never trusted, not even Talbot. He was content and sad, sorry that he would not be around to catch them himself. Someone will. AMG will.

His eyes fluttered, his hand slid away from his coat lapel. Instantly Mzytryk rushed the space, moving very fast for such a big man, and pinioned the arm between the table and his leg, ripped the lapel away, and now Armstrong was powerless and at his mercy. “Wake up, matyeryebyets!” he said exultantly, the penknife out. “How did you know about Smedley?” But Armstrong did not answer. Death had come quietly.

Mzytryk was enraged, his heart thundering. “Never mind, he’s gone, no need to waste time,” he muttered out loud. The mother-eating bastard went into hell knowing he was the tool of traitors, some of them. But how did he know about Smedley-Taylor? To hell with him, what if he told the truth about my son?

In the corner of the cellar was a can of kerosene. He began to slop it over the bodies, his rage dissipating. “Ishmael!” he called up the stairs. When he had finished with the kerosene he threw the can into the comer. Ishmael and another man came down into the cellar. “Are you ready to leave?” Mzytryk asked them.

“Yes, with the Help of God.”

“And with the help of ourselves too,” Mzytryk said lightly. He wiped his hands, tired but satisfied with the way the day and the night had gone. Now just a short ride to the outskirts of Tabriz to his helicopter. An hour - less - to the Tbilisi dacha and Vertinskya. In a few weeks the young puppy Hakim will arrive, with or without my pishkesh, Azadeh. If it’s without, it will be expensive for him. “Start the fire,” he said crisply, “and we’ll be going.”

“Here, Comrade General!” Cheerfully Ishmael threw him some matches. “It’s your privilege to finish that which you began.”

Mzytryk had caught the matches. “Good,” he said. The first did not light. Nor the second. The third did. He backed to the stairs and carefully threw it. Flames gushed to the ceiling and to the wooden rafters. Then Ishmael’s foot went into his back and sent him sprawling, headfirst, into the outskirts of the fire. In panic Mzytryk screamed and beat at the flames and he whirled and scuttled on his blackening hands and knees back toward the stairs, stopped a moment beating at his fur lapels, coughing and choking in the billowing black smoke and smell of burning flesh. Somehow he lurched to his feet. The first bullet smashed his kneecap, he howled and reeled backward into the fire, the second broke his other leg and hurled him down. Impotently he beat at the flames, his screams drowned by the gathering roar of the inferno. And he became a torch.

Ishmael and the other man jumped back up the stairs to the first landing, almost colliding with others who had rushed down. They gaped at the twitching body of Mzytryk, the flames now eating his boots. “What you do that for?” one of them said, aghast.

“My brother was martyred at the house, so was your cousin.” “As God wants, but, Ishmael, the comrade general? God protect us, he supplied us with money and arms and explosives - why kill him?” “Why not? Wasn’t the son of a dog an arrogant, ill-mannered Satanist? He wasn’t even a Person of the Book,” Ishmael said contemptuously. “Dozens more where they came from, thousands. They need us, we don’t need them. He deserved to die. Didn’t he come alone, tempting me?” He spat toward the body. “Important persons should have bodyguards.”

A shaft of flames reached for them. They retreated hastily. The fire caught the wooden stairs and was spreading rapidly. In the street they all piled into the truck, no longer an ambulance.

Ishmael looked back at the flames gutting the house and laughed uproariously. “Now that dog’s a burnt father! May all Infidels perish as quickly.”

IN THE PALACE FORECOURT: Erikki was leaning against the 212 when he saw the lights in the Khan’s quarters on the second floor go out. A careful check on the two drugged policemen fast asleep in the cabin reassured him. Quietly he slid the cabin door closed, eased his knife under his belt and picked up the Sten. With the skill of a night hunter he moved noiselessly toward the palace. The Khan’s guards on the gate did not notice him go - why should they bother to watch him? The Khan had given them clear orders to leave the pilot alone and not agitate him, that surely he would soon tire of playing with the machine. “If he takes a car, let him. If the police want trouble, that’s their problem.”

“Yes, Highness,” they had both told him, glad they were not responsible for He of the Knife.

Erikki slipped through the front door and along the dimly lit corridor to the stairs leading to the north wing, well away from the Khan’s area. Noiselessly up the stairs and along another corridor. He saw a shaft of light under the door of their suite. Without hesitation he went into the anteroom, closing the door silently after him. Across the room to their bedroom door and swung it open. To his shock, Mina, Azadeh’s maid, was there too. She was kneeling on the bed where she had been massaging Azadeh who was fast asleep.

“Oh, your pardon,” she stuttered, terrified of him like all the servants. “I didn’t hear Your Excellency. Her Highness asked… asked me to continue as long as I could with… with the massage, then to sleep here.” Erikki’s face was a mask, the oil streaks on his cheeks and on the taped bandage over his ear making him appear more dangerous. “Azadeh!” “Oh you won’t wake her, Excellency, she took a… she took two sleeping pills and asked me to apologize for her if you c - ”

“Dress her!” he hissed.

Mina blanched. “But, Excellency!” Her heart almost stopped as she saw a knife appear in his hand.

“Dress her quickly and if you make a sound I’ll gut you. Do it!” He saw her grab the dressing gown. “Not that, Mina! Warm clothes, ski clothes - by all the gods, it doesn’t matter which but be quick!” He watched her, positioning himself between her and the door so she couldn’t bolt. On the bedside table was the sheathed kookri. A twinge went through him and he tore his eyes away, and when he was sure Mina was obeying he took Azadeh’s purse from the dressing table. All her papers were in it, ID, passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, everything. Good, he thought, and blessed Aysha for the gift that Azadeh had told him about before dinner, and thanked his ancient gods for giving him the plan this morning. Ah, my darling, did you think I’d really leave you? Also in the purse was her soft silk jewelry bag which seemed heavier than normal. His eyes widened at the emeralds and diamonds and pearl necklaces and pendants that it now contained. The rest of Najoud’s, he thought, the same that Hakim had used to barter with the tribesmen and that I retrieved from Bayazid. In the mirror he saw Mina gaping at the wealth he held in his hand, Azadeh inert and almost dressed. “Hurry up!” he grated at her reflection.

AT THE AMBUSH ROADBLOCK BELOW THE PALACE: Both the sergeant of police and his driver in the car waiting beside the road were staring up at the palace four hundred yards away, the sergeant using binoculars. Just the dim lights on the outside of the vast gatehouse, no sign of any guards, or of his own two men. “Drive up there,” the sergeant said uneasily. “Something’s wrong, by God! They’re either asleep or dead. Go slowly and quietly.” He reached into the scabbard beside him and put a shell into the breech of the M16. The driver gunned the engine and eased out into the empty roadway.

AT THE MAIN GATE: Babak, the guard, was leaning against a pillar inside the massive iron gate that was closed and bolted. The other guard was curled up nearby on some sacking, fast asleep. Through the bars of the gate could be seen the snowbanked road that wound down to the city. Beyond the empty fountain in the forecourt, a hundred yards away, was the helicopter. The icy wind moved the blades slightly.

Babak yawned and stamped his feet against the cold, then began to relieve himself through the bars, absently waving the stream this way and that. Earlier when they had been dismissed by the Khan and had come back to their post, they had found that the two policemen had gone. “They’re off to scrounge some food, or to have a sleep,” he had said. “God curse all police.”

He yawned, looking forward to the dawn when he would be off duty for a few hours. Only the pilot’s car to usher through just before dawn, then relock the gate, and soon he would be in bed with a warm body. Automatically he scratched his genitals, feeling himself stir and harden. Idly he leaned back, playing with himself, his eyes checking that the gate’s heavy bolt was in place and the small side gate also locked. Then the edge of his eyes caught a movement. He centered it. The pilot was slinking out of a side door of the palace with a large bundle over his shoulder, his arm no longer in the sling and carrying a gun. Babak hastily buttoned up, slipped his rifle off his shoulder, moved farther out of view. Cautiously he kicked the other guard who awoke soundlessly. “Look,” he whispered, “I thought the pilot was still in the cabin of the helicopter.”

Wide-eyed, they watched Erikki keep to the shadows, then silently dart across the open space to the far side of the helicopter. “What’s he carrying? What’s the bundle?”

“It looked like a carpet, a rolled-up carpet,” the other whispered. Sound of the far cockpit door opening.

“But why? In all the Names of God, what’s he doing?”

There was barely enough light but their vision was good and hearing good. They heard an approaching car but were at once distracted by the sound of the far cabin door sliding open. They waited, hardly breathing, then saw him dump what appeared to be two similar bundles under the belly of the helicopter, then duck under the tail boom and reappear on their side. For a moment he stood there, looking toward them but not seeing them, then eased the cockpit door open, and got in with the gun, the carpet bundle now propped on the opposite seat.

Abruptly the jets began and both guards jumped. “God protect us, what do we do?”

Nervously Babak said, “Nothing. The Khan told us exactly: ‘Leave the pilot alone, whatever he does, he’s dangerous,’ that’s what he told us, didn’t he? ‘When the pilot takes the car near dawn let the pilot leave.’” Now he had to talk loudly over the rising scream. “We do nothing.”

“But we weren’t told he would start his engines again, the Khan didn’t say that, or sneak out with bundles of carpets.”

“You’re right. As God wants, but you’re right.” Their nervousness increased. They had not forgotten the guards jailed and flogged by the old Khan for disobedience or failure, or those

banished by the new one. “The engines sound good now, don’t you think?” They both looked up as lights came on at the second floor, the Khan’s floor, then they jerked around as the police car came swirling to a stop outside the gate. The sergeant jumped out, a flashlight in his hand. “What’s going on, by God?” the sergeant shouted. “Open the gate, by God! Where’re my men?” Babak rushed for the side gate and pulled the bolt back. In the cockpit Erikki’s hands were moving as quickly as possible, the wound in his arm inhibiting him. The sweat ran down his face and mixed with a trickle of blood from his ear where the taped bandages had become displaced. His breath came in great pants from the long run from the north wing with Azadeh bundled in the carpet, drugged and helpless, and he was cursing the needles to rise quicker. He had seen the lights go on in Hakim’s apartments and now heads were peering out. Before he had left their suite he had carefully knocked Mina unconscious, hoping he had not hurt her, to protect her as well as himself so she would not sound an alarm or be accused of collusion, had wrapped Azadeh in the carpet and attached the kookri to his belt. “Come on,” he snarled at the needles, then glimpsed two men at the main gate in police uniforms. Suddenly the helicopter was bathed in a shaft of light from the flashlight and his stomach turned over. Without thinking, he grabbed his Sten, shoved the nose through the pilot’s window, and pulled the trigger, aiming high.

The four men scattered for cover as bullets ricocheted off the gate masonry. In his panic the sergeant dropped the flash, but not before all had seen the two crumpled, inert bodies of the corporal and the other policeman sprawled on the ground and presumed them dead. As the burst stopped, the sergeant scrambled for the side gate and his car and his Ml6.

“Fire, by God,” the driver policeman shouted. Whipped by the excitement, Babak squeezed the trigger, the shots going wild. Incautiously, the driver moved into the open to retrieve the flash. Another burst from the helicopter and he leaped backward. “Son of a burnt father…” The three of them cowered in safety. Another burst at the flashlight danced it, then smashed it. Erikki saw his escape plan in ruins, the 212 a helpless target on the ground. Time had run out for him. For a split second he considered closing down. The needles were far too low. Then he emptied the Sten at the gate with a howling battle cry, slammed the throttles forward, and let out another primeval scream that chilled those who heard it. The jets went to full power, shrieked under the strain as he put the stick forward and dragged her airborne a few inches and now, tail high, she lurched ahead, skids screeching on the forecourt as she bounced and rose and fell back and bounced again and now was airborne but lumbering badly. At the main gate the driver tore the gun from a guard and went to the pillar, peered around it to see the helicopter escaping, and pulled the trigger.

On the second floor of the palace Hakim was blearily leaning out of his bedroom window, grasped from drugged sleep by the noise. His bodyguard, Margol, was beside him. They saw the 212 almost collide with a small wooden outhouse, her skids ripping away part of the roof, then struggle onward in a drunken climb. Outside the walls was the police car, the sergeant silhouetted in the beam of its headlights. Hakim watched him aim and willed the bullets to miss.

Erikki heard bullets zinging off metal, prayed they had touched nothing vital, and banked dangerously away from the exposed outer wall toward some space where he could slip behind the safety of the palace. In the wild turn the bundled carpet containing Azadeh toppled over and tangled with the controls. For a moment he was lost, then he used his massive strength to shove her away. The wound in his forearm split open.

Now he swerved behind the north wing, the chopper still only a few feet high, and headed toward the other perimeter wall near the hut where Ross and Gueng had been hidden. A stray bullet punctured his door, hacked into the instrument panel, exploding glass.

When the helicopter had disappeared from Hakim’s view, he had hobbled across the huge bedroom, past the wood fire that blazed merrily, out into the corridor to the windows there. “Can you see him?” he asked, panting from the exertion.

“Yes, Highness,” Margol said, and pointed excitedly. “There!” The 212 was just a black shape against more blackness, then the perimeter floodlights came on and Hakim saw her stagger over the wall with only inches to spare and dip down behind it. A few seconds later she had reappeared, gaining speed and altitude. At that moment Aysha came running along the corridor, crying out hysterically, “Highness, Highness… Azadeh’s gone, she’s gone… that devil’s kidnapped her and Mina’s been knocked unconscious. …”

It was hard for Hakim to concentrate against the pills, his eyelids never so heavy. “What are you talking about?”

“Azadeh’s gone, your sister’s gone, he wrapped her in a carpet and he’s kidnapped her, taken her with him…” She stopped, afraid, seeing the look on Hakim’s face, ashen in this bleak light, eyes drooping - not knowing about the sleeping pills. “He’s kidnapped her!”

“But that… that’s not possible… not poss - ”

“Oh, but it is, she’s kidnapped and Mina’s unconscious!”

Hakim blinked at her, then stuttered, “Sound the alarm, Aysha! If she’s kidnapped… by God, sound… sound the alarm! I’ve taken sleeping pills and they… I’ll deal with that devil tomorrow, by God, I can’t, not now, but send someone… to the police… to the Green Bands… spread the alarm, there’s a Khan’s ransom on his head! Margol, help me back to my room.” Frightened servants and guards were collecting at the end of the corridor and Aysha ran tearfully back to them, telling them what had happened and what the Khan had ordered.

Hakim groped for his bed and lay back, exhausted. “Margol, tell the… tell guards to arrest those fools at the gate. How could they have let that happen?”

“They can’t have been vigilant, Highness.” Margol was sure they would be blamed - someone had to be blamed - even though he had been present when the Khan had told them not to interfere with the pilot. He gave the order and came back. “Are you all right, Highness?”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t leave the room… wake me at dawn. Keep the fire going and wake me at dawn.”

Gratefully Hakim let himself go into the sleep that beckoned so seductively, his back no longer paining him, his mind focused on Azadeh and on Erikki. When she had walked out of the small room and left him alone with Erikki, he had allowed his grief to show: “There’s no way out of the trap, Erikki. We’re trapped, all of us, you, Azadeh, and me. I still can’t believe she’d renounce Islam, at the same time I’m convinced she won’t obey me or you. I’ve no wish to hurt her but I’ve no alternative, her immortal soul is more important than her temporary life.”

“I could save her soul, Hakim. With your help.”

“How?” He had seen the tension in Erikki, his face tight, eyes strange. “Remove her need to destroy it.”

“How?”

“Say, hypothetically, this madman of a pilot was not Muslim but barbarian and so much in love with his wife that he goes a little more mad and instead of just escaping by himself, he suddenly knocks her out, kidnaps her, flies her out of her own country against her will, and refuses to allow her to return. In most countries a husband can … can take extreme measures to hold on to his wife, even to force her obedience and curb her. This way she won’t have broken her oath, she’ll never need to give up Islam, you’ll never need to harm her, and I’ll keep my woman.” “It’s a cheat,” Hakim had said bewildered. “It’s a cheat.” “It’s not, it’s make-believe, hypothetical, all of it, only make-believe, but hypothetically it fulfills the rules you swore to abide by, and no one’d ever believe the sister of the Gorgon Khan would willingly break her oath and renounce Islam over a barbarian. No one. Even now you don’t know for certain she would, do you?”

Hakim had tried to find the flaws. There’re none, he had thought, astonished. And it would solve most of… wouldn’t it solve everything if it came to pass? If Erikki was to do this without her knowledge and help… Kidnap her! It’s true, no one’d ever believe she’d willingly break her oath. Kidnapped! I could deplore it publicly and rejoice for her in secret, if I want her to leave, and him to live. But I have to, it’s the only way: to save her soul I have to save him.

In the peace of the bedroom he opened his eyes briefly. Flame shadows danced on the ceiling. Erikki and Azadeh were there. God will forgive me, he thought, swooping into sleep. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again?

Chapter 69

TEHRAN - NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 11:58 P.M. In the chill darkness Sharazad stood with the phalanx of Green Bands protecting the front of the massed, shouting Islamics. They were packed together, chanting “Allahhhh-u Akbarrrr” in unison, a living barrier against the two to three thousand roaring, leftist students and agitators approaching down the road. Flashlights and burning torches, some cars on fire, guns, sticks, wooden clubs. Her fingers gripped the automatic in her pocket, grenade ready in her other pocket. “God is Great!” she shrieked.

The enemy was closing fast and Sharazad saw their clenched fists, the tumult growing on both sides, shouts more hoarse, nerves more stretched, anticipation rocketing - “There is no other God but God…” Now their enemies were so near she could see individual faces. Suddenly she realized they were not massed satanic revolutionaries, not all of them, but the vast majority students, men and women of her own age, the women bravely not chadored and shouting for women’s rights, the vote, and all the sensible, God given, hard fought for, never-turning-back things.

She was transported back to the heady excitement of the Women’s March, all of them in their best clothes, hair free, as free as their hair, with freedom and justice for all in their new Islamic republic where she and her son-to-be and Tommy would live happily ever after. But there again in front of her was the knife-wielding fanatic tearing the future away, but that didn’t matter for her Ibrahim had stopped him, Ibrahim the student leader, he was there to save her. Oh, Ibrahim, are you here tonight, leading them now as you did with us? Are you here once more fighting for freedom and justice and women’s rights or were you martyred in Kowiss as you wanted, killing your evil, two-faced mullah who murdered your father as mine was also murdered?

But… but Father was killed by Islamics, not leftists, she thought bewildered. And the Imam’s still implacably for everything as it was in the Prophet’s time … And Meshang… And Tommy forced out. And forced divorce and forced marriage to that foul old man and no rights!

“What am I doing here?” she gasped in the pandemonium. “I should be over there with them, I should be over there with them, not here… no, no, not there either! What about my child, my son-to-be, it’s dangerous for him an - ”

Somewhere a gun went off, then others and mayhem became general, those in the fore trying to retreat and those behind trying to get to the fight. Around Sharazad there was a mindless surge. She felt herself being crushed and carried forward, her feet hardly touching the ground. A woman beside her screamed and went under the feet. An old man stumbled, and vanished below mumbling the Shahada, almost bringing her down. Someone’s elbow went into her stomach, she cried out in pain and her fear became terror. “Tommyyyy! Help meeeeee…” she shrieked.

A hundred yards or so ahead Tom Lochart was pressed against a shop front by the student marchers, his coat torn, peaked cap gone, more desperate than he had ever been. For hours he had been searching the groups of students hoping against hope to find her, sure she was somewhere among them. Where else would she go? Surely not to this student’s apartment, the one Jari said she met, this Ibrahim or whatever his name was who meant nothing. Better she’s there than here, he thought in despair. Oh, God, let me find her. Chanting women passed, most in Western dress, jeans, jackets, and then he saw her. He fought alongside but once more he had made a mistake and he apologized and shoved his way to the side again, a few curses shouted after him. Then he thought he saw her on the far side of the roadway but again he was mistaken. The girl wore similar ski clothes to Sharazad and had the same hairstyle and was about her age. But she carried a Marxist-Islamic banner and, scourged by his disappointment, he cursed her, hating her for her stupidity. The shouts and countershouts were reaching him too, agitating him, and he wanted to pick up the cudgel and smash the evil out of them. Oh, God, help me find her. “God IS great,” he muttered, and though he was frantic with worry for her, at the same time his heart was soaring. Becoming Muslim will make all the difference. Now they will accept me, I’m one of them, I can go on the Hajj to Mecca, I can worship in any mosque, color or race means nothing to God. Only belief. I believe in God and that Mohammed was the Prophet of God, I won’t be fundamentalist, or Shi’a. I’ll be orthodox Sunni. I’ll find a teacher and study and learn Arabic. And I’ll fly for IranOil and the new regime and we will be happy, Sharazad and I… A gun went off nearby, fires of a burning tire barricade soared into the air as small groups of screaming students were throwing themselves at the ranks of the Green Bands, other guns began firing, and now the whole street erupted into shouting, heaving bodies, the weak crushed underfoot. A berserk phalanx of youths dragged him with them toward the fighting. Eighty yards away Sharazad was screaming, fighting for her life, trying to shove and kick and push her way to the side where there would be comparative safety. Her chador was torn away, her scarf vanished. She was bruised, pain in her stomach. Those around her were a mob now, hacking at those opposing it, all for themselves but wrapped into the mob beast. The battle waged back and forth, no one knowing who was friend or enemy, except mullahs and Green Bands who shouted, trying to control the riot. With an earsplitting roar, the Islamic mob hesitated a moment, then advanced. The weak fell and were crushed. Men, women. Screams and shouts and pandemonium, all calling on their own version of God.

Desperately the students fought back but they were swamped. Relentlessly. Many went down. Feet trampled them. Now the rest broke, the rout began, and the sides intermixed.

Lochart used his superior height and strength to batter his way to the side and now stood between two cars, protected by them for the moment. A few yards away he saw a small, half-hidden alleyway that led toward a broken-down mosque where there would be sanctuary. Ahead was a huge explosion as a car tank exploded, scattering flames. The fortunate were killed instantly, the wounded began to scream. In the flame light he thought he caught a glimpse of her, then a group of fleeing youths swarmed over him, a fist went into his back, others pummeled him out of the way, and he fell under their boots.

Sharazad was only thirty yards away, hair awry, clothes torn, still locked into the press of the mob, still pulled along by the juggernaut, still screaming for help, no one hearing or caring. “Tommyyyy… help meeeeee…” The crowd parted momentarily. She darted for the opening, squeezing her way toward the barred and locked shops and parked cars. The tumult was lessening. Arms pushed for breathing space, hands wiped sweat and filth off, and men saw their neighbors.

“You God-cursed Communist harlot,” the man in her path shouted, eyes almost out of his sockets with rage.

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m Muslim,” she gasped, but his hands had caught her ski jacket - the zipper wrecked - his hand went in and grabbed her breast. “Harlot! Muslim women don’t flaunt themselves, Muslim women wear chad - ” “I lost it - it was torn off me,” she shrieked.

“Harlot! God curse you! Our women wear chador.”

“I lost it - it was torn off me,” she shrieked again and tried to pull away, “There is no oth - ”

“Harlot! Whore! Satanist!” he shouted, his ears closed to her, the madness on him and the feel of her breast through her silk shirt and undershirt further inflaming him. His fingers clawed at the silk and ripped it away and now he held her roundness, his other hand dragging her closer to subdue her and strangle her as she kicked and screamed. Those nearby jostled them, or tried to move out of the way, hard to see in the darkness that was only rent by the light from fires, not know what was going on except someone had caught a leftist whore here in the ranks of the Godly. “By God, she’s not a leftist, I heard her shouting for the Imam…” someone called out but cries ahead overrode him, another pocket of fighting flared up and men shoved forward to help or elbowed space to retreat and they left her and him together.

She fought him with her nails and feet and voice, his breath and obscenities choking her. With a final effort she called on God for help, hacked upward and missed and remembered her gun. Her hand grasped it, shoved it into him, and pulled the trigger. The man screamed, most of his genitals blown off, and he collapsed howling. There was a sudden hush around her. And space. Her hand came out of the pocket still holding the gun. A man near to her grabbed it.

Blankly she stared down at her attacker who twisted and moaned in the dirt. “God is Great,” she stuttered, then noticed her disarray and pulled her jacket together, looked up and saw the hatred surrounding her. “He was attacking me… God is Great, God is Great…”

“She’s just saying that, she’s a leftist…” a woman screeched. “Look at her clothes, she’s not one of us …”

Just a few yards away, Lochart was picking himself out of the dirt, head hurting, ears ringing, hardly able to see or to hear. With a great effort he stood upright, then shouldered his way forward toward the dark mouth of the alley and safety. Others had had the same thought and already the entrance was clogged. Then her voice, mingled with shouting, reached him and he turned back.

He saw her at bay, backed against a wall, a mob around her, clothes half torn off, the sleeve of her jacket ripped away, eyes staring, a grenade in her hand. At that second a man made a move at her, she pulled the pin out, the man froze, everyone began to back off, Lochart burst through the cordon to reach her and seized the grenade, keeping the lever down. “Get away from her,” he roared in Farsi and stood in front of her, protecting her. “She’s Muslim, you sons of dogs. She’s Muslim and my wife and I’m Muslim!” “You’re a foreigner and she’s a leftist by God!”

Lochart darted at the man and his fist now armored with the grenade crushed the man’s mouth in, shattering his jaw. “God is Great,” Lochart bellowed. Others took up the shout and those who disbelieved him did nothing, afraid of him but more afraid of the grenade. Holding her tightly with his free arm, half guiding, half carrying her, Lochart went at the first rank, grenade ready. “Please let us pass, God is Great, peace be with you.” The first rank parted, then the next, and he shoved through, muttering, “God is great…. Peace be with you,” continually until he had broken out of the cordon and into the crowded alley, stumbling in the filth and potholes, bumping people here and there in the darkness. A few lights were on outside the mosque ahead. At the fountain he stopped, broke the ice, and with one hand scooped some water into his face, the torrent in his brain still raging. “Christ,” he muttered and used more water.

“Oh, Tommyyyy!” Sharazad cried out, her voice far off and strange, near breaking. “Where did you come from, where, oh I… I was so afraid, so afraid.”

“So was I,” he stammered, the words hard to get out. “I’ve been searching for hours for you, my darling.” He pulled her to him. “You all right?” “Oh, yes, yes.” Her arms were tight around him, her face buried in his shoulder.

Sudden firing, more shrieks back toward the street. Instinctively he held her tighter but sensed no danger here. Just half-seen crowds passing in the semidarkness, the firing becoming more distant and the noise of the riot decreasing.

We’re safe at last. No, not yet, there’s still the grenade - no pin to make it safe, no way to make it safe. Over her head and those of the passersby, he saw a burned-out building by the side of the mosque across the little square. I can get rid of it there safely, he persuaded himself, not thinking clearly yet, holding on to her and gathering strength from her embrace. The crowds had increased, now packing the alley. Until their numbers lessened it would be difficult and dangerous to dispose of the grenade across the square so he moved her closer to the fountain where the darkness was deeper. “Don’t worry. We’ll wait a second, then go on.” They were talking English, softly - so much to tell, so much to ask. “You sure you’re all right?” “Yes, oh, yes. How did you find me? How? When did you get back? How did you find me?”

“I… I flew back tonight and went to the house but you’d gone.” Then he burst out, “Sharazad, I’ve become Muslim.”

She gaped at him. “But… but that was just a trick, a trick to get away from them!”

“No, I swear it! I really have. I swear it. I said the Shahada in front of three witnesses, Meshang and Zarah and Jari, and I believe. I do believe. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

Her disbelief vanished seeing the joy in him, his voice telling her over and over what had happened. “Oh, how wonderful, Tommy,” she said, beyond herself with happiness, at the same time utterly certain that, for them, nothing would change. Nothing will change Meshang, she thought. Meshang will find a way to destroy us whether my Tommy’s a Believer or not. Nothing will change, the divorce will stay, the marriage will stay. Unless … Her fears vanished. “Tommy, can we leave Tehran tonight? Can we run away tonight, my darling?”

“There’s no need for that, not now. I’ve wonderful plans. I’ve quit S-G. Now that I’m Muslim I can stay and fly for IranOil, don’t you see?” Both were oblivious of the crowds passing, packed more tightly, anxious to be home. “No need to worry, Sharazad.”

Someone stumbled and jostled him, then another, a pileup beginning that encroached on their little sanctuary. She saw him shove a man away and others began to curse. Quickly she took his hand, and pulled him into the mainstream. “Let’s go home, husband,” she said loudly in coarsened Farsi, cautioning him, holding on tightly, then whispered, “Speak Farsi,” then a little louder, “We’re not safe here and we can talk better at home.” “Yes, yes, woman. Better we go home.” Walking was better and safer and Sharazad was here and tomorrow would solve tomorrow, tonight there would be a bath and sleep and food and sleep and no dreams or only happy ones. “If we wanted to leave tonight secretly, could we? Could we, Tommy?” Tiredness washed over him and he almost shouted at her that didn’t she understand what he had just told her? Instead he held back the anger and just said, “There’s no need to escape now.”

“You’re quite right, husband, as always. But could we?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so,” he said wearily, and told her how, stopping and starting again with the rest of the pedestrians as the alley narrowed, more claustrophobic every moment.

Now she was aglow, quite sure she could convince him. Tomorrow they would leave. Tomorrow morning I’ll collect my jewels, we’ll pretend to Meshang we’ll meet him in the bazaar at lunchtime, but by then we will be flying south in Tommy’s plane. He can fly in the Gulf states or Canada or anywhere, you can be Muslim and Canadian without harm, they told me when I went to the embassy. And soon, in a month or so we’ll come home to Iran and live here forever…

Contentedly she went even closer to him, hidden in the crowd and by the darkness, not afraid anymore, certain their future would be grand. Now that he’s a Believer he will go to Paradise, God is Great, God is Great, and so will I, and together, with the Help of God, we will leave sons and daughters behind us. And then, when we are old, if he dies first, on the fortieth day I will make sure his spirit is remembered perfectly, and then, afterward, I will curse his younger wife or wives and their children, then put my affairs in order and peacefully wait to join him - in God’s time. “Oh, I do love you, Tommy, I’m so sorry that you’ve had so much trouble… trouble over me …”

Now they were breaking out of the alley into a street. The crowds were even heavier, swarming all over the roadway and in the traffic. But there was a lightness on them all, men, women, mullahs, Green Bands, young and old, the night well spent doing God’s work. “Allah-u Akbar!” someone shouted, the words echoed and reechoed by a thousand throats. Ahead an impatient car lurched, bumped into some pedestrians who bumped into others who brought down others amid curses and laughter. Sharazad and Lochart among them, no one hurt. He had caught her safely and, laughing together, they rested on the ground a moment, the grenade still tight in his hand. They did not hear its warning hiss - without knowing it, in falling he had slackened the lever an instant, but just enough. For an infinity of time he smiled at her and she at him. “God is Great,” she said and he echoed her just as confidently. And, the same instant, they died.

Saturday - March 3

Chapter 70

AL SHARGAZ: 6:34 P.M. The tip of the sun crested the horizon and turned black desert into a crimson sea, staining the old port city and dhows in the Gulf beyond. From the minaret loudspeakers muezzins began but the music in their voices did not please Gavallan or any of the other S-G personnel on the veranda of the Oasis Hotel, finishing a hurried breakfast. “It gets to you, Scrag, doesn’t it?” Gavallan said.

“Right you are, sport,” Scragger said. He, Rudi Lutz, and Pettikin shared Gavallan’s table, all of them tired and dispirited. Whirlwind’s almost complete success was turning into a disaster. Dubois and Fowler still missing - in Bahrain, McIver not yet out of danger. Tom Lochart back in Tehran, God knows where. No news of Erikki and Azadeh. No sleep for most of them last night. And sunset today still their deadline.

From the moment yesterday when the 212s had started landing, they had all helped to strip them, removing rotors and tail booms for storing on the jumbo freighters when they arrived, if they arrived. Last night Roger Newbury had returned from the Al Shargaz palace meeting with the foreign minister in a foul humor: “Not a bloody thing I can do, Andy. The minister said he and the Sheik had been asked to make a personal inspection of the airport by the new Iranian representative or ambassador who had seen eight or nine strange 212s at the airport, claiming them to be their ‘hijacked’ Iran registereds. The minister said that of course His Highness, the Sheik, had agreed - how could he refuse? The inspection’s at sunset with the ambassador, I’m ‘cordially invited’ as the British rep for a thorough check of IDs, and if any’re found to be suspect, old boy, tough titty!” Gavallan had been up all night trying to bring the arrival of the freighters forward, or to get substitutions from every international source he could conjure up. None were available. The best his present charterers could do was “perhaps” to bring forward the ETA to noon tomorrow, Sunday. “Bloody people,” he muttered and poured some more coffee. “When you’ve got to have a couple of 747s there’re none - and usually with a single phone call you can get fifty.”

Pettikin was equally worried, also about McIver in Bahrain hospital. No news was expected until noon today about the seriousness of McIver’s heart attack. “Pas problčme,” JeanLuc had said last night. “They’ve let Genny stay in the next room at the hospital, the doctor’s the best in Bahrain, and I’m here. I’ve canceled my early flight home and I’ll wait, but send me some money tomorrow to pay the bills.”

Pettikin toyed with his coffee cup, his breakfast untouched. All yesterday and last night helping to get the helicopters ready so no chance to see Paula and she was off again to Tehran this morning, still evacuating Italian nationals, and would not be back for at least two days. Gavallan had ordered an immediate retreat of all Whirlwind participants out of the Gulf area, pending review. “We can’t be too careful,” he had told them all. “Everyone’s got to go for the time being.”

Later Pettikin had said, “You’re right, Andy, but what about Tom and Erikki? We should leave someone here - I’d be glad to volun - ”

“For Christ’s sake, Charlie, give over,” Gavallan had flared. “You think I’m not worried sick about them? And Fowler and Dubois? We have to do it one step at a time. Everyone who’s not necessary is out before sunset and you’re one of them!” That had been about 1:00 A.M. this morning in the office when Pettikin had come to relieve Scot who was still Wearily manning the HF. The rest of the night he had sat there. No calls. At 5:00 A.M. Nogger Lane had relieved him and he had come here for breakfast, Gavallan, Rudi, and Scragger already seated. “Any luck with the freighters, Andy?” “No, Charlie, it’s still tomorrow noon at the earliest,” Gavallan had said. “Sit down, have some coffee.” Then had come the dawn and the muezzins. Now their singsong ceased. Some of the violence left the veranda. Scragger poured himself another cup of tea, his stomach still upset. Another sudden chill zapped up from his bowels and he hurried to the bathroom. The spasm passed quickly with very little to show for it, but there was no blood therein, and Doc Nutt had said he didn’t think it was dysentery: “Just take it easy for a few days, Scrag. I’ll have the result of all the tests tomorrow.” He had told Doc Nutt about the blood in his urine and the pain in his stomach over the last few days. To hide it would have been an unforgivable added danger, both to his passengers and to his chopper. “Scrag, best you stay here in hospital for a few days,” Doc Nun had said.

“Get stuffed, old cock! There’s things to do and mountains to conquer.” Going back to the table he saw the brooding gloom upon everyone and hated it, but had no solution. Nothing to do except wait. No way to transit out because they would have to go through Saudi, Emirate, or Oman airspace and no possibility of a clearance for a few days. He had suggested, jokingly, they reassemble the helicopters, find out when the next British supertanker was outbound through Hormuz and then take off and land on her: “… and we just sail off into the Wild Blue and get off in Mombasa, or sail on around Africa to Nigeria.”

“Hey, Scrag,” Vossi had said in admiration, “that’s wild-assed. I could use a cruise. How about it, Andy?”

“We’d be arrested and in the brig before the rotors had begun.” Scragger sat down and waved a fly away. The sun’s birth color was less red now and all of them were wearing dark glasses against the glare.

Gavallan finished his coffee. “Well, I’m off to the office in case I can do something. If you want me I’m there. How soon’ll you be finished, Rudi?” Rudi was in charge of getting the choppers ready for transshipment. “Your target was noon today. It’ll be noon.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and got up. “Time to leave, meine Kinder!” Groans and catcalls from the others but mostly good-natured through their fatigue. A general exodus to transport waiting outside.

“Andy,” Scragger said, “I’ll come along with you if it’s okay.” “Good idea, Scrag. Charlie, no need for you to be on Rudi’s team as we’re ahead of schedule. Why don’t you come over to the office later?”

Pettikin smiled at him. “Thanks.” Paula was not due to leave her hotel until 10:00 A.M. Now he would have plenty of time to see her. To say what? he asked himself, waving them good-bye.

Gavallan drove out of the gates. The airport was still partially in shadow. Already a few jets with their navigation lights on, engines winding up. The Iran evacuation was still priority. He glanced at Scragger, saw the grimace. “You all right?”

“Sure, Andy. Just a touch of gippy tummy. Had it bad in New Guinea - so I’ve always been careful. If I could get some of old Dr. Collis Brown’s Elixir I’d be raring to go!” This was a marvelous and highly effective tincture invented by Dr. Collis Brown, an English army surgeon, to combat the dysentery that tens of thousands of soldiers were dying of during the Crimean War. “Six drops of the old magic and Bob’s your unbloody uncle!” “You’re right, Scrag,” Gavallan said absently, wondering if Pan Am Freighting had had any cancellations. “I never travel without Collis… wait a minute!” He suddenly beamed. “My survival kit! There’s some there. Liz always sticks it into my briefcase. Collis Brown’s, Tiger Balm, aspirins, a golden sovereign, and a can of sardines.”

“Eh? Sardines?”

“In case I get hungry.” Gavallan was glad to talk to take his mind off the looming disaster. “Liz and I have a mutual friend we met years ago in Hong Kong, fellow called Marlowe, a writer. He always carried a can with him, iron rations in case of famine - and Liz and I, we always laughed about it. It became kind of a symbol to remind ourselves how lucky we really are.” “Peter Marlowe? The one who wrote Changi - about the POW camp in Singapore?” “Yes. Do you know him?”

“No. But I read that book, not the others, but I read that one.” Scragger was suddenly reminded about his own war against the Japanese and then about Kasigi and Iran-Toda. Last night he had called other hotels to track Kasigi down and eventually had found him registered at the International and had left a message but as yet had not heard back. Probably he’s chocker I let him down, he told himself, because we can’t help him at Iran-Toda. Stone the crows! Bandar Delam and Iran-Toda seem a couple of years ago instead of just a couple of days. Even so, if it weren’t for him, I’d still be handcuffed to that bleeding bed.

“Pity we don’t all have our can of sardines, Andy,” he said. “We really do forget our luck, don’t we? Look how lucky we were to get out of Lengeh in one piece. Wot about old Duke? Soon he’ll be fit as a fiddle. A fraction of an inch and he’d be dead but he isn’t. Scot the same. Wot about Whirlwind! All the lads’re out and so’re our birds. Erikki’s safe. Mac‘11 be all right, you wait and see! Dubois and Fowler? It’s got to happen sometime, but it hasn’t yet, so far as we know, so we can still hope. Tom? Well, he chose that and he’ll get out.”

* NEAR THE IRAN-TURKISH BORDER: 7:59 P.M. Some seven hundred miles northward, Azadeh shielded her eyes against the rising sun. She had seen something glint in the valley below. Was that light reflected off a gun, or harness? She readied the M16, picked up the binoculars. Behind her Erikki lay sprawled on some blankets in the 212’s open cabin, heavily asleep. His face was pale and he had lost a lot of blood, but she thought he was all right. Through the lenses she saw nothing move. Down there the countryside was snow-locked and sparsely treed. Desolate. No villages and no smoke. The day was good but very cold. No clouds and the wind had dropped in the night. Slowly she searched the valley. A few miles away was a village she had not noticed before.

The 212 was parked in rough mountainous country on a rocky plateau. Last night after the escape from the palace, because a bullet had smashed some instrumentation, Erikki had lost his way. Afraid to exhaust all his fuel, and unable to fly and at the same time stanch the flow of blood from his arm, he had decided to risk landing and waiting for dawn. Once on the ground, he had pulled the carpet out of the cockpit and unrolled it. Azadeh was still sleeping peacefully. He had tied up his wound as best he could, then rewrapped her in the carpet for warmth, brought out some of the guns, and leaned against the skid on guard. But much as he tried he could not keep his eyes open.

He had awakened suddenly. False dawn was touching the sky. Azadeh was still huddled down in the carpet but now she was watching him. “So. You’ve kidnapped me!” Then her pretended coldness vanished and she scrambled into his arms, kissing him and thanking him for solving the dilemma for all three of them with such wisdom, saying the speech she had rehearsed: “I know a wife can do little against a husband, Erikki, hardly anything at all. Even in Iran where we’re civilized, even here, a wife’s almost a chattel and the Imam is very clear on wifely duties, and in the Koran,” she added, “in the Koran and Sharia her duties are oh so clear. Also I know I’m married to a non-Believer, and I openly swear I will try to escape at least once a day to try to go back to fulfill my oath, and though I’ll be petrified and know you’ll catch me every time and will keep me without money or beat me and I have to obey whatever you order, I will do it.” Her eyes were brimming with happy tears. “Thank you, my darling, I was so afraid…”

“Would you have done that? Given up your God?”

“Erikki, oh, how I prayed God would guide you.”

“Would you?”

“There’s no need now even to think the unthinkable, is there, my love?” “Ah,” he said, understanding. “Then you knew, didn’t you? You knew that this was what I had to do!”

“I only know I’m your wife, I love you, I must obey you, you took me away without my help and against my will. We need never discuss it again. Please?”

Blearily he peered at her, disoriented, and could not understand how she could seem to be strong and have come out of the drugged sleep so easily. Sleep! “Azadeh, I’ve got to have an hour of proper sleep. Sorry, I can’t go on. Without an hour or so, I can’t. We should be safe enough here. You guard, we should be safe enough.”

“Where are we?”

“Still in Iran, somewhere near the border.” He gave her a loaded M16, knowing she could use it accurately. “One of the bullets smashed my compass.” She saw him stagger as he went for the cabin, grope for some blankets, and lie down. Instantly he was asleep. While she waited for the daylight she thought about their future and about the past. Still Johnny to settle. Nothing else. How strange life is. I thought I would scream a thousand times closed up in that vile carpet, pretending to be drugged. As if I would be so stupid as to drug myself in case I would have to help defend us! So easy to dupe Mina and my darling Erikki and even Hakim, no longer my darling: “… her everlasting spirit’s more important than her temporary body!” He would have killed me. Me! His beloved sister! But I tricked him.

She was very pleased with herself and with Aysha who had whispered about the secret listening places so that when she had stormed out of the room in pretended rage and left Hakim and Erikki alone, she had scurried to overhear what they were saying. Oh, Erikki, I was petrified you and Hakim weren’t going to believe that I’d really break my oath - and frantic in case the clues I’d placed before you all evening wouldn’t add up to your perfect stratagem. But you went one better than me - you even arranged the helicopter. Oh, how clever you were, I was, we were together. I even made sure you brought my handbag and jewel bag with Najoud’s loot that I wheedled out of Hakim so now we’re rich as well as safe, if only we can get out of this God-lost country.

“It is God-lost, my darling,” Ross had said the last time she had seen him in Tehran, just before he had left her - she could not endure parting without saying good-bye so she had gone to Talbot to inquire after him and then, a few hours later, he had knocked on her door, the apartment empty but for them. “It’s best you leave Iran, Azadeh. Your beloved Iran is once again bereft. This revolution’s the same as all of them: a new tyranny replaces the old. Your new rulers will implant their law, their version of God’s law, as the Shah implanted his. Your ayatollahs will live and die as popes live and die, some good men, some bad and some evil, in God’s time the world’ll get a little better, the beast in men that needs to bite and hack and kill and torment and torture will become a little more human and a little more restrained. It’s only people that bugger up the world, Azadeh. Men mostly. You know I love you?”

“Yes. You said it in the village. You know I love you?”

“Yes.”

So easy to swoop back into the womb of time as when they were young. “But we’re not young now and there’s a great sadness on me, Azadeh.” “It’ll pass, Johnny,” she had said, wanting his happiness. “It’ll pass as Iran’s troubles will pass. We’ve had terrible times for centuries but they’ve passed.” She remembered how they had sat together, not touching now, yet possessed, one with the other. Then later he had smiled and raised his hand in his devil-may-care salute and he had left silently. Again the glint in the valley. Anxiety rushed back into her. Now a movement through the trees and she saw them. “Erikki!” He was instantly awake. “Down there. Two men on horseback. They look like tribesmen.” She handed him the binoculars.

“I see them.” The men were armed and cantering along the valley bed, dressed as hill people would dress, keeping to cover where there was cover. Erikki focused on them. From time to time he saw them look up in their direction. “They can probably see the chopper but I doubt if they can see us.” “They’re heading up here?”

Through his aching and tiredness he had heard the fear in her voice. “Perhaps. Probably yes. It’d take them half an hour to get up here, we’ve plenty of time.”

“They’re looking for us.” Her face was white and she moved closer to Erikki. “Hakim will have alerted everywhere.”

“He won’t have done that. He helped me.”

“That was to escape.” Nervously she looked around the plateau and the tree line and the mountains, then back at the two men. “Once you escaped he’d act like a Khan. You don’t know Hakim, Erikki. He’s my brother but before that he’s Khan.”

Through the binoculars he saw the half-hidden village beside the road in the middle distance. Sun glinted off telephone lines. His own anxiety increased. “Perhaps they’re just villagers and curious about us. But we won’t wait to find out.” Wearily he smiled at her. “Hungry?”

“Yes, but I’m fine.” Hastily she began bundling the carpet that was ancient, priceless, and one of her favorites. “I’m thirsty more than hungry.” “Me too but I feel better now. The sleep helped.” His eyes ranged the mountains, setting what he saw against his remembrance of the map. A last look at the men still far below. No danger for a while, unless there are others around, he thought, then went for the cockpit. Azadeh shoved the carpet into the cabin and tugged the door closed. There were bullet holes in it that she had not noticed before. Another spark of sunlight off metal in the forest, much closer, that neither saw.

Erikki’s head ached and he felt weak. He pressed the starting button. Wind up, immediate and correct. A quick check of his instruments. Rev counter shattered, no compass, no ADF. No need for some instruments - the sound of the engines would tell him when the needles would be in the Green. But needles on the fuel gauges were stuck at a quarter full. No time to check on them or any other damage and if there was damage, what could he do? All gods great and small, old and new, living or dead or yet to be born, be on my side today, I’ll need all the help you can give me. His eyes saw the kookri that he remembered vaguely shoving in the seat pocket. Without conscious effort his fingers reached out and touched it. The feel of it burned. Azadeh hurried for the cockpit, turbulence from the rotors picking up speed clawing at her, chilling her even more. She climbed into the seat and locked the door, turning her eyes away from the mess of dried blood on the seat and floor. Her smile died, noticing his brooding concentration and the strangeness, his hand almost near the kookri but not quite. Again she wondered why he had brought it.

“Are you all right, Erikki?” she asked, but he did not appear to have heard her. Insha’Allah. It’s God’s will he is alive and I’m alive, that we’re together and almost safe. But now it’s up to me to carry the burden and to keep us safe. He’s not my Erikki yet, neither in looks nor in spirit. I can almost hear the bad thoughts pounding in his head. Soon the bad will again overpower the good. God protect us. “Thank you, Erikki,” she said, accepting the headset he handed her, mentally girding herself for the battle.

He made sure she was strapped in and adjusted the volume for her. “You can hear me, all right?”

“Oh, yes, my darling. Thank you.”

Part of his hearing was concentrated on the sound of the engines, a minute or two yet before they could take off. “We’ve not enough fuel to get to Van which’s the nearest airfield in Turkey - I could go south to the hospital in Rezaiyeh for fuel but that’s too dangerous. I’m going north a little. I saw a village that way and a road. Perhaps that’s the Khoi-Van road.” “Good, let’s hurry, Erikki, I don’t feel safe here. Are there any airfields near here? Hakim’s bound to have alerted the police and they’ll have alerted the air force. Can we take off?”

“Just a few more seconds, engines’re almost ready.” He saw the anxiety and her beauty and once more the picture of her and John Ross together tumbled into his mind. He forced it away. “I think there are airfields all over the border sector. We’ll go as far as we can; I think we’ve enough fuel to get over the border.” He made an effort to be light. “Maybe we can find a gas station. Do you think they’d take a credit card?”

She laughed nervously and lifted up her bag, winding the strap around her wrist. “No need for credit cards, Erikki. We’re rich - you’re rich. I can speak Turkish and if I can’t beg, buy, or bribe our way through I’m not of the tribe Gorgon! But through to where? Istanbul? You’re overdue a fabulous holiday, Erikki. We’re safe only because of you, you did everything, thought of everything!”

“No, Azadeh, you did.” You and John Ross, he wanted to shout and looked back at his instruments to hide. But without Ross Azadeh’d be dead and therefore I’d be dead and I can’t live with the thought of you and him together. I’m sure you lov - At that moment his disbelieving eyes saw the groups of riders break out of the forest a quarter of a mile away on both sides of him, police among them, and begin galloping across the rocky space to head them off. His ears told him the engines were in the Green. At once his hands shoved full throttle. Time slowing. Creeping off the ground, no way that the attackers could not shoot them down. A million years of time for them to rein in, aim, and fire, any one of the dozen men. The gendarme in the middle, the sergeant, he’s stopping, pulling the M16 out of his saddle holster! Abruptly time came back at full speed and Erikki swung away and fled from them, weaving this way and that, expecting every second to be the last, then they were over the side, roaring down into the ravine at treetop level.

“Hold your fire,” the sergeant shouted to the overexcited tribesmen who were at the lip, aiming and firing, their horses cavorting. “In the Name of God I told you we were ordered to capture them, to save her and kill him, not kill her!” Reluctantly the others obeyed and when he came up to them he saw the 212 was well away down in the valley. He pulled out the walkie-talkie and switched on: “HQ, this is Sergeant Zibri. The ambush failed. His engines were going before we got into position. But he’s flushed out of his hiding place.”

“Which way is he heading?”

“He’s turning north toward the Khoi-Van road.”

“Did you see Her Highness?”

“Yes. She looked petrified. Tell the Khan we saw the kidnapper strap her into the seat and it looked as though the kidnapper also had a strap around her wrist. She…” The sergeant’s voice picked up excitedly. “Now the helicopter’s turned eastward, it’s keeping about two or three kilometers south of the road.”

“Good. Well done. We’ll alert the air force…”

TEHRAN - AT INNER INTELLIGENCE HQ: 9:54 P.M.

Group Four assassin Suliman al Wiali tried to stop his fingers from trembling as he took the telex from the SAVAMA colonel: “Chief of Inner Intelligence Colonel Hashemi Fazir was killed last night, bravely leading the charge that overran the leftist mujhadin HQ, together with the English adviser Armstrong. Both men were consumed by fire when the traitors blew up the building. (signed) Chief of Police, Tabriz.”

Suliman was not yet over his fright at the sudden summons, petrified that this official had already found incriminating papers in Fazir’s safe about Group Four assassins - the safe open and empty behind him. Surely my Master wouldn’t have been that careless, not here in his own office! “The Will of God, Excellency,” he said, handing the telex back and hiding his fury. “The Will of God. Are you the new leader of Inner Intelligence, Excellency?” “Yes. What were your duties?”

“I’m an agent, Excellency,” Suliman told him, fawning as would be expected, disregarding the past tense. His fear began to leave him. If these dogs suspected anything, I wouldn’t be standing here, he reasoned, his confidence growing, I’d be in a dungeon screaming. These incompetent sons of dogs don’t deserve to live in the world of men. “The colonel ordered me to live in Jaleh and keep my ears and eyes open and smoke out Communists.” He kept his eyes blank, despising this lean-faced, pompous man who sat at Fazir’s desk.

“How long have you been employed?”

“Three or four years, I don’t remember exactly, Excellency, it’s on my card. Perhaps it’s five, I don’t remember. It should be on my card, Excellency. About four years and I work hard and will serve you with all my power.” “SAVAMA is absorbing Inner Intelligence. From now on you will report to me. I’ll want copies of your reports since you began.”

“As God wants, Excellency, but I can’t write, at least I write very badly and Excellency Fazir never required written reports,” Suliman lied guilelessly. He waited in silence, shuffling his feet and acting dull-witted. SAVAK or SAVAMA, they’re all liars and more than likely they arranged my Master’s murder. God curse them - these dogs’ve ruined my Master’s plan. They’ve done me out of my perfect job! My perfect job with real money and real power and real future. These dogs are thieves, they’ve stolen my future and my safety. Now I’ve no job, no pinpointed enemies of God to slay. No future, no safety, no protec - Unless!

Unless I use my wits and skills and take over where my Master was stopped! Son of a burnt father, why not? It’s the Will of God that he’s dead and I’m alive, that he’s the sacrifice and I’m not. Why not induct more teams? I know the Master’s techniques and part of his plan. Even better, why not raid his house and empty the safe in the cellar he never knew I knew about. Not even his wife knows about that one. Now that he’s dead it should be easy. Yes, and better I go tonight, get there first before these turd eaters of the Left Hand do it. What riches that safe could contain - should contain! Money, papers, lists - my Master loved lists like a dog loves shit! May I be sacrificed if the safe doesn’t contain a list of the other Group Fours. Didn’t my late Master plan to be today’s al-Sabbah? Why not me instead? With assassins, real assassins who are already fearless of death and seek martyrdom as their guaranteed passport to Paradise…

He almost laughed aloud. To cover it he belched. “Sorry, Excellency, I’m not feeling well, can I leave, pl - ”

“Where did Colonel Fazir keep his papers?”

“Papers, Excellency? May I be your sacrifice, Excellency, but what should a man like me know about papers? I’m just an agent, I reported to him and he sent me away, most times with a boot and a curse - it will be grand to work for a real man.” He waited confidently. Now what would Fazir have wanted me to do? Certainly to be avenged which is clearly to dispose of Pahmudi who’s responsible for his death - and this dog who dares to sit at his desk. Why not? But not until I’ve emptied the real safe. “Please can I go, Excellency? My bowels are overful and I’ve the parasite disease.”

Distastefully, the colonel looked up from the card mat told him nothing. No files in the safe, just money. A marvelous pishkesh for me, he thought, but where are his files? Fazir must have kept files somewhere. His home? “Yes, you can go,” he said irritably, “but report to me once a week. Personally to me. And don’t forget, unless you do a good job… we don’t intend to employ malingerers.”

“Yes, Excellency, certainly, Excellency, thank you, Excellency, I’ll do my best for God and the Imam, but when should I report?”

“The day after Holy Day, every week.” Testily the colonel waved him away. Suliman shuffled out and promised himself that before the next reporting day this colonel would be no more. Son of a dog, why not? Already my power reaches to Beirut and to Bahrain.

BAHRAIN: 12:50 P.M. Due south, almost seven hundred miles away, Bahrain was balmy and sunny, the beaches full with weekend vacationers, windsurfers offshore enjoying the fine breeze, hotel terrace tables filled with men and women, scantily dressed to bask in the fine spring sunshine. One of these was Sayada Bertolin.

She wore a filmy sundress over her bikini and sipped a citron pressé and sat alone, her table shaded by a green umbrella. Idly she watched the bathers and the children playing in the shallows - one small boy a pattern of her own son. It’ll be so good to be home again, she thought, to hold my son in my arms again and yes, yes, even to see my husband again. It’s been such a long time away from civilization, from good food and good talk, from good coffee and croissants and wine, from newspapers and radio and TV and all the wonderful things we take for granted. Though not me. I’ve always appreciated them and have always worked for a better world and justice in the Middle East.

But now? Her joy left her..

Now I’m not just a PLO sympathizer and courier but a secret agent for Lebanese Christian militia, their Israeli overlords and their CIA overlords - thank God I was fortunate to overhear them whispering together when they thought I had already left after getting their orders to return to Beirut. Still no names, but enough to pinpoint their origin. Dogs! Filthy vile dogs! Christians! Betrayers of Palestine! There’s still Teymour to be revenged. Dare I tell my husband who’ll tell others in the Council? I daren’t. They know too much.

Her attention focused out to sea and she was startled. Among the windsurfers she recognized JeanLuc, hurtling shoreward, beautifully balanced on the precarious board, leaning elegantly against the wind. At the very last second, he twisted into the wind, stepped off in the shallows, and allowed the sail to collapse. She smiled at such perfection.

Ah, JeanLuc how you do love yourself! But I admit that had flair. In many things you’re superb, as a chef, as a lover - ah, yes, but only from time to time, you’re not varied enough or experimental enough for us Middle Easterns who understand eroticism, and you’re too concerned with your own beauty. “I’ll admit you’re beautiful,” she murmured, moistening pleasantly at the thought. In lovemaking you’re above average, chéri, but no more. You’re not the best. My first husband was the best, perhaps because he was the first. Then Teymour. Teymour was unique. Ah, Teymour I’m not afraid to think of you now, now that I’m out of Tehran. There I couldn’t. I won’t forget you, or what they did. I’ll take revenge for you on Christian militia one day. Her eyes were watching JeanLuc, wondering what he was doing here, elated he was here, hoping he would see her, not wanting to make the first move to tempt fate but ready to wait and see what fate had in store. She glanced in her hand mirror, added a touch of gloss to her lips, perfume behind her ears. Again she waited. He started up from the beach. She pretended to concentrate on her glass, watching him in its reflection, leaving it up to chance.

“Sayada! Mon Dieu, chérie! What are you doing here?”

She was suitably astonished and then he was kissing her and she tasted the sea salt and smelled the sun oil and sweat and decided this afternoon would be perfect after all. “I just arrived, chéri. I arrived last night from Tehran,” she said breathlessly, letting her desire fill her. “I’m wait-listed on Middle Eastern’s noon flight to Beirut tomorrow - but what are you doing here, it’s like a miracle!”

“It is, how lucky we are! But you can’t go tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sunday. Tomorrow we’ll have a barbecue, lobsters and oysters!”

He was completely confident and Gallic and charmingly persuasive and she thought, Why not? Beirut can wait. I’ve waited so long one more day won’t matter.

And he was thinking, How perfect! The weekend was going to be a disaster but now love this afternoon, then siesta. Later I’ll choose a perfect dinner, then we’ll dance a little and love tenderly and sleep soundly, ready for another perfect day tomorrow. “Chérie, I’m desolate but I must leave you for almost an hour,” he said with the perfect touch of sadness. “We will lunch here - you stay at this hotel? Perfect, so do I: 1623. About one-thirty, quarter to two? Don’t change, you look perfect. C’est bon?” He bent down and kissed her and let his hand stray to her breast, felt her tremor and was pleased.

AT THE HOSPITAL: 1:16 P.M. “Good morning, Dr. Lanoire. Captain McIver, is it good or bad?” JeanLuc said, speaking French to him - Anton Lanoire’s father came from Cannes, his mother was Bahraini, a Sorbonne-trained daughter of an illiterate fisherman who still fished as he had always done, still lived in a hovel though he was a multimillionaire owner of oil wells. “It’s middling.”

“How middling is that?”

The doctor steepled his fingers. He was a distinguished man in his late thirties, trained in Paris and London, trilingual, Arabic, French, and English. “We won’t know with much accuracy for a few days; we still have to make several tests. We’ll know the real good or bad when he has an angiogram a month from now, but in the meantime Captain McIver’s responding to treatment and is not in pain.”

“But is he going to be all right?”

“Angina is quite ordinary, usually. I understand from his wife he’s been under very great stress for the last few months, and even worse for the last few days on this Whirlwind exercise of yours - and no wonder. What courage! I salute him and you and all those who took part. At the same time I’d strongly advise that all pilots and crews be given two or three months off.”

JeanLuc beamed. “May I have that in writing, please. Of course the three months sick leave should be with full pay - and allowances.” “Of course. What a magnificent job all of you did for your company, risking your lives - you should all get a well-deserved bonus! I wonder why more of you don’t have heart attacks. The two months is to recuperate, JeanLuc - it’s essential you have a careful checkup before you continue flying.” JeanLuc was perplexed. “We can all expect heart attacks?” “Oh, no, no, not at all.” Lanoire smiled. “But it would be very wise to be checked thoroughly - just in case. You know angina’s caused by a sudden blockage of blood? A stroke’s when the same happens to the brain. Arteries get clogged and that’s it! Insha’Allah. It can happen anytime.” “It can?” JeanLuc’s discomfort increased. Piece of shit! It’d just be my luck to have a heart attack.

“Oh, yes,” the doctor continued helpfully. “I’ve known patients in their thirties and early forties with perfectly normal blood pressure, normal cholesterol, and normal EKGs - electrocardiograms-and poof!” He parodied with his hands expressively. “Within a few hours - poof!” “Poof! Just like that?” JeanLuc sat down uneasily.

“I can’t fly but I would imagine flying creates a lot of stress, especially somewhere like the North Sea. And stress is perhaps the biggest cause of angina, when part of the heart dies an - ”

“My God, old Mac’s heart died?” JeanLuc was shocked.

“Oh, no, just a part. Every time you have an attack of angina, however mild, a part’s lost forever. Dead.” Dr. Lanoire smiled. “Of course you can go on quite a long time before you run out of tissue.”

Mon Dieu, JeanLuc thought squeamishly. I don’t like this at all. North Sea? Bucket of shit, I’d better apply for a transfer before I even go there! “How long will Mac be in the hospital?”

“Four or five days. I would suggest you leave him today and visit tomorrow, but don’t tax him. He must have a month’s leave, then some further tests.” “What are his chances?”

“That’s up to God.”

Upstairs on the veranda of a pleasant room overlooking the blue waters, Genny was dozing in a chair, today’s London Times, brought by BA’s early flight, open on her lap. McIver lay comfortably in the starched clean bed. The breeze came off the sea and touched him and he woke up. Wind’s changed, he thought. It’s back to the standard northeasterly. Good. He moved to see better out into the Gulf. The slight movement awakened her instantly. She folded the paper and got up. “How’re you feeling, luv?”

“Fine. I’m fine now. No pain. Just a bit tired. Vaguely heard you talking to the doc, what did he say?”

“Everything seems fine. The attack wasn’t bad. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days, then a month off and then some more tests - he was very encouraging because you don’t smoke, you’re ever so fit, considering.” Genny stood over the bed, against the light, but he could see her face and read the truth thereon. “You can’t fly anymore - as a pilot,” she said and smiled.

“That’s a bugger,” he said dryly. “Have you been in touch with Andy?” “Yes. I called last night and this morning and will check again in an hour or so. Nothing yet on young Marc Dubois and Fowler but all our birds are safe at Al Shargaz and being stripped for freighting out tomorrow. Andy was so proud of you - and Scrag. I talked to him this morning too.” The shadow of a smile. “It’ll be good to see old Scrag. You’re okay?” “Oh, yes.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m ever so glad you’re better - you did give me a turn.”

“I gave me a turn, Gen.” He smiled and held out his hand and said gruffly, “Thanks, Mrs. McIver.”

She took it and put it to her cheek, then bent down and touched his lips with hers, warmed by the enormity of the affection in his face. “You did give me such a turn,” she said again. He noticed the newspaper. “That’s today’s, Gen?” “Yes, dear.”

“Seems years since I saw one. What’s new?” “More of the usual.” She folded the paper and put it aside carelessly, not wanting him to see the section she had been reading in case it worried him. “Stock market collapse in Hong Kong.” That’ll certainly affect Struan’s and that bastard Linbar, she thought, but will it touch S-G and Andy? Nothing Duncan can do, so never mind. “Strikes, Callaghan’s messing up poor old Britain more than ever. They say he might call a snap election this year, and if he does Maggie Thatcher’s got a good chance.

Wouldn’t that be super? Be a change to have someone sensible in charge.” “Because she’s a woman?” He smiled wryly. “That’d certainly set the cat among the chickens. Christ Almighty, a woman PM! Don’t know how she ever wangled the leadership away from Heath in the first place… she must have iron-plated knickers! If only the bloody Liberals’d stayed out of the way…” His voice trailed off and she saw him look out to sea, some passing dhows beautiful.

Quietly she sat down and waited, wanting to let him drift back into sleep, or talk a little, whatever pleased him. He must be getting better if he’s already taking off after the Libs, she thought, bemused, letting herself drift, watching the sea. Her hair was moved by the breeze that smelled of sea salt. It was pleasant just sitting, knowing that he was all right now, “responding to treatment. No need to worry, Mrs. McIver.” Easy to say, hard not to do.

There’ll be a huge change in our lives, has to be, apart from losing Iran and all our stuff there, lot of old rubbish, most of it that I won’t miss. Now that Whirlwind’s over - I must’ve been mad to suggest it, but oh it worked so well! Now we’ve most of our lads out safely - can’t think of Tom or Marc or Fowler, Erikki or Azadeh or Sharazad, God bless them all - and our best equipment and our face so we’re still in business, our stake in S-G’s got to be worth something. We won’t be penniless and that’s a blessing. I wonder how much we could get for our shares? I suppose we do have a share? But what about the “stock market collapse”? I hope that hasn’t buggered us again.

It would be nice to have a little money, but I don’t care so long as Duncan gets better. Perhaps he’ll retire and perhaps he won’t. I wouldn’t want him really to retire, it would kill him. Where should we live? Near Aberdeen? Or Edinburgh near Sarah and Trevor, or London near Hamish and Kathy? Not London, nasty down there, and we shouldn’t live too near either of the kids, don’t want to bother them though it’d be ever so nice to be able to drop by from time to time, even baby-sit. Don’t want to become the boring mother-in- law to Trevor or to young Kathy - such a lovely girl. Kathy, Kathleen, Kathy: Andrew and Kathy, and sometimes going to Castle Avisyard, and now Andrew and Maureen and tiny Electra. I wouldn’t want to be alone, don’t want Duncan to…

Don’t want to relive the horror, the pounding, rattling darkness, not being able to see, jets howling, stink of petrol - my God, how do they stand the noise and the bouncing around hour after hour - and all the time Duncan gasping, not knowing if he was alive or dead, twice crying out, “He’s dead, he’s dead,” but no one hearing and no one to help anyway and dear old Charlie flying here as fast as he could, the other man, the Iranian sergeant, what was his name, ah, yes, Wazari, Wazari nice but useless. Oh, God, that was awful, awful, and lasted forever… but now it’s all right and thank God I was there. Duncan will be all right. He will be. He must be. Wonder what’ll happen to Wazari? He looked so frightened when the police took him off. Wait a moment, didn’t JeanLuc say he had heard they would probably release him into Andy’s custody as a political exile if Andy guaranteed to take him out of Bahrain and give him a job? Bloody revolution! Bloody nuisance I couldn’t get back to collect some of my things. There was that old frying pan that’d never stick, and Grannie’s teapot that made such a good cup of tea even out of filthy teabags and Tehran water. Ugh! Water! Soon no more squatting and using water instead of good soft paper. Ugh! If I never have to squat again it will be too soon…. “What are you smiling about, Gen?”

“Oh, let me think! Oh, yes, I was thinking about having to squat, about all the bums in the early morning over the joubs and their bottles of water, poor people. It always looked so awful and at the same time funny. Poor people. No more squatting for us, me lad, it’s back to Blighty.” She saw his eyes change and her anxiety returned. “That’s not bad, Duncan. Going home. It won’t be, I promise.”

After a pause, he nodded, half to himself. “We’ll wait and see, Gen. We won’t make any decision yet. No need to decide what we’ll do for a month or two. First I’ll get fit and then we’ll decide. Don’t you worry, eh?” “I’m not worried now.”

“Good, no need to worry.” Once more his attention strayed to the sea. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life battling bloody British weather, that’d be awful. Retire? Christ, I’ll have to think of something. If I’ve got to stop working I’ll go mad. Maybe we could get a little place by the sea to winter in Spain or the south of France. I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let Gen freeze and get old and bent before her time - that bloody awful salt-heavy wind off the North Sea! Never by God. We’ll have more than enough money now Whirlwind’s a success. Nine out of ten 212s! Wonderful! Can’t think about Dubois or Fowler or Tom or Erikki, Azadeh or Sharazad.

His anxiety came back and with it a twinge that increased his anxiety and brought a bigger twinge…

“What’re you thinking, Duncan?”

“That it’s a beautiful day.”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

“Will you try Andy for me, Gen?”

“Of course.” She picked up the phone and dialed, knowing it would be better for him to talk awhile. “Hello? Oh, hello, Scot, how’re you - it’s Genny.” She listened then said, “That’s good. Is your dad there?” Listening again, then, “No, just tell him I called for Duncan - he’s fine and can be reached on extension 455 here. He just wants to say hello. Will you ask Andy to call when he comes back? Thanks, Scot… no he’s really fine, tell Charlie too. ‘Bye.”

Thoughtfully she replaced the phone on its cradle. “Nothing new. Andy’s out at the International with Scrag. They’re seeing that Jap - you know the one from Iran-Toda - sorry, I wouldn’t call him one to his face but that’s what he is. Still can’t forgive them for what they did in the War.” McIver frowned. “You know, Gen, perhaps it’s time we did. Kasigi certainly helped old Scrag. The old ‘sins of the fathers’ bit doesn’t add up. Perhaps we should start the new era. That’s what we’ve got, Gen, like it or not, a New Era. Eh?”

She saw his smile and it brought tears near again. Mustn’t cry, all’s going to be well, the New Era will be good and he’s going to get better, must get better - oh, Duncan, I’m so afraid. “Tell you what, me lad,” she said brightly, “when you’re super fit we’ll go to Japan on holiday and then we’ll see.”

“That’s a deal. We could even visit Hong Kong again.” He took her hand and squeezed it and both hid their fear of the future, fear for the other.

Chapter 71

AL SHARGAZ - INTERNATIONAL HOTEL: 1:55 P.M. Kasigi was weaving through the busy tables on the immaculate terrace overlooking the swimming pool. “Ah, Mr. Gavallan, Captain Scragger, so sorry to be late.”

“No problem, Mr. Kasigi, please sit down,”

“Thank you.” Kasigi wore a light tropical suit and looked cool though he was not. “So sorry, I loathe being late but in the Gulf it’s almost impossible to be on time. I had to come from Dubai and the traffic… I believe congratulations are in order. I hear your Whirlwind was almost a complete success.”

“We’re still short one chopper with two crew, but we were very lucky, all in all,” Gavallan said, no joy in him or in Scragger. “Would you care for lunch or a drink?” Their lunch appointment, requested by Kasigi, had been for twelve-thirty. By prearrangement, Gavallan and Scragger had not waited and were already on coffee.

“A brandy and mineral water, tall, please, and another mineral water on the side. No lunch thank you, I’m not hungry.” Kasigi lied politely, not wanting to embarrass himself by eating when they were finished. He smiled at Scragger. “So! I’m pleased to see you’re safe with your airplanes and crew out. Congratulations!”

“Sorry I had to duck your questions but, well, now you’ll understand.” “The moment I heard, I understood, of course. Health!” Kasigi drank the mineral water thirstily. “Now that Whirlwind’s out of the way, Mr. Gavallan, perhaps you can help me solve my problems at Iran-Toda?”

“I’d like to, of course, but I can’t. I’m very sorry but we can’t. It’s not possible. Just not possible, that must be obvious now.”

“Perhaps it can be made possible.” Kasigi’s eyes did not waver. “I’ve heard that sunset tonight is a firm deadline to have your airplanes out or they will be impounded.”

Politely Gavallan gestured with his hand. “Let’s hope it’s just another rumor.”

“One of your embassy officials informed our ambassador that this was definite. It would be a tragedy to lose all your aircraft after so much success.”

“Definite? You’re certain?” Gavallan felt empty.

“My ambassador was certain.” Kasigi put on a nice smile. “Say I could get your deadline extended from sunset tonight to sunset tomorrow, could you solve my problems at Iran-Toda?”

Both men stared at him. “Can you extend our deadline, Mr. Kasigi?” “I can’t but our ambassador might be able to. I have an appointment with him in an hour. I will ask him - perhaps he could influence the Iranian ambassador, or the Sheik, or both.” Kasigi saw Gavallan’s immediate interest and let that hang in the air, far too experienced a fisherman in Western waters not to know the bait. “I’m in Captain Scragger’s debt. I haven’t forgotten he saved my life, went out of his way to fly me to Bandar Delam. Friends shouldn’t forget friends, should they? At Ambassador Level… perhaps it could be done.”

The Japanese ambassador? My God, would it be possible - Gavallan’s heart was racing with hope at the unexpected avenue. “There’s no way ours can do anything, my contact was quite clear. I’d appreciate any help I could get, I certainly would. You think he’d help?”

“If he wanted to, I think he could.” Kasigi sipped the brandy. “As you can help us. My chairman asked to be remembered to you and mentioned your mutual friend Sir Ian Dunross.” He saw Gavallan’s eyes react and added, “They had dinner together two nights ago.”

“If I can help… just exactly what are your problems?” And where’s the catch and what’s the cost? Gavallan thought. And where’s Ian? Three times I’ve tried to reach him and failed.

“I need three 212s and two 206s at Iran-Toda as soon as possible, under contract for a year. It’s essential the plant gets completed and the local komiteh has promised me full cooperation - if we start at once. If not at once it will be disastrous.”

Last night Chief Engineer Watanabe at Iran-Toda had sent him a coded telex. “Komiteh chief Zataki is like a mad shark over the S-G hijacking. His ultimatum: either we resume construction at once - for which we must have helicopters - or the whole plant will face immediate possession and nationalization and ‘all foreigners here will face retribution for treason.’ D hour is after sunset prayers Sunday fourth, when I am to appear before the komiteh. Please advise.”

Urgent telephone calls most of the night to Osaka and Tokyo had only served to increase Kasigi’s rage. “Yoshi, my dear friend,” his cousin and overlord Hiro Toda had said with devastating politeness, “I’ve consulted the Syndicate. We all agree we’re fortunate you’re there on the spot. It’s up to you. We’re completely confident that you will solve these problems - before you leave.”

The message was quite clear: solve it or don’t come back. He had spent the rest of the night trying to find a way out of his dilemma. Then, with the dawn, he had remembered a chance remark that the Japanese ambassador had made about the new Iranian ambassador that gave him a possible means to solve Gavallan’s deadline and his own problem. “To be quite blunt and open, Mr. Gavallan,” he said and almost laughed aloud at so stupid a remark - but so necessary in Western negotiations, “I need a plan by tomorrow sunset and answers by tomorrow sunset.”

“Why then, may I ask?”

“Because I made commitments to a friend that I must honor which of course you’d understand,” Kasigi said. “So we both have a deadline, the same one.” Then he judged the time correct and struck hard to make sure the hook was firm. “If you can help me, I would forever appreciate it. Of course I’ll do everything to persuade my ambassador to help you anyway.” “There’s no point in offering any of our birds, they’d be impounded instantly, no point in offering you the 206s we left behind - they’re sure to be hors de combat too. S-G’s totally out, so’s Bell, Guerney or any of the other companies. Could you get Japanese nationals who’re helicopter pilots?”

“No. There’re none trained.” Not yet, Kasigi thought, again furious with the Syndicate for not having the foresight to train their own trustworthy people for the job. “The personnel will have to be foreign. My ambassador could smooth visas, and so forth - of course you know Iran-Toda’s a National Project,” he added, the exaggeration not bothering him. It soon will be when all the information I have gets into the right hands. “What about French or German crews?”

With an effort Gavallan tore his mind off how Ambassador Level could lead to his own men and choppers being safe, how he would then be out of Linbar’s trap and free to deal with Imperial Helicopters in the North Sea, the Hong Kong crisis, the early retirement of Linbar, and positioning Scot for a future takeover. “So many wonderful possibilities,” he said involuntarily, then covered himself quickly and concentrated on solving Iran-Toda. “There are two parts to the problem. First, equipment and spares: if you could provide a letter of credit at our usual monthly rate, renewable as long as you keep the planes - wherever I can get them from - with a guarantee that if the Iran authorities impound them you’ll assume all lease payments in dollars outside of Iran and reimburse the owners against a total loss, I could get them to Iran-Toda within… within a week.”

Kasigi said at once, “Our bankers are the Sumitomo; I could arrange a meeting with them here this evening. That’s no problem. Where would you get the airplanes?”

“Germany or France - can’t use British or American. Same for the pilots. Probably France’s better because of their help to Khomeini. I might be able to get them through some friends at Aerospatiale. What about insurance? It’ll be impossible for me to get you insurance in Iran.” “Perhaps I could do that from Japan.”

“Good. I’d hate to fly uninsured birds. Next: Scrag, say we can get the aircraft, how many pilots and mecs’d you need?”

“Well, Andy, if you could get them, you’d best have eight to ten pilots, rostering, and ten to fourteen mecs, based outside Iran but close by.” “Who’d pay them, Mr. Kasigi? In what currency and where?” “Whatever currency they wanted, wherever and however. Standard rates?” “I’d think you’d have to offer a ‘danger cost-of-living bonus,’ Iran being what it is.”

“Would you consider arranging the whole matter for me, Mr. Gavallan, the equipment and the personnel, for say a 10 percent override?” “Forget percentages and remember our involvement’d have to be kept very quiet. I’d suggest this: your operation should be controlled - logistics, spares, and repairs - from Kuwait or Bahrain.”

“Bahrain’d be better, Andy,” Scragger said.

“Kuwait’s much closer,” Kasigi said.

“Yes,” Scragger said, “so more liable for pressure from Iran or Iran-sponsored unrest. This side of the Gulf’s due for a battering, I think. Too many Shi’as who’re usually poor, too many sheiks who’re Sunni. Short term or long term you’re better off in Bahrain.”

“Then Bahrain,” Kasigi said. “Mr. Gavallan, can I have Captain Scragger’s services for a year to run the operation - if it comes to fruition - at double his present salary?” He saw Scragger’s eyes narrow and wondered if he’d gone too far too fast, so he added lightly, “If I ask you to give up your first love, my friend, it’s only right you should be compensated.” “That’s a great offer, but, well, I don’t know. Andy?”

Gavallan hesitated. “It’d mean you’d have to quit S-G, Scrag, and quit flying. You couldn’t run five ships and fly - and anyway you could never go back to Iran, no way.”

That’s right. Quit flying. So I’m at a crossroads too, Scragger was thinking. Don’t try to pretend Mac’s bad luck didn’t give me a shaft to end all shafts. And why did I faint yesterday? Doc Nutt said it was just exhaustion. Balls, I’ve never fainted in my life before and wot do doctors know anyways? A year in Bahrain? That’s better than a few months in the North Sea always bucking the next medical. No flying? My Gawd! Wait a minute, I could keep current and my hand in with a little local joyriding. “I’d have to think about that, but thanks for the offer, Mr. Kasigi.” “Meanwhile, Mr. Gavallan, could you organize the first month or so?” “Yes. With a certain amount of luck, within the week I could get enough birds and crew there to get you started, the balance in a week or two for a renewable three-month contract.” Gavallan added as delicately as he could, “So long as we beat our deadline.”

Kasigi kept his satisfaction covered. “Good. Shall we meet here at nine? I’ll bring Mr. Umura, who’s president of the Sumitomo for the Gulf, to arrange the letters of credit in the form you want, Mr. Gavallan.” “Nine o’clock on the dot. Perhaps you could mention to your ambassador, even if tonight’s sunset deadline passes, my freighters won’t arrive till noon tomorrow and I won’t be able to get them loaded and off before tomorrow sunset.”

“You will keep ‘Ambassador Level’ just between us?”

“Of course. You have my word. Scrag?”

Kasigi heard Scrag say the same, and was, as always, astounded that Westerners could be so naive as to rely on someone’s “word” - word of honor, whose honor, what honor? Hasn’t it ever been that a secret shared is no secret and never will be again? Like Whirlwind, it had been so easy to smoke that one out. “Perhaps we could plan it this way: we settle finances and letters of credit tonight; you begin to arrange the helicopters and spares and crew, how to manage the operation from Bahrain, warehousing, and sum - everything subject to confirmation tomorrow sunset. If you’ve successfully extracted your own equipment by then, you guarantee Iran-Toda will have its helicopters within the week.”

“You seem very confident you can eliminate our deadline.” “My ambassador can, perhaps. I’ll phone and tell you what he says the moment I’ve left him. Captain Scragger, would it be possible for you to run a trainee program for Japanese pilots?”

“Easy, providing they speak English and have at least a hundred chopper hours. I’d have to get a training captain and…” Scragger stopped. It had suddenly occurred to him this was the perfect solution. That’s a beaut idea. I could be examiner - I can sign them out in type and that way I’d get enough flying under the right circs. Bonzer!” He beamed. Tell you wot, sport, if Andy can fix it, I’m in.” He stuck out his hand and Kasigi shook it.

“Thank you. Perfect. So Mr. Gavallan, do we ‘give her a try’?” “Why not?” Gavallan put out his hand and felt Kasigi’s iron-hard grip and for the first time really believed there was a chance. Kasigi’s smart. Very. Now he’s got the standard modem Japanese company operating procedure in place: get foreign experts to train Japanese personnel on site, or to create the market in their own countries, then move in the trainees. We get the short-term profit, they get the long-term market. They’re doing to us in business what they failed to do at war. In spades. So what? It is fair trading. And if Kasigi and his ambassador can extract me from my disaster, it’s no skin off my nose to help him out of his. “We’ll give her a try.” Kasigi smiled properly for the first time. “Thank you. I’ll phone the moment I have any news.” He half bowed, then strode off.

“You think he’ll do it, Andy?” Scragger asked hopefully.

“Honest to God I don’t know.” Gavallan waved at a waiter for the bill. “How you going to solve him in time?”

Gavallan started to answer and stopped. He had just noticed Pettikin and Paula at a table by the swimming pool, their heads close together. “I thought Paula was off to Tehran this morning.”

“She was. Maybe the flight was canceled or she took a sickie,” Scragger said absently, afraid to be grounded.

“What?”

“That’s Aussie. If it’s a nice day and a sheila suddenly wants the afternoon off to swim or make love or just goof off, she calls in to the office during her lunch break and says she’s feeling horrible. Sick. Sickie.” Scragger’s eyebrows soared. “Sheilas Down Under are very accommodating sometimes. That Paula’s something else - Charlie’s a goner.”

Gavallan saw the pleasure on their faces under the umbrella, oblivious of the world. Apart from worry over Dubois, Erikki, and the others, he had read the piece in the morning’s papers about the sudden stock market crash in Hong Kong: “Many of the major companies, headed by Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con of China, lost 30 percent of their value or more in the day, with the whole market plunging and no end in sight. The statement issued by the Taipan, Mr. Linbar Struan, saying that this was just a seasonal hiccup brought a slashing rebuff from the government and his rivals. The more sensational press was rife with widely circulated rumors of insider trading among the Big Four and manipulation by selling short to bring prices tumbling from their record high.” That’s got to be why I can’t get hold of Ian. Has he gone to Hong Kong? Bloody Linbar! His balance sheet this year’ll be red top to bottom.

With an effort he put brakes on his mind. He saw Pettikin reach over and cover Paula’s hand. She did not take it away. “You think he’ll pop the question, Scrag?”

“If he doesn’t he’s a mug.”

“I agree.” Gavallan sighed and got up. “Scrag, I’m not going to wait. You sign the bill, then go down and get Charlie, say I’m sorry but he’s got to meet me in the office for an hour, then he’s got the rest of the day off, then get hold of Willi and Rudi. I’ll phone JeanLuc, and between us we’ll come up with what Kasigi needs, if he can deliver. Don’t tell ‘em why, just say it’s urgent and to keep their mouths closed tighter than a gnat’s bum.” He walked off. “Hey, Mr. Gavallan!” stopped him. It was the American Wesson who jovially got up from his table and stuck out his hand. “You got time for a drink and to visit awhile?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Wesson, thanks, but, er, can I take a rain-check? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Hell, yes, anytime.” Wesson grinned at him and leaned closer, dropping his voice to a good-natured conspiratorial whisper, and for the first time Gavallan noticed the small hearing aid in the man’s left ear. “Only wanted to say, congratulations, you sure as hell showed those jokers your heels!” “We, er, we just got lucky. Sorry, got to dash. ‘Bye.”

“Sure, see you.” Thoughtfully Wesson picked up his pen and put it in his pocket. So Kasigi is gonna try and bail out Gavallan, he thought, meandering toward the lobby. I’d never’d figured that one. Shit, there’s no way the new regime’ll cooperate. Kasigi’s a pipe dreamer. Poor bastard must be going crazy, Iran-Toda’s a mess, and hell, even if they start now it’ll take years for that plant to be in production, and everyone knows Iran’s oil spigot’ll stay turned off, losing Japan 70 percent of her energy supply; there’s gotta be another soar in world prices, more inflation… Japan’s our only ally in the Pacific and the poor bastards’re going to be nailed.

Jesus, with Gavallan’s Lengeh op closed down, isn’t the whole Siri field in jeopardy? How’ll de Plessey operate Siri without chopper support? Ambassador, huh? Interesting. How’s that gonna work? Who does what to whom? And how much do I pass on to old Aaron? The lot, that old bastard’ll figure where it all fits if anyone can.

He wandered through the lobby and out to his car and did not notice Kasigi in a phone booth to one side.

“.. .I quite agree, Ishii-san.” Kasigi was speaking deferentially in Japanese, sweat on his brow. “Please inform His Excellency we’ll get our equipment and crew, I’m sure of it - if you can arrange the rest.” He kept the nervousness out of his voice.

“Ah, is that so? Excellent,” Ishii from the embassy said. “I’ll inform His Excellency at once. Now, what about the Iranian ambassador? Have you heard from him?”

The bottom dropped out of Kasigi’s bottom. “He hasn’t accepted the invitation?”

“No, so sorry, not yet, and it’s almost three o’clock. Very distressing. Please join the meeting as we agreed. Thank you, Kasigi-san.” “Thank you, Ishii-san,” he said, wanting to scream. Gently he replaced the phone.

In the air-conditioned lobby he felt a little better and went to the reception desk. There he collected his messages - two from Hiro Toda to phone - and went upstairs to his room and locked the door. He crushed the messages into a ball, threw them into the toilet, and began to urinate on them. “Dear stupid cousin Hiro,” he said aloud in Japanese, “if I save your stupid neck which I have to do to save my own,” then added a stream of English obscenities as there were none in Japanese, “your family will be in debt to mine for eight generations for all the trouble you’re causing me.” He flushed the messages away, took off his clothes, showered, and lay naked on the bed in the cool breeze, wanting to gather energy and restore his tranquillity to prepare for the meeting.

The Japanese ambassador’s chance remark that had initiated his whole scheme had been made to Roger Newbury at a British embassy reception a couple of days ago. The ambassador had mentioned mat the new Iranian ambassador had been bewailing the closure of Iran-Toda mat would have given the new Islamic state a tremendous position of economic power throughout the whole Gulf region. “His name’s Abadani, university trained, majored in economics, of course fundamentalist but not rabidly so. He’s quite young and not too experienced but he’s a career officer, speaks good English, and was in the Kabul embassy…”

At the time the remarks had meant very little to Kasigi. Then Whirlwind happened. Tehran’s telexes had spread throughout the Gulf, and then rumors of Abadani’s demand for an inspection of Gavallan’s helicopters fixed for this evening - an inspection that would obviously prove they had been Iranian registered: “… and that, Kasigi-san, will create an international incident,” Ishii had told him late last night, “because now Kuwait, Saudi, Bahrain will be implicated - and that, I can assure you, one and all would prefer to avoid, most of all our Sheik.”

In the dawn he had gone to see Abadani and had explained about Zataki and starting construction again, adding in great secrecy that the Japanese government was rearranging Iran-Toda as a National Project - therefore covering all future financing - and that with Excellency Abadani’s cooperation he could also start work in Bandar Delam immediately. “National Project? God be thanked! If your government is behind it formally, that would solve all financing forever. God be thanked. What can I do? Anything!”

“To restart immediately I need helicopters and expatriate pilots and crew. The only way I can get them quickly is with the help of S-G Helicopters and Mr. Gavall - ” Abadani had exploded.

After listening politely and seemingly agreeably to a tirade about air piracy and enemies of Iran, Kasigi had obliquely returned to the attack. “You’re quite right, Excellency,” he had said, “but I had to choose between risking your displeasure by bringing it to your attention, or failing in my duty to your Great Country. Our choice is simple: If I don’t get helicopters I cannot restart. I’ve tried Guerney’s and others with no success and now I know I can only get them quickly through this dreadful man - of course only for a few months as a stopgap until I can make my own arrangements for Japanese personnel. If I don’t restart at once that will precipitate this man Zataki, I assure you he and his Abadan komiteh is a law unto itself, making good his threat. That will shock and embarrass my government and cause them to delay implementation of total National Project financing and then…” He had shrugged. “My government will order Iran-Toda abandoned, and start a new petrochemical plant in a safe area like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, or Iraq.” “Safe? Iraq? Those thieves? Saudi or Kuwait? By God, they’re decadent sheikdoms ripe for overthrow by the people. Dangerous to attempt a long-term business with the sheiks, very dangerous. They don’t obey God’s law. Iran does now. Iran is in balance now. The Imam, God’s peace on him, has rescued us. He has ordered oil to flow. There must be some other way of getting helicopters and crews! Gavallan and his mob of pirates have our property. I can’t assist pirates to escape. Do you want pirates to escape?” “Heaven forbid, I would never suggest that. Of course we don’t know they are pirates, Excellency. I heard that these are just foul rumors spread by more enemies who want Iran hurt even more. Even if it were true, would you equate nine used airplanes against $3.1 billion already spent and another $1.1 billion my government might be persuaded to commit?”

“Yes. Piracy is piracy, the law is the law, the Sheik has agreed to the inspection, the truth is the truth. Insha’Allah.”

“I totally agree, Excellency, but you know that truth is relative and a postponement until after sunset tomorrow would be in your national interests…” He had bitten back a curse and corrected his slip quickly, “in the interests of the Imam and your Islamic state.”

“God’s truth is not relative.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kasigi said, outwardly calm but inwardly gnashing his teeth. How can anyone deal with these lunatics who use their beliefs as a coverall and “God” whenever they wish to close a legitimate line of logic. They’re all mad, blinkered! They won’t understand as we Japanese do you’ve got to be tolerant about other people’s beliefs, and that life is “from nothing into nothing,” and heaven and hell and god merely opium smoke from an abberated brain - until proven otherwise!

“Of course you’re right, Excellency. But they won’t be his airplanes or crews - I just need his temporary connections.” Wearily he had waited and cajoled and listened, then played his penultimate card: “I’m sure the Sheik and the foreign minister would consider it an immense favor if you’d postpone the inspection until tomorrow so they could go to my ambassador’s special reception at eight this evening.”

“Reception, Mr. Kasigi?”

“Yes, it’s sudden but terribly important - I happen to know you’re invited as the most important guest.” Kasigi had dropped his voice even more. “I beg you not to mention where you got the knowledge but, again in private, I can tell you that my government is seeking long-term oil contracts that would prove astoundingly profitable to you if Iran can continue to supply us. It would be a perfect moment t - ”

“Long-term contracts? I agree the Shah-negotiated contracts are no good, one-sided and must go. But we value Japan as a customer. Japan’s never tried to exploit us. I’m sure your ambassador would not mind delaying his reception an hour until after the inspection. The Sheik, the foreign minister, Newbury, and I could go directly from the airport.” Kasigi was not sure how far he dared go. But, Mister Excuse for an Ambassador, he thought, if you don’t postpone your inspection, I will be revenged because you will have made me commit the only sin we acknowledge: failure. “It’s fortunate Iran’s so well represented here.” “I will certainly come to the reception, Mr. Kasigi, after the inspection.”

Kasigi’s ultimate card had then been delivered with all the elegance needed: “I have a feeling, Excellency, you will soon be personally invited to my country to meet the most important, most important leaders there - for you of course realize how vital your Islamic state is to Japan - and to inspect facilities that would be valuable to Iran.”

“We … we certainly need untainted friends,” Abadani said. Kasigi had watched him carefully and had seen no reaction, still the same pitiless eyes and inflexibility. “In these troubled times it’s essential to look after friends, isn’t it? You never know when disaster may strike you, whoever you are? Do you?”

“That’s in the Hands of God. Only His.” There had been a long pause, then Abadani had said, “As God wants. I will consider what you have said.” Now in the privacy of his hotel bedroom, Kasigi was very afraid. It’s only essential to look after yourself. However wise or careful you are, you never know when disaster will strike. If gods exist, they exist only to torment you.

JUST INSIDE TURKEY: 4:23 P.M. They had landed just outside the village this morning, barely a mile inside Turkey. Erikki would have preferred to have gone farther into safety but his tanks were dry. He had been intercepted and ambushed again, this time by two fighters and two Huey gunships and had had to endure them for more than a quarter of an hour before he could duck across the line. The two Hueys had not ventured after him but remained circling in station just their side of the border.

“Forget them, Azadeh,” he had said joyously. “We’re safe now.” But they were not. The villagers had surrounded them, and the police had arrived. Four men, a sergeant, and three others, all in uniform - crumpled and ill fitting - with bolstered revolvers. The sergeant wore dark glasses against the glare of the sun off the snow. None of them spoke English. Azadeh had greeted them according to the plan she and Erikki had concocted, explaining that Erikki, a Finnish citizen, had been employed by a British company under contract to Iran-Timber, that in the Azerbaijan riots and fighting near Tabriz his life had been threatened by leftists, that she, his wife, had been equally threatened, so they had fled.

“Ah, the Effendi is Finnish but you’re Iranian?”

“Finnish by marriage, Sergeant Effendi, Iranian by birth. Here are our papers.” She had given him her Finnish passport which did not include references to her late father, Abdollah Khan. “May we use the telephone, please? We can pay, of course. My husband would like to call our embassy, and also his employer in Al Shargaz.”

“Ah, Al Shargaz.” The sergeant nodded pleasantly. He was heavyset, close-shaven, even so the blue-black of his beard showed through his golden skin. “Where’s that?”

She told him, very conscious of the way she and Erikki looked, Erikki with the filthy, bloodstained bandage on his arm and the crude adhesive over his damaged ear, she with her hair matted and dirty clothes and face. Behind her the two Hueys circled. The sergeant watched them thoughtfully. “Why would they dare to send fighters into our airspace and helicopters after you?” “The Will of God, Sergeant Effendi. I’m afraid that on that side of the border many strange things are happening now.”

“How are things over the border?” He motioned the other policemen toward the 212 and began to listen attentively. The three policemen wandered over, peered into the cockpit. Bullet holes and dried blood and smashed instruments. One of them opened the cabin door. Many automatic weapons. More bullet holes. “Sergeant!”

The sergeant acknowledged but waited politely until Azadeh had finished. Villagers listened wide-eyed, not a chador or veil among them. Then he pointed to one of the crude village huts. “Please wait over there in the shade.” The day was cold, the land snowbound, the sun bright off the snow. Leisurely the sergeant examined the cabin and the cockpit. He picked up the kookri, half pulled it out of the scabbard, and shoved it home again. Then he beckoned Azadeh and Erikki with it. “How do you explain the guns, Effendi?”

Uneasily Azadeh translated the question for Erikki.

“Tell him they were left in my plane by tribesmen who were attempting to hijack her.”

“Ah, tribesmen,” the sergeant said. “I’m astonished tribesmen would leave such wealth for you to fly away with. Can you explain that?” “Tell him they were all killed by loyalists, and I escaped in the melee.”

“Loyalists, Effendi? What loyalists?”

“Police. Tabrizi police,” Erikki said, uncomfortably aware that each question would pull them deeper into the quicksand. “Ask him if I can use the telephone, Azadeh.”

“Telephone? Certainly. In due time.” The sergeant studied the circling Hueys for a moment. Then he turned his hard brown eyes back to Erikki. “I’m glad the police were loyal. Police have a duty to the state, to the people, and to uphold the law. Gunrunning is against the law. Fleeing from police upholding the law is a crime. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re not gunrunners, Sergeant Effendi, nor fleeing from police upholding the law,” Azadeh had said, even more afraid now. The border was so close, too close. For her the last part of their escape had been terrifying. Obviously Hakim had alerted the border area; no one but he had the power to arrange such an intercept so fast, both on the ground and in the air. “Are you armed?” the sergeant asked politely.

“Just a knife.”

“May I have it please?” The sergeant accepted it. “Please follow me.” They had gone to the police station, a small brick building with cells and a few offices and telephones near the mosque in the little village square. “Over the last months we’ve had many refugees of all sorts passing along our road, Iranians, British, Europeans, Americans, many Azerbaijanis, many - but no Soviets.” He laughed at his own joke. “Many refugees, rich, poor, good, bad, many criminals among them. Some were sent back, some went on. Insha’Allah, eh? Please wait there.”

“There” was not a cell but a room with a few chairs and a table and bars on the windows, many flies and no way out. But it was warm and relatively clean. “Could we have some food and drink and use the telephone, please?” Azadeh asked. “We can pay, Sergeant Effendi.”

“I will order some for you from the hotel here. The food is good and not expensive.”

“My husband asks, can he use the telephone, please?”

“Certainly - in due course.”

That had been this morning, and now it was late afternoon. In the intervening time the food had arrived, rice and mutton stew and peasant bread and Turkish coffee. She had paid with rials and was not overcharged. The sergeant had allowed them to use the foul-smelling hole in the ground squatter, and water from a tank and an old basin to wash in. There were no medical supplies, just iodine. Erikki had cleaned his wounds as best he could, gritting his teeth at the sudden pain, still weak and exhausted. Then, with Azadeh close beside him, he had propped himself on a chair, his feet on another, and had drifted off. From time to time the door would open and one or other of the policemen would come in, then go out again. “Matyeryebyets,” Erikki muttered. “Where can we run to?”

She had gentled him and stayed close and kept a steel gate on her own fear. I must carry him, she thought over and over. She was feeling better now with her hair combed and flowing, her face clean, her cashmere sweater tidy. Through the door she could hear muttered conversation, occasionally a telephone ringing, cars and trucks going past on the road from and to the border, flies droning. Her tiredness took her and she slept fitfully, her dreams bad: noise of engines and firing and Hakim mounted like a Cossack charging them, both she and Erikki buried up to their necks in the earth, hooves just missing them, then somehow free, rushing from the border that was acres of massed barbed wire, the false mullah Mahmud and the butcher suddenly between them and safety and th - The door opened. Both of them awoke, startled. A major in immaculate uniform stood there, glowering, flanked by the sergeant and another policeman. He was a tall, hard-faced man. “Your papers please,” he said to Azadeh. “I, I gave them to the sergeant, Major Effendi.” “You gave him a Finnish passport. Your Iranian papers.” The major held out his hand. She was too slow. At once the sergeant went forward and grabbed her shoulder purse and spilled the contents onto the table. Simultaneously, the other policeman stalked over to Erikki, his hand on the revolver in his open holster, waved him into a corner against the wall. The major flicked some dirt off a chair and sat down, accepted her Iranian ID from the sergeant, read it carefully, then looked at the contents on the table. He opened the jewel bag. His eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”