Whirlwind

“They’re mine. Inherited from my parents.” Azadeh was frightened, not knowing what he knew or how much, and she had seen the way his eyes covered her. So had Erikki. “May my husband please use the telephone? He wish - ” “In due course! You have been told that many times. In due course is in due course.” The major zipped up the bag and put it on the table in front of him. His eyes strayed to her breasts. “Your husband doesn’t speak Turkish?” “No, no, he doesn’t, Major Effendi.”

The officer turned on Erikki and said in good English, “There’s a warrant out for your arrest from Tabriz. For attempted murder and kidnapping.” Azadeh blanched and Erikki held on to his panic as best he could. “Kidnapping whom, sir?”

A flash of irritability washed over the major. “Don’t try to play with me. This lady. Azadeh, sister to the Hakim, the Gorgon Khan.” “She’s my wife. How can a hus - ”

“I know she’s your wife and you’d better tell me the truth, by God. The warrant says you took her against her will and flew off in an Iranian helicopter.” Azadeh started to answer but the major snapped, “I asked him, not you. Well?”

“It was without her consent and the chopper is British not Iranian.” The major stared at him, then turned on Azadeh. “Well?”

“It… it was without my consent…” The words trailed off. “But what?” Azadeh felt sick. Her head ached and she was in despair. Turkish police were known for their inflexibility, their great personal power and toughness. “Please, Major Effendi, perhaps we may talk in private, explain in private?” “We’re private now, madam,” the major said curtly, then seeing her anguish and appreciating her beauty, added, “English is more private than Turkish. Well?”

So, haltingly, choosing her words carefully, she told him about her oath to Abdollah Khan and about Hakim and the dilemma, unable to leave, unable to stay and how Erikki, of his own volition and wisdom, had cut through the Gordian knot. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Yes, it was without my consent but in a way it was with the consent of my brother who helped Er - ” “If it was with Hakim Khan’s consent then why has he put a huge reward on this man’s head, alive or dead,” the major said, disbelieving her, “and had the warrant issued in his name, demanding immediate extradition if necessary?”

She was so shocked she almost fainted. Without thinking Erikki moved toward her, but the revolver went into his stomach. “I was only going to help her,” he gasped.

“Then stay where you are!” In Turkish the officer said, “Don’t kill him.” In English he said, “Well, Lady Azadeh? Why?”

She could not answer. Her mouth moved but made no sound. Erikki said for her, “What else could a Khan do, Major? A Khan’s honor, his face is involved. Publicly he would have to do that, wouldn’t he, whatever he approved in private?”

“Perhaps, but certainly not so quickly, no, not so quickly, not alerting fighters and helicopters - why should he do that if he wanted you to escape? It’s a miracle you weren’t forced down, didn’t fall down with all those bullet holes. It sounds like a pack of lies - perhaps she’s so frightened of you she’ll say anything. Now, your so-called escape from the palace: exactly what happened?”

Helplessly Erikki told him. Nothing more to do, he thought. Tell him the truth and hope. Most of his concentration was on Azadeh, seeing the blank horror pervading her, yet of course Hakim would react the way he had - of course dead or alive - wasn’t the blood of his father strong in his veins? “And the guns?” Once more Erikki told it exactly, about being forced to fly the KGB, about Sheik Bayazid and his kidnap and ransom and the attack on the palace, having to fly them off and then their breaking their oaths and so having to kill them somehow.

“How many men?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Half a dozen, perhaps more.”

“You enjoy killing, eh?”

“No, Major, I hate it, but please believe us, we’ve been caught up in a web not of our seeking, all we want to do is be let go, please let me call my embassy… they can vouch for us… we’re a threat to no one.” The major just looked at him. “I don’t agree, your story’s too farfetched. You’re wanted for kidnapping and attempted murder. Please go with the sergeant,” he said and repeated it in Turkish. Erikki did not move, his fists bunched, and he was near exploding. At once the sergeant’s gun was out, both police converged on him dangerously, and the major said harshly, “It’s a very serious offense to disobey police in this country. Go with the sergeant. Go with him.”

Azadeh tried to say something, couldn’t. Erikki thrust off the sergeant’s hand, contained his own impotent panic-rage, and tried a smile to encourage her. “It’s all right,” he muttered and followed the sergeant. Azadeh’s panic and terror had almost overwhelmed her. Now her fingers and knees were trembling, but she wanted so much to sit tall and be tall, knowing she was defenseless and the major was sitting there opposite her, watching her, the room empty but for the two of them. Insha’Allah, she thought and looked at him, hating him.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said, his eyes curious. Then he reached over and picked up her jewel bag. “For safekeeping,” he said thinly and stalked for the door, closed it after him, and went down the passageway. The cell at the end was small and dirty, more like a cage than a room, with a cot, bars on the tiny window, chains attached to a huge bolt in one wall, a foul-smelling bucket in a corner. The sergeant slammed the door and locked it on Erikki. Through the bars the major said, “Remember, the Lady Azadeh’s… ‘comfort’ depends on your docility.” He went away. Now, alone, Erikki started prowling the cage, studying the door, lock, bars, floor, ceiling, walls, chains - seeking a way out.

* AL SHARGAZ - AT THE AIRPORT: 5:40 P.M. A thousand miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was in an HQ office anxiously waiting near the phone, an hour yet for sunset. Already he had a promise of one 212 from a Paris company and two 206s from a friend at Aerospatiale at reasonable rates. Scot was in the other office, monitoring the HF, with Pettikin on the other phone there. Rudi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and Scragger were at the hotel on more phones tracking down possible crews, arranging possible logistics in Bahrain. No word yet from Kasigi.

The phone rang. Gavallan grabbed it, hoping against hope for news about Dubois and Fowler, or that it was Kasigi. “Hello?”

“Andy, it’s Rudi. We’ve three pilots from Lufttransportgesellschaft and they also promise two mecs. Ten percent over scale, one month on, two off. Hang on… a call on the other line, I’ll call you back, ‘bye.” Gavallan made a notation on his pad, his anxiety giving him heartburn, and that made him think of McIver. When he had talked to him earlier he had not mentioned any of the deadline problems, not wanting to worry him further, promising that as soon as their choppers were safely out he would be on the next connection to Bahrain to see him. “Nothing to worry about, Mac, can’t thank you and Genny enough for all you’ve done…”

Through the window he could see the lowering sun. The airport was busy. He saw an Alitalia jumbo landing and that reminded him of Pettikin and Paula; no opportunity yet to ask him what was what. Near the far end of the runway in the freight area, his eight 212s looked raped and skeletal without their rotors and rotor columns, mechanics still crating some of them. Where the hell’s Kasigi, for God’s sake? He had tried to call him several times at the hotel but he was out and no one knew where he was or when he would return. The door opened. “Dad,” Scot said, “Linbar Struan’s on our phone.” “Tell him to get stuffed… hold it,” Gavallan said quickly. “Just say I’m still out, but you’re sure I’ll call him the moment I return.” He muttered a string of Chinese obscenities. Scot hurried away. Again the phone rang. “Gavallan.”

“Andrew, this is Roger Newbury, how are you?” Gavallan began to sweat. “Hello, Roger, what’s new?” “Sunset’s still the deadline. The Iranian insisted on coming by here to pick me up first so I’m standing by - we’re supposed to go together to meet the Sheik at the airport. We’ll arrive a few minutes early, then the three of us will go to the freight area to wait for His Nibs.”

“What about the reception at the Japanese ambassador’s?”

“We’re all supposed to go after the inspection - God only knows what’ll happen then but… well, ours not to reason. Sorry about all this but our hands are tied. See you soon. ‘Bye.”

Gavallan thanked him, pat down the phone, and wiped his brow. Again the phone. Kasigi? He picked it up. “Hello?”

“Andy? Ian - Ian Dunross.”

“My God, Ian.” Gavallan’s cares dropped away. “I’m so glad to hear from you, tried to reach you a couple of times.”

“Yes, sorry I wasn’t available. How’s it going?”

Gavallan told him guardedly. And about Kasigi. “We’ve about an hour to sunset.”

“That’s one reason I called. Damned bad luck about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Lochart sounds as though he cracked, but then when love’s involved….” Gavallan heard his sigh and did not know how to interpret it. “You remember Hiro Toda, Toda Shipping?” “Of course, Ian.”

“Hiro told me about Kasigi and their problem at Iran-Toda. They’re in a hell of a bind, so anything, anything you can do to help, please do.” “Got it. I’ve been working on it all day. Did Toda tell you Kasigi’s idea about their ambassador?”

“Yes. Hiro called personally - he said they’re more than anxious to help but it’s an Iranian problem, and to be honest, they don’t expect very much as the Iranians would be quite within their rights.” Gavallan’s face mirrored his dismay. “Help them all you can. If Iran-Toda gets taken over… well, strictly between us…” Dunross switched to Shanghainese for a moment: “The underbelly of a nobly thought of company would be slashed mortally.” Then in English again. “Forget I mentioned it.”

Though Gavallan had forgotten most of his Shanghainese he understood and his eyes almost crossed. He had had no idea that Struan’s was involved - Kasigi had never even implied it. “Kasigi‘11 get his choppers and crew even if we miss our deadline and are impounded.”

“Let’s hope you’re not. Next, did you see the papers about the Hong Kong stock exchange crash?”

“Yes.”

“It’s bigger than they’re reporting. Someone’s pulling some very rough stuff and Linbar’s back is to the sea. If you get the 212s out and are still in business, you’ll still have to cancel the X63s.”

Gavallan’s temperature went up a notch. “But, Ian, with those I can bust Imperial’s hold by giving clients better service and better safety, an - ” “I agree, old chum. But if we can’t pay for them you can’t have them. Sorry, but there it is. The stock market’s gone mad, worse than usual, it’s bleeding over to Japan and we cannot afford to have Toda crash here either.” “Perhaps we’ll get lucky. I’m not going to lose my X63s. By the way did you hear Linbar’s giving Profitable a seat in the Inner Office?” “Yes. An interesting idea.” It was said flat and Gavallan could read neither positive nor negative. “I heard their side of the meeting in a roundabout way. If today is a success, you’re planning to be in London Monday?” “Yes. I’ll know better by sunset, or tomorrow sunset. If all goes well I’ll drop by and see Mac in Bahrain, then head for London. Why?” “I may want you to cancel London and meet me in Hong Kong. Something very bloody curious has come up - about Nobunaga Mori, the other witness with Profitable Choy when David MacStruan died. Nobunaga was burned to death a couple of days ago at his home at Kanazawa, that’s in the country just outside Tokyo, in rather strange circumstances. In today’s mail I got a very curious letter. Can’t discuss it on the phone but it’s plenty bloody interesting.”

Gavallan held his breath. “Then David… it wasn’t an accident?” “Have to wait and see on that one, Andy, until we meet - either Tokyo or London, the very soonest. By the way Hiro and I had planned to stay at Kanazawa the night Nobunaga died but couldn’t make it at the last moment.” “My God, that was lucky.”

“Yes. Well, got to go. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Nothing, unless you can give me an extension till Sunday night.” “I’m still working on that, never fear. Damned sorry about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver… that Tokyo number will take messages till Monday…” They said good-bye. Gavallan stared at the phone. Scot came in with more news about possible pilots and planes but he hardly heard his son. Was it murder after all? Christ! Goddamn Linbar and his back to the wall and bad investments. Somehow or another I’ve got to have the X63s, got to. Again the phone. The connection was bad and the accent of the caller heavy: “Long distance collect call for Effendi Gavallan.”

His heart surged. Erikki? “This is Effendi Gavallan, I will accept the charge. Can you speak up, please, I can hardly hear you. Who is the call from?”

“One moment please…” As he waited impatiently he looked at the gate near the end of the runway that the Sheik and the others would use if Kasigi failed and the inspection took place. His breath almost stopped as he saw a big limousine with a Shargazi flag on its fender approaching, but the car passed by in a cloud of dust and a voice on the other end of the phone he could hardly hear said, “Andy, it’s me, Marc, Marc Dubois…” “Marc? Marc Dubois?” he stuttered and almost dropped the phone, cupped his hand over one ear to hear better. “Christ Almighty! Marc? Are you all right, where the hell are you, is Fowler all right? Where the hell are you?” The answer was gibberish. He had to strain to hear. “Say again!” “We’re at Kor al Amaya…” Kor al Amaya was Iraq’s huge, half mile long, deep-sea oil terminal platform at the far end of the Gulf, off the mouth of the Shatt-al-Arab Estuary that divided Iraq and Iran, about five hundred miles northwest. “Can you hear me, Andy? Kor al Amaya…”

AT THE KOR AL AMAYA PLATFORM: Marc Dubois also had one hand cupped over his ear and was trying to be guarded and not to shout down the phone. The phone was in the office of the platform manager, plenty of Iraqi and expats in the office outside able to overhear. “This line’s not private… vous com-prenez?”

“Got it, for God’s sake, what the hell happened? You were picked up?”

Dubois made sure he was not being overheard and said carefully, “No, mon vieux, I was running out of fuel and, voilŕ, the tanker Oceanrider appeared out of the merde so I landed on her, perfectly, of course. We’re both fine, Fowler and me. Pas probleme! What about everyone, Rudi and Sandor and Pop?” They’re all here in Al Shargaz, everyone, your lot, Scrag’s, Mac, Freddy, though Mac’s in Bahrain at the moment. With you safe Whirlwind’s got ten out of ten - Erikki and Azadeh are safe in Tabriz though…” Gavallan was going to say Tom’s risking his life to stay in Iran. But there was nothing he or Dubois could do so instead he said happily, “How wonderful you’re safe, Marc. Are you serviceable?”

“Of course, I, er, I just need fuel and instructions.”

“Marc, you’re British registry now… hang on a sec… it’s G-HKVC. Dump your old numbers and put the new ones on. There’s been hell to pay and our late hosts have splattered the Gulf with telexes asking governments to impound us. Don’t go ashore anywhere.”

Dubois’s bonhomie had left him. “Golf, Hotel Kilo Victor Charlie, got it. Andy, le bon Dieu was with us because Oceanrider’s Liberian registry and her skipper’s British. One of the first things I asked for was a pot of paint, paint… understand?”

“Got it, bloody marvelous. Go on!”

“As he was inbound Iraq I thought it best to keep quiet and stay with her until I talked with you and this is the first mo - ” Through the half-opened door Dubois saw the Iraqi manager approaching. Much more loudly now and in a slightly different voice, he said, “This assignment with Oceanrider’s perfect, Mr. Gavallan, and I’m glad to tell you the captain’s very content.” “Okay, Marc, I’ll ask the questions. When is she due to finish loading and what’s her next port of call?”

“Probably tomorrow.” He nodded politely to the Iraqi who sat behind his desk. “We should be in Amsterdam as scheduled.” Both men were having difficulty hearing.

“Do you think you could stay with her all the way? Of course we’d pay freighting charges.”

“I don’t see why not. I think you’ll find this experiment will become a permanent assignment. The captain found the convenience of being able to lie offshore and yet get into port for a quick visit worthwhile but frankly the owners made an error ordering a 212. A 206’d be much better. I think they’ll want a rebate.” He heard Gavallan’s laugh and it made him happy too. “I better get off the phone, just wanted to report in. Fowler sends his best and if possible I’ll give you a call on the ship to shore as we pass by.” “With any luck we won’t be here. The birds’ll be freighted off tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll monitor Oceanrider all the way home. Once you’re through Hormuz and clear of Gulf waters, ask the captain to radio or telex contact us in Aberdeen. All right? I’m assigning everyone to the North Sea until we’re sorted out. Oh, you’re sure to be out of money, just sign for everything and I’ll reimburse the captain. What’s his name?” “Tavistock, Brian Tavistock.”

“Got it. Marc, you don’t know how happy I am.”

“Me to. A bientot.” Dubois replaced the phone and thanked the manager. “A pleasure, Captain,” the man said thoughtfully. “Are all big tankers going to have their own chopper support?”

“I don’t know, m’sieur. It would be wise for some. No?”

The manager smiled faintly, a tall middle-aged man, his accent and training American. “There’s an Iranian patrol boat standing off in their waters watching Oceanrider. Curious, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Fortunately they stay in their waters, we stay in ours. Iranians think they own the Arabian Gulf, along with us, the Shatt, and the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates back to their source - a thousand and almost two thousand miles.”

“The Euphrates is that long?” Dubois asked, his caution increasing. “Yes. It’s born in Turkey. Have you been to Iraq before?” “No, m’sieur. Unfortunately. Perhaps on my next trip?”

“Baghdad’s great, ancient, modern - so’s the rest of Iraq, well worth a visit. We’ve got nine billion metric tons of proven oil reserves and twice that waiting to be discovered. We’re much more valuable than Iran. France should support us, not Israel.”

“Me, m’sieur, I’m just a pilot,” Dubois said. “No politics for me.” “For us that’s not possible. Politics is life - we’ve discovered that the hard way. Even in the Garden of Eden… did you know people have been living around here for sixty thousand years? The Garden of Eden was barely a hundred miles away; just upstream the Shatt where the Tigris and Euphrates join. Our people discovered fire, invented the wheel, mathematics, writing, wine, gardening, fanning… the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were here, Scheherazade spun her tales to the Calif Harun al-Rashid, whose only equal was your Charlemagne, and here were the mightiest of the ancient civilizations, Babylonia and Assyria. Even the Flood began here. We’ve survived Sumerians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Turks, British, and Persians,” he almost spat the word out. “We’ll continue to survive them.” Dubois nodded warily. Captain Tavistock had warned him: “We’re in Iraq waters, the platform’s Iraqi territory, young fellow. The moment you leave my gangplank, you’re on your own, I’ve no jurisdiction, understand?” “I only want to make a phone call. I have to.”

“What about using my ship to shore when we pass by Al Shargaz on the way back?”

“There won’t be any problem,” Dubois had told him, perfectly confident. “Why should there be? I’m French.” When he had made the forced landing on the deck, he had had to tell the captain about Whirlwind and the reasons for it. The old man had just grunted. “I know nothing about that, young fellow. You haven’t told me. First you’d better paint out your Iran numbers and put G in front of whatever you like instead - I’ll get my ship’s painter to help. As far as I’m concerned if anyone asks me you’re a one-shot experiment the owners foisted on me - you came aboard in Cape Town and I don’t like you a bit and we hardly ever talk. All right?” The captain had smiled. “Happy to have you aboard - I was in PT boats during the war, operating all over the Channel - my wife’s from the Ile d’Ouessant, near Brest - we used to sneak in there from time to time for wine and brandy just like my pirate ancestors used to do. Scratch an Englishman, find a pirate. Welcome aboard.” Dubois waited now and watched the Iraqi manager. “Perhaps I could use the phone tomorrow again, before we leave?”

“Of course. Don’t forget us. Everything began here - it will end here. Salaam!” The manager smiled strangely and put out his hand. “Good landings.” “Thanks, see you soon.”

Dubois went out and down the stairs and out onto the deck, anxious to be back aboard the Oceanrider. A few hundred yards north he saw the Iranian patrol boat, a small frigate, wallowing in the swell. “Espčce de con,” he muttered and set off, his mind buzzing.

It took Dubois almost fifteen minutes to walk back to his ship. He saw Fowler waiting for him and told him the good news. “Effing good about the lads, effing bloody good, but all the way to Amsterdam in this old bucket?” Grumpily Fowler began to curse, but Dubois just walked to the bow and leaned on the gunwale.

Everyone safe! Never thought we’d all make it, never, he thought joyously. What a fantastic piece of luck! Andy and Rudi‘11 think it was planning but it wasn’t. It was luck. Or God.

God timed the Oceanrider perfectly to within a couple of minutes. Shit, that was another close one but over, so no need to remember it. Now what? So long as we don’t run into bad weather and I get seasick, or this old bucket sinks, it’ll be grand to have two to three weeks with nothing to do, just to think and wait and sleep and play a little bridge and sleep and think and plan. Then Aberdeen and the North Sea and laughing with JeanLuc, Tom Lochart and Duke, and the other guys, then off to… off to where? It’s time I got married. Shit, I don’t want to get married yet. I’m only thirty and I’ve avoided it so far. It’d just be my bad luck to meet this Parisienne witch in angel’s clothing who’ll use her wiles to make me so smitten that she’ll destroy my defenses and ruin my resolve! Life’s too good, far too good, and dredging too much fun!

He turned and looked west. The sun, hazed by the vast pollution, was setting toward the land horizon that was dull arid flat and boring. Wish I was at Al Shargaz with the guys.

AL SHARGAZ - INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL: 6:01 P.M.

Starke sat on the second-floor veranda, also watching the lowering sun, but here it was beautiful over a calm sea below a cloudless sky, the great bar of reflected light making him squint even though he was using dark glasses. He wore pajama bottoms and his chest was strapped up and healing well and though he was still weak, he was trying to think and plan. So much to think about - if we get our birds out, or if we don’t.

In the room behind him he could hear Manuela chattering away in a patois of Spanish and Texan to her father and mother in faraway Lubbock. He had already talked to them - and talked to his own folks and the children, Billyjoe, Little Conroe, and Sarita: “Gee, Daddy, when ya coming home? I got me a new horse and school’s great and today’s hotter’n a bowl of Chiquita’s double chili peppers!”

Starke half smiled but could not pull himself out of his ocean of apprehension. Such a long way from there to here, everything alien, even in Britain. Next Aberdeen and the North Sea? I don’t mind just a month or two but that’s not for me, or the kids, or Manuela. It’s clear the kids want Texas, want home, so does Manuela now. Too much’s happened to frighten her, too much too quick too soon. And she’s right but hell, I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do. Have to keep flying, that’s all I’m trained for, want to keep flying. Where? Not the North Sea or Nigeria which’re Andy’s key areas now. Maybe one of his small ops in South America, Indonesia, Malaya or Borneo? I’d like to stay with him if I could but what about the kids and school and Manuela?

Maybe forget overseas and go Stateside? No. Too long abroad, too long here. His eyes were reaching beyond the old city into the far distance of the desert. He was remembering the times he had gone out past the threshold of the desert by night, sometimes with Manuela, sometimes alone, going there just to listen. To listen to what? To the silence, to the night, or to the stars calling one to another? To nothing? “You listen to God,” the mullah Hussain had said. “How can an Infidel do that? You listen to God.” “Those are your words, mullah, not mine.”

Strange man, saving my life, me saving his, almost dead because of him then saved again, then all of us at Kowiss freed - hell, he knew we were leaving Kowiss for good, I’m sure of it. Why did he let us go, us the Great Satan? And why did he keep on telling me to go and see Khomeini? Imam’s not right, not right at all.

What is it about all this that’s got to me?

It’s the out there, the something of the desert that exists for me. Utter peace. The absolute. It’s just for me - not for the kids or Manuela or my folks or anyone else - just me… I can’t explain it to anyone, Manuela most of all, anymore’n I could explain what happened in the mosque at Kowiss, or at the questioning.

I’d better get the hell out or I’m lost. The simplicity of Islam seems to make everything so simple and clear and better and yet… I’m Conroe Starke, Texan, chopper pilot with a great wife and great kids and that should be enough, by God, shouldn’t it?

Troubled, he looked back at the old city, its minarets and walls already reddening from the setting sun. Beyond the city was the desert and beyond that Mecca. He knew that was the way to Mecca because he had seen hospital staff, doctors and nurses and others, kneeling at prayers in that direction. Manuela came out onto the veranda again, distracting his thought pattern, sat down beside him, and brought him partially back to reality. “They send their love and ask when we’re coming home. It’d be good to visit, don’t you think, Conroe?” She saw him nod, absently, not with her, then looked where he was looking, seeing nothing special. Just the sun going down. Goddamn! She hid her concern. He was mending perfectly, but he wasn’t the same. “Not to worry, Manuela,” Doc Nutt had said, “it’s probably the shock of being hit with a bullet, the first time’s always a bit traumatic. It’s that, and Dubois, Tom, Erikki, and all the waiting and worrying and the not knowing - we’re all poised, you, me, everyone, but we still don’t quite know for what - it’s got to all of us in different ways.” Her worry was sinking her. To hide it she leaned on the railing, looking at the sea and the boats. “While you were sleeping, I found Doc Nutt. He says you can leave in a few days, tomorrow if it was real important, but you’ve got to take it easy for a month or two. At breakfast, Nogger told me the rumor is we’ll all get at least a month’s vacation, with pay, isn’t that great? With that and the sick leave we got lots of time to go home, huh?” “Sure. Good idea.”

She hesitated, then turned and looked at him. “What’s troubling you, Conroe?”

“I’m not sure, honey. I feel fine. Not my chest. I don’t know.” “Doc Nutt said it’s bound to be real strange for a bitty, darlin’, and Andy said there’s a good chance there’ll be no inspection and the freighters are definite for noon tomorrow, nothing we can do, nothing more you can do…” The phone in the room rang and she went to answer it, still talking, “… nothing any of us can do more’n we’re doing. If we can get out, us and our choppers, I know Andy‘11 get Kasigi’s choppers and the crews then… Hello? Oh, hi, darlin’…”

Starke heard the sudden gasp and silence, his heart tweaked, then her explosion of excitement and she was calling out to him, “It’s Andy, Conroe, it’s Andy, he’s got a call from Marc Dubois and he’s in Iraq on some ship, he and Fowler, they force-landed with no sweat on some tanker an’ they’re in Iraq and safe…. Oh, Andy, that’s great! What? Oh, sure, he’s fine and I’ll… but what about Kasigi?… Wait a mo - … Yes, but… Sure.” She replaced the phone and hurried back. “Nothing from Kasigi yet. Andy said he was in a rush and he’d call back. Oh, Conroe…” Now she was on her knees beside him, her arms around his neck, hugging him but very carefully, her happiness spilling tears. “I’ve been so worried about Marc ‘nd old Fowler, I was so afraid they were lost.”

“Me too… me too.” He could feel her heart pounding and his was too and some of the weight on his spirit lifted - his good arm holding her tightly. “Goddamn,” he muttered, also hardly able to talk. “Come on, Kasigi… come on, Kasigi…”

* AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:18 P.M. Gavallan was at the office window watching Newbury’s official car with the small Union Jack fluttering swing through the gate. The car hurried along the perimeter road toward the front of his building - uniformed chauffeur, two figures in the back. He half nodded to himself. From the tap on the hand basin he splashed a little cold water into his face and dried it.

The door opened. Scot came in, beside him Charlie Pettikin. Both were pale. “Not to worry,” Gavallan said, “come on in.” He strolled back to the window, trying to appear calm and stood there, drying his hands. The sun was near the horizon. “No need to wait here, we’ll go to meet them.” Firmly he led the way out into the corridor. “Great about Marc and Fowler, isn’t it?” “Wonderful,” Scot said, his voice flat in spite of his resolve. “Ten birds out of ten, Dad. Can’t do better than that. Ten out of ten.” Along the corridor and out into the foyer. “How’s Paula, Charlie?” “Oh, she… she’s fine, Andy.” Pettikin was astounded by Gavallan’s sangfroid and not a little envious. “She… she took off for Tehran an hour ago, doesn’t think she’ll be back until Monday, though maybe tomorrow.” God curse Whirlwind, he thought in misery, it’s ruined everything. I know a faint heart never won a fair lady, but what the hell can I do? If they grab our choppers, S-G’s down the sink, there’s no job, I’ve almost no savings. I’m so much older than she is and… sod everything! In a sick, stupid way I’m glad - now I can’t screw up her life and anyway she’d be crazy to say yes. “Paula’s fine, Andy.”

“She’s a nice girl.”

The foyer was crowded. Across it and out of the cool air-conditioning to the sunset’s warmth and onto the entrance steps. Gavallan stopped astonished. Every one of the S-G contingent was there: Scragger, Vossi, Willi, Rudi, Pop Kelly, Sandor, Freddy Ayre, and all the others and all the mechanics. All were motionless, watching the approaching car. It swung up to them. Newbury got out. “Hello, Andrew,” he said, but now they were all transfixed, for Kasigi stood beside him, not the Iranian, and Kasigi was beaming, Newbury saying in a perplexed voice, “Really don’t quite understand what’s happening but the ambassador, the Iranian ambassador, canceled at the last minute, so did the Sheik, and Mr. Kasigi called for me to go to the Japanese reception so there’ll be no inspection tonight…”

Gavallan let out a cheer and then they were all pummeling Kasigi, thanking him, talking, laughing, stumbling over each other and Kasigi said, “… and there won’t be an inspection tomorrow even if we have to kidnap him…” and more laughter and cheers and Scragger was dancing a hornpipe. “Hooray for Kasigi…”

Gavallan fought his way through to Kasigi and gave him a bear hug, and shouted over the bedlam, “Thanks, thanks, by God. You’ll have some of your birds in three days, the rest at the weekend …” then added incoherently, “Christ Almighty, give me a second, Christ Almighty I’ve got to tell Mac, Duke, and the others… celebration’s on me…”

Kasigi watched him hurry away. Then he smiled to himself.

AT THE HOSPITAL: 6:32 P.M. Shakily Starke put down the phone, glowing with happiness, and came back onto the veranda. “Goddamn, Manuela, goddamn, we made it, no inspection! Whirlwind made it; Andy doesn’t know how Kasigi did it but he did it and… Goddamn!” He put his arm around her and leaned against the balustrade. “Whirlwind made it, now we’re safe, now we’ll get out and now we can plan. Goddamn! Kasigi, the son of a bitch, he did it! Allah-u Akbar,” he added triumphantly without thinking.

The sun touched the horizon. From the city a muezzin began, just one, the voice peerless, beckoning. And the sound filled his ears and his being and he listened, all else forgotten, his relief and joy mingled with the words and the beckoning and the Infinite - and he went away from her. Helplessly she waited, alone. There in the going down of the sun she waited, afraid for him, sad for him, sensing the future was in balance. She waited as only a woman can.

The beckoning ceased. Now it was very quiet, very still. His eyes saw the old city in all its ancient splendor, the desert beyond, infinity beyond the horizon. And now he saw it for what it was. Sound of a jet taking off and seabirds calling. Then the puttputt of a chopper somewhere and he decided. “Thou,” he said to her in Farsi, “thou, I love thee.”

“Thou, I love thee forever,” she murmured, near tears. Then she heard him sigh and knew they were together again.

“Time to go home, my darlin’.” He gathered her into his arms. “Time for all of us to go home.”

“Home’s where you are,” she said, not afraid anymore.

AT THE OASIS HOTEL: 11:52 P.M. In the darkness the telephone jangled discordantly, jerking Gavallan out of a deep sleep. He groped for it, switching on his side-table light. “Hello?”

“Hello, Andrew, this is Roger Newbury, sorry to call so late but th - ” “Oh, that’s all right, I said to call up till midnight, how did it go?” Newbury had promised to phone and tell him what happened at the rest of the reception. Normally Gavallan would have been awake but tonight he had excused himself from the celebration just after ten and within seconds was asleep. “What about tomorrow?”

“Delighted to tell you His Excellency Abadani’s accepted an invitation from the Sheik to spend the day hawking at Al Sal oasis, so it looks very good he’ll be isolated all day. Personally, I don’t trust him, Andrew, and we strongly advise you to get your planes and all personnel out as quickly and discreetly as possible, also to close down here for a month or two till we can give you the word. All right?”

“Yes, great news. Thanks.” Gavallan lay back, a new man, the bed seductive, sleep beckoning. “I’d already planned to close down,” he said with a mighty yawn. “Everyone’s confirmed out before sunset.” He had heard the nervousness in Newbury’s voice but put it down to all the excitement, stifled another yawn, and added, “Scragger and I will be the last - we’re on the plane to Bahrain with Kasigi to see McIver.”

“Good. How the hell you managed Abadani I don’t know - and I don’t want to know either - but our collective hat’s off to you. Now, er, now hate to bring bad tidings along with the good but we’ve just had a telex from Henley in Tabriz.”

Sleep vanished from Gavallan. “Trouble?”

“Afraid so. It sounds bizarre but this’s what it says.” There was a rustle of paper, then, “Henley says: ‘We hear there was some sort of attack yesterday or last night on Hakim Khan’s life, Captain Yokkonen is supposed to be implicated. Last night he fled for the Turkish border in his helicopter, taking his wife Azadeh with him, against her will. A warrant for attempted murder and kidnapping has been issued in Hakim Khan’s name. A great deal of fighting between rival factions is presently going on in Tabriz which is making accurate reporting somewhat difficult. Further details will be sent immediately they are available.’ That’s all there is. Astonishing, what?” Silence. “Andrew? Are you there?”

“Yes… yes, I am. Just… just, er, trying to collect my wits. There’s no chance there’d be a mistake?”

“I doubt that. I’ve sent an urgent signal for more details; we might get something tomorrow. I suggest you contact the Finnish ambassador in London, alert him. The embassy number is 01-7668888. Sorry about all this.” Gavallan thanked him and, dazed, replaced the phone.

Sunday - March 4

Chapter 72

AT THE TURKISH VILLAGE: 10:20 A.M. Azadeh awoke with a start. For a moment she could not remember where she was, then the room came into focus - small, drab, two windows, the straw mattress of the bed hard, clean but coarse sheets and blankets - and she recalled that this was the village hotel and last night at sunset, in spite of her protests and not wanting to leave Erikki, she had been escorted here by the major and a policeman. The major had brushed aside her excuses and insisted on dining with her in the tiny restaurant that had emptied immediately they had arrived. “Of course you must eat something to keep up your strength. Please sit down. I will order whatever you eat for your husband and have them send it to him. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please,” she said, also in Turkish, and sat down, understanding the implied threat, the hackles on her neck twisting. “I can pay for it.” The barest touch of a smile moved his full lips. “As you wish.” “Thank you, Major Effendi. When can my husband and I leave, please?” “I will discuss that with you tomorrow, not tonight.” He motioned to the policeman to stand guard on the door. “Now we will speak English,” he said, offering her his silver cigarette case.

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke. When can I have my jewelry back, please, Major Effendi?”

He selected a cigarette and began tapping the end on the case, watching her. “As soon as it is safe. My name is Abdul Ikail. I’m stationed at Van and responsible for this whole region, up to the border.” He used his lighter, exhaled smoke, his eyes never leaving her. “Have you been to Van before?” “No, no I haven’t.”

“It’s a sleepy little place. It was,” he corrected himself, “before your revolution, though it’s always been difficult on the border.” Another deep intake of smoke. “Undesirables on both sides wanting to cross or to flee. Smugglers, drug dealers, arms dealers, thieves, all the carrion you can think of.” He said it casually, wisps of smoke punctuating the words. The air was heavy in the little room and smelled of old cooking, humans, and stale tobacco. She was filled with foreboding. Her fingers toyed with the strap of her shoulder bag.

“Have you been to Istanbul?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, once for a few days when I was a little girl. I went with my father, he had business there and I, I was put on a plane for school in Switzerland.”

“I’ve never been to Switzerland. I went to Rome once on a holiday. And to Bonn on a police course, and another one in London, but never Switzerland.” He smoked a moment, lost in thought, then stubbed out the cigarette in a chipped ashtray and beckoned the hotel owner who stood abjectly by the door, waiting to take his order. The food was primitive but good and served with great, nervous humility that further unsettled her. Clearly the village was not used to such an august presence.

“No need to be afraid, Lady Azadeh, you’re not in danger,” he told her as though reading her mind. “On the contrary. I’m glad to have the opportunity to talk to you, it’s rare a person of your… your quality passes this way.” Throughout dinner, patiently and politely, he questioned her about Azerbaijan and Hakim Khan, volunteering little, refusing to discuss Erikki or what was going to happen. “What will happen will happen. Please tell me your story again.”

“I’ve… I’ve already told it to you, Major Effendi. It’s the truth, it’s not a story. I told you the truth, so did my husband.”

“Of course,” he said, eating hungrily. “Please tell it to me again.” So she had, afraid, reading his eyes and the desire therein, though he was always punctilious and circumspect. “It’s the truth,” she said, hardly touching the food in front of her, her appetite vanished. “We’ve committed no crime, my husband only defended himself and me - before God.” “Unfortunately God cannot testify on your behalf. Of course, in your case, I accept what you say as what you believe. Fortunately here we’re more of this world, we’re not fundamentalist, there’s a separation between Islam and state, no self-appointed men get between us and God, and we’re only fanatic to keep our own way of life as we want it - and other people’s beliefs or laws from being crammed down our throats.” He stopped, listening intently. Walking here in the falling light they had heard distant firing and some heavy mortars. Now, in the silence of the restaurant, they heard more. “Probably Kurds defending their homes in the mountains.” His lips curled disgustedly. “We hear Khomeini is sending your army, and Green Bands, against them.”

“Then it’s another mistake,” she said. “That’s what my brother says.” “I agree. My family is Kurd.” He got up. “A policeman will be outside your door all night. For your protection,” he said with the same curious half smile that greatly perturbed her. “For your protection. Please stay in your room until I… I come for you or send for you. Your compliance assists your husband. Sleep well.”

So she had gone to the room she had been given and then, seeing there was no lock or bolt on the door, had jammed a chair under the knob. The room was cold, the water in the jug icy. She had washed and dried herself, then prayed, adding a special prayer for Erikki, and sat on the bed. With great care she slipped out the six-inch, steel hat pin that was secreted in the binding of her shoulder bag, studied it for a second. The point was needle sharp, the head small but big enough to grip for a thrust. She slid it into the underside of the pillow as Ross had shown her: “Then it’s no danger to you,” he had said with a smile, “a hostile wouldn’t notice it, and you can get it easily. A beautiful young girl like you should always be armed, just in case.”

“Oh, but, Johnny, I’d never be able to… never.”

“You will when - if - the time ever comes, and you should be prepared to. So long as you’re armed, know how to use the weapon whatever it is, and accept that you may have to kill to protect yourself, then you’ll never, ever, need to be afraid.” Over those beautiful months in the High Lands he had shown her how to use it. “Just an inch in the right place is more than enough, it’s deadly enough…” She had carried it ever since, but never once had to use it - not even in the village. The village. Leave the village to the night, not to the day.

Her fingers touched the head of the weapon. Perhaps tonight, she thought. Insha’Allah! What about Erikki? Insha’Allah! Then she was reminded of Erikki saying, “Insha’Allah’s fine, Azadeh, and a great excuse, but God by any name needs a helping earthly hand from time to time.”

Yes. I promise you I’m prepared, Erikki. Tomorrow is tomorrow and I will help, my darling. I’ll get you out of this somehow. Reassured she blew out the candle, curled up under the sheets and covers still dressed in sweater and ski pants. Moonlight came through the windows. Soon she was warm. Warmth and exhaustion and youth led her into sleep that was dreamless. In the night she was suddenly awake. The doorknob was turning softly. Her hand went to the spike and she lay there, watching the door. The handle went to the limit, the door moved a fraction but did not budge, held tightly closed by the chair that now creaked under the strain. In a moment the knob turned quietly back to its resting place. Again silence. No footsteps or breathing. Nor did the knob move again. She smiled to herself. Johnny had also showed her how to place the chair. Ah, my darling, I hope you find the happiness you seek, she thought, and slept again, facing the door. Now she was awake and rested and knew that she was much stronger than yesterday, more ready for the battle that would soon begin. Yes, by God, she told herself, wondering what had brought her out of sleep. Sounds of traffic and street vendors. No, not those. Then again a knock on the door. “Who is it, please?”

“Major Ikail.”

“One moment, please.” She pulled on her boots, straightened her sweater and her hair. Deftly she disengaged the chair. “Good morning, Major Effendi.” He glanced at the chair, amused. “You were wise to jam the door. Don’t do it again - without permission.” Then he scrutinized her. “You seem rested. Good. I’ve ordered coffee and fresh bread for you. What else would you like?”

“Just to be let go, my husband and I.”

“So?” He came into the room and closed the door and took the chair and sat down, his back to the sunlight that streamed in from the window. “With your cooperation that might be arranged.”

When he had moved into the room, without being obvious she had retreated and now sat on the edge of the bed, her hand within inches of the pillow. “What cooperation, Major Effendi?”

“It might be wise not to have a confrontation,” he said curiously. “If you cooperate… and go back to Tabriz of your own free will this evening, your husband will remain in custody tonight and be sent to Istanbul tomorrow.” She heard herself say, “Sent where in Istanbul?”

“First to prison - for safekeeping - where his ambassador will be able to see him and, if it’s God’s will, to be released.”

“Why should he be sent to prison, he’s done noth - ”

“There’s a reward on his head. Dead or alive.” The major smiled thinly. “He needs protection - there are dozens of your nationals in the village and near here, all on the edge of starvation. Don’t you need protection too? Wouldn’t you be a perfect kidnap victim, wouldn’t the Khan ransom his only sister at once and lavishly? Eh?”

“Gladly I’ll go back if that will help my husband,” she said at once. “But if I go back, what… what guarantee do I have that my husband will be protected and be sent to Istanbul, Major Effendi?”

“None.” He got up and stood over her. “The alternate is if you don’t cooperate of your own free will, you’ll be sent to the border today and he… he will have to take his chances.”

She did not get up, nor take her hand away from the pillow. Nor look up at him. I’d do that gladly but once I’m gone Erikki’s defenseless. Cooperate? Does that mean bed this man of my own free will? “How must I cooperate? What do you want me to do?” she asked and was furious that her voice seemed smaller than before.

He half laughed and said sardonically, ‘To do what all women have difficulty in doing: to be obedient, to do what they’re told without argument, and to stop trying to be clever.” He turned on his heel. “You will stay here in the hotel. I will return later. I hope by then you’ll be prepared… to give me the correct answer.” He shut the door after him.

If he tries to force me, I will kill him, she thought. I cannot bed him as a barter - my husband would never forgive me, nor could I forgive myself, for we both know the act would not guarantee his freedom or mine, and even if it did he could not live with the knowledge and would seek revenge. Nor could I live with myself.

She got up and went to the window and looked out at the busy village, snow-covered mountains around it, the border over there, such a little way. “The only chance Erikki has is for me to go back,” she muttered. “But I can’t, not without the major’s approval. And even then…”

AT THE POLICE STATION: 11:58 A.M. Gripped by Erikki’s great fists, the lower end of the central iron bar in the window came free with a small shower of cement. Hastily he pushed it back into its hole, looked out of the cage door and down the corridor. No jailer appeared. Quickly he stuffed small pieces of cement and nibble back around the base camouflaging it - he had been working on this bar most of the night, worrying it as a dog would a bone. Now he had a weapon and a lever to bend the other bars out of shape. It’ll take me half an hour, no more, he thought, and sat back on his bunk, satisfied. After bringing the food last evening, the police had left him alone, confident in the strength of their cage. This morning they had brought him coffee that had tasted vile and a hunk of rough bread and had stared at him without understanding when he asked for the major and for his wife. He did not know the Turkish for “major” nor the officer’s name, but when he pointed at his lapel, miming the man’s rank, they had understood him and had just shrugged, spoken more Turkish that he did not understand, and gone away again. The sergeant had not reappeared.

Each of us knows what to do, he thought, Azadeh and I, each of us is at risk, each will do the best we can. But if she’s touched, or hurt, no god will help him who touched her while I live. I swear it.

The door at the end of the corridor opened. The major strode toward him. “Good morning,” he said, his nostrils crinkling at the foul smell. “Good morning, Major. Where’s my wife, please, and when are you letting us go?”

“Your wife is in the village, quite safe, rested. I’ve seen her myself.” The major eyed him thoughtfully, noticed the dirt on his hands, glanced keenly at the lock on the cage, the window bars, the floor, and the ceiling. “Her safety and treatment are dependent on you. You do understand?” “Yes, yes, I do understand. And I hold you as the senior policeman here responsible for her.”

The major laughed. “Good,” he said sardonically, then the smile vanished. “It seems best to avoid a confrontation. If you cooperate you will stay here tonight, tomorrow I’ll send you under guard to Istanbul - where your ambassador can see you if he wants - to stand trial for the crimes you’re accused of, or to be extradited.”

Erikki dismissed his own problems. “I brought my wife here against her will. She’s done nothing wrong, she should go home. Can she be escorted?” The major watched him. “That depends on your cooperation.” “I will ask her to go back. I’ll insist, if that’s what you mean.”

“She could be sent back,” the major said, taunting him. “Oh, yes. But of course it’s possible that on the way to the border or even from the hotel, she could be ‘kidnapped’ again, this time by bandits, Iranian bandits, bad ones, to be held in the mountains for a month or two, eventually to be ransomed to the Khan.” Erikki was ashen. “What do you want me to do?” “Not far away is the railway. Tonight you could be smuggled out of here and taken safely to Istanbul. The charges against you could be quashed. You could be given a good job, flying, training our fliers - for two years. In return you agree to become a secret agent for us, you supply us with information about Azerbaijan, particularly about this Soviet you mentioned, Mzytryk, information about Hakim Khan, where and how he lives, how to get into the palace - and anything else that is wanted.” “What about my wife?” “She stays in Van of her own free will, hostage to your behavior… for a month or two. Then she can join you, wherever you are.”

“Provided she’s escorted back to Hakim Khan today, safely, unharmed and it’s proved to me she’s safe and unharmed, I will do what you ask.” “Either you agree or you don’t,” the major said impatiently. “I’m not here to bargain with you!”

“Please, she’s nothing to do with any crimes of mine. Please let her go. Please.”

“You think we’re fools? Do you agree or don’t you?” “Yes! But first I want her safe. First!” “Perhaps first you’d like to watch her spoiled. First.” Erikki lunged for him through the bars and the whole cage door shuddered under the impact. But the major stood there just out of range and laughed at the great hand clawing for him impotently. He had judged the distance accurately, far too practiced to be caught unawares, far too experienced an investigator not to know how to taunt and threaten and tempt, how to jeer and exaggerate and use the prisoner’s own fears and terrors, how to twist truths to break through the curtain of inevitable lies and half-truths - to get at the real truth.

His superiors had left it up to him to decide what to do about both of them. Now he had decided. Without hurrying he pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Erikki’s face. And cocked the pistol. Erikki did not back off, just held the bars with his huge hands, his breath coming in great pants. “Good,” the major said calmly, holstering the gun. “You have been warned your behavior gauges her treatment.” He walked away. When Erikki was alone again, he tried to tear the cage door off its hinges. The door groaned but held firm.

AL SHARGAZ INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 4:39 P.M.

From the driver’s seat of his car Gavallan watched the loading hatch of a 747 freighter close on half the 212s, crates of spares and rotors. Pilots and mechanics were feverishly loading the second jumbo, just one more 212 carcass to get aboard, a dozen crates and piles of suitcases. “We’re on schedule, Andy,” Rudi, the loading master, said, pretending not to notice his friend’s pallor. “Half an hour.”

“Good.” Gavallan handed him some papers. “Here are clearances for all mechanics to go with her.”

“No pilots?”

“No. All pilots’re on the BA flight. But make sure they’re in Immigration by six-ten. BA can’t hold the flight. Make sure everyone’s there, Rudi. They’ve got to be on that flight - I guaranteed it.”

“Don’t worry. What about Duke and Manuela?”

“They’ve already gone. Doc Nutt went with them, so they’re launched. I… that’s about all.” Gavallan was finding it hard to think. “You and Scrag’re still on the six-thirty-five to Bahrain?” “Yes. JeanLuc‘11 meet us. We’re taking Kasigi to set up his op and get ready for his Iran-Toda birds. I’ll see you all off.”

“See you in Aberdeen.” Rudi shook his hand firmly and rushed away, Gavallan let in the clutch, ground the gears and cursed, then went back to the office.

“Anything, Scrag?”

“No, no, not yet, sport. Kasigi called. I told him he’s in business, gave him the chopper registrations, names of pilots and mecs. He said he’s booked on our flight to Kuwait tonight, then he’ll catch a ride to Abadan, then to Iran-Toda.” Scragger was as perturbed as the others about the way Gavallan looked. “Andy, you’ve covered every possibility.”

“Have I? I doubt it, Scrag. I haven’t got Erikki and Azadeh out.” During the night, till very late London time, Gavallan had contacted everyone of importance he could think of. The Finnish ambassador had been shocked: “But it’s impossible! One of our nationals couldn’t possibly be involved in such an affair. Impossible! Where will you be this time tomorrow?” Gavallan had told him and had watched the night turn into dawn. No way to contact Hakim Khan other than through Newbury and Newbury was handling that possibility. “It’s a bitch, Scrag, but there you are.” Numbly he picked up the phone, put it down again. “Are you all checked out?”

“Yes. Kasigi‘11 meet us at the gate. I’ve sent all our bags to the terminal and had them checked in. We can stay here till the last moment and go straight over.”

Gavallan stared at the airport. Busy, normal, gentle day. “I don’t know what to do, Scrag. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

AT THE POLICE STATION IN THE TURKISH VILLAGE: 5:18 P.M. “.. .just as you say, Effendi. You will make the necessary arrangements?” the major said deferentially into the phone. He was sitting at the only desk in the small, scruffy office, the sergeant standing nearby, the kookri and Erikki’s knife on the desktop. “… Good. Yes… yes, I agree. Salaam.” He replaced the phone, lit a cigarette, and got up. “I’ll be at the hotel.” “Yes, Effendi.” The sergeant’s eyes glinted with amusement but, carefully, he kept it off his face. He watched the major straighten his jacket and hair and put on his fez, envying him his rank and power. The phone rang. “Police, yes?… oh, hello, Sergeant.” He listened with growing astonishment. “But… yes… yes, very well.” Blankly he put the phone back on its hook. “It… it was Sergeant Urbil at the border, Major Effendi. There’s an Iran Air Force truck with Green Bands and a mullah coming to take the helicopter and the prisoner and her back to Ir - ”

The major exploded. “In the Name of God who allowed hostiles over our border without authority? There’re standing orders about mullahs and revolutionaries!”

“I don’t know, Effendi,” the sergeant said, frightened by the sudden rage. “Urbil just said they were waving official papers and insisted - everyone knows about the Iranian helicopter so he just let them through.” “Are they armed?”

“He didn’t say, Effendi.”

“Get your men, all of them, with submachine guns.”

“But… but what about the prisoner?”

“Forget him!” the major said and stormed out cursing.

* ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE VILLAGE: 5:32 P.M. The Iran Air Force truck was a four-wheel drive, part tanker and part truck, and it turned off the side road that was little more than a track onto the snow, changed gears, and headed for the 212. Nearby, the police sentry went to meet it. Half a dozen armed youths wearing green armbands jumped down, then three unarmed, uniformed Iran Air Force personnel, and a mullah. The mullah slung his Kalashnikov. “Salaam. We’re here to take possession of our property in the name of the Imam and the people,” the mullah said importantly. “Where is the kidnapper and the woman?”

“I… I don’t know anything about that.” The policeman was flustered. His orders were clear: Stand guard and keep everyone away until you’re told otherwise. “You’d better go to the police station first and ask there.” He saw one of the air force personnel open the cockpit door and lean into the cockpit; the other two were reeling out refueling hoses. “Hey, you three, you’re not allowed near the helicopter without permission!” The mullah stood in his path. “Here is our authority!” He waved papers in the policeman’s face and that rattled him even more, for he could not read. “You better go to the station first…” he stammered, then with vast relief saw the station police car hurtling along the little road toward them from the direction of the village. It swerved off into the snow, trundled a few yards and stopped. The major, sergeant, and two policemen got out, riot guns in their hands. Surrounded by his Green Bands, the mullah went toward them, unafraid. “Who’re you?” the major said harshly.

“Mullah Ali Miandiry of the Khoi komiteh. We have come to take possession of our property, the kidnapper, and the woman, in the name of the Imam and the people.”

“Woman? You mean Her Highness, the sister of Hakim Khan?” “Yes. Her.” ” ‘Imam’? Imam who?” “Imam Khomeini, peace be on him.” “Ah, Ayatollah Khomeini,” the major said, affronted by the title. “What ‘people’?”

Just as toughly the mullah shoved some papers toward him. “The people of Iran. Here is our authority.”

The major took the papers, scanned them rapidly. There were two of them, hastily scrawled in Farsi. The sergeant and his two men had spread out, surrounding the truck, submachine guns in their hands. The mullah and Green Bands watched them contemptuously.

“Why isn’t it on the correct legal form?” the major said. “Where’s the police seal and the signature of the Khoi police chief?”

“We don’t need one. It’s signed by the komiteh.”

“What komiteh? I know nothing about komitehs.”

“The Revolutionary Komiteh of Khoi has authority over this area and the police.”

“This area? This area’s Turkey!”

“I meant authority over the area up to the border.”

“By whose authority? Where is your authority? Show it to me.” A current went through the youths. “The mullah’s shown it to you,” one of them said truculently. “The komiteh signed the paper.”

“Who signed it? You?”

“I did,” the mullah said. “It’s legal. Perfectly legal. The komiteh is the authority.” He saw the air force personnel staring at him. “What are you waiting for? Get the helicopter refueled!”

Before the major could say anything, one of them said deferentially, “Excuse me, Excellency, the panel’s in a mess, some of the instruments are broken. We can’t fly her until she’s checked out. It’d be safer to g - ” “The Infidel flew it all the way from Tabriz safely by night and by day, landed it safely, why can’t you fly it during the day?”

“It’s just that it’d be safer to check before flying, Excellency.” “Safer? Why safer?” one of the Green Bands said roughly, walking over to him. “We’re in God’s hands doing God’s work. Do you want to delay God’s work and leave the helicopter here?”

“Of course not, of co - ”

“Then obey our mullah and refuel it! Now!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the pilot said lamely. “As you wish.” Hastily the three of them hurried to comply - the major shocked to see that the pilot, a captain, allowed himself to be overridden so easily by the young thug who now stared back at him with flat, challenging eyes.

“The komiteh has jurisdiction over the police, Agha,” the mullah was saying. “Police served the Satan Shah and are suspect. Where is the kidnapper and the … the sister of the Khan?”

“Where’s your authority to come over the border and ask for anything?” The major was coldly furious.

“In the Name of God, Imam Khomeini, this is authority enough!” The mullah stabbed his finger at the papers. One of the youths cocked his gun. “Don’t,” the major warned him. “If you pull a single trigger on our soil, our forces will come over your border and bum everything between here and Tabriz!”

“If it’s the Will of God!” The mullah stared back, dark eyes and dark beard and just as resolved, despising the major and the loose regime the man and uniform represented to him. War now or later was all the same to him, he was in God’s hands and doing God’s work and the Word of the Imam would sweep them to victory - over all borders. But now was not the time for war, too much to do in Khoi, leftists to overcome, revolts to put down, the Imam’s enemies to destroy, and for that, in these mountains, every helicopter was priceless.

“I… I ask for possession of our property,” he said, more reasonably. He pointed at the markings. “There are our registrations, that’s proof that it is our property. It was stolen from Iran - you must know there was no permission to leave Iran, legally it is still our property. The warrant,” he pointed to the papers in the major’s hand, “the warrant is legal, the pilot kidnapped the woman, so we will take possession of them too. Please.” The major was in an untenable situation. He could not possibly hand over the Finn and his wife to illegals because of an illegal piece of paper - that would be a gross dereliction of duty and would, correctly, cost him his head. If the mullah forced the issue he would have to resist and defend the police station, but obviously he had insufficient men to do so, obviously he would fail in the confrontation. Equally he was convinced that the mullah and Green Bands were prepared to die this very minute as he himself was not. He decided to gamble. “The kidnapper and the Lady Azadeh were sent to Van this morning. To extradite them you have to apply to Army HQ, not to me. The… the importance of the Khan’s sister meant that the army took possession of both of them.”

The mullah’s face froze. One of the Green Bands said sullenly, “How do we know that’s not a lie?” The major whirled on him, the youth jumped back a foot, Green Bands behind the truck aimed, the unarmed airmen dropped to the ground aghast, the major’s hand went for his revolver.

“Stop!” the mullah said. He was obeyed, even by the major who was furious with himself for allowing pride and reflexes to overcome his self-discipline. The mullah thought a moment, considering possibilities. Then he said, “We will apply to Van. Yes, we will do that. But not today. Today we will take our property and we will leave.” He stood there, legs slightly apart, assault rifle over his shoulder, supremely confident. The major fought to hide his relief. The helicopter had no value to him or his superiors and was an extreme embarrassment. “I agree they’re your markings,” he said shortly. “As to ownership, I don’t know. If you sign a receipt leaving ownership open, you may take it and leave.” “I will sign a receipt for our helicopter.” On the back of the warrant the major scrawled what would satisfy him and perhaps satisfy the mullah. The mullah turned and scowled at the airmen who hurriedly began reeling in the fuel hoses, and the pilot stood beside the cockpit once more, brushing the snow off. “Are you ready now, pilot?” “Any moment, Excellency.” “Here,” the major said to the mullah, handing him the paper. With barely concealed derision the mullah signed it without reading it. “Are you ready now, pilot?” he said.

“Yes, Excellency, yes.” The young captain looked at the major and the major saw - or thought he saw - the misery in his eyes and the unspoken plea for asylum that was impossible to grant. “Can I start up?”

“Start up,” the mullah said imperiously, “of course start up.” In seconds the engines began winding up sweetly, rotors picking up speed. “Ali and Abrim, you go with the truck back to the base.”

Obediently the two young men got in with the air force driver. The mullah motioned them to leave and the others to board the helicopter. The rotors were thrashing the air and he waited until everyone was in the cabin, then unslung his gun, sat beside the pilot, and pulled the door closed. Engines building, an awkward liftoff, the 212 started trundling away. Angrily the sergeant aimed his submachine gun. “I can blow the motherless turds out of the sky, Major.”

“Yes, yes, we could.” The major took out his cigarette case. “But we’ll leave that to God. Perhaps God will do that for us.” He used the lighter shakily, inhaled, and watched the truck and the helicopter grinding away. “Those dogs will have to be taught manners and a lesson.” He walked over to the car and got in. “Drop me at the hotel.”

AT THE HOTEL: Azadeh was leaning out of the window, searching the sky. She had heard the 212 start up and take off and was filled with the impossible hope that Erikki had somehow escaped. “Oh, God, let it be true…” Villagers were also looking up at the sky and now she too saw the chopper well on its way back to the border. Her insides turned over. Has he bartered his freedom for mine? Oh, Erikki…

Then she saw the police car come into the square, stop outside the hotel, and the major get out, straighten his uniform. Her face drained. Resolutely she closed the window and sat on the chair facing the door, near the pillow. Waiting. Waiting. Now footsteps. The door opened. “Follow me,” he said. “Please.”

For a moment she did not understand. “What?”

“Follow me. Please.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously, expecting a trap and not wanting to leave the safety of the hidden spike. “What’s going on? Is my husband flying the helicopter? It’s going back. Have you sent him back?” She felt her courage leaving her fast, her anxiety that Erikki had given himself up in return for her safety making her frantic. “Is he flying it?”

“No, your husband’s in the police station. Iranians came for the helicopter, for him and you.” Now that the crisis was over, the major felt very good. “The airplane was Iran-registered, had no clearance to leave Iran, so therefore they still had a right to it. Now, follow me.”

“Where to, please?”

“I thought you might like to see your husband.” The major enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed the danger, wondering where her secreted weapon was. These women always have a weapon or venom of some kind, death of some kind lurking for the unwary rapist. Easy to overcome if you’re ready, if you watch their hands and don’t sleep. “Well?”

“There are… there are Iranians at the police station?”

“No. This is Turkey, not Iran, no alien is waiting for you. Come along, you’ve nothing to fear.”

“I’ll… I’ll be right down. At once.”

“Yes, you will - at once,” he said. “You don’t need a bag, just your jacket. Be quick before I change my mind.” He saw the flash of fury and it further amused him. But this time she obeyed, seething, put on her jacket and went down the stairs, hating her helplessness. Across the square beside him, eyes watching them. Into the station and the room, the same one as before. “Please wait here.” Then he closed the door and went into the office. The sergeant held out the phone for him. “I have Captain Tanazak, Border Station duty officer, for you, sir.”

“Captain? Major Ikail. The border’s closed to all mullahs and Green Bands until further orders. Arrest the sergeant who let some through a couple of hours ago and send him to Van in great discomfort. An Iranian truck’s coming back. Order it harassed for twenty hours, and the men in it. As for you, you’re subject to court-martial for failing to ensure standing instructions about armed-men!” He put the phone down, glanced at his watch. “Is the car ready, Sergeant?” “Yes, Effendi.”

“Good.” The major went through the door, down the corridor to the cage, the sergeant following him. Erikki did not get up. Only his eyes moved. “Now, Mr. Pilot, if you’re prepared to be calm, controlled, and no longer stupid, I’m going to bring your wife to see you.”

Erikki’s voice grated. “If you or anyone touches her I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll tear you to pieces.”

“I agree it must be difficult to have such a wife. Better to have an ugly one than one such as her - unless she’s kept in purdah. Now do you want to see her or not?” “What do I have to do?”

Irritably the major said, “Be calm, controlled, and no longer stupid.” To the sergeant he said in Turkish, “Go and fetch her.”

Erikki’s mind was expecting disaster or a trick. Then he saw her at the end of the corridor, and that she was whole, and he almost wept with relief, and so did she. “Oh, Erikki…”

“Both of you listen to me,” the major said curtly. “Even though you’ve both caused us a great deal of inconvenience and embarrassment, I’ve decided you were both telling the truth so you will be sent at once with a guard to Istanbul, discreetly, and handed over to your ambassador, discreetly - to be expelled, discreetly.”

They stared at him, dumbfounded. “We’re to be freed?” she said, holding on to the bars.

“At once. We expect your discretion - and that’s part of the bargain. You will have to agree formally in writing. Discretion.

That means no leaks, no public or private crowing about your escape or escapades. You agree?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Azadeh said. “But there’s, there’s no trick?” “No.”

“But…but why? Why after… why’re you letting us go?” Erikki stumbled over the words, still not believing him.

“Because I tested both of you, you both passed the tests, you committed no crimes that we would judge crimes - your oaths are between you and God and not subject to any court - and, fortunately for you, the warrant was illegal and therefore unacceptable. Komiteh!” he muttered disgustedly, then noticed the way they were looking at each other. For a moment he was awed. And envious.

Curious that Hakim Khan allowed a komiteh to issue the warrant, not the police who would have made extradition legal. He motioned to the sergeant. “Let him out. I’ll wait for you both in the office. Don’t forget I still have your jewelry to return to you. And the two knives.” He strode off. The cage gate opened noisily. The sergeant hesitated, then left. Neither Erikki nor Azadeh noticed him go or the foulness of the cell, only each other, she just outside, still holding on to the bars, he just inside, holding on to the bars of the door. They did not move. Just smiled. “Insha’Allah?” she said.

“Why not?” And then, still disoriented by their deliverance by an honest man whom Erikki would have torn apart as the epitome of evil a moment ago, Erikki remembered what the major had said about purdah, how desirable she was. In spite of his wish not to wreck the miracle of the good he blurted out, “Azadeh, I’d like to leave all the bad here. Can we? What about John Ross?”

Her smile did not alter and she knew that they were at the abyss. With confidence she leaped into it, glad for the opportunity. “Long ago in our beginning I told you that once upon a time I knew him when I was very young,” she said, her voice tender, belying her anxiety. “In the village and at the base he saved my life. When I meet him again, if I meet him, I will smile at him and be happy. I beg you to do the same. The past is the past and should stay the past.”

Accept it and him, Erikki, now and forever, she was willing him, or our marriage will end quickly, not of my volition but because you’ll unman yourself, you’ll make your life unbearable and you’ll not want me near you. Then I’ll go back to Tabriz and begin another life, sadly it’s true, but that’s what I’ve decided to do. I won’t remind you of your promise to me before we were married, I don’t want to humiliate you - but how rotten of you to forget. I forgive you only because I love you. Oh, God, men are so strange, so difficult to understand, please remind him of his oath at once!

“Erikki,” she murmured, “let the past stay with the past. Please?” With her eyes she begged him as only a woman can beg.

But he avoided her look, devastated by his own stupidity and jealousy. Azadeh’s right, he was shouting at himself. That’s past. Azadeh told me about him honestly and I promised her freely that I could live with that and he did save her life. She’s right, but even so I’m sure she loves him. Tormented he looked down at her and into her eyes, a door slammed inside his head, he locked it and cast away the key. The old warmth pervaded him, cleansing him. “You’re right and I agree! You’re right! I love you - and Finland forever!” He lifted her off the ground and kissed her and she kissed him back, then held on to him as, more happy than he had ever been, he carried her effortlessly up the corridor. “Do they have sauna in Istanbul, do you think he’ll let us make a phone call, just one, do you think…” But she was not listening. She was smiling to herself.

BAHRAIN - THE INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL: 6:03 P.M.

The muted phone rang in Mac’s bedroom and Genny came out of her pleasing reverie on the veranda, Mac dozing in an easy chair beside her in the shade. She slipped out of her chair, not making a sound, not wanting to awaken him, and picked it up. “Captain McIver’s room,” she said softly. “Oh, sorry to bother you, is Captain McIver free for a moment? This is Mr. Newbury’s assistant at Al Shargaz.”

“Sorry, he’s sleeping, this is Mrs. McIver, can I take a message for him?” The voice hesitated. “Perhaps you’d ask him to call me. Bertram Jones.” “If it’s important, you’d better give it to me.”

Again a hesitation, then, “Very well. Thank you. It’s a telex from our HQ in Tehran for him. It says: ‘Please advise Captain D. McIver, managing director of IHC, that one of his pilots, Thomas Lochart, and his wife have been reported accidentally killed during a demonstration.’” The voice picked up a little. “Sorry for the bad news, Mrs. McIver.”

“Th - that’s all right. Thank you. I’ll see my, my husband gets it. Thank you.” Quietly she replaced the phone. She caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her face was colorless, naked in its misery.

Oh, my God, I can’t let Duncan see me or know or he’ll ha - “Who was it, Gen?” McIver said from outside, still half asleep. “It… it’ll wait, luvey. Go back to sleep.”

“Good about the tests, wasn’t it?” The results had been excellent. “Wonderful… I’ll be back in a second.” She went to the bathroom and closed the door and splashed water on her face. Can’t tell him, just can’t… got to protect him. Should I call Andy? A glance at her watch. Can’t, Andy‘11 be at the airport already. I’ll… I’ll wait till he arrives, that’s what I’ll do…. I’ll go to meet him with JeanLuc and… nothing to do till then… oh God oh God, poor Tommy, poor Sharazad… poor loves… The tears poured out of her and she turned on the taps to hide the sound. When she came back onto the veranda McIver was contentedly asleep. She sat and looked at the sunset, not seeing it.

AL SHARGAZ INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: Sunset. Rudi Lutz, Scragger, and all the others were waiting at their exit barrier, anxiously staring off toward the crowded foyer, arriving and departing passengers milling about. “Final call for BA 532 to Rome and London. All aboard, please.”

Through the huge, plate-glass windows they could see the sun almost at the horizon. All were nervous. “Andy should’ve kept Johnny and the 125 as backup for God’s sake,” Rudi muttered testily to no one in particular. “He had to send it to Nigeria,” Scot said defensively. “The Old Man had no choice, Rudi.” But he saw Rudi was not listening, so he half shrugged, absently said to Scragger, “You really going to give up flying, Scrag?” The lined old face twisted. “For a year, only for a year - Bahrain’s great for me, Kasigi’s a beaut, and I won’t give up flying completely, oh dear no. Can’t, me son, gives me the creeps to think about it.”

“Me too. Scrag, if you were my age would y - ” He stopped as an irritable BA official came out through Security and strode up to Rudi: “Captain Lutz, absolutely your last call! She’s already five minutes late. We can’t hold her any longer! You’ve just got to board the rest of your party at once or we’ll leave without you!”

“All right,” Rudi said. “Scrag, tell Andy we waited as long as possible. If Charlie doesn’t make it, throw him in the Gottverdammstechen brig! Goddamn Alitalia for being early. Everyone on.” He handed his boarding pass to the attractive flight attendant and went through the barrier and stood on the other side, checking them through, Freddy Ayre, Pop Kelly, Willi, Ed Vossi, Sandor, Nogger Lane, Scot last and dawdling until he could wait no longer. “Hey, Scrag, tell the Old Man okay for me.”

“Sure, sport.” Scragger waved as he vanished into Security, then turned away, heading for his own gate the other side of the terminal, Kasigi waiting there already, brightened as he saw Pettikin running through the crowd, hand in hand with Paula, Gavallan twenty paces behind. Pettikin gave her a hurried embrace and rushed for the barrier.

“For Gawd’s sake, Charlie…”

“Don’t give me a hard time, Scrag, had to wait for Andy,” Charlie said, almost out of breath. He handed over his boarding pass, blew a beaming kiss to Paula, went through the barrier, and was gone.

“Hi, Paula, wot’s cooking?”

Paula was breathless too but radiant. She put her arm through his, gave him a little shrug: “Charlie asked me to spend his leave with him, caro, in South Africa - I’ve relations near Cape Town, a sister and her family, so I said why not?”

“Why not indeed! Does that mean th - ”

“Sorry, Scrag!” Gavallan called out, joining them. He was puffing but twenty years younger. “Sorry, been on the phone for half an hour, looks like we’ve lost the bloody ExTex Saudi contract and part of the North Sea but to hell with that - great news!” He beamed and another ten years fell away, behind him the sun touched the horizon. “Erikki called as I was half out the door, he’s safe, so’s Azadeh, they’re safe in Turkey and…”

“Hallelujah!” Scragger burst out over him, and from the depths of the waiting area past Security there was a vast cheer from the others, the news given them by Pettikin.

“… and then I had a call from a friend in Japan. How much time have we?” “Plenty, twenty minutes, why? You just missed Scot, he said to give you a message: ‘Tell the Old Man okay.’”

Gavallan smiled. “Good. Thanks.” Now he had regained his breath. “I’ll catch you up, Scrag. Wait for me, Paula, won’t be a moment.” He went over to the JAL information counter. “Evening, could you tell me, please, when’s your next flight out of Bahrain for Hong Kong?”

The receptionist tapped the keys of the computer. “Eleven forty-two tonight, Sayyid.”

“Excellent.” Gavallan took out his tickets. “Cancel me off BA’s London flight tonight and put me on th - ” Loudspeakers came to life and drowned him out with the all-pervading call to prayer. An immediate hush fell on the airport.

And high up in the vast reaches of the Zagros Mountains, five hundred miles northward, Hussain Kowissi slid off his horse, then helped his young son to make the camel kneel. He wore a Kash’kai belted sheepskin coat over his black robes, a white turban, his Kalashnikov slung on his back. Both were solemn, the little boy’s face puffy from all the tears. Together they tethered the animals, found their prayer mats, faced Mecca, and began. A chill wind whined around them, blowing snow from the high drifts. The half-obscured sunset showed through a narrow band of sky under the encroaching, nimbus-filled overcast that was again heavy with storm and with snow. Prayers were soon said.

“We’ll camp here tonight, my son.”

“Yes, Father.” Obediently the little boy helped with the unloading, a spill of tears again on his cheeks. Yesterday his mother had died. “Father, will Mother be in Paradise when we get there?”

“I don’t know, my son. Yes, I think so.” Hussain kept the grief off his face. The birthing had been long and cruel, nothing he could do to help her but hold her hand and pray that she and the child would be spared and that the midwife was skilled. The midwife was skilled but the child was stillborn, the hemorrhaging would not stop and what was ordained came to pass.

As God wants, he had said. But for once that did not help him. He had buried her and the stillborn child. In great sadness he had gone to his cousin - also a mullah - and had given him and his wife his two infant sons to rear, and his place at the mosque until the congregation chose his successor. Then, with his remaining son, he had turned his back on Kowiss. “Tomorrow we will be down in the plains, my son. It will be warmer.” “I’m very hungry, Father,” the little boy said.

“So am I, my son,” he said kindly. “Was it ever different?” “Will we be martyred soon?”

“In God’s time.”

The little boy was six and he found many things hard to understand but not that. In God’s time we get to Paradise where it’s warm and green and there’s more food than you can eat and cool clean water to drink. But what about… “Are there joubs in Paradise?” he asked in his piping little voice, snuggling against his father for greater warmth.

Hussain put his arm around him. “No, my son, I don’t think so. No joubs or the need for them.” Awkwardly he continued cleaning the action of his gun with a piece of oiled cloth. “No need for joubs.”

“That’ll be very strange, Father, very strange. Why did we leave home? Where are we going?”

“At first northwest, a long way, my son. The Imam has saved Iran but Muslims north, south, east, and west are beset with enemies. They need help and guidance and the Word.”

“The Imam, God’s peace on him, has he sent you?”

“No, my son. He orders nothing, just guides. I go to do God’s work freely, of my own choice, a man is free to choose what he must do.” He saw the little boy’s frown and he gave him a little hug, loving him. “Now we are soldiers of God.”

“Oh, good, I will be a good soldier. Will you tell me again why you let those Satanists go, the ones at our base, and let them take away our air machines?”

“Because of the leader, the captain,” Hussain said patiently. “I think he was an instrument of God, he opened my eyes to God’s message that I should seek life and not martyrdom, to leave the time of martyrdom to God. And also because he gave into my hands an invincible weapon against the enemies of Islam, Christians and Jews: the knowledge that they regard individual human life sacrosanct.”

The little boy stifled a yawn. “What’s sacrosanct mean?”

“They believe the life of an individual is priceless, any individual. We know all life comes from God, belongs to God, returns to God, and any life only has value doing God’s work. Do you understand, my son?” “I think so,” the little boy said, very tired now. “So long as we do God’s work we go to Paradise and Paradise is forever?”

“Yes, my son. Using what the pilot taught, one Believer can put his foot on the neck of ten millions. We will spread this word, you and I…” Hussain was very content that his purpose was clear. Curious, he thought, that the man Starke showed me the path. “We are neither Eastern, nor Western, only Islam. Do you understand, my son?”

But there was no answer. The little boy was fast asleep. Hussain cradled him, watching the dying sun. The tip vanished. “God is Great,” he said to the mountains and to the sky and to the night. “There is no other God but God…”