Whirlwind

“Yes. Please excuse me. It was unnecessary. I am not a barbarian.” Rakoczy gathered himself. “If you give me your word you’ll stop trying to attack me, I’ll put my gun away. I swear you’re in no danger.”

Pettikin thought a moment. “All right,” he said. “If you tell me who you are and what you are.”

“Your word?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, I accept your word, Captain.” Rakoczy put the safety on and the gun in his far pocket. “My name is Ali bin Hassan Karakose and I’m a Kurd. My home - my village - is on the slopes of Mount Ararat on the Iranian-Soviet border. Through the Blessings of God I’m a Freedom Fighter against the Shah, and anyone else who wishes to enslave us. Does that satisfy you?” “Yes - yes it does. Then if y - ”

“Please, later. First go there - quickly.” Rakoczy pointed below. “Level off and go closer.”

They were at eight hundred feet to the right of the Qazvin-Tehran road. A village straddled the road a mile back and he could see the smoke whirled away by a stiff breeze “Where?”

“There, beside the road.”

At first Pettikin could not see what the man pointed at - his mind jumbled with questions about the Kurds and their historic centuries of wars against the Persian Shahs. Then he saw the collection of cars and trucks pulled up to one side, and men surrounding a modern truck with a blue cross on a rectangular white background on the roof, other traffic grinding past slowly. “You mean there? You want to go over those trucks and cars?” he asked, his face still smarting and his neck aching. “The bunch of trucks near the one with the blue cross on its roof?”

“Yes.”

Obediently Pettikin went into a descending bank. “What’s so important about them, eh?” he asked, then glanced up. He saw the man staring at him suspiciously. “What? What the hell’s the matter now?”

“You really don’t know what a blue cross on a white background signifies?” “No. What about it? What is it?” Pettikin had his eyes on the truck that was much closer now, close enough to see it was a red Range Rover, an angry crowd surrounding it, one of the men smashing at the back windows with the butt of a rifle. “It’s the flag of Finland” came through his earphones and “Erikki” leaped into Pettikin’s mind. “Erikki had a Range Rover,” he burst out and saw the rifle butt shatter the window. “You think that’s Erikki?” “Yes… yes it’s possible.”

At once he went faster and lower, his pain forgotten, his excitement overriding all the sudden questions of how and why this Freedom Fighter knew Erikki. Now they could see the crowd turning toward them and people scattering. His pass was very fast and very low but he did not see Erikki. “You see him?”

“No. I couldn’t see inside the cab.”

“Nor could I,” Pettikin said anxiously, “but a few of those buggers are armed and they were smashing the windows. You see them?”

“Yes. They must be fedayeen. One of them fired at us. If you…” Rakoczy stopped, hanging on tightly as the chopper skidded into a 180-degree turn, twenty feet off the ground, and hurtled back again. This time the crowd of men and the few women fled, falling over one another. Traffic in both directions tried to speed away or shuddered to a halt, one overloaded truck skidding into another. Several cars and trucks turned off the road and one almost overturned in the joub.

Just abreast of the Range Rover, Pettikin swung into a sliding 90-degree turn to face it - snow boiling into a cloud - for just enough time to recognize Erikki, then into another 90 degrees to barrel away into the sky. “It’s him all right. Did you see the bullet holes in the windscreen?” he asked, shocked. “Reach in the back

for the machine gun. I’ll steady her and then we’ll go and get him. Hurry, I want to keep them off balance.”

At once Rakoczy unbuckled his seat belt, reached back through the small intercommunicating window but could not get the gun that lay on the floor. With great difficulty he twisted out of his seat and clambered headfirst, half through the window, groping for it, and Pettikin knew the man was at his mercy. So easy to open the door now and shove him out. So easy. But impossible.

“Come on!” he shouted and helped pull him back into the seat. “Put your belt on!”

Rakoczy obeyed, trying to catch his breath, blessing his luck that Pettikin was a friend of the Finn, knowing that if their positions had been reversed he would not have hesitated to open the door. “I’m ready,” he said, cocking the gun, appalled at Pettikin’s stupidity. The British are so stupid the mother-eating bastards deserve to lose. “Wh - ”

“Here we go!” Pettikin spun the chopper into a diving turn at maximum speed. Some armed men were still near the truck, guns pointing at them. “I’ll soften them up and when I say ‘fire’ put a burst over their heads!” The Range Rover rushed up at them, hesitated, then swirled away drunkenly - no trees nearby - hesitated again and came at them as the chopper danced around it. Pettikin flared to a sudden stop twenty yards away, ten feet off the ground. “Fire,” he ordered.

At once Rakoczy let off a burst through the open window, aiming not over heads but at a group of men and women ducked down behind the back end of Erikki’s truck, out of Pettikin’s line of sight, killing or wounding some of them. Everyone nearby fled panic-stricken - screams of the wounded mingling with the howl of the jets. Drivers and passengers jumped out of cars and trucks scrambling away in the snowdrifts as best they could. Another burst and more panic, now everyone rushing in retreat, all traffic snarled. On the road some youths came from behind a truck with rifles. Rakoczy sprayed them and those nearby. “Make a 360!” he shouted.

Immediately the helicopter pirouetted but no one was near. Pettikin saw four bodies in the snow. “I said over their heads, for God’s sake,” he began, but at that moment the door of the Range Rover swung open and Erikki jumped out, his knife in one hand. For a moment he was alone, then a chador-clad woman was beside him. At once Pettikin set the chopper down on the snow but kept her almost airborne. “Come on,” he shouted, beckoning them. They began to run, Erikki half carrying Azadeh whom Pettikin did not yet recognize. Beside him Rakoczy unlocked his side door and leaped out, opened the back door, and whirled on guard. Another short burst toward the traffic. Erikki stopped, appalled to see Rakoczy. “Hurry!” Pettikin shouted, not understanding the reason for Erikki’s hesitation. “Erikki, come on!” Then he recognized Azadah. “My God …” he muttered, then shouted, “Come on, Erikki!”

“Quick, I’ve not much ammunition left!” Rakoczy shouted in Russian. Erikki whirled Azadeh up into his arms and ran forward. A few bullets hummed past. At the side of the helicopter Rakoczy helped bundle Azadeh into the back, suddenly shoved Erikki aside with the barrel of the gun. “Drop your knife and get in the front seat!” he ordered in Russian. “At once.” Half paralyzed with shock, Pettikin watched Erikki hesitate, his face mottled with rage.

Rakoczy said harshly, “By God, there’s more than enough ammunition for her, you, and this motherfucking pilot. Get in!”

Somewhere in the traffic a machine gun started to fire. Erikki dropped his knife in the snow, eased his great height into the front seat, Rakoczy slid beside Azadeh, and Pettikin took off and sped away, weaving over the ground like a panicked grouse, then climbed into the sky.

When he could talk he said, “What the hell’s going on?”

Erikki did not answer. He craned around to make sure Azadeh was all right: She had her eyes closed and was slumped against the side, panting, trying to get her breath. He saw that Rakoczy had locked her seat belt, but when Erikki reached back to touch her the Soviet motioned him to stop with the gun.

“She will be all right, I promise you.” He continued speaking in Russian, “providing you behave as your friend has been taught to behave.” He kept his eyes on him as he reached into his small bag and brought out a fresh magazine. “Just so you know. Now face forward, please.”

Trying to contain his fury, Erikki did as he was told. He put on the headset. There was no way they could be overheard by Rakoczy - there was no intercom in the back - and it felt strange for both of them to be so free and yet so imprisoned. “How did you find us, Charlie, who sent you?” he said into the mouth mike, his voice heavy.

“No one did,” Pettikin said. “What the hell’s with that bastard? I went to Tabriz to pick up you and Azadeh, got kidnapped by the sonofabitch in the back, and then he hijacked me to Tehran. It was just luck for Christ’s sake - what the hell happened to you?”

“We ran out of fuel.” Erikki told him briefly what had happened. “When the engine stopped, I knew I was finished. Everyone seems to have gone mad. One moment it was all right, then we were surrounded again, just like at the roadblock. I locked all the doors but it was only a matter of time…” Again he craned around. Azadeh had her eyes open and had pulled the chador off her face. She smiled at him wearily, reached forward to touch him but Rakoczy stopped her. “Please excuse me, Highness,” he said in Farsi, “but wait till we land. You will be all right.” He repeated it in Russian, adding to Erikki, “I have some water with me. Would you like me to give it to your wife?”

Erikki nodded. “Yes. Please.” He watched while she sipped gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” he said politely even though he was parched, not wishing any favors for himself. He smiled at her encouragingly. “Azadeh, like manna from heaven, eh? Charlie like an angel!”

“Yes… yes. It was the Will of God. I’m fine, fine now, Erikki, praise be to God. Thank Charlie for me…”

He hid his concern. The second mob had petrified her. And him, and he had sworn that if he ever got out of this mess alive, never again would he travel without a gun and, preferably, hand grenades. He saw Rakoczy watching him. He nodded and turned back again. “Matyeryebyets,” he muttered, automatically checking the instruments.

“That bugger’s a lunatic - no need to kill anyone, I told him to fire over their heads.” Pettikin dropped his voice slightly, uneasy at talking so openly even though there was no way Rakoczy could hear. “The bastard damn near killed me a couple of times. How do you know him, Erikki? Were you or Azadeh mixed up with the Kurds?”

Erikki stared at him. “Kurds? You mean the matyeryebyets back there?” “Yes, him of course - Ali bin Hassan Karakose. He comes from Mount Ararat. He’s a Kurd Freedom Fighter.”

“He’s not a Kurd but a turd, Soviet and KGB!”

“Christ Almighty! You’re sure?” Pettikin was openly shocked. “Oh, yes. He claims he’s Muslim but I bet that’s a lie too. ‘Rakoczy’ he called himself to me, another lie. They’re all liars - at least why should they tell us, the enemy, anything?”

“But he swore it was the truth and I gave him my word.” Angrily Pettikin told him about the fight and the bargain he had made.

“You’re the fool, Charlie, not him - haven’t you read Lenin? Stalin? Marx? He’s only doing what all KGB and committed Communists do: use anything and everything to forward the ‘sacred’ Cause - absolute world power for the USSR Communist party - and get us to hang ourselves to save them the trouble. My God, I could use a vodka!”

“A double brandy’d be better.”

“Both together would be even better.” Erikki studied the ground below. They were cruising easily, the engines sounding good and plenty of fuel. His eyes searched the horizon for Tehran. “Not long now. Has he said where to land yet?”

“No.”

“Perhaps we’ll get a chance then.”

“Yes.” Pettikin’s apprehension increased. “You mentioned a roadblock. What happened there?”

Erikki’s face hardened. “We got stopped. Leftists. Had to make a run for it. We’ve no papers left, Azadeh and I. Nothing. A fat bastard at the roadblock kept everything and there wasn’t time to get them back.” A tremor went through him. “I’ve never been so scared, Charlie. Never. I was helpless in that mob and almost shitting with fear because I couldn’t protect her. That stinking fat bastard took everything, passport, ID, flying licenses, everything.”

“Mac‘11 get you more, your embassy’ll give you passports.” “I’m not worried about me. What about Azadeh?”

“She’ll get a Finnish passport too. Like Sharazad‘11 get a Canadian one - no need to worry.”

“She’s still in Tehran, isn’t she?”

“Sure. Tom should be there too. He was due in from Zagros yesterday with mails from home…” Strange, Pettikin thought in passing. I still call England home even with Claire gone, everything gone. “He’s just back off leave.”

“That’s what I’d like to do, go on leave. I’m overdue. Perhaps Mac can send a replacement.” Erikki punched Pettikin lightly. “Tomorrow can take care of tomorrow, eh? Hey, Charlie, that was a great piece of flying. When I first saw you, I thought I was dreaming or already dead. You saw my Finnish flag?” “No, that was Ali - what did you call him? Rekowsky?”

“Rakoczy.”

“Rakoczy recognized it. If he hadn’t I wouldn’t have been any the wiser. Sorry.” Pettikin glanced across. “What’s he want with you?” “I don’t know but whatever it is, it’s for Soviet purposes.” Erikki cursed for a moment. “So we owe our lives to him too?”

After a moment Pettikin said, “Yes. Yes, I couldn’t have done it alone.” He glanced around. Rakoczy was totally alert, Azadeh dozing, shadows over her lovely face. He nodded briefly, then turned back. “Azadeh seems okay.” “No, Charlie, no, she’s not,” Erikki said, an ache inside him. “Today was terrible for her. She said she’d never been that close to villagers ever… I mean surrounded, bottled in. Today they got under her guard. Now she’s seen the real face of Iran, the reality of her people - that and the forcing of the chador.” Again a shiver went through him. “That was a rape - they raped her soul. Now I think everything will be different for her, for us. I think she’ll have to choose: family or me, Iran or exile. They don’t want us here. It’s time for us to leave, Charlie. All of us.”

“No, you’re wrong. Perhaps for you and Azadeh it’s different but they’ll still need oil so they’ll still need choppers. We’re good for a few more years, good years. With the Guerney contracts and all th - ” Pettikin stopped, feeling a tap on his shoulder, and he glanced around. Azadeh was awake now. He could not hear what Rakoczy said so he slipped one earphone off. “What?”

“Don’t use the radio, Captain, and be prepared to land on the outskirts where I’ll tell you.”

“I… I’ll have to get clearance.”

“Don’t be a fool! Clearance from whom? Everyone’s too busy down there. Tehran Airport’s under siege - so is Doshan Tappeh and so’s Galeg Morghi. Take my advice and make your landfall the small airport of Rudrama after you’ve dropped me.”

“I have to report in. The military insist.”

Rakoczy laughed sardonically. “Military? And what would you report? That you landed illegally near Qazvin, helped murder five or six civilians, and picked up two foreigners fleeing - fleeing from whom? From the People!” Grimly Pettikin turned back to make the call but Rakoczy leaned forward and shook him roughly. “Wake up! The military doesn’t exist anymore. The generals have conceded victory to Khomeini! The military doesn’t exist anymore - they’ve given in!”

They all stared at him blankly. The chopper lurched. Hastily Pettikin corrected. “What’re you talking about?”

“Late last night the generals ordered all troops back to their barracks. All services - all men. They’ve left the field to Khomeini and his revolution. Now there’s no army, no police, no gendarmes between Khomeini and total power - the People have conquered!”

“That’s not possible,” Pettikin said.

“No,” Azadeh said, frightened. “My father would have known.” “Ah, Abdollah the Great?” Rakoczy said with a sneer. “He’ll know by now - if he’s still alive.”

“It’s not true!”

“It’s… it’s possible, Azadeh,” Erikki said, shocked. “That’d explain why we saw no police or troops - why the mob was so hostile!” “The generals’d never do that,” she said shakily, then turned on Rakoczy. “It would be suicide, for them and thousands. Tell the truth, by Allah!” Rakoczy’s face mirrored his glee, delighted to twist words and sow dissension to unsettle them. “Now Iran’s in the hands of Khomeini, his mullahs, and his Revolutionary Guards.”

“It’s a lie.”

Pettikin said, “If that’s true Bakhtiar’s finished. He’ll nev - ” “That weak fool never even began!” Rakoczy started laughing. “Ayatollah Khomeini has frightened the balls off the generals and now he’ll cut their throats for good measure!”

“Then the war’s over.”

“Ah, the war,” Rakoczy said darkly. “It is. For some.”

“Yes,” Erikki said, baiting him. “And if what you say is true, it’s all over for you too - all the Tudeh and all Marxists. Khomeini will slaughter you all.”

“Oh, no, Captain. The Ayatollah was the sword to destroy the Shah, but the People wielded the sword.”

“He and his mullahs and the People will destroy you - he’s as anti-Communist as he is anti-American.”

“Better you wait and see and not further delude yourselves, eh? Khomeini’s a practical man and exults in power, whatever he says now.” Pettikin saw Azadeh whiten and he felt an equal chill. “And the Kurds?” he asked roughly, “What about them?”

Rakoczy leaned forward, his smile strange. “I am a Kurd whatever the Finn told you about Soviet and KGB. Can he prove what he says? Of course not. As to the Kurds, Khomeini will try to stamp us out - if he’s allowed to - with all tribal or religious minorities, and foreigners and the bourgeoisie, landowners, moneylenders, Shah supporters, and,” he added with a sneer, “and any and all people who will not accept his interpretation of the Koran - and he’ll spill rivers of blood in the Name of his Allah, his, not the real One God - if the bastard’s allowed to.” He glanced out of the window below, checking his bearings, then added even more sardonically, “This heretic Sword of God has served his purpose and now he’s going to be turned into a plowshare-and buried!”

“You mean murdered?” Erikki said.

“Buried” - again the laugh - “at the whim of the People.” Azadeh came to life and tried to claw his face, cursing him. He caught her easily and held her while she struggled. Erikki watched, gray-faced. There was nothing he could do. For the moment.

“Stop it!” Rakoczy said harshly. “You of all people should want this heretic gone - he’ll stamp out Abdollah Khan and all the Gorgons and you with them if he wins.” He shoved her away. “Behave, or I shall have to hurt you. It’s true, you of all people should want him dead.” He cocked the machine gun. “Turn around, both of you.”

They obeyed, hating the man and the gun. Ahead, the outskirts of Tehran were about ten miles away. They were paralleling the road and railway, the Elburz Mountains to their left, approaching the city from the west. Overhead the sky was overcast, the clouds heavy, and no sun showed through. “Captain, you see the stream where the railway crosses it? The bridge?” “Yes, I can see that,” Pettikin said, trying to make a plan to overcome him, as Erikki was also planning - wondering if he could whirl and grab him but he was on the wrong side.

“Land half a mile south, behind that outcrop. You see it?” Not far from this outcrop was a secondary road that headed for Tehran. A little traffic. “Yes. And then?”

“And then you’re dismissed. For the moment.” Rakoczy laughed and nudged the back of Pettikin’s neck with the barrel of the gun. “With my thanks. But don’t turn around anymore. Stay facing ahead, both of you, and keep your seat belts locked and know that I’m watching you both very closely. When you land, land firmly and cleanly and when I’m clear, take off. But don’t turn around or I may become frightened. Frightened men pull triggers. Understand?”

“Yes.” Pettikin studied the landing site. He adjusted his headset. “It look all right to you, Erikki?”

“Yes. Watch the snow dunes.” Erikki tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“We should have a plan.”

“I think he’s… he’s too clever, Charlie.”

“Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

“I only need one.”

The landing was clean and simple. Snow, whipped up by the idling blades, billowed alongside the windows. “Don’t turn around!”

Both men’s nerves were jagged. They heard the door open and felt the cold air. Then Azadeh screamed, “Erikkiiii!”

In spite of the order both craned around. Rakoczy was already out, dragging Azadeh after him, kicking and struggling and trying to hang on to the door, but he overpowered her easily. The gun was slung over his shoulder. Instantly Erikki jerked his door open and darted out, slid under the fuselage, and charged. But he was too late. A short burst at his feet stopped him. Ten yards away, clear of the rotors, Rakoczy had the gun leveled at them with one hand, the other firm in the neck of her chador. For a moment she was equally still, then she redoubled her efforts, shouting and screaming, flailing at him, catching him unawares. Erikki charged. Rakoczy grabbed her with both hands, shoved her violently at Erikki, breaking the charge and bringing Erikki down with her. At the same moment he leaped backward, turned, and raced away, whirled again, the gun ready, his finger tightening on the trigger. But there was no need to pull it, the Finn and the woman were still on their knees, half stunned. Beyond them the pilot was still in his seat. Then he saw Erikki come to his senses, and shove her behind him protectively, readying another charge.

“Stop!” he ordered, “or this time I will kill you all. STOP!” He put a warning burst into the snow. “Get back in the plane - both of you!” Now totally alert, Erikki watched him suspiciously. “Go on - you’re free. Go!” Desperately afraid, Azadeh scrambled into the backseat. Erikki retreated slowly, his body shielding her. Rakoczy kept the gun unwavering. He saw the Finn sit on the backseat, the door still open, his feet propped against skid. At once the engines picked up speed. The chopper eased a foot off the ground, slowly swung around to face him, the back door closing. His heart pounded even more. Now, he thought, do you all die or do we live to fight another day? The moment seemed to him to last forever. The chopper backed away, foot by foot, still so tempting a target. His finger tightened slightly. But he did not squeeze the further fraction. A few more yards then she twisted, hurried away through the snow-fields, and went into the sky.

Good, he thought, tiredness almost overcoming him. It would have been better to have been able to keep the woman as a hostage, but never mind. We can grab old Abdollah Khan’s daughter tomorrow, or the day after. She can wait and so can Yokkonen. Meanwhile there’s a country to possess, generals and mullahs and aytatollahs to kill… and other enemies.

Chapter 19

AT TEHRAN AIRPORT: 5:05 P.M. McIver was driving carefully along the road that followed the barbed-wire security fence, heading for the gate that led to the freight area. The road was snow banked, slippery, and unplowed. It was just below freezing, the sky heavy and dull, night not more than an hour away. Again he looked at his watch. Not much time, he thought, still seething over the closure of his office last night by the komiteh. Early this morning he had tried to sneak back into the building, but it was still guarded and all of his entreaties to be allowed to check the telex had proved fruitless.

“Damned people!” Genny had said when he had stomped back into their apartment. “There must be something we can do. What about George Talbot? Could he help?”

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a try - if Valik was…” McIver stopped. “Tom would have refueled by now and be almost there - wherever there is.” “Let’s hope,” she said with a silent prayer, “hope for the best. Did you see any shops open?”

“None, Gen. It’s canned soup for lunch and a bottle of beer.” “Sorry, we’re out of beer.”

He had tried to call Kowiss and the other bases on his HF but could get no answer from them. Neither could he tune into the BBC or AFN. He had listened briefly to the inevitable anti-American tirade from Radio Free Iran in Tbilisi and had turned it off in disgust. The phone was dead. He had tried to read, but he could not, his mind beset with worries about Lochart, Pettikin, Starke, and all the others, hating being cut off from his office and telex and, for the moment, out of control. Never happened before, never. Damn the Shah for leaving and letting everything fall apart. Used to be wonderful. Any problem and out to the airport, get on a shuttle to Isfahan, Tabriz, Abadan, Hormuz, Al Shargaz, or wherever, then chopper the rest of the way, wherever you felt like it. Sometimes Genny coming along for the ride - picnic lunches and ice-cold beer.

“Sod everything!”

Just after lunch the HF had crackled into life. It was Freddy Ayre at Kowiss relaying a message that the 125 jet would be at Tehran Airport around 5:00 P.M. today, coming from Al Shargaz, a tiny independent sheikdom eight hundred miles south of Tehran on the other side of the Gulf where S-G had an office.

“Did he say he had clearance, Freddy?” McIver had asked excitedly. “I don’t know. All our HQ in Al Shargaz said: ‘ETA Tehran 1700, tell McIver - can’t raise him,’ repeated several times.”

“How’re things with you?”

“Five by five,” Ayre had said. “Starke’s still at Bandar Delam and we’ve had no contact with them other than a snafu half an hour ago.” “Rudi sent that?” McIver had tried to keep his voice level. “Yes.”

“Keep in touch with them and with us. What happened to your radio op this morning? I tried calling for a couple of hours but no joy.” There had been a long pause. “He’s been detained.”

“What the hell for?”

“I don’t know, Mac - Captain McIver. As soon as I know I’ll report it. Also, as soon as I can I’ll get Marc Dubois back to Bandar Delam, but, well, it’s a bit off here. We’ve all been confined to base, there’s… there’s a charming and friendly armed guard here in the tower, all flights are grounded except for CASEVACs and even then we’ve been ordered to take guards along - and no flights’re authorized out of our area.”

“What’s it all about?”

“I don’t know. Our revered base commander, Colonel Peshadi, assured me it was temporary, just for today, perhaps tomorrow. By the way, at 1516 hours we had a brief call from Captain Scragger in Charlie Echo Zulu Zulu en route with a special charter for Bandar Delam.”

“What the hell’s he going there for?”

“I don’t know, sir. Old Scr - Captain Scragger said it’s been requested by de Plessey at Siri. I, er, I don’t think I’ve much more time. Our friendly guard’s getting nervous but if you can get the 125 here Peshadi said he’d clear her to land. I’ll try to send Manuela off but don’t expect much, she’s as nervous as a rabbit in a kennel full of beagles without real news of Starke.”

“I can imagine. Tell her I’m sending Gen. I’ll sign off now, God knows how long it’ll take me to get to the airport.” He had turned his attention to Genny. “Gen, pack a b - ”

“What do you want to take with you, Duncan?” she had asked sweetly. “I’m not going, you are!”

“Don’t be silly, dear. If you’re going to meet the 125 you’d better hurry, but do be careful and don’t forget the photos! Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that while you were trying to get into your office, Sharazad sent one of her servants over asking us to dinner.”

“Gen, you are leaving with the 125 and that’s that!”

The argument had lasted no time at all. He had left and had used back roads, most of the main intersections clogged with milling crowds. Every time he was stopped he would hold up the Khomeini photograph with LONG LIVE THE AYATOLLAH in Farsi on the bottom and he would be waved through. He saw no troops, gendarmes, or police so he did not need the photo of the Shah with LONG LIVE GLORIOUS IRAN on the bottom. It still took two and a half hours for a journey that would normally take an hour, his anxiety about being late growing minute by minute.

But the 125 wasn’t on either of the parallel runways, or the freight area apron, or near the terminal building across the field. Again he glanced at his watch: 5:17 P.M. Another hour of light. She’s cutting it fine, he told himself, if she arrives at all. God knows, they may have already turned her back.

Near the terminal building several civilian jets were still grounded. One of them, a Royal Iranian Air 747, was a twisted wreck, gutted by fire. The others seemed all right - he was too far away to see all their markings but among them would be the still-grounded Alitalia flight. Paula Giancani was still staying with them, Nogger Lane very much in attendance. She’s a nice girl that one, he thought absently.

Ahead now was the gate of the freight area and depot. The depot had been closed since last Wednesday - automatically on Thursday and Friday (the Muslim Holy Day) being the Iranian weekend - and there had been no way he or any of his staff could have got there Saturday or Sunday. The gate was open and unguarded. He swung through it into the forecourt. In front of him was the customs freight shed and barriers, signs everywhere in English and Farsi: NO ADMITTANCE, INBOUND, OUTBOUND, KEEP OUT, and company signs of the various international carriers and helicopter companies that had permanent offices here. Normally it was almost impossible to drive into the forecourt. There was work around the clock for half a thousand men, handling the enormous quantity of goods, military and civilian, that poured into Iran in exchange for part of the $90 million daily oil revenue. But now the area was deserted. Hundreds of crates and cartons of all sizes were scattered in the snow - many broken open and looted, most sodden. A few abandoned cars and trucks, some derelict, and one truck burned out. Bullet holes in the sheds. The customs gate that barred the way to the apron was closed, held only by a bolt. The sign, in English and Farsi, read: NO ENTRY WITHOUT CUSTOMS APPROVAL. He waited, then honked and waited again. No one answered him so he got out, opened the gate wide, and got back into his car. A few yards the other side he stopped, rebelled the gate, then drove down the tarmac to the S-G stores and office shed and allied hangars and repair shop with space for four 212s and five 206s now containing three 206s, and one 212. To his relief the main doors were still closed and locked. He had been afraid the stores and hangar might have been broken into and looted or wrecked. This was their main depot for repairs and spares in Iran. Over $2 million worth of spares and specialized tools were on the inventory, along with their own refueling pumps and underground tanks containing a highly secret cache of 50,000 gallons of helicopter fuel that McIver had “lost” when the troubles began in earnest.

He scanned the sky. The wind told him the 125 would land from the west on runway 29 left but there was no sign of it. He unlocked the door, closed it after him, and hurried through the chilly foyer to the main office to the telex. It was switched off. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered out loud. Standing orders were for it to be on at all times. When he turned it on, nothing happened. He tried the lights but they didn’t work either. “Bloody country.” Irritably he went over to the HF and UHF receiver-transmitters and switched them on. Both were battery-operated for emergencies. Their hum comforted him.

“Echo Tango Lima Lima,” he said crisply into the mike, giving the 125’s registration letters: ETLL. “This is McIver, do you read?” “Echo Tango Lima Lima - we certainly do, old boy,” the laconic answer came back at once. “It’s rather lonely up here - we’ve been calling for half an hour. Where are you?”

“At the freight office. Sorry, Johnny,” he said, recognizing the voice of their senior fixed-wing captain. “Had a hell of a time getting here - I’ve just arrived. Where are you?”

“Seventeen miles due south - in the soup - passing through nine thousand on standard approach, expecting final on runway 29 left. What’s going on, Mac? We can’t raise Tehran Tower - in fact we haven’t had a single callback ever since we came into Iran airspace.”

“Good God! Not even from Kish radar?” “Not even from them, old boy. What’s amiss?” “I don’t know. The tower was operating yesterday - up to midnight last night. The military gave us a clearance for a flight south.” McIver was astonished, knowing Kish radar was punctilious about all traffic inbound or outbound, particularly trans-Gulf. “The whole airfield’s deserted which is pretty hairy. Coming here there were crowds all over town, a few roadblocks, but nothing out of the ordinary, no riots or anything.” “Any problem for a landing?”

“I doubt if any landing aids are functional but cloud cover is about four thousand, visibility ten miles. Runway looks all right.” “What do you think?”

McIver weighed the pros and cons of a landing - without tower assistance or approval. “You’ve enough fuel for the return trip?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve a no-fuel capability?” “Unless an emergency - for the moment.”

“I’m through the cloud cover at forty-seven hundred and have you in sight.” “Okay, Echo Tango Lima Lima. Wind’s from the east at about ten knots. Normally you’d land on 29 left. The military base seems closed down and deserted so there should be no other traffic - all civilian flights in-and outbound have been canceled. Suggest you make a pass and if it looks okay to you, come straight in - don’t hang around in the sky, there’re too many trigger-happy jokers about. Once you’ve landed, turn around for a quick takeoff just in case. I’ll drive out to meet you.”

“Echo Tango Lima Lima.”

McIver took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and forehead. But when he got up, his heart seemed to turn in his chest.

Standing in the open doorway was a customs officer, his hand casually on his bolstered gun. His uniform was soiled and crumpled, his roundish face grizzled with three or four days’ growth of beard.

“Oh,” McIver said, fighting to appear calm. “Salaam, Agha.” He did not recognize him as one of their regulars.

The man shifted his gun hand ominously, his eyes going from McIver to the radio sets and back to McIver.

Haltingly, for McIver spoke very little Farsi, he said, “Inglissi me danid, Agha? Be bahk shid man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam.” Do you speak English, sir? Please excuse me but I don’t speak your language. The customs officer grunted. “What you do here?” he said in halting English, his teeth tobacco-stained.

“I’m… I’m Captain McIver, head of S-G Helicopters,” he replied, carefully and slowly. “I’m just…just checking my telex and here to meet an incoming plane.”

“Plane - what plane? Wh - ”

At that moment the 125 came directly over the airport at one thousand feet. The Customs man hurried out of the office onto the tarmac, closely followed by McIver. They saw the lovely clean lines of the twin-engined jet against the murky overcast and watched a moment as she hurtled away to go into a steep bank to join the landing pattern.

“What plane? Eh?”

“It’s our regular flight - regular flight from Al Shargaz.” The name sent the man into a paroxysm of invective.

“Be bahk shid nana dhan konan.” Sorry, I don’t understand. “No land… no land, understand?” The man angrily pointed from the plane to the office with the HF. “Tell plane!”

McIver nodded calmly, not feeling calm, and beckoned him back into the office. He counted out 10,000 rials, about $110, and offered it. “Please accept the landing fee - landing money.”

The man spurned it with more unintelligible Farsi. McIver put the money on the table, then walked past the man into the storeroom. He unlocked a door. In the small room, put there for just this purpose, were odds and ends of spares, and three full five-gallon cans of gasoline. He picked up one can and put it outside the door, remembering what General Valik had said: a pishkesh was not a bribe but a gift and a good Iranian custom. After a second, McIver decided to leave the door but left it open - three cans would more than guarantee no problem. “Be bahk shid, Agha.” Please excuse me, Excellency. Then he added in English, “I must meet my masters.” He went out of the building and got into his car and did not look back. “Bloody bastard, damn near gave me a heart attack!” he muttered, then put the man out of his mind, drove on to the taxi runway, and headed for the intercept point. The snow was only a few inches deep and not too bad. His were the only tracks, the main runways equally virgin. The wind had picked up, increasing the chill factor. He did not notice it, concentrating on the airplane.

The 125 came around in a tight turn, gear and flaps down, sideslipping deftly to lose height and cut down the approach distance. John Hogg flared and touched down, letting her roll until it was safe and even then using brakes with great caution. He turned onto the taxi runway and increased power to meet McIver. Near the first access path back to the runway, he stopped.

By the time McIver came alongside, the door was open, the steps down, John Hogg waiting at the foot, bundled in a parka, stamping his feet against the cold.

“Hi, Mac!” he called out - a neat, spare man with a lean face and mustache. “Great to see you. Come on in - it’ll be warmer for you.” “Good idea.” McIver hastily switched off and followed him up the steps. Inside it was snug, lights on, coffee ready, London newspapers in the rack. McIver knew there would be wine and beer in the” refrigerator, a sit-down toilet with soft paper in the back - civilization again. He shook hands warmly with Hogg and waved at the copilot. “I’m so glad to see you, Johnny. His mouth dropped open. Seated in one of the swivel chairs in the eight-place airplane, beaming at him, was Andy Gavallan.

“Hello, Mac!”

“My God! My God, Chinaboy, it’s good to see you,” McIver said, pummeling his hand. “What the hell are you doing - why didn’t you tell me you were coming - what’s the id - ”

“Slow down, laddie. Coffee?”

“My God, yes.” McIver sat opposite him. “How’s Maureen - and little Electra?”

“Great - wonderful! Her second birthday coming and already she’s a holy terror! Thought we’d better have a chat so I got on the bird and here I am.” “Can’t tell you how glad I am. You’re looking great,” McIver said. And he was. “Thank you, laddie, you’re not so bad yoursel’. How are you, really, Mac?” Gavallan asked more pointedly.

“Excellent.” Hogg put down the coffee in front of McIver. With a small tot of whisky and another for Gavallan. “Ah, thanks, Johnny,” McIver said, brightening. “Health!” He touched glasses with Gavallan and swallowed the spirit gratefully. “I’m cold as charity. Just had a run-in with a bloody Customs man! Why’re you here? Any problem, Andy? Oh, but what about the 125? Both the revs and loyalists are all very twitchy - either of them could arrive in force and impound her.”

“Johnny Hogg’s keeping an eye out for them. We’ll talk about my problems in a minute but I decided that I’d better come and see for myself. We’ve too much at risk now, here and outside, with all our new, upcoming contracts and aircraft. The X63’s a total smash, Mac, everything and better!” “Great, wonderful. When do we get her?”

“Next year - more about her later. Iran’s my top priority now. We have to have some contingency plans, how to keep in touch and so on. Yesterday I spent hours in Al Shargaz trying to get an Iranian clearance for Tehran but no joy on that. Even their embassy was closed; I went to their Al Mullah building myself but it was closed tighter than a gnat’s arse. I got our rep to call the ambassador’s home but he was out to lunch - all day. Eventually I went to Al Shargaz Air Traffic Control and chatted them up. They suggested we wait but I talked them into clearing us out and having a stab and here we are. First what’s the state of our ops?”

McIver related what he knew.

Much of Gavallan’s good humor vanished. “So Charlie’s vanished, Tom Lochart’s risking his neck and our whole Iranian venture - stupidly or bravely depending on your point of view - Duke Starke’s up the creek in Bandar Delam with Rudi, Kowiss is in a state of siege, and we’ve been tossed out of our offices.”

“Yes.” McIver added gruffly. “I authorized Tom’s flight.” “I’d’ve done the same, probably, if I’d been on the spot, though it doesn’t excuse the danger to him, to us, or poor bloody Valik and his family. But I agree, SAVAK’s too smelly for anyone’s taste.” Gavallan was distinctly rattled though he showed none of it on his face. “Ian was right again.” “Ian? Dunross? You saw him? How is the old bugger?”

“He called from Shanghai.” Gavallan told him what he had said. “What’s the latest on the political situation here?”

“You should know more than we do - we only get real news through the BBC or VOA. There’re still no newspapers and only rumors,” McIver said, but he was remembering the good times he had had with Dunross in Hong Kong. He had taught him to fly a small chopper the year before joining Gavallan in Aberdeen, and though they had not socialized very much, McIver had enjoyed his company greatly. “Bakhtiar’s still top man with the forces behind him, but Bazargan and Khomeini’re gnawing at his heels … Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you, Boss Kyabi’s been murdered.”

“Christ Almighty, that’s terrible! But why?”

“We don’t know the why or how or by whom. Freddy Ayre told us obliqu - ” “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” came over the loudspeaker, a thread of urgency under Hogg’s placid voice. “There’re three cars stuffed with men and guns heading our way, coming from the terminal area.”

Both men peered out of the small round windows. They could see the cars now. Gavallan picked up his binoculars and trained them. “Five or six men in each car. There’s a mullah in the front of the first car. Khomeini’s people!” He slung the binoculars around his neck and was out of his seat quickly. “Johnny!”

Hogg was already at the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Plan B!” At once Hogg gave the thumbs-up to his copilot who immediately started to open the throttles as Gavallan struggled into a parka and picked up a light travel bag on the run. “Come on, Mac!” He led the way down the steps two at a time, McIver just behind him. The moment they were clear, the steps pulled back, the door slammed closed, the engines picked up, and the 125 taxied away, gathering speed. “Put your back to the cars, Mac - don’t watch them, watch her leave!”

It had all happened so rapidly McIver hardly had time to zip his parka. One of the cars peeled off to intercept but by now the 125 was careening down the runway. In seconds it took off and was away. Now they faced the oncoming cars. “Now what, Andy?”

“That depends on the welcoming committee.” “What the hell was Plan B?” Gavallan laughed. “Better than Plan C, laddie. That was a shit or bust. Plan B: I get out, Johnny takes off at once, and tells no one he had to leave in a hurry, tomorrow he comes back to pick me up at the same time; if there’s no contact, visually or by radio, then Johnny skips a day and comes an hour earlier - and so on for four days. Then he sits on his tail in Al Shargaz and waits for further instructions.”

“Plan A?”

“That’s if we could have safely stayed overnight - them on guard in the plane, me with you.”

The cars skidded to a stop, the mullah and Green Bands surrounding them, guns trained on them, everyone shouting. Suddenly Gavallan bellowed, “Allah-u Akbar,” and everyone stopped, startled. With a flourish he lifted his hat to the mullah who was also armed, took out an official-looking document - written in Farsi - that was heavily sealed with red wax at the bottom. He handed it to him. “It’s permission to land in Tehran from the ‘new’ ambassador in London,” he told McIver airily as men crowded around the mullah peering at the paper. “I stopped off in London to collect it. It says I’m a VIP - on official business and I can arrive and leave without harm.” “How the devil did you manage that?” McIver asked, admiringly. “Influence, laddie. Influence and a large heung yau.” He carefully added the Cantonese equivalent of pishkesh.

“You will come with us,” a bearded youth near the mullah said, his accent American. “You are under arrest!”

“For what, my dear sir?”

“Illegal landings without permiss - ”

Gavallan stabbed at the paper. “Here is an official permission from your very own ambassador in London! Up the revolution! Long live Ayatollah Khomeini!”

The youth hesitated, then translated for the mullah. There was an angry exchange and mutterings among them. “You will together come with us!” “We will follow in our car! Come on, Mac,” Gavallan said firmly and got into the passenger seat. McIver turned on the ignition. For a moment the men were nonplussed, then the man who could speak English and another got into the back. Both carried an AK47.

“Go to terminal! You under arrest.”

In the terminal, near the Immigration barrier, were more hostile men and a very nervous Immigration official. At once McIver showed his airport pass, work permit, explained who he and Gavallan were and how they worked under license for IranOil and tried to talk them past but he was imperiously waved into silence. Meticulously and ponderously the official examined the paper and Gavallan’s passport - all the while the youths crowding them, the smell of bodies heavy. Then he opened Gavallan’s bag and searched it roughly but it contained just shaving gear, a spare shirt, underclothes, and night clothes. And a fifth of whisky. At once the bottle was confiscated by one of the young men, opened, and poured on the floor.

“Dew neh loh moh,” Gavallan said sweetly in Cantonese, and McIver nearly choked. “Up the revolution.”

The mullah questioned the official, and they could see the sweat and the fear in him. At length the youth who could speak English said, “The authorities will keep paper and passport and you explain more later.” “I will keep my passport,” Gavallan said easily.

“The authorities keep. Enemies will suffer. Those who break the laws - illegal landings and comings here - will suffer Islamic punishments. His Excellency wants to know who on the airplane with you?”

“Just my crew of two. They’re on the manifest attached to the Permission to Land. Now, my passport, please, and that document.”

“The authorities keep. Where you stay?”

McIver gave his address.

The man translated. Again there was a heated discussion. “I am to tell you: now your airplanes may not fly or landings without permissions first. All Iran airplanes - all airplanes now in Iran belong to the state an - ” “Airplanes belong to their legal owners. Legal owners,” McIver said. “Yes,” the man said with a sneer, “our Islamic state is owners. You not like laws, leave. Leave Iran. We not ask you here.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong. We, in S-G Helicopters, were invited here. We work for your government and have served IranOil for years.”

The man spat on the floor. “IranOil Shah company. Islamic state owns oil not foreigners. You soon arrested with all others for great crime: stealing Iran oil!”

“Rubbish! We’ve stolen nothing!” McIver said. “We’ve helped Iran into the twentieth century! We’ve b - ”

“Leave Iran if you want,” the spokesman said again, paying no attention to him. “Now all orders come from Imam Khomeini, Allah protect him! He says no landings or takeoffs without permission. Each time, one Khomeini guard goes with each airplane. Understand?”

“We understand what you say,” Gavallan replied politely. “May I ask that we have this in writing, as the Bakhtiar government may not agree.” The man translated this and there was a roar of laughter. “Bakhtiar is gone,” the man said through his own laughter. “That dog of a Shah man is in hiding. Hiding, you understand? The Imam is the government! Him alone.” “Yes, of course,” Gavallan said, not believing him. “We can go, then?” “Go. Tomorrow report the authorities.”

“Where - and what authorities?”

“Tehran authorities.” The man translated for the others and again everyone laughed. The mullah pocketed the passport and paper and strode off importantly. Guards went with him, taking along the sweating Immigration officer. Most of the others wandered off, seemingly aimlessly. A few stayed watching them, lounging against the wall, smoking - their U.S. Army rifles slung carelessly. It was very cold in the terminal. And very empty. “He’s quite right you know,” a voice said. Gavallan and McIver looked around. It was George Talbot of the British embassy, a short dry man of fifty-five, wearing a heavy raincoat and a Russian-style fur hat. He stood in the doorway of a customs office. Beside him was a tall, broad-shouldered man of sixty with hard, pale blue eyes, his mustache gray as his hair and clipped, and dressed casually, scarf, soft hat, and an old raincoat. Both were smoking.

“Oh, hello, George, nice to see you.” Gavallan went over to him, offering his hand. He had known him over the years, both in Iran and Malaya - Talbot’s previous posting - where S-G also had an extensive oil support operation. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few minutes.” Talbot stubbed out his cigarette, coughed absently. “Hello, Duncan! Well, this is a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it?” “Yes. Yes, it is.” Gavallan glanced at the other man.

“Ah, may I introduce Mr. Armstrong?”

Gavallan shook hands. “Hello,” he said, wondering where he’d seen him before and who he was - the hardness to the eyes and strong face. Fifty pounds to a bent button he’s CIA if he’s American, he thought. “You’re embassy too?” he asked casually to find out.

The man smiled and shook his head. “No, sir.”

Gavallan had turned his ears and did not detect a pure English or American accent. Might be either, or Canadian, he thought, difficult to tell on two words.

“You’re here on official business, George?” McIver asked. “Yes and no.” Talbot strolled over to the door that led back to the airport apron where McIver’s car was parked, guiding them away from prying ears. “Actually the moment we heard your incoming jet on the air, we, er, we hurried out here hoping you could take out some er, some dispatches for Her Majesty’s Government. The ambassador would have been most grateful, but, well, we were here just in time to see your plane take off. Pity!” “I’d be glad to help in any way,” Gavallan said as quietly. “Perhaps tomorrow?” He saw the sudden glance between die two men and wondered even more what was amiss.

“Is that possible, Mr. Gavallan?” Armstrong asked.

“It’s possible.” Gavallan pegged him to be English, though not all English. Talbot smiled, coughed without noticing it. “You’ll leave with or without Iranian permission, an official permit - or a passport?”

“I, er, do have a copy of the paper. And another passport - I applied for a spare, officially, against this eventuality.”

Talbot sighed. “Irregular but wise. Yes. Oh, by the way, I would very much like a copy of your Official Permission to Land.”

“Perhaps that’s not such a good idea - officially. You never know what larceny some people are up to these days.”

Talbot laughed. Then he said, “If you, er, do leave tomorrow we would appreciate it if you’d kindly take Mr. Armstrong - I presume Al Shargaz will be your first port of call.”

Gavallan hesitated. “This is a formal request?”

Talbot smiled. “Formally informal.”

“With or without Iranian permission, permit, or passport?” Talbot chuckled. “You’re perfectly correct to ask. I guarantee that Mr. Armstrong’s papers will be perfectly in order.” He added pointedly to finish the conversation, “As you so correctly pointed out there’s no accounting for the larceny some people will get up to these days.” Gavallan nodded. “Very well, Mr. Armstrong. I’ll be with Captain McIver. It’ll be up to you to stay in touch. The earliest ETD’d be about 5:00 P.M. but I won’t wait around for you. All right?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Again Gavallan had been listening carefully but still could not decide. “George, when we started talking, you said of that arrogant little bastard, ‘He’s quite right, you know.’ Right about what? That now I’ve to find or report to some nebulous authorities in Tehran?”

“No. That Bakhtiar’s resigned and in hiding.”

Both men gaped at him. “God Almighty, are you sure?”

“Bakhtiar formally resigned a couple of hours ago and has, somewhat wisely, vanished.” Talbot’s voice was soft and calm, cigarette smoke punctuating his words. “Actually the situation’s suddenly rather dicey, hence our, er, anxiety to, er, well, never mind that. Last night the chief of staff, General Ghara-Baghi, supported by the generals, ordered all troops back into their barracks, declaring the armed forces were now ‘neutral,’ thus leaving their legal prime minister defenseless and the state to Khomeini.” “‘Neutral?’” Gavallan echoed with disbelief. “That’s not possible - not possible - they’d be committing suicide.”

“I agree. But it is true.”

“Christ!”

“Of course, only some of the units will obey, others will fight,” Talbot said. “Certainly the police and SAVAK aren’t affected; they won’t give up though now their battle will be lost eventually. Insha’Allah, old boy. Meanwhile blood will fill the jolly gutters, rest assured.” McIver broke the silence. “But… if Bakhtiar… doesn’t that mean it’s over? It’s over,” he said with growing excitement. “The civil war’s over and thank God for that. The generals have stopped the real bloodbath - the total bloodbath. Now we can all get back to normal. The trouble’s over.” “Oh, no, my dear chap,” Talbot said even more calmly. “The trouble’s just begun.”

Chapter 20

AT RIG BELLISSIMA: 6:35 P.M. The sunset was glorious, red-tinged clouds low on the horizon, clean clear sky, the evening star brilliant, a three-quarter moon. But it was very cold here at twelve thousand five hundred feet, and already dark in the east and JeanLuc had difficulty in picking out the incoming 212.

“Here she comes, Gianni,” JeanLuc shouted at the driller. This would complete Scot Gavallan’s third round-trip. Everyone - riggers cooks, laborers, three cats and four dogs and a canary belonging to Gianni Salubrio - had already been safely transported to Rig Rosa, with the exception of Mario Guineppa who had insisted on waiting till last, in spite of JeanLuc’s pleadings, and Gianni, Pietro, and two others who were still shutting down the rig.

JeanLuc kept a wary eye on the overhang that worked from time to time, sending shivers down his spine. When the chopper had come back the first time, everyone had held their breath at the noise even though Pietro had assured them all that was just an old wives’ tale - only dynamite would start an avalanche, or an Act of God. And then as if to prove him wrong the overhang shifted again, only a little but enough to nauseate those still left on the rig.

Pietro pulled the last switch and the turbines of the diesel generators began to slow. He wiped his face tiredly and left an oil smear. His back ached and his hands hurt in the cold but the well was sealed and as safe as he could make it. Out over the abyss he saw the chopper beginning her careful approach. “Let’s leave,” he said to the others in Italian. “There’s nothing more that we can do here - nothing more to do except blow that shit roll above to hell!”

The others irritably crossed themselves and trudged off toward the helipad and left him. He looked up at the crest. “You look as though you’re alive,” he muttered, “a shit-roll monster waiting to get me and my beautiful wells. But you won’t, you motherless whore!”

He went to the little dynamite storeroom and picked up the two exploders that he had made - six sticks of dynamite in each, wrapped around a thirty-second fuse. Carefully he put them in a small carrying bag, with a lighter and matches as a backup. “Mother of God,” he prayed simply, “make these fornicators work.”

“Pietro! Hey, Pietro!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming, there’s plenty of time!” Outside he saw the white, pinched face of Gianni. “What’s up?”

“It’s Guineppa - better take a look!”

Mario Guineppa lay on his back, his breath rattling in his throat, eyelids flickering. JeanLuc was beside the bed, his hand on the man’s pulse. “It’s rapid… then I can’t feel it at all,” he said uneasily. “Mario had a serious medical four weeks ago, his annual - cardiogram, everything. Very serious. He was perfect!” Pietro spat on the floor. “Doctors!”

“He was a fool to insist on waiting,” Gianni said.

“He’s the boss, he does what he likes. Let’s put him on the stretcher and get going.” Pietro was grave. “There’s nothing we can do for him here. The hell with the dynamite, we’ll do it later or tomorrow.”

Carefully they lifted him, wrapped him warmly, and carried him out of the trailer, through the snow, toward the waiting helicopter. Just as they reached the helipad, the mountain groaned. They looked up. Snow and ice began tumbling, gathering weight. In seconds the avalance was in full flood. There was no time to run, nothing to do but wait. The roar increased. Snow poured down the mountain to carry the far trailer hut and one of the vast steel mud tanks into the abyss. Then it ceased.

“Mamma mia,” Gianni gasped, crossing himself. “I thought we were gone that time.”

JeanLuc, too, had crossed himself. Now the overhang was even more ominous, thousands of tons poised over the site, part of the rock face exposed. Dribbles of snow fell continuously.

“JeanLuc!” It was Guineppa. His eyes were open. “Don’t… don’t wait… dynamite now… must… must.”

Pietro said, “He’s right, it’s now or never.”

“Please… I’m fine… Mamma mia, do it now! I’m fine.”

They hurried for the chopper. The stretcher went across the forward bank of seats and was quickly lashed into place. The others put on their seat belts. JeanLuc got into the cockpit left seat and put on his headset. “Okay, Scot?”

“Terrific, old chap,” Scot Gavallan said. “How’s Guineppa?” “Not good.” JeanLuc checked the instruments. Everything was in the Green and plenty of fuel. “Merde! The overhang’s going any second; let’s watch the up and down drafts, they’re liable to be rough. Allons-y!” “Here - I rigged it for Pietro while I was waiting at Rosa.” Scot gave JeanLuc the spare headset that was now linked with theirs.

“I’ll give it to him when we’re airborne. I don’t feel safe here! Take off!” At once Scot opened the throttles and eased the 212 off the ground, backed off a little, turned, and was over the abyss. As he started to climb, JeanLuc crawled back into the cabin. “Here, put these on, Pietro, now you’re connected with us up front.”

“Good, very good.” Pietro had taken the seat nearest the door. “When we begin, for the sake of God, my health, and your mother, don’t fall out.”

Pietro laughed nervously. JeanLuc checked Guineppa who seemed more comfortable now, went forward again, and put on his headset. “You hear me, Pietro?”

“Si. Si, amico.”

The chopper labored in a circling climb. Now they were on a level with the crest. From this angle the overhang did not seem so dangerous. They were beginning to bounce a little. “Go higher, another hundred feet, amico,” came through the headsets, “and more north.”

“Roger, Pietro. You’re navigator now.” Scot said.

The two pilots concentrated. Pietro showed them the spot on the north face where the dynamite would undercut the overhang and create an avalanche away from the rig. “It might work,” Scot muttered.

They circled once to make sure. “Amico, when we’re over that spot at a hundred feet, hover; I’ll light the fuse and throw her out. Buono?” They could hear a tremble in Pietro’s voice.

“Don’t forget to open the door, old chap,” Scot said dryly. There was a stream of Italian expletives in reply. Scot smiled, then a downdraft took them fifty feet before he caught it. In a minute they were to altitude and in position.

“Good, amico, keep her there.”

JeanLuc turned around to watch. Behind in the cabin the other men stared at Pietro, fascinated. He took out the first charge and caressed the fuse straight, humming Aida.

“Mother of God, Pietro,” Gianni said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Pietro clenched his left fist, put his right with the fused dynamite on his left bicep, and gestured with significance. “Get ready, up front,” he said into the boom mike, and unlocked his seat belt. He checked the position below, then nodded. “Good, keep her steady. Gianni, ready on the door. Open the fornicator a crack and I’ll do the rest.”

The airplane was pitching with the gyrating air currents, as Gianni unlocked his belt and went to the door. “Hurry up,” he said, feeling very unsafe, then added to the nearest man, “hold on to my belt!”

“Open the door, Gianni!” Gianni fought it open a foot and held it there, the sick man on the stretcher forgotten. A roar of air filled the cabin. The airplane swirled, the added suction from the open door making it more difficult for Scot to control her. Pietro held up the fuse and thumbed the lighter. It failed. Again and again, each time more anxious than the last. “Mother of God, come on!” Sweat was pouring off Pietro’s face when the lighter finally caught. The fuse spluttered into life. Holding on with one hand he leaned toward the door, wind eddies tugging at him. The airplane lurched and both men wished they had had the foresight to bring a safety harness. Carefully Pietro tossed the exploder through the opening. At once Gianni slammed the door closed and locked it. Then he began to swear. “Bombs away! Let’s go!” Pietro ordered, his teeth chattering from the cold, and buckled himself in again. At once the chopper peeled off and he was so relieved that it was done, he started to laugh. Hysterically the others joined him and all happily turned to watch below as he began to countdown: “… six… five… four … three… two… one!” Nothing happened. As quickly as their laughter had arrived, it vanished. “Did you see it fall, JeanLuc?”

“No. No, we saw nothing,” the Frenchman replied gloomily, not wanting to repeat the maneuver. “Perhaps it hit a rock and the fuse got knocked, away.” But inside he was saying to himself, Stupid Italian anus eater, can’t even fix a few sticks of dynamite to a fornicating fuse. “We will do it again, yes?”

“Why not?” Pietro said confidently. “The detonator was perfect. That it did not fire was an Act of the Devil. Yes, without a doubt - it happens many times in snow. Many times. Snow is a whore and you can nev - ” “Don’t blame the snow, Pietro, and it was an Act of God, not of the Devil,” Gianni said superstitiously, crossing himself. “By my mother, enough of the Devil while we’re aloft.”

Pietro took out the second charge and examined it carefully. The wire holding the sticks tight was firm and the fuse firm. “There, you see, perfect, just like the other.” He tossed it from one hand to the other then banged it hard on his armrest to see if the fuse would dislodge. “Mamma mia,” one of the men said, his stomach turning over. “Are you mad?” “This’s not like nitro, cameo,” Pietro told him and banged it even harder. “There, you see it’s tight.”

“It’s not as tight as my anus,” Gianni said angrily in Italian. “Stop it for the love of the Mother of God!”

Pietro shrugged and looked out of the window. The crest was approaching now. He could see the exact spot. “Get ready, Gianni.” Then into the boom mike, “Just a little more, Signor Pilot, more to the east. Hold her there… steady her… can’t you keep her steadier? Get ready, Gianni.” He held up the fuse, the lighter near to the end. “Open the fornicating door!” Irritably, Gianni unlocked his seat belt and obeyed, the airplane twisted and he cried out, lost his footing, his weight went against the door, opening it wider, and he pitched out. But the man was holding his belt and he held Gianni there on the brink, half in, half out of the doorway, the wind suction tearing at them. The instant Gianni had opened the door, Pietro had thumbed the lighter and the fuse had caught but in the momentary panic over Gianni, Pietro was distracted. Instinctively he, too, had grabbed for Gianni and the dynamite was knocked out of his hand. They all watched appalled as he scrambled on the floor, reaching under the seats for it as it rolled this way and that, the fuse burning merrily - his headset torn off. Almost fainting with fear, Gianni got one hand firmly on the doorjamb and began to drag himself back, petrified that his belt would give way and cursing himself that he had worn this thin one that his wife had given him for Christmas…

Pietro’s fingers touched the dynamite. The fuse spluttered against his flesh, burning him, but he did not feel the pain. He got a firm grip then, still on the floor, squirmed around, hung on to a chair support and threw the dynamite and what was left of the fuse past Gianni overboard, then reached forward with his free hand and grabbed one of his friend’s legs, helping to drag him back. The other man slammed the door closed and the two of them, Pietro and Gianni, collapsed on the floor.

“Take her away, Scot,” JeanLuc said weakly.

The chopper banked and left the north face two hundred feet below. For a moment the crest was pure and stark and motionless. There was a vast explosion that no one in the chopper felt or heard. Snow spiraled upward and began to settle. Then with a mighty roar, the whole of the north face tumbled away, the avalanche fell into the valley, searing the mountainside with a swath a quarter of a mile wide until it had ceased. The chopper came around. “My God, look!” Scot said, pointing ahead. The overhang had vanished. Above the Bellissima rig was only a gentle slope, the site untouched except where the trailer and the single mud tank had already been carried away by the first avalanche.

“Pietro!” JeanLuc called out excitedly. “You’ve…” He stopped. Pietro and Gianni were still on the floor collecting themselves, Pietro’s headset vanished. “Scot, they won’t be able to see from their windows - go closer and turn so they can see!”

Excitedly, JeanLuc climbed back into the cabin and began to pummel Pietro, congratulating him. Blankly everyone stared at him and when they understood what he was shouting over the screech of the engines, they forgot their fears and peered out of the windows. And when they saw how perfectly the explosion had cleaned away the danger, they let out a cheer. Gianni embraced Pietro emotionally, swearing eternal friendship, blessing him for saving him, for saving their lives and saving their jobs.

“Niente, caro,” Pietro said expansively. “Am I not a man of Aosta?” JeanLuc stood over the stretcher and gently shook Mario Guineppa. “Mario! Pietro did it - he did it perfectly. Bellissima’s safe…” Guineppa did not answer. He was already dead.

Tuesday - February,13

Chapter 21

ON THE NORTH FACE OF MOUNT SABALAN: 10:00 A.M. The night was bitterly cold under a cloudless sky, stars abundant, the moon strong and Captain Ross and his two Gurkhas were working their way cautiously under a crest following the guide and the CIA man. The soldiers wore cowled, white snow coveralls over their battle dress, and gloves and thermal underwear, but still the cold tormented them. They were about eight thousand feet, downwind of their target half a mile away the other side of the ridge. Above them the vast cone shape of the extinct volcano soared over sixteen thousand. “Meshgi, we’ll stop and rest,” the CIA man said in Turkish to the guide. Both were dressed in rough tribesmen’s clothes.

“If you wish it, Agha, then let it be so.” The guide led the way off the path, through the snow, to a small cave that none of them had noticed. He was old and gnarled like an ancient olive tree, hairy and thin, his clothes ragged, and still the strongest of them after almost two days’ climbing. “Good,” the CIA man said. Then to Ross, “Let’s hole up here till we’re ready.”

Ross unslung his carbine, sat, and rested his pack gratefully, his calves and thighs and back aching. “I’m all one big bloody ache,” he said disgustedly, “and I’m supposed to be fit.”

“You’re fit, sahib,” the Gurkha sergeant called Tenzing said with a beam. “On our next leave we go up Everest, eh?”

“Not on your Nelly,” Ross said in English and the three soldiers laughed together.

Then the CIA man said thoughtfully, “Must be something to stand on top of that mother.”

Ross saw him look out at the night and the thousands of feet of mountain below. When they had first met at the rendezvous near Bandar-e Pahlavi two days ago, if he hadn’t been told otherwise he would have thought him part Mongol or Nepalese or Tibetan, for the CIA man was dark-haired with a yellowish skin and Asian eyes and dressed like a nomad.

“Your CIA contact’s Rosemont, Vien Rosemont, he’s half Vietnamese-half American,” the CIA colonel had said at his briefing. “He’s twenty-six, been here a year, speaks Farsi and Turkish, he’s second-generation CIA, and you can trust him with your life.”

“It seems I’m going to have to, sir, one way or another, don’t you think?” “Huh? Oh, sure, yes. Yes, I guess so. You meet him just south of Bandar-e Pahlavi at those coordinates and he’ll have the boat. You’ll hug the coast until you’re just south of the Soviet border, then backpack in.” “He’s the guide?”

“No. He, er, he just knows about Mecca - that’s our code name for the radar post. Getting the guide’s his problem - but he’ll deliver. If he’s not at the rendezvous, wait through Saturday night. If he’s not there by dawn, he’s blown and you abort. Okay?”

“Yes. What about the rumors of insurrection in Azerbaijan?” “Far as we know there’s some fighting in Tabriz and the western part - nothing around Ardabil. Rosemont should know more. We, er, we know the Soviets are massed and ready to move in if the Azerbaijanis throw Bakhtiar supporters out. Depends on their leaders. One of them’s Abdollah Khan. If you run into trouble go see him. He’s one of ours - loyal.” “All right. And this pilot, Charles Pettikin. Say he won’t take us?” “Make him. One way or another. There’s approval way up to the top for this op, both from your guys and ours, but we can’t put anything into writing. Right, Bob?”

The other man at the briefing, a Robert Armstrong whom he had also never met before, had nodded agreement. “Yes.”

“And the Iranians? They’ve approved it?”

“It’s a matter of, er, of national security - yours and ours. Theirs too but they’re … they’re busy. Bakhtiar’s, well, he’s - he may not last.” “Then it’s true - the U.S. are jerking the rug?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Captain.”

“One last question: why aren’t you sending your fellows?” Robert Armstrong had answered for the colonel. “They’re all busy - we can’t get any more here quickly - not with your elite training.” We’re certainly well trained, Ross thought, easing his shoulders cut raw by his backpack straps - to climb, to jump, to ski, to snorkel, to kill silently or noisily, to move like the wind against terrorist or public enemy, and to blow everything sky-high if need be, above or under water. But I’m bloody lucky, I’ve everything I want: health, university, Sandhurst, paratroopers, Special Air Services, and even my beloved Gurkhas. He beamed at both of them and said a Gurkhali obscenity in a vulgar dialect that sent them into silent fits of laughter. Then he saw Vien Rosemont and the guide looking at him. “Your pardon, Excellencies,” he said in Farsi. “I was just telling my brothers to behave themselves.”

Meshgi said nothing, just turned his attention back to the night. Rosemont had pulled off his boots and was massaging the chill out of his feet. “The guys I’ve seen, British officers, they’re not friends with their soldiers, not like you.”

“Perhaps I’m luckier than others.” With the sides of his eyes Ross was watching the guide who had got up and was now standing at the mouth of the cave, listening. The old man had become increasingly edgy in the last few hours. How far do I trust him? he thought, then glanced at Gueng who was nearest. Instantly the little man got the message, nodded back imperceptibly.

“The captain is one of us, sir,” Tenzing was saying to Rosemont proudly. “Like his father and grandfather before him - and they were both Sheng’khan.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Gurkhali title,” Ross said, hiding his pride. “It means Lord of the Mountain. Doesn’t mean much outside the Regiment.”

“Three generations in the same outfit. That’s usual?”

Of course it’s not usual, Ross wanted to say, disliking personal questions, though liking Vien Rosemont personally. The boat had been on time, the voyage up the coast safe and quick, them hidden under sacking. Easily ashore at dusk and on their way to the next rendezvous where the guide had been waiting, fast into the foothills, and into the mountains, Rosemont never complaining but pressing forward hard, with little conversation and none of the barrage of questions he had expected.

Rosemont waited patiently, noticing Ross was distracted. Then he saw the guide move out of the cave, hesitate, then come back and squat against the cave mouth, rifle cradled on his lap.

“What is it, Meshgi?” Rosemont asked.

“Nothing, Agha. There are flocks in the valley, goats and sheep.” “Good.” Rosemont leaned back comfortably. Lucky to find the cave, he thought, it’s a good place to hole up in. He glanced back at Ross, saw him looking at him. After a pause he added, “It’s great to be part of a team.” “What’s the plan from now on?” Ross asked.

“When we get to the entrance of the cave, I’ll lead. You and your guys stay back until I make sure, okay?”

“Just as you like, but take Sergeant Tenzing with you. He can protect your tail - I’ll cover you both with Gueng.”

After a pause, Rosemont nodded. “Sure, sounds good. Okay, Sergeant?” “Yes, sahib. Please tell me what you want simply. My English is not good.” “It’s just fine,” Rosemont said, covering his nervousness. He knew Ross was weighing him like he was weighing them - too much at stake. “You just blow Mecca to hell,” his director had told him. “We’ve a specialist team to help you; we don’t know how good they are but they’re the goddamn best we can get. Leader’s a captain, John Ross, here’s his photo and he’ll have a couple of Gurkhas with him, don’t know if they speak English but they come recommended. He’s a career officer. Listen, as you’ve never worked close with Limeys before, a word of warning. Don’t get personal or friendly or use first names too fast - they’re as sensitive as a cat with a feather up its ass about personal questions, so take it easy, okay?” “Sure.”

“Far as we know you’ll find Mecca empty. Our other posts nearer Turkey are still operating. We figure to stay as long as we can - by that time the brass’ll make a deal with the new jokers, Bakhtiar or Khomeini. But Mecca - goddamn those bastards who’ve put us at so much risk.”

“How much risk?”

“We think they just left in a hurry and destroyed nothing. You’ve been there, for crissake! Mecca’s stuffed with enough top secret gizmos, listening gear, seeing gear, long-range radar, locked in satellite ciphers and codes and computers to get our unfriendly KGB chief Andropov voted Man of the Year - if he gets them. Can you believe it - those bastards just hightailed it out!”

“Treason?”

“Doubt it. Just plain stupid, dumb - there wasn’t even a contingency plan at Sabalan, for crissake - anywhere else either. Not all their fault, I guess. None of us figured the Shah’d fold so goddamn quick, or that Khomeini’d get Bakhtiar by the balls so fast. We got no warning - not even from SAVAK…” And now we have to pick up the pieces, Vien thought. Or, more correctly, blow them to hell. He glanced at his watch, feeling very tired. He gauged the night and the moon. Better give it another half an hour. His legs ached, and his head. He saw Ross watching him and he smiled inside: I won’t fail, Limey. But will you?

“An hour, then we’ll move out,” Vien said.

“Why wait?”

“The moon’ll be better for us. It’s safe here and we’ve time. You’re clear what we do?”

“Mine everything in Mecca you mark, blow it and the cave entrance simultaneously, and run like the clappers all the way home.” Rosemont smiled and felt better. “Where’s home for you?”

“I don’t know really,” Ross said caught unawares. He had never asked himself the question. After a moment, more for himself than the American, he added, “Perhaps Scotland - perhaps Nepal. My father and mother’re in Katmandu, they’re as Scots as I am but they’ve been living there off and on since ‘51 when he retired. I was even born there though I did almost all my schooling in Scotland.” Both’re home, for me, he thought. “What about you?” “Washington, D.C. - really, Falls Church, Virginia, which is almost part of Washington. I was born there.” Rosemont wanted a cigarette but he knew it might be dangerous. “Pa was CIA. He’s dead now but he was at Langley for the last few years, which’s close by - CIA HQ’s at Langley.” He was happy to be talking. “Ma’s still in Falls Church, haven’t been back in a couple of years. You ever been to the States?”

“No, not yet.” The wind had picked up a little and they both studied the night for a moment.

“It’ll die down after midnight,” Rosemont said confidently. Ross saw the guide shift position again. Is he going to make a run for it? “You’ve worked with the guide before?”

“Sure. I tramped all over the mountains with him last year - I spent a month here. Routine. Lotta the opposition infiltrate through this area and we try to keep tabs on ‘em - like they do us.” Rosemont watched the guide. “Meshgi’s a good joe. Kurds don’t like Iranians, or Iraqis or our friends across the border. But you’re right to ask.”

Ross switched to Gurkhali. “Tenzing, watch everywhere and the pathfinder - you eat later.” At once Tenzing slipped out of his pack and was gone into the night. “I sent him on guard.”

“Good,” Rosemont said. He had watched them all very carefully on the climb up and was very impressed with the way they worked as a team, leapfrogging, always one of them flanking, always seeming to know what to do, no orders, always safety catches off. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous?” he had said early on.

“Yes, Mr. Rosemont - if you don’t know what you’re doing,” the Britisher had said to him with no arrogance that he could detect. “But when every tree or corner or rock could hide hostiles, the difference between safety on and off could mean killing or being killed.”

Vien Rosemont remembered how the other had added guilelessly, “We’ll do everything we can to support you and get you out,” and he wondered again if they would get in, let alone out. It was almost a week since Mecca had been abandoned. No one knew what to expect when they got there - it could be intact, already stripped, or even occupied. “You know this whole op’s crazy?”

“Ours not to reason why.”

“Ours but to do or die? I think that’s the shits!”

“I think that’s the shits too if it’s any help.”

It was the first time they had laughed together. Rosemont felt much better. “Listen, haven’t said it before, but I’m happy you three’re aboard.” “We’re, er, happy to be here.” Ross covered his embarrassment at the open compliment. “Agha,” he called out to the guide, “please join us at food.” “Thank you, Agha, but I am not hungry,” the old man replied without moving from the cave mouth.

Rosemont put his boots back on. “You got a lot of special units in Iran?” “No. Half a dozen - we’re here training Iranians. You think Bakhtiar will weather it?” He opened his pack and distributed the cans of bully beef. “No. The word in the hills among the tribes is that he’ll be out - probably shot - within the week.”

Ross whistled. “Bad as that?”

“Worse: that Azerbaijan‘11 be a Soviet protectorate within the year.” “Bloody hell!”

“Sure. But you never know” - Vien smiled - “that’s what makes life interesting.”

Casually Ross offered the flask. “Best Iranian rotgut money can buy.” Rosemont grimaced and took a careful sip, then beamed. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s real Scotch!” He prepared to take a real swallow but Ross was ready and he grabbed the flask back.

“Easy does it - it’s all we’ve got, Agha.”

Rosemont grinned. They ate quickly. The cave was snug and safe. “You ever been to Vietnam?” Rosemont asked, wanting to talk, feeling the time right. “No, never have. Almost went there once when my father and I were en route to Hong Kong but we were diverted to Bangkok from Saigon.” “With the Gurkhas?”

“No, this was years ago, though we do have a battalion there now. I was,” Ross thought a moment, “I was seven or eight, my father has some vague Hong Kong relations, Dunross, yes that was their name, and there was some sort of clan gathering. I don’t remember much of Hong Kong except a leper who lay in the dirt by the ferry terminal. I had to pass him every day - almost every day.”

“My dad was in Hong Kong in “63,” Vien said proudly. “He was deputy director of station - CIA.” He picked up a stone, toyed with it. “You know I’m half-Vietnamese?”

“Yes, they told me.”

“What else did they tell you?”

“Just that I could trust you with my life.”

Rosemont smiled wryly. “Let’s hope they’re right.” Thoughtfully he began checking the action of his M16. “I’ve always wanted to visit Vietnam. My pa, my real pa, was Vietnamese, a planter, but he was killed just before I was born - that was when the French owned Indochina. He got clobbered by Viet Cong just outside Dien Bien Phu. Ma…” The sadness dropped off him and he smiled. “Ma’s as American as a Big Mac and when she remarried she picked one of the greatest. No real pa could’ve loved me more…”

Abruptly Gueng cocked his carbine. “Sahib!” Ross and Rosemont grabbed their weapons, then there was a keening on the wind, Ross and Gueng relaxed. “It’s Tenzing.”

The sergeant appeared out of the night as silently as he had left. But now his face was grim. “Sahib, many trucks on the road below - ” “In English, Tenzing.”

“Yes, sahib. Many trucks, I counted eleven, in convoy, on the road at the bottom of the valley…”

Rosemont cursed. “That road leads to Mecca. How far away were they?” The little man shrugged. “At the bottom of the valley. I went the other side of the ridge and there’s a…” He said the Gurkhali word and Ross gave him the English equivalent. “A promontory. The road in the valley twists, then snakes as it climbs. If the tail of the snake is in the valley and the head wherever the road ends, then four trucks were already well past tail.” Rosemont cursed again. “An hour at best. We’d bett - ” At that moment there was a slight scuffle and their attention flashed to the cave mouth. They just had time to see the guide rushing away, Gueng in pursuit. “What the hell…”

“For whatever reason, he’s abandoning ship,” Ross said. “Forget him. Does an hour give us a chance?”

“Sure. Plenty.” Quickly they got into their packs and Rosemont armed his light machine gun. “What about Gueng?”

“He’ll catch us up.”

“We’ll go straight in. I’ll go first - if I run into trouble you abort. Okay?”

The cold was almost a physical barrier they had to fight through but Rosemont led the way well, the snow not bad on the meandering path, the moon helping, their climbing boots giving them good traction. Quickly they topped the ridge and headed down the other side. Here it was more slippery, the mountainside barren, just a few clumps of weeds and plants fighting to get above the snow. Ahead now was the maw of the cave, the road running into it, many vehicle tracks in the snow.

“They could’ve been made by our trucks,” Rosemont said, covering his disquiet. “There’s been no snow for a couple of weeks.” He motioned the others to wait and went forward, then stepped out on the road and ran for the entrance. Tenzing followed, using the ground for cover, moving as rapidly.

Ross saw Rosemont disappear into the darkness. Then Tenzing. His anxiety increased. From where he was he could not see far down the road, for it curled away, falling steeply. The strong moonlight made the crags and the wide valley more ominous, and he felt naked and lonely and hated the waiting. But he was confident. “If you’ve Gurkhas with you, you’ve always a chance, my son,” his father had said. “Guard them - they’ll always guard you. And never forget, with luck, one day you’ll be Sheng’khan.” Ross had smiled to himself, so proud, the title given so rarely: only to one who had brought honor to the regiment, who had scaled a worthy Nepalese peak alone, who had used the kookri and had saved the life of a Ghurkha in the service of the Great Raj. His grandfather, Captain Kirk Ross, MC, killed in 1915 at the Battle of the Somme, had been given it posthumously; his father, Lieutenant Colonel Gavin Ross, DSO, was given it in Burma, in 1943. And me? Well, I’ve scaled a worthy peak - K4 - and that’s all so far but I’ve lots of time….

His fine-tuned senses warned him and he had his kookri out, but it was only Gueng. The little man was standing over him, breathing hard. “Not fast enough, sahib,” he whispered happily in Gurkhali. “I could have taken you moments ago.” He held up the severed head and beamed. “I bring you a gift.” It was the first that Ross had seen. The eyes were open. Terror still contorted the face of the old man. Gueng killed him but I gave the order, he thought, sickened. Was he just an old man who was scared fartless and wanted to get out while the going was good? Or was he a spy or a traitor rushing to betray us to the enemy?

“What is it, sahib?” Gueng whispered, his brow furrowed.

“Nothing. Put the head down.”

Gueng tossed it aside. The head rolled a little down the slope then stopped. “I searched him, sahib, and found this.” He handed him the amulet. “It was around his throat and this” - he gave him the small leather bag - “this hung down around his balls.”

The amulet was just a cheap blue stone worn against the evil eye. Inside the little bag was a small card, wrapped in plastic. Ross squinted at it and his heart skipped a beat. At that moment there was another keening on the wind, the note different. Immediately they picked up their guns and ran for the cave mouth, knowing that Tenzing had given them the all-clear signal and to hurry. Inside the throat of the cavern the darkness seemed deeper and then, as their eyes adjusted, they saw a fleck of light. It was a flashlight, the lens partially covered.

“Over here, Captain.” Though it was softly said, Rosemont’s voice echoed loudly. “This way.” He led them farther into the cave and when he was sure it was safe he shone the light on the rock walls and all around to get his bearings. “It’s okay to use your flashes.” The cave was immense, many tunnels and passages leading off it, some natural, some man-made, the rock dome fifty feet overhead. “This’s the unloading area,” he said. When he found the tunnel he sought he shone the light down it. At the end was a thick steel door, half open. “It should be locked,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I don’t know if it was left like that or what, but that’s where we have to go.”

Ross motioned to Tenzing. At once the kookri came out and the soldier went forward to vanish inside. Automatically Ross and Gueng took up defensive positions. Against whom? Ross asked himself helplessly, feeling trapped. There could be fifty men hidden in any one of those other tunnels. The seconds dragged. Again there was the keening. Ross led the rush through the doorway, then Gueng, then Rosemont. As Rosemont passed the door he saw that Tenzing had taken up a position nearby and was covering them. He pulled the door to and switched on the lights. The suddenness made the others gasp. “Hallelujah!” Rosemont said, openly relieved. “The brass figured if the generators were still working, we’d have a good shot. This door’s lightproof.” He slid heavy bolts into place, hung his flashlight on his belt.

They were in another cave, much smaller, that had been adapted, the floor leveled and carpeted roughly, the walls made more flat. It was a form of anteroom with desks and phones and litter everywhere. “The guys sure didn’t waste any time getting the hell out, did they?” he said bitterly, hurrying across the room to another tunnel, down it and into another cave room with more desks, a few radar screens, and more phones, gray and green. “The grays’re internal, greens go to the tower and masts on the crest, from there by satellite to Tehran, our HQ switchboard in the embassy, and various top secret places - they’ve built-in scramblers.” Rosemont picked one up. It was dead. “Maybe the communications guys did their job after all.” At the far end of the room was a tunnel. “That goes down to the generator room for this section which has all the gear we’ve to blow. Living quarters, kitchens, mess halls, repair shops, are in other caves off the unloading area. About eighty guys worked here around the clock.”

“Is there any other way out of here?” Ross asked. His feeling of being closed in was greater than ever.

“Sure, topside, where we’re going.”

Rough steps led upward through the domed roof. Rosemont started climbing them. On the landing was a door: TOP SECURITY AREA - NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT SPECIAL AUTHORITY. It too was open. “Shit,” he muttered. This cave was well-appointed, floor flatter, walls whitewashed. Dozens of computers and radar screens, and banked electronic equipment. More desks and chairs and phones, gray and green. And two red on a central desk.

“What’re those for?”

“Direct to Langley by military satellite.” Rosemont picked one up. It was dead. So was the other. He pulled out a piece of paper and checked it, then went over to a bank of switches and turned some on. Another obscenity as a soft hum began, computers started chattering, warming up, and three of the radar screens came to life, the central white trace-line turning, leaving a scatter pattern in its wake. “Bastards! Bastards to leave everything like this.” His finger stabbed at four comer computers. “Blow those mothers - they’re the core.”

“Gueng!”

“Yes, sahib.” The Gurkha took off his pack and began to lay out the plastic explosives and detonators.

“Half-hour fuses?” Rosemont said.

“Half-hour fuses it is.” Ross was staring at one of the screens, fascinated. Northward he could see most of the Caucasus, all of the Caspian, eastward even part of the Black Sea, all with extraordinary clarity.“That’s a lot of space to peer into.”

Rosemont went over to its keyboard and turned a switch.

For a moment Ross was dumbfounded. He tore his eyes off the screen. “Now I understand why we’re here.”

“That’s only part.”

“Christ! Then we’d better get cracking. What about the cave mouth?” “We’ve no time to do a decent job - and the other side of our door’s routine junk they’ve stolen anyways. We’ll blow our tunnels after us and use the escapeway.”

“Where’s that?”

The American went over to a door. This one was locked. He took out a bunch of tagged keys and found the one he wanted. The door swung open. Behind the door a narrow flight of stairs spiraled upward steeply. “It leads out onto the mountain.”

“Tenzing, make sure the way’s clear.” Tenzing went up the stairs two at a time. “Next?”

“Code room and the safes, we’ll mine those. Then communications. Generator room last, okay?”

“Yes.” Ross liked the incisive strength more and more. “Before we do you’d better look at this.” He took out the small, plastic-covered card. “Gueng caught up with our guide. This was on him.”

All color left Rosemont’s face. On the card was a thumbprint, some writing in Russian script, and a signature. “An ID!” he burst out. “A Commie ID!” Behind them Gueng paused momentarily.

“That’s what I thought. What’s it say exactly?”

“I don’t know, I can’t read Russian either but I’ll bet my life it’s a safe-conduct pass.” A wave of sickness came up from his stomach as he remembered all the days and nights he had spent in the old man’s company, wandering the mountains, sleeping alongside him in the open, feeling very safe. And all the time he’d been pegged. Numbly he shook his head. “Meshgi was with us for years - he was one of Ali bin Hassan Karakose’s band - Ali’s an underground leader and one of our best contacts in the mountains. Great guy who even operates as far north as Baku. Jesus, maybe he’s been betrayed.” He looked at the card again. “Just doesn’t figure.”

“I think it figures we could have been deliberately set up, sitting ducks,” Ross said. “Perhaps the convoy’s part of it, full of troops to track us. We’d better hurry it up, eh?”

Rosemont nodded, fighting to dominate the fear that swept through him, helped by the calmness of the other man. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Still shattered, he went through a small passage to another door. Locked. As he looked for the key on the tabbed ring of keys he said, “I owe you and your men an apology. I don’t know how we - I - got taken in or how that bastard escaped the security check but he did and you’re probably right - we’re set up. Sorry, but, shit, that doesn’t help a goddamn bit.”

“It helps.” Ross grinned and the fear dropped off both of them. “It helps. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, yes, thanks. Gueng killed him?”

“Well,” Ross said dryly. “He handed me his head. They usually just bring back ears.”

“Jesus. You been with them long?”

“The Gurkhas? Four years.”

The key slid into the lock and the door opened. The code room was pedantically neat. Telex and teleprinter and copy machines. A curious computer printer with a keyboard was on its own desk. “That’s the decoder - worth any money you’d like to ask the opposition.” On the desks pencils were lined up. Half a dozen manuals.

Rosemont picked them up. “Good sweet Jesus…” All were codebooks marked MECCA - ONE COPY ONLY. “Well, at least the master code’s locked up.” He went to the modem safe with its electronic, 0-9 digital lock that was set into one wall, read the combination from his piece of paper and touched the digits. But the Open light didn’t come on. “Maybe I missed a number. Read them to me, okay?”

“Sure.” Ross began reading out the long series of numbers. Behind them Tenzing came in noiselessly. Neither man heard him. “… one twenty-five… seven twenty-one.” Then both men felt the presence at the same instant and whirled, momentarily panicked.

Tenzing kept the delight off his face and closed his ears to the profanity. Hadn’t the Sheng’khan told him to train the son and make him wise in the ways of stealth and killing? Hadn’t he sworn to guard him and be his silent teacher? “But, Tenzing, for the love of God don’t let my son know I told you to. Keep this secret between us….” It’s been very hard to catch the sahib unawares for weeks, he thought happily. But Gueng caught him tonight and so did I. Much better we do than an enemy - and now they surround us like bees and their queen.

“The staircase leads upward for seventy-five steps to an iron door,” Tenzing said in his best reporting voice. “The door is rusty but I forced it. Outside is a cave, outside the cave is the night - a good escape route, sahib. Not good is that from there I saw the first of the convoy.” He paused, not wanting to be wrong. “Perhaps half an hour of time is left.” “Go back to the first door, Tenzing, the one we barred. Mine the runnel this side of the door to leave the door unharmed - twenty-minute fuse from now. Tell Gueng to set his fuses the same from now exactly. Tell Gueng what I’ve ordered.” “Yes, sahib.”

Ross turned back. He noticed the sweat on Rosemont’s forehead. “Okay?” “Sure. We got to one hundred three.”

“The last two numbers are six sixty and thirty-one.” He saw the American touch the numbers. The Open light began winking. Rosemont’s right hand went for the lever. “Hold it!” Ross wiped the sweat from his own chin, the golden stubble rasping. “I suppose there’s no chance it could be booby-trapped?” Rosemont stared at him, then at the safe. “It’s possible. Sure, it’s possible.”

“Then let’s just blow the bugger and not risk it.”

“I - I’ve gotta check. I’ve got to check if Mecca’s master code’s inside or not. That and the decoder’re priority.” Again he looked at the light winking at him. “You go back in the other room, take cover with Gueng, shout when you’re ready. I - it’s my shot.”

Ross hesitated. Then he nodded, picked up both packs that contained explosives and detonators. “Where’s the communications room?” “Next door.”

“Is - is the generator room important?”

“No. Just this one, the decoder and those four mothers back there, though it’d be best if this whole goddamn floor went to hell.” Rosemont watched Ross walk away then turned his back and looked back at the lever. There was a bad tightness in his chest. That sonofabitch Meshgi! I’d’ve bet my life - you did, we all did, even Ali Karakose. “You ready?” he called out impatiently.

“Wait!” Again his stomach surged. Ross was back beside him before he had heard him, in his hands a long, thin, nylon climbing rope that, quickly, he lashed to the lever. “Turn the lever when I say but don’t open the door. We’ll jerk it open from back there.” Ross hurried out. “Now!” Rosemont took a deep breath to slow his heart and turned the lever to Open then ran through the passage into the other cave. Ross beckoned him down beside the wall. “I sent Gueng to warn Tenzing. Ready?” “Sure.” Ross tightened the rope, then tugged hard. The rope remained taut. He tugged even harder, then it slackened a foot but came no farther. Silence. Nothing. Both men were sweating. “Well,” Ross said, greatly relieved, and got up. “Better safe than sorr - ” The explosion obliterated his words, a great cloud of dust and bits of metal blew out of the passage into their cave, jerking the air from their lungs, scattering tables and chairs. All radar screens burst, lights vanished, one of the red phones tore loose and hurtled across the room to smash through the steel casing of a computer. Gradually the dust settled, both men coughing their hearts out in the darkness.

Rosemont was the first to recover. His flashlight was still on his belt. He groped for it.

“Sahib?” Tenzing called out anxiously, rushing into the room, his flash on, Gueng beside him.

“I’m all - all right,” Ross said, still coughing badly. Tenzing found him lying in the rubble. A little blood was running down his face but it was only a superficial wound from the flying glass. “Bless all gods,” Tenzing muttered and helped him up.

Ross fought to stay upright. “Christalmighty!” Blankly he looked around at the wreckage, then stumbled after Rosemont through the passage into the cipher room. The safe had vanished, with it the decoder, manuals, phones, leaving a huge hole in the living rock. All electronic equipment was just a mess of twisted metal and wires. Small fires had already started. “Jesus,” was all Rosemont could say, his voice little more than a croak, his psyche revolted by the nearness to extinction, mind screaming: run, escape this place of your death…

“Christ all bloody mighty!”

Helplessly, Rosemont tried to say something, couldn’t, his legs took him into a corner and he was violently sick.

“We’d better - ” Ross found it hard to talk, his ears still ringing, a monstrous ache in his head, adrenaline pumping, trying to dominate his own wish to run. ‘Tenzing, are - are you finished?”

“Two minutes, sahib.” The man rushed off.

“Gueng?”

“Yes, sahib. Two minutes also.” He hurried away.

Ross went to the other corner and retched. Then he felt better. He found the flask and took a long swig, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his battle dress, went over and shook Rosemont who was leaning against the wall. “Here.” He gave it to him. “You all right?”

“Yes. Sure.” Rosemont still felt queasy, but now his mind was working. His mouth tasted foul and he spat the foulness into the rubble. Small fires burned, throwing crazy shadows on the walls and roof. He took a careful sip. After a moment he said, “Nothing on God’s earth like Scotch.” Another sip and he handed the flask back. “We’d better get the hell out of here.” With the flashlight he made a quick search of the wreckage, found the twisted remains of the all-important decoder, and picked his way carefully into the next cave and laid the remains near the charge at the base of the corner computers. “What I don’t understand,” he said helplessly, “is why the whole goddamn place didn’t go up and blow us all to hell anyway - with all our explosives scattered around.”

“I - before I came back with the rope and sent Gueng off to Tenzing, I told Gueng to remove the explosives and the detonators for safety.” “You always think of everything?”

Ross smiled weakly. “Ail part of the service,” he said. “Communications room?”

It was mined quickly. Rosemont glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes to blast-off. We’ll forget the generator room.” “Good. Tenzing, you lead.” They went up the escape staircase. The iron hatch creaked as it opened. Once in the cave Ross took the lead. Cautiously he peered out at the night and all around. The moon was still high. Three or four hundred yards away the lead truck was grinding up the last incline. “Which way, Vien?” he asked and Rosemont felt a glow.

“Up,” he said, hiding the warmth. “We climb. If there’re troops after us, we forget the coast and head for Tabriz. If no troops we circle and go back the way we came.”

Tenzing led. He was like a mountain goat, but he picked the easiest path, knowing the two men were still very shaky. Here the slope was steep but not too difficult with little snow to impede them. They had barely started when the ground shook beneath them, the sound of the first explosion almost totally muffled. In quick succession there were other small quakes. One to go, Rosemont thought, glad of the cold which was clearing his head. The last explosion - the communications room - where they had used all their remaining explosive was much bigger and really shuddered the earth. Below and to their right, part of the mountain gave way, smoke billowing out of the resulting crater.

“Christ,” Ross muttered. “Probably an air vent.” “Sahib. Look down there!” The lead truck had stopped at the entrance to the cave. Men were jumping out of it, others staring up at the mountainside,

309 illuminated by the lights of the following trucks. The men all had rifles. Ross and the others slid deeper into the shadows. “We’ll climb up to that ridge,” Rosemont said softly, pointing above and to their left. “We’ll be out of their sight and covered. Then we head for Tabriz, almost due east. Okay?”

“Tenzing, on you go!”

“Yes, sahib.”

They made the ridge and hurried over it to climb again, working their way eastward, not talking, conserving their energy for there were many, many miles to go. The terrain was rough and the snow harried them. Soon their gloves were torn, hands and legs bruised, calves aching but, no longer encumbered by heavy packs, they made good progress and their spirits were high.

They came to one of the paths that crisscrossed the mountains. Whenever the path forked, their choice was always to keep to the heights. There were villages in the valley, very few up this high. “Better we stay up here,” Rosemont said, “and… and hope we don’t run into anyone.” “You think they’ll all be hostile?”

“Sure. It’s not only anti-Shah country here but anti-Khomeini, anti-everyone.” Rosemont was breathing heavily. “It’s village against village most of the time and good bandit country.” He waved Tenzing onward, thankful for the moonlight and that he was with the three of them. Tenzing kept up the pace but it was a mountaineer’s pace, measured and unhurried and constant and punishing. After an hour Gueng took over the lead, then Ross, Rosemont, and then Tenzing again. Three minutes rest an hour, then on again.

The moon sank lower in the sky. They were well away now, the going easier, lower down the mountainside. The path meandered but it led generally eastward toward a curiously shaped cleft in the range. Rosemont had recognized it. “Down in that valley’s a side road that goes to Tabriz. It’s little more than a track in winter but you can get through okay. Let’s go on till dawn, then rest up and make a plan. Okay?”

Now they were down below the tree line and into the beginnings of the pine forest, going much slower and feeling the tiredness. ’

Tenzing still led. Snow muffled their footsteps and the good clean air pleased him greatly. Abruptly he sensed danger and stopped. Ross was just behind him and he stopped also. Everyone waited motionless. Then Ross went forward carefully. Tenzing

was peering into the dark ahead, the moon casting strange shadows. Slowly both men used their peripheral vision. Nothing. No sign or smell. They waited. Some snow fell from one of the trees. No one moved. Then a night bird left a branch ahead and to the right and flew noisily away. Tenzing pointed in that direction, motioned Ross to wait, slid his kookri out, and went forward alone, melting into the night.

After a few yards Tenzing saw a man crouched behind a tree fifty yards ahead and his excitement picked up. Closer he could see that the man was oblivious of him. Closer. Then his peripheral vision saw a shadow move to his left, another to his right and he knew. “Ambush!” he shouted at the top of his lungs and dived for cover.

The first wave of bullets passed near him but missed. Part of the second punctured his left lung, ripped a hole out of his back, slamming him against a fallen tree. More guns opened up on the opposite side of the pathway, the crossfire racking Ross and the others, who had scrambled behind tree trunks and into gullies.

For a moment Tenzing lay there helplessly. He could hear the firing but it seemed far away though he knew that it must be near. With a last mighty effort he dragged himself to his feet and charged the guns that had killed him. He saw some of their attackers turn back on him and heard bullets pass him, some tugging at his cowl. One went through his shoulder but he did not feel it, pleased that he was dying as men in the regiment were supposed to die. Going forward. Fearlessly. I am truly without fear. I am Hindu and I go to meet Shiva contentedly, and when I am reborn I pray Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva that I will be born again Gurkha.

As he reached the ambush, his kookri hacked off someone’s arm, his legs gave out, a monstrous, peerless light went off in his head and he strode into death without pain.

“Hold all fire,” Ross called out, getting his bearings, pulling the strings of battle back into his hands. He pegged two groups of guns against them, but there was no way that he could get at either. The ambush had been well chosen and the crossfire deadly. He had seen Tenzing hit. It had taken all of his willpower not to go to his aid but first there was this battle to win and the others to protect. The shots were echoing and reechoing off the mountainside. He had wriggled out of his pack, found the grenades, made sure his carbine was fully automatic, not knowing how to lead the way out of the trap. Then he had seen Tenzing reel to his feet with a battle cry and charge up the slope, creating the diversion Ross needed. At once he ordered Rosemont, “Cover me,” and to Gueng, “Go!” pointing toward the same group Tenzing was attacking.

Immediately Gueng jumped out of his gully and rushed them, their attention diverted by Tenzing. When he saw his comrade go down, his rage burst, he let the lever on his grenade fly off, hurled it into their midst and hit the snow. The instant the grenade exploded he was up, his carbine spraying the screams, stopping most of them. He saw one man rushing away, another desperately crawling off into the underbrush. One slash of the kookri took off part of the crawler’s head. A short burst cut the other to pieces and again Gueng whirled into cover, not knowing where the next danger would come from. Another grenade exploding took his attention to the other side of the path.

Ross had crawled forward out of safety. Bullets straddled him but Rosemont opened up with short bursts, drawing fire, giving Ross the help he needed, and he made the next tree safely, found a deep trough in the snow, and fell into it. For a second he waited, collecting his breath, then scrambled along the hard, frozen snow toward the firing. Now he was out of sight of the attackers and he made good tune. Then he heard the other grenade go off and the screaming, and he prayed that Gueng and Tenzing were all right. The enemy firing was getting closer, and when he judged that he was in position, he pulled the pin out of the first grenade and with his carbine in his left hand went over the top. The instant he was in the open he saw the men but not where he had expected them. There were five, barely twenty yards away. Their rifles turned on him but his reactions were just a little faster and he was on the ground behind a tree, the lever off and counting before the first barrage ripped into it. On the fourth second he reached around the tree and lobbed the grenade at them, buried his head under his arms. The explosion lifted him off the ground, blew the trunk of a nearer tree to pieces, burying him under branches and snow from its limbs. Down by the path Rosemont had emptied his magazine into where he thought the attackers would be. Cursing in his anxiety, he slapped in a new magazine and fired another burst.

Across the path on the other slope, Gueng was huddled behind a rock waiting for someone to move. Then, near the exploded tree, he saw one man running away, bent double. He aimed and the man died, the shot echoing. Now silence. Rosemont felt his heart racing. He could wait no longer. “Cover me, Gueng,” he shouted and leaped to his feet and rushed for the tree. A flicker of firing to his right, bullets hissed past, then Gueng opened up from the other slope. A bubbling scream and the firing ceased. Rosemont ran onward until he was straddling the ambush point, his carbine leveled. Three men were in pieces, the last barely alive, their rifles bent and twisted. All wore rough tribal clothes. As he watched, the last man choked and died. He turned away and rushed for the other tree, pulling branches away, fighting his way through the snow to Ross.

On the other slope Gueng waited and watched to kill anything that moved. There was a slight stir amid the carnage behind the rocks where his grenade had ripped the three men apart. He waited, hardly breathing, but it was only a rodent feeding. Soon they will clean the ground and make it whole again, he thought, awed by the cycle of the gods. His eyes ranged slowly. He saw Tenzing crumpled to one side of the rock, his kookri still locked in his grasp. Before I leave I will take it, Gueng thought; his family will cherish it and his son will wear it with equal honor. Tenzing Sheng’khan lived and died like a man and will be reborn as the gods decide. Karma. Another movement. Ahead in the forest. He concentrated.

The other side of the path Rosemont was pulling at the branches, fighting them away, his arms aching. At last he reached Ross and his heart almost stopped. Ross was crumpled on the ground, his arms over his head, his carbine nearby. Blood stained the snow and the back of the white coveralls. Rosemont knelt and turned him over and almost cried out with relief that Ross was still breathing. For a moment his eyes were blank, then they focused. He sat up and winced. ‘Tenzing? And Gueng?”

“Tenzing got clobbered, Gueng’s the other side covering us. He’s okay.” “Thank God. Poor Tenzing.”

“Test your arms and legs.”

Gingerly Ross moved his limbs. Everything worked. “My head hurts like hell, but I’m okay.” He looked around and saw the crumpled attackers. “Who are they?”

“Tribesmen. Bandits maybe.” Rosemont studied the way ahead. Nothing moved. The night was fine. “We’d better get the hell out of here before more of the bastards jump us. You think you can go on?”

“Yes. Give me a couple of seconds.” Ross wiped some snow over his face. The cold helped. “Thanks, eh? You know. Thanks.”

Rosemont smiled back. “All part of the service,” he said wryly. His eyes went to the tribesmen. Keeping well down he went over to them and searched where he could. He found nothing. “Probably locals - or just bandits. These bastards can be real cruel if they catch you alive.”

Ross nodded and another spasm of pain soared. “I’m okay now, I think. We’d better move - the firing must have been heard for miles and this’s no place to hang around.”

Rosemont had seen the pain. “Wait some more.”

“No. I’ll feel better moving.” Ross gathered his strength, then called out in Gurkhali, “Gueng, we’ll go on.” He started to get up, stopped as an abrupt keening for danger answered him. “Get down!” he gasped and pulled Rosemont with him.

A single rifle bullet came out of the night and chose Rosemont and buried itself in his chest, mortally wounding him. Then there was firing from the other slope and a scream and silence once more.

In time, Gueng joined Ross. “Sahib, I think that was the last. For the moment.”

“Yes.” They waited with Vien Rosemont until he died, then did what they had to do for him and for Tenzing. And then they went on.

Chapter 22

ISFAHAN MILITARY AIR BASE: 5:40 A.M. To the east the dark night was beginning to lighten with the dawn. The base was quiet now, no one about except for armed Islamic Guards who, with the people of Isfahan in their thousands and led by mullahs, had stormed the base yesterday and now possessed it, all army and air force officers and men confined to their barracks under guard - or free, openly declared now for Khomeini and the revolution.

The sentry Relazi was eighteen and very proud of his green armband and to be on guard outside the shed that contained the traitor General Valik and his family who had been caught yesterday, skulking in the officers’ mess with his CIA foreign pilot. God is great, he thought. Tomorrow they will be cast into hell with all foul People of the Left Hand.

For generations the Relazis had been cobblers in one tiny stall of Isfahan’s Old Bazaar. Yes, he thought, I was a bazaari until a week ago when our mullah called me and all the Faithful to God’s battle, gave me God’s armband and this gun and showed me how to use it. How wonderful are the ways of God. He was sheltered in the lee of the hut, out of the snow, but the damp cold was going through him even though he was wearing all the clothes he possessed in the world - sweatshirt, a coarse shirt over it, a coat and trousers bought secondhand, an old sweater and ancient army coat that once had belonged to his father. His feet felt numb. “As God wants,” he said out loud and felt better. “I’ll be relieved soon and then I’ll eat again - by God, soldiers lived like veritable pashas, at least two meals every day, one with rice, imagine that, and pay every week… pay from Satan but pay even so.” He coughed badly, his breath wheezing, shifted the U.S. Army carbine to his other shoulder, found the stub of the cigarette he had been saving, and lit it.

By the Prophet, he thought gleefully, who would have imagined that we could take the base so easily, so few of us killed and sent to Paradise before we had overwhelmed the soldiers on the gate and swarmed into the camp - our brothers on the base blocking the runways with trucks, and others seizing the aircraft and helicopters to prevent escape of the Shah traitors. Rushing the bullets of the enemy, the Name of God on our lips. “Join us, brothers,” we shouted, “join God’s revolution, help do God’s work! Come to Paradise… don’t go to hell…”

The young man trembled and began to mouth the words imprinted on him by a dozen mullahs reading from the Koran, then translating: “there to live forever with all sinners and the accursed People of the Left Hand, tasting neither refreshment nor any drink but boiling water or molten metal and decaying filth. And when the fires of hell have burned away the skin, they will grow new ones so that their suffering be never ending…” He closed his eyes with the intensity of his prayers: Let me die with one of God’s names on my lips, and so guarantee that I will go straight to the Garden of Paradise with all the People of the Right Hand, to be there forever, never to feel hunger again, never to watch brothers and sisters of the villages with bloated bellies whimper into death, never to cry out in the night at the awfulness of life but to be in Paradise: “there to lie on silken couches adorned with robes of green silk, attended by fresh blooming youths bearing goblets and ewers and cups of flowing wine, with such fruits that please us best and the flesh of such birds as we shall long for. And ours shall be the houris with large dark eyes like pearls hidden in their shells, forever young, forever virgin, amid trees clad with fruit, and in extended shade and by flowing waters, never growing old, forev - ” The rifle butt pulverized his nose and caved in the front of his skull, permanently blinding him and ending forever his normality but not killing him before he tumbled unconscious into the snow. His assailant was a soldier, of an age with him, and this man hastily picked up the carbine - used it to break the lock of the flimsy door and shove it open. “Hurry,” the assailant whispered, sweating with fear. In a moment General Valik poked his head out cautiously. The man grabbed his arm. “Come on, hurry, by God,” he snarled.

“May God bless you…” Valik said, his teeth chattering, then darted back and came out again with two huge bundles of rials that the man stuffed into his battle dress and vanished as silently as he had arrived. Valik hesitated a moment, his heart driving. He saw the carbine in the snow and picked it up, loaded it, and slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed up the attache* case, blessing God that the revolutionaries had been too hasty in their search to discover its false bottom before they were shoved in here to await the coming of the Tribunals.

“Follow me,” he whispered urgently to his family. “But in the Name of God make no noise. Follow me carefully.” He pulled his coat closer around him and led the way through the snow. His wife, Annoush, his eight-year-old son, Jalal, and his daughter Setarem, six, hesitated in the doorway. All wore ski clothes - Annoush a mink over hers that the Islamic Guards had taunted her about as an open representation of the wages of sin. “Keep it with you,” they had said contemptuously, “that alone damns you!” In the night she had been happy for its warmth, huddled on the dirt floor in the unheated shed, wrapping the children in it. “Come along, my darlings,” she whispered, trying to keep her terror from them.

The sentry’s body blocked their way as he lay in the snow, moaning softly. “Mama, why does he sleep in the snow?” the little girl asked in a whisper. “Never mind, my darling. Let’s hurry. Not a sound now!”

Silently she stepped over him. The little girl could not quite make it and had to tread on him, and she stumbled, sprawling in the snow. But she did not cry out, just scrambled to her feet helped by her brother. Together, hand in hand, they hurried onward.

Valik guided them carefully. When they reached the hangar where the 212 was still parked, he breathed a little easier.

This area was well away from the main camp, the other side of the enormous runway. Making sure there were no guards nearby he ran out to the chopper and peered into the cabin. To his enormous relief no guards were asleep inside. He tried the door. It was not locked. He slid it open as quietly as he could, and beckoned the others. Silently they joined him. He helped them up and got in after them, sliding the door to, locking it from the inside. Quickly he made the children comfortable on some blankets under the jump seats, cautioning them not to make their presence known whatever happened. Then he sat beside his wife, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, for he was very cold, and held her hand. The tears wet her cheeks. “Be patient, don’t cry. It won’t be long now,” he whispered, gentling her. “We won’t have to wait long. Insha’Allah.”

“Insha’Allah,” she echoed brokenly, “but the whole world’s gone mad… thrown into a filthy outhouse like criminals … what’s going to happen to us …”

“With the Help of God we’ve got this far, so why not all the way to Kuwait?” They had arrived here yesterday just before noon. The flight from the pickup outside of Tehran had been without incident, all airwaves silent. His trusted chauffeur of fifteen years had driven his car back to Tehran, with orders to tell no one that they had “gone to their house on the Caspian.” “In this escape we trust no one,” Valik had told his wife while they were waiting for the chopper to arrive.

She had said, “Of course, but we should have brought Sharazad, that would have helped her and Tom Lochart and guaranteed he would take us onward.” “No, she’d never have left, why should she?” Valik had said. “With or without Sharazad, he is not to be trusted - he’s alien and not one of us.” “It would have been wiser to have brought her.”

“No,” he had said, knowing what would have to be done with Lochart. All the way from Tehran to Isfahan he had sat in the front with Lochart. They had stayed low, avoiding towns and airfields. When Lochart had called Isfahan Military Base Control they were obviously expected. The tower had given them directions where to land with an order not to call again and to observe radio silence. Air Force Brigadier General Mohammed Seladi, Valik’s uncle, who had arranged for them to land and to refuel, met them at the helipad. The general had greeted them somberly. As it was near lunchtime he said they should eat on the base before going on.

“But, Mohammed Excellency, we’ve enough food here on the aircraft,” Valik had told him.

“I must insist,” Seladi had said nervously, “I must insist, Excellency. You should pay your respects to the commandant. It is necessary, and, er, we must talk.”

It was during this time that the Green Bands and the mob had burst through the gates, swarmed over the station, arrested them all, and had taken Lochart to another part of the base. Sons of dogs, Valik thought angrily, may they all burn in hell! I knew at the time we should have just refueled and gone on at once. Seladi’s a blundering fool. It’s all his fault… In an upper story of a barrack a quarter of a mile away. Tom Lochart was sleeping fitfully. Suddenly he was awakened by a scuffle outside in the corridor, the door burst open, and he was half blinded by a flashlight. “Quick,” a voice said in American English and two men helped him stand. At once the two half-seen figures turned and ran off. A split second to collect himself then Lochart rushed in pursuit, along the corridor, down three flights of stairs, and into the open. There he stopped with the others, his breathing heavy. He just had time to see that both men were officers, a captain and a major, before they were off again in the semidarkness, running hard. Dawn brightened the eastern sky. Snow fell lightly, helping to hide them, and muffling their footsteps.

Ahead was a guardhouse with a wood fire outside, a few sleepy inattentive revolutionaries huddled around it. The three men diverted and ran down between a line of barracks, diverted again into an alleyway as a truck filled with chanting guards came around a corner, then rushed into the open, along the boundary road for the far hangar and the 212. In the lee of the hangar, they stopped to catch their breath.

“Listen, pilot,” the major said, panting, “when I give the word, we run for the chopper and take off. Ready?”

“What about the others?” Lochart asked, a stitch in his side and hardly able to talk. “What about General Valik and his fam - ”

“Forget them. Ali,” the major jerked his thumb at the other man, “Ali goes in front with you and I’m in the back. How long will it take to get airborne once you start up?”

“Minimum.”

“Make it less,” the major said. “Come on!”

They rushed for the 212, Lochart and Ali, the captain, heading for the cockpit. At that moment Lochart saw a car without headlights charging along the boundary road toward them and his heart seemed to stop. “Look!” “In God’s name, hurry, pilot!”

Lochart redoubled his efforts, jumped into the pilot’s seat, shoved in the circuit breakers, switched on, and began to crank her up. At the same moment the major reached the sliding door and tore it open. He almost fainted when the carbine was shoved in his face by Valik.

“Oh, it’s you, Major! Praise be to God…”

“Praise be to God you’re here and made your escape, Excellency,” the major gasped, forced his panic away, and clambered in, the engines already winding the blades but nowhere near airspeed yet. “Praise be to God you made your escape… but where’s the soldier?”

“He just took the money and fled.”

“Did he bring the guns?”

“No, this is all h - ”

“Son of a dog!” the major said furiously, then shouted at Lochart, “In the Name of God hurryyyyyyy!” He whirled and looked at the approaching car. It was closing fast. He grabbed the carbine from Valik, kneeled in the doorway, aimed at the driver, and squeezed the trigger. The burst was high - as behind him Annoush and the children cried out in terror - the car hurtled off the road taking evading action and swung behind a row of sheds, came into view for an instant to dart around the hangar and disappear again. Lochart had his headset on and was watching the needles climbing, willing them to hurry. “Come on, goddamnit,” he muttered, hands and feet ready on the controls, the scream of the jets growing, the captain beside him praying openly. He could not hear Annoush sobbing in the back or the petrified children who had scrambled out of their hiding place to bury themselves in her skirts, or Valik and the major raging at him to hurry. Needles climbing. Still climbing. Still climbing. Almost in the Green. Now! His left hand started to raise the collective lever but the car whirled around the hangar and came at them head-on to stop fifteen yards away. Five men jumped out of it - one rushed directly at the cockpit and pointed an automatic rifle at him, the others went for the cabin door. He was almost airborne but knew he was a dead man if he went the extra inches and he saw the man angrily motion him to stop. He obeyed, then swung around to look into the back. The other men were clambering in. They were all officers, Valik and the major were embracing them and being embraced, then he heard, “Take off, for crissake!” in his headset and felt a shove in the ribs. It was Ali, the captain, beside him.

“Take off!” Ali said again, his English American-accented, and gave a thumbs-up to the man outside still aiming at them. The man rushed for the door, got in, and slammed the door closed. “Hurry, goddamnit, look over there!” He pointed at the other side of the runway. More cars were heading their way. Sparks of machine-gun fire from someone leaning out of a window. In seconds Lochart was airborne, all senses concentrating on escape. Behind him some of the officers cheered, hung on as the chopper took evading action, and sorted themselves into seats. Most were colonels. Some were shaken, particularly General Seladi who sat between Valik and the major. “I wasn’t sure it was you, General Excellency,” the major was saying, “so I fired high just as a warning. Praise be to God the plan worked so well.” “But you were going to take off. You were going to leave us! You w - ” “Oh, no, Excellency Uncle,” Valik interrupted smoothly, “it was the British pilot, he was panicking and didn’t want to wait! They’ve no balls, Britishers! Never mind him,” he added, “we’re armed, we’ve food, and we’re safe! Praise be to God! And more praise that I had time to plan.” Yes, he thought, if it hadn’t been for me and my money we’d all be dead - money to bribe the man who released us and you, and the major and captain to release Lochart whom I need just a little longer.

“If we’d been left we’d’ve been shot!” General Seladi was enraged, his face purple. “God curse that pilot to hell! Why did you waste time releasing him? Ali can fly a 212!”

“Yes. But Lochart has more experience and we need him to get through the maze.”

Valik smiled encouragingly at Annoush who sat across the aisle facing him, the little girl trembling in her arms, his son sitting on the floor dozing, his head in her lap. Weakly she smiled back, shifting the weight of the child to ease the aches that pervaded her. He reached over and touched her, then settled more comfortably in his seat and closed his eyes, very tired but most content. You’re a very clever man, he told himself. In his most secret heart he knew that without his stratagem of pretending to McIver that SAVAK was going to arrest him - and particularly his family - neither McIver nor Lochart would have helped them to escape. You measured them perfectly as you have Gavallan.

Fools! he thought contemptuously.

And as for you, Seladi, my stupid and rapacious uncle who bartered safe refueling at Isfahan - which you failed to provide - in return for a safe passage out for yourself and eleven of your friends, you’re worse. You’re a traitor. If I hadn’t had an informant of long standing in the General Staff HQ I would never have heard of the generals’ great betrayal in tune to escape and we’d’ve been caught like flies in a honey pot in Tehran. Loyalists may still prevail, the battle’s not lost yet, but meanwhile my family and I will watch events from England, St. Moritz, or New York. He let himself go into the exciting, wonderful power of the jets that were carrying them to safety, to a house in London, a country house in Surrey, another in California, and to Swiss and Bahamian bank accounts. Ah, yes, he told himself happily, and that reminds me about our blocked S-G joint account in the Bahamas, another $4 million to enrich us - and easy now to pry from Gavallan’s grubby paws. More than enough to keep me and my family safe whatever happens here - until we can return. Khomeini won’t live forever even if he wins - God curse him! Soon we’ll be able to return home, soon Iran will be normal again, meanwhile we have everything we need. His ears heard Seladi still muttering about Lochart and almost being left behind. “Calm yourself, Excellency,” he said, and took his arm, gentling him, and thought, You and your running dogs still have a value, a temporary value. Perhaps as hostages, perhaps as bait - who knows? None are family except you and you betrayed us. “Calm yourself, my revered uncle, with the Help of God the pilot will get what he deserves.”

Yes. Lochart should not have panicked. He should have waited for my order. Disgusting to panic.

Valik closed his eyes and slept, very satisfied with himself.

Chapter 23

AT THE IRAN-TODA REFINERY, BANDAR DELAM: 12:04 P.M. Scragger was whistling tonelessly, hand-pumping fuel into his main tanks from big barrels that were lined up in a small Japanese semi beside the freshly washed 206, sparkling in the sun. Nearby was a young Green Band who squatted in the shade, leaning on his M16, half asleep.

The noonday sun was warm and the light breeze made the day pleasant and took away the constant humidity, here on the coast. Scragger was dressed lightly, white shirt with captain’s epaulets, summer-weight black trousers and shoes, the inevitable dark glasses and peaked cap.

Now the tanks were brimming. “That’s it, me son,” he said to the Japanese assigned to assist him.

“Hai, Anjin-san” - Yes, Mr. Pilot - the man said. Like all employees at the refinery he wore white, spotless overalls and gloves, with Iran-Toda Industries emblazoned on the back, then the same thing in Farsi politely above, with equivalent in Japanese characters beneath it. “Hai, it is,” Scragger said, using one of the words that he had picked up from Kasigi en route from Lengeh yesterday. He pointed. “Next our long-range tanks, and then we’ll fill the spares.” For the journey that de Plessey had grandly authorized Sunday night - to celebrate their victory over the saboteurs - Scragger had taken out the backseat and lashed in place two 40-gallon drums, “just in case, Mr. Kasigi. I’ve connected them to the main tanks. We can use a hand pump and can even refuel in the air, if we have to - if you do the pumping. Now we won’t have to land for fuel. You can never tell with weather in the Gulf, there’s always sudden storms or squalls, fog, winds can play tricks. Our best bet’s to stay a little out to sea.” “And Jaws?”

Scragger had laughed with him. “The old hammerhead of Kharg? With any luck we might see him - if we get that far and don’t get diverted.” “Still no callback from Kish radar?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve cleared us to Bandar Delam. You’re sure you can refuel me at your plant?”

“Yes, we’ve storage tanks, Captain. Helipads, hangar, and repair shop. Those were the first things we built - we had a contract with Guerney.” “Yes, yes, I knew about that, but they’ve quit, haven’t they?” “Yes, they did, a week or so ago. Perhaps your company would take over the contract? Perhaps you could be put in charge - there’s work for three 2i2s and perhaps two 206s constantly, while we’re building.”

Scragger had chuckled. “That’d make old Andy and Gav happy as a cat in a barrel of fish sticks and Dirty Dune fart dust!” “Please?” Scragger tried to explain the joke about McIver. But when he was through Kasigi had not laughed, just said, Oh, now I understand.

They’re a rum lot, Scragger thought.

When he finished refueling he did another ground check - engine, rotors, airframe - though he did not expect to leave today. De Plessey had asked him to wait for Kasigi, to fly him where he needed to go, and to bring him back to Lengeh on Thursday. The 206 checked out perfectly. Satisfied he glanced at his watch, then he pointed at his stomach and rubbed it. “Grub time, hai?”

324 “Hai!” His helper smiled and motioned to the small truck nearby, then pointed at the main, four-story office building two-hundred-odd yards away where the executive offices were.

Scragger shook his head. “I’ll walk,” he said and waggled his two fingers to parody walking so the young man half bowed and got into the truck and drove off. He stood there for a moment, watching and being watched by the guard. Now that the truck had left and the tanks were closed, he could smell the sea and the rotting debris of the nearby shore. It was near low tide - there was only one tide a day in the Gulf, as in the Red Sea, because it was shallow and landlocked but for the narrow Strait of Hormuz. He liked the sea smell. He had grown up in Sydney, always within sight of the sea. After the war he had settled there again. At least, he reminded himself, I was there between jobs and the Missus and the kids stayed there and still stay there, more or less. His son and two daughters were married now with children of their own. Whenever he was on home leave, perhaps once a year, he saw them. They had a friendly, distant relationship. In the early years his wife and children had come to the Gulf to settle. Within a month they had gone home to Sydney. “We’ll be at Bondi, Scrag,” she had said. “No more foreign places for us, lad.” During one of his two-year stints in Kuwait she had met another man. When Scragger had returned the next time, she said, “I think we’ll divorce, lad. It’s best for the kids - and thee and me,” and so they did. Her new husband lived a few years, then died. Scragger and she drifted back into their pattern of friendliness - not that we ever left off, he thought. She’s a good sort and the kids’re happy and I’m flying. He still sent her money monthly. She always said she didn’t need it. “Then put it into savings against a rainy day, Nell,” he always told her. So far, touch wood, they’ve not had rainy days, she and the kids and their kids.

The nearest wood was the butt of the rifle the revolutionary had in his lap. The man was staring at him malevolently from the shade. Shitty bastard, you’re not going to spoil my day. He beamed at him, then turned his back, stretched, and looked around.

This’s a great site for a refinery, he told himself, close enough to Abadan, to the main pipelines joining the north and south oil fields - great idea to try to save all that gas being burned off, billions of tons of it all over the world. Criminal waste, when you think of it.

The refinery was on a promontory, with its own dredged wharfing setup that stretched out into the Gulf for four hundred yards, that Kasigi had told him would eventually be able to handle two supertankers at the same time of whatever size could be built. Around the helipads were acres of complex cracking plants and buildings, all seemingly interconnected with miles of steel and plastic pipes of all sizes, mazes of them, with huge cocks and valves, pumping stations, and everywhere cranes and earth-movers and vast piles of all manner of construction materials, mountains of concrete and sand, reinforcing steel mesh scattered around - along with neat dumps the size of football fields, of crates and containers protected with plastic tarpaulins - and half-finished roads, foundations, wharves, and excavations. But almost nothing moving, neither men nor machines. When they had landed, a welcoming committee of twenty or thirty Japanese had been at the helipad, hastily assembled, along with a hundred-odd Iranian strikers and armed Islamic Guards, some wearing IPLO armbands, the first Scragger had ever seen. After much shouting and threatening and examining their papers and the inbound Kish radar clearance, the spokesman had said the two of them could stay but no one could leave or the chopper take off without the komiteh’s permission.

En route to the office building, Chief Engineer Watanabe, who could speak English, had explained that the strike komiteh had been, for all intents and purposes, in possession for almost two months. In that time almost no progress had been made and all work had ceased. “They won’t even allow us to maintain our equipment.” He was a hard-faced, tough, grizzle-haired man in his sixties with very strong working hands. He lit another cigarette from his half smoked one. “And your radio?”

“Six days ago they locked the radio room, forbidding its use and took away the key. Phones of course have been out for weeks and the telex for a week or more. We’ve still about a thousand Japanese personnel here - dependents of course were never permitted - food supplies are very short, we’ve had no mail for six weeks. We can’t move out, we can’t work. We’re almost prisoners and can do nothing without very great troubles indeed. However, at least we are alive to protect what we have done and wait patiently to be allowed to continue. We are very indeed honored to see you, Kasigi-san, and you, Captain.”

Scragger had left them to their business, feeling the tension between the two men, however much they tried to hide it. In the evening he had eaten lightly, as always, allowed himself one ice

cold Japanese beer, “Bugger me, it’s not as good as Foster’s,” then had done his eleven minutes of Canadian Air Force exercises and had gone to bed. Just before midnight while he was still reading, there had been a soft knock. Kasigi had come in excitedly, apologizing for disturbing him but he felt Scragger should know at once that they had just heard a broadcast from a Khomeini spokesman in Tehran saying that all the armed services had declared for him, Prime Minister Bakhtiar had resigned, that now Iran was totally free of the Shah’s yoke, that by Khomeini’s personal order, all fighting should cease, all strikes should stop, oil production should commence again, all bazaars and shops should open, all men should hand in their weapons and return to work, and above everything, all should give thanks to God for granting them victory.

Kasigi had beamed. “Now we can start again. Thank all gods, eh? Now things will be normal again.”

When Kasigi had left, Scragger had lain there, the light on, his mind racing over the possibilities of what would happen now. Stone the crows, he had thought, how fast everything’s been. I’d’ve bet heavy odds the Shah’d never be shoved out, heavier odds that Khomeini’d never be allowed back, and then my bundle on a military coup.

He had turned off the light. “Just goes to show, Scrag, old chap. You know eff all.”

In the morning he had awakened early, accepted Japanese green tea in place of the breakfast tea he usually drank - Indian, very strong, and always with condensed milk - and gone to check, clean, and refuel, and now, everything tidy, he was very hungry. He nodded briefly to the guard who paid no attention to him and strolled off toward the four-story office building. Kasigi was standing at one of the windows on the top floor where the executive offices were. He was in the boardroom, a spacious corner office with a huge table and seats for twenty and had been watching the 206 and Scragger absently, his mind in turmoil, hard put to contain his rage. Since early this morning he had been going through cost projections, reports, accounts receivable, work projections, and so on, and they all added up to the same result: at least another billion dollars and another year of time to start production. This was only the second time he had visited the refinery which was not in his sphere of responsibility though he was a director and member of the Chairman’s Executive Committee that was their conglomerate’s highest echelon of decision-making.

Behind him Chief Engineer Watanabe sat alone at the vast table, outwardly patient, chain-smoking as always. He had been in charge for the last two years, deputy chief since the project began in ‘71 - a man of great experience. The previous chief engineer had died here, on-site, of a heart attack.

No wonder, Kasigi thought angrily. Two years ago - perhaps four - it must have been quite clear to him our absolute maximum budget of $3.5 billion would be inadequate, that overruns were already vast and delivery dates totally unrealistic.

“Why didn’t Chief Engineer Kasusaka inform us? Why didn’t he make a special report?”

“He did, Kasigi-san,” Watanabe said politely, “but by direction of the Head Agreements of the joint venture here, all reports have to go through our court-appointed partners. It’s an Iranian pattern - it’s always supposed to be a joint venture, fifty-fifty, with shared responsibilities, but gradually the Iranians manage to maneuver meetings and contracts and clauses, usually using the court or Shah as an excuse, till they have de facto control and then…”

He shrugged. “You’ve no idea how clever they are - worse than a Chinese merchant, much worse. They agree to buy the whole animal but renege and take only the steak and leave you with the rest of the carcass on your hands.” He put out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another. “There was a meeting of the whole board of partners with Gyokotomo-sama - Yoshi Gyokotomo himself, chairman of the Syndicate - here in this office, just before Chief Engineer Kasusaka-san died. I was present. Kasusaka-san cautioned everyone that Iranian bureaucratic delays and harassments - squeeze is the correct word - would put back production dates and cause a vast increase in cost overruns. I was present, I heard him with my own ears, but he was overridden by the Iranian partners who told the chairman everything would be rearranged, that Kasusaka-san didn’t understand Iran or the way they did things in Iran.” Watanabe studied the end of his cigarette. “Kasusaka-san even said the same in private to Gyokotomo-sama, begging him to beware, and gave him a written detailed report.”

Kasigi’s face closed. “Were you present at this meeting?” “No - but he told me what he had said, that Gyokotomo-sama accepted the report and said that he himself would take it up to the highest level, in Tehran and at home in Japan. But nothing happened, Kasigi-san. Nothing.”

“Where is the copy of the report?”

“There isn’t one. The next day, before he left for Tehran, Gyokotomo ordered them destroyed.” Again the older man shrugged. “Chief Engineer Kasusaka’s job, and mine, was and is to get the refinery built, whatever the problems, and not to interfere with the working of the Syndicate.” Watanabe lit a fresh cigarette from the half-smoked cigarette, inhaled deeply, stubbed the other out delicately, wanting to smash it and the ashtray and the desk and the building and the plant to smithereens - along with this interloper Kasigi who dared to question him, who knew nothing, had never worked in Iran, and had his position in the company because he was kinsman to the Todas. “Unlike Chief Engineer Kasusaka” he added oh so gently, “over the years I have kept copies of my monthly reports.”

“So ka?” Kasigi said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Yes,” Watanabe said. And copies of these copies in a very safe place, he thought grimly in his most secret heart, taking a thick file from his briefcase and putting it on the desk, just in case you’ll try to make me responsible for the failures. “You may read them if you wish.” “Thank you.” With an effort Kasigi resisted the temptation to grab the file at once.

Watanabe rubbed his face tiredly. He had been up most of the night preparing for this meeting. “Once we’re back to normal, work will progress quickly. We are 80 percent complete. I’m confident we can complete with the right planning - it’s all in my reports, including the matter of the Kasusaka meeting with the partners, and then with Gyokotomo-sama.” “What do you suggest as an overall solution to Iran-Toda?” “There isn’t one until we’re back to normal.”

“We are now. You heard the broadcast.”

“I heard it, Kasigi-san, but normal for me means when the Bazargan government’s in full control.”

“That will happen within days. Your solution?”

“The solution is simple: get fresh partners who cooperate, arrange the financing we need, and within a year, less than a year, we’ll be producing.” “Can the partners be changed?”

Watanabe’s voice became as thin as his lips. “The old ones were all court-appointed, or approved, therefore Shah men, therefore suspect and enemies. We haven’t seen one since Khomeini returned, or heard from one. We’ve heard rumors they’ve all fled but…” Watanabe shrugged his great shoulders. “I’ve no way of checking with no telex, no phones, no transport. I doubt if the new ‘partners’ will be different in attitude.”

Kasigi nodded and glanced back out the window, seeing nothing. Easy to blame Iranians and dead men and secret meetings and destroyed reports. Never had Chairman Yoshi Gyokotomo mentioned any meeting with Kasusaka or any written report. Why should Gyokotomo bury such a vital report? Ridiculous because he and his company are equally at risk as ours. Why? If Watanabe’s telling the truth and his own reports could prove it, why?

Then, for an instant that Watanabe noticed, Kasigi’s face fell to pieces as the answer came to him: because the immense overrun and management failure of the Iran-Toda complex, added to the disastrous slump in world shipping, will break Toda Shipping Industries, will break Hiro Toda personally and lay us open to a takeover! Takeover by whom? Of course by Yoshi Gyokotomo. Of course by that jumped-up peasant family who has hated us who are highborn, samurai-descended from ancient tim - Then again Kasigi felt as though his brain was going to explode: Of course by Yoshi Gyokotomo but aided and abetted of course by our arch rivals, Mitsuwari Industries! Oh, Gyokotomo’ll lose a fortune but they can sustain their portion of the loss while they grease the correct palms suggesting that they will jointly absorb Toda’s losses, dismember it, and with the benevolence of MITI put it under proper management. With the Todas will go their kinsmen: the Kasigis and the Kayamas. I might as well be dead. Ohko!

And now I am the one who has to bring back the terrible news. Watanabe’s reports will prove nothing, for of course Gyokotomo will deny everything, damning me for trying to accuse him and will shout from the rooftops that the Watanabe reports prove conclusively Hiro Toda’s mismanagement for years. So I’m in trouble either way. Perhaps it was Hiro Toda’s plan to put me in the middle of this mess! Perhaps he wants to replace me with one of his brothers or neph - At that moment there was a knock and the door burst open. Watanabe’s distraught young assistant came in hurriedly, apologizing profusely for disturbing them. “Oh, so sorry, Watanabe-san, oh, yes, so sorr - ” “What is it?” Watanabe said, bringing him up short.

“A komiteh is arriving in strength, Watanabe-san, Kasigi-sama! Look!” The white-faced young man pointed at the other windows that fronted the building.

Kasigi was there first. In front of the main door was a truck filled with revolutionaries, other trucks and cars following. Men jumped out of them, began to collect in haphazard groups.

Scragger was approaching and they saw him stop, then go on again toward the main door, but he was waved away as a big Mercedes drove up. Out of its back came a heavyset man in black robes and a black turban with a white beard, accompanied by another much younger man, mustached, dressed in light clothes with an open-neck shirt. Both wore glasses. Watanabe sucked in his breath. “Who are they?” Kasigi asked.

“I don’t know, but an ayatollah means trouble. Mullahs wear white turbans, ayatollahs wear black.” Surrounded by half a dozen guards the two men strode into the building. “Bring them up here, Takeo, ceremoniously.” The young man rushed off at once. “We’ve only had one visit by an ayatollah, last year, just after the Abadan fire. He called a meeting of all our Iranian staff, harangued them for three minutes, then in the name of Khomeini ordered them to strike.” His face settled into a mask. “That was the beginning of our trouble here - we expatriates have carried on as best we could ever since.” “What now?” Kasigi asked.

Watanabe shrugged, strode over to a bureau, and lifted up a framed photo of Khomeini that Kasigi had not noticed and hung it on the wall. “Just for politeness,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Shall we sit down? They expect formality from us - please take the head of the table.”

“No, Watanabe-san. Please, you are in charge. I am only a visitor.” “As you wish.” Watanabe took his usual seat, and faced the door. Kasigi broke the silence. “What was that about the Abadan fire?” “Ah, sorry,” Watanabe said apologetically, actually disgusted that Kasigi did not know about that most important event. “It was last August, during their holy month of Ramadan when no Believer may take food or drink from sunup to sunset and tempers are normally thin. At that time there was only a small amount of national protest against the Shah, mostly in Tehran and Qom, but nothing serious then and the clashes easily contained by police and SAVAK. On August fifteenth arsonists set fire to a movie house, the Rex Cinema in Abadan. All the doors ‘happened’ to be locked or jammed, firemen and police ‘happened’ to be slow arriving, and in the panic almost five hundred died, mostly women and children.”

“How terrible!”

“Yes. The whole nation was outraged. Instantly SAVAK was blamed, and therefore the Shah, the Shah blamed leftists and swore the police and SAVAK had nothing to do with it. Of course he set up an inquiry which went on for weeks. Unfortunately it left the question of responsibility unresolved.” Watanabe was listening for the sound of footsteps. “That was the spark that united the warring opposing factions under Khomeini and tore the Pahlavis from their throne.”

After a pause Kasigi said, “Who do you think set fire to the cinema?” “Who wanted to destroy the Pahlavis? So easy to cry SAVAK!” Watanabe heard the elevator stop. “What’re five hundred women and children to a fanatic - of any persuasion?”

The door was opened by the assistant Takeo. The ayatollah and the civilian strode in importantly, six armed men crowding after them. Watanabe and Kasigi got up politely and bowed.

“Welcome,” Watanabe said in Japanese though he could speak very good Farsi. “I am Naga Watanabe, in charge here, this is Mr. Kasigi from our head office in Japan. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing please?” Takeo, who could speak perfect Farsi, began to interpret but the civilian, who had already sat down, cut him short. “Vous parlez français?” he said rudely to Watanabe.

“Iye” - No - Watanabe said in Japanese.

“Bien sur, m’sieur,” Kasigi said hesitantly, his French mediocre. “Je parle un peu, mais je parle anglais mieux, et M’sieur Watanabe aussi.” I speak a little French but I speak English better and Mr. Watanabe also. “Very well,” the man said curtly, his English Parisian-accented. “Then we will speak English. I am Muzadeh, deputy minister for the Abadan area for Prime Minister Bazargan an - ”

“But Bazargan doesn’t make the law, the Imam does,” the ayatollah interrupted him sharply. “The Imam appointed Bazargan temporary prime minister until, with the Help of God, our Islamic state is formed.” He was in his late sixties, a round-faced man, his eyebrows as white as his beard, his black robe meticulous. “Under the Imam’s leadership,” he added pointedly.

“Yes, of course,” Muzadeh said, then went on as though there had been no interruption, “and I inform you officially that the Iran-Toda is now under our direct control. There will be a meeting in three days to organize controls and future operations. All previous Shah-inspired, therefore illegal, contracts are voided. I will appoint a new controlling board, myself as chairman, workers representatives, one Japanese worker and yourself. You w - ”

“And myself, and a mullah from Bandar Delam,” the ayatollah said, glaring at him.

Muzadeh angrily switched to Farsi, “We can discuss the makeup of the committee later.” There was an edge to his voice. “The important thing is to have the workers represented.”

“The important thing is to do the Work of God.”

“In this the work of the People and the Work of God is the same.” “Not if the ‘work of the People’ is a covert name for the work of Satan!”

All six of the Iranian guards shifted uneasily. Unconsciously they had regrouped into four and two. In the silence their eyes went from man to man seated at the table. One of the men quietly eased off a safety catch. “You were saying?” Watanabe said quickly and almost added, Banzai, with relief, as he saw everyone turn their attention back to him. “You wish to form a new committee?”

“Yes.” With an effort Muzadeh tore his gaze off the ayatollah and continued, “You will have all books ready for our perusal and you will be held responsible for any - any problems whatsoever, past or future or crimes against Iran, past or future.”

“We’ve been joint partners with the government of Iran since the beg - ” “With the Shah, not with the Iranian people,” Muzadeh cut in. Behind him the guards, youths, some teenagers, some hardly bearded, began muttering. “True, Mr. Muzadeh,” Watanabe said, unafraid. He had been through the same sort of confrontation many times in the past few months. “But we are Japanese. Iran-Toda is being built by Japanese technicians with maximum help from Iranian trainees and workers, it’s paid for totally by Japanese money.” “That has noth - ”

“Yes, we know,” the ayatollah said loudly but agreeably, overriding the other, “we know that and you’re welcome in Iran. We know Japanese are not vile Americans or insidious British, and though you’re not Muslim, unhappily for yourselves, your eyes not yet open to Allah, we welcome you. But now, now with the Help of God we have possessed our country back, now we must make… make new arrangements for future operations. Our people will stay on here, asking questions. Please cooperate with them - you have nothing to fear. Remember, we want the plant finished and operating as much as you. My name is Ishmael Ahwazi, and I am ayatollah of this area.” He got up with an abruptness that made some of the men jump. “We will return on the fourth day from now!” Muzadeh said in Farsi hotly, “There are other orders for these foreign - ” But the ayatollah had already left. Contemptuously Muzadeh got up and stalked out, his men following.

When they were quite alone Kasigi allowed himself to take a handkerchief out and mop his brow. Young Takeo was shock-still. Watanabe searched his pockets for his cigarettes but the pack was empty. He crushed the box. Takeo came to life and hurried to a drawer and found a fresh pack, opened it, and offered it.

“Thank you, Takeo.” Watanabe sat and accepted a light. “You can go now.” He looked at Kasigi. “So,” he said, “now it begins again.”

“Yes,” Kasigi said, the implications of a new komiteh committed to successful completion possessing him. “That’s the best news we could have. That will be very welcome in Japan.” In fact, he thought with growing excitement, this news will take the curse off Watanabe’s reports and perhaps somehow we - Hiro Toda and I - together we can neutralize Gyokotomo. And if, even better, Hiro retired in place of his brother that would be perfect! “What?” he asked, seeing Watanabe looking at him.

“I didn’t mean work begins again, Kasigi-san,” the chief engineer said sharply. “The new komiteh won’t be any better than the other - in fact it will be worse. With the partners the inevitable pishkesh opened doors and you knew where you were. But with these fanatics, these amateurs?” Irritably Watanabe ran his hand through his hair. All gods and spirits give me the strength not to curse this fool for his continual stupidity! he thought. Be wise, calm yourself, he’s only an ape, not as well born as you who are a direct descendant of the lords of the north.

“The ayatollah lied, then?” Kasigi’s happiness vanished.

“No. That poor fool believed what he said but nothing will happen. Police and SAVAK, whatever new name it will have, still control Abadan and this area - the locals are mostly Arab, Sunnis, not Shi’ite Iranians. I meant the killing begins again.” Watanabe explained the clash the two men had had in Farsi.

“Now it’s going to be much worse with every faction maneuvering for power.” “These barbarians won’t obey Khomeini? Won’t disarm?”

“I’m saying the leftists like Muzadeh will carry on the war, aided and abetted by the Soviets who are desperate to possess Iran, have always wanted Iran, will always want Iran - not for the oil but for the Strait of Hormuz. For with their foot on the strait they possess the Western world - and Japan. As far as I’m concerned the West, America and the rest of the world, can rot, but we must go to war if the strait is prohibited to our ships.” “I agree. Of course I agree.” Kasigi was equally irritable. “We all know that. Of course it means war - while we depend on oil.”

“Yes.” Watanabe smiled grimly. “Ten years, no more.”

“Yes.” Both men were aware of the enormous national effort in research projects, overt and covert, to develop the alternate source of energy that would make the Japanese self-sufficient - the National Project. The source: the sun and the sea. “Ten years, yes, for ten years only.” Kasigi was confident. “If we have ten years of peace and free access to the U.S. market - then we’ll have our alternate and then we’ll own the world. But meanwhile,” he added, his anger returning, “for the next ten years we have to kowtow to barbarians and bandits of every kind!”

“Didn’t Khrushchev say the Soviets didn’t have to do anything about Iran because ‘Iran’s a rotten apple that’ll drop into our hands.’” Watanabe was enraged. “I guarantee those dungeaters are shaking the tree with all their might.”

“We beat them once,” Kasigi said darkly, remembering the Japanese-Russian naval war of 1904 that his grandfather had served in. “We can do it again. That man - Muzadeh? Perhaps he’s just a progressive and antimullah - they’re not all fanatical Khomeinites.”

“I agree, Kasigi-san. But some’re equally fanatic for their god Lenin-Marx and equally stupid. But I’d bet long odds Muzadeh is one of those so-called intellectuals, an ex-French university student whose tuition was paid for by Shah grants, who was adopted, trained, and fawned on by left-wing teachers in France. I spent two years in the Sorbonne, doing a postgraduate degree. I know these intellectuals, these cretins and some of the teachers - they tried to induct me. Once wh - ”

A short sharp burst of gunfire outside stopped him. For a moment both men were still, then they rushed for the window. Four stories down the ayatollah and Muzadeh were on the front steps. Below them in the forecourt one man was threatening them with an automatic rifle, standing alone in the middle of a semicircle of other armed men, the rest were scattered nearer to the trucks, some of them shouting and all hostile. Scragger was on the outskirts and as they watched they saw him ease into a better defensive position. The ayatollah raised his arms and exhorted them all. Watanabe could not hear what the man was saying. Carefully he opened a window and peered down.

“He’s saying, ‘In the Name of God give up your weapons, the Imam has ordered it - you’ve all heard his broadcast and message - I say again, obey him and give up your weapons!’”

There was more angry shouting and countershouting, men shaking their fists at one another. In the confusion they saw Scragger slip away and vanish behind a building. Watanabe leaned farther out, straining to hear better. “The man covering them with the gun… I can’t see if he’s wearing a green armband or not… ah, he isn’t so he must be fedayeen or Tudeh …” Now in the forecourt there was a great silence. Imperceptibly men began easing for a better position, all weapons armed, everyone eyeing his neighbor, all nerves jagged. The man covering the two of them raised his gun and bellowed at the ayatollah, “Order your men to put down their guns!” Muzadeh stepped forward, not wanting a confrontation here, knowing he was outnumbered. “Stop it, Hassan! You will st - ”

“We didn’t fight and our brothers didn’t die to give our guns and power to mullahs!”

“The government has power! The government!” Muzadeh raised his voice even more. “Everyone will keep their guns now but hand them into my office as I represent the new government and th - ”

“You don’t,” the ayatollah shouted. “First, in the Name of God, all non-Islamic Guards will put their guns on the ground and go in peace. Second, the government is subject to the Revolutionary Komiteh under the direct guidance of the Imam, and this man Muzadeh is not yet confirmed so has no authority at all! Obey or you will be disarmed!”

“I am the government here!” “You are not!”

“Allah-u Akbarrr!” someone shouted and pulled his trigger and Hassan, the youth in the center of them all, took the burst in his back and pirouetted in his death dance. At once other guns went off and men dived for cover or turned on their neighbor. The battle was short and vicious. Many died, but the men of Muzadeh were heavily outnumbered. The Green Bands were ruthless. Some of them had seized Muzadeh and now had him on his knees in the dirt, begging for mercy.

On the steps was the ayatollah. A spray of bullets had caught him in the chest and stomach and now he lay in a man’s arms, blood marring his robes. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth into his beard. “God is Great… God is Great…” he muttered, then let out a dribbling groan as pain took him. “Master,” the man holding him said, tears running down his cheeks, “tell God we tried to protect you, tell the Prophet.”

“God… is… Great…” he murmured.

“What about this Muzadeh?” someone else asked. “What shall we do with him?” “Do God’s work. Kill him… kill him as you must kill all enemies of Islam. There is no other God but God…”

The order was obeyed instantly. Cruelly. The ayatollah died smiling, the Name of God on his lips. Others wept openly - envying him Paradise.

Chapter 24

AT KOWISS AIR FORCE BASE: 2:32 P.M. Manuela Starke was in the bungalow kitchen making chili. Country music filled the small room from a battery cassette player on the windowsill. On the butane stove was a big stewpot filled with stock and some of the makings, and as it came to a boil she turned the gas to simmer and glanced at her wristwatch to gauge the time. Just right, she thought. We’ll eat around 7:00 P.M. and candles will make the table pretty.

There were onions and other things to chop and the goat meat to grind, so she continued happily, absently humming or doing a little dance step in time with the music. The kitchen was small and difficult to work in, unlike the huge, high-beamed kitchen in the lovely, old, sprawling Spanish hacienda in Lubbock that her family had had for almost a century, where she and her brother and sister had grown up. But she did not mind being cramped or cooking without the proper utensils. She was glad for something to do to take her mind off the question of when she would see her husband again. It was Saturday that Conroe had left to go to Bandar Delam with the mullah, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Today’s Tuesday, that’s only three days and today’s not even over yet. Last night he was on the HF. “Hi, honey, everything’s fine here - no need to worry. Sorry, got to go - airtime’s restricted for the moment, love you and see you soon,” his voice so grand and confident but, even so, she was achingly sure she had heard a nervousness that had filled her mind and permeated her dreams. You’re just imagining it. He’ll be back soon - leave dreams to the night and work on your daydream that all is very fine. Concentrate on cooking!

She had brought the packets of chili powder with her from London, with extra spices and paprika and cayenne pepper and ginger, fresh garlic and dried chili peppers and dried beans and little else but some night things and toilet paper in the one tote bag that she had been allowed to carry aboard the 747. Chili makings because Starke adored Mexican food and particularly chili, and they both agreed that apart from curry, it was the only way to make goat meat palatable. No need to bring clothes or anything else with her because she still had some in their apartment in Tehran. The only other gift she had brought was a small bottle of Marmite that she knew Genny and Duncan McIver loved on the hot buttered toast made from the bread Genny would bake - when she could get the flour and the yeast.

Today Manuela had baked bread. The three loaves were in their baking dishes, cooling on the counter under muslin to keep the few flies off. Damn all flies, she thought. Flies destroy the summer, even in Lubbock… Ah Lubbock, wonder how the kids are.

Billyjoe and Conroe Junior and Santa. Seven and five and three. Ah, my beauties, she thought happily. I’m so glad I sent you home to my daddy and our ten thousand acres to roam on, Granddaddy Starke nearby: “But wear your snake boots, y’hear now!” in that lovely rough so tender drawl of his. “Texas forever,” she said out loud and laughed at herself, her nimble fingers busy chopping and grinding and spooning, tasting the brew from time to time, adding a little more salt or garlic. Out of the window she saw Freddy Ayre crossing the little square to go up to their radio tower. With him was Pavoud, their chief clerk. He’s a nice man, she thought. We’re lucky to have loyal staff. Beyond them she could see the main runway and most of the base, snow-covered, the afternoon sky overcast, hiding the mountaintops. A few of their pilots and mechanics were absently kicking a football, Marc Dubois - who had flown the mullah back from Bandar Delam - among them. Nothing else was going on here, just servicing aircraft, checking spares, painting - no flying since Sunday and the attack on the base. And the mutiny. Sunday evening three mutineers, one airman and two sergeants from the tank regiment, had been court-martialed and, at dawn, shot. All day yesterday and today the base had been quiet. Once, yesterday, they had seen two fighters rush into the sky but no other flights which was strange as this was a training base and usually very busy. Nothing seemed to move. Just a few trucks, no tanks or parades - or visitors this side. In the night some firing and shouting that had soon died down again.

Critically she peered at herself in the mirror that hung on a hook over the sink that was filled with dirty pans and dishes and measuring spoons and cups. She moved her face this way and that and studied her figure, what she could see of it. “You’re fine now, honey,” she said to her reflection, “but you better haul ass and go ajogging and quit with the bread and the chili and wine and tostadas, burritos, tacos, and retried beans and Ma’s pancakes dripping with homegrown honey, fried eggs, crisp bacon, and pan fries…” The brew began to spit, distracting her. She turned the flame down a fraction, tasted the thickening reddish stew, still fiery from not enough cooking. “Man alive,” she said with relish, “that’s going to make Conroe happier’n a pig in wallah…” Her face changed. It would, she thought, if he was here. Never mind, the boys will like it just fine.

She began the washing up, but she could not divert her thoughts from Bandar Delam. She felt the tears welling. “Oh, shit! Get hold of yourself!” “CASEVAC!” The faint shout outside startled her and she looked out of the window. The football had stopped. All the men were staring at Ayre who was running down the outside stairs of the tower, calling to them. She saw them crowd around him, then scatter. Ayre headed for her bungalow. Hastily she took off her apron, tidying her hair, brushed away her tears, and met him at the doorway.

“What is it, Freddy?”

He beamed. “Just thought I’d tell you their tower just got me on the blower and told me to ready a 212 for an immediate CASEVAC to Isfahan - they’ve got approval from IranOil.” “Isn’t that kinda-far?”

“Oh, no. It’s just two hundred miles, a couple of hours - there’s plenty of light. Marc‘11 overnight there and come back tomorrow.” Again Ayre smiled. “Good to have something to do. Curiously, they asked for Marc to do it.” “Why him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s French and they’re the ones who helped Khomeini. Well, got to go. Your chili smells great. Marc’s peed off he’s missing it.” He walked off, heading for the office, tall and handsome. She stood at the doorway. Mechanics were wheeling out a 212 from the hangar and Marc Dubois, zipping up his winter flight overalls, waved gaily as he hurried over to watch the flight check. Then she saw the procession of four cars approaching along the boundary road. So did Freddy Ayre. He frowned and went into the office. “Have you got the clearance ready, Mr, Pavoud?” “Yes, Excellency.” Pavoud handed it to him. Ayre did not notice the tension in the man, nor that his hands were shaking. “Thanks. You’d better come too in case it’s all in Farsi.”

“But, Excell - ”

“Come on!” Buttoning his flight jacket against the breeze, Ayre hurried out. Pavoud wiped his sweating palms. The other Iranians watched him, equally anxious.

“As God wants,” one of them said, blessing God it was Pavoud, not him. At the 212 the ground check continued. Ayre arrived as the cars arrived. His smile vanished. The cars were crammed with armed men, Green Bands, and they fanned out around the chopper, a few uniformed airmen among them. The mullah Hussain Kowissi got out of the front seat of the lead car, his turban very white and his dark robes new, his boots old and well used. Over his shoulder was his AK47. Clearly he was in command. Other men opened the back doors of the first car and half pulled Colonel Peshadi out, then his wife. Peshadi shouted at them, cursing them, and they backed off a little. He straightened his uniform greatcoat and braided, peaked cap. His wife wore a heavy winter coat and gloves and a little hat and shoulder bag. Her face was white and drawn but, like her husband, she held her head high and proudly. She reached back into 341 the car for a small tote bag but one of the Green Bands grabbed it, and after a slight hesitation handed it to her.

Ayre tried to keep the shock off his face. “What’s going on, sir?” “We’re… we’re being sent to Isfahan under guard! Under guard! My base… my base was betrayed and is in the hands of mutineers!” The colonel did not keep the fury off his face as he whirled on Hussain, in Farsi: “I say again, what has my wife to do with this? EH?” he added with a roar. One of the nervous Green Bands nearby shoved a rifle into his back. Without looking around the colonel smashed the rifle away. “Son of a whore dog!” “Stop!” Hussain said in Farsi. “It is orders from Isfahan. I’ve shown you the orders that you and your wife are to be sent at once t - ”

“Orders? A dung filthy piece of paper scrawled in an illegible illiterate handwriting and signed by an ayatollah I’ve never heard of?” Hussain walked over to him. “Get aboard, both of you,” he warned, “or I’ll have you dragged there!”

“When the aircraft is ready!” Contemptuously the colonel took out a cigarette. “Give me a light,” he ordered the man nearest to him, and when the man hesitated, he snarled, “Are you deaf? A light!”

The man smiled wryly and found some matches, and all those around nodded approval, even the mullah, admiring courage in the face of death - courage in the face of hell, for surely this man was a Shah man and headed for hell. Of course hell! Didn’t you hear him shout, “Long live the Shah,” only hours ago when, in the night, we invaded and took possession of the camp and his fine house, helped by all the base’s soldiers and airmen and some of the officers, the rest of the officers now in cells? God is Great! It was the Will of God, God’s miracle that the generals caved in like the walls of shit the mullahs told us they were. The Imam was right again, God protect him. Hussain went over to Ayre who was rigid, appalled by what was going on, trying to understand, Marc Dubois beside him, equally shocked, the ground check stopped. “Salaam,” the mullah said trying to be polite. “You have nothing to fear. The Imam has ordered everything back to normal.” “Normal?” Ayre echoed angrily. “That’s Colonel Peshadi, tank commander, hero of your expeditionary force sent to Oman to help put down a Marxist-supported rebellion and invasion from South Yemen!” That had been in ‘73 when the Shah was asked for help by Oman’s sultan. “Hasn’t Colonel Peshadi got the Zolfaghar, your highest medal given only for gallantry in battle?” “Yes. But now Colonel Peshadi is needed to answer questions concerning crimes against the Iranian people and against the laws of God! Salaam, Captain Dubois, I’m glad that you’re going to fly us.”

“I was asked to fly a CASEVAC. This isn’t a CASEVAC,” Dubois said. “It’s a casualty evacuation - the colonel and his wife are to be evacuated to Command Headquarters in Isfahan.” Hussain added with a sardonic smile, “Perhaps they are casualties.”

Ayre said, “Sorry, our aircraft are under license to IranOil. We can’t do what you ask.”

The mullah turned and shouted, “Excellency Esvandiary!”

Kuram Esvandiary, or “Hotshot” as he was nicknamed, was in his early thirties, popular with the expats, very efficient, and S-G trained - he had had two years of training at S-G HQ at Aberdeen on a Shah grant. He came from the back and, for a moment, not one of the S-G men recognized their station manager. Normally he was a meticulous dresser and cleanshaven, but now he had three or four days’ growth of heavy beard, and wore rough clothes with a green armband, slouch hat, an M16 slung over his shoulder. “The trip’s sanctioned, here,” he said, giving Ayre the usual forms, “I’ve signed them and they’re stamped.”

“But, Hotshot, surely you realize this isn’t a legitimate CASEVAC?” “My name’s Esvandiary - Mr. Esvandiary,” he said without a smile and Ayre flushed. “And it’s a legitimate order from IranOil who employ you under contract here in Iran.” His face hardened. “If you refuse a legitimate order in good flying conditions, you’re breaking your contract. If you do that without cause then we’ve the right to seize all assets, aircraft, hangars, spares, houses, equipment, and order you out of Iran at once.” “You can’t do that.”

“I’m IranOil’s chief representative here now,” Esvandiary said curtly. “IranOil’s owned by the government. The Revolutionary Komiteh under the leadership of the Imam Khomeini, peace be upon him, is the government. Read your IranOil contract - also the contract between S-G and Iran Helicopters. Are you flying the charter or refusing to?”

Ayre held on to his temper. “What about… what about Prime Minister Bakhtiar and the gov - ”

“Bakhtiar?” Esvandiary and the mullah stared at him. “Haven’t you heard yet? He’s resigned and fled, the generals capitulated yesterday morning, the Imam and the Revolutionary Komiteh are Iran’s government now.”

Ayre and Dubois and those expats nearby gaped at him. The mullah said something in Farsi they did not understand. His men laughed. “Capitulated?” was all Ayre could say.

“It was the Will of God the generals came to their senses,” Hussain said, his eyes glittering. “They were arrested, the whole General Staff. All of them. As all enemies of Islam will be arrested now. We got Nassiri too - you’ve heard of him?” the mullah asked witheringly. Nassiri was the hated head of SAVAK whom the Shah had arrested a few weeks ago and who was in jail awaiting trial. “Nassiri was found guilty of crimes against humanity and shot - along with three other generals, Rahimi, martial law governor of Tehran, Naji, governor general of Isfahan, Paratrooper Commander Khosrowdad. You’re wasting time. Are you flying or not?”

Ayre was barely able to think. If what they say is true, then Peshadi and his wife are as good as dead. It’s all so fast, all so impossible. “We… of course we will fly a… a legal charter. Just exactly what is it you want?” “To transport His Excellency mullah Hussain Kowissi to Isfahan at once - with his personnel. At once,” Esvandiary interrupted impatiently, “with the prisoner and his wife.”

“They’re… Colonel and Mrs. Peshadi’re not on the manifest.” Even more impatiently Esvandiary ripped the paper out of his hands, wrote on it. “Now they are!” He motioned past Ayre and Dubois to where Manuela was standing in the background, her hair carefully tucked into a hat, wearing overalls. He had noticed her the moment he had arrived - enticing as always, unsettling as always. “I should arrest her for illegal trespass,” he said, his voice raw. “She has no right on this base - there are no married quarters, nor’re any allowed by base and S-G rules.”

Over by the 212, Colonel Peshadi angrily shouted in English, “Are you flying today or not? We’re getting cold. Hurry it up, Ayre - I want to spend as little time as possible with these vermin!”

Esvandiary and the mullah flushed. Ayre called back, feeling better for the man’s bravery, “Yes, sir. Sorry. Okay, Marc?”

“Yes.” To Esvandiary, Dubois said, “Where’s my military clearance?”

“Attached to the manifest. Also for your return trip tomorrow.” Esvandiary added in Farsi to the mullah: “I suggest you board, Excellency.” The mullah walked off. Guards motioned Peshadi and his wife aboard. Heads high, they went up the steps without faltering. Armed men piled in after them and the mullah took the front left seat beside Dubois. “Wait a minute,” Ayre began, now over the shock. “We’re not flying armed men. It’s against the rules - yours and ours!”

Esvandiary shouted an order, jerked a thumb at Manuela. At once four armed men surrounded her. Others moved much closer to Ayre. “Now, give Dubois a thumbs-up!”

Grimly aware of the danger, Ayre obeyed. Dubois acknowledged and started up. Quickly he was airborne. “Now into the office,” Esvandiary said above the howl of the engines. He called the men off Manuela and ordered them back into the cars. “Leave one car here and four guards - I have more orders for these foreigners. You,” he added toughly to Pavoud, “you get an up-to-date on all aircraft here, all spares, all transport, as well as the quantity of gasoline, also numbers of personnel, foreign and Iranians, their names, jobs, passport numbers, residence permits, work permits, flying licenses. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, Excellency Esvandiary. Yes, cert - ”

“And I want to see all passports and permits tomorrow. Get busy!” The man left hurriedly. Esvandiary was bowed through the front door. He led the way into Starke’s office and took the main chair and sat behind the desk, Ayre following him. “Sit down.”

“Thanks, you’re so kind,” Ayre said witheringly, taking the chair opposite him. The two men were of an age and they watched each other. The Iranian took out a cigarette and lit it. “This will be my office from now on,” he said. “Now that at long last Iran is back in Iranian hands we can begin to make the necessary changes. For the next two weeks you will operate under my personal guidance until I am sure the new way is understood. I am the top IranOil authority for Kowiss and I’ll issue all flight permits; no one takes off without written approval and always with an armed guard an - ”

“It’s against air law and Iranian law and it’s forbidden. Apart from that it’s bloody dangerous. Finish!”

There was a big silence. Then Esvandiary nodded. “You will carry guards who will have guns - but no ammunition.” He

smiled. “There, you see, we can compromise. We can be reasonable, oh, yes. You’ll see, the new era will be good for you too.”

“I hope it is. For you too.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning every revolution I’ve ever read about always begins by feeding off itself, friends quickly become enemies and even quicker die.” “Not with us.” Esvandiary was totally confident. “It won’t be that way with us. Ours was a real people’s revolution - of all the people. Everyone wanted the Shah out - and his foreign masters.”

“I hope you’re right.” You poor bastard, Ayre thought, once having liked him. If your leaders can judge, condemn, and shoot four top generals - all good men except for Nassiri - in less than twenty-four hours, can arrest and abuse fine patriots like Peshadi and his wife, God help you. “Are you finished with me for the present?”

“Almost.” A shaft of anger went through Esvandiary. Through the windows he noticed Manuela walking back to the bungalow with some of the pilots, and his lust increased his rage. “It would be good to learn manners and that Iran is an Asian, an Oriental country, a world power and never, never again to be exploited by British, Americans, or even Soviets. Never again.” He slouched in his chair and put his feet on the desk as he had seen Starke and Ayre do a hundred times, the soles of his feet toward Ayre, always an insult in this part of the world. “British were worse than the Americans. They’ve caused us national shame for a hundred and fifty years, treating our ancient Peacock Throne and country as their private fief, using the defense of India as an excuse. They’ve dictated to our rulers, occupied us three times, forced unequal treaties on us, bribed our leaders to grant them concessions. For a hundred and fifty years British and Russians have partitioned my country, the British helped those other hyenas to steal our northern provinces, our Caucasus, and helped put Reza Khan on the throne. They occupied us, with the Soviets, in your world war and only our own supreme efforts broke the chain and threw them out.” Abruptly the man’s face contorted and he screamed, “Didn’t they?”

Ayre had not moved, nor had his eyes flickered. “Hotshot, and I’ll never call you that again,” he said quietly, “I don’t want lectures, just to do the job. If we can’t work out a satisfactory method, then that’s something else. We’ll have to see. If you want this office, jolly good. If you want to act up a storm, jolly good - within reason - you’ve a right to celebrate. You’ve won, you’ve the guns, you’ve the power, and now you’re responsible. And you’re right, it is your country. So let’s leave it at that. Eh?” Esvandiary stared at him, his head aching with the suppressed hatred of years that need never be suppressed again. And though he knew it was not Ayre’s fault, he was equally certain that a moment ago he would have sprayed him and them with bullets if they had not obeyed and flown the mullah and the traitor Peshadi to the judgment and the hell he deserves. I’ve not forgotten the soldier Peshadi had murdered - the one who wanted to open the gate to us - or the others murdered two days ago when Peshadi beat us off and hundreds died, my brother and two of my best friends among them. And all the other hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands who’ve died all over Iran… I’ve not forgotten them, not one.

A dribble of saliva was running down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and got his control back, remembering the importance of his mission. “All right, Freddy.” He said “Freddy” involuntarily. “All right, and that’s… that’s the last time I’ll call you that. All right, we’ll leave it at that.”

He got up, very tired now but proud of the way he had dominated them and very confident he could make these foreigners work and behave until they were expelled. Very soon now, he thought. I’ll have no difficulty putting the partners’ long-term plan into effect here. I agree with Valik. We’ve plenty of Iranian pilots and we need no foreigners here. I can run this operation - as a partner - praise God that Valik was always a secret Khomeini supporter! Soon I’ll have a big house in Tehran and my two sons will go to university there, so will my darling little Fatmeh, though perhaps she should also go to the Sorbonne for a year or two. “I’ll return at 9:00 A.M.” He did not close the door behind him. “Bloody hell,” Ayre muttered. A fly began battering itself against a windowpane. He did not notice it or the noise it made. At a sudden thought he went into the outer office. Pavoud and the others were at the windows, watching the aliens leave. “Pavoud!”

“Yes … yes, Excellency?”

Ayre noticed the man’s face had a grayish tinge and he looked much older than usual. “Did you know about the generals, that they’ve given in?” he asked, feeling sorry for him.

“No, Excellency,” Pavoud lied easily, used to lying. He was locked in his own mind, trying to remember, petrified that he might have slipped up in the past three years and given himself away to Esvandiary, never for a moment dreaming that the man could have been a secret Islamic Guard. “We’d… we’d heard rumors about their capitulation - but you know how rumors circulate.”

“Yes - yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I… do you mind if I sit down, please?” Pavoud groped for a chair, feeling very old. He had been sleeping badly this last week and the two-mile bicycle ride here this morning from the little four-room house in Kowiss he shared with his brother’s family - five adults and six children - had been more tiring than usual. Of course he and all the people of Kowiss had heard about the generals meekly giving up - the first news coming from the mosque, spread by the mullah Hussain who said he had got it by secret radio from Khomeini Headquarters in Tehran so it must be true.

At once their Tudeh leader had called a meeting, all of them astounded at the generals’ cowardice: “It just shows how foul the influence of the Americans who betrayed them and so bewitched them that they’ve castrated themselves and committed suicide, for of course they’ve all got to die whether we do it or that madman Khomeini!”

Everyone filled with resolve, at the same time frightened of the coming battle against the zealots and the mullahs, the opiate of the people, and Pavoud himself was wet with relief when the leader said they were ordered not to take to the streets yet but to stay hidden and wait, wait until the order came for the general uprising. “Comrade Pavoud, it’s vital you keep on the best of terms with the foreign pilots at the air base. We will need them and their helicopters - or will need to inhibit their use to the enemies of the People. Our orders are to lie low and wait, to have patience. When we finally get the order to take to the streets against Khomeini, our comrades to the north will come over the border in legions…”