Whirlwind

He saw Ayre watching him. “I’m all right, Captain, just worried by all this, and the… the new era.”

“Just do what Esvandiary asks.” Ayre thought a moment. “I’m going to the tower to let HQ know what’s happened. Are you sure you’re all right?” “Yes, yes, thank you.”

Ayre frowned, then went along the corridor and up the stairs. The astonishing change in Esvandiary who for years had been affable, friendly, with never a glimmer of anti-British had rocked him. For the first time in Iran he felt their future was doomed.

To his surprise the tower room was empty. Since Sunday’s mutiny there had been a permanent guard - Major Changiz had shrugged, blood on his uniform, “I’m sure you’ll understand, ‘national emergency.’ We had many loyal men killed here today and we haven’t found all traitors - yet. Until further orders you will transmit only during daylight hours, then absolute minimum. All flights are canceled until further notice.”

“All right, Major. By the way, where’s our radio op, Massil?” “Ah, yes, the Palestinian. He’s being interrogated.”

“May I ask what for?”

“PLO affiliation and terrorist activities.”

Yesterday he had been informed that Massil had confessed and been shot - without a chance to hear the evidence or question it or to see him. Poor bastard, Ayre thought, closing the tower door now and switching on the equipment. Massil was always loyal to us and grateful for the job, so overqualified - radio engineering degree from Cairo University, top of the class but nowhere to practice and stateless. Bloody hell! We take our passports for granted - what’d it be like to be without one and to be, say, Palestinian? Must be hairy not to know what’s going to happen at every border, with every Immigration man, policeman, bureaucrat, or employer a potential inquisitor.

Thank God in heaven I’m born British and that not even the queen of England can take that away though the bloody Labour Government’s changing our overseas heritage. Well the pox on them for every Aussie, Canuck, Kiwi, Springbok, Kenyan, China hand, and a hundred other Britishers who will soon have to have a bloody visa to go home! “Arseholes,” he muttered. “Don’t they realize those’re sons and daughters of men who made the empire and died for it in many cases?”

He waited for the HF and other radios to warm up. The hum pleased him, red and green lights flickering, and he no longer felt locked off from the world. Hope Angela and young Fredrick are okay. Bloody, having no mail or phones and a dead telex. Well, maybe soon everything will be working again. He reached for the sending switch, hoping that McIver or someone would be listening out. Then he noticed that, by habit, along with the UHF, HF, he had switched on their radar. He leaned over to turn it off. At that moment a small blip appeared on the outer rim - the twenty-mile line - to the northwest, almost obscured among the heavy scatter of the mountains. Startled, he studied it. Experience told him quickly that it was a helicopter. He made sure that he was tuned into all receiving frequencies and when he looked back he saw the blip vanish. He waited. It did not reappear. Either she’s down, shot down, or sneaking under the radar net, he thought. Which?

The seconds ticked by. No change, just the revolving, heavy white line of the sweep, in its wake a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding terrain. Still no sign of the blip.

His fingers snapped on the UHF sending switch, and he brought the mike closer, hesitated, then changed his mind and switched it off. No need to alert the operators in the base tower, if there’re any on duty there, he thought. He frowned at the screen. With a soft, red grease pencil he marked the possible track inbound at eighty knots. Minutes passed. He could have switched to a closer range scan but he did not in case the blip was not inbound but, highly irregularly, sneaking across their area. Now she should be five or six miles out, he thought. He picked up the binoculars and started to scan the sky, north through west to south. His ears heard light footsteps on the last few stairs. His heart quickening, he snapped the radar off. The screen began dying as the door opened. “Captain Ayre?” the airman asked, uniform neat, strong good Persian face, cleanshaven, in his late twenties, a standard U.S. Army carbine in his hands.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Sergeant Wazari, your new air traffic controller.” The man leaned his carbine against a wall, put out his hand, and Ayre shook it. “Hi, I’m USAAF trained, three years, and a military controller. I even did six months at Van Nuys Airport.” His eyes had taken in all the equipment. “Nice setup.” “Yes, er, yes, thank you.” Ayre fumbled with the binoculars and set them down. “What, er, happens at Van Nuys Airport?”

“It’s a nothing little airstrip in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles but the third busiest airport in the States and a mother to end all mothers!” Wazari beamed. “The traffic’s amateur, most of the jokers’re learners who still don’t know their ass from a propeller, you’ve maybe twenty in the system at any one time, eight on final, all wanting to make like Richthofen.” He laughed. “Great place to learn traffic controlling but after six months you’re ape.”

Ayre forced a smile, willing himself not to search the sky. “This place’s pretty quiet. Even normally. We’ve, er, we’ve no flights out as you know - you’ve nothing to do here, I’m afraid.”

“Sure. I just wanted to take a quick look as we begin bright and early tomorrow.” He reached into his uniform pocket and took out a list and gave it to Ayre. “You’ve three flights scheduled for the local rigs starting 8:00 A.M., okay?” Without thinking he picked up a rag and wiped the inbound track off the radar screen, tidying the desk alongside. The red grease pencil went into its holder with the others.

Ayre looked back at the list. “Are these authorized by Esvandiary?” “Who’s he?”

Ayre told him.

The sergeant laughed. “Well, Captain, Major Changiz personally ordered these so you can bet your ass they’re confirmed.”

“He’s… he wasn’t arrested with the colonel?”

“Hell, no, Captain. The mullah, Hussain Kowissi, appointed Major Changiz temp base commander, pending confirm from Tehran.” Unerringly his fingers switched channels to the MainBase Frequency. “Hello, MainBase, this’s Wazari at S-G. Do we need tomorrow’s flights countersigned by IranOil’s Esvandiary?”

“Negative,” came back over the loudspeaker, again American-accented. “Everything okay over there?”

“Yep. The outbound went off without incident. I’m with Captain Ayre now.” The sergeant scanned the sky as he talked.

“Good. Captain Ayre, this’s the senior traffic controller. Any flights authorized by Major Changiz are automatically approved by IranOil.” “Can I have that in writing please?”

“Sergeant Wazari’ll have it for you in duplicate at 8:00 A.M., okay?” “Thanks - thank you.”

“Thanks, MainBase,” Wazari said, beginning to sign off, then his eyes fixed. “Hold it, MainBase, we’ve got a bird inbound! Chopper, 270 degrees. …” “Where? Where… I see him! How the hell did he get in under the radar? You switched on?”

“Negative. The sergeant trained the binoculars. “Bell 212, registration… can’t see it - she’s head-on to us.” He clicked on the UHF. “This is Kowiss Military Control! Inbound chopper, what is your registration, where are you bound, and what was your point of departure?”

Silence but for the crackle of static. The same call repeated by MainBase. No reply.

“That sonofabitch’s in dead trouble,” Wazari muttered. Again he trained the binoculars.

Ayre had the second set and his heart was thumping. As the chopper joined the landing pattern, he read the registration: EP-HBX. “Echo Peter Hotel Boston X-ray!” the sergeant said simultaneously. “HBX,” MainBase agreed. Again they tried radio contact. No reply. “He’s in your regular landing pattern. Is he a local? Captain Ayre, is he one of yours?”

“No, sir, not one of mine, not based here.” Ayre added carefully, “HBX could be an S-G registration, however.” “Based where?” “I don’t know.” “Sergeant, as soon as that joker lands, arrest him and all passengers, send them over here to HQ under guard, then give me a quick report who why and where from.” “Yessir.”

Thoughtfully Wazari selected a red grease pencil and traced the same line on the radar screen that Ayre had drawn and he had wiped out. He stared at it a moment, knowing Ayre was watching him intently. But he said nothing, just wiped the glass clean again and put his attention back to the 212. In silence the two men in the tower watched her make a normal circuit then break off correctly and head for them. But she made no attempt to land, just stayed at the correct height and made a much smaller circuit, waggling from side to side.

“Radio’s out - he wants a Green,” Ayre said, and reached for a signal light. “Okay?”

“Sure, give him one - but his ass’s still in a wringer.” Ayre checked that the powerful, narrow-beamed signal light was set for Green, permission to land. He aimed it at the chopper and switched on. The chopper acknowledged by waggling from side to side and started the approach. Wazari picked up his carbine and went out. Again Ayre trained his binoculars but still could not recognize the pilot or the man beside him, both muffled in winter gear and goggles. Then he rushed down the stairs.

Other S-G personnel, pilots and mechanics, had gathered to watch. From the direction of the main base, a car was speeding their way along the boundary road. Manuela stood in the doorway of the bungalow. The landing pads were in front of the office building. Crouched in the lee were the four Green Bands who had stayed behind, Wazari now with them. Ayre noticed that one was very young, barely a teenager, fiddling with his machine gun. In his excitement, cocking it, the youth dropped it on the tarmac, the gun pointing directly at Ayre. But it did not go off. As he watched, the youth picked it up by the barrel, banged the butt down to knock the snow off, carelessly shoved more snow away from the trigger guard. Some grenades hung from his belt - by the pins. Hastily Ayre joined some of the mechanics taking cover. “Bloody nit!” one of them said queasily. “He’ll blow himself to hell and us along with him. You all right, Cap’n? We heard Hotshot’s got his knickers in a twist.”

“Yes, yes, he has. HBX, where’s she from, Benson?”

“Bandar Delam,” Benson replied. He was a ruddy-faced, rotund Englishman. “Fifty quid it’s Duke.”

As the 212 put her skids down and cut her engines, Wazari led the rush, some of the guards shouting, “Allah-u Akbarrr!” They surrounded her, all guns leveled.

“Bloody twits,” Ayre said nervously, “they’re like Keystone Kops.”

He still couldn’t see the pilot clearly, so he walked out of cover, praying that it was Starke. The cabin doors slid back. Armed men jumped down, careless of the rotors that still circled, shouting greetings, telling the others to put down their guns. In the pandemonium, someone excitedly fired a welcoming burst into the air. Momentarily everyone began to scatter, then with more shouts, regrouped around the doors as the car arrived and more men rushed to join the others. Hands helped a mullah down. He was badly wounded. Then a stretcher. Then more wounded and Ayre saw Wazari running for him. “You got medics here?” he said urgently.

“Yes.” Ayre turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Benson, get Doc and the medic on the double,” then to the sergeant, hurrying back with him, “What the hell’s going on?”

“They’re from Bandar Delam - there was a counterrevolution there, goddamn fedayeen…”

Ayre saw the pilot’s door open and Starke get out, and he didn’t hear the rest of what Wazari said and hurried forward. “Hello, Duke, old chap.” Deliberately he kept his face set and his voice flat, though so happy and excited inside that he felt he would burst. “Where’ve you been?” Starke grinned, used to the English understatement. “Fishing, old chap,” he said. All at once Manuela came charging through the crowd and was in his arms, hugging him. He lifted her easily and whirled her. “Why, honey,” he drawled. “Ah guess ya like me after all!”

She was half crying and half laughing and she hung on. “Oh, Conroe, when I saw you I liked to die…”

“We damn near did, honey,” Starke said involuntarily, but she had not heard him and he hugged her once for luck and put her down. “Just set there for a bitty while I get things organized. Come on, Freddy.”

He led the way through the crush. The wounded mullah was on the ground, leaning against a skid, semiconscious. The man on the stretcher was already dead. “Put the mullah on his stretcher,” Starke ordered in Farsi. The Green Bands he had brought in the 212 obeyed at once. Wazari, the only one in uniform here, and the others from the base were astonished - none of them aware of Zataki, the Sunni revolutionary leader who had taken command of Bandar Delam, who now leaned against the helicopter, watching carefully, camouflaged by the S-G flight jacket he wore.

“Let me have a look, Duke,” the doctor said, out of breath from hurrying, a stethoscope around his neck, “so happy to have you back.” Dr. Nutt was in his fifties, too heavy, with sparse hair and a drinker’s nose. He knelt beside the mullah and began examining his chest that was wet with blood. “We’d better get him to the infirmary, quick as poss. And the rest.” Starke told two of those nearby to pick up the stretcher and follow the doctor. Again he was obeyed without question by men he had brought with him - the other Green Bands stared at him. Now there were nine of them, including Wazari and the four who had stayed.

“You’re under arrest,” Wazari said.

Starke looked at him. “What for?”

Wazari hesitated. “Orders from the brass, Captain, I just work here.” “So do I. I’ll be here if they want to talk to me, Sergeant.” Starke smiled reassuringly at Manuela who had gone white. “You go back to the house, honey. Nothing to worry about.” He turned away and went closer to the side door to look inside.

“Sorry, Captain, but you’re under arrest. Get in the car. You’re to go to the base pronto.”

When Starke turned he was looking into the nozzle of the gun. Two Green Bands jumped him from behind, grabbed his arms, pinioning him. Ayre lunged forward but one of the Green Bands shoved a gun in his stomach, stopping him. The two men started dragging Starke toward the car. Others came to help as he struggled, cursing them. Manuela watched panic-stricken. Then there was a bellow of rage and Zataki burst through the cordon, dragged the carbine from Sergeant Wazari, and swung it at his head, butt first. Only Wazari’s great reflexes, boxing trained, moved his head away just in time and backed him out of reach. Before he could say anything Zataki shouted, “What’s this dog doing with a gun? Haven’t you fools heard that the Imam ordered all servicemen disarmed?”

Wazari began hotly, “Listen, I’m authorized t - ” He stopped in panic. Now there was a pistol at his throat.

“You’re not even authorized to shit till the local komiteh clears you,” Zataki said. He was neater than before, cleanshaven now, his features well-made. “Have you been cleared by the komiteh?”

“No… no bu - ”

“Then by God and the Prophet you’re suspect!” Zataki kept the gun hard against Wazari’s throat, then waved his other hand. “Let the pilot go and put your arms down, or by God and the Prophet I’ll kill you all!” The moment he had grabbed Wazari’s gun, his men had circled the others and now had them covered from behind. Nervously, the two men pinioning Starke let him go. “Why should we obey you?” one of them said sullenly. “Eh? Who are you to give us orders?”

“I’m Colonel Zataki, member of the Revolutionary Komiteh of Bandar Delam, thanks be to God. The American helped save us from a fedayeen counterattack and brought the mullah and others who need medical help here.” Suddenly his rage broke. He shoved Wazari and the sergeant sprawled helplessly on the ground. “Leave the pilot alone! Didn’t you hear?” He aimed and pulled the trigger and the bullet tore through the neck of the sheepskin vest of one of the men beside Starke. Manuela almost fainted and they all scattered. “Next time I’ll put it between your eyes! You,” he snarled at Wazari, “you’re under arrest. I think you’re a traitor so we’ll find out. The rest of you go with God, tell your komiteh I would be pleased to see them - here.” He waved them away. The men started muttering among themselves, and in the lull Ayre slipped over to Manuela and put his arm around her. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “It’s all right now.” He saw Starke motion them away. He nodded. “Come on, Duke says to leave.”

“No… please, Freddy, I’m… I’m okay, promise.” She forced a smile and continued praying that the man with the pistol would dominate the others and all this would end. Please God, let it end.

They all watched in silence while Zataki waited, the pistol loose in his hand, the sergeant on the ground near his feet, those opposing him glaring at him, Starke standing in the middle of WHIRLWIND 355 them, not at all sure that Zataki would win. Zataki checked the magazine. “Go with God, all of you,” he said again, harder this time, getting angrier. “Are you all still deaffff?”

Reluctantly they left. The sergeant got up, pasty-faced, and straightened his uniform. Ayre watched Wazari bravely trying to hide his terror. “You stand there and stay there till I say to move.” Zataki glanced at Starke who was watching Manuela. “Pilot, we should finish the unloading. Then my men must eat.” “Yes. And thank you.”

“Nothing. These people did not know - they are not to be blamed.” Again he looked at Manuela, dark eyes piercing. “Your woman, pilot?” he asked. “My wife,” Starke replied.

“My wife is dead, killed in the Abadan fire with my two sons. It was the Will of God.”

“Sometimes the Will of God is unendurable.” “The Will of God is the Will of God. We should finish the unloading.”

“Yes.” Starke climbed into the cabin, the danger only over for the moment as Zataki was as volatile as nitroglycerin. Two more wounded were still strapped in their seats as were two stretcher cases. He knelt beside one of them. “How you doing, old buddy?” he said softly in English. Jon Tyrer opened his eyes and winced, a bloody bandage around his head. “Okay… yeah, okay. What… what happened?”

“Can you see?”

Tyrer seemed surprised. He peered up at Starke, then rubbed his eyes and forehead. To Starke’s relief, he said, “Sure, it’s… you’re a bit soft focus and my head aches like hell but I can see you okay. Course I can see you, Duke. What the hell happened?” “During the fedayeen counterattack at dawn this morning you were caught in some crossfire, a bullet creased the side of your head, and when you got up you started running around in circles like a headless chicken, crying out, ‘I can’t see… I can’t see.’ Then you collapsed and you’ve been out ever since.”

“Ever since? Goddamn!” The American peered out of the cabin door. “Where the hell are we?”

“Kowiss - I thought I’d better get you and the rest here fast.” Tyrer was still astonished. “I remember nothing. Nothing. Fe

dayeens? For crissake, Duke, I don’t even remember being brought aboard.” “Hang in there, old buddy. I’ll explain later.” He turned and called out, “Freddy, get someone to carry Jon Tyrer to the doc,” adding, in Farsi, to Zataki who watched from the doorway, “Excellency Zataki, please ask men to carry your men to the infirmary.” He paused a moment. “My second-in-command, Captain Ayre, will make arrangements for feeding everyone. Would you like to eat with me - in my house?”

Zataki smiled strangely and shook his head. “Thank you, pilot,” he said in English. “I will eat with my men. This evening we should talk, you and I.” “Whenever you wish.” Starke jumped out of the cabin. Men began carrying away all the wounded. He pointed at his bungalow. “That is my house, you are welcome there, Excellency.”

Zataki thanked him and went away, shoving Sergeant Wazari in front of him. Ayre and Manuela joined Starke. She took his hand. “When he pulled the trigger, I thought…” she smiled weakly, switched to Farsi. “Ah, Beloved, how good the day has become now that you are safe and beside me.” “And thee beside me.” Starke smiled at her.

“What happened? At Bandar Delam?” she asked in English.

“There was a goddamn battle between Zataki and his men and about fifty leftists at the base - yesterday Zataki took over our base in the name of Khomeini and the revolution - I had a bit of a run-in with him when I first got there but now he’s kinda okay, though he’s psycho, dangerous as a rattler. Anyway at dawn the leftist fedayeen rushed the airport in trucks and on foot. Zataki was asleep with the rest of his men, no sentries out, nothing - you heard the generals capitulated and Khomeini’s now warlord?” “Yes, we’ve just heard actually.”

“The first I knew of the attack was all hell let loose, bullets everywhere, coming through the walls of the trailers. Me, you know me, I ducked for cover and scrambled out of the trailer… You cold, honey?” “No, no darlin’. Let’s go home - I could use a drink too… oh, my God…” “What is it?”

But she was already running for the house. “The chili - I left the chili on the stove!”

WHIRLWIND 357 “Jesus Christ!” Ayre muttered, “I thought we were about to be shot or something.”

Starke was beaming. “We got chili?”

“Yes. Bandar Delam?”

“Not much to tell, Freddy.” They started walking for the house. “I evacuated the trailer - I think the attackers figured Zataki and his men would be sleeping in them but Zataki had everyone bedded down in hangars guarding the choppers - Freddy, they’re goddamn paranoid about choppers, that we’re gonna fly away in them, or use them to fly out SAVAK, generals, or enemies of the revolution. Anyway, old Rudi and me, we had our heads down in back of a spare mud tank, then some of these new bastards - you couldn’t tell one from another except Zataki’s guys were shouting ‘Allah-u Akbar’ as they died - some of the fedayeen opened up with a Sten gun on the hangars just as Jon Tyrer was evacuating his trailer. I saw him go down and I got as mad as a sonofabitch - now don’t you tell Manuela - and got a gun away from one of them and started my own little war to go get Jon. Rudi…” Starke started smiling. “That one’s a sonofabitch! Rudi got himself a gun too and we were like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid…”

“God Almighty, you must’ve been crazy!”

Starke nodded. “We were, but we got Jon out of the line of fire and then Zataki and three of his guys broke out of a hangar and charged the main group, firing like the Wild Bunch. But hell, they ran out of ammo. Poor bastards just stood there and you’ve never seen anyone nakeder.” He shrugged. “Rudi and I thought what the hell, shooting a sitting duck’s not fair and Zataki’d been okay once the mullah - Hussain - had left, and we’d, er, come to an agreement. So we let off a burst over the attackers’ heads and that gave Zataki and the others time to get to cover.” Again he shrugged. “That’s about it,” he said. They were near the bungalow now. He sniffed the air. “We really got chili, Freddy?”

“Yes - unless it’s burned. That’s all that happened?”

“Sure, except when the shooting stopped I thought we’d best head for Kowiss and Doc Nutt. The mullah looked rough and I was scared for Jon. Zataki said, ‘Sure, why not, I need to go to Isfahan’ - so here we are. The radio went out en route - I could hear you but couldn’t transmit. No sweat.” Ayre watched him sniff the air again, knowing that a psychopath like Zataki would never give Starke the authority he had given him - or protect him - for so little assistance.

The Texan opened the bungalow door. At once the grand, spicy smell surrounded him, transporting him home to Texas, God’s country, and a thousand meals. Manuela had a drink poured* for him, the way he liked it. But he did not drink it, just went into the kitchen area and picked up the big wooden spoon and tasted the brew. Manuela watched, hardly breathing. A second taste.

“How ‘bout that?” he said happily. The chili was the best he had ever had.

Chapter 25

AT THE DEZ DAM: 4:31 P.M. Lochart’s 212 was parked just outside the shed that doubled as a hangar near a well-kept landing pad that was beside the cobbled forecourt of the house. He was standing on the copter’s upperworks, checking the rotor column with its multitude of couplings, lockpins - and danger points - but he found nothing untoward. Carefully he clambered down and wiped his hands clean of grease.

“Okay?” Ali Abbasi asked, stretched out in the sun. He was the young and very good-looking Iranian helicopter pilot who had helped release Lochart from detention at Isfahan Air Base just before dawn, and had sat up front in the cockpit with him all the way here. “Everything okay?” “Sure,” Lochart said. “She’s clean and all set to go.” It was a nice day, cloudless and warm. When the sun went down in an hour or so the temperature would drop twenty or more degrees but that wouldn’t matter. He knew that he would be warm because generals always looked after themselves - and those necessary to

them for their survival. At the moment I’m necessary to Valik and to General Seladi, but only for the moment, he thought.

Muted laughter came from the house and more from those sunning or swimming in the clear blue waters of the lake below. The house seemed incongruous in such desolation - a modern, single-story, spacious, four-bedroom bungalow with separate servants’ quarters. It was set on a slight rise overlooking the lake and the dam, the only habitation in this whole area. Surrounding the lake and the dam was a barren wilderness - small, rock hills jutting from a high plateau devoid of any vegetation. The only ways here were to backpack in or to come by air, by helicopter or light airplane into the very short, narrow, dirt airstrip that had been hacked out of the uneven terrain. Doubt if even a light twin could get in here, Lochart had thought when he first saw it. Have to be a single engine. And no way to go around again - once you commit you’re committed. But it’s a great hideaway, no doubt about that - just great.

Ali got up and stretched.

They had arrived here this morning, their flight uneventful. On orders and directions from General Seladi, quietly varied by Captain Ali, Lochart had hugged the ground, weaving through the passes, avoiding all towns and villages. Their radio had been open all the time. The only report they had heard was a venomous broadcast from Isfahan, repeated several times, about a 212 full of traitors that was escaping southward and should be intercepted and shot down. “They didn’t give our names - or our registration,” Ali had said excitedly. “They must’ve forgotten to write it down.” “What the hell difference does that make?” Lochart had said. “We must be the only 212 in the sky.”

“Never mind. Stay at max a hundred feet and now turn west.” Lochart had been astonished, expecting to head for Bandar Delam that lay almost due south. “Where we heading?”

“Forget compass bearings, I’ll guide you from here on in.” “Where’re we heading?”

“Baghdad.” Ali had laughed.

No one had told him their destination until they were ready to land, and by that time, a little over two hundred miles from Isfahan, flying very low all the way with adverse winds, at maximum consumption and far beyond their expected maximum duration - on empty too long - Ali was openly praying. “If we put down in this godforsaken wilderness we’ll never walk out, what about fuel?”

“There’s plenty there when we arrive… God be praised!” Ali WHIRLWIND 361 had said excitedly as they came over the rise to see the lake and the dam. “God be praised!”

Lochart had echoed his thanks and had landed quickly. Beside the helipad was a subterranean 5,000-gallon tank, and the shed hangar. In the shed hangar were some tools and cylinders of air for tires, and racks of water skis and boating equipment.

“Let’s put her away,” Ali said. Together they wheeled the 212 into the shed where she fitted snugly, putting chocks on her wheels. As Lochart adjusted the rotor tie-down he noticed three hang gliders in a rack overhead. They were dust-covered and in tatters now.

“Whose are those?”

“This used to be the private weekend place of General of the Imperial Air Force, Hassayn Aryani. They were his.”

Lochart whistled. Aryani was the legendary head of the air force who, according to rumor, also had been like captain of the Praetorian Guard in Roman times to the Shah, his confidant and married to one of his sisters. He had been killed hang gliding two years ago. “Was this where he was killed?” “Yes.” Ali pointed to the other side of the lake. “They say he got into still-air turbulence and went into those cliffs.”

Lochart studied him. ” ‘They say’? You don’t believe that?” “No. I’m sure he was assassinated. In the air force most of us’re sure.” “You mean his hang glider was sabotaged?”

Ali shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps, perhaps not, but he was much too careful and clever a pilot and flier to get into turbulence. Aryani would never’ve flown on a bad day.” He went out into the sun. Below they could hear the voices and laughter of some of the others, and Valik’s children playing down by the lake. “He used a speedboat to take off. He’d wear short water skis, then hold on to a long rope attached to the speedboat that’d go charging down the lake and when he was fast enough he’d drop his skis and go airborne and soar up five hundred, a thousand feet, then cast off and spiral down and land within inches of the raft down there.”

“He was that good?”

“Yeah, he was that good. He was too good, that’s why he was murdered.” “By whom?”

“I don’t know. If I did, then he or they would have died long ago.” Lochart saw the adoration. “You knew him, then?”

“I was his aide, one of his aides, for a year. He was easily the most wonderful man I have ever known - the best general, the best pilot, best sportsman, skier - everything. If he had been alive now the Shah would never have been trapped by foreigners or snared by our archenemy Carter, the Shah’d never have left, Iran would never have been allowed to slide into the abyss, and the generals would never have been allowed to betray us.” Ali Abbasi’s face twisted with anger. “It’s impossible to conceive that we could be so betrayed with him alive.”

“Then who killed him? Khomeini’s followers?”

“No, not three years ago. He was a famous nationalist, Shi’ite, though a modern. Who? Tudeh, fedayeen or any fanatic of the right, left, or center who wanted Iran weakened.” Ali looked at him, dark eyes in a chiseled face. “There are even those who say people in high places feared his growing power and popularity.”

Lochart blinked. “You mean the Shah might have ordered his death?” “No. No, of course not, but he was a threat to those who misguided the Shah. He was farmandeh, a commander of the people. He was a threat all over: to British interests, because he supported Prime Minister Mossadegh who nationalized Anglo-Iranian Oil, he supported the Shah and OPEC when they quadrupled the cost of oil. He was pro-Israel though not anti-Arab, so a threat to the PLO and Yasir Arafat. He could have been considered a threat to American interests - to any or all of the Seven Sisters because he didn’t give a good goddamn for them or anyone. Anyone. For above all he was a patriot.” Ali’s eyes had a strange look to them. “Assassination is an ancient art in Iran. Wasn’t ibn-al-Sabbah one of us?” His mouth smiled, his eyes didn’t. “We’re different here.”

“Sorry - ibn-al-Sabbah?”

“The Old Man of the Mountains, Hassan ibn-al-Sabbah, the Isma’ili religious leader who invented the Assassins in the eleventh century, and their cult of political assassination.”

“Oh, sure, sorry I wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t he supposed to be a friend of Omar Khayyam?”

“Some legends say so.” Ali’s face was etched. “Aryani was murdered, by whom, no one knows. Yet.” Together they pulled the shed door closed. “What now?” Lochart asked.

“Now we wait. Then we’ll go on.” Into exile Ali thought. Never mind, it will only be temporary and at least I know where I’m going, not like the Shah, poor man, who’s an outcast. I can go to the States.

Only he and his parents knew that he had a U.S. passport. Goddamn, he thought, how clever of Dad: “You never know, my son, what God has in store,” his father had said gravely. “I advise you to apply for a passport while you can. Dynasties never last, only family. Shahs come and go, Shahs feed off each other, and the two Pahlavis together are only fifty-four-year Highnesses - Imperial Majesties! What was Reza Khan before he crowned himself King of Kings? A soldier-adventurer, the son of illiterate villagers from Mazandaran near the Caspian.”

“But surely, Father, Reza Khan was a special man. Without him and Mohammed Reza Shah, we’d still be slaves of the British.”

“The Pahlavis were of use to us, my son, yes. In many ways. But Reza Shah failed, he failed himself and failed us by stupidly believing the Germans would win the war and tried to support the Axis - and so gave the occupying British an excuse to depose him and exile him.”

“But, Father, Mohammed Shah can’t fail! He’s stronger than his father ever was. Our armed forces are the envy of the world. We’ve more airplanes than Britain, more tanks than Germany, more money than Croesus, America’s our ally, we’re the biggest military power and policeman of the Middle and Near East, and the leaders of the outside kowtow to him - even Brezhnev.” “Yes. But we do not yet know what is the Will of God. Get the passport.” “But a U.S. passport could be very dangerous, you know how it’s said almost everything goes through SAVAK to the Shah! What if he heard, or General Aryani heard? That’d ruin me in the air force?”

“Why should it - for of course you would tell them proudly you just got the passport, and kept it secret, against the day you could put it to use for the good of the Pahlavis. Eh?”

“Of course!”

“Open your eyes to the ways of the world, my son - the promises of kings have no value, they can plead expedience. If this Shah or the next, or even your great general has to choose between your life and something of more value to them, which would they choose? Put no trust in princes, or generals, or politicians, they will sell you, your family, and your heritage for a pinch of salt to put on a plate of rice they won’t even bother to taste….”

And oh how true! Carter sold us out and his generals, then the Shah and his generals, and our generals did the same to us. But how could they be so stupid as to assassinate themselves? he asked himself, shuddering at the thought of how close he had been to death in Isfahan. They must have all gone mad!

“It’s cold in the shade,” Lochart said.

“Yes, yes, it is. “Ali looked back at him and shook off his anxiety. Generals are all the same. My father was right. Even these two bastards Valik or Seladi, they’d have sold us all if need be, still will. They need me because I’m the only one who can fly them - apart from this poor fool who doesn’t know he’s in dead trouble. “Get rid of this Lochart,” Seladi had said. “Why take him to safety? He would have left us at Isfahan, why not leave him here? Dead. We can’t leave him alive, he knows us all and he’d betray us all.”

“No, Excellency Uncle,” Valik had said. “He’s more use as a gift to the Kuwaitis, or Iraqis, they can jail him or extradite him. It was he who stole an Iranian helicopter and agreed for money to fly us out. Didn’t he?” “Yes. Even so, he can still give our names to the revolutionaries.” “By that time we will all be safe and our families safe.” “I say dispose of him - he would have sacrificed us. Dispose of him and we will go to Baghdad, not Kuwait.”

“Please, Excellency, reconsider. Lochart is the more experienced pilot….” Ali glanced at his watch. Just thirty minutes to takeoff. He saw Lochart glance at the house where Valik, Seladi were. I wonder who won, Valik or Seladi? Is it the inside of a Kuwaiti or Iraqi jail for this poor joker, or a bullet in the head? I wonder if they’ll bury him after they shoot him or just leave him to the vultures. “What’s the matter?” Lochart asked. “Nothing. Nothing, Captain, just thinking how lucky we were to escape Isfahan.”

“Yes, I still think I owe you my life.” Lochart was certain that if Ali and the major hadn’t released him he would have ended up before a komiteh kangaroo court. And if he was caught now? The same. He had not allowed his mind to think about Sharazad or Tehran or to make a plan. That comes later, he told himself again. Once you see how this turns out and where you end up. Where’re they planning to go? Kuwait? Or maybe just a quick stab over the border into Iraq? Iraq’s usually hostile to Iranians so that might be dicey for them. Kuwait’s an easy flight from here and most Kuwaitis are Sunni and therefore anti-Khomeini. Against that, to get there, you have to sneak through a lot of sensitive airspace, Iranian and Iraqi, both nervous, jumpy, and trigger-happy. Within fifty miles there must be twenty Iranian air bases, fighter operational, with planes gassed up and dozens of petrified pilots anxious to prove loyalty to the new regime.

And what about your promise to McIver not to fly them the last leg? Because of Isfahan you’re marked now - there’s no way the revs will have forgotten your name or the registration of the airplane. Did you see anyone write your name down? No, I don’t think so. Even so, you’d better get out while you can, you’re implicated in an escape, men were killed at Isfahan - whichever way you stack it you’re marked.

What about Sharazad? I can’t leave her. You may have to. She’s safe in Tehran. What if they come looking for you and Sharazad answers the door and they take her away in place of you?

“I could use a cold drink,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. “You think they have a Coke or something?”

“I’ll go see.” They both looked off as Valik’s children came bounding up the path from the lake, Annoush close behind them. “Ah,” she said to them with her happy smile, but dark shadows around her eyes, “it is a wonderful day, isn’t it? We’re so lucky.”

“Yes,” both said and wondered how such a woman could marry such a man. She was very good to look at and as beautiful a mother as could be. “Captain Abbasi, where’s my husband?” “In the house, Highness, with the others,” Ali said. “May I escort you, I was just going there?” “Would you find him for me, please, and ask him to join me?” Ali did not wish to leave her alone with Lochart, for she had been present when Valik and Seladi had told him of their plans, asking his advice about their destination - though not about Lochart’s elimination, that had come later. “I wouldn’t want to disturb the general by myself, Highness, perhaps we could go together.”

“You will please find him for me.” She was as imperious as the general, though kindly and without insult.

Ali shrugged. Insha’Allah, he thought, and went off. When they were quite alone, her two children running around the shed, playing hide-and-seek, Annoush touched Lochart gently. “I haven’t thanked you for our lives, Tommy.”

Lochart was startled. This was the first time she had ever called him by his first name - he had always been “Captain Lochart” or “my cousin-in-law” or “His Excellency, the husband of Sharazad.” “I was glad to help.” “I know that you and dear old Mac did it for the children and me - don’t look so surprised, my dear, I know my husband’s strengths and… and his weaknesses - what wife doesn’t?” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I know what this means for you too - you’ve jeopardized your life, Sharazad’s, your future in Iran, perhaps your company.”

“Not Sharazad’s. No, she’s perfectly safe. Her father, Excellency Bakravan, will keep her safe until she can get out. Of course she’s safe.” He saw Annoush’s brown eyes and read behind her eyes and his soul twisted. “I pray that with all my heart, Tommy, and beg God to grant that wish.” She dabbed her tears away. “I’ve never been so sad in all my life. I never knew I could be so sad - sad to be running away, sad for that poor soldier dying in the snow, sad for all our families and friends who have to stay, sad because no one’s safe in Iran anymore. I’m so afraid most of our circle will be persecuted by the mullahs, we’ve always been - what shall I say? Too modem and… too progressive. No one’s safe here anymore - not even Khomeini himself.”

Lochart heard himself say, “Insha’Allah,” but he wasn’t listening to her, suddenly petrified that he would never see Sharazad again, never be able to get back into Iran or her able to get out. “It will be normal again soon, travel permitted and everything okay. Of course it will. In a few months, it’s got to be. Of course it will be normal soon.”

“I hope so, Tommy, for I love your Sharazad and would hate not being able to see her and the little one.”

“Eh?” He gaped at her.

“Oh, but of course you wouldn’t know,” she said, then brushed the last of her tears away. “It was too soon for you to know. Sharazad told me she’s sure she’s carrying her firstborn.”

“But…but, well she…” He stopped helplessly, aghast, at the same time ecstatic. “She can’t be!”

“Oh, she wasn’t sure yet, Tommy, but she felt she was. Sometimes a woman can tell - you feel so different, so very different and so wonderful, so fulfilled,” she added, her voice now joyous.

Lochart was trying to get his mind working, completely aware that it would be impossible for her to understand the turmoil she was creating in him. God in heaven, he thought, Sharazad?

“There are still a few days to be certain,” she was saying. “I think it’s three or four. Let me think. Yes, including today, Tuesday, four more days to be certain. That would make it the day after, after seeing her father,” she said delicately. “You were to see him this Holy Day, Friday, the sixteenth, by your counting, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Lochart said. As if I could forget. “You knew about that?” “Of course.” Annoush was astonished by his question. “Such an extraordinary request from you, and such an important decision would have to be known by all of us. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if she is with child - didn’t you tell Excellency Bakravan you wanted children? I so hope she has been blessed by God for that will surely pass the days and nights happily for her until we can get her out. Kuwait’s not far. I’m only so sorry she didn’t come with us - that would have made everything perfect.”

“Kuwait?”

“Yes, but we won’t stop there - we’ll go on to London.” Again the torment showed. “I don’t want to leave our home and friends and… I don’t…” Behind her, Lochart saw the door of the house open. Valik and Seladi came out, Ali with them. He noticed the three of them wore sidearms now. Must have had a cache of weapons here, he thought absently as Ali saluted and hurried down the path toward the lake. Bursting with glee the two children charged from the back of the shed into Valik’s arms. He swung the little girl into the air and set her down.

“Yes, Annoush?” he asked his wife.

“You wanted me and the children to be here exactly at this time.” “Yes. Please get Setarem and Jalal ready. We’ll be leaving soon.” At once the children ran off into the house. “Captain, is the chopper ready?” “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Valik glanced back at his wife. “Please get ready, my dear.” She smiled and did not move. “I just have to fetch my coat. I’m ready to leave.” The rest of the officers were approaching now. Several carried automatic rifles.

Lochart tore his mind off Sharazad and Holy Day and four days more and broke the silence. “What’s the plan?”

Valik said, “Baghdad. We’ll take off in a few minutes.”

“I thought we were going to Kuwait,” Annoush said.

“We’ve decided to go to Baghdad. General Seladi thinks it’ll be safer than to head south.” Valik kept watching Lochart. “I want to be airborne in ten minutes.”

“I’d advise you to wait until two or three in the morning and th - ” Seladi interrupted coldly. “We could be trapped here. Soldiers could ambush us - there’s an air base nearby, they could send out a patrol. You don’t understand military matters. We leave for Baghdad at once.” “Kuwait’s better and safer, but in both places the chopper’ll be impounded without an Iranian clearance,” Lochart said.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Valik said calmly. “Baksheesh and a few connections will make all the difference.” You, interloper into my family, he thought benignly, you along with the gift of the 212 will be a sop to satisfy even the Iraqis, for we certainly agree you have flown it illegally - even the clearance you obtained from Tehran was illegal. The Iraqis will understand and they won’t harm us. Most of them hate and fear Khomeini and his version of Islam. With you, the 212 and a little extra on the side, why should they give me trouble?”

He saw Lochart watching him. “Yes?” “I think Baghdad’s a bad choice.” General Seladi said curtly, “We will leave now.” Lochart flushed at the rudeness. Some of the others shifted nervously. “No doubt you’ll leave when the aircraft is ready and the pilot ready. Have you flown in these mountains?”

“No… no I haven’t, but the 212 has the ceiling and Baghdad’s where we will go. Now!”

“Then I wish you luck. I still advise Kuwait and waiting, but you do what you want, because I’m not flying you.”

There was an even bigger silence. Seladi went red in the face. “You will prepare to leave. Now.”

Lochart said to Valik, “On the way to Isfahan I told you I wouldn’t be flying the last leg. I’m not flying you onward. Ali can do that - he’s fully qualified.”

“But you’re as wanted as any of us now,” Valik said, astonished with his stupidity. “Of course you will fly the last leg.”

“No, no I won’t. I’ll backpack out of here - of course you can’t waste time landing me somewhere. Ali can fly you - he’s been based in this area and knows the radar. Just leave me a rifle and I’ll head for Bandar Delam. Okay?”

The others stared from Lochart to Seladi and Valik. Waiting. Valik thought through this new problem. So did Seladi. Both men came to the same conclusion: Insha’Allah! Lochart had chosen to stay and therefore Lochart had chosen the consequences. “Very well,” Valik said calmly. “Ali will fly us.” He smiled and then because he respected Lochart as a pilot, he added quickly, “As we’re a very democratic people, I suggest we put it to a vote - Iraq or Kuwait?”

“Kuwait,” Annoush said at once, and the others echoed her before Seladi could interrupt.

Good, Valik thought, I allowed myself to be overruled because Seladi claimed to know the chief of police in Baghdad and said that safe passage for me and my family and him would be no more than $20,000 in U.S. notes which would be immeasurably cheaper than Kuwait - how much the others will have to pay will be up to them; I hope they have money with them or the means to get enough quickly. “Of course you agree, Excellency Uncle? Kuwait. Thank you, Captain. Perhaps you’ll tell Ali he’ll be flying us - he’s down by the lake.” “Sure. I’ll just get my gear. You’ll leave me a rifle?” “Of course.” Lochart went to the shed and disappeared inside. Seladi said, “Some of you get the chopper out and we’ll be off.” They went to obey him. Lochart came out, put his flight bag and carry bag beside the door and walked down the path toward the lake. Seladi watched him go, then impatiently walked over to the 212. Valik saw his wife watching him. “Yes, Annoush?” “What’s planned for Captain Lochart?” she asked softly though they could not be overheard. “He’s… you heard him. He refuses to fly us and wants to stay. He’ll walk out.”

“I know how your mind works, my dear. Are you going to have him killed?” There was a nice smile on her face. “Murdered?”

“Murder would be the wrong word.” His mouth smiled. “I’m sure you’d agree Lochart represents a great danger now. He knows us all, all our names - all our families will suffer when he’s caught and tortured and sentenced. It’s the Will of God. He made the choice. Seladi wanted it done anyway - a military decision - I said no, that he should fly us onward.” “To be a sacrifice in Kuwait, or Baghdad?” “Seladi gave orders to Ali, I didn’t. Lochart’s marked, poor man. It’s tragic, but necessary. You agree, don’t you?”

“No, my dear, I’m sorry but I don’t. So if he’s hurt, or touched here, there will be many who live to regret it.” Annoush’s smile did not change. “You as well, my dear.”

His face flushed. Behind him men had pulled the 212 into the open and now they were loading her. He dropped his voice. “Didn’t you hear me, Annoush, he’s a threat! He’s not one of us, Jared barely tolerates him and I promise you he’s a great danger to us, to those we’ve left behind - your family as well as mine.” “Didn’t you hear me, husband? I promise you I know only too well the dangers, but if he’s killed here - murdered - you will be killed too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Sometime you will sleep and you will not awaken. It will be the Will of God.” The smile never changed nor the gentleness of her voice. Valik hesitated, then his face closed and he hurried down the path. The children barreled out of the house toward her and she said kindly, “Wait here, my darlings, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Esplanaded over the lake on stilts was an open-sided barbecue area and bar under a neat overhang, with a few steps that went down into the water for skiers, or for the motorboat that was tied up in its shelter nearby. Lochart was on the water’s edge, his hands up.

Ali had the automatic leveled. His orders from Seladi had been clear: go to the lake and wait. We will either call you back or send the pilot to find you. If the pilot comes looking for you, kill him and return at once. He had hated the order - bombarding or attacking revolutionaries or mutineers from a chopper gunship was not murder as this was murder. His face was ashen, he had never killed before and he asked God’s pardon, but an order was an order. “Sorry,” he said, hardly able to talk and began to pull the trigger.

At that instant Lochart’s legs seemed to collapse and he twisted over the side into the water. Automatically, Ali followed the movement, aimed for the center of the back as though at target practice, knowing he could never miss at this range. Fire!

“Stop!”

The fraction of a second he had hesitated was enough time for his brain to hear the order and obey it thankfully. With shuddering relief, he felt his finger release the pressure on the trigger. Valik rushed up to him and both of them peered into the water, murky here in the shade and quite deep. They waited. Lochart did not appear.

“Perhaps he’s under the floor - or under the raft,” Ali said, wiping the sweat off his face and hands, and thanking God that the pilot’s blood was not on his soul.

“Yes.” Valik was also sweating, but mostly with fear. He had never seen that look on his wife’s face before, the smile that promised a death in the night. It’s her vile ancestors, he thought. She’s Qajar, her lineage Qajars who could happily blind or murder rivals to the throne - or children of rivals - didn’t only one Qajar Shah in their 146-year dynasty relinquish his throne through natural death? Valik WHIRLWIND 371 looked around, saw her standing up at the head of the path, then turned back to Ali. “Give me your gun.”

Shakily Valik put the gun down on the rough wooden planking, and called out: “Lochart, I’ve left you a gun. This was all a mistake. The captain was mistaken.” “But, General - ”

“Go up to the chopper,” Valik ordered loudly. “Seladi’s a fool - he should never have given you orders to kill this poor man. We leave at once and we go to Kuwait - not Baghdad. Ali, go and start the aircraft!” Ali left. As he passed Annoush he eyed her curiously, then hurried onward. She walked down and joined Valik. “You saw?” he asked. “Yes.” They waited. No sound here, no tide to lap the pilings. It was beautiful and calm, the surface of the lake glassy and windless. “I… I pray he’s hiding somewhere,” she said, a great void in her soul, but now time to heal the breach. “I’m glad his blood’s not on our Minds. Seladi’s a monster.” “We’d better go back.” They were quite hidden from the chopper and the house. He took out his automatic and fired it once into the ground nearby. “For Seladi. I, er, think I hit Lochart when… when he surfaced. Eh?” She took his arm. “You’re a wise and good man.” They walked back up the rise, arm in arm. “Without you, your cleverness and courage, we would never have escaped Isfahan. But exile? Wh - ”

“Temporary exile,” he said jovially, filled with relief that the vile moment between them had passed. “Then we’ll come home again.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, forcing herself to believe it. I’ve got to or I’ll go mad. I’ve got to for the children! “I’m glad you chose Kuwait - I never liked Baghdad, and those Iraqis, ugh!” Her eyes still had shadows in them. “What Lochart said about waiting till after dark was wrong?” “There’s an air base within a few miles. We could have been seen on radar, Annoush, or by spotters in the hills. Seladi’s right in that - the base will send a patrol after us.” They topped the rise. The children were waiting for them in the cabin doorway, everyone else aboard. They quickened their pace. “Kuwait’s much safer. I’d already decided to overrule that pompous fool Seladi - he’s never to be trusted.”

In minutes they were airborne, heading northward over the rim of these hills, skirting the crags, hugging the ground to avoid the nearby danger from the air base. Ali Abassi was a good pilot and knew the area well. Once over the rim and down into the valley he turned west and scurried through a pass to avoid the outer perimeter of the airfield, the Iraqi border some fifty miles farther ahead. Snow covered the heights of the mountains far above them and parts of the slopes, though the floor of some valleys were green, here and there, among the rocky wilderness. They thundered over an unexpected and unknown village, then curled almost due south, again following the water course, paralleling the border that was far to their right. The whole flight would take barely two hours, depending on the winds, and the winds were favorable.

Those in the cabin near the windows happily watched the land rushing past, the two children given the best positions, the major holding Jalal, Valik, his daughter beside Annoush. Everyone was content, a few praying silently. Sunset was not far off and would be good, red-tinged clouds - “red sky at night, shepherds’ delight,” Annoush crooned to Setarem in English - and, up front, the engines sounded good with all needles in the Green. Ali was glad to be flying, glad that he had not killed Lochart who had stood there in front of him, saying nothing, not begging for his life or saying prayers, just standing there with his hands up, waiting. I’m sure he’s safe under the pilings, thanks be to God…

He took a quick glance at the map, refreshing his memory. But he did not really need to, he had spent many good years here, flying the passes. Soon he would come down out of the mountains into the marsh plains of the Tigris and Euphrates, staying at ground level, skirting Dezful, then Ahwaz and Khorramshahr, then stab across the Shatt-al-Arab Estuary and the border, into Kuwait and freedom.

Ahead was the ridge with the dominating peak that he had been expecting and he swung upward out of the valley to swoop down into the next, the joy of flying possessing him. Then “HBC, climb to a thousand feet and reduce speed!” filled his headphones and brain. He had been airborne barely six minutes.

The order had been in Farsi arid it was repeated in English and then in Farsi and again in English, and all the while he kept her low, desperately trying to get his head working.

“Chopper HBC, you’re illegal, climb out of the valley and reduce speed.” Ali Abbasi peered upward, searching the sky, but he saw no airplane. The valley floor was tearing past. Ahead was another rim and then there’d be a succession of rims and valleys that led down to the plains. Westward the Iraqi border was forty-odd miles away - twenty minutes. “Chopper HBC, for the last time, you’re illegal, climb out of the valley and reduce speed!”

His brain shouted, You’ve three choices: obey and die, try to escape, or put down and wait the night and try at first light - if you survive their rockets or bullets.

Ahead of him to the left he saw trees and the land falling away, the sides of the valley steepening into a ravine, so he cast himself into it, committing them to escape. Now his mind was working well. He pulled off his headset, put himself into the hands of God, and felt the better for it. He slowed as he came nearer the end of the ravine, skirted some trees and ducked into another small valley, reduced speed even more, following the streambed cautiously. More trees and outcrops and he sneaked around them. Stay low and slow and save gas and ease your way south, he thought with growing confidence. Go nearer the border when you can take your time. They’ll never catch you if you use your wits. It’ll be dark soon - you can lose them in the dark and you know enough about instrument flying to get to Kuwait. But how did they spot us? It was almost as though they were waiting. Could they have had us on radar going into Dez Dam - Watch itttttt! The trees were heavier here and he slewed around a scattering of them on the mountainside, went closer to the rocks, and climbed for the ridge and the next valley. Over it safely and down into the protection of the rocks, eyes searching ahead and above and always for a good spot to put down if an engine failed. He was concentrating and confident and doing his job well. All the instruments were in the safety range. Minutes passed and though he searched the sky diligently he saw nothing. At the head of the next valley he put the chopper into a 360 and carefully scanned the sky. Nothing overhead.

Safe! Lost him! Insha’Allah! He took a deep breath and, very satisfied, turned southward again. Over the next ridge. And the next and there ahead were the plains. The two fighters were waiting. They were FMs.

Chapter 26

AT TEHRAN AIRPORT - S-G’S OFFICE: 5:48 P.M. “… you are not permitted to land!” came over the HF, heavily mixed with static - Gavallan, McIver, and Robert Armstrong grouped around it, listening intently, the vista through the windows dull and brooding, night near.

The breezy voice of John Hogg from the incoming 125 came back again: “Tehran Control, this is Echo Tango Lima Lima, as per yesterday, we have clearance from Kish to land an - ”

“ETLL, you are not permitted to land!” The traffic controller’s voice was raw and frightened and McIver cursed under his breath. “I say again: negative, all civilian air traffic is grounded and all incoming flights canceled until further orders of the Imam…” Behind his voice they could hear other voices chattering in Farsi, a number of mikes open on this frequency. “Return to your point of departure!”

“I say again, we have clearance to land from Kish radar who passed us to Isfahan air traffic controller who confirmed our clearance. Long live Ayatollah Khomeini and the victory of Islam - I am forty miles south of checkpoint Varamin, expecting runway 29 left. Please confirm your ILS is functioning. Do you have other traffic in your system?”

For a moment Farsi voices dominated the tower, then, “Negative traffic, ETLL, negative ILS but you are not per - ” The American English stopped abruptly and an angry, heavily accented voice took over: “Not landings! Komiteh give orders Tehran! Kish not Tehran - Isfahan not Tehran - we give orders Tehran. If landings you arrested.”

John Hogg’s happy voice replied at once. “EchoTangoLimaLima. Understand you don’t want us to land, Tehran Tower, and wish to reject our clearances which I believe is an error according to air traffic regulations - Standby One please.” Then at once on their private S-G frequency, mixed with static, came his terse voice, “HQ advise!”

Immediately McIver switched channels and said into the mike, “Three sixty, Standby One,” meaning circle and wait for a reply. He glanced up at Gavallan who was grim-faced. Robert Armstrong was whistling tonelessly. “We better wave him off - if he lands they could throw the book at him and impound her,” McIver said.

“With official clearances?” Gavallan said. “You told the tower we’ve the British ambassador’s letter approved by Bazargan’s office - ” “But not by Bazargan himself, sir,” Robert Armstrong said, “and even then for all practical purposes those buggers in the tower are the law in the tower for the moment. I’d suggest th - ” He stopped and pointed, his face even grimmer. “Look there!” Two trucks and a radio control car, with its tall aerial waving, were racing along the boundary road. As they watched, the trucks drove directly onto runway 29 left, parked in the middle of it. Armed Green Bands jumped out taking up defensive positions. The control car continued to head their way.

“Shit!” McIver muttered.

“Mac, do you think they’ll be monitoring our frequency?”

“Safer to assume so, Andy.”

Gavallan took the mike. “Abort. B repeat B.”

“EchoTangoLimaLima!” Then, on the tower frequency, kind and friendly: “Tehran Tower: we agree your request to cancel our clearance and formally apply for clearance to land at tomorrow noon to deliver urgent repeat urgent spares required by IranOil, outgoing crew for overdue leave, with immediate turnaround.”

McIver grunted. “Johnny always was fast on his feet.” Then to Armstrong, “We’ll put y - ”

“Standby One, EchoTangoLimaLima,” from the tower overrode him. “We’ll put you on her passenger list when we can, Mr. Armstrong. Sorry, no joy today. What about your papers?”

Armstrong took his eyes off the approaching car. “I, er, I’d prefer to be a specialist consultant for S-G, going on leave, if you don’t mind. Unpaid, of course.” He stared back at Gavallan. “What’s ‘B repeat B’?” “Try again tomorrow, same time.”

“And if they grant ETLL’s request?”

“Then it’s tomorrow - you’ll be a specialist consultant.” “Thanks. Let’s hope it’s tomorrow.” Armstrong looked at the approaching car, and added quickly, “Will you be in about ten tonight, Mr. Gavallan? Perhaps I could drop by - just to chat, nothing important.”

“Certainly. I’ll expect you. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” “Yes. If I’m not there by ten-fifteen I’ve been delayed and can’t come - you know how it is - and I’ll check in the morning.” Armstrong began to leave. “Thanks.”

“All right. Where did we meet?”

“Hong Kong.” Robert Armstrong nodded politely and walked out, tall and gaunt. They saw him go through the office and take the door that led to the hangar and the back door to the S-G parking lot where he had left his nondescript car - McIver’s car was parked in front.

“Almost as though he’s been here before,” McIver said thoughtfully. “Hong Kong? Don’t remember him at all. Do you?”

“No.” McIver frowned. “I’ll ask Gen, she has a good memory for names.” “I’m not sure I like or trust Robert bloody Armstrong, whatever Talbot says.”

At noon they had gone to see Talbot to find out the who and the why of Armstrong. All George Talbot would say was, “Oh, he’s rather decent really, and we’d, er, we’d appreciate your giving him a lift, and er, not asking too many questions. You’ll stay for lunch, of course? We’ve still some rather good Dover sole, fresh frozen, plenty of caviar or smoked salmon if you wish, a couple of La Doucette ‘76 on ice - or bangers and mash with the house claret which I’d highly recommend if you prefer. Chocolate pudding or sherry trifle, and we’ve still half of a fairly decent Stilton. The whole world may be on fire, but at least we can watch it burn like gentlemen. How about a pink gin before lunch?”

Lunch had been very good. Talbot had said that Bakhtiar’s leaving the field for Bazargan and Khomeini might avert most trouble. “Now that there’s no chance of a coup, things should get back to normal, eventually.” “When do you think’s ‘eventually’?”

“When ‘they,’ whoever ‘they’ are, run out of ammunition. But, my dear old boy, whatever I think really doesn’t matter. It’s what Khomeini thinks that matters, and only God knows what Khomeini thinks.”

Gavallan remembered the shrill cackle of laughter that Talbot had let out at his own joke and smiled.

“What?” McIver asked.

“I was just remembering Talbot at lunch.”

The car was still a hundred yards away. “Talbot’s hiding a mountain of secrets. What do you think Armstrong wants to ‘chat’ about?” “Probably to divert us some more - after all, Mac, we did go to the embassy to enquire about him. Curious! Usually I don’t forget… Hong Kong? Seem to associate him with the races at Happy Valley. It’ll come back to me. I’ll say one thing for him, he’s punctual. I told him five o’clock and he was here - even though he seemed to come out of the woodwork.” Gavallan’s eyes twinkled under his heavy eyebrows, then went back to the incoming car that was drawing up outside. “Sure as God made Scotland he didn’t want to meet our friendly komiteh. I wonder why?”

The komiteh consisted of two armed youths, a mullah - not the same as yesterday - and Sabolir, the perspiring senior Immigration official, still very nervous.

“Good evening, Excellencies,” McIver said, his nostrils rebelling against their invading smell of stale sweat. “Would you care for tea?” “No, no, thank you,” Sabolir said. He was still very much on his guard, though he tried to hide it under a mask of arrogance. He sat down in the best chair. “We have new regulations for you.”

“Oh?” McIver had had dealings with him over a couple of years, and had provided an occasional case of whisky, fill-ups of gasoline, and, from time to time, free air travel - and accommodation - for him and his family on several summer vacations to Caspian resorts: “We booked rooms for some of our executives and they can’t use the space, dear Mr. Sabolir. It’s a pity to waste 378 the space, isn’t it?” Once he had arranged a week’s trip for two to Dubai. The girl had been young and very beautiful, and at Sabolir’s blunt suggestion was put on the S-G books as an Iranian expert. “What can we do for you?”

To their surprise Sabolir took out Gavallan’s passport and the previous clearance paper and put them on the desk: “Here are your passport and papers, er, approved,” he said, his voice automatically oily with officialdom. “The Imam has ordered normal operations to begin at once. The, er, the Islamic State of Iran is back to normal and the airport will reopen in, er, three days, for normal, preagreed traffic. You are to come back to normal now.” “We begin training the Iranian Air Force again?” McIver asked, hard put to keep the glee out of his voice, for this was a very big contract and very profitable.

Sabolir hesitated. “Yes, I presume y - ” “No,” the mullah said firmly in good English. “No - not until the Imam or the Revolutionary Komiteh agrees. I will see that you have a firm answer. I do not think this part of your operation will begin yet. Meanwhile your normal business - spares to your bases and their contract flights to assist IranOil resume oil production, or Iran-Timber and so on - provided the flights are approved in advance, may begin the day after tomorrow.” “Excellent,” Gavallan said, and McIver echoed him. “Replacement flight crews and oil rig crews, in and out - if approved in advance and provided their papers are in order,” the mullah continued, “will resume the day after tomorrow. Oil production is to be a priority. An Islamic Guard will accompany every internal flight.”

“If requested in advance, and the man is on time for the flight. But not armed,” McIver said politely, preparing for the inevitable clash. “Armed Islamic Guards will be carried for your protection to prevent hijacking by enemies of the state!” the mullah said sharply. “We will be very pleased to cooperate, Excellency,” Gavallan interrupted calmly, “very pleased indeed, but I’m sure you won’t wish to endanger life or jeopardize the Islamic state. I formally ask you to ask the Imam to agree to no guns whatever - clearly you have immediate access to his presence. Meanwhile all our aircraft are grounded until I have clearance, or clearance from my government.”

“You will not ground flights and you will become normal!” The mullah was very angry.

“Perhaps a compromise pending the Imam’s agreement: your guards have their guns but the captain holds the ammunition during the flight. Agreed?” The mullah hesitated.

Gavallan hardened. “The Imam ordered ALL weapons handed in, didn’t he?” “Yes. Very well, I agree.”

“Thank you. Mac, prepare the paper for His Excellency to sign and that takes care of it for all our lads. Now, we’ll need new flight papers, Excellency, the only ones we’ve got are the old, er, useless ones from the previous regime. Will you give us the necessary authority? You yourself, Excellency? Clearly you are a man of importance and you know what’s going on.” He watched as the mullah seemed to grow in stature with the flattery. The man was in his thirties, his beard was greasy and his clothes threadbare. From his accent Gavallan had pegged him an ex-British student, one of the thousands of Iranians that the Shah had sent abroad on grants for Western education. “You will of course give us new papers at once, to make us legal with the new era?”

“We, er, we will sign new documents for each of our aircraft, yes.” The mullah took some papers from his battered briefcase and put on a pair of old glasses, the lenses thick and one of them cracked. The paper he sought was at the bottom. “You have in your trust thirteen Iranian 212s, seven 206s, and four Alouettes in various places, all Iranian registry and owned by Iran Helicopter Company - that’s correct?”

Gavallan shook his head. “Not exactly. At the moment they’re still actually owned by S-G Helicopters of Aberdeen. Iran Helicopter Company, our joint venture with our Iranian partners, doesn’t own the aircraft until they’re paid for.”

The mullah frowned, then brought the paper closer to his eyes. “But the contract giving ownership to Iran Helicopter, which is an Iranian company, is signed, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s subject to payments which are… are in arrears.” “The Imam has said all debts will be paid so they will be paid.” “Of course, but meanwhile ownership passes on actual payment,” Gavallan continued carefully, while hoping against hope the tower would grant Johnny Hogg’s clever request for a landing tomorrow. I wonder if this mealymouthed bugger could order a clearance? he asked himself. If Khomeini’s ordered everything back to normal, it’ll go back to normal and I can safely return to London. With any luck I could close the ExTex contract that covers the new X63s’ lease payments by the weekend. “For months we’ve been making payments on behalf of IHC on all these aircraft, with interest, banking charges and so on out of our own funds and w - ”

“Islam forbids usury and the paying of interest,” the mullah said with a total finality that rocked Gavallan and McIver. “Banks may not charge interest. None. It is usury.”

Gavallan glanced at McIver, then uneasily turned his full attention to the mullah. “If banks cannot charge interest, how will business operate internally and externally?”

“According to Islamic law. Only Islamic law. The Koran forbids usury.” The mullah added distastefully, “What foreign banks do is evil - it’s because of them Iran had many troubles. Banks are evil institutions and will not be tolerated. As to Iran Helicopter Company, the Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh has ordered all joint ventures suspended, pending review.” The mullah waved the papers. “All these aircraft are Iranian, Iranian registry, Iranian!” Again he peered at the paper. “Here in Tehran you have three 212s, four 206s, and one 47G4 here at the airport, haven’t you?”

“They’re spread around,” McIver told him carefully, “here, Doshan Tappeh and Galeg Morghi.”

“But they’re all here, in Tehran?”

McIver had been gauging him while Gavallan had been talking, also trying to read upside down what the papers contained. The one in the mullah’s hand listed all their airplanes with their registration numbers and was a copy of the manifest that was kept permanently in the tower, that S-G was obliged to keep permanently up to date. His stomach twisted nastily when he glimpsed EP-HBC ringed in red - Lochart’s 212 - also EP-HFC, Pettikin’s 206. “We’ve one 212 on loan to Bandar Delam,” he said, deciding to play it safe, inwardly cursing Valik and hoping that Tom Lochart was either at Bandar Delam or safely on the way home. “The rest’re here.”

“On loan - that would be EP - EP-HBC?” the mullah said, very pleased with himself. “Now, wh - ” The traffic controller’s voice interrupted him: “EchoTangoLimaLima, request refused. Call Isfahan on 118.3 - good day.” “Quite right - good.” The mullah nodded, satisfied.

Gavallan and McIver cursed inwardly even more, and Sabolir, who had been silently watching and listening to the byplay, understanding very clearly how the two men were trying to manipulate the mullah, chortled to himself, carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes, staring at the floor for safety. Once, a moment ago, when the mullah’s attention was elsewhere, he had deftly caught McIver’s eye and half smiled at him, encouragingly, pretending friendship, petrified McIver would misconstrue all those previous favors which were only repayment for his smoothing the way of inbound spares and outbound crews. On the radio this morning, a spokesman for the “Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh” had urged all loyal citizens to denounce anyone who had committed crimes “against Islam.” During today three of his colleagues had been arrested which had sent a shudder of horror through the whole airport. Islamic Guards gave no specific reasons, just dragged the men away and put them into Evin Jail - the loathed SAVAK prison - where, it was rumored, half a hundred “enemies of Islam” had been shot today after summary trials. One of those arrested was one of his own men who had accepted the 10,000 rials and the three 5-gallon cans of gasoline from McIver’s storeroom yesterday - the man had kept one, and the other two he himself had correctly taken home last night as was his due. Oh, God, let them not search my house.

Over the HF was Johnny Hogg, his voice still breezy: “EchoTangoLimaLima, thank you. Up the revolution and good day.” Then on their own channel, tersely: “HQ confirm.”

McIver reached over and switched to their channel. “Standby One!” he ordered, deeply conscious of the mullah. “Do you thi - ”

“Ah. You talk direct with the aircraft - a private channel?” “Company channel, Excellency. It’s normal practice.”

“Normal. Yes. So EP-HBC is at Bandar Delam?” the mullah said and read from the paper: ” ‘Delivering spares.’ Is that right?”

“Yes,” McIver said, praying.

“When is this aircraft due to return?”

McIver could feel the weight of the mullah’s attention on him. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to raise Bandar Delam. As soon as I can, I’ll tell you. Now, Excellency, about clearances for our various flights, do you th - ”

“EP-HFC. EP-HFC is in Tabriz?”

“She’s at the small Forsha airstrip,” McIver said, not feeling very good at all, praying that the madness at the Qazvin roadblock had gone unreported and would be forgotten. Again he wondered where Erikki was - he was supposed to have met them at the apartment at three o’clock to come out to the airport but had never appeared.

“Forsha airstrip?”

He saw the mullah staring at him and concentrated with an effort. “EP-HFC went to Tabriz on Saturday to deliver spares and pick up a crew change. She returned last night. She’ll be on the new manifest tomorrow.” The mullah was suddenly grim. “But any incoming or outgoing aircraft must be instantly reported. We have no record of any inward clearance yesterday.” “Captain Pettikin couldn’t raise Tehran ATC yesterday. The military were in charge, I believe. He tried calling all the way inbound.” McIver added quickly, “If we’re to resume operations, who will authorize our IranOil flights? Mr. Darius as usual?”

“Er, yes, I would think so. But why wasn’t its arrival reported today?” Gavallan said with a forced brightness, “I’m very impressed with your efficiency, Excellency. It’s a pity the military air traffic controllers on duty yesterday don’t share it. I can see the new Islamic republic will far surpass any Western operation. It will be a pleasure to serve our new employers. Up the new! May we know your name?”

“I, I’m Mohammed Tehrani,” the man said, diverted again.

“Then Excellency Tehrani, may I ask that you give us the benefit of your authority? If my Echo Tango Lima Lima could have your permission to land tomorrow, we could immeasurably improve our efficiency to parallel your own. I can then make sure our company gives the Ayatollah Khomeini and his personal assistants - like yourself - the service he and they have a right to expect. The spares ETLL will carry will put back two more 212s into operation and I can return to London to increase our support for the Great Revolution. Of course, you agree?”

“It’s not possible. The komiteh w - ”

“I’m sure the komiteh would take your advice. Oh, I noticed you’ve had the misfortune to break your glasses. Terrible. I can hardly see without mine. Perhaps I could have the 125 bring a new pair for your tomorrow from Al Shargaz?”

The mullah was unsettled. His eyes were very bad. The wish for new glasses, good glasses, almost overpowered him. Oh, it would be an unbelievable treasure, a gift from God. Surely God has put this thought into the foreigner’s head. “I don’t think… I don’t know. The komiteh couldn’t do what you ask so quickly.”

“I know it’s difficult, but if you’d intercede for us with your komiteh, surely they’d listen. It would help us immeasurably and we’d be in your debt,” Gavallan added, using the time-honored phrase that in any language meant, what do you want in exchange? He saw McIver switch to the tower frequency, offer the mike. “You press the button to talk, Excellency, if you would honor us with your assistance….”

The mullah Tehrani hesitated, not knowing what to do. As he looked at the mike, McIver glanced at Sabolir, pointedly.

Sabolir understood at once, his reflexes perfect. “Of course whatever you decide, Excellency Tehrani, your komiteh will agree,” he said, his voice unctuous. “But tomorrow, tomorrow I understand you are ordered to visit the other airfields, to make sure where and how many civilian helicopters are in your area which is all Tehran? Yes?”

“Those are orders, yes,” the mullah agreed. “I and some members of my komiteh have to visit the other airfields tomorrow.”

Sabolir sighed heavily, pretending disappointment, and McIver had difficulty not laughing so overplayed was the performance. “Unfortunately it would not be possible for you to visit them all by car or foot and still be back to supervise, personally, the arrival and immediate turnaround of this single aircraft that has, through no fault of its own, been turned away because of arrogant traffic controllers in Kish and Isfahan who dared not to consult you first.”

“True, true,” the mullah agreed. “They were at fault!”

“Would 7:00 A.M. suit you, Excellency Tehrani?” McIver said at once. “We’d be glad to help our airport komiteh. I’ll give you my best pilot and you’ll be back in plenty of time to, er, to supervise the turnaround. How many men would come with you?”

“Six …” the mullah said absently, overwhelmed with the idea of being able to complete his orders - God’s work - so conveniently and luxuriously, like a veritable ayatollah. “This… this could be done?”

“Of course!” McIver said. “At 7:00 A.M. here. Captain, er, Chief Captain Nathaniel Lane will have a 212 ready. Seven including yourself, and up to seven wives. You of course would fly in the cockpit with the pilot. Consider it arranged.”

The mullah had only flown twice in his life - to England and university and home again, packed into a special, student-charter Iran Air flight. He beamed and reached for the mike: “At 7:00 A.M.”

McIver and Gavallan did not betray their relief at their victory. Nor did Sabolir.

Sabolir was content that the mullah was entrapped. As God wants! Now if I’m falsely accused, now I have an ally, he told himself. This fool, this son of a dog false mullah, hasn’t he accepted a bribe - clearly not pishkesh - two in fact, some new glasses and wasteful, unauthorized air travel? Hasn’t he deliberately allowed himself to become the dupe of these glib and ever-devious English who still think they can seduce us with trinkets and steal our heritage for a few rials? Listen to the fool, giving the foreigners what they want!

He glanced at McIver. Pointedly. And caught his eye. Then once more looked back at the floor. Now you arrogant Western son of a dog, he thought, what valuable favor should you do for me in return for my assistance?

AT THE FRENCH CLUB: 7:10 P.M. Gavallan accepted the glass of red wine from the uniformed French waiter, McIver, the white.

Both touched glasses and drank gratefully, tired after their journey from the airport. They were sitting in the lounge with other guests, mostly Europeans, men and women, overlooking the snow-covered gardens and tennis courts, the chairs comfortable and modern, the bar extensive - many other rooms for banquets, dancing, dining, cards, sauna in other parts of this fine building that was in the best part of Tehran. The French Club was the only expat club still functioning - the American Services Club, with its huge complex of entertainment facilities, sports field, and baseball pitch, as well as the British, Pars-American, German clubs, and most others had been closed, their bars and stocks of liquor smashed.

“My God, that’s good,” McIver said, the ice-cold, cleansing wine taking away the dross. “Don’t tell Gen we stopped by.”

“No need to, Mac. She’ll know.”

McIver nodded. “You’re right, never mind. I managed to book here tonight for dinner - costs an arm and a leg but worth it. Used to be standing room only at this time of night…” He looked around at a burst of laughter from some Frenchmen in a far corner. “For a moment it sounded like JeanLuc, seems years since we had his pre-Christmas party here - wonder if we’ll ever have another.”

“Sure you will,” Gavallan said to encourage him, concerned that the fire seemed to be out of his old friend. “Don’t let that mullah get to you.” “He gave me the creeps - so did Armstrong come to think of it. And Talbot. But you’re right, Andy, I shouldn’t let it get me down. We’re in better shape than we were two days ago…” More laughter distracted him and he began thinking of all the great times he had had here with Genny and Pettikin and Lochart - won’t think about him now - and all the other pilots and their many friends, British, American, Iranian. All gone, most gone. It used to be: “Gen, let’s go over to the French Club, the tennis finals are this afternoon…” Or: “Valik’s cocktail party’s on from 8:00 P.M. at the Iranian Officers Club…” Or: “There’s a polo match, baseball match, swimming party, skiing party…” Or: “Sorry, can’t this weekend we’re going to the ambassador’s do on the Caspian…” Or: “I’d love to, Genny can’t, she’s shopping for carpets in Isfahan…” “It used to be we had so much to do here, Andy, the social life was the best ever, no doubt about that,” he said. “Now it’s hard just trying to keep in touch with our ops.”

Gavallan nodded. “Mac,” he said kindly, “straight answer to a straight question: Do you want to quit Iran and let someone else take over?” McIver stared at him blankly. “Good God, whatever gave you that idea? No, absolutely no! You mean you think because I was a bit down that… Good God, no,” he said, but his mind was suddenly jerked into asking the same question, unthinkable a few days ago: are you losing it, your will, your grip, your need to continue - is it time to quit? I don’t know, he thought, achingly chilled by the truth, but his face smiled. “Everything’s fine, Andy. Nothing we can’t deal with.”

“Good. Sorry, I hope you didn’t mind me asking. I think I was encouraged by the mullah - except when he was talking about ‘our Iranian aircraft.’” “The truth is that Valik and the partners’ve been acting like our aircraft were theirs ever since we signed that contract.”

“Thank God it’s a British contract, enforceable under British law.” Gavallan glanced over McIver’s shoulder and his eyes widened slightly. The girl coming into the room was in her late twenties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and stunning. McIver followed his glance, brightened, and got up. “Hello, Sayada,” he said, beckoning her. “May I introduce Andrew Gavallan? Andy, this’s Sayada Bertolin, a friend of JeanLuc. Would you like to join us?” “Thanks, Mac, but no, sorry I can’t, I’m just about to play squash with a friend. You’re looking well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gavallan.” She put out her hand and Gavallan shook it. “Sorry, got to dash, give my love to Genny.” They sat down again. “Same again, waiter, please,” Gavallan said. “Mac, between you and me, that bird’s made me feel positively weak!” McIver laughed. “Usually it’s the reverse! She’s certainly very popular, works in the Kuwaiti embassy, she’s Lebanese and JeanLuc’s smitten.” “My word, I don’t blame him…” Gavallan’s smile faded. Robert Armstrong was coming through the far doorway with a tall, strong-faced Iranian in his fifties. He saw Gavallan, nodded briefly, then continued with his conversation and led the way out and up the stairs where there were other lounges and rooms. “Wonder what the devil that man’s g - ” Gavallan stopped as recollection flooded his mind. “Robert Armstrong, chief superintendent CID Kowloon, that’s who he is… or was!”

“CID? You’re sure?”

“Yes, CID or Special Branch… wait a minute… he, yes, that’s right, he was a friend of Ian’s come to think of it, that’s where I met him, at the Great House on the Peak, not at the races, though I might have seen him there too with Ian. If I remember rightly it was the night Quillan Gornt came as a very unwelcome guest… can’t remember exactly, but I think it was Ian and Penelope’s anniversary party, just before I left Hong Kong … my God, that’s almost sixteen years ago, no wonder I didn’t remember him.”

“I had the feeling he remembered you the instant we met at the airport yesterday.”

“So did I.” They finished their drinks and left, both of them curiously unsettled.

TEHRAN UNIVERSITY: 7:32 P.M. The rally of over a thousand leftist students in the forecourt quadrangle was noisy and dangerous, too many factions, too many zealots, and too many of them armed. It was cold and damp, not yet dark, though already there were a few lights and torches in the twilight. Rakoczy was at the back of the crowd, melded into it, haphazardly dressed like the others, looking like them though now his cover had been changed and he was no longer Smith or Fedor Rakoczy, the Russian Muslim, the Islamic-Marxist sympathizer, but here in Tehran had reverted to Dimitri Yazernov, Soviet representative on the Tudeh Central Committee - a post he had had from time to time over the past few years. He stood in a corner of the quadrangle with five of the Tudeh student leaders, out of the sharpening wind, his assault rifle over his shoulder, armed and ready, and he was waiting for the first gun to go off. “Any moment now,” he said softly.

“Dimitri, who do I take out first?” one of the leaders asked nervously. “The mujhadin - that motherless bastard, the one over there,” he said patiently, pointing at the black-bearded man, much older than the others. “Take your time, Farmad, and follow my lead. He’s professional and PLO.” The others stared at him astonished. “Why him if he’s PLO?” Farmad asked. He was squat, almost misshapen, with a large head and small intelligent eyes. “The PLO have been our great friends over the years, giving us training and support and arms.”

“Because now the PLO will support Khomeini,” he explained patiently. “Hasn’t Khomeini invited Arafat here next week? Hasn’t he given the PLO the Israeli mission headquarters as its permanent headquarters? The PLO can supply all the technicians that Bazargan and Khomeini need to replace the Israelis and the Americans - especially in the oil fields. You don’t want Khomeini strong, do you?”

“No, but the PLO have been v - ”

“Iran isn’t Palestine. Palestinians should stay in Palestine. You won the revolution. Why give strangers your victory?”

“But the PLO have been our allies,” Farmad persisted, and Rakoczy was glad that he had found the flaw before some measure of power was passed over to this man.

“Allies who have become enemies have no value. Remember the aim.” “I agree with Comrade Dimitri,” another said, an edge to his voice, his eyes cold and very hard. “We don’t want PLO giving orders here. If you don’t want to take him out, Farmad, I will. All of them and all the Green Band dogs too!”

“The PLO’re not to be trusted,” Rakoczy said, continuing the same lesson, planting the same seeds. “Look how they vacillate and change positions even on their home ground, one moment saying they’re Marxist, the next Muslim, the next flirting with the archtraitor Sadat then attacking him. We have documents to prove it,” he added, the disinformation fitting in perfectly, “and documents that prove they plan to assassinate King Hussein, and take over Jordan and make a separate peace with Israel and America. They’ve had secret meetings with the CIA and Israel already. They’re not truly anti-Israel…”

Ah, Israel, he was thinking as he let his mouth continue the well-thought- out lesson, how important you are to Mother Russia, set there so nicely in the cauldron, a perpetual irritant guaranteed to enrage all Muslims forever, particularly the oh so oil rich sheikdoms, guaranteed to set all Muslims against all Christians, our prime enemy - your American, British, and French allies - meanwhile to curb their power and keep them and the West off-balance while we consume vital prizes - Iran this year, Afghanistan also, Nicaragua next year, then Panama and others, always to the same plan: possession of the Strait of Hormuz, Panama, Constantinople, and the treasure chest of South Africa. Ah, Israel, you’re a trump card for us to play in the world Monopoly game. But never to discard or sell! We’ll not forsake you! Oh, we’ll let you lose many battles but never the war, we’ll allow you to starve but not to die, we’ll permit your banking compatriots to finance us and therefore their own destruction, we’ll suffer you to bleed America to death, we’ll strengthen our enemies - but not too much - and assist you to be raped. But don’t worry, we’ll never let you disappear. Oh, no! Never. You’re far too valuable.

“PLOs are arrogant and full of themselves,” a tall student said darkly, “and never polite and never conscious of Iran’s importance in the world and know nothing of our ancient history.”

“True! They’re peasants and they’ve parasited themselves throughout the Middle East and our Gulf, taking the best jobs.” “Yes,” another agreed. “They’re worse than the Jews…” Rakoczy laughed to himself. He enjoyed his job very much, enjoyed working with university students - always a fertile field - enjoyed being a teacher. But that’s what I am, he thought contentedly, a professor of terrorism, of power and the seizing of power. Perhaps I’m more like a farmer: I plant the seed, nurture it, guard it, and harvest it, working all hours and all seasons as a farmer must. Some years are good and some bad but every year a little further forward, a little more experienced, a little wiser about the land, ever more patient - spring summer autumn winter - always the same farm, Iran, always with the same aim: at best for Iran to become Russian soil, at worst a Russian satellite to protect the sacred motherland of Russia. With our foot on the Strait of Hormuz…

Ah, he thought, an unearthly, consuming religious glow pervading him, if I could give Iran to Mother Russia my life will not have been lived in vain. The West deserves to lose, particularly the Americans. They’re such fools, so egocentric, but most of all so stupid. It’s inconceivable this Carter doesn’t see the value of Hormuz in general and Iran in particular and what a catastrophe to the West their loss will be. But there it is; for all practical purposes he’s given us Iran. Rakoczy remembered the shock wave of disbelief that had soared to the very top when their innermost contacts in Washington had whispered that Carter was going to forsake the Shah. Ah, what an ally Carter has been to us. If I believed in God I’d pray: God is Great, God is Great, protect our best ally, President Peanut, and let him win a second term! With him in for a second term we’ll own America and so rule the world! God is Great, God is… Abruptly he felt chilled. He had been pretending to be Muslim for so long that sometimes his cover overcame his real self, and he began to question and have doubts.

Am I still Igor Mzytryk, captain KGB, married to my darling Delaurah, my oh so beautiful Armenian, who’s waiting in Tbilisi for me to come home? Is she at home, she who oh so secretly believes in God - the God of the Christians that is the same as the God of the Muslims and of the Jews? God. God who has a thousand names. Is there a God?

There is no God, he told himself like a litany, and put that thought back into its compartment and concentrated on the riot to be.

Around them tension was growing nicely among the massed students, angry cries raging back and forth: “We didn’t spill our blood for mullahs to take all the power! Unite, brothers and sisters! Unite under the Tudeh banners…”

“Down with the Tudeh! Unite for the holy Islamic-Marxist cause, we mujhadin spilled our blood and we are the martyrs of Imam Ali, Lord of the Martyrs, and Lenin…”

“Down with the mullahs and Khomeini, archtraitor to Iran…” Vast cheers greeted this shout and others took it up, then gradually, again the dominating voice was: “Unite, brothers and sisters, unite to the real leaders of the revolution, the Tudeh, unite to protect th - ” Rakoczy watched the crowd critically. It was still in pieces, formless, not yet a mob that could be directed and used as a weapon. Some bystanders, Islamics, watched and listened with varying degrees of contempt or rage. The few moderates shook then-heads and walked away, leaving the stage to the vast majority who were deeply committed and anti-Khomeini. Around them the buildings were tall, and brick, the university built by Reza Shah in the thirties. Five years ago Rakoczy had spent a few terms here pretending to be an Azerbaijani though the Tudeh knew him as Dimitri Yazernov and that he had been sent - continuing a pattern - to organize university cells. Since its beginning the university was always a place of dissension, anti-Shah, although Mohammed Shah, more than any monarch in Persia’s history, had lavishly supported education. The Tehran students had been the vanguard of the rebellion, long before Khomeini had become the coalescing core.

Without Khomeini, we’d never’ve succeeded, he thought. Khomeini was the flame around which we could all cluster and unite to tip the Shah off the throne and the U.S. out. He’s not senile or a bigot as many say but a ruthless leader with a dangerously clear plan, a dangerously great charisma, and dangerously huge power among the Shi’ites - so now it’s time he joined the god that never was.

Rakoczy laughed suddenly. “What is it?” Farmad asked.

“I was just thinking what Khomeini and all the mullahs will say when they discover there’s no god and never was a god - there’s no heaven, no hell, no houris, and it’s all a myth.”

The others laughed too. One didn’t. Ibrahim Kyabi. There was no laughter left in him, just the wish for revenge. When he had gone home yesterday afternoon he had discovered his house in turmoil, his mother prostrate in tears, his brothers and sisters in anguish. The news had just arrived that his engineer father had been murdered by Islamic Guards outside his IranOil HQ at Ahwaz and that his body had been left to the vultures. “For what?” he had screamed.

“For - for crimes against Islam,” his uncle, Dewar Kyabi, who had brought home the terrible news, said through his own tears. “That’s what they told us - his murderers. They were from Abadan, fanatics, illiterates mostly, and they told us that he was an American quisling, that for years he had cooperated with the enemies of Islam, allowing and helping them to steal our oil, th - ”

“Lies, all lies,” Ibrahim had shouted at him. “Father was anti-Shah, a patriot - a Believer! Who were those dogs? Who? I will bum them and their fathers. What were their names?”

“It was the Will of God, Ibrahim, that they did it. Insha’Allah! Oh, my poor brother! The Will of God…” “There is no God!”

The others had stared at him, shocked. This was the first time Ibrahim had articulated a thought that had been building for many years, nurtured by student friends returning from overseas, friends at the university, fed by some of the teachers who had never said this openly, merely encouraging them to question anything and everything.

“Insha’Allah is for fools,” he had said, “a curse of superstition for fools to hide under!”

“You mustn’t say that, my son!” his mother had cried out, frightened. “Go to the mosque, beg God’s forgiveness - that your father is dead is the Will of God, nothing more. Go to the mosque.”

“I will,” he had said, but in his heart he knew his life had changed - no God could have allowed this to happen. “Who were those men, Uncle? Describe them.”

“They were just ordinary, Ibrahim, as I already told you, younger than you, most of them - there was no leader or mullah with them, though there was one in the foreigners’ helicopter that came from Bandar Delam. But my poor brother died cursing Khomeini; if only he hadn’t come back by the foreigners’ helicopters, if only… but then, Insha’Allah, they were waiting for him anyway.”

“There was a mullah in the helicopter?”

“Yes, yes, there was.”

“You will go to the mosque, Ibrahim?” his mother had asked him again. “Yes,” he had said, the first lie he had ever told her. It had taken him no time to find the university Tudeh leaders and Dimitri Yazernov, to swear allegiance, to get a machine gun, and, most of all, to ask them to find the name of the mullah in the helicopter of Bandar Delam. And now he stood there waiting, wanting vengeance, his soul crying out against the outrage committed against his father in the name of the false god. “Dimitri, let’s begin!” he said, his fury whipped by the shouting of the crowd. “We must wait, Ibrahim,” Rakoczy said gently, very pleased to have the youth with them. “Don’t forget the mob is a means to an end - remember the plan!” When he had told it to them an hour ago they had been tunned. “Raid the American embassy?”

“Yes,” he had said calmly, “a quick raid, in and out, tomorrow or the next day. Tonight the rally will become a mob. The embassy’s hardly a mile and a half away. It will be easy to send the mob rampaging that way as an experiment. What more perfect cover could we have for a raid than a riot? We let the enemy mujhadin and fedayeen go against Islamics and kill each other off while we take the initiative. Tonight we plant more seeds. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll raid the U.S. embassy.”

“But it’s impossible, Dimitri, impossible!”

“It’s easy. Just a raid, not an attempt at a takeover, that will come later. A raid will be unexpected, it’s simple to execute. You can easily grab the embassy for an hour, hold the ambassador and everyone captive for an hour or so while you sack it. Americans do not have the will to resist. That’s the key to them! Here are the plans of the buildings and the numbers of marines and I will be there to help. Your coup will be immense - it will hit world headlines and totally embarrass Bazargan and Khomeini, and even more the Americans. Don’t forget who the real enemy is and that now you have to act fast to grab the initiative from Khomeini. …”

It had been easy to convince them. It will be easy to create the diversion, he thought. And it’ll be easy to go straight to the CIA basement office and radio room, blow the safe, and empty it of all documents and cipher books, then up the back stairs to the second landing, turn left, into the third room on the left, the ambassador’s bedroom, to the safe behind the oil painting hanging over the bed, blow that and empty it similarly. Sudden, swift, and violent - if there’s any opposition.

“Dimitri! Look!”

Rakoczy spun around. Coming down the road were hundreds of youths - Green Bands and mullahs at the head. At once Rakoczy roared, “Death to Khomeini!” and fired a burst into the air. The suddenness of the shots whipped everyone into a frenzy, there were shouts and countershouts, simultaneously other guns went off all over the quadrangle, and everyone began to scatter, trampling over one another in their haste, the screams beginning. Before he could stop him, he saw Ibrahim aim at the oncoming Green Bands and fire. Some men in the front rank went down, a howl of rage burst from them, and guns opened up in their direction. He dived to the ground, cursing. The torrent of bullets missed him but got Farmad and others nearby but not Ibrahim and the remaining three Tudeh leaders. He shouted at them and they all hugged the cement as panic-stricken students opened up with carbines and pistols.

Many were wounded before the big mujhadin Rakoczy had marked for execution rallied his men around him and led a charge at the Islamics and drove them back. At once others came to his aid and the retreat became a rout, a roar went through the students, and the rally became a mob.

Rakoczy grabbed Ibrahim who was just about to charge off mindlessly. “Follow me!” he ordered, half shoved Ibrahim and the others farther into the lee of the building, then, when he was sure they were with him, took to his heels in a frantic, chest-hurting retreat.

At a junction of paths in the snow-covered gardens, he stopped a moment to catch his breath. The wind was chill and night on them now. “What about Farmad?” Ibrahim gasped. “He was wounded!”

“No,” he said, “he was dying. Come on!”

Again he led the rush unerringly through the garden, along the street near the scientific faculty, across the parking lot into the next, and he did not stop till the sound of the riot was distant. There was a stitch in his side and his breathing came in great pants, tearing at him. When he could speak, he said, “Don’t worry about anything. Go back to your homes or your dormitories. Get everyone ready for the raid, tomorrow or the next day - the committee will give the order.” He hurried away into the gathering night.

AT LOCHART’S APARTMENT: 7:30 P.M. Sharazad was lying in a foam bath, her head propped on a waterproof pillow, eyes closed, her hair tied up in a towel. “Oh, Azadeh, darling,” she said drowsily, perspiration beading her forehead, “I’m so happy.”

Azadeh was also in the bath and she lay with her head at the other end, enjoying the heat and the intimacy and the sweet perfumed water and the luxury - her long hair also up in a pure white towel - the bath large and deep and comfortable for two. But there were still dark rings under her eyes, and she could not shake off the terrors of yesterday at the roadblock or in the helicopter. Outside the curtains, night had come. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Neither paid it any attention.

“I wish Erikki would come back,” Azadeh said.

“He won’t be long, there’s lots of time, darling. Dinner’s not till nine, so we’ve almost two hours to get ready.” Sharazad opened her eyes and put her hand on Azadeh’s slender thighs, enjoying the touch of her. “Don’t worry, darling Azadeh, he’ll be back soon, your redheaded giant! And don’t forget I’m spending the night with my parents so you two can run naked together all night long! Enjoy our bath, be happy, and swoon when he returns.” They laughed together. “Everything’s wonderful now, you’re safe, we’re all safe, Iran’s safe - with the Help of God the Imam has conquered and Iran’s safe and free.”

“I wish I could believe it, I wish I could believe it as you do,” Azadeh said. “I can’t explain how terrible those people near the roadblock were - it was as though I was being choked by their hate. Why should they hate us - hate me and Erikki? What had we done to them? Nothing at all and yet they hated us.”

“Don’t think about them, my dear one.” Sharazad stifled a yawn. “Leftists are all mad, claiming to be Muslim and at the same time Marxist. They’re anti-God and therefore cursed. The villagers? Villagers are uneducated as you know too well, and most of them simple. Don’t worry - that’s past, now everything is going to be better, you’ll see.”

“I hope, oh, how I hope you’re right. I don’t want it better but just as it was, normal, like it’s always been, normal again.”

“Oh, it will be.” Sharazad felt so contented, the water so silky and so warm and womblike. Ah, she thought, only three more days to be sure and then Tommy tells Father that oh, yes, of course he wants sons and daughters, and then, the next day, the great day, I should know for certain though I’m certain now. Haven’t I always been so regular? Then I can give Tommy my gift of God and he’ll be so proud. “The Imam does the Work of God. How can it be otherwise than good?”

“I don’t know, Sharazad, but never in our history have mullahs been worthy of trust - just parasites on the back of the villagers.”

“Ah, but now it’s different,” Sharazad told her, not really wanting to discuss such serious matters. “Now we have a real leader. Now he’s in control of Iran for the first time ever. Isn’t he the most pious of men, the most learned of Islam and the law? Doesn’t he do God’s work? Hasn’t he achieved the impossible, throwing out the Shah and his nasty corruption, stopping the generals from making a coup with the Americans? Father says we’re safer now than we’ve ever been.”

“Are we?” Azadeh remembered Rakoczy in the chopper and what he had said about Khomeini and stepping backward in history, and she knew he had spoken the truth, a lot of truth, and she had clawed at him, hating him, wanting him dead, for of course he was one of those who would use the simpleminded mullahs to enslave everyone else. “You want to be ruled by Islamic laws of the Prophet’s time, almost fifteen hundred years ago - enforced chador, the loss of our hard-won rights of voting, working, and being equal?”

“I don’t want to vote, or work, or be equal - how can a woman equal a man? I just want to be a good wife to Tommy, and in Iran I prefer the chador on the streets.” Delicately Sharazad covered another yawn, drowsed by the warmth. “Insha”Allah, Azadeh, darling. Of course everything will be as before but Father says more wonderful because now we possess ourselves, our land, our oil, and everything in our land. There’ll be no nasty foreign generals or politicians to disgrace us and with the evil Shah gone, we’ll all live happily ever after, you with your Erikki, me with my Tommy, and lots and lots of children. How else could it be? God is with the Imam and the Imam is with us! We’re so lucky.” She smiled at her and put her arm around her friend’s legs affectionately. “I’m so glad you’re staying with me, Azadeh. It seems such a long time since you were in Tehran.”

“Yes.” They had been friends for many years. First in Switzerland where they had met at school, up in the High Country, though Sharazad had only stayed one term, unhappy to be away from her family and Iran, then later at the university in Tehran. And now, for a little over a year, because both had married foreigners in the same company, they had become even closer, closer than sisters, helping each other adapt to foreign idiosyncrasies: “Sometimes I just don’t understand my Tommy at all, Azadeh,” Sharazad had said tearfully in the beginning. “He enjoys being alone, I mean quite alone, just him and me, the house empty, not even one servant - he even told me he likes to be alone by himself, just reading, no family around or children, no conversation or friends. Oh, sometimes it’s just awful.”

“Erikki’s just the same,” Azadeh had said. “Foreigners aren’t like us - they’re very strange. I want to spend days with friends and children and family, but Erikki doesn’t. It’s good that Erikki and Tommy work during the days - you’re luckier, Tommy’s off for two weeks at a time when you can be normal. Another thing, you know, Sharazad, it took me months to get used to sleeping in a bed an - ”

“I never could! Oh, so high off the floor, so easy to fall off, always a huge dip on his side, so you’re always uncomfortable and you wake up with an ache in your back. A bed’s so awful compared with soft quilts on beautiful carpets on the floor, so comfortable and civilized.”

“Yes. But Erikki won’t use quilts and carpets? he insists on a bed. He just won’t try it anymore - sometimes it’s such a relief when he’s away.” “Oh, we sleep correctly now, Azadeh. I stopped the nonsense of a Western bed after the first month.”

“How did you do it?”

“Oh, I’d sigh all night long and keep my poor darling awake - then I’d sleep during the day to be fresh again to sigh all night long.” Sharazad had laughed delightedly. “Seven nights and my darling collapsed, slept like a baby for the next three nights correctly, and now he always sleeps like a civilized person should - he even does so when he’s at Zagros! Why don’t you try it? I guarantee you’ll be successful, darling, particularly if you also complain just a tiny bit that the bed has caused a backache and of course you would still adore to make love but please be a little careful.”

Azadeh had laughed. “My Erikki’s cleverer than your Tommy - when Erikki tried the quilts on our carpet he sighed all night and turned and turned and kept me awake - I was so exhausted after three nights I quite liked the bed. When I visit my family I sleep civilized, though when Erikki’s at the palace we use a bed. You know, darling, another problem: I love my Erikki but sometimes he’s so rude I almost die. He keeps saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when I ask him something - how can you have a conversation after yes or no?”

She smiled to herself now. Yes, it’s very difficult living with him, but living without him now is unthinkable - all his love and good humor and size and strength and always doing what I want but only just a little too easily, so I have little chance to sharpen my wiles. “We’re both very lucky, Sharazad, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yes, darling. Can you stay for a week or two - even if Erikki has to go back, you stay, please?”

“I’d like to. When Erikki gets back… perhaps I’ll ask him.” Sharazad shifted in the bath, moving the bubbles over her breasts, blowing them off her hands. “Mac said they’d come here from the airport if they were delayed. Genny’s coming straight from the apartment but not before nine - I also asked Paula to join us, the Italian girl, but not for Nogger, for Charlie.” She chuckled. “Charlie almost swoons when she just looks at him!” “Charlie Pettikin? Oh, but that’s wonderful. Oh, that’s very good. Then we should help him - we owe him so much! Let’s help him snare the sexy Italian!”

“Wonderful! Let’s plan how to give Paula to him.”

“As a mistress or wife?”

“Mistress. Well… let me think! How old is she? She must be at least twenty-seven. Do you think she’d make him a good wife? He should have a wife. All the girls Tommy and I have shown him discreetly, he just smiles and shrugs - I even brought my third cousin who was fifteen, thinking that would tempt him, but nothing. Oh, good, now we have something to plan. We’ve plenty of time to plan and dress and get ready - and I’ve some lovely dresses for you to choose from.”

“It feels so strange, Sharazad, not to have anything - anything. Money, papers…” For an instant Azadeh was back in the Range Rover near the roadblock, and there before her was the fat-faced mujhadin who had stolen their papers, his machine gun blazing as Erikki rammed him against the other car, crushing him like a cockroach, blood and filth squeezed from his mouth. “Having nothing,” she said, forcing the bad away, “not even a lipstick.” “Never mind, I’ve lots of everything. And Tommy‘11 be so pleased to have you and Erikki here. He doesn’t like me to be alone either. Poor darling, don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

I don’t feel safe at all, Azadeh told herself, hating the fear that was so alien to her whole upbringing - that even now seemed to take away the warmth of the water. I haven’t felt safe since we left Rakoczy on the ground and even that had only lasted a moment, the ecstasy of escaping that devil - me, Erikki, and Charlie unhurt. Even the joy of finding a car with gasoline in it at the little airstrip didn’t take my fear away. I hate being afraid. She ducked down a little in the tub, then reached up and turned on the hot-water tap, swirling the hot currents.

“That feels so good,” Sharazad murmured, the foam heavy, and the water sensuous. “I’m so pleased you wanted to stay.”

Last evening, by the time Azadeh, Erikki, and Charlie had reached McIver’s apartment it was after dark. They had found Gavallan there, so no room for them - Azadeh had been too frightened to want to stay in her father’s apartment, even with Erikki - so she had asked Sharazad if they could move in with her until Lochart returned. Sharazad had delightedly agreed at once, glad for the company. Everything had begun to be fine and then, during dinner, there was gunfire nearby, making her jump.

“No need to worry, Azadeh,” McIver had said. “Just a few hotheads letting off steam, celebrating probably. Didn’t you hear Khomeini’s order to lay down all arms?” Everyone agreeing and Sharazad saying, “The Imam will be obeyed,” always referring to Khomeini as “the Imam,” almost associating him with the Twelve Imams of Shi’ism - the direct descendants of Mohammed the Prophet, near divinity - surely a sacrilege: “But what the Imam’s accomplished is almost a miracle, isn’t it?” Sharazad had said with her beguiling innocence. “Surely our freedom’s a gift of God?” Then so warm and toasty in bed with Erikki, but him strange and brooding and not the Erikki she had known. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, Azadeh, nothing. Tomorrow I’ll make a plan. There was no time tonight to talk to Mac or Gavallan. Tomorrow we’ll make a plan, now sleep, my darling.”

Twice in the night she had awakened from violent dreams, trembling and terrified, crying out for Erikki.

“It’s all right, Azadeh, I’m here. It was only a dream, you’re quite safe now.”

“No, no, we’re not. I don’t feel safe, Erikki - what’s happening to me? Let’s go back to Tabriz, or let’s go away, go away from these awful people.” In the morning Erikki had left her to join McIver and Gavallan, and she had slept some more but gathered little strength from the sleep. Passing the rest of the morning daydreaming or hearing Sharazad’s news about going to Galeg Morghi, or listening to the hourly crop of rumors from her servants: many more generals shot, many new arrests, the prisons burst open by mobs, Western hotels set on fire or shot up. Rumors of Bazargan taking the reins of government, mujhadin in open rebellion in the south, Kurds rebelling in the north, Azerbaijan declaring independence, the nomad tribes of the Kash’kai and Bakhtiari throwing off the yoke of Tehran; everyone laying down their arms or no one laying down their arms. Rumors that Prime Minister Bakhtiar had been captured and shot or escaped to the hills or to Turkey, to America; President Carter preparing an invasion or Carter recognizing Khomeini’s government; Soviet troops massing on the border ready to invade or Brezhnev coming to Tehran to congratulate Khomeini; the Shah landing in Kurdistan supported by American troops or the Shah dead in exile. ” Then going to lunch with Sharazad’s parents at the Bakravan house near the bazaar, but only after Sharazad had insisted she wear the chador, hating the chador and everything it stood for. More rumors at the huge family house, but benign there, no fear and absolute confidence. Abundance as always, just as in her own home in Tabriz, servants smiling and safe and thanks be to God for victory, Jared Bakravan had told them jovially, and now with the bazaar going to open and all foreign banks closed, business will be marvelous as it was before the ungodly laws the Shah instituted. After lunch they had returned to Sharazad’s apartment. By foot. Wrapped in the chador. Never a problem for them and every man deferential. The bazaar was crowded, with pitifully little for sale though every merchant foretold abundance ready to be trucked, trained, or flown in - ports clogged with hundreds of ships, laden with merchandise. On the street, thousands walked this way and that, Khomeini’s name on every lip, chanting “Allah-u Akbarrr,” almost all men and boys armed - none of the old people. In some areas Green Bands, in place of police, haphazardly and amateurishly directed traffic, or stood around truculently. In other areas police as always. Two tanks rumbled past driven by soldiers, masses of guards and civilians on them, waving to the cheering pedestrians.

Even so, everyone was tense under the patina of joy, particularly the women enveloped in their shrouds. Once, they had turned a corner and seen ahead a group of youths surrounding a dark-haired woman dressed in Western clothes, jeering at her, abusing her, shouting insults, and making obscene signs, several of them exposing themselves, waggling their penises at her. The woman was in her thirties, dressed neatly, a short coat over her skirt, long legs and long hair under a little hat. Then she was joined by a man who shoved through the crowd to her. At once he began shouting that they were English and to leave them alone, but the men paid no attention to him, jostling him, concentrating on the woman. She was petrified. There was no way for Sharazad and Azadeh to walk around the crowd that grew quickly, hemming them in, so they were forced to watch. Then a mullah arrived and told the crowd to leave, harangued the two foreigners to obey Islamic customs. By the time they got home they were tired and both felt soiled. They had taken off their clothes and collapsed on the quilt bed. “I’m glad I went out today,” Azadeh had said wearily, deeply concerned. “But we women better organize a protest before it’s too late. We better march through the streets, without chador or veils, to make our point with the mullahs: that we’re not chattel, we have rights, and wearing the chador’s up to us - not to them.”

“Yes, let’s! After all, we helped win the victory too!” Sharazad had yawned, half asleep. “Oh, I’m so tired.”

The nap had helped.

Idly Azadeh was watching the bubbles of foam crackling, the water hotter now, the sweet-smelling vapor very pleasing. Then she sat up for a moment, smoothing the foam on her breasts and shoulders. “It’s curious, Sharazad, but I was glad to wear chador today - those men were so awful.” “Men on the street are always awful, darling Azadeh.” Sharazad opened her eyes and watched her, golden skin glistening, nipples proud. “You’re so beautiful, Azadeh darling.”

“Ah, thank you - but you’re the beautiful one.” Azadeh rested her hand on her friend’s stomach and patted her. “Little mother, eh?” “Oh, I do so hope so.” Sharazad sighed, closed her eyes and gave herself back to the heat. “I can hardly imagine myself a mother. Three more days and then I’ll know. When are you and Erikki going to have children?” “In a year or two.” Azadeh kept her voice calm as she told the same lie she had told so many times already. But she was deeply afraid that she was barren, for she had used no contraceptives since she was married and had wished, with all her heart, to have Erikki’s child from the beginning. Always the same nightmare welling up: that the abortion had taken away any chance of children as much as the German doctor had tried to reassure her. How could I have been so stupid?

So easy. I was in love. I was just seventeen and I was in love, oh, how deeply in love. Not like with Erikki, for whom I will give my life gladly. With Erikki it is true and forever and kind and passionate and safe. With my Johnny Brighteyes it was dreamlike.

Ah, I wonder where you are now, what you’re doing, you so tall and fair with your blue-gray eyes and oh, so British. Whom did you marry? How many hearts did you break like you broke mine, my darling?

That summer he was at school in Rougemont - the village next to where she was at finishing school - ostensibly to learn French. It was after Sharazad had left. She had met him at the Sonnenhof, basking in the sun, overlooking all the beauty of Gstaad in its bowl of mountains. He was nineteen then, she three days seventeen, and all that summer long they had wandered the High Country - so beautiful, so beautiful - up in the mountains and the forests, swimming in streams, playing, loving, ever more adventurous, up above the clouds.

More clouds than I care to think of, she told herself dreamily, my head in the clouds that summer, knowing about men and life, but not knowing. Then in the fall him saying, “Sorry, but I must go now, go back to university but I’ll be back for Christmas.” Never coming back. And long before Christmas finding out. All the anguish and terror where there should have been only happiness. Petrified that the school would find out, for then her parents would have to be informed. Against the law to have an abortion in Switzerland without parents’ consent - so going over the border to Germany where the act was possible, somehow finding the kindly doctor who had assured her and reassured her. Having no pain, no trouble, none - just a little difficulty borrowing the money. Still loving Johnny. Then the next year, school finished, everything secret, coming home to Tabriz. Stepmother finding out somehow - I’m sure Najoud, my stepsister, betrayed me, wasn’t it she who lent me the money? Then Father knowing. Kept like a spiked butterfly for a year. Then forgiveness, a peace - a form of peace. Begging for university in Tehran. “I agree, providing you swear by God, no affairs, absolute obedience, and you marry only whom I choose,” the Khan had said.

Top of her class. Then begging for the Teaching Corps, any excuse to get out of the palace. “I agree, but only on our lands. We’ve more than enough villages for you to look after,” he had said.

Many men of Tabriz wanting to marry her but her father refusing them, ashamed of her. Then Erikki.

“And when this foreigner, this… this impoverished, vulgar, ill-mannered, spirit-worshiping monster who can’t speak a word of Farsi or Turkish, who knows nothing of our customs or history or how to act in civilized society, whose only talent is that he can drink enormous quantities of vodka and fly a helicopter - when he finds out you’re not a virgin, that you’re soiled, spoiled, and perhaps ruined inside forever?”

“I’ve already told him, Father,” she had said through her tears. “Also that without your permission I cannot marry.”

Then the miracle of the attack on the palace and Father almost killed, Erikki like an avenging warrior from the ancient storybooks. Permission to marry, another miracle. Erikki understanding, another miracle. But as yet no child. Old Dr. Nutt says I’m perfect and normal and to be patient. With the Help of God soon I will have a son, and this time there will be only happiness, like with Sharazad, so beautiful with her lovely face and breasts and flanks, hair like silk and skin like silk.

She felt the smoothness of her friend beneath her fingers and it pleased her greatly. Absently she began to caress her, letting herself drift in the warmth and tenderness. We’re blessed to be women, she thought, able to bathe together and sleep together, to kiss and touch and love without guilt. “Ah, Sharazad,” she murmured, surrendering too, “how I love your touch.”

IN THE OLD CITY: 7:52 P.M. The man hurried across the snow-covered square near the ancient Mehrid mosque and went through the main gate of the roofed bazaar, out of the freezing cold into the warm, crowded, familiar semidarkness. He was in his fifties, corpulent, panting in his haste, his Astrakhan hat askew, his clothes expensive. A heavily laden donkey blocked his way in the narrow alley and he cursed, stood back to let the animal and its owner squeeze past, then hurried on again, turned left into a passage, then into the Street of the Clothes Sellers.

Take your time, he told himself over and over, his chest hurting and his limbs hurting. You’re safe now, slow down. But his terror overcame his mind and, still in panic, he scuttled on to vanish in the vast labyrinth. In his wake, a few minutes behind him, a group of armed Green Bands followed. They did not hurry. Ahead, the narrow street of the rice shops was blocked with bigger crowds than usual, all vying for the small amount for sale. He stopped for a moment and wiped his brow, then went on again. The bazaar was like a honeycomb, teeming with life, with hundreds of dirt lanes, alleys, and passages, lined on both sides with dimly lit open-fronted shops - some two-storied - and booths and cubbyholes, some barely more than niches scooped out of the walls, for goods or services of all kinds - from foodstuffs to foreign watches, from butchers to bullion, from moneylenders to munitions dealers - all waiting for a customer even though there was not much to sell or to do. Above the noise and clatter and bargaining the high-vaulted ceiling had skylights for ventilation and to let light in during the day. The air was heavy with the special smell of the bazaar - smells of smoke and rancid cooking fat, rotting fruit and roasting meat, food, spices, and urine and dung and dust and gasoline, honey and dates and offal, all mixed with the smells of bodies and the sweat of the multitude who were born, lived, and died here.

People of all ages and all kinds crammed the byways - Tehranis, Turkomans, Kurds, Kash’kai, Armenians and Arabs, Lebanese and Levantines - but the man paid no attention to them or to the constant entreaties to stop and buy, he just shoved and twisted his way through the crowds, darted across his own street of goldsmiths, down that of the spice sellers, the jewelry makers, onward ever deeper into the mze, his hair under his Astrakhan hat matted with sweat, his face florid. Two shopkeepers who noticed him laughed, one to another: “By God, I’ve never seen old Paknouri waddle so fast before - that old dog must be on his way to collect a ten-rial debt.”

“More likely Miser Paknouri’s got a succulent tribesboy waiting on a carpet, the lad’s bum winking in the air!”

Their banter died quickly as the armed Green Bands passed. When they were safely out of sight, someone muttered, “What do those young motherless dogs want here?”

“They’re looking for someone. It must be that. May their fathers burn! Didn’t you hear they’ve been arresting folk all day?”

“Arresting people? What are they doing with them?”

“Putting them in jail. They’ve possession of jails now - didn’t you hear they broke down the door of Evin Jail and set everyone free and locked up the jailers and now run it. They’ve set up their own firing squads and courts, I heard, and shot lots of generals and police. And there’s a riot going on right now - at the university.”

“God protect us! My son Farmad’s at a rally there, the young fool! I told him not to go tonight.”

Jared Bakravan, Sharazad’s father, was in his upper-story, private inner room over the open-fronted shop in the Street of the Moneylenders that had been in his family for five generations and was in one of the best positions. His specialty was banking and financing. He was seated on thick pile carpets, drinking tea with his old friend, Ali Kia, who had managed to be appointed an official in the Bazargan government. Bakravan’s eldest son, Meshang, sat just behind him, listening and learning - a good-looking cleanshaven man in his thirties, inclined to comfortable corpulence. Ali Kia was cleanshaven also, with glasses, Bakravan white-bearded and heavy. Both were in the sixties and had known each other most of their lives. “And how will the loan be repaid, over what time period?” Bakravan asked. “Out of oil revenues, as always,” Kia said patiently, “just as the Shah would have done, the time period over five years, at the usual one percent per month. My friend, Mehdi, Mehdi Bazargan, says Parliament will guarantee the loan the moment it meets.” He smiled and added, exaggerating slightly, “As I’m not only in Mehdi’s cabinet but also in his inner cabinet as well, I can personally watch over the legislation. Of course you know how important the loan is, and equally important to the bazaar.”

“Of course.” Bakravan tugged at his beard to prevent himself guffawing. Poor Ali, he thought, just as pompous as ever! “It’s certainly not my place to mention it, old friend, but some of the bazaaris have asked me what about the millions in bullion already advanced to support the revolution? Advanced to the fund for Ayatollah Khomeini - may God protect him,” he added politely, in his heart thinking: May God remove him from us quickly now that we’ve won, before he and his rapacious, blinkered, parasitical mullahs do too much damage. As for you, Ali, old friend, bender of the truth, exaggerater of your own importance, you may be my oldest friend, but if you think I’d trust you further than a camel can cast dung … As if any one of us would trust any Iranian outside of immediate family - and then only with caution.

“Of course I know the Ayatollah never saw, needed, or touched a single rial,” he said, meaning it, “but even so, we bazaaris advanced huge amounts of cash, bullion, and foreign exchange on his behalf, financing his campaign - of course for the Glory of God and our beloved Iran.”

“Yes, we know. And God will bless you for it. So does the Ayatollah. Of course these loans will be repaid immediately we have the money - the very second! The Tehran bazaari loans are the first in line to be repaid of all internal debts - we, in government, realize how important your help has been. But, Jared, Excellency, old friend, before we can do anything we must get oil production going and to do this we must have some cash. The immediate 5 million U.S. we need will be like a grain of rice in a barrel now that all foreign banks will be curbed, controlled, and most cast out. The Pr - ”

“Iran does not need any foreign banks. We bazaaris could do everything necessary - if we were asked. Everything. If we search diligently for the glory of Iran, perhaps, perhaps we might discover we have all the skills and connections in our midst.” Bakravan sipped his tea with studied elegance. “My son Meshang has a degree from the Harvard Business School.” The lie bothered none of them. “With the help of brilliant students like him…” He left the thought hanging.

Ali Kia picked it up immediately. “Surely you wouldn’t consider lending his services to my Ministry of Finance and Banking? Surely he’s far too important to you and your colleagues? Of course, he must be!” “Yes, yes, he is. But our beloved country’s needs should take precedence over our personal wishes - if of course the government wanted to use his unique talents.”

“I will mention it to Mehdi in the morning. Yes, at my daily morning meeting with my old friend and colleague,” Ali Kia said, wondering briefly when he would be allowed to have his first audience - long overdue - since he had been appointed deputy minister of finance. “I may tell him also you agree to the loan?”

“I will consult my colleagues at once. It would, of course, be their decision, not mine,” Bakravan added with open sadness that fooled neither of them. “But I will press your case, old friend.”

“Thank you.” Again Kia smiled. “We in government, and the Ayatollah, will appreciate the help of the bazaaris.”

“We’re always ready to help. As you know, we always have,” the older man said smoothly, remembering the massive financial support given by the bazaar to the mullahs, to Khomeini over the years - or to any political figure of integrity, like Ali Kia, who had opposed either of the Shahs. God curse the Pahlavis, Bakravan thought, they’re the cause of all our trouble. Curse them for all the trouble they’ve caused with their insistent, too hasty demand for modernization, for their insane disregard of our advice and influence, for inviting foreigners in, as many as fifty thousand Americans alone just a year ago, letting them take all the best jobs and all the banking business. The Shah spurned our help, broke our monopoly, strangled us, and tore away our historic heritage. Everywhere, all over Iran.

But we had our revenge. We gambled our remaining influence and treasure on Khomeini’s implacable hatred and his hold over the unwashed and illiterate masses. And we won. And now, with foreign banks gone, foreigners gone, we’ll be richer and with more influence than ever before. This loan will be easy to arrange but Ali Kia and his government can sweat a little. We’re the only ones who can raise the money. The payment offered is not high enough yet, not nearly enough to compensate for the closing of the bazaar all those months. Now what should it be? he asked himself, highly satisfied with their negotiations. Perhaps the percentage shou - The door burst open and Emir Paknouri rushed into the room. “Jared, they’re going to arrest me!” he cried out, tears now running down his face. “Who? Who’s going to arrest you and for what?” Bakravan spluttered, the customary calm of his house obliterated, the faces of frightened assistants, clerks, teaboy, and managers now crowding the doorway.

“For… for crimes against Islam!” Paknouri wept openly. “There must be some mistake! It’s impossible!” “Yes, it’s impossible but they … they came to my house with my name… half an hour ago we - ”

“Who? Give me their names and I’ll destroy their fathers! Who came?” “I told you! Guards, Revolutionary Guards, Green Bands, yes, them of course,” Paknouri said and rushed on, oblivious of the sudden hush. Ali Kia blanched and someone muttered, God protect us! “Half an hour or so ago, with my name on a piece of paper… my name, Emir Paknouri, chief of the league of goldsmiths who gave millions of rials… they came to my house accusing me, but the servants… and my wife was there and I… by God and the Prophet, Jared,” he cried out as he fell to his knees, “I’ve committed no crimes - I’m an Elder of the Bazaar, I’ve given millions and - ” Suddenly he stopped, seeing Ali Kia. “Kia, Ali Kia, Excellency, you know only too well what I did to help the revolution!”

“Of course.” Kia was white-faced, his heart thumping. “There has to be a mistake.” He knew Paknouri as a highly influential bazaari. Well respected, Sharazad’s first husband, and one of his longtime sponsors. “There must be a mistake!”

“Of course there’s a mistake!” Bakravan put his arm around the poor man and tried to calm him. “Fresh tea at once!” he ordered.

“A whisky. Please, do you have a whisky?” Paknouri mumbled. “I’ll have tea afterward, do you have whisky?”

“Not here, my poor friend, but of course there’s vodka.” It came at once. Paknouri downed it and choked a little. He refused another. In a minute or two he became a little calmer and began again to tell what had happened. The first he had known that something was wrong were loud voices in the hallway of his palatial house just outside the bazaar - he had been upstairs with his wife, preparing for dinner. “The leader of the Guards - there were five of them - the leader was waving this piece of paper and demanding to see me. Of course the servants wouldn’t dare disturb me or let such an ape in, so my chief servant said he’d see if I was in and came upstairs. He told us the paper was signed by someone called Uwari, on behalf of the Revolutionary Komiteh - in the Name of God, who’re they? Who’s this man Uwari? Have you ever heard of such a man, Jared?”

“It’s a common enough name,” Bakravan said, following the

Iranian custom of always having a ready answer to something you don’t know. “Have you, Excellency Ali?”

“As you say, it’s a common name. Did this man mention anyone else, Excellency Paknouri?”

“He may have. God protect us! But who are they - this Revolutionary Komiteh? Ali Kia, surely you’d know?”

“Many names have been mentioned,” Kia said importantly, hiding his instant unease every time “Revolutionary Komiteh” was uttered. Like everyone else in government or outside it, he thought disgustedly, I don’t have any real information about its actual makeup or when or where it meets, only that it seemed to come into being the moment Khomeini returned to Iran, barely two weeks ago and, since yesterday when Bakhtiar fled into hiding, it’s been acting like it was a law unto itself, ruling in Khomeini’s name and with his authority, precipitously appointing new judges, most with no legal training whatsoever, authorizing arrests, revolutionary courts, and immediate executions, totally outside normal law and jurisprudence - and against our Constitution! May all their houses bum down and they go to the hell they deserve!

“Only this morning my friend Mehdi…” he began confidentially, then stopped, pretending to notice the staff still crowding the doorway for the first time, waved an imperious hand dismissing them. When the door was reluctantly closed, he dropped his voice, passing on the rumor as though it was private knowledge, “Only this morning, with, er, with our blessing, he went to the Ayatollah and threatened to resign unless the Revolutionary Komiteh stopped bypassing him and his authority and so put them in their place for all time.”

“Praise be to God!” Paknouri said, very relieved. “We didn’t win the revolution to let more lawlessness take the place of SAVAK, foreign domination, and the Shah!”

“Of course not! Praise be to God that now the government is in the best of hands. But please, Excellency Paknouri, please continue with your harrowing story.”

“There’s not much more to tell you, Ali,” Paknouri said, calmer and braver now, surrounded by such powerful friends. “I, er, I went down to see these intruders at once and told them it was all a fatuous mistake, but this boneheaded, illiterate piece of dog turd just waved the paper in my face, said I was arrested, and that I was to go with them. I told them to wait - I told them to wait and went to fetch some papers but my wife… my wife told me not to trust them, that perhaps they were Tudeh or mujhadin in

disguise, or fedayeen. I agreed with her and decided it would be best to come here to consult with you and the others.” He put the real facts out of his mind, that he had fled the moment he had heard the leader call out in the name of Revolutionary Komiteh, and Uwari personally, that Paknouri the Miser submit to God for crimes against God.

“My poor friend,” Bakravan said. “My poor friend, how you must have suffered! Never mind, you’re safe now. Stay here tonight. Ali, directly after first prayer tomorrow, go to the prime minister’s office and make sure this matter is dealt with and those fools are punished. We all know Emir Paknouri’s a patriot, that he and all the goldsmiths supported the revolution and are essential to this loan.” Wearily he closed his ears to all the platitudes that Ali Kia was uttering now.

He studied Paknouri, seeing his still-pallid face and sweat-matted hair. Poor fellow, what a shock they must have given him. What a shame, with all his riches and good name - connected as he is through Cousin Valik’s wife Annoush to the Qajars - that all my work for Sharazad came to naught. What a shame he didn’t sire children with her and so cement our families together, even one child, for then certainly there would never have been a divorce and my troubles wouldn’t have been compounded with this Lochart foreigner. However much this foreigner tries to learn our ways he never will. And how expensive it is to keep him to uphold the family’s reputation! I must talk to Cousin Valik and again ask him to arrange for Lochart to have extra monies - Valik and his greed-filled IHC partners can well afford to do that for me from the millions they earn, most of it in foreign currency now! What would ft cost them? Nothing! The cost would be passed on to Gavallan and S-G. The partners owe me a thousand favors, I who for years have advised them how to gain so much control and wealth with so little effort! “Pay Lochart yourself, Jared, Excellency,” Valik had said to him rudely the last time he’d asked him. “Surely that’s your own charge. You share everything we gain - and what’s such a tiny amount to my favorite cousin and the richest bazaari in Tehran?”

“But it should be a partnership charge. We can use him when we have 100 percent control. With the new plan for the future of IHC, the partnership will be richer than ever an - ”

“I will at once consult the other partners. Of course, it is their decision not mine….”

Liar, the old man thought, sipping tea, but then, I would have said the same. He stifled a yawn, tired now and hungry. A nap before dinner would do me good. “So sorry, Excellencies, so sorry but I have urgent business to attend to. Paknouri, old friend, I’m glad everything is resolved. Stay here tonight, Meshang will arrange quilts and cushions, and don’t worry! Ali, my friend, walk with me to the bazaar gate - do you have transport?” he asked thinly, knowing that the first perk of a deputy minister would be a car and chauffeur and unlimited gasoline. “Yes, thank you, the PM insisted I arrange it, insisted - the importance of our department, I suppose.”

“As God wants!” Bakravan said.

Well satisfied, they all went out of the room, down the narrow stairs and into the small passageway that led to the open-fronted shop. Their smiles vanished and bile filled their mouths.

Waiting there were the same five Green Bands, lolling on the desks and chairs, all armed with U.S. Army carbines, all in their early twenties, unshaven or bearded, their clothes poor and soiled, some with holed shoes, some sockless. The leader picked his teeth silently, the rest were smoking, carelessly dropping their ash on Bakravan’s priceless Kash’kai carpets. One of these youths coughed badly as he smoked, his breath wheezing. Bakravan felt his knees weakening. All of his staff stood frozen against one of the walls. Everyone. Even his favorite teaboy. Out in the street it was very quiet, no one about - even the owners of the moneylending shops across the alley seemed to have vanished.

“Salaam, Agha, the Blessing of God on you,” he said politely, his voice sounding strange. “What can I do for you?”

The leader paid no attention to him, just kept his eyes boring into Paknouri, his face handsome but scarred by the parasite disease, carried by sandflies and almost endemic in Iran. He was in his early twenties, dark eyes and hair and work-scarred hands that toyed with the carbine. His name was Yusuf Senvar - Yusuf the bricklayer.

The silence grew and Paknouri could stand the strain no longer. “It’s all a mistake,” he screamed. “You’re making a mistake!”

“You thought you’d escape the Vengeance of God by running away?” Yusuf’s voice was soft, almost kind - though with a coarse village accent that Bakravan could not place.

“What Vengeance of God?” Paknouri screamed. “I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing.”

“Nothing? Haven’t you worked for and with foreigners for years, helping them to carry off the wealth of our nation?”

“Of course not to do that but to create jobs and help the econ - ” “Nothing? Haven’t you served the Satan Shah for years?”

Again Paknouri shouted, “No, I was in opposition, everyone knows I… I was in oppo - ”

“But you still served him and did his bidding?”

Paknouri’s face was twisted and almost out of control. His mouth worked but he could not get the words out. Then he croaked, “Everyone served him - of course everyone served him, he was the Shah, but we worked for the revolution - the Shah was the Shah, of course everyone served him while he was in power…”

“The Imam didn’t,” Yusuf said, his voice suddenly raw. “Imam Khomeini never served the Shah. In the Name of God, did he?” Slowly he looked from face to face. No one answered him.

In the silence, Bakravan watched the man reach into his torn pocket and find a piece of paper and peer at it and he knew that he was the only one here who could stop this nightmare.

“By Order of the Revolutionary Komiteh,” Yusuf began, “and Ali’allah Uwari: Miser Paknouri, you are called to judgment. Submit yo - ” “No, Excellency,” Bakravan said firmly but politely, his heart pounding in his ears. “This is the bazaar. Since the beginning of time you know the bazaar has its own laws, its own leaders. Emir Paknouri is one of them, he cannot be arrested or taken away against his will. He cannot be touched - that is bazaari law from the beginning of time.” He stared back at the young man, fearlessly, knowing that the Shah, even SAVAK, had never dared to challenge their laws or right of sanctuary.

“Is bazaari law greater than God’s law, Moneylender Bakravan?” He felt a wave of ice go through him. “No - no, of course not.” “Good. I obey God’s law and do God’s work.”

“But you may not arres - ”

“I obey God’s law and do only God’s work.” The man’s eyes were brown and guileless under his black brows. He gestured at his carbine. “I do not need this gun - none of us need guns to do God’s work. I pray with all my heart to be a martyr for God, for then I’ll go straight to Paradise without the need to be judged, my sins forgiven me. If it’s tonight, then I will die blessing him who kills me because I know I will die doing God’s work.” “God is Great,” one of the men said, the others echoed him. “Yes, God is Great. But you, Moneylender Bakravan, did you pray five times today as the Prophet ordered?”

“Of course, of course,” Bakravan heard himself say, knowing his lie to be sinless because of taqiyah - concealment - the Prophet’s permission to any Muslim to lie about Islam if he feels his life is threatened. “Good. Be silent and be patient, I come back to you later.” Another chill racked him as he saw the man turn his attention back to Paknouri. “By order of the Revolutionary Komiteh and Ali’allah Uwari: Miser Paknouri, submit yourself to God for crimes against God.”

Paknouri’s mouth struggled. “I… I… you cannot… there…” His voice trailed away. A little foam seeped from the corners of his lips. They all watched him, the Green Bands without emotion, the others with horror. Ali Kia cleared his throat. “Now, listen, perhaps it would be better to leave this until tomorrow,” he began, trying to keep his voice important. “Emir Paknouri’s clearly upset by the mista - ”

“Who’re you?” The leader’s eyes bored into him as they had into Paknouri and Bakravan. “Eh?”

“I’m Deputy Minister Ali Kia,” Ali replied, keeping his courage under the strength of the eyes, “of the Department of Finance, member of Prime Minister Bazargan’s cabinet and I suggest you wait u - ”

“In the Name of God: you, your Department of Finance, your Cabinet, your Bazargan has nothing to do with me or us. We obey the mullah Uwari, who obeys the Komiteh, who obeys the Imam, who obeys God.” The man scratched absently and turned his attention back to Paknouri. “In the street!” he ordered, his voice still gentle. “Or we’ll drag you.”

Paknouri collapsed with a groan and lay inert. The others watched helplessly, someone muttered, “The Will of God,” and the little teaboy began sobbing.

“Be quiet, boy,” Yusuf said without anger. “Is he dead?”

One of the men went over and squatted over Paknouri. “No. As God wants.” “As God wants. Hassan, pick him up, put his head in the water trough, and if he doesn’t wake up, we’ll carry him.”

“No,” Bakravan interrupted bravely, “no, he’ll stay here, he’s sick an - ” “Are you deaf, old man?” An edge had crept into Yusuf’s voice. Fear stalked the room. The little boy crammed his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from crying out. Yusuf kept his eyes on Bakravan as the man called Hassan, broad-shouldered and strong, lifted Paknouri easily and went out of the shop and up the alley. “As God wants,” he said, eyes on Bakravan. “Eh?” “Where … please, where will you be taking him?”

“To jail, of course. Where else should he go?”

“Which… which jail, please?”

One of the other men laughed. “What does it matter what jail?” For Jared Bakravan and the others, the room was now stifling and cell-like even though the air had not changed and the open front onto the alley was as it had ever been.

“I would like to know, Excellency,” Bakravan said, his voice thick, trying to mask his hatred. “Please.”

“Evin.”

This had been the most infamous of Tehran’s prisons. Yusuf sensed another wave of fear. They must all be guilty to be so afraid, he thought. He glanced behind him at his younger brother. “Give me the paper.” His brother was barely fifteen, grubby and coughing badly. He took out half a dozen pieces of paper and shuffled through them. He found the one he sought. “Here it is, Yusuf.”

The leader peered at it. “Are you sure it’s the right one?” “Yes.” The youth pointed a stubby finger at the name. Slowly he spelled out the characters. “J-a-r-e-d B-a-k-r-a-v-a-n.”

Someone muttered, “God protect us!” and in the vast silence Yusuf took the paper and held it out to Bakravan. The others watched, frozen. Hardly breathing, the old man took it, his fingers trembling. For a moment he could not focus his eyes. Then he saw the words: “Jared Bakravan of the Tehran bazaar, by order of the Revolutionary Komiteh and Ali’allah Uwari, you are summoned to the Revolutionary Tribunal at Evin Jail tomorrow immediately after first prayer to answer questions.” The paper was signed, Ali’allah, the writing illiterate.

“What questions?” he asked dully.

“As God wills.” The leader shouldered his carbine and got up. “Until dawn. Bring the paper with you and don’t be late.” At that moment he noticed the silver tray and cut glasses and half-empty bottle of vodka that was on a low table almost hidden by a curtain in the dark hallway, glinting in some candlelight. “By God and the Prophet,” he said angrily, “have you forgotten the laws of God?”

The shop people scattered out of his way as he upended the bottle, emptying the contents on the dirt floor, and hurled the bottle away. Some of the liquid ran onto one of the carpets. Instinctively the teaboy fell on his knees and began to mop it up.

“Leave it alone!”

Petrified, the boy scuttled away. With his foot, Yusuf carelessly diverted most of the flow. “Let the stain remind you of the laws of God, old man,” he said. “If it stains.” For a moment he studied the carpet. “What colors! Beautiful! Beautiful!” He sighed and scratched, then turned on Bakravan and Kia. “If you were to take all the wealth of all of us pasadan here, and add it to that of all our families, and our fathers’ families, still we could not afford even a corner of such a carpet.” Yusuf smiled crookedly. “But then, if I was as rich as you, Moneylender Bakravan - do you know usury is also against the laws of God? - even if I was so rich, still I wouldn’t buy such a carpet. I have no need of such treasure. I have nothing, we have nothing, we need nothing. Only God.”

He stalked out.

NEAR THE U.S. EMBASSY: 8:15 P.M. Erikki had been waiting for almost four hours. From where he sat in the first-floor window of his friend Christian Tollonen’s apartment, he could see the high walls surrounding the floodlit U.S. compound down the road, uniformed marines near the huge iron gates stamping their feet against the cold, and the big embassy building beyond. Traffic was still heavy, snarled here and there, everyone honking and trying to get ahead, pedestrians as impatient and self-centered as usual. No traffic lights working. No police. Not that they’d make any difference, he thought, Tehranis don’t give a damn for traffic regulations, never have, never will. Like those madmen on the road down through the mountains who killed themselves. Like Tabrizis. Or Qazvinis.

His great fist bunched at the thought of Qazvin. At the Finnish embassy this morning there had been reports of Qazvin in a state of revolt, that Azerbaijan nationalists in Tabriz had rebelled again and fighting was going on against forces loyal to the Khomeini government and that the whole oil-rich and vastly strategic border province had again declared its independence of Tehran, independence it had fought for over the centuries, always aided and abetted by Russia, Iran’s permanent enemy and gobbler of her territory. Rakoczy and others like him must be swarming all over Azerbaijan.

“Of course the Soviets are after us,” Abdollah Gorgon Khan had said angrily, during the quarrel, just before he and Azadeh had left for Tehran. “Of course your Rakoczy and his men are here in strength. We walk the thinnest tightrope in the whole world because we’re their key to the Gulf and the key to Hormuz, the jugular of the West. If it hadn’t been for us Gorgons, our tribal connections, and some of our Kurdish allies, we’d be a Soviet province now - joined to the other half of Azerbaijan that the Soviets stole from us years ago, helped as always by the insidious British - oh, how I hate the British, even more than Americans who are just stupid and ill-mannered barbarians. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“They’re not like that, not the ones I’ve met. And S-G’s treated me fairly.” “So far. But they’ll betray you - the British betray everyone who’s not British and even then they’ll betray them if it suits them.” “Insha’Allah.”

Abdollah Gorgon Khan had laughed without humor. “Insha’Allah! And Insha’Allah that in ‘46 the Soviet army retreated over the border and then we smashed their quislings, and stamped out their ‘Democratic Azerbaijan Republic’ and the ‘Kurdish People’s Republic.’ But I admire the Soviets, they play only to win and change the rules to suit themselves. The real winner of your world war was Stalin. He was the colossus. Didn’t he dominate everything at Potsdam, Yalta, and Tehran - didn’t he outmaneuver Churchill and Roosevelt? Didn’t Roosevelt even stay with him in Tehran in the Soviet embassy? How we Iranians laughed! The Great President gave Stalin the future when he had the power to stuff him behind his own borders. What a genius! Beside him your ally Hitler was a craven bungler! As God wills, eh?” “Finland sided with Hitler only to fight Stalin and get back our lands.” “But you lost, you chose the wrong side and lost. Even a fool could see Hitler would lose - how could Reza Shah have been so foolish? Ah, Captain, I never understood why Stalin let you Finns live. If I’d been him I would have laid waste Finland as a lesson - as he decimated a dozen other lands. Why did he let you all live? Because you stood up to him in your Winter War?” “I don’t know. Perhaps. I agree the Soviets will never give up.” “Never, Captain. But neither will we. We Azerbaijanis will always outmaneuver them and keep them at bay. As in 46.”

But then the West was strong, there was the Truman Doctrine toward the Soviets of hands off or else, Erikki thought grimly. And now? Now Carter’s at the helm? What helm?

Heavily, he leaned forward and refilled his glass, impatient to get back to Azadeh. It was cold in the apartment and he still wore his overcoat - the central heating was off and the windows drafty. But the room was large and pleasant and masculine with old easy chairs, the walls decorated with small but good Persian carpets and bronze. Books, magazines, and journals were scattered everywhere, on tables and chairs and bookshelves - Finnish, Russian, Iranian - a pair of girl’s shoes carelessly on one of the shelves. He sipped the vodka, loving the warmth it gave him, then looked out the window once more at the embassy. For a moment he wondered if it would be worth emigrating to the U.S. with Azadeh. “The bastions are falling,” he muttered out loud. “Iran no longer safe, Europe so vulnerable, Finland on the sword’s edge…”

His attention focused below. Now the traffic was totally blocked by swarms of youths collecting on both roads - the U.S. embassy complex was on the corner of Tahkt-e-Jamshid and the main road called Roosevelt. Used to be called Roosevelt, he reminded himself idly. What’s the road called now? Khomeini Street? Street of the Revolution?

The front door of the apartment opened. “Hey, Erikki,” the young Finn said with a grin. Christian Tollonen wore a Russian-style fur hat and fur-lined trench coat that he had bought in Leningrad on a drunken weekend with other university friends. “What’s new?”

“Four hours I’ve been waiting.”

“Three hours and twenty-two minutes and half a bottle of my best contraband Russian Moskava money can buy anywhere, and we agreed three or four hours.” Christian Tollonen was in his early thirties, a bachelor, fair and gray-eyed, deputy cultural attaché at the Finnish embassy. They had been friends since he came to Iran, some years ago. “Pour me one, by God, I need it - there’s another demonstration simmering, and I had a hell of a time getting through.” He kept his trench coat on and went to the window. The two sections of crowds had joined now, the people milling about in front of the embassy complex. All gates had been closed.

Uneasily Erikki noticed that there were no mullahs among the youths. They could hear shouting.

“Death to America, death to Carter,” Christian interpreted - he could speak fluent Farsi because his father too had been a diplomat here and he had spent five years of his youth at school in Tehran. “Just the usual shit, down with Carter and American imperialism.”

“No Allah-u-Akbar,” Erikki said. For a moment his mind took him back to the roadblock, and ice swept into his stomach. “No mullahs.”

“No. I didn’t see one anywhere around.” In the street the tempo picked up with different factions swirling around the iron gates. “Most of them are university students. They thought I was Russian and they told me there’d been a pitched battle at the university, leftists versus the Green Bands - with perhaps twenty or thirty killed or wounded and it was still going on.” While they watched, fifty or sixty youths began rattling the gates. “They’re spoiling for a fight.”

“And no police to stop them.” Erikki handed him the glass. “What would we do without vodka?”

Erikki laughed. “Drink brandy. Do you have everything?”

“No - but a start.” Christian sat in one of the armchairs near the low table opposite Erikki and opened his briefcase. “Here’s a copy of your marriage and birth certificates - thank God we had copies. New passports for both of you - I managed to get someone in Bazargan’s office to stamp yours with a temporary residence permit good for three months.”

“You’re a magician!”

“They promised they’d issue you a new Iranian pilot’s license but when they wouldn’t say. With your S-G ID and the photocopy of your British license they said you were legal enough. Now, Azadeh’s passport’s temporary.” He opened it and showed him the photograph. “It’s not standard - I took a Polaroid of the photo you gave me - but it’ll pass until we can get a proper one. Get her to sign it as soon as you see her. Has she been out of the country since you were married?”

“No, why?”

“If she travels out on a Finnish passport - well, I don’t know how it will affect her Iranian status. The authorities have always been touchy, particularly about their own nationals. Khomeini seems even more xenophobic so his regime’s bound to be tougher. It might look to them as though she’d renounced her nationality. I don’t think they’ll let her back.” A muted burst of shouting from the massed youths in the street diverted them for a moment. Hundreds were waving clenched fists and somewhere someone had a loudspeaker and was haranguing them. “The way I feel right now, as long as I can get her out, I don’t care,” Erikki said.

The younger man glanced at him. After a moment he said, “Perhaps she should be aware of the danger, Erikki. There’s no way I can get her replacement papers or any Iranian passport, but it’d be very risky for her to leave without them. Why don’t you ask her father to arrange them for her? He could get them for her easily. He owns most of Tabriz, eh?”

Bleakly Erikki nodded. “Yes, but we had another row just before we left. He still disapproves of our marriage.”

After a pause Christian said, “Perhaps it’s because you don’t have a child yet, you know how Iranians are.”

“Plenty of time for children,” Erikki said, sick at heart. We’ll have children in good time, he thought. There’s no hurry and old Dr. Nutt says she’s fine. Shit! If I tell her what Christian said about her Iranian papers she’ll never leave; if I don’t tell her and she’s refused reentry she’ll never forgive me, and anyway she’d never leave without her father’s permission. “To get her new papers means we’ll have to go back and, well, I don’t want to go back.”

“Why, Erikki? Usually you can’t wait to get to Tabriz.”

“Rakoczy.” Erikki had told him everything that had happened - except the killing of the mujhadin at the roadblock and Rakoczy killing others during the rescue. Some details are best untold, he thought grimly. Christian Tollonen sipped his vodka. “What’s the real problem?” “Rakoczy.” Erikki held his gaze steady.

Christian shrugged. Two refills emptied the bottle. “Prosit!” “Prosit! Thanks for the papers and passports.”

Shouting outside distracted them again. The crowd was well disciplined though it was becoming noisier. In the American courtyard more floodlights were on now, and they could see faces clearly in the embassy windows. “Just as well they’ve their own generators.”

“Yes - and their own heating units, gasoline pumps, PX, everything.” Christian went over to the sideboard and brought out a fresh bottle. “That and their special status in Iran - no visas necessary, not being subject to Iranian laws - has caused a lot of the hatred.”

“By God, it’s cold in here, Christian. Don’t you have any wood?” “Not a damned bit. The damned heat’s been off ever since I moved in here - three months, that’s almost all winter.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well.” Erikki motioned at the pair of shoes. “You have heat enough. Eh?”

Christian grinned. “Sometimes. I will admit Tehran is one of the - used to be one of the great places on earth for all sorts of pleasures. But now, now, old friend…” A shadow went over his face. “Now I think Iran won’t be the paradise those poor bastards out there believe they’ve won, but a hell on earth for most of them. Particularly the women.” He sipped his vodka. There was an eddy of excitement beside the compound wall as a youth, with his U.S. Army rifle slung, climbed on the shoulders of others and tried unsuccessfully to reach the top. “I wonder what I’d do if that was my wall and those bastards started coming over at me in strength.” “You’d blow their heads off - which’d be quite legal. Wouldn’t it?” Christian laughed suddenly. “Only if you got away with it.” He looked back at Erikki. “What about you? What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one. Not until I talk to McIver - there was no chance this morning. He and Gavallan were both busy trying to track down the Iranian partners, then they had meetings at the British embassy with someone called - I think they said Talbot…”

Christian masked his sudden interest. “George Talbot?”

“Yes, that’s right. D’you know him?”

“Yes, he’s second secretary.” Christian did not add: Talbot’s also covert chief of British Intelligence in Iran, has been for years, and is one very important operator. “I didn’t know he was still in Tehran - I thought he’d left a couple of days ago. What do McIver and Andrew Gavallan want with him?”

Erikki shrugged and turned away, absently watching more youths trying to scale the wall, most of his mind concerned with what to do about Azadeh’s papers. “They said something about wanting to know more about a friend of his they’d met at the airport yesterday - someone called Armstrong, Robert Armstrong.”

Christian Tollonen almost dropped his glass. “Armstrong?” he asked, forcing calm, very glad that Erikki had his back toward him.

“Yes.” Erikki turned to him. “Mean anything to you?”

419 “It’s a common enough name,” the younger man said, pleased to hear that his voice was matter-of-fact. Robert Armstrong, MI6, ex-Special Branch, who had been in Iran on contract for a number of years - supposedly on loan from the British government - supposedly chief adviser to Iran’s highly classified Department of Inner Intelligence; a man rarely seen in public and known only to very few, most of whom would be in the intelligence community. Like me, he thought and wondered what Erikki would say if he knew that he was an Iranian intelligence expert, that he knew a lot about Rakoczy and many other foreign agents, that his prime job was to try to know everything about Iran but to do nothing and never to interfere with any of the combatants, internal or external, just to wait and watch and learn and remember. What’s Armstrong still doing here?

He got up to cover his disquiet, pretending to want to see the crowd better. “Did they find out what they wanted to know?” he asked.

Again Erikki shrugged. “I don’t know. I never caught up with them. I was…” He stopped and studied the other man. “Is it important?”

“No - no, not at all. You hungry? Are you and Azadeh free for dinner?” “Sorry, not tonight.” Erikki glanced at his watch. “I’d better be getting back. Thanks again for the help.”

“Nothing. You were saying about McIver and your Gavallan? They have a plan to change operations here?”

“I don’t think so. I was supposed to meet them at 3:00 P.M. to go to the airport but seeing you and getting the passports was more important to me.” Erikki stood up and put out his hand, towering over him. “Thanks again.” “Nothing.” Christian shook hands warmly. “See you tomorrow.” Now in the street the shouting had ceased and there was an ominous silence. Both men ran for the window. All attention turned toward the main road once called Roosevelt. Then they heard the growing, “Allahhnh-uuuu Akbarrrr!” Erikki muttered, “Is there a back way out of the building?” “No. No, there isn’t.”

The new oncoming horde had mullahs and Green Bands in their front ranks, most of them armed like the following mass of the young men. All were shouting in unison, God is Great, God is Great, totally outnumbering the student demonstration in front of the embassy, though the men there were equally armed.

At once the leftists poured into well-chosen defensive positions in doorways and among the traffic. Men, women, and children trapped in cars and trucks began to scatter. The Islamics approached fast. As the front ranks flowed along the sidewalks and through the stalled vehicles and approached the floodlit walls, the tempo of their shouting increased, their pace quickened, and everyone readied. Then, astonishingly, the students began to retreat. Silently. The Green Bands hesitated, nonplussed.

The retreat was peaceful and so the horde became peaceful. Soon the protesters had moved away and now none of them threatened the embassy. Mullahs and Green Bands began directing traffic. Those bystanders who had fled or abandoned their vehicles breathed again, thanked God for His intercession and swarmed back. At once the hooting and cursing opened up in a growing frenzy as cars and trucks and pedestrians fought for space. The great iron gates of the embassy did not open, though a side door did. Christian’s throat felt dry. “I’d’ve bet my life there was going to be a pitched battle.”

Erikki was equally astonished. “It’s almost as though they’d expected the Green Bands and knew where they were coming from and when. It was almost as though it was a rehearsal for som - ” He stopped and went closer to the window, his face suddenly flushed. “Look! Down there in the doorway, that’s Rakoczy.”

“Where? Wh - Oh, you mean the man in the flight jacket talking to the short guy?” Christian squinted into the darkness below. The two men were half in shadow, then they shook hands and came into the light. It was Rakoczy all right. “Are you sure that…”

But Erikki had already pulled the front door open and was halfway down the stairs. Christian had a fleeting glimpse of him as he pulled the great pukoh knife from his belt holster and slipped it into his sleeve, haft in his palm. “Erikki, don’t be a fool,” he shouted but Erikki had already vanished. Christian rushed back to the window and was just in time to see Erikki run out of the doorway below, shove through the crowds in pursuit, Rakoczy nowhere to be seen.

But Erikki had him in view. Rakoczy was half a hundred yards away and he just caught sight of him turning south into Roosevelt to disappear. When Erikki got to the corner, he saw the Soviet ahead, walking quickly but not too quickly, many pedestrians between them, the traffic slow and very noisy. Making a detour around a tangle of trucks, Rakoczy stepped out into the road, waited for a hooting, battered old Volkswagen to squeeze past and glanced around. He saw Erikki. It would have been almost impossible to miss him - almost a foot taller than most everyone else. Without hesitation Rakoczy took to his heels, weaving through the crowds, and cut down a side street, running fast. Erikki saw him go and raced after him. Pedestrians cursed both of them, one old man sent flying into the filthy dirt as Rakoczy shoved past into another turning. The side street was narrow, refuse strewn everywhere, no stalls or shops open now and no streetlights, a few weary pedestrians trudging homeward with multitudes of doorways and archways leading to hovels and staircases of more hovels - the whole area smelling of urine and waste and offal and rotting vegetables.

Rakoczy was a little more than forty yards ahead. He turned into a smaller alley, crashing through the street stalls where families were sleeping - howls of rage in his wake - changed direction and fled into a passageway and into another, cut across it into an alley, quite lost now, into another, down this and into another. Aghast, he stopped, seeing that this was a cul-de-sac. His hand went for his automatic, then he noticed a passageway just ahead and rushed for it.

The walls were so close he could touch both of them as he charged down it, his chest heaving, going ever deeper into the curling, twisting warren. Ahead an old woman was emptying night soil into the festering joub and he sent her sprawling as others cowered against the walls to get out of his way. Now Erikki was only twenty yards behind, his rage feeding his strength, and he jumped over the old woman who was still sprawled, half in and half out of the joub, and redoubled his efforts, closing the gap. Just around the corner his adversary stopped, pulled an ancient street stall into the way, and, before Erikki could avoid it, he crashed into it and went down half stunned. With a bellow of rage he groped to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment, climbed over the wreckage, then rushed onward again, the knife now openly in his hand, and turned the corner.

But the passageway ahead was empty. Erikki skidded to a stop. His breath was coming in great, aching gasps and he was bathed in sweat. It was hard to see though his night vision was very good. Then he noticed the small archway. Carefully he went through it, knife ready. The passage led to an open courtyard strewn with rubble and the rusty skeleton of a ravaged car. Many doorways and openings led off this dingy space, some with doors, some leading to rickety stairways and upper stories. It was silent - the silence ominous. He could feel eyes watching him. Rats scuttled out of some refuse and vanished under a pile of rubble.

To one side was another archway. Above it was an ancient inscription in Farsi that he could not read. Through the archway the darkness seemed deeper. The pitted vaulted entrance stopped at an open doorway. The door was wooden and girt with bands of ancient iron and half off its hinges. Beyond, there seemed to be a room. As he went closer he saw a candle guttering. “What do you want?”

The man’s voice came out of the darkness at him, the hair on Erikki’s neck twisted. The voice was in English - not Rakoczy’s - the accent foreign, a gruff eeriness to it.

“Who - who’re you?” he asked uneasily, his senses searching the darkness, wondering if it was Rakoczy pretending to be someone else. “What do you want?”

“I - I want - I’m following a man,” he said, not knowing where to talk to, his voice echoing eerily from the unseen, high-vaulted roof above. “The man you seek is not here. Go away.”

“Who’re you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Go away.”

The candle flame was just a tiny speck of light in the darkness, making the darkness seem more strong. “Did you see anyone come this way - come running this way?”

The man laughed softly and said something in Farsi. At once rustling and some muted laughter surrounded Erikki and he whirled, his knife protectively weaving in front of him. “Who are you?”

The rustling continued. All around him. Somewhere water dripped into a cistern. The air smelled dank and rancid. Sound of distant firing. Another rustle. Again he whirled, feeling someone close by but seeing no one, only the archway and the dim night beyond. The sweat was running down his face. Cautiously he went to the doorway and put his back against a wall, sure now that Rakoczy was here. The silence grew heavier.

“Why don’t you answer?” he said. “Did you see anyone?”

Again a soft chuckle. “Go away.” Then silence.

“Why’re you afraid? Who are you?”

423 “Who I am is nothing to you, and there’s no fear here, except yours.” The voice was as gentle as before. Then the man added something in Farsi and another ripple of amusement surrounded him.

“Why do you speak English to me?”

“I speak English to you because no Iranian or reader of the language of the Book would come here by day or by night. Only a fool would come here.” Erikki’s peripheral vision saw something or someone go between him and the candle. At once his knife came on guard. “Rakoczy?”

“Is that the name of the man you seek?”

“Yes - yes that’s him. He’s here, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you, whoever you are!”

Silence, then a deep sigh. “As God wants,” and a soft order in Farsi that Erikki did not understand.

Matches flickered all around him. Candles caught, and small oil lamps. Erikki gasped. There were ragged bundles against the walls and columns of the high-domed cavern. Hundreds of them. Men and women. The diseased, festering remains of men and women lying on straw or beds of rags. Eyes in ravaged faces staring at him. Stumps of limbs. One old crone was almost beside his feet and he leaped away in panic to the center of the doorway. “We are all lepers here,” the man said. He was propped against a nearby column, a helpless mound of rags. Another rag half covered the sockets of his eyes. Almost nothing was left of his face except his lips. Feebly he waved the stump of an arm. “We’re all lepers here - unclean. This is a house of lepers. Do you see this man among us?”

“No - no. I’m - I’m sorry,” Erikki said shakily.

“Sorry?” The man’s voice was heavy with irony. “Yes. We are all sorry. Insha’Allah! Insha’Allah.”

Erikki wanted desperately to turn and flee but his legs would not move. Someone coughed, a hacking, frightful cough. Then his mouth said, “Who - who are you?”

“Once I was a teacher of English - now I am unclean, one of the living dead. As God wants. Go away. Bless God for His mercy.”

Numbed, Erikki saw the man motion with the remains of his arms. Obediently, around the cavern the lights began to go out, eyes still watching him. Outside in the night air, he had to make a grim effort to stop himself from running away in terror, feeling filthy, wanting to cast off his clothes at once and bathe and soap and bathe and soap and bathe again. “Stop it,” he muttered, his skin crawling, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Wednesday - February 14

Chapter 27

AT EVIN JAIL: 6:29 A.M. The jail was like any other modem jail - in good days or bad - gray, brooding, high-walled, and hideous.

Today the false dawn was strange, the glow below the horizon curiously red. No overcast or even clouds in the sky - the first time for weeks - and though it was still cold it promised to be a rare day. No smog. The air crisp and clean for a change. A kind wind took away the smoke from the still-burning wrecks of cars and barricades from last night’s clashes between the now legal Green Bands and the now illegal loyalists, leftists, combined with suspect police and armed forces, as well as the smoke from countless cooking and heating fires of the Tehrani millions. The few pedestrians who passed the prison walls and the huge door that was wrecked and broken off its hinges, and the Green Band guards who lolled there, averted their eyes and quickened their pace. Traffic was light. Another truck filled with Guards and prisoners ground its gears, stopped briefly at the main gate to be inspected. The temporary barricade opened and closed again. Inside the walls was a sudden volley of rifle fire. Outside the Green Bands yawned and stretched.

With the arrival of the sun the call of the muezzins from the minarets began - their voices mostly carried by loudspeakers, the voices on cassette. And wherever the call was heard, the Faithful stopped what they were doing, faced Mecca, knelt for first prayer.

Jared Bakravan had stopped the car just up the road. Now, with his chauffeur and the others, he knelt and prayed. He had spent much of the night trying to reach his most important friends and allies. The news of Paknouri’s unlawful arrest and his own unlawful summons had swept through the bazaar. Everyone was instantly enraged, but no one came forward to marshal the thousands to stage a protest or strike or to close the bazaar. He had had plenty of advice: to protest to Khomeini personally, to Prime Minister Bazargan personally, not to appear at the court, to appear but to refuse to answer any questions, to appear and to answer some questions, to appear and answer all questions. “As God wants,” but no one had volunteered to go with him, not even his great friend and one of the most important lawyers in Tehran who swore it was more important for him to be seeing the High Court judges on his behalf. No one volunteered, except his wife and son and three daughters who prayed on their own prayer mats behind him. He finished praying and got up shakily. At once the chauffeur began to collect the prayer mats. Jared shivered. This morning he had dressed carefully and wore a heavy coat and suit and Astrakhan hat but no jewelry. “I… I will walk from here,” he said.

“No, Jared,” his tearful wife began, hardly noticing the distant gunfire. “Surely it is better to arrive as a leader should arrive. Aren’t you the most important bazaari in Tehran? It wouldn’t fit your position to walk.” “Yes, yes, you’re right.” He sat in the back of the car. It was a big blue Mercedes, new and well kept. His wife, a plump matron, her expensive coiffure hidden under a chador that also covered her long brown mink, got in beside him and held on to his arm, her makeup streaked by her tears. His son, Meshang, was equally tearful. And his daughters, Sharazad among them, all had chadors. “Yes … yes, you’re right. God curse these revolutionaries!” “Don’t worry, Father,” Sharazad said. “God will protect you - the Revolutionary Guards are only following the Imam’s orders and the Imam only follows God’s orders.” She sounded so confident but looked so dejected that Bakravan forgot to tell her not to refer to Khomeini as “Imam.”

“Yes,” he told her, “of course it’s all a mistake.”

“Ali Kia swore on the Koran Prime Minister Bazargan would stop all this nonsense,” his wife said. “He swore he would see him last night. Orders are probably already at the… already there.”

Last night he had told Ali Kia that without Paknouri there could be no loan, that if he himself was troubled the bazaar would revolt and all funds stopped to the government, to Khomeini, to the mosques, and to Ali Kia personally. “Ali won’t fail,” he said grimly. “He daren’t. I know too much about them all.”

The car stopped outside the main gate. Idly the Green Bands stared at it. Jared Bakravan summoned his courage. “I won’t be long.”

“God protect you. We’ll wait here for you - we’ll wait here.” His wife kissed him and so did the others and there were more tears and then he was standing in front of the Green Bands. “Salaam,” he said. “I’m - I’m a witness at the court of Mullah Ali’allah Uwari.”

The leader of the Guards took the paper, glanced at it upside down, gave it to one of the others who could read. “He’s from the bazaar,” the other youth said. “Jared Bakravan.”

The leader shrugged. “Show him where to go.” The other man led the way through the broken doorway. Bakravan followed, and as the barricade closed behind him, much of his confidence vanished. It was somber and dank in this small open dirt area between the walls and the main building complex. The air stank. Eastward, hundreds of men were crammed together, sitting or lying down, huddled miserably against the cold. Many wore uniforms - officers. Westward, the space was empty. Ahead was a tall iron-barred gate and it swung open to admit him. In the waiting room were dozens of other men, weary frightened men, sitting in rows on benches or standing or just sitting on the floor, some uniformed officers, and he noticed one full colonel. Some of the others he recognized, important businessmen, court favorites, administrators, deputies - but none he knew intimately. A few recognized him. There was a sudden hush.

“Hurry up,” the Guard said irritably. He was a pockmarked youth and he shoved through to the desk, to the harassed clerk who sat there. “Here’s another for Excellency Mullah Uwari.”

The clerk accepted the paper and waved at Bakravan. “Take a seat - you’ll be called when you’re needed.”

“Salaam, Excellency,” Bakravan said, shocked at the man’s rudeness. “When will that be? I was to be here just after fir - ”

“As God wants. You’ll be called when you’re needed,” the man said waving him away.

“But I’m Jared Bakravan of the baz - ” “I can read, Agha!” the man said more rudely. “When you’re wanted you’ll be called! Iran’s an Islamic state now, one law for all, not one for the rich another for the people.” Bakravan was jostled by others being shoved toward the clerk. Weak with rage, he made his way toward a wall. To one side a man was using a latrine bucket mat was already overfull, urine spilling onto the floor. Eyes watched Bakravan. A few muttered, “God’s peace on you.” The room smelled vile. His heart was pounding. Someone made a space for him on a bench and, thankfully, he sat down. “The Blessings of God upon thee, Excellencies.” “And on thee, Agha,” one of them said. “You’re accused?” “No, no, I’m called as a witness,” he said shocked. “The Excellency is a witness in front of Mullah Uwari?” “Yes, yes, I am, Excellency. Who is he?” “A judge, a revolutionary judge,” the man muttered. He was in his fifties, small, his face more lined than Bakravan’s, his hair tufted. He twitched nervously. “No one here seems to know what’s happening, or why they’re called, or who this Uwari is, only that he’s appointed by the Ayatollah and judges in his name.” Bakravan looked into the man’s eyes and saw the terror and felt even more unnerved. “The Excellency is also a witness?”

“Yes, yes, I am, though why they should call me who was just a manager in the post office I don’t know.”

“The post office is very important - they probably need your advice. Do you think we’ll be kept waiting long?”

“Insha”Allah. I was called yesterday after fourth prayer and I’ve been waiting ever since. They kept me here all night. We have to wait until we’re called. That’s the only toilet,” the man said, pointing at the bucket. “The worst night I’ve ever had, terrible. During the night they… there was a great deal of firing; the rumor is three more generals and a dozen SAVAK officials were executed.”

“Fifty or sixty,” the man on the other side of him said, coming out of his stupor. “The number must be nearer sixty. The whole prison’s crammed like bedbugs in a village mattress. All the cells’re packed. Two days ago the Green Bands broke down the gates, overpowered the guards, and stuffed them in the dungeons, let most prisoners out and then started filling up the cells with locals” - he dropped his voice more - “all the cells are crammed, much more than in the Shah’s time, God curse him for not… Every hour the Green Bands’re bringing in more people, fedayeen and mujhadin and Tudeh all mixed up with us innocents, the Faithful…” He dropped his voice further, the whites of his eyes showing, “and good people who should never be touched and … when the mob broke the prison open they found electric probes and whips and… and torture beds and…” Foam collected at the corner of his mouth. “… they say the… the new jailers are using them and… and once you’re here, Excellency, they keep you here.” Tears began to well in his little eyes set in a pudgy face. “The food’s terrible, the prison terrible, and… and I’ve got stomach ulcers and that son of a dog of a clerk, he… he won’t understand I have to have special foods …”

There was a commotion on the far side and the door crashed open. Half a dozen Green Bands came into the room and began shoving a passage clear with their rifles. Behind them, other Guards surrounded an air force officer who walked proudly, his head high, his arms tied behind him, his uniform disheveled, epaulets half torn off. Bakravan gasped. It was Colonel Peshadi, commander of Kowiss Air Base - also a cousin.

Others recognized the colonel, for much had been made of the victorious Iranian expedition a few years ago to Dhofar in southern Oman, the successful smashing of the almost lethal Marxist attack by South Yemenis against Oman, and also of Peshadi’s personal bravery leading Iranian tanks in a key battle. “Isn’t that the hero of Dhofar?” someone said incredulously.

“Yes that’s him…”

“God protect us! If they arrest him…”

Impatiently one of the Guards pushed Peshadi in the back, trying to force him to hurry up. At once the colonel lashed out at him, though badly hampered by his manacles. “Son of a dog,” he shouted, his rage bursting, “I’m going as fast as I can. May your father burn!” The Green Band cursed him back, then shoved the butt of his rifle in the colonel’s stomach. The colonel lost his balance and fell - at his mercy. But he still cursed his captors. And he cursed them as they pulled him to his feet, two on each arm, and frog-marched him outside into the western space between the walls. And there he cursed mem, and Khomeini, and false mullahs, in all the names of God, then shouted, “Long live the Shah, there is no other God but G - ” Bullets silenced him.

In the waiting room there was a ghastly silence. Someone whimpered. An old man began to vomit. Others began whispering, many started to pray, and Bakravan was sure all this was a nightmare, his tired brain rejecting reality. The fetid air was cold but he seemed to be in an oven and suffocating. Am I dying? he asked himself helplessly and pulled the neck of his shirt open. Then someone touched him and he opened his eyes. For a moment he could not focus them or fathom where he was. He was lying on the floor, the small man anxiously bending over him. “Are you all right?” “Yes, yes, I think so,” he said weakly. “You fainted, Excellency. Are you sure you’re all right?” Hands helped him sit again. Dully he thanked them. His body seemed very heavy, his senses blunted, eyes leaden. “Listen,” the man with ulcers was whispering, “this’s like the French Revolution, the guillotine and the Terror, but how can it happen with Ayatollah Khomeini in charge, that’s what I don’t understand?” “He doesn’t know,” the small man said, equally fearfully. “He can’t know, isn’t he a man of God, pious and the most learned of all ayatollahs … ?” Tiredness surged through Bakravan and he leaned against the wall, letting himself drift away.