Whirlwind

Petr Mzytryk’s smile remained the same but his eyes changed. “It would be curious for the Tudeh to attack their stepbrothers. Islamic-Marxism is advocated by many Muslim intellectuals - I hear even you support them.” “I agree there should be a balance in Azerbaijan. But who ordered leftists to attack the airfield? Who ordered them to attack and burn our railway station? Who ordered the blowing up of the oil pipeline? Obviously no one sensible. I hear it was the mullah Mahmud of the Hajsta mosque.” He watched Petr carefully. “One of yours.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Ah,” Abdollah Khan said with pretended joviality, disbelieving him. “I’m glad, Petr, because he’s a false mullah, not even a real Islamic-Marxist, a rabble-rouser - he’s the one who invaded Yokkonen’s base. Unfortunately he has as many as five hundred fighters supporting him, equally ill-disciplined. And money from somewhere. And helpers like Fedor Rakoczy. What does Rakoczy mean to you?”

“Not much,” Petr said at once, his smile the same and voice the same, far too clever to avoid the question. “He’s a pipeline engineer from Astara, on the border, one of our Muslim nationals who is believed to have joined the mujhadin as a Freedom Fighter, strictly without permission or approval.” Petr kept his face bland but inside he was swearing obscenely, wanting to shout, My son, my son, have you betrayed us? You were sent to spy, to infiltrate the mujhadin and report back, that’s all! And this time you were sent to try to recruit the Finn, then to go to Tehran and organize university students, not to ally yourself to a mad dog mullah or to attack airfields or kill scum beside a road. Have you gone mad? You stupid fool, what if you’d been wounded and caught? How many times have I told you they - and we - can break anyone in time and empty him or her of their secrets? Stupid to take such risks! The Finn’s temporarily important but not important enough to disobey orders, to risk your future, your brother’s future - and mine!

If the son’s suspect, so is the father. If the father’s suspect, so is the family. How many times have I told you that the KGB works by the Book, destroys those who won’t obey the Book, who think for themselves, take risks, and exceed instructions.

“This Rakoczy’s unimportant,” he said smoothly. Be calm, he ordered himself, beginning the litany: There’s nothing to worry about. You know too many secrets to be touched. So does my son. He’s good, they must be wrong about him. He’s been tested many times, by you and by other experts. You’re safe. You’re strong, you’ve your health, and you could beat and bed that little beauty Azadeh and still rape Vertinskya the same day. “What’s important is that you are the focus of Azerbaijan, my friend,” he said in the same soothing voice. “You will get all the support you need and your views on the Islamic-Marxists will reach the right source. The balance you require, you will have.”

“Good. I will count on it,” the Khan said.

“Meanwhile,” Mzytryk said, coming back to the main reason for his sudden trip here. “What about the British captain? Can you help us?” The day before yesterday a top secret, priority-coded telex from Center had arrived at his home near Tbilisi telling him that the CIA’s covert radar listening post on Sabalan’s north face had been blown up by saboteurs just before friendly local teams sent to remove all cipher books, cipher machines, and computers had arrived. “See Ivanovitch personally at once,” the telex had continued, using Abdollah Khan’s undercover name. “Tell him that the saboteurs were British - a captain and two Gurkhas - and an American CIA agent Rosemont (code name Abu Kurd), guided by one of our mercenaries who was murdered by them before he could lead them into an ambush. One soldier and the CIA agent were killed during their escape and the two survivors are believed to be heading toward Ivanovitch’s sector - arrange his cooperation. Section 16/a. Acknowledge.” The Section 16 command meant: this person or persons are priority enemies who are to be intercepted, detained, and brought back for interrogation by whatever means necessary. The added “/a” meant: if this cannot be done, eliminate them without fail.

Mzytryk sipped the vodka, waiting. “We would appreciate your help.” “You’ve always got my help,” Abdollah said. “But to find two expert saboteurs in Azerbaijan who are certain to be disguised by now is almost an impossibility. They’re bound to have safe houses to go to - there’s a British consulate in Tabriz, and dozens of routes out of the mountains that would bypass us.” He got up and went to the window and stared out of it. From here he could see the 206 parked in the forecourt under guard. The day was still cloudless. “If I’d been leading that operation I’d pretend to head for Tabriz, but then I’d double back and go out by the Caspian. How did they go in?”

“Caspian. But they were tracked this way. Two bodies were found in the snow, and tracks of the two others headed this way.”

The failure of the Sabalan venture had sent a tremor of rage up the line. That there was so much CIA top secret equipment so near at hand had been a magnet for covert acquisition and infiltration for many years. In the last two weeks information that some of the radar posts had been evacuated but not destroyed in the retreat and panic they had helped foster, had had the hawks ready to move in immediately, in strength. Mzytryk, senior counselor in this area, had advised caution, to use locals rather than Soviet teams so as not to antagonize Abdollah Khan - his exclusive contact and prize agent - nor risk an international incident.

“It’s totally unwise to risk a confrontation,” he had said, keeping to the Book - and his private plan. “What do we gain by immediate action - if we’ve not been fed disinformation and Sabalan’s not one great booby trap which is probable? A few cipher books that we may or may not already have. As to the advanced computers - our whole Operation Zatopek has that well in hand.” This was a highly controversial and innovative KGB covert operation - named after the Czech long-distance runner - set up in ‘65. With an initial budget of $10 million of terribly scarce foreign currency, Operation Zatopek was to acquire a continuing supply of the most advanced and best Western technology by simple purchase through a network of bogus companies and not by the conventional and very expensive method of theft and espionage. “The money is nothing compared to the gains,” his top secret initial report to Center had said when he had first returned from the Far East in ‘64. “There are tens of thousands of corrupt businessmen and fellow travelers who will sell us the best and the most up to date for a profit. A huge profit to any individual would be a pittance to us - because we will save billions in research and development which we can spend on our navy, air force, and army. And, just as important, we save years of sweat, toil, and failure. At almost no cost we maintain parity with anything their minds can conceive. A few dollars under their rotten little tables will get us all their treasures.”

Petr Mzytryk felt a glow when he remembered how his plan had been accepted - though naturally and rightly taken over by his superiors as their idea, as he had taken it from one of his own deep-cover agents in Hong Kong, a French national called Jacques de Ville in the big conglomerate of Struan’s who had opened his eyes: “It’s not against U.S. law to ship technology to

France or West Germany or a dozen other countries, and not against these countries’ laws for a company to ship it on to other countries where there are no Swiss laws against shipping goods to the Soviet Union. Business is business, Gregor, and money makes the world go around. Through Struan’s alone we could supply you tons of equipment the U.S. has forbidden you. We service China - why not you? Gregor, you seafarers don’t understand business….”

Mzytryk smiled to himself. In those days he had been known as Gregor Suslev, captain of a small Soviet freighter that plied from Vladivostok to Hong Kong, his cover for his top secret job of deputy controller for Asia for the KGB’s First Directorate.

Over the years since ‘64, when I first proposed the scheme, he thought so proudly, with a total outlay so far of $85 million, Operation Zatopek has saved Mother Russia billions and provided a constant, ever-growing flow of NASA-, Japanese-, and European-developed gadgetry, electronic marvels, hardware, software, plans, robots, chips, micros, medicines, and all manner of magic to duplicate and manufacture at our leisure - with equipment developed by the same enemy, and bought and paid for with loans they provide that we’ll never repay. What fools they are!

He almost laughed out loud. Even more important, Zatopek gives me a free hand to continue to operate and maneuver as I choose in this area, to play the Great Game the stupid British let slip from their grasp. He watched Abdollah Khan standing at the window, waiting patiently for him to decide on the favor he wanted in return for catching the saboteurs. Come on, Bad Fats, he thought grimly, using his secret nickname for him, we both know you can catch those matyeryebyets if you want to - if they’re still in Azerbaijan.

“I’ll do what I can,” Abdollah Khan said, still with his back to him, and Mzytryk did not hide his smile. “If I intercept them, what then, Petr?” “Tell Cimtarga. He will make all arrangements.”

“Very well.” Abdollah Khan nodded to himself and came and sat down again. “That’s settled, then.”

“Thank you,” Petr said, very satisfied. Such finality from Abdollah Khan promised quick success.

“This mullah we were discussing, Mahmud,” the Khan said, “he’s very dangerous. Also his band of cutthroats. I think they’re a threat to everyone. The Tudeh should be directed to deal with him. Covertly, of course.”

Mzytryk wondered how much Abdollah knew about their secret support for Mahmud, one of their best and most fanatic converts. “The Tudeh must be guarded, and their friends too.” He saw the immediate flash of irritation, so he compromised and added at once, “Perhaps this man could be moved and replaced - a general split and fratricide would only help the enemy.” “The mullah’s a false mullah and not a true believer in anything.” “Then he should go. Quickly.” Petr Mzytryk smiled, Abdollah Khan didn’t. “Very quickly, Petr. Permanently. And his group broken.”

The price was steep, but the Section 16/a gave him authority enough. “Why not quickly and permanently, since you say it’s necessary? I agree to, er, pass on your recommendation.” Mzytryk smiled and now Abdollah Khan smiled, also satisfied.

“I’m glad we agree, Petr. Become a Muslim for your eternal soul.” Petr Mzytryk laughed. “In time. Meanwhile, become a Communist for your earthly pleasure.”

The Khan laughed, leaned forward, and refilled Petr’s glass. “I can’t persuade you to stay for a few days?”

“No, but thanks. After we’ve eaten, I think I’ll start back for home.” The smile broadened. “There’s a lot for me to do.”

The Khan was very content. So now I can forget the troublesome mullah and his band and another tooth’s been drawn. But I wonder what you would do, Petr, if you knew your saboteur captain and his saboteur soldier were on the other side of my estate, waiting for safe passage out? But out to where? To Tehran or to you? I haven’t yet decided.

Oh, I knew you’d come to beg my help, why else did I keep them safe, why else did I meet them secretly in Tabriz two days ago and bring them here secretly if not for you? Perhaps. Pity Vien Rosemont got killed, he was useful. Even so, the information and warning contained in the code he gave the captain for me is more than useful. He’ll be difficult to replace. Yes, and also true that if you receive a favor you must return a favor. The Infidel Erikki is only one. He rang a bell and when the servant appeared, he said, “Tell my daughter Azadeh she will join us for food.”

Chapter 33

AT TEHRAN: 4:17 P.M. JeanLuc Sessonne banged the brass knocker on the door of McIver’s apartment. Beside him was Sayada Bertolin. Now that they were off the street and alone, he cupped her breasts through her coat and kissed her. “I promise we won’t be long, then back to bed!”

She laughed. “Good.”

“You booked dinner at the French Club?”

“Of course. We’ll have plenty of time!”

“Yes, chérie.” He wore an elegant, heavy raincoat over his flying uniform and his flight from Zagros had been uneasy, no one answering his frequent radio calls though the airwaves were filled with excitable Farsi which he did not speak or understand.

He had kept at regulation height, and made a standard approach to Tehran’s International Airport. Still no answer to his calls. The wind sock was full and showed a strong crosswind. Four jumbos were on the apron near the terminal along with a number of other jets, one a burned-out wreck. He saw some were loading, surrounded by too many men, women, and children with no order to them, the fore and aft steps to the cabins dangerously overcrowded, discarded suitcases and luggage scattered everywhere. No police or traffic wardens that he could see, nor at the other side of the terminal building where all approach roads were clogged with standstill traffic that was jammed nose to tail. The parking lot was solid but more cars were trying to squeeze in, the sidewalks packed with laden people.

JeanLuc thanked God that he was flying and not walking and he landed at the nearby airfield of Galeg Morghi without trouble, bedded the 206 in the S-G hangar, and organized an immediate ride into town with the help of a $10 bill. First stop at the Schlumberger office and a dawn date fixed to fly back to Zagros. Then to her apartment. Sayada had been home. As always the first time after being so long apart was immediate, impatient, rough, selfish, and mutually explosive.

He had met her at a Christmas party in Tehran a year and two months and three days ago. He remembered the evening exactly. The room was crowded and the moment he arrived, he saw her as though the room was empty. She was alone, sipping a drink, her dress sheer and white.

“Vous parlez français, madame?” he had asked, stunned by her beauty. “Sorry, m’sieur, only a few words. I would prefer English.” “Then in English: I am overjoyed to meet you but I have a dilemma.” “Oh? What?”

“I wish to make love to you immediately.”

“Eh?”

“You are the manifestation of a dream…” It would sound so much better in French but never mind, he had thought. “I’ve been looking for you forever and I need to make love to you, you are so desirable.”

“But… but my… husband is over there. I’m married.”

“That is a condition, madam, not an impediment.”

She had laughed and he had known she was his. Only one thing more would make everything perfect. “Do you cook?”

“Yes,” she had said with such confidence that he knew she would be superb, that in bed she would be divine, and that what she lacked he would teach her. How lucky she is to have met me, he thought happily, and banged on the door again.

Their months together had flown by. Her husband rarely visited Tehran. He was a Lebanese banker in Beirut, of French extraction, “and therefore civilized,” JeanLuc had said with total confidence, “so of course he would approve of our liaison, chérie, should he ever find out. He is quite old compared to you, of course he would approve.”

“I’m not so sure, chéri, and he’s only fifty and you’re f - ” “Divine,” he had said, helping her. “Like you.” For him it was true. He had never known such skin and silky hair and long limbs and a sinuous passion that was a gift of heaven. “Mon Dieu,” he had gasped one night, kept lingering on the summit by her magic, “I die in your arms.” Later she had kissed him and brought him a hot towel and slid back into bed. This was on a holiday in Istanbul in the fall of last year, and the utter sensuality of that city had surrounded them.

For her the affair was exciting, but not an affair to end all affairs. She had discussed JeanLuc with her husband the night of the party. “Ah,” he had said, amused, “so that was why you wanted to meet him!”

“Yes. I thought him interesting - even though French and totally self-centered as always - but he excited me, yes, yes, he did.” “Well, you’ll be here in Tehran for two years, I can’t be here more than a few days a month - too dangerous - and it would be a shame for you to be alone, every night. Wouldn’t it?” “Ah, then I have your permission?” “Where is his wife?”

“In France. He’s in Iran for two months, then has one month with her.” “Perhaps it would be a very good idea, this liaison - good for your soul, good for your body, and good for our work. More importantly, it would divert attention.”

“Yes, that occurred to me too. I told him I did not speak French and he has many advantages - he’s a member of the French Club!”

“Ah! Then I agree. Good, Sayada. Tell him I’m a banker of French extraction, which is partially true - wasn’t my great-great-grandfather a foot soldier with Napoleon on his Middle East drive toward India? Tell your Frenchman we’re Lebanese for many generations, not just a few years.” “Yes, you are wise as always.”

“Get him to make you a member of the French Club. That would be perfect! A great deal of power there. Somehow the Iran-Israel entente must be broken, somehow the Shah must be curbed, somehow we have to split Israel from Iran oil or the archfiend Begin will be tempted to invade Lebanon to cast our fighters out. With Iranian oil he’ll succeed and that will be the end of another civilization. I’m tired of moving.”

“Yes, yes, I agree…”

Sayada was very proud. So much accomplished in the year, unbelievable how much! Next week Leader Yasir Arafat was invited to Tehran for a triumphal meeting with Khomeini as a thank-you for his help to the revolution: oil exports to Israel were finished, the fanatically anti-Israel Khomeini installed - and the pro-Israel Shah expelled into ignominy. So much progress since she had first met JeanLuc. Inconceivable progress! And she knew that she had helped her husband who was highly placed in the PLO, by acting as a special courier taking messages and cassettes to and from Istanbul, to and from the French Club in Tehran - oh, how much intrigue to persuade the Iraqis to allow Khomeini to leave for the safe harbor of France where he would no longer be muzzled - to and from all sorts of places escorted by my handsome lover. Oh, yes, she thought contentedly, JeanLuc’s friends and contacts have been so useful. One day soon we will get back to Gaza and regain our lands and houses and shops and vineyards…

McIver’s door swung open. It was Charlie Pettikin. “Good God, JeanLuc, what the hell’re you doing here? Hi, Sayada, you look more beautiful than ever, come on in!” He shook hands with JeanLuc and gave her a friendly kiss on both cheeks and felt the warmth of her.

Her long, heavy coat and hood hid most of her. She knew the dangers of Tehran and dressed accordingly: “It saves so much bother, JeanLuc; I agree it’s stupid and archaic but I don’t want to be spat on, or have some rotten thug wave his penis at me or masturbate as I pass by - it’s not and never will be France. I agree it’s unbelievable that now in Tehran I have to wear some form of chador to be safe, yet a month ago I didn’t. Whatever you say, chéri, the old Tehran’s gone forever… .”

Pity in some ways, she thought, going into the apartment. It had had the best of the West and best of the East - and the worst. But now, now I pity Iranians, particularly the women. Why is it Muslims, particularly Shi’as, are so narrow-minded and won’t let their women dress in a modern way? Is it because they’re so repressed and sex-besotted? Or is it because they’re frightened they’d be shown up? Why can’t they be open-minded like us Palestinians, or Egyptians, Shargazi, Dubaians, or Indonesians, Pakistanis, or so many others? It must be impotence. Well nothing’s going to keep me from joining the Women’s Protest March. How dare Khomeini try to betray us women who went to the barricades for him!

It was cold inside the apartment, the electric fire still down to half power, so she kept her coat on, just opened it to be more comfortable, and sat on one of the sofas. Her dress was warm and Parisian and slit to the thigh. Both men noticed. She had been here many times and thought the apartment drab and uncomfortable though she liked Genny very much. “Where’s Genny?”

“She went to Al Shargaz this morning on the 125.”

“Then Mac’s gone?” JeanLuc said.

“No, just her, Mac’s out at th - ”

“I don’t believe it!” JeanLuc said. “She swore she’d never leave without old Dirty Duncan!”

Pettikin laughed. “I didn’t believe it either but she went like a lamb.” Time enough to tell JeanLuc the real reason why she went, he thought. “Things’ve been bad here?”

“Yes, and getting worse. Lots more executions.” Pettikin thought it better not to mention Sharazad’s father in front of Sayada. No point in worrying her. “How about tea? I’ve just made some. You hear about Qasr Jail today?” “What about it?”

“A mob stormed it,” Pettikin said, going into the kitchen for extra cups. “They broke down the door and released everyone, strung up a few SAVAKs and police, and now the rumor is Green Bands have set up shop with kangaroo courts and they’re filling the cells with whom the hell ever and emptying them as quickly in front of firing squads.”

Sayada would have said that the prison had been liberated and that now enemies of the revolution, enemies of Palestine, were getting their just punishment. But she held her peace and listened attentively as Pettikin continued: “Mac went to the airport with Genny early, then to the Ministry, then here. He’ll be back soon. How was the traffic at the airport, JeanLuc?”

“Jammed for miles.”

“The Old Man’s stationed the 125 at Al Shargaz for a couple of weeks to get all our people out - if necessary - or bring in fresh crews.” “Good. Scot Gavallan’s overdue for leave and also a couple of our mechanics - can the 125 get clearance to stop at Shiraz?”

“We’re trying next week. Khomeini and Bazargan want full oil production back, so we think they’ll cooperate.”

“You’ll be able to bring in new crews, Charlie?” Sayada asked, wondering if a British 125 should be allowed to operate so freely. Damn British, always conniving!

“That’s the plan, Sayada.” Pettikin poured more boiling water into the teapot and did not notice the grimace on JeanLuc’s face. “We’ve been more or less ordered by the British embassy to evacuate all nonessential personnel - we got out a few redundancies, and Genny, and then Johnny Hogg went to pick up Manuela Starke at Kowiss.”

“Manuela’s at Kowiss?” Sayada was as surprised as JeanLuc. Pettikin told him how she had arrived and McIver had sent her down there. “So much going on it’s difficult to keep tabs on everything. What’re you doing here and how’re things at Zagros? You’ll stay for dinner - I’m cooking tonight.”

JeanLuc hid his horror. “Sorry, mon vieux, tonight is impossible. As to Zagros, at Zagros things are perfect, as always; after all it is the French sector. I’m here to fetch Schlumberger - I return at dawn tomorrow and will have to bring them back in two days - how can I resist the extra flying?” He smiled at Sayada and she smiled back. “In fact, Charlie, I’m long overdue a weekend - where’s Tom Lochart, when’s he coming back to Zagros?” Pettikin’s stomach twisted. Since they had had the call three days ago from Rudi Lutz at Abadan Tower reporting that HBC had been shot down trying to sneak over the border and that Tom Lochart was “back off leave,” they had had no further information other than one formal call relayed through Kowiss that Lochart had started back for Tehran by road. No official inquiries, yet, about the hijack.

I wish to God Tom was back, Pettikin thought. If Sayada wasn’t here I’d tell JeanLuc about it, he’s a bigger friend of Tom’s than I am, but I don’t know about Sayada. After all, she’s not family, she works for Kuwaitis and this HBC business could be called treason.

Absently he poured a cup and handed it to Sayada, another to JeanLuc, hot, black, with sugar and goat’s milk which neither of them liked but accepted out of politeness. “Tom’s done what he had to do,” he said carefully, making it sound light. “He started back from Bandar Delam day before yesterday by road. God knows how long he’ll take but he should’ve been here last night. Easy. Let’s hope he arrives today.”

“That would be perfect,” JeanLuc said. “Then he could take the Schlumberger team back to Zagros and I’d take a few days’ leave.” “You’ve just had leave. And you’re in command.”

“Well, at the very least he can come back with me, take over the base, and I’ll return here Sunday.” JeanLuc beamed at Sayada. “Voilŕ, it’s all fixed.” Without noticing it, he took a sip of tea and almost choked. “Mon Dieu, Charlie, I love you like a brother but this is merde.” Sayada laughed and Pettikin envied him. Still, he thought, his heart picking up a beat, Paula’s Alitalia flight’s due back any day… what wouldn’t I give to have her eyes light up for me like Sayada’s do for M’sieur Seduction himself.

Better go easy, Charlie Pettikin. You could make a damn fool of yourself. She’s twenty-nine, you’re fifty-six, and you’ve only chatted her up a couple of times. Yes. But she excites me more than I’ve been excited in years and now I can understand Tom Lochart going overboard for Sharazad. The warning buzzer went on the High Frequency transmitter-receiver on the sideboard. He got up and turned up the volume. “HQ Tehran, go ahead!” “This is Captain Ayre in Kowiss for Captain McIver. Urgent.” The voice was mixed with static and low.

“This is Captain Pettikin, Captain McIver’s not here at the moment. You’re two by five.” This was a measure, one to five, of the signal strength. “Can I help?”

“Standby One.”

JeanLuc grunted. “What’s with Freddy and you? Captain Ayre and Captain Pettikin?”

“It’s just a code,” Pettikin said absently staring at the set, and Sayada’s attention increased. “It just sort of developed and means someone’s there or listening in who shouldn’t. A hostile. Replying with the same formality means you got the message.”

“That’s very clever,” Sayada said. “Do you have lots of codes, Charlie?” “No, but I’m beginning to wish we had. It’s a bugger not knowing what’s going on really - no face-to-face contact, no mail, phones and the telex ropy with so many trigger-happy nutters muscling us all. Why don’t they turn in their guns and let’s all live happily ever after?”

The HF was humming nicely. Outside the windows, the day was overcast and dull, the clouds promising more snow, the late afternoon light making all the city roofs drab and even the mountains beyond. They waited impatiently. “This is Captain Ayre at Kowiss…” Again the voice was eroded by static and they had to concentrate to hear clearly. “… first I relay a message received from Zagros Three a few minutes ago from Captain Gavallan.” JeanLuc stiffened. “The message said exactly: ‘Pan pan pan’” - the international aviation distress signal just below Mayday - ” ‘I’ve just been told by the local komiteh we are no longer persona grata in Zagros and to evacuate the area with all expatriates from all our rigs within forty-eight hours, or else. Request immediate advice on procedure.’ End of message. Did you copy?” “Yes,” Pettikin said hastily, jotting some notes.

“That’s all he said, except he sounded checker.”

“I’ll inform Captain McIver and call you back as soon as possible.” JeanLuc leaned forward and Pettikin let him take the mike.

“This’s JeanLuc, Freddy, please call Scot and tell him I’ll be back as planned tomorrow before noon. Good to talk to you, thanks, here’s Charlie again.” He handed the mike back, all of his bonhomie vanished. “Will do, Captain Sessonne. Nice to talk to you. Next: the 125 picked up our outgoings along with Mrs. Starke, including Captain Jon Tyrer who’d been wounded in an aborted leftist counterattack at Bandar Delam…” “What attack?” JeanLuc muttered.

“First I’ve heard of it.” Pettikin was just as concerned. “… and, according to plan, will bring back replacement crews in a few days. Next: Captain Starke.” They all heard the hesitation and underlying anxiety and the curious stilted delivery as though this information was being read: “Captain Starke has been taken into Kowiss for questioning by a komiteh…” Both men gasped. “… to ascertain facts about a mass helicopter escape of pro-Shah air force officers from Isfahan on the thirteenth, last Tuesday, believed to have been piloted by a European. Next: air operations continue to improve under close supervision of the new management. Mr. Esvandiary is now our IranOil area manager and wants us to take over all Guerney contracts. To do this would require three more 212s and one 206. Please advise. We need spares for HBN, HKJ, and HGX and money for overdue wages. That’s all for now.”

Pettikin kept scribbling, his brain hardly working. “I’ve, er, I’ve noted everything and will inform Captain McIver as soon as he returns. You said, er, you said ‘an attack on Bandar Delam.’ Please give the details.” The airwaves were silent but for static. They waited. Then again Ayre’s voice, not stilted now: “I’ve no information other than there was an anti-Ayatollah Khomeini attack that Captains Starke and Lutz helped put down. Afterward Captain Starke brought the wounded here for treatment. Of our personnel only Tyrer was creased. That is all.”

Pettikin felt a bead of sweat on his face and he wiped it off. “What… what happened to Tyrer?”

Silence. Then: “A slight head wound. Dr. Nutt said he’d be okay.” JeanLuc said, “Charlie, ask him what was that about Isfahan.” As though in dreamtime. Pettikin saw his ringers click on the sender switch. “What was that about Isfahan?”

They waited in the silence. Then: “I have no information other than what I gave you.”

“Someone’s telling him what to say,” JeanLuc muttered.

Pettikin pressed the sending button, changed his mind. So many questions to ask that Ayre clearly could not answer. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, glad that his voice sounded firmer. “Please ask Hotshot to put his request for the extra choppers in writing, with suggested contract time and payment schedule. Put it on our 125 when they bring replacements. Keep… keep us informed about Captain Starke. McIver‘11 get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Wilco. Out.”

Now only static. Pettikin fiddled with the switches. The two men looked at each other, oblivious of Sayada who sat quietly on the sofa, missing nothing. “‘Close supervision’? That sounds bad, JeanLuc.” “Yes. Probably means they have to fly with armed Green Bands.” JeanLuc swore, all his thinking on Zagros and how young Scot Gavallan would cope without his leadership. “Merde! When I left this morning everything was five by five with Shiraz ATC as helpful as a Swiss hotelier off-season. Merde!” Pettikin was suddenly reminded of Rakoczy and how close he had come to disaster. For a second he considered telling JeanLuc, then decided against it. Old news! “Maybe we should contact Shiraz ATC for help?” “Mac might have an idea. Mon Dieu, doesn’t sound too good either for Duke - these komitehs’re breeding like lice. Bazargan and Khomeini better deal with them quickly before the two of them’re bitten to death.” JeanLuc got up, very concerned, and stretched, then saw Sayada curled up on the sofa, her untouched cup of tea on the small table beside her, smiling at him. At once his bonhomie returned. There’s nothing more I can do for young Scot at the moment, or for Duke, but there is for Sayada. “Sorry, chérie,” he said with a beam. “You see, without me there are always problems at Zagros. Charlie, we’ll leave now - I’ve got to check the apartment but we’ll return before dinner. Say 8:00 P.M.; by then Mac should be back, eh?” “Yes. Won’t you have a drink? Sorry, we’ve no wine. Whisky?” He offered it halfheartedly as this was their last three quarters of a bottle. “No thanks, mon vieux.” JeanLuc got into his coat, noticed in the mirror that he was looking as dashing as ever, and thought of the cases of wine and the tins of cheese he had had the wisdom to tell his wife to stock in their apartment. “A bientot, I’ll bring you some wine.”

“Charlie,” Sayada said, watching both of them carefully as she had done since the HF came to life, “what did Scotty mean about the helicopter escape?”

Pettikin shrugged. “All sorts of rumors about all sorts of escapes, by land, sea, and air. Always ‘Europeans’ supposed to be involved,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “We’re blamed for everything.”

And why not, you are responsible, Sayada Bertolin thought without malice. Politically, she was delighted to see them both sweating. Personally, she wasn’t. She liked both of them and most of the pilots, particularly JeanLuc who pleased her immensely and amused her constantly. I’m lucky to be Palestinian, she told herself, and Coptic Christian - of ancient lineage. That gives me strengths they don’t have, an awareness of a heritage back to biblical times, an understanding of life they could never reach, along with the capacity to dissociate politics from friendship and the bedchamber - as long as it is necessary and prudent. Haven’t we had thirty centuries of survival training? Hasn’t Gaza been settled for three thousand years? “There’s a rumor Bakhtiar’s slipped out of the country and fled to Paris.” “I don’t believe that, Charlie,” Sayada said. “But there’s another that I do,” she added, noticing he had not answered her question about the Isfahan helicopter. “It seems your General Valik and his family fled to join the other IHC partners in London. Between them they’re supposed to have salted away millions of dollars.”

“Partners?” JeanLuc said contemptuously. “Robbers, all of them, whether here or London, every year worse than before.”

“They’re not all bad,” Pettikin said.

JeanLuc said, “Those cretins steal the sweat of our brow, Sayada. I’m astounded Old Man Gavallan lets them get away with it.”

“Come off it, JeanLuc,” Pettikin said. “He fights them every inch of the way.”

“Every inch of our way, old friend. We do the flying, he doesn’t. As for Valik…” JeanLuc shrugged with Gallic extravagance. “If I was an Iranian of wealth, I would have gone months ago with all I could collect. It’s been clear for months that the Shah was out of control. Now it’s the French Revolution and the Terror all over again but without our style, sense, civilized heritage, or manners.” He shook his head disgustedly. “What a waste! When you think of all the centuries of teaching and wealth we French’ve put in trying to help these people crawl out of the Dark Ages and what have they learned? Not even how to make a decent loaf of bread!” Sayada laughed and, on tiptoe, kissed him. “Ah, JeanLuc, I love you and your confidence. Now, mon vieux, we should go, you’ve lots to accomplish!” After they had left, Pettikin went to the window and stared out at the rooftops. There was the inevitable sporadic gunfire and some smoke near Jaleh. Not a big fire but enough. A stiff breeze scattered the smoke. Clouds reached down the mountains. The cold from the windows was strong, ice and snow on the sills. In the street below were many Green Bands. Walking or in trucks. Then from minarets everywhere muezzins began calling to afternoon prayer. Their calls seemed to surround him.

Suddenly he was filled with dread.

AT THE MINISTRY OF AVIATION: 5:04 P.M. Duncan McIver was sitting wearily on a wooden chair in a corner of the crowded antechamber of the deputy minister. He was cold and hungry and very irritable. His watch told him he had been waiting almost three hours.

Scattered around the room were a dozen other men, Iranians, some French, American, British, and one Kuwaiti wearing a galabia - a long-flowing Arabian robe-and headband. A few moments ago the Europeans had politely stopped chatting as, in response to the muezzins’ calls that still came through the tall windows, the Muslims had knelt, faced Mecca, and prayed the afternoon prayer. It was short and quickly over and once more the desultory conversation picked up - never wise to discuss anything important in a government office, particularly now. The room was drafty, the air chilly. They all still wore their overcoats, were equally weary, a few stoic, most seething, for all, like McIver, had long overdue appointments. “Insha’Allah,” he muttered but that didn’t help him.

With any luck Gen’s already at Al Shargaz, he thought. I’m damned glad she’s safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: “I’m the one who can talk to Andy. You can’t put anything into writing.” “That’s true,” he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, “Maybe Andy can make a plan that we could carry out - might carry out. Hope to God we don’t have to. Too bloody dangerous. Too many lads and too many planes spread out. Too bloody dangerous. Gen, you forget we’re not at war though we’re in the middle of one.”

“Yes, Duncan, but we’ve nothing to lose.”

“We’ve people to lose, as well as birds.”

“We’re only going to see if it’s feasible, aren’t we, Duncan?” Old Gen’s certainly the best go-between we could have - if we really needed one. She’s right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: “Andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes - and spares - that’re presently under Iranian registry and technically owned by an Iranian company called IHC…”

Christ! Isn’t that a conspiracy to defraud!

Leaving is not the answer. We’ve got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. Somehow I’ve got to get the partners to help - or maybe this minister can give us a hand. If he’ll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. Any government’s got to have help to get their oil up, they’ve got to have choppers and we’ll get our money…

He looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. By name. There never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. Even in the Shah’s time it was never first come, first served. Then it was only influence. Or money.

Talbot of the British embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. “Sorry, old boy, even I can’t get into the PM, but his deputy Antazam’s a good sort, speaks good English - not one of these rev twits. He’ll fix you up.”

McIver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. When he had presented the letter, in English and Farsi, to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.

“Ah, don’t worry, Agha, you’re in plenty of time,” the friendly reception clerk said, to his relief, in good English, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. “This is the right office. Please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. Minister Kia will see you as soon as possible.”

“I don’t want to see him,” he had almost exploded. “My appointment’s with Deputy Prime Minister Antazam!”

“Ah, Deputy Minister Antazam, yes, Agha, but he’s no longer in Prime Minister Bazargan’s government. Insha’Allah,” the young man said pleasantly. “Minister Kia deals with everything to do with, er, foreigners, finances, and airplanes.”

“But I must insist th - ” McIver stopped as the name registered and he remembered what Talbot had said about Kia and how remaining IHC partners had implanted this man on the board with an enormous retainer and no guarantees of assistance. “Minister Ali Kia?”

“Yes, Agha. Minister Ali Kia will see you as soon as possible.” The receptionist was a pleasant, well-dressed young man in a suit and white shirt and blue tie, just like in the old days. McIver had had the foresight to enclose a pishkesh of 5,000 rials in the envelope with the introduction, just like in the old days. The money had vanished.

Perhaps things are really getting back to normal, McIver thought, went into the other room, and took a chair in the corner and began to wait. In his pocket was another wad of rials and he wondered if he should refill the envelope with the appropriate amount. Why not, he thought, we’re in Iran, minor officials need minor money, high officials, high money - sorry, pishkesh. Making sure no one observed him, he put some high denomination notes into the envelope, then added a few more for safety. Maybe this bugger can really help us - the partners used to have the court buttoned up, perhaps they’ve done the same to Bazargan.

From time to time harassed bureaucrats hurried importantly through the anteroom into the inner room, papers in their hands, and came out again. Occasionally, one of the men waiting would be politely ushered in. Without exception they were inside for just a few minutes and emerged taut-faced or red-faced, furious, and obviously empty-handed. Those who still waited felt more and more frustrated. Time passed very slowly.

“Agha McIver!” The inner door was open now, a bureaucrat beckoning him. Ali Kia was seated behind a very large desk with no papers on it. He wore a smile, but his eyes were hard and small and McIver instinctively disliked him.

“Ah, Minister, how kind of you to see me,” McIver said, forcing bonhomie, offering his hand. Ali Kia smiled politely and shook hands limply. “Please sit down, Mr. McIver. Thank you for coming to see me. You have an introduction I believe?” His English was good, Oxford-accented, where he had gone to university just before World War II on a Shah grant, staying for the duration. He waved a tired hand at the bureaucrat beside the door. The man left.

“Yes, it, er, it was to Deputy Minister Antazam, but I understand it should have been directed to you.” McIver handed him the envelope. Kia took out the introduction, noticed the amount of the notes exactly, tossed the envelope carelessly onto the desk to indicate more should be forthcoming, read the handwritten note with care, then put it down in front of him. “Mr. Talbot is an honored friend of Iran though a representative of a hostile government,” Kia said, his voice smooth. “What particular help can I give the friend of such an honored person?”

“There’re three things, Minister. But perhaps I may be allowed to say how happy we are at S-G that you’ve considered giving us the benefit of your valuable experience by joining our board.”

“My cousin was most insistent. I doubt I can help, but, as God wants.” “As God wants.” McIver had been watching him carefully, trying to read him, and could not explain the immediate dislike he took great pains to hide. “First, there’s a rumor that all joint ventures are suspended, pending a decision of the Revolutionary Komiteh.”

“Pending a decision of the government,” Kia corrected him curtly. “So?” “How will that affect our joint company, IHC?”

“I doubt if it will affect it at all, Mr. McIver. Iran needs helicopter service for oil production. Guerney Aviation has fled. It would seem the future looks better than ever for our company.”

McIver said carefully, “But we haven’t been paid for work done in Iran for many months. We’ve been carrying all lease payments for the aircraft from Aberdeen and we’re heavily over-committed here in aircraft for the amount of work we have on the books.”

“Tomorrow the banks… the Central Bank is due to open. By order of the PM - and the Ayatollah, of course. A proportion of the money owed will, I’m sure, be forthcoming.”

“Would you conjecture how much we can expect, Minister?” McIver’s hope quickened.

“More than enough to… to keep our operation going. I’ve already arranged for you to take out crews once their replacements are here.” Ali Kia took a thin file from a drawer and gave him a paper. It was an order directed to Immigration at Tehran, Abadan, and Shiraz airports to allow out accredited IHC pilots and engineering crews, one for one, against incoming crew. The order was badly typed but legible, in Farsi and English, and signed on behalf of the komiteh responsible for IranOil and dated yesterday. McIver had never heard of him.

“Thank you. May I also have your approval for the 125 to make at least three trips a week for the next few weeks - of course only until your international airports are back to normal - to bring in crews, spares, and equipment, replacement parts, and so on, and,” he added matter-of-factly, “to take out redundancies.”

“It might be possible to approve that,” Kia said.

McIver handed him the set of papers. “I took the liberty of putting it into writing - to save you the bother, Minister - with copies addressed to Air Traffic Control at Kish, Kowiss, Shiraz, Abadan, and Tehran.” Kia read the top copy carefully. It was in Farsi and English, simple, direct, and with the correct formality. His fingers trembled. To sign them would far exceed his authority but now that the deputy prime minister was in disgrace, as well as his own superior - both supposedly dismissed by this still mysterious Revolutionary Komiteh - and with mounting chaos in the government, he knew he had to take the risk. The absolute need for him, his family, and his friends to have ready access to a private airplane, particularly a jet, made the risk worthwhile.

I can always say my superior told me to sign it, he thought, keeping his nervousness away from his face and eyes. The 125 is a gift from God - just in case lies are spread about me. Damn Jared Bakravan! My friendship with that bazaari dog almost embroiled me in his treason against the state; I’ve never lent money in my life, nor engaged in plots with foreigners, nor supported the Shah.

To keep McIver off balance he tossed the papers beside the introduction almost angrily. “It might be possible for this to be approved. There would be a landing fee of $500 per landing. Was that everything, Mr. McIver?” he asked, knowing it was not. Devious British dog! Do you think you can fool me?

“Just one thing, Excellency.” McIver handed him the last paper. “We’ve three aircraft that’re in desperate need of servicing and repair. I need the exit permit signed so I can send them to Al Shargaz.” He held his breath. “No need to send valuable airplanes out, Mr. McIver; repair them here.” “Oh, I would if I could, Excellency, but there’s no way I can do that. We don’t have the spares or the engineers - and every day that one of our choppers’re not working costs the partners a fortune. A fortune,” he repeated.

“Of course you can repair them here, Mr. McIver, just bring the spares and the engineers from Al Shargaz.”

“Apart from the cost of the aircraft there’re the crews to support and pay for. It’s all very expensive; perhaps I should mention that’s the Iranian partners’ cost - that’s part of their agreement … to supply all the necessary exit permits.” McIver continued to wheedle. “We need to get every available piece of equipment ready to service all the new Guerney contracts if the Ay - if, er, the government’s decree to get oil production back to normal is to be obeyed. Without equipment…” He left the word hanging and again held his breath, praying he’d chosen the right bait. Kia frowned. Anything that cost the Iranian partnership money came partially out of his own pocket now. “How soon could they be repaired and brought back?”

“If I can get them out within a couple of days, two weeks, maybe more, maybe less.”

Again Kia hesitated. The Guerney contracts, added to existing IHC contracts, helicopters, equipment, fixtures, and fittings were worth millions of which he now had a sixth share - for no investment, he chortled deep inside. Particularly if everything was provided, without cost, by these foreigners! Exit permits for three helicopters? He glanced at his watch. It was Cartier and bejeweled - a pishkesh from a banker who, two weeks ago, had needed a private half an hour access to a working telex. In a few minutes he had an appointment with the chairman of Air Traffic Control and could easily embroil him in this decision.

“Very well,” he said, delighted to be so powerful, an official on the rise, to be able to assist the implementation of government oil policy, and save the partnership money at the same time. “Very well, but the exit permits will only be valid for two weeks, the license will” - he thought a moment - “will be $5,000 per aircraft in cash prior to exit, and they must be back in two weeks.”

“I, I can’t get that money in cash in time. I could give you a note, or checks payable on a Swiss bank - for $2,000 per aircraft.” They haggled for a moment and settled on $3,100. “Thank you, Agha McIver,” Ali Kia said politely. “Please leave downcast lest you encourage those rascals waiting outside.”

When McIver was once more in his car he took out the papers and stared at the signatures and official stamps. “It’s almost too good to be true,” he muttered out loud. The 125’s legal now, Kia says the suspension won’t apply to us, we’ve exit permits for three 212s that’re needed in Nigeria - $9,310 against their value of 3 million’s more than fair! I never thought I’d get away with it! “McIver,” he said happily, “you deserve a Scotch! A very large Scotch!”

IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS: 6:50 P.M. Tom Lochart got out of the battered old cab and gave the man a $20 note. His raincoat and flight uniform were crumpled and he was very tired and unshaven and dirty and felt soiled, but his happiness at being outside his own apartment building and near Sharazad at long last took away all of it. A few flakes of snow were falling but he hardly noticed them as he hurried inside and up the staircase - no need to try the elevator, it had not worked for months.

The car that he had borrowed from one of the pilots at Bandar Delam had run out of gas yesterday, halfway to Tehran, the gas gauge defective. He had left it at a garage and fought onto the next bus and then another and, after breakdowns and delays and diversions, had reached the main terminal in Tehran two hours ago. Nowhere to wash, no running water, the toilets just the usual festering, clogged, flyblown holes in the ground. No cabs at the cab rank or on the streets. No buses running anywhere near his home. Too far to walk. Then a cab appeared and he stopped it even though it was almost full, following custorn, he pulled open a door and forced his way in, beseeching the other passengers to allow him to share their transport. A reasonable compromise was reached. They would be honored if he would stay and he would be honored to pay for all of them, and be last, and to pay the driver in cash. American cash. It was his last bill. He got out his keys and turned the lock but the door was bolted from the inside, so he pressed the bell, waiting impatiently for the maid to open the door; Sharazad would never have opened it herself. His fingers drummed a happy beat, his heart filled with love for her. His excitement grew as he heard the maid’s footsteps approach, the bolts being pulled back, the door inched open. A strange chadored face stared at him. “What do you want, Agha?” Her voice was as coarse as her Farsi.

His excitement vanished and left a sickening hole. “Who’re you?” he said, as rudely. The woman started to close the door, but he put his foot out and shoved it open. “What’re you doing in my house? I’m Excellency Lochart and this is my house! Where’s Her Highness, my wife? Eh?”

The woman glowered at him, then padded away across his hallway toward his living room door and opened it. Lochart saw strangers there, men and women - and guns leaning against his wall. “What the hell’s going on?” he muttered in English and strode into his living room. Two men and four women stared up at him from his carpets, cross-legged or leaning against his cushions, in the middle of a meal in front of his fireplace, a fire burning merrily, eating off his plates that were spread carelessly, their shoes off, their feet dirty. One man older than the other, in his late thirties, had his hand on an automatic that was stuck in his belt.

Blinding rage soared through Lochart, the presence of these aliens a rape and a sacrilege. “Who’re you? Where’s my wife? By God, you get out of m - ” He stopped. The gun was pointing at him.

“Who’re you, Agha?”

With a supreme effort Lochart dominated his fury, his chest hurting him. “I’m - I’m - this is - is my house - I’m the owner.”

“Ah, the owner! You’re the owner?” the man called Teymour interrupted with a short laugh. “The foreigner, the husband of the Bakravan woman? Yo - ” The automatic cocked as Lochart readied a lunge at him. “Don’t! I can shoot quickly and very accurately. Search him,” he told the other man who was on his feet instantly. Expertly this man ran his hands over him, pulled the flight bag out of his hands, and looked through it.

“No guns. Flight manuals, compass - you’re the pilot Lochart?” “Yes,” Lochart said, his heart pumping.

“Sit down over there! Now!”

Lochart sat in the chair, far away from the fire. The man put the gun on the carpet beside him and took out a paper. “Give it to him.” The other man did as he was told. The paper was in Farsi. They all watched him carefully. It took Lochart a little time to decipher the writing: “Confiscation Order. For crimes against the Islamic State, all property of Jared Bakravan is confiscated except his family house and his shop in the bazaar.” It was signed on behalf of a komiteh by a name he could not read and dated two days ago.

“This’s - this’s ridiculous,” Lochart began helplessly. “His - His Excellency Bakravan was a huge supporter of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Huge. There must be some mistake!”

“There isn’t. He was jailed, found guilty of usury, and shot.” Lochart gaped at him. “There… there’s got to be a mistake!” “There’s none, Agha. None,” Teymour said, his voice not unkind, watching Lochart carefully, seeing the danger in him. “We know you’re Canadian, a pilot, that you’ve been away, that you’re married to one of the traitor’s daughters and not responsible for his crimes, or hers if she’s committed any.” His hand went to the gun, seeing Lochart flush. “I said ‘if,’ Agha, control your anger.” He waited and did not pick up the dull, well-kept Luger, though completely ready. “We’re not untrained rabble, we’re Freedom Fighters, professionals, and we’ve been given these quarters to guard for VIPs who arrive later. We know you’re not a hostile, so be calm. Of course this must be a shock to you - we understand, of course we understand, but we have the right to take what is ours.”

“Right? What right do y - ”

“Right of conquest, Agha - has it ever been different? You British should know that more than any.” His voice stayed level. The women watched with cold, hard eyes. “Calm yourself. None of your possessions have been touched. Yet.” He waved his hand. “See for yourself.”

“Where is my wife?”

“I don’t know, Agha. There was no one here when we arrived. We arrived this morning.”

Lochart was nearly demented with worry. If her father’s been found guilty, will the family suffer? Everyone? Wait a minute! Everything confiscated “… except his family house,” wasn’t that what the paper said? She’s got to be there… Christ, that’s miles away and I’ve no car…

He was trying to get his mind working. “You said, you said nothing’s been touched - ‘yet.’ You mean it will be touched soon?”

“A wise man protects his own possessions. It would be wise to take your possessions to a safe place. Everything of Bakravan stays here, but your possessions?” He shrugged. “Of course you may take them, we’re not thieves.” “And my wife’s possessions?”

“Hers too. Of course. Personal things. I told you we aren’t thieves.” “How - how long do I have?”

“Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow.”

“That’s not enough time. Perhaps the day after?”

“Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow. Would you like some food?”

“No, no, thank you.”

“Then good-bye, Agha, but first please give me your keys.” Lochart flushed in spite of his resolve. He took them out and the other man who was nearby accepted them. “You said VIPs. What VIPs?” “VIPs, Agha. This place belonged to an enemy of the state; now it is the property of the state for whomever it chooses. Sorry, but of course you understand.”

Lochart looked at him, then at the other man and back again. His weariness weighed him down. And his helplessness. “I, er, before I leave I want to change and - and shave. Okay?”

After a pause Teymour said, “Yes. Hassan, go with him.”

Lochart walked out, hating him and them and everything that was happening, the man Hassan following him. Along the corridor and into his own room. Nothing had been touched though all the cupboards were open, and the drawers, and there was a smell of tobacco smoke but no sign of a hasty departure or of violence. The bed had been used. Get yourself together and make a plan. I can’t. All right, then shave and shower and change and go to Mac, he’s not far away, and you can walk there and he’ll help you, he’ll lend you money and a car and you’ll find her at her family house - and don’t think of Jared, just don’t.

NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 8:10 P.M. Rakoczy moved the oil lamp nearer to the bundle of papers, diaries, files, and documents he had stolen from the upstairs safe in the U.S. embassy, continuing to sort them out. He was alone in a small tenement room - one of a warren of similar rooms, mostly for students, that had been rented for him by Farmad, the student Tudeh leader who had been killed the night of the riot. The room was dingy, without heat, just a bed and rickety table and chair and one tiny window. The panes were cracked and half covered with cardboard.

He laughed out loud. So much achieved and at so little cost. Such good planning. Our covering riot perfectly staged outside the embassy gates; - then sudden firing from the opposite rooftops, creating panic, quickly breaking down the gates and rushing the compound - our only opposition marines armed with shotguns and even then ordered not to fire - just enough time before Khomeini supporters could arrive to subdue the riot, kill us, or capture us. Covered by the pandemonium, rushing around the back of the building, smashing the side door, then up the back stairs alone while my cadre outside created more diversions, firing into the air, shouting, careful not to kill anyone but lots of noise and screaming. One landing and then the next, then running along the corridor shouting at the Americans, two frightened old women and a young man, “Get on the floor, lie down, or you’ll all be killed!”

Frantically they obeyed and all the others - I don’t blame them, the attack so sudden and they unprepared, unarmed, and carefully panicked. Into the bedroom. Empty but for a paralyzed Iranian servant, arms over his head, half under the bed. Blowing the safe quickly, everything into the carryall, then out again and down the stairs three at a time, then away into the milling crowds, Ibrahim Kyabi and the others covering me, retreating perfectly, every objective achieved.

Source’s got to be impressed, he thought again, my promotion to major’s got to be assured, and Father’ll be so proud of me. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he said involuntarily as another surge of ecstasy swept him - not noticing what he had said. “I’ve never felt so fullfilled.” Happily he went back to his work. So far the safe had revealed no treasures, but lots of documents about CIA involvement in Iran, some private ambassador rubber stamps, one cipher book that could be special, private accounts, some jewelry of little value, a few ancient coins. Never mind, he thought. There’s lots to go through yet, diaries and personal papers. Time passed for him easily. Soon Ibrahim Kyabi would be here to discuss the Women’s March. He wanted to know how to disrupt it to further Tudeh objectives and to damage Khomeini and Shi’ism. Khomeini’s the real danger, he thought, the only danger. That strange old man, him and his granite inflexibility. The quicker he’s brought before the No God the better. A current of freezing air came through the broken panes. It did not disturb him. He was warm for he wore his heavy leather jacket and sweater and shirt and underwear and good socks and strong shoes: “Always have good socks and shoes in case you’ve got to run,” his teachers had said. “Always be prepared to run….”

He remembered, amused, running away from Erikki Yokkonen, leading him into the maze and losing him near the Death-house of the Lepers. I’m sure I’m going to have to kill him one day, he thought. And his hellcat wife. What about Azadeh? What about the daughter of the Abdollah Khan, Abdollah the Cruel who though valuable as a double agent, is becoming too arrogant, too independent, and too important for our safety? Yes, but now I’d like both husband and wife back in Tabriz, doing what we require of them. And as for me, I’d like to be on leave again, once more home again, safe again, Igor Mzytryk, captain KGB again, safe at home with Delaurah, my arms around her, in our fine bed with the finest linens from Ireland, her green eyes sparkling, skin like cream, and oh so beautiful. Only seven more weeks and our firstborn arrives. Oh, I hope it’s a son….

With half an ear - as always most of his hearing tuned to detect danger - he heard the muezzins calling for evening prayer. He began clearing the little table. Very soon now Ibrahim Kyabi would be here and there was no need for the young man to know what did not concern him. Everything went quickly into the carryall. He lifted the floorboard and put the carryall into the hollow beneath that also contained a loaded, spare automatic, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, and half a dozen British fragmentary grenades. A little dirt scuffed into the cracks and now no sign of a hiding place. He doused the oil lamp until the wick was just alight, and pulled the curtains back. A little snow had collected on the inside of the sill. Contentedly he began to wait. Half an hour passed. Not like Kyabi to be late.

Then he heard footsteps. His automatic covered the door. The code of the knock was flawless; even so when he unlocked the door he slid into ambush in the comparative safety of the wall and swung the door open, ready to blast the hostile if it was a hostile. But it was Ibrahim Kyabi, bundled up and pleased to be here. “Sorry, Dimitri,” he said, stamping his feet, a little snow in his curling black hair, “but buses are almost nonexistent.” Rakoczy relocked the door. “Punctuality’s important. You wanted to know who the mullah was in the Bandar Delam helicopter when your father was murdered, poor man - I’ve got his name for you.” He saw the youth’s eyes light up and hid a smile. “His name’s Hussain Kowissi and he’s the mullah of Kowiss. Do you know it?”

“No, no, I’ve never been there. Hussain Kowissi? Good, thank you.” “I checked him out for you. He appears to be a fanatic anti-Communist, fanatic for Khomeini, but in reality, he’s secretly CIA.” “What?”

“Yes,” Rakoczy said, the disinformation perfectly justified. “He spent a number of years in the U.S., sent there by the Shah, speaks fluent English, and was secretly turned by them when he was a student. His anti-Americanism’s as false as his fanaticism.”

“How d’you do it, Dimitri? How do you know so much so fast - without phones, or telex, or anything?”

“You forget every bus contains some of our people, every taxi, truck, village, post office. Don’t forget,” he added, believing it, “don’t forget the Masses are on our side. We are the Masses.”

“Yes.”

He saw the young man’s zeal and he knew Ibrahim was the correct instrument, and ready. “The mullah Hussain ordered the Green Bands to shoot your father, accusing him of being a plant and dupe of foreigners.”

All color left Kyabi’s face. “Then - then I want him. He’s mine.” “He should be left to professionals. I’ll arrange a t - ” “No. Please. I must have revenge.”

Rakoczy pretended to think about that, hiding his content. Hussain Kowissi had been marked for extinction for some time. “In a few days I’ll arrange weapons, a car, and a team to go with you.”

“Thank you. But all I need will be this.” Kyabi pulled out a pocket knife, his fingers shaking. “This, and an hour or two, and some barbed wire and I’ll show him the extent of a son’s revenge.”

“Good. Now the Women’s March. It’s definitely scheduled in three days. Wh - ” He stopped aghast, abruptly leaped for the side wall, pulled a half-seen knot. A section of the wall swung open to give access to the unlit rickety fire-exit staircase. “Come on,” he ordered and raced down it to freedom, Kyabi blindly following in a panic run. At that moment without warning the door burst open, almost torn off its hinges, and the two men who had shouldered it open almost fell into the room, others on their heels. All were Iranian, all wore Green Bands, and they charged in pursuit, guns out. Down the stairs three at a time, hunted and hunters, stumbling and almost falling, scrambling up and rushing out into the street and the night, into the crowds and then Rakoczy went straight into the ambush and into their arms. Ibrahim Kyabi did not hesitate, just changed direction and fled across the street and into the crowded alley and was swallowed up in the darkness. In an old parked car across the street from the side exit, Robert Armstrong had seen their men go in and Rakoczy caught and Kyabi escape. Rakoczy had been quickly bundled into a waiting van before many people in the street knew what was happening. Two of the Green Bands strode over toward Armstrong, both better dressed than usual. Both had holsters on their belts for their Mausers. People moved out of their way uneasily, watching without watching, wanting no trouble. The two men got into the car and Armstrong let out the clutch and eased away, the remaining Green Bands mixing with the pedestrians.

In moments Robert Armstrong was part of the rush-hour traffic. The two men slid off their green armbands and pocketed them. “Sorry we lost that young bastard, Robert,” the older of the two said in fluent English, American-accented. He was a cleanshaven man in his fifties - Colonel Hashemi Fazir, deputy chief of Inner Intelligence, U.S. trained and SAVAK before the separate secret service department was formed.

“Not to worry, Hashemi,” Armstrong said.

The younger man in the backseat said, “We’ve got Kyabi on film at the embassy riot, Agha. And at the university.” He was in his twenties, with a luxuriant mustache and his lips twisted cruelly. “We’ll pick him up tomorrow.”

“Now that he’s on the run, I wouldn’t if I were you, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said, driving carefully. “Since he’s pegged, just tail him - he’ll lead you to bigger fish. He led you to Dimitri Yazernov.” The others laughed. “Yes, yes, he did.”

“And Yazernov’ll lead us to all sorts of interesting people and places.” Hashemi lit a cigarette, offered them. “Robert?”

“Thanks.” Armstrong took a puff and grimaced. “My God, Hashemi, these are awful, they’ll really kill you.”

“As God wants.” Then Hashemi quoted in Farsi, ” ‘Wash me in wine when I die, At my funeral use a text concerning wine, Would you wish to find me on the Day of Doom, /Look for me in the dust at the wineshop’s door.’” “Cigarettes, not wine’ll kill you,” Armstrong said dryly, the lilt of the Farsi words beautiful.

“The colonel was quoting from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám,” the young man in the back said helpfully in English. “It means th - ”

“He knows what it means, Mohammed,” Hashemi interrupted. “Mr. Armstrong speaks perfect Farsi - you’ve a lot to learn.” He puffed his cigarette for a while, watching the traffic. “Pull over for a moment, will you, Robert?” When the car stopped, Hashemi said, “Mohammed, go back to the HQ and wait for me there. Make sure no one - no one - gets at Yazernov before me. Tell the team just to make sure everything’s ready. I want to start at midnight.” “Yes, Colonel.” The younger man left them.

Hashemi watched him vanish into the crowds. “I could use a large whisky and soda. Drive on for a while, Robert.”

“Sure.” Armstrong let out the clutch, glanced at him, hearing an undercurrent. “Problem?”

“Many.” Hashemi studied the traffic and the pedestrians, his face set. “I don’t know how long we’ll be allowed to operate, how long we’re safe, or who to trust.”

“What else’s new?” Armstrong smiled mirthlessly. “That’s an occupational hazard,” he said - the lesson well learned from eleven years as adviser to Inner Intelligence, and twenty years before that in the Hong Kong police. “You want to be present when Yazernov’s interrogated, Robert?” “Yes, if I’m not in the way.”

“What does MI6 want with him?”

“I’m just an ex-CID, Special Branch, on private contract to help you fellows set up the equivalent service, remember?”

“I remember very well. Two five-year contracts, the last happily extended until next year when you retire with a pension.”

“Fat chance,” Armstrong said disgustedly. “Khomeini and the government’ll pay my pension? Fat chance.” It was very much on his mind that now all his Iranian service was wasted, and with the devaluation of the Hong Kong dollar since he retired in ‘66, his real retirement would be scratchy. “My pension’s had it.”

The dark eyes hardened. “Robert, what does MI6 want with this bastard?” Armstrong frowned. Something was very wrong tonight. The youth Kyabi should not have escaped the net and Hashemi’s as nervous as a rookie agent on his first drop behind the lines. “Far as I know they don’t. I’m interested in him. Me,” he said casually.

“Why?”

Such a long story, Armstrong thought. Should I tell you that Dimitri Yazernov’s a cover for Fedor Rakoczy, the Russian Islamic-Marxist you’ve been trying to catch for months? Should I tell you the real reason I was told to help you grab him tonight is that, quite by chance, MI6’s just discovered through a Czech defector his real name is Igor Mzytryk, son of Petr Oleg Mzytryk who back in my Hong Kong days used to be known as Gregor Suslev, master spy, we thought long since dead.

No, we don’t want Yazernov but we do want - I want - the father who’s supposed to live just north of the border somewhere, within reach, oh, God, let him be alive and within reach, for we would dearly like to debrief that sod by any means possible - ex-intelligence chief, Far East, senior lecturer in espionage at Vladivostok University, senior Party member and God knows what since.

“I think - we think - Yazernov’s more important than just Tudeh liaison with students. He’s a dead ringer for your Kurdish dissident, Ali bin Hassan Karakose.”

“You mean he’s the same man?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible.”

Armstrong shrugged. He had thrown him a bone; if he didn’t want to gnaw it that was his problem. The traffic was snarled again, everyone hooting and cursing. The big man shut his ears to the noise, stubbed out the local Iranian cigarette.

Hashemi frowned, watching him. “What’s your interest in Karakose and the Kurds - if what you say’s true?”

“Kurds straddle all the borders, Soviet, Iraqi, Turkish, and

551 Iranian,” he said easily. “The whole Kurdish national movement’s very sensitive and easy for the Soviets to exploit - with heavy international implications throughout Asia Minor. Of course we’re interested.” The colonel stared out of the window, lost in thought, snow falling lightly. A cyclist squeezed past, carelessly banging the side of the car. To Armstrong’s surprise - usually Hashemi was well tempered - he furiously wound down his window and cursed the youth and all his generations. Grimly he stubbed his cigarette out. “Drop me here, Robert. We’ll begin with Yazernov at midnight. You’re welcome.” He started to open the door. “Hang on, old son,” Armstrong said. “We’ve been friends a long time. What the hell’s up?”

The colonel hesitated. Then he closed the door. “SAVAK’s been outlawed by the government, so have all intelligence departments, including us, and ordered disbanded at once.”

“Yes, but the prime minister’s office has already told you to continue, undercover. You’ve nothing to fear, Hashemi. You’re not tainted. You’ve been told to smash the Tudeh, the fedayeen, and the Islamic-Marxists…you showed me the order. Wasn’t tonight’s operation following this line?” “Yes. Yes, it was.” Again Hashemi paused, his face set and his voice thick. “Yes, it was - but! What do you know about the Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh?”

“Only that it’s supposed to consist of men personally selected by Khomeini,” Armstrong began honestly. “Its powers are loose, we don’t know the who, how many, where, or when they meet or even if Khomeini presides or what.” “I now know for a fact that, with Khomeini’s approval, in future ultimate power is to be invested in this komiteh, that Bazargan is only a momentary figurehead until the komiteh issues the new Islamic Constitution which will put us back to the time of the Prophet.”

“Bloody hell!” Armstrong muttered. “No elected government?” “None.” Hashemi was beside himself with rage. “Not as we know the term.” “Perhaps the Constitution‘11 be rejected, Hashemi. The people’ll have to vote it in, not everyone’s a fanatic support - ”

“By God and the Prophet, don’t fool yourself, Robert!” the colonel said harshly. “The vast majority are fundamentalist, that’s all they’ve got to hang on to. Our bourgeois, rich, and middle classes are Tehranis, Tabrizis, Abadanis, Isfahanis, all Shah-552 sponsored, a handful compared to the other thirty-six million of us, most of whom can’t even read or write. Of course whatever Khomeini approves will be voted in! And we both know what his vision of Islam, the Koran, and Sharia is.”

“How soon will… how soon will they have the Constitution ready?”

“Do you understand so little about us, after all this time?” Hashemi said irritably. “The moment we seize power we use it before it slips away. The new Constitution went into effect the moment that poor bastard Bakhtiar was betrayed by Carter, betrayed by the generals, and forced to flee. As to Bazargan, pious, honest, fair, and democratically inclined, Khomeini-appointed, legal prime minister pending elections, the poor bastard’s just a dupe for anything and everything that goes wrong between now and then.” “You mean he’ll be the scapegoat - be put on trial?” “Trial? What trial? Haven’t I told you what the komiteh considers a trial? If they charge him, he’s shot. Insha’Allah! Last, and why I can’t think straight and I’m so angry I need to get drunk, I heard this afternoon, very privately, I heard that SAVAK’s been secretly reorganized, it’s going to be rechristened SAVAMA - and Abrim Pahmudi’s been made director!”

“Christ Almighty!” Armstrong felt as though he’d been smashed in the stomach. Abrim Pahmudi was one of three lifelong friends of the Shah who had been to school with him in Iran and later in Switzerland, who had risen to become high in the Imperial council, SAVAK, and, it was rumored, after the Shah’s family, his most-sought-after counselor - and who right now was supposed to be in hiding, waiting an opportunity to negotiate with the Bazargan government on the Shah’s behalf a constitutional monarchy and the Shah’s abdication in favor of his son Reza. “Christ Almighty! That explains a lot.”

“Yes,” Hashemi said bitterly. “For years that bastard’s been part of almost every crucial military or political meeting, every head of state conference, every secret agreement, and in the last days part of every important meeting with the U.S. ambassador, U.S. generals, every important decision of the Shah, of our generals, and present every time a coup d’état was discussed - and turned down.” He was so angry that tears ran down his cheeks, “We’re all betrayed. The Shah, the revolution, the people, you, me, everyone! How many times have we reported to him over the years together, and me dozens of other times? With lists, names, bank accounts, liaisons, secrets that only we could find out and know. Everything - everything in writing but one copy only - wasn’t that the rule? We’re all betrayed.”

Armstrong felt chilled. Of course Pahmudi knew all about his involvement with Inner Intelligence. Pahmudi had to know everything of value about George Talbot, about Masterson, his CIA opposite number, Lavenov, his Soviet opposite number, all our short and long contingency planning, invasion planning, operations to neutralize the CIA’s top secret radar sites with men like young Captain Ross.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, at the same time furious that their own sources had not forewarned them. Pahmudi, suave, intelligent, trilingual, and discreet. Never once over the years had there been the slightest suspicion against him. Never. How could he have escaped cleanly, even from the Shah who was constantly having his top associates checked and double-checked and rechecked. With every right, he thought. Five assassination attempts against him, bullets in his body and face, wasn’t he ruler of a people known for violence toward and from their rulers?

Christ! Where will it all end?

IN THE SAME TRAFFIC: 9:15 A.M. McIver was inching along, well to the south, heading for the bazaar area where Jared Bakravan’s family house was, Tom Lochart beside him.

“It’ll all work out,” McIver said, sick with worry.

“Sure, Mac. No sweat.”

“Yes, not to worry.” When McIver had got back home to his apartment from Ali Kia and the Ministry, elated, Tom Lochart was there, arrived just moments before. His even greater joy at finding Tom Lochart safe was dashed at once by the look of him and by the news Pettikin gave him about Freddy Ayre’s relayed radio call from Scot Gavallan at Zagros, and about Starke being taken by the Kowiss komiteh for questioning about “the Isfahan escape.” “It’s all my goddamn fault, Mac, all of it,” Tom Lochart had said. “No, not your fault, Tom. We were both trapped - anyway I okayed the flight, not that it helped Valik. Were they all aboard; how the hell did you get out? Tell us what happened, then I’ll call Freddy - you’d like a drink?” “No, no, thanks. Listen, Mac, I’ve got to find Sharazad. She wasn’t home, I’m hoping she’s at her folks’ house and I’ve got t - ”

“She’s there, I know she’s there, Tom. Erikki told me just before he left this morning for Tabriz. Did you hear about her father?”

“Yes, I have, awful, bloody awful! You’re sure she’s there?” “Yes.” McIver walked heavily over to the sideboard and fixed himself a drink as he continued: “She hasn’t been at your flat since you left and she was fine until… Erikki and Azadeh saw her day before yesterday. Yesterday they…”

“Did Erikki say how she was?”

“He said she was as well as could be expected - you know how close Iranian families are. We don’t know anything about her dad other than what Erikki told us - that he had been ordered to the jail as a witness, and the next thing the family was told to pick up his body, he’d been been shot for ‘crimes against Islam.’ Erikki said they picked up the, er, the body and, well, yesterday they were in mourning. Sorry, but there you are.” He took a deep swallow of the lovely, peat-tasting drink and felt a little better. “She’s safe at home - first tell us what happened to you, then I’ll call Freddy and we’ll go and find Sharazad.”

Quickly Lochart did so. They listened, appalled. “When Rudi told me that this Iranian Air Force officer, Abbasi, was the one who shot down HBC I almost went mad. I, I kinda collapsed and the next thing I remember was the next day. Abbasi and the others had gone by then and it was all SOP. Mac, Charlie’s idea about a ‘hijack’ - that’s not going to stand up - no way!” “We know that, Tom,” McIver had said. “First finish your story.”

“I couldn’t get a clearance to fly back so I borrowed a car, just got back a couple of hours ago and went straight to the apartment. The bastard of it is it’s been confiscated by Green Bands, along with all Mr. Bakravan’s property, except the shop in the bazaar and his family home.” Lochart told them what had happened, adding, “I’m - I’m a waif in the storm. I’ve nothing now, we’ve nothing, Sharazad and I.” He laughed and it was a bad laugh and McIver could see that he was dying inside. “It’s true it was Jared’s building, the apartment and everything in it, though… though part of Sharazad’s, er, dowry…. Let’s go, huh, Mac?”

“First let me call Freddy. Th - ”

“Oh, of course, sure, sorry. I’m so worried I can’t think straight.”

McIver finished his drink and went to the HF. He stared at it. “Tom,” he said sadly, “what do you want to do about Zagros?”

Tom Lochart hesitated. “I could take Sharazad there with me.” “Too dangerous, laddie. Sorry, but there it is.” McIver saw Lochart look into himself and measure himself, and sighed, feeling very old. “If Sharazad’s okay I’ll go back with JeanLuc tomorrow morning and we’ll sort out Zagros, and she goes on the next shuttle to Al Shargaz,” Lochart said. “Depending on what we find at Zagros… if we have to close down, Insha’ Allah, we’ll ferry all our riggers to Shiraz to go out by regular flights - their company’ll tell them where they’re to go - and we’ll move everything to Kowiss, airplanes, spares, and personnel. Okay?” “Yes. Meanwhile I’ll get on to the Ministry first thing tomorrow and see if I can straighten it out.” McIver clicked on the sender. “Kowiss, this is HQ. Do you read?”

Almost instantly: “HQ this is Kowiss, Captain Ayre, go ahead please, Captain McIver.”

“First, about Zagros Three: Tell Captain Gavallan that Captains Lochart and Sessonne will be back tomorrow around noon with instructions. Meanwhile prepare plans to obey the komiteh.” Rotten bloody sods, he thought, then went on for the benefit of those who were listening in: “The Zagros IranOil base manager should remind the komiteh that the Ayatollah and the government have specifically ordered oil production back to normal. Closing down Zagros will severely interfere with orderly production in that area. Inform Captain Gavallan I will take this up at once with Minister Kia personally who, an hour ago, confirmed this to me, and gave me written approvals to take out and replace crew by our own 125 until…”

“Christ, Mac, that’s great news,” came over the airwaves involuntarily. “Yes… by our own 125 until regular service resumes. Crew replacements and replacement aircraft to service all the extra work and Guerney contracts the government are asking us to service, so I cannot understand the actions of the local komiteh. Got it, Captain Ayre?”

“Yessir. Message received five by five.”

“Has Captain Starke returned yet?”

A long silence, then: “Negative, HQ.”

McIver’s voice became even colder. “Call me at once when he does. Captain Ayre, just between you and me and to go no further: if he has any problems whatsoever and isn’t safe back at base by dawn, I will ground all our aircraft throughout Iran, close down all our operations, and order 100 percent of all our personnel out of Iran.”

“Good, Mac,” Pettikin said softly.

McIver was too concentrated to hear him. “Did you get that, Kowiss?” Silence, then: “Affirmative.”

“As far as you’re concerned,” McIver added, developing his sudden thought, “inform Major Changiz and Hotshot from me, I’m ordering you right now to cease all operations including all CASEVACs until Starke’s back on the base. Got that?”

Silence, then: “Affirmative. The message will be relayed at once.”

“Good. But only the information that applies to your base. The rest’s private until dawn.” He smiled grimly, then added, “I’ll be making an inspection trip as soon as the 125 returns so make sure all manifests are up to date. Anything else?”

“No, sir. Not for the present. We’ll look forward to seeing you and we’ll listen out as usual.”

“HQ over and out.”

Pettikin said, “That should do it, Mac, that’ll put a hornet up their arses.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We can’t stop CASEVACs - apart from humanitarian reasons that makes us illegal and they can steal everything.” McIver finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Come on, Tom, we won’t wait for JeanLuc, let’s go and find Sharazad.”

The traffic had lessened a little now but was still inching along, snow griming the windshield. The road was slippery and banked with dirty snow. “Turn right at the next corner,” Lochart said.

“Okay, Tom.” They drove in silence again. McIver turned the corner. “Tom, did you sign for the fuel at Isfahan?”

“No, no, I didn’t.”

“Anyone interview you, ask for your name, that sort of thing? Green Bands? Anyone?”

Lochart pulled his mind off Sharazad. “No, not that I remember. I was just ‘Captain’ and part of the scenery. Far as I remember I wasn’t introduced to anyone. Valik and… and Annoush and the kids, they went off for lunch as soon as we landed with the other general - Christ, I can’t even remember his name - ah, yes, Seladi, that was it. Everyone called me ‘Captain’ - I was just a piece of the scenery. Matter of fact I stayed with the chopper at the hangar all the time we were there, watching the refueling and checking her out - they even brought me some food on a tray and I ate sitting in the cabin. I stayed there all the time until those goddamn Green Bands fell on me and dragged me off and locked me in the room. I had no warning, Mac. They just enveloped the base, they must’ve been helped lavishly from inside, had to be. The bastards that grabbed me were all hopped up, shouting I was CIA, American - they kept on about that, but they were more concerned about subduing the base than about me. Take the left fork, Mac. It’s not far now.”

McIver drove on uneasily, the area very run down and passersby glaring at them. “Maybe we could get away with it - pretend HBC was hijacked from Doshan Tappeh by someone unknown. Maybe they won’t follow it up from Isfahan.” “Then why did they grab Duke Starke?” “Routine.” McIver sighed heavily. “I know it’s a long shot but it might work. Maybe the ‘American CIA’ will stick and that’s all. Grow a mustache, or beard, just in case.” Lochart shook his head. “That’s no help. I’m on the first clearance. We both are… that’s the kicker.”

“When you took off from Doshan Tappeh, who saw you off?” Lochart thought a moment. “No one. I think it was Nogger who supervised the fueling the day before. Th - ”

“That’s right, I remember now, he was bitching, said I was giving him too much work with young Paula in town. Were there any Iranian staff, guards there? Did you pay anyone baksheesh?” “No, there was no one. But they could have me on their automatic recorders…” Lochart peered out of the side window. His excitement picked up and he pointed. “There’s the turning, not far now.”

McIver steered into the narrow street, just room for two cars to pass. Snow banked the sides up to the high walls - doors and doorways either side. McIver had never been here before and was surprised that Bakravan, so rich, would live in an area so clearly poor. Was rich, he reminded himself with an involuntary shiver, and now very dead for “crimes against the state” - and what constitutes a crime against the state? Again he shivered. “There’s the door, there on the left.”

They stopped beside the snowbank heavy with refuse. The nondescript doorway was cut into the high, mildewed wall. The door was iron-banded, the iron rusty. “Come on in, Mac.”

“I’ll wait for a moment, then if all’s well I’ll leave. I’m pooped.” There’s only one solution, McIver thought, and he reached out and stopped Lochart. “Tom, we’ve permission to fly out three 212s. You take one. Tomorrow. The hell with Zagros, JeanLuc can cope with that. I don’t know about Sharazad, if they’ll let her go or not, but you’d better get out, fast as you can. It’s the only thing to do, get out while you can. We’ll put her on the next 125 flight.”

“And you, what about you, Mac?”

“Me? Nothing to worry about. You get out - if they’ll let her go, take her too. JeanLuc can handle Zagros - looks like we’ll have to close down there anyway. All right?”

Lochart looked at him. “Let me think about that one, Mac. But thanks.” He got out. “I’ll be by just after dawn - don’t let JeanLuc go without me. We can decide then, okay?”

“Yes.” McIver watched his friend use the old-fashioned knocker. The sound was loud. Both men waited, Lochart nauseous with anxiety, preparing for the family surrounding him, the tears and the welcome and the questions, having to be polite when all he wanted was to take her off to their own rooms and hold her and feel safe and all the nightmare gone. Waiting in front of the door. Then knocking again, louder. Waiting. McIver switching off to save gasoline, the silence making the waiting worse. Snowflakes on the windshield building up. People passing like wraiths, everyone suspicious and hostile.

Muffled footsteps approached and the grilled peephole opened a fraction. The eyes that peered at Lochart were cold and hard and he did not recognize the little part of the face he could see.

“It’s me, Excellency Lochart,” he began in Farsi, trying to sound normal. “My wife, the Lady Sharazad is here.”

The eyes peered closer to see if he was alone or accompanied, examining the car behind him and McIver in the driving seat. “Please wait, Agha.” The peephole closed. Again waiting, stamping his feet against the cold, waiting, then impatiently using the knocker again, wanting to smash the door down, knowing he couldn’t. More footsteps. The peephole opened again. Different eyes and face. “What’s your name, Agha?”

Lochart wanted to shriek at the man but he did not. “My name is Agha Pilot Thomas Lochart, husband of Sharazad. Open the door. It is cold and I’m tired and I have come for my wife.”

Silently the peephole closed. A moment of agonized waiting, then to his relief he heard the bolts being pulled back. The door swung open. The servant held an oil lamp on high. Beyond him was the high-walled courtyard, an exquisite fountain in the center, trees and plants winter-protected. On the far side was another door, iron-studded. This door was open and he saw her silhouetted against the lamplight; he rushed forward and she was in his arms, weeping and moaning.

The door on the street slammed closed and the bolts shoved home. “Wait!” Lochart called out to the servant, remembering McIver. Then he heard the car start up and drive off.

“What is it, Agha?” the servant asked.

“Nothing,” he said and helped Sharazad into the house and into the warmth. When he saw her in the light, his happiness vanished and his stomach filled with ice. Her face was puffy and dirty, her hair limp and dirty, eyes sightless, her clothes were crumpled.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered but she paid no attention, just clung to him demented, moaning a mixture of Farsi and English, tears running down her cheeks. “Sharazad, it’s all right, all right now…” he said, dying to gentle her. But she just continued with her monotonous gibberish. “Sharazad, Sharazad, my darling. I’m back now… it’s all right…” He stopped. It was almost as though he hadn’t said anything and, suddenly, he was petrified that her mind had gone. He started to shake her gently but that had no effect either. Then he noticed the old servant standing by the staircase, waiting for orders. “Where’s - where’s Her Highness Bakravan?” he asked, Sharazad’s arms tight around his neck.

“She’s in her rooms, Agha.”

“Please tell her I’m here and… and that I’d like to see her.” “Oh, she’ll see no one now, Agha. No one. As God wants. She hasn’t seen anyone since the day.” Tears glistened in the old eyes. “Your Excellency has been away, perhaps you won’t know that His Ex - ”

“I heard. Yes, I heard.”

“Insha’Allah, Agha, Insha’Allah, but what crimes could the Master commit? Insha’Allah that he should be chosen, Insh - ”

“Insha’Allah. Please tell Her Highness… Sharazad, stop it! Come on, darling,” he said in English, her moans maddening him, “stop it!” Then in Farsi to the servant, “Please ask Her Highness to see me.” “Oh, yes, I’ll ask her, Agha, but Her Highness won’t open the door nor answer me nor see you but I’ll go at once and do your bidding.” He began to leave.

“Wait, where is everyone?”

“Who, Agha?”

“The family? Where’s the rest of the family?”

“Ah, the family. Her Highness is in her rooms, the Lady Sharazad is here.” Again Lochart felt his rage scourged by her moaning. “I mean where’s Excellency Meshang and his wife and children and my sisters-in-law and their husbands?”

“Where else would they be but in their homes, Agha?”

“Then tell Excellency Meshang I’m here,” he said. Meshang, the eldest son, and his family were the only ones semipermanently in residence here. “Certainly, Agha. As God wants, I’ll go to the bazaar myself.” “He’s at the bazaar?”

The old man nodded. “Of course, Agha, tonight he is, he and his family. Now he is the Master and has to run the business. As God wants, Agha, he is head of the house of Bakravan now. I’ll go at once.”

“No, send someone else.” The bazaar was close by and it would be no imposition. “Is there anyone… Sharazad, Sharazad, stop it!” he said roughly, but she did not seem to have heard him. “Is there hot water in the house?”

“There should be, Agha. The furnace is very good but it’s not on.” “You’ve no fuel?”

“Oh, there should be fuel, Agha. Would you like me to make sure?”

“Yes, put the furnace on and bring us some food, and tea.” “Certainly, Agha. What is it His Excellency’s pleasure to have?”

Lochart held on to his sanity with difficulty, her whimperings setting him even more on edge. “Anything - no, rice and horisht, chicken horisht,” he said, correcting himself, naming a common and easy dish. “Chicken horisht.” “If you wish it, Agha, but the cook prides himself on his chicken horisht and it will take him hours to make it to your satisfaction.” Politely the old man waited, eyes going from Lochart to the girl and back again. “Then… then, oh, for the love of God, just fruit. Fruit and tea, whatever fruit you have…” Lochart could stand it no longer and he lifted Sharazad into his arms and went up the staircase and along the corridors to the rooms they usually used in this three-story, flat-roofed house that was palatial, rich, and meandering. He opened the door and kicked it closed. “Sharazad, listen to me… Sharazad, listen! For Christsake listen!” But she just leaned against him, gibbering and moaning. He carried her into the stuffy inner room, windows tight shut and shutters closed, and forced her to sit on the unmade bed, then rushed into the bathroom that was modern - most of the plumbing modern - except the toilet.

No hot water. The cold water ran and it did not seem too brackish. He found some towels and soaked one and went back again, his chest hurting, knowing he was out of his depth. She had not moved. He tried to wash her face but she resisted and began to blubber, making herself even more ugly. Saliva seeped out of the sides of her mouth.

“Sharazad… Sharazad, my darting, for the love of God, my darling…” He lifted her and held her closer but nothing touched her. Only the moans remained constant, pushing him nearer and nearer his limit. “Get hold of yourself,” he said helplessly out loud, and got up, but her hands caught his clothes and tried to drag him back.

“Oh, God give me strength…” He saw his hand smash her across the face. For a moment the moaning stopped, she stared at him incredulously, then her eyes went blank again, the gibberish started once more, and she clawed at his clothes. “God help me,” he said brokenly, then began to smack her face, harder and harder, openhanded, desperately trying to be hard but not too hard and then he shoved her face downward on the bed and belted her hard on the buttocks, hit her till his palm ached and hand ached and all at once he heard screams that were real screams and not gibberish: “Tommyyyy… stop oh please Tommy please stopppppp… Tommy, you’re hurting me what have I done? I swear I’ve not thought about anyone oh God Tommy please stopppp…” He stopped. Sweat was in his eyes, his clothes wringing, and he stumbled panting off the bed. She was writhing in pain, her buttocks scarlet and face scarlet, but her tears were real tears now and her eyes her own now and her brain her own.

“Oh, Tommyyyyy, you hurt me, you hurt me,” she sobbed as a whipped child would sob. “Whyyyyy? Whyyyy? I swear I love you… I’ve never done anything… anything to… to hurt you and make you … make you hurt me…” Racked with pain and shame that she had enraged him, not understanding why but only that she must help him out of his rage, she crawled off the bed and fell at his feet, begging his forgiveness through her tears. Her tears stopped as her mind flooded with reality and she looked up at him. “Oh, Tommy,” she said brokenly, “Father’s dead… murdered… murdered by Green Bands… murdered …”

“Yes… yes, my darling, I know, oh, I know… I’m so sorry…”

He lifted her up and his tears mixed with hers and he held her tight and gave her of his strength and made her whole as she gave him of her strength and made him whole. Then they slept fitfully - waking sometimes, but sleeping again peacefully, gathering life, the flame of the oil lamp casting kind shadows. Just before midnight he awoke. Her eyes were watching him. Tentatively she moved to kiss him but a shaft of pain stopped her. “Oh, you all right?” His arms at once around her. “Oh, be careful… sorry, yes… it’s…” Painfully she tried to look at her back, then found she was in soiled clothes. She grimaced. “Ugh, these clothes, please excuse me, my darling…” She stood awkwardly and tore them off. Painfully she picked up the damp towel and cleaned her face and brushed her hair. Then, when she went closer to the light, he saw that one of her eyes was already slightly black and her buttocks badly bruised. “Please forgive me… what did I… I do to offend you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said appalled, and told her how he had found her.

She stared at him blankly. “But… you say that I… I don’t remember any of that only … only being… only being beaten.” “I’m so sorry but it was the only way I could… I’m so sorry.” “Oh, I’m not, not now, my darling.” Trying to recollect she came back and carefully lay on the bed on her stomach. “But for you… As God wants but if I was as you say… strange, and I remember nothing, nothing from the time I…” Her voice broke a little, then she continued, trying to be firm, “But for you, perhaps I would have been mad forever.” She squirmed closer and kissed him. “I love you, Beloved,” she said in Farsi. “I love you, Beloved,” he told her, possessed. After a moment she said in a strange voice, ‘Tommy, I think what sent me mad… I saw Father… saw him yesterday, the day before… I can’t remember… was that he looked so small dead, so tiny, dead, with all those holes in him, in his face and head - I never remembered him so small but they had made him small, they’d taken away his…”

“Don’t,” he said, gently, seeing the tears brimming. “It’s Insha’ Allah. Don’t think about it.”

“Certainly, husband, if you say so,” she said at once, formally, in Farsi. “Of course it’s as God wants, yes, but it’s important for

me to tell you, to remove the shame from me, you finding me like this … I would like to tell you one day.”

“Then tell me now, Sharazad, and we can put it behind us forever,” he told her, equally formally. “Please tell me now.”

“It was that they had made the biggest man in the world - after you - had made him insignificant. For no reason. He was always against the Shah when he could be and a great supporter of this mullah Khomeini.” She said it calmly and he heard the word “mullah” and not Ayatollah or Imam or farmandeh and a warning rushed through him. “They murdered my father for no reason without trial and outside the law and made him small, they took away everything that he had as a man, a father, as a beloved father. As God wants, I should say and I will try. But I cannot believe it is what God wants. It may be what Khomeini wants. I don’t know. We women will soon find out.” “What? What do you mean?”

“In three days we women march in protest - all the women of Tehran.” “Against what?”

“Against Khomeini and mullahs who are against women’s rights-when he sees us marching without chador he will not do what is wrong.”

Lochart was half listening, remembering her a few days ago - was it only a few days ago that all this nightmare began? - Sharazad so content with herself and wearing chador, so happy to be just wife and not a modern like Azadeh. He saw her eyes and read her resolve and knew that she had committed herself. “I don’t want you to take part in this protest.” “Yes, of course, husband, but every woman in Tehran will march and I am sure you would not wish me shamed before the memory of my father - against the representatives of his murderers, would you?”

“It’s a waste of time,” Lochart said, knowing he was going to lose but impelled onward. “I’m afraid, my love, a protest march of every woman in Iran or all Islam will not touch Khomeini a little bit. Women in his Islamic state will have nothing not granted in the Koran, nothing. Nor will anyone else. He’s inflexible - isn’t that his strength?”

“Of course you are right - but we will march in protest and then God will open his eyes and make all clear to him. It’s as God wants, not as Khomeini wants - in Iran we have historic ways of dealing with such men.” His arms were around her. Marching is not the answer, he thought. Oh, Sharazad, there’s so much to decide, to say, to tell, now not the time. But there’s Zagros and a 212 to ferry out. But that leaves Mac alone to carry the ball, if there’s a ball to carry. What if I took him too? I couldn’t, unless by force. “Sharazad, I might have a ferry to do. To take a 212 to Nigeria. Would you come too?”

“Of course, Tommy. How long would we be gone?” He hesitated. “A few weeks - perhaps longer.” He felt her change in his arms, imperceptibly. “When would you want to leave?” “Very soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”

She moved out of his embrace without moving. “I wouldn’t be able to leave Mother, not for a while. She’s… she’s torn apart with grief, Tommy, and… and if I went I’d be afraid for her. And then there’s poor Meshang - he has to run the business, he has to be helped - there’s so much to do and to look after.” “Do you know about the confiscation order?” “What order?” He told her. Tears filled her eyes again and she sat up, her pain for the moment forgotten. She stared at the oil flame and at the shadows it cast. “Then we’ve no home, nothing. As God wants,” she said dully. Then almost at once in a different voice, “No, not as God wants! As Green Bands want. Now we have to join together to save the family, otherwise they will have beaten Father - we cannot allow them to murder him and then beat him as well, that would be terrible.”

“Yes, I agree, but this ferry’d solve our problems for a few weeks…”

“You’re right, Tommy, as always, yes, yes, it would if we needed to leave but this is our home just as much if not more, oh, how happy we’ll be here! In the morning I will get servants and bring everything of ours from the apartment - pah! what are a few carpets and trinkets when we have this house and ourselves. I will arrange everything - oh, we will be happy here.” “But if y - ”

“This theft makes it even more important for us to be here, to resist, to protest - it makes the inarch, oh, so much more important.” She put a finger on his lips as she saw him start to speak. “If you must do this ferry - and of course you must do your work - then go, my darling, but hurry back quickly. In a few weeks Tehran will be normal and kind again and I know that is what God wants.”

Oh, yes, she thought confidently, her happiness overcoming the pain, by then it will be my second month and Tommy will be so proud of me and meanwhile it will be wonderful to live here, surrounded by family, Father avenged, the house filled with laughter again. “Everyone will help us,” she said, lying back in his arms, so tired but so happy. “Oh, Tommy, I’m so glad you’re home, we’re home, it will be so wonderful, Tommy.” Her words became slower as waves of sleep washed over her. “We’ll all help Meshang… and those abroad will come back, Aunt Annoush and the children… they’ll help… and Uncle Valik will guide Meshang…”

Lochart did not have the heart to tell her.

Sunday - February18

Chapter 34

AT THE KHAN’S PALACE, TABRIZ: 3:13 A.M. In the darkness of the small room Captain Ross opened the leather cover of his watch and peered at the luminous figures. “All set, Gueng?” he whispered in Gurkhali. “Yes, sahib,” Gueng whispered, glad that the waiting was over. Carefully and quietly both men got off their pallets that lay on old, smelly carpets on the hard-packed, earthen floor. They were fully dressed, and Ross picked his way across to the window and peered out. Their guard was slumped down beside the door, fast asleep, his rifle in his lap. Two hundred yards away beyond the snow-covered orchards and outbuildings was the four-story palace of the Gorgon Khan. The night was dark and cold with some clouds, a nimbus around the moon that came through brightly from time to time. More snow, he thought, then eased the door open. Both men stood there, searching the darkness with all their senses. No lights anywhere. Noiselessly Ross moved over to the guard and shook him but the man did not wake from the drugged sleep that was good for at least two hours. It had been easy to give him the drug in a piece of chocolate, kept for just that purpose in their survival kit - some of the chocolate drugged, some poisoned. Once more he concentrated on the night, waiting patiently for the moon to go behind a cloud. Absently he scratched at the bite of a bedbug. He was armed with his kookri, and one grenade. “If we’re stopped, Gueng, we’re only going for a stroll,” he had told him earlier. “Better to leave our weapons here. Why have kookris and one grenade? It’s an old Gurkha custom - an offense against our regiment to be unarmed.”

“I think I would like to take all our weapons now and slip back into the mountains and make our way south, sahib.”

“If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to but it’s a rotten gamble,” Ross had said. “It’s a rotten gamble. We’ll be trapped in the open - those hunters’re still searching and they won’t give up till we’re caught. Don’t forget we only just made it to the safe house. It was only the clothes that saved us.” After the ambush where Vien Rosemont and Tenzing had been killed, he and Gueng had stripped some of their attackers and put tribesmen’s robes over their uniforms. He had considered dumping their uniforms entirely but thought that unwise. “If we’re caught we’re caught and that’s the end of it.”

Gueng had grinned. “Therefore better you become a good Hindu now. Then if we get killed, it’s not an end but a beginning.”

“How do I do that, Gueng? Become a Hindu?” He smiled wryly, remembering the perplexed look on Gueng’s face and the vast shrug. Then they had tidied the bodies of Vien Rosemont and Tenzing and left them together in the snow according to the custom of the High Lands: “This body has no more value to the spirit, and because of the immutability of rebirth, it is bequeathed to the animals and to the birds that are other spirits struggling in their own karma toward Nirvana - the place of Heavenly Peace.”

The next morning they had spotted those who followed relentlessly. When they came down out of the hills into the outskirts of Tabriz, their pursuers were barely half a mile behind. Only their camouflage had saved them, allowing them to be lost in the crowds, many tribesmen as tall as he and with blue eyes, many as well armed. More luck was with them and he had found the back door of the filthy little garage the first time, used Vien Rosemont’s name, and the man there had hidden them. That night Abdollah Khan had come with his guards, very hostile and suspicious. “Who told you to ask for me?”

“Vien Rosemont. He also told us about this place.” “Who is this Rosemont? Where is he now?” Ross had told him what had happened at the ambush and noticed something new behind the man’s eyes now, even though he remained hostile.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Who are you?” “Before Vien died he asked me to give you a message - he was delirious and his dying bad, but he made me repeat it three times to make sure. He said: ‘Tell Abdollah Khan that Peter’s after the Gorgon’s head and Peter’s son is worse than Peter. The son plays with curds and whey and so does the father who’ll try to use a Medusa to catch the Gorgon.’” He saw the other man’s eyes light up at once but not happily. “So it means something to you?” “Yes. It means you know Vien. So Vien’s dead. As God wants, but that’s a pity. Vien was good, very good, and a great patriot. Who are you? What was your mission? What were you doing in our mountains?”

Again he hesitated, remembering that Armstrong had told him at his briefing not to trust this man too far. Yet Rosemont whom he had trusted had said in his dying, “You can trust that old bastard with your life. I have, half a dozen times, and he’s never failed me. Go to him, he’ll get you out….” Abdollah Khan was smiling, his mouth cruel like his eyes. “You can trust me - I think you have to.”

“Yes.” But not very far at all, he added silently, loathing the word, the word that costs millions their lives, more millions their freedom and every adult on earth peace of mind at some time or another. “It was to neutralize Sabalan,” he said and told him what had happened there.

“God be praised! I will pass word to Wesson and Talbot.” “Who?” “Ah, doesn’t matter. I’ll get you south. Come with me, it’s not safe here - the hue and cry’s out, with a reward, for ‘two British saboteurs, two enemies of Islam.’ Who are you?”

“Ross. Captain Ross and this is Sergeant Gueng. Who were the men chasing us? Iranians - or Soviets? Or Soviet-led?”

“Soviets don’t operate openly in my Azerbaijan - not yet.” The Khan’s lips twisted into a strange smile. “I have a station wagon outside. Get into it quickly and lie down in the back. I’ll hide you and when it’s safe, get you both back to Tehran - but you have to obey my orders. Explicitly.” That was two days ago, but then the coming of the Soviet strangers and the arrival of the helicopter had made everything different. He saw the moon go behind a cloud and he tapped Gueng on the shoulder. The small man vanished into the orchard. When the all-clear signal came out of the night, he followed. They leapfrogged each other, moving very well until they were beside the corner of the north wing of the great house. No guards or guard dogs yet though Gueng had seen some Doberman pinschers chained up. It was an easy climb up a balustrade to the first-floor balcony. Gueng led. He hurried down half its length, passed the corridor of shuttered windows to the staircase that climbed to the next balcony. At the top he waited, getting his bearings. Ross came alongside. Gueng pointed at the second set of windows and took out his kookri but Ross shook his head and motioned to a side door that he had noticed, deep in shadow. He tried the handle. The door squeaked loudly. Some night birds skeetered out of the orchard, calling to one another. Both men concentrated on where the birds had come from, expecting to see a patrol. None appeared. Another moment to make sure, then Ross led the way inside, adrenaline heightening his tension. The corridor was long, many doors either side, some windows to the south. Outside the second door he stopped, warily tried the handle. This door opened silently and he went in quickly, Gueng following, his kookri out and grenade ready. The room seemed to be an anteroom - carpets, lounging pillows, old-fashioned Victorian furniture and sofas. Two doors led off it. Praying it was the correct choice, Ross opened the door nearest the comer of the building and went in. The curtains were drawn but a crack of moonlight to one side showed them the bed clearly and the man he sought and a woman asleep there under the thick quilt. It was the right man but he had not expected a woman. Gueng eased the door closed. Without hesitation they went to either side of the bed, Ross taking the man and Gueng the woman. Simultaneously they clapped the bunched handkerchiefs over the mouths of the sleepers, holding them down with just enough pressure under their noses to keep them from crying out.

“We’re friends, pilot, don’t cry out,” Ross whispered, close to Erikki’s ear, not knowing his name or who the woman was, only recognizing him as the pilot. He saw the blank fright of the sudden awakening transformed into blinding rage as sleep vanished and the great hands came up to rip him apart. He avoided their grasp, increasing the pressure just under Erikki’s nose, holding him down easily. “I’m going to release you, don’t cry out, pilot. We’re friends, we’re British. British soldiers. Just nod if you’re awake and you understand.” He waited, then felt more than saw the huge man nod, watching his eyes. The eyes shouted danger. “Keep her gagged, Gueng, until we’re all set this side,” he said softly in Gurkhali, then to Erikki, “Pilot, don’t be afraid, we’re Mends.”

He released the pressure and leaped out of the way as Erikki lunged at him, then squirmed in the bed to get at Gueng but stopped rigid. Moonlight glinted off the curved kookri held near her throat. Azadeh’s eyes were wide open and she was petrified.

“Don’t! Leave her alone…” Erikki said hoarsely in Russian, seeing only Gueng’s Oriental eyes, thinking it must be one of Cimtarga’s men, still confused and in panic. He was heavy with sleep, his head aching from hours of flying, mostly on instruments in bad conditions. “What do you want?” “Speak English. You’re English, aren’t you?”

“No, no, I’m Finnish.” Erikki peered at Ross, little more than a silhouette in the shaft of moonlight. “What the hell do you want?”

“Sorry to wake you like this, pilot,” Ross said hastily, coming a little closer, keeping his voice down. “Sorry, but I had to talk to you secretly. It’s very import - ”

“Tell this bastard to let my wife go! Now!”

“Wife? Oh, yes … yes, of course, sorry. She… she won’t scream? Please tell her not to scream.” He watched the huge man turn toward the woman who lay motionless under the heavy quilt, her mouth still covered, the kookri unwavering. He saw him reach out warily and touch her, eyes on the kookri. His voice was gentle and encouraging but he did not speak English or Farsi but another language. In panic Ross thought it was Russian and he was further disoriented, expecting a British S-G pilot, without a bed partner, not a Finn with a Russian wife, and he was petrified he had led Gueng into a trap. The big man’s eyes came back on him and more danger was there. “Tell him to let my wife go,” Erikki said in English, finding it hard to concentrate. “She won’t scream.”

“What did you say to her? Was it Russian?”

“Yes, it was Russian and I said, ‘This bastard’s going to release you in a second. Don’t shout out. Don’t shout out, just move behind me. Don’t move quickly, just behind me. Don’t do anything unless I go for the other bastard, then fight for your life.’”

“You’re Russian?”

“I told you, Finnish, and I tire quickly of men with knives in the night, British, Russian, or even Finnish.” “You’re a pilot with S-G Helicopters?” “Yes, hurry up and let her go whoever you are or I’ll start something.”

Ross was not yet over his own panic. “Is she Russian?”

“My wife’s Iranian, she speaks Russian and so do I,” Erikki said icily, moving slightly to get out of the narrow beam of moonlight into shadows. “Move into the light, I can’t see you, and for the last time tell this little bastard to release my wife, tell me what you want, and then get out.” “Sorry about all this. Gueng, let her go now.”

Gueng did not move. Nor did the curved blade. In Gurkhali he said, “Yes, sahib, but first take the knife from under the man’s pillow.”

In Gurkhali Ross replied, “If he goes for it, brother, even touches it, kill her, I’ll get him.” Then in English he said pleasantly, “Pilot, you have a knife under your pillow. Please don’t touch it, sorry, but if you do until this is all okay… please be patient. Let her go, Gueng,” he said, his attention never leaving the man. With the side of his eyes he saw the vague shape of a face, long hair touseled and half covering her, then she moved behind the great shoulders, bunching her long-sleeved, winter nightclothes closer. Ross had his back to the light and he saw little of her, only the hatred in her half-seen eyes, even from the shadows. “Sorry to arrive like a thief in the night. Apologies,” he said to her. She did not answer. He repeated the apology in Farsi. She still did not answer. “Please apologize to your wife for me.”

“She speaks English. What the hell do you want?” Erikki felt a little better now that she was safe, still very aware how close the other man with the curved knife was.

“We’re sort of prisoners of the Khan, pilot, and I came to warn you and to ask your help.” “Warn me about what?”

“I helped one of your captains a few days ago - Charles Pettikin.” He saw the name register at once so he relaxed a little. Quickly he told Erikki about Doshan Tappeh and the SAVAK attack and how they had escaped, describing Pettikin accurately so there could be no mistake. “Charlie told us about you,” Erikki said, astonished, no longer afraid, “but not that he’d dropped you off near Bandar-e Pahlavi - only that some British paratroopers had saved him from a SAVAK who’d have blown his head off.”

“I asked him to forget my name. I, er, we were on a job.” “Lucky for Charlie you, we - ” Ross saw the woman whisper in her husband’s ear, distracting him. The man nodded and turned his eyes back again. “You can see me, I can’t see you, move into the light - as to Abdollah, if you were his prisoners, you’d be chained up, or in a dungeon, not loose in the palace.”

“I was told the Khan would help us if we had trouble. We had trouble and he said he’d hide us until he could get us back to Tehran. Meanwhile he put us in a hut, out of sight, across the estate. There’s a permanent guard on us.” “Hide you from what?”

“We were on a, er, classified job, and being hunted an - ” “What classified job? I still can’t see you, move into the light.” Ross moved but not enough. “We had to blow some secret American radar stuff to prevent it being pinched by Soviets or their supporters. I rec - ” “Sabalan?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“I’m being forced to fly a Soviet and some leftists to ransack radar sites near the border, then take the stuff down to Astara on the coast. One of them was wrecked on the north face - they got nothing out of that one and so far the rest haven’t produced anything worthwhile - as far as I know. Go on - warn me about what?”

“You’re being forced?”

“My wife’s hostage to the Khan and the Soviets - for my cooperation and good behavior,” Erikki said simply.

“Christ!” Ross’s mind was working overtime. “I, er, I recognized the S-G decal when you were circling and came to warn you Soviets were here, they came here early this morning, and they’re planning to kidnap you with the friendly help of the Khan - it seems he’s playing both ends against the middle, double agent.” He saw Erikki’s astonishment. “Our people should know that quickly.”

“Kidnap me to do what?”

“I don’t know exactly. I sent Gueng on a recce after your chopper arrived - he slipped out of a back window. Tell them, Gueng.”

“It was after they had eaten lunch, sahib, the Khan and the Soviet, and they were beside the Soviet’s car when he was leaving - I was in the undergrowth near and could hear well. At first I could not understand them, but then the Khan said, Let’s talk English - there are servants nearby. The Soviet said, Thanks for all the information and the offer. The Khan said, Then we have an agreement? Everything, Patar? The Soviet said, Yes I’ll recommend everything you want. I’ll see the pilot never bothers you again. When he’s finished here he’ll be brought north…” Gueng stopped as the air hissed out of Azadeh’s mouth. “Yes, memsahib?”

“Nothing.”

Gueng concentrated, wanting to get it perfect for them: “The Soviet said, I’ll see the pilot never bothers you again. When he’s finished here he’ll be brought north, permanently. Then…” He thought a moment. “Ah, yes! Then he said, The mullah won’t trouble you again and in return you’ll catch the British saboteurs for me? Alive, I’d like them alive if possible. The Khan said, Yes, I’ll catch them, Patar, do y - ”

“Petr,” Azadeh said, her hand on Erikki’s shoulder. “His name was Petr Mzytryk.”

“Christ!” Ross muttered as it fell into place.

“What?” Erikki said.

“I’ll tell you later. Finish, Gueng.”

“Yes, sahib. The Khan said, I’ll catch them, Patar, alive if I can. What’s my favor if they’re alive? The Soviet laughed. Anything, within reason, and mine? The Khan said, I’ll bring her with me on my next visit. Sahib, that was all. Then the Soviet got into his car and left.”

Azadeh shuddered.

“What?” Erikki said.

“He means me,” she said, her voice small.

Ross said, “I don’t follow.”

Erikki hesitated, the tightness in his head greater than before. She had told him about being summoned for lunch by her father, and about Petr Mzytryk inviting her to Tbilisi - “and your husband, of course, if he’s free; I would love to show you our countryside. …” and how attentive the Soviet had been. “It’s… it’s personal. Not important,” he said. “It seems you’ve done me a big favor. How can I help?” He smiled tiredly and stuck out his hand. “My name’s Yokkonen, Erikki Yokkonen and this is my wife, Az - ” “Sahib!” Gueng hissed warningly.

Ross jerked to a stop. Now he saw Erikki’s other hand was under the pillow. “Don’t move a muscle,” he said, kookri suddenly out of its scabbard. Erikki recognized the tone and obeyed. Cautiously Ross moved the pillow aside but the hand was not near the knife. He picked the knife up. The blade glinted in the shaft of moonlight. He thought a moment, then handed it back to Erikki, haft first. “Sorry, but it’s better to be safe.” He shook the outstretched hand that had never wavered and felt the enormous strength. He smiled at him and turned slightly, the light now on his face for the first time. “My name’s Ross, Captain John Ross, and this’s Gueng…”

Azadeh gasped and jerked upright. They all looked at her and now Ross saw her clearly for the first time. It was Azadeh, his Azadeh of ten years ago, Azadeh Gorden as he had known her then, Azadeh Gorden of the High Country staring up at him, more beautiful than ever, eyes bigger than ever, still heaven-sent. “My God, Azadeh, I didn’t see your face…” “Nor I yours, Johnny.”

“Azadeh… good God,” Ross stammered. He was beaming and so was she, and then he heard Erikki and looked down and saw him staring up at him, the great knife in his fist, and a shaft of fear rushed through him and through her.

“You’re ‘Johnny Brighteyes’?” Erikki said it flat. “Yes, yes, I’m… I had the privilege of knowing your wife years ago, many years ago… Good Lord, Azadeh, how wonderful to see you!”

“And you …” Her hand had not left Erikki’s shoulder. Erikki could feel her hand and it was burning him but he did not move, mesmerized by the man in front of him. She had told him about John Ross and about their summer and the result of the summer, that the man had not known about the almost child, nor had she ever tried to find him to tell him, nor did she want him ever to know. “The fault was mine, Erikki, not his,” she had told him simply. “I was in love, I was just a few days seventeen and he nineteen - Johnny Brighteyes I called him; I had never seen a man with such blue eyes before. We were deeply in love but it was only a summer love, not like ours which is forever, mine is, and yes, I will marry you if Father will allow it, oh, yes, please God, but only if you can live happily with knowing that once upon a time, long long ago, I was growing up. You must promise me, swear to me you can be happy as a man and a husband for perhaps one day we will meet him - I will be happy to meet him and I will smile at him but my soul will be yours, my body yours, my life yours, and all that I have…” He had sworn as she had wished, truly and with all his soul, happily brushing aside her concern. He was modern and understanding and Finnish - wasn’t Finland always progressive, hadn’t Finland been the second country on earth after New Zealand to give women the vote? There was no worry in him. None. He was only sad for her that she had not been careful, for she had told him of her father’s anger - an anger he could understand. And now here was the man, fine and strong and young, far nearer her size than he, far nearer her age than he. Jealousy ripped him apart. Ross was trying to collect his wits, her presence possessing him. He pulled his eyes off her and the memory of her and looked back at Erikki. He read his eyes clearly. “A long time ago I knew your wife, in Switzerland at… I was at school there for a short time.”

“Yes, I know,” Erikki said. “Azadeh told me about you. I’m … I’m… it’s a… it’s a sudden meeting for all of us.” He got out of bed, towering over Ross, the knife still in his hand, all of them aware of the knife. He saw that Gueng, on the other side of the bed, still had his kookri out. “So. Again, Captain, again thanks for the warning.”

“You said you’re being forced to fly the Soviets?” “Azadeh’s hostage for my good behavior,” Erikki said simply. Thoughtfully Ross nodded. “Not much you can do about that if the Khan’s hostile. Christ, that’s a mess! My thought was that as you were threatened too, you’d want to escape too and that you’d give us a ride in the chopper.”

“If I could I would, yes… yes, of course. But I’ve twenty guards on me all the time I’m flying and Azadeh… my wife and I are watched very closely when we’re here. There’s another Soviet called Cimtarga who’s like my shadow, and Abdollah Khan’s … very careful.” He had not yet decided what to do about this man Ross. He glanced at Azadeh and saw that her smile was true, her touch on his shoulder true, and that clearly this man meant nothing more than an old friend to her now. But this did not take away his almost blinding urge to run amok. He made himself smile at her. “We must be careful, Azadeh.”

“Very.” She had felt the surge under her hand when he had said “Johnny Brighteyes” and knew that, of the three of them, only she could control this added danger. At the same time, Erikki’s jealousy that he sought so hard to hide excited her, as did the open admiration of her long-lost love. Oh, yes, she thought, Johnny Brighteyes, you are more wonderful than ever, slimmer than ever, stronger man ever - more exciting, with your curved knife and unshaven face and filthy clothes and man smell - how could I not have recognized you? “A moment ago when I corrected this man’s Patar’ to ‘Petr’ it meant something to you, Johnny. What?”

“It was a code message I had to give the Khan,” Ross said, achingly aware she still bewitched him. “Tell Abdollah Khan that Peter’ - that could be Gueng’s Patar or Petr, the Soviet - ‘that Peter’s after the Gorgon’s head and Peter’s son is worse than Peter. The son plays with curds and whey and so does the father, who’ll try to use a Medusa to catch the Gorgon.’” Azadeh said, “That’s easy. Erikki?” “Yes,” Erikki said, distracted. “But why ‘curds and whey’?” “Perhaps this,” she said, her excitement rising. “Tell Abdollah Khan that Petr Mzytryk, KGB, is after his head, that Mzytryk’s son - let’s presume also KGB - is worse than his father. The son plays at curds and whey - perhaps that means the son is involved with the Kurds and their rebellion that threatens Abdollah Khan’s power base in Azerbaijan, that the KGB, the father, and the son are also involved - and that Petr Mzytryk will use a Medusa to catch the Gorgon.” She thought a moment. “Could that be another pun and mean ‘use a woman,’ perhaps even an evil woman to catch my father?” Ross was shocked. “The Khan’s … My God, the Khan’s your father?” “Yes, I’m afraid so. Gorgon’s my family name,” Azadeh said, “not Gorden. But the principal of the school at Chateau d’Or told me the first day I could hardly have a name like Gorgon - I would get teased to death - so I was to be just Azadeh Gorden. It was fun for me, and the principal thought it better for me that I was just plain Azadeh Gorden and not the daughter of a Khan.”

Erikki broke a silence. “If the message’s correct, the Khan won’t trust that matyeryebyets at all.”

“Yes, Erikki. But my father trusts no one. No one at all. If Father’s playing both sides as Johnny thinks - there’s no telling what he’ll do. Johnny, who gave you the message to give to him?”

“A CIA agent who said I could trust your father with my life.” Erikki said witheringly, “I always knew the CIA were… were crazy.”

“This one was all right,” Ross said more sharply than he meant. He saw Erikki flush and her smile vanish.

Another silence. More jagged. The moonlight in the room faded as the moon went behind a bank of cloud. It was uneasy in the gloom. Gueng who had watched and listened felt the increased disquiet and he silently called on all gods to extricate them from Medusas, the pagan devil with snakes for hair that the missionaries had taught about in his first school in Nepal. Then his special sense felt the approaching danger, he hissed a warning and went to the window and peered out. Two armed guards with a Doberman pinscher on a leash were coming up the staircase opposite. The others were equally rigid now. They heard the guards pad along the terrace, the dog sniffing and straining on the leash. Then go toward the outside door. Again it creaked open. The men came into the building. Muffled voices outside the door of the bedroom and the sound of the dog snuffling. Then near the door of the anteroom. Gueng and Ross moved into ambush, kookris ready. In time the guards moved down the corridor, out of the building and down the staircase again. Azadeh shifted nervously. “They don’t come here normally. Ever.”

Ross whispered back hastily, “Maybe they saw us coming up here. We’d better leave. If you hear firing, you don’t know us. If we’re still free tomorrow night, could we come here, say just after midnight? We could perhaps make a plan?”

“Yes,” Erikki said. “But make it earlier. Cimtarga warned me we might have to leave before dawn. Make it around 11:00 P.M. We’d better have several plans ready - to get out is going to be very difficult, very.” “How long will you be working for them - before you’re finished?” “I don’t know. Perhaps three or four days.”

“Good. If we don’t make contact with you - forget us.

Okay?”

“God protect you, Johnny,” Azadeh told him anxiously. “Don’t trust my father, you mustn’t let him… mustn’t let him or them take you.” Ross smiled and it lit up the room, even for Erikki. “No problem - good luck to all of us.” He waved a devil-may-care salute and opened the door. In a few seconds he and Gueng were gone as quietly as they had arrived. Erikki watched out of the window and saw them only as shadows going down the steps, noting how cleverly and silently the two men used the night, envying Ross his careless elegance of manner and movement.

Azadeh was standing alongside him, a head smaller, her arm around his waist, also watching. After a moment, his arm went around her shoulders. They waited, expecting shouting and firing, but the night remained undisturbed. The moon came out from the clouds again. No movement anywhere. He glanced at his watch. It was 4:23.

He looked at the sky, no sign of any dawn yet. At dawn he had to leave, not to the north face of Sabalan but to other radar sites farther west. Cimtarga had told him that the CIA still operated certain sites nearer the Turkish border but that today the Khomeini government had ordered them closed, evacuated, and left intact. “They’ll never do that,” Erikki had said. “Never.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Cimtarga had laughed. “The moment we get orders, you and I will just fly there with my ‘tribesmen’ and hurry them up….” Matyer! And matyer Johnny Brighteyes arriving to complicate our lives. Even so, thank all gods for the warning he brought. What’s Abdollah planning for Azadeh? I should kill that old swine and have done with it. Yes, but I can’t, I swore by the ancient gods an oath that may not be broken, not to touch her father - as he himself swore by the One God not to hinder us though he’ll find a way to break that oath. Can I do the same? No. An oath is an oath. Like the one you swore to her that you could live happily with her, knowing about him - him - didn’t you? His mind blackened and he was glad of the darkness.

So the KGB plan to kidnap me. If it’s a real plan I’m done for. Azadeh? What’s that devil Abdollah planning for her now? And now this Johnny arrives to harass us all - I never thought he’d be so good-looking and tough and no man to mix with, him with that sodding great knife, killing knife… “Come back to bed, Erikki,” she said. “It’s very cold, isn’t it?” He nodded and followed and got in his side, greatly troubled. When they were back under the great quilt, she snuggled against him. Not enough to provoke a reaction but just enough to appear normal and untouched. “How extraordinary to find it was him, Erikki! John Ross - in the street I certainly wouldn’t have recognized him. Oh, that was such a long time ago, I’d forgotten all about him. I’m so pleased you married me, Erikki,” she said, her voice calm and loving, sure that his mind was grinding her long-lost love to dust. “I feel so safe with you - if it hadn’t been for you I would have died of fright.” She said it as though expecting an answer. But I don’t expect one, my darling, she thought contentedly and sighed. He heard her sigh and wondered what it meant, feeling her warmth against him, loathing the rage that possessed him. Was it because she’s sorry she had smiled at her lover as she did? Or is she furious with me - she must have seen my jealousy. Or is she saddened that I have forgotten my oath, or is she hating me because I hate that man? I swear I’ll exorcise him from her….

Ah, Johnny Brighteyes, she was thinking, what ecstasy I enjoyed in your arms, even the first time when it was supposed to hurt, but it never did. Just a pain that became a burning that became a melting that tore away life and gave life back to me again, better than before, oh, how so much better than before! And then Erikki…

It was much warmer now under the quilt. Her hand went across his loins. She felt him move slightly and she hid her smile, sure that her warmth was reaching him now, so easy to warm him further. But unwise. Very unwise, for then she knew he would only take her with Johnny in the forefront of his mind, taking her to spite Johnny and not to love her - perhaps even thinking that in her acquiescence she was feeling guilty and was trying to make up for her guilt. Oh, no, my love, I’m not a foolish child, you’re the guilty one, not me. And though you’d be stronger than usual and more rough, which would normally increase my pleasure, this time it would not, for,‘like it or not, I would resist even more than you, aware of my other love. So, my darling, it is ten thousand times better to wait. Until the dawn. By then, my darling, if I’m lucky you will have persuaded yourself that you are wrong to hate and be jealous and you will be my Erikki again. And if you haven’t? Then I will begin again - there are ten thousand ways to heal my man. “I love you, Erikki,” she said and kissed the cloth that covered his chest, turned over, and settled her back against him and went into sleep, smiling.

Chapter 35

AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 8:11 A.M. Freddy Ayre bunched his fists. “No, by God! You heard McIver’s orders: If Starke’s not back by dawn all flights are grounded. It’s past eight o’clock and Starke’s not back so all fl - ” “You will obey my flight orders!” Esvandiary, the IranOil manager, shouted at him, his voice echoing around the S-G base. “I’ve ordered you to deliver a new mud tank and pipe under Guerney’s contract to Rig Si - ” “No flying until Captain Starke’s back!” Ayre snarled. They were on the flight line near the three 212s that Esvandiary had scheduled for today’s operations, the three pilots geared and ready since dawn, the rest of the expats watching in varying degrees of nervousness or anger. Around them were a truckload of hostile Green Bands and servicemen from the base who had just arrived with Esvandiary. Four of Zataki’s men squatted near the choppers but none of them had moved since the quarrel had eruptcd though all of them were watching closely. “All flights are grounded!” Ayre repeated. Furiously Esvandiary called out in Farsi, “These foreigners refuse to obey legitimate orders of IranOil.” A mutter of anger went through his supporters, guns covered the expats, and he stabbed a finger at Ayre. “They need an example!”

Without warning rough hands grabbed Ayre, and the beating began. One of the pilots, Sandor Petrofl, rushed forward to intervene but he was shoved back, slipped, and was kicked back to the others who were helpless under the guns. “Stop it!” Pop Kelly, the tall captain, shouted out, his face chalky. “Leave Ayre alone, we’ll fly the missions!”

“Good.” Esvandiary told his men to stop. They dragged Ayre to his feet. “Get all flights under way. At once!”

When the flights were airborne he dismissed the expats roughly. “There’ll be no more mutinies against the Islamic state. By God, all orders of IranOil will - will - be obeyed instantly.” Very satisfied with himself that he had put down the mutiny as he had promised the camp commandant, he strode into the main office, down the corridor into Starke’s office that he had commandeered, and stood at the window surveying his domain. He saw two choppers well away now, the third was hovering twenty feet over the mud tank a hundred yards away, waiting for the ground crew to link its skyhook into the big steel ring that topped the hawsers. In front of the office Ayre, surrounded by other expats, was being succored by Doc Nutt. Rotten bastard to give me so much trouble, Esvandiary thought, and glanced at his watch, admiring it. It was a gold Rolex that he had bought on the black market this morning as befitted his increased stature, the money pishkesh from a bazaari who wanted his son to join IranOil. “Do you need anything, Excellency?” Pavoud asked unctuously from the doorway. “May I add my congratulations for the way that you handled the foreigners. For years they’ve all needed a good beating to put them in their places, how wise you were.”

“Yes. From now on the base will run smoothly. The moment there’s a problem, whoever’s in charge will be made an example of. Praise God that son of a dog Zataki leaves in an hour with his thugs for Abadan.”

“That’s one flight that will leave on time, Excellency.” Both men laughed. “Yes. Bring me some tea, Pavoud.” Deliberately Esvandiary left out the normal politeness and noted the man’s humility in-585 crease. He stared out of the window again. Doc Nutt was dabbing a cut over Ayre’s eye. I enjoyed watching Freddy being beaten, he thought. Yes, yes, I did.

In the chill wind Doc Nutt had wrapped a spare parka around Ayre. “You’d better come over to the surgery, laddie,” he said.

“I’m all right,” Ayre said, hurting all over. “Don’t think… don’t think anything’s damaged.”

“Bastards,” someone said. “Freddy, we’d better figure how we’re going to get to hell out of here.”

“It’s me on the first plane out…. I’m not going to risk an - ” They all looked off as the jet engines of the chopper hovering over the mud tank picked up tempo. Getting such a heavy load airborne was tricky - particularly in this wind - but no problem for a professional like Sandor. The hook went in first time and the moment the ground crew had their hands clear, he increased power, the engines screamed at a higher pitch, taking the strain, then chopper and load eased into the sky. The guard in the front seat beside Sandor waved excitedly - as did the one in the cabin. “You’re doing fine, Captain… no sweat,” came into Sander’s headphones from Wazari in their tower, Sandor estimating the distance, gaining height, his hands and feet perfectly coordinated - seeing only Esvandiary at the office window, still maddened by Ayre’s savage beating by many armed men at the orders of a coward. It took him back in time to his childhood in Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution. He had been helpless then - but not now. “You’re okay, HFD, but kinda close.” Wazari’s voice cautioned him. “You’re kinda close, ease south…”

Sandor increased power, moving toward the tower that topped the office building. “Is the load okay?” he asked. “Feels strange.”

“Looks fine, no sweat, but ease south as you climb. Everything five by five… ease south, do you read me?”

“You sure, for crissake? She feels sluggish as all hell….” The needle climbed through a hundred feet. Sander’s face closed and his hand snapped the stick right, at the same time he gave her hard right rudder. At once the chopper reeled sickeningly, the guard in the seat beside him was thrown off balance; he bashed against the door, then grabbed Sandor, trying to steady himself, and tangled with the controls. Again Sandor overcorrected, cursing the guard as though the petrified man was a real hazard.

For a moment it seemed that the gathering swing would take the chopper out of the sky, then Sandor shoved the frantic guard away. “Mayday - load’s shifted,” he shouted, his ears shut to 586 Wazari, eyes concentrating below, oblivious of everything except the need for revenge. “Load’s shifted!”

His hand pulled the Emergency Load Release, the hook freed, the steel tank plummeted out of the sky directly onto the office. The ton and a half of steel smashed through the roof, pulverizing rafters and walls and glass and metal and desks, obliterating the whole corner, and came to rest upended against the remains of the inner wall.

A moment of appalled silence took the whole camp, then the screaming engines filled the sky as, released suddenly from its load, the chopper had careened upward out of control. Sander’s reflexes fought the controls, his mind not caring whether he dominated them or not, whether he landed or not, just knowing that he had had vengeance on one brute. Beside him the guard was vomiting and his earphones were filled with, “Jesuschrist… Jesuschrist…” from the tower.

“Christ, look outttttt!” someone shouted as the chopper whirled down at them. Everyone scattered but Sandor’s reflexes cut engines and went for the impossible emergency landing. The skids hacked into the snow of the grass verge, did not buckle, and the chopper skeetered forward to come to rest unharmed forty yards away.

Ayre was the first at the cockpit. He jerked the door open. Sandor was sheet white, numb, staring ahead. “Load shifted…” he croaked. “Yes,” was all Ayre could say, knowing it to be a lie, then others joined them and they helped Sandor, his limbs momentarily uncontrollable, out of the cockpit. Behind him, near the building, Ayre saw Green Bands gaping at the wreckage, then Pavoud and the other clerk totter out of the front door in shock, the window and corner where Esvandiary had been standing was rubble. Doc Nutt pushed through the crowd and hurried toward the ruins as Wazari came down the emergency steps outside the tower that were twisted precariously, half off the side of the building. Christ, Ayre thought, Wazari must’ve seen everything. He knelt beside his friend. “You all right, Sandy?”

“No,” Sandor said shakily. “I think I went crazy. I couldn’t stop.”

Wazari was shoving through the people toward the cockpit, still panicked from seeing the tank hurtling down on him, knowing the pilot had deliberately disregarded his instructions. “You crazy, goddamnit?” he exploded at Sandor over the wind-down scream of the engines. Ayre’s temper snapped. “Goddamnit, the load shifted! We all saw it and so did you!”

“You’re goddamn right I saw it and so did you.” Wazari’s eyes were frantically darting this way and that, watching for Green Bands, but none were near - then he saw Zataki approaching from one of the bungalows. His dread escalated. He was still badly bruised from the beating Zataki had given him, his nose mashed, his mouth still aching where three teeth had been knocked out, and he knew he would admit anything to prevent another beating. He knelt beside Sandor, half pulling Ayre with him. “Listen,” he whispered desperately, “you swear by God you’ll help me? You promise, huh?” “I said I’d do what I could!” Angrily Ayre jerked his arm away, the pain of bending very bad. He stood upright and found he was looking into Zataki’s face. The suddenness chilled him - and the eyes. Everyone else had backed away from them.

“Pilot, you did that to kill Esvandiary. Eh?”

Sandor stared up at him from the snow. “The load shifted, Colonel.” Zataki put his eyes on Ayre who remembered what Doc Nutt had said about the man, his own head aching, his groin, and pain everywhere. “The, er, the operation’s difficult, it was the wind. The load shifted. An Act of God, Excellency…”

Wazari went back a pace as Zataki turned on him. “It’s true, Excellency,” he said at once. “The winds aloft’re gust - ” He cried out as Zataki’s fist rammed into his stomach and he doubled up in agony, then Zataki grabbed him and shoved him against the chopper. “Now tell me the truth, vermin!” “It’s the truth,” Wazari whimpered, barely able to talk through his nausea. “It’s the truth! It was Insha’Allah!” He saw Zataki’s fist ready again and he cried out in a jumble of Farsi and English, “If you hit me I’ll say anything you want, anything, I can’t stand another beating and I’ll swear to anything you want, anything, but the load shifted - by God, the load shifted, I swear by God the load shifted….”

Zataki stared at him. “God will put you into the fiery vats for all eternity if you’ve sworn a lie by His Name,” he said. “You swear it was God’s will alone? That the load shifted? You swear it was an Act of God?” “Yes, yes, I swear it!” Wazari was trembling, helpless in his grasp. He tried to keep his eyes guileless, knowing that his only chance for life lay with Ayre, proving his value to him. “I swear by God and the Prophet it was an accident, an… an Act of God. Insha’Allah…”

“As God wants.” Zataki nodded, absolved, and released him. Wazari slid to the snow, retching, and all the others were thanking God or joss or heaven or karma that, for the moment, this crisis had passed. Zataki jerked a thumb at the wreckage. “Get what remains of Esvandiary out of there.” “Yes … yes, at once,” Ayre said.

“Unless the captain returns, you will fly me and my men to Bandar Delam.” Zataki walked off. His Green Bands went with him.

“Christ!” someone muttered, all of them almost sick with relief. They helped Sandor to stand and Wazari. “You okay, Sergeant?” Ayre asked. “No, goddamnit, no, I’m not!” Wazari spat out some vomit. When he saw the Green Bands had gone with Zataki his face twisted with hatred. “That bastard! I hope he fries!”

Ayre pulled Wazari aside and dropped his voice. “I won’t forget I said I’d try to help you. When Zataki leaves you’ll be okay. I won’t forget.” “Nor me,” Sandor said weakly. “Thanks, Sergeant.” “You owe me your goddamn life,” the younger man said and spat again, his knees weak and chest hurting. “You could’ve killed me too with that goddamn tank!” “Sorry.” Sandor stuck out his hand.

Wazari looked at the hand, then up into his face. “I’ll shake hands with you when I’m safe out of this goddamn country.” He limped off. “Freddy!” Dr. Nutt was at the wreckage with a couple of mechanics, lifting off rafters and mess, beckoning him. Green Bands stood around watching. “Give us a hand here, will you?”

Al of them went to help. None of them wishing to be the first one to see Esvandiary.

They found him crumpled in a pocket under one side of the tank. Dr. Nutt squeezed down beside him, examining him awkwardly. “He’s alive,” he cried out, and Sandor’s stomach turned over. Quickly they all helped get the last of the splintered rafters and the remains of Starke’s desk out of the way and gently eased the man out. “I think he’s all right,” Dr. Nutt said, hoarsely. “Get him over to the infirmary - nasty bonk on the head but limbs seem okay and nothing crushed. Someone get a stretcher.” People rushed to do his bidding, the pall off them now, all of them hating Hotshot but all of them hoping he’d be all right. Unnoticed, Sandor went behind the building, so relieved he could have wept, and was very sick. When he came back only Ayre and Nutt were waiting. “Sandy, you’d better come along too, let me give you the onceover-lightly,” Nutt said. “Bloody casualty ward, that’s what we’ve got now.”

“You’re sure Hotshot’ll be okay?”

“Pretty sure.” The doctor’s eyes were watery and pale blue and a little bloodshot. “What went wrong, Sandy?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t know, Doc. All I wanted was to get that bastard an’ at the time dumping the tank seemed the perfect way to do it.”

“You know that would have been murder?”

Uneasily Ayre said, “Doc, don’t you think it’d be better to leave it?” “No, no, I don’t.” Nutt’s voice hardened. “Sandy, you know that was a deliberate attempt at murder.”

“Yes.” Sandor looked back at him. “Yes, I understand that and I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry he’s not dead?”

“Swear to God, Doc, I thank God he’s alive. I still think he’s become vile and evil and everything I detest and I can’t forgive him for… for ordering Freddy’s beating but that’s no excuse for what I did. Doing what I did was crazy, and no excuse, and I really thank God he’s alive.” “Sandy,” Nutt said, his voice even quieter, “you’d better not fly for a day or two. You were pushed beyond the limit - nothing to worry about, laddie, so long as you understand. Just take it easy for a day or so. You’ll get the shakes tonight but don’t worry. You too, Freddy. Of course this’s all between the three of us and the load shifted. I saw it shift.” He brushed the threads of hair over his bald pate that the wind toyed with. “Life’s strange, very strange, but just between us three, God was with you today, Sandy, if there is such a thing.” He walked off, crumpled like an old sack of potatoes.

Ayre watched him. “Doc’s right, you know, we were bloody lucky, so near to disaster, so n - ”

There was a shout and they looked off. One of the pilots near the main gate shouted again and pointed. Their hearts leaped. Starke was coming down the road from the direction of the town. He was alone. As far as they could see from there, he was unhurt, walking tall. They waved excitedly and he waved back, the word flashed throughout the camp and Ayre was already running to meet him, oblivious of his pain. Maybe there’s a God in heaven after all, he was thinking happily.

Chapter 36

AT LENGEH: 2:15 P.M. Scragger was sunbathing on the big raft that was moored a hundred yards offshore, a small rubber dinghy attached to it. The raft was made with planks lashed to empty oil drums. In the dinghy was fishing equipment and the walkie-talkie, and below it hung a strong wire cage with the dozen fish that he and Willi Neuchtreiter had already caught for dinner - the Gulf being abundant with shrimp, Spanish mackerel, tuna, sea bass, rock cod, and dozens of others species.

Willi, another pilot, was swimming lazily in the warm shallow water nearby. On the shore was their base - half a dozen trailers, cookhouse, dormitories for the Iranian staff, office trailer with attached radio tower and antenna, hangars with space for a dozen 212s and 206s.

The present complement was five pilots, including himself, seven mechanics, fifteen Iranian staff, day laborers, cooks and houseboys, and the IranOil manager Kormani, presently sick. Of the other pilots two were British, the last, Ed Vossi, American.

On base now were three 212s - with just enough work for one at the moment - and two 206 Jet Rangers with hardly any work at all. Apart from the French Consortium with their Siri contracts from Georges de Plessey, all other contracts had been canceled or held up pending the end of the troubles. There were still rumors of bad trouble at the big naval base of Bandar Abbas eastward and of fighting all along the coast. Two days ago trouble had spilled over to the base for the first time. Now they had a permanent komiteh of Green Bands, police, and one mullah: “To protect the base against leftists, Excellency Captain.”

“But, Excellency Mullah, old sport, we don’t need protection.” “As God wants, but our vital Siri island oil installations were attacked and hurt by those sons of dogs. Our helicopters are vital to us and will not be hurt. But don’t be concerned, nothing will be changed by us - we understand your nervousness about flying with guns so none of us will be armed though one of us will fly with you every time - for your protection.” Scragger and the others had been reassured by the presence on the komiteh of their local police sergeant, Qeshemi, with whom they had always had good relations. The troubles of Tehran, Qom and Abadan had hardly touched them here on the Strait of Hormuz. Strikes had been minimal and orderly. De Plessey was paying EPF’s bills, so everything had been fine, except for the lack of work.

Idly Scragger glanced shoreward. The base was tidy and he could see men about their tasks, cleaning, repairing, a few of the komiteh idly sitting around in the shade. Ed Vossi was near the duty 206 doing his ground check. “Just not enough work,” Scragger muttered. It had been the same for months and he knew only too well how costly and disastrous that could be. It was the lack of steady charters and the need to get modern equipment that had persuaded him to sell his Sheik Aviation to Andrew Gavallan so many years ago.

But I’ve no regrets, he thought. Andy’s a beaut, he’s been straight with me, I’ve a little piece of the company, and I can fly so long’s I’m fit. But Iran’s terrible for Andy now - not even getting paid for work done or for current work, excepting here, and that’s a pittance. It must be four or five months the banks’ve been closed, so he’s been carrying Iran ops out of his own swag bag. Something’s got to go. With only Siri working, that’s not enough to half pay our way.

Three days ago, when Scragger had brought Kasigi back from the Iran-Toda plant near Bandar Delam, Kasigi had asked de Plessey if he could charter a 206 to go to Al Shargaz or Dubai. “I need to be in immediate telephone-telex touch with my head office in Japan to confirm arrangements I’ve made with you for your spot price, and about uplifting future supplies.” De Plessey had agreed immediately. Scragger had decided to do the charter himself and was glad he had. While he was in Al Shargaz he had met up with Johnny Hogg and Manuela. And Genny.

In private she had brought him up to date, particularly about Lochart. “Gawd Almighty!” he had said, shocked how rapidly their ops were falling apart and the revolution was embroiling them personally. “Poor old Tom.” “Tom was due from Bandar Delam the day before I left but he never arrived so we still don’t know what really happened - at least I don’t,” she said. “Scrag, God knows when we can talk privately again but there’s something else: just between us?” “Cross my heart and cut my throat!” “I don’t think the government’s ever going to get back to normal. I wanted to ask you: even if it does, could the partners - with or without official help - or IranOil force us out and keep our planes and equipment?” “Why should they do that? They’ve got to have choppers… but, if they wanted to, sure, too right they could,” he had said and whistled, for that possibility had never occurred to him before. “Bloody hell, if they decided they didn’t need us, Genny, that’d be dead easy, dead easy. They could get other pilots, Iranian or mercenaries - isn’t that what we are? Sure they could order us out and keep our equipment. And if we lost everything here, that’d gut S-G.”

“That’s what Duncan thought. Could we leave with our planes and spares - if they tried to do that?”

He had laughed. “It’d be a bonzer heist and that’s wot it’d be. But it couldn’t be done, Genny. If we tried and they caught us, they’d throw the book at us. There’s no way we could do it - not without Iran CAA approval.” “Say this was Sheik Aviation?” “It’d make no difference, Genny.” “You’d just let them steal your life’s work, Scrag? Scrag Scragger, DFC and Bar, AFC and Bar? I don’t believe it.”

“Nor do I,” he said at once, “though wot I’d do God only knows.” He saw the nice face looking at him, dark glasses perched on her head, anxiety behind the eyes, knowing her concern was not only for McIver and all that he had built, not only for their own stock and pension that, like his, was tied to S-G - but also for Andy Gavallan and all the others. “Wot’d I do?” he said slowly. “Well, we’ve almost as much in spares in Iran as birds. We’d have to start getting them out, though how to do it without making the locals suspicious I don’t know. We couldn’t get ‘em all out, but we could dent the amount. Then we’d all have to leave at the same time - everyone, all choppers - from Tehran, Kowiss, Zagros, Bandar Delam, and here. We’d…” He thought a moment. “We’d have to make for here, Al Shargaz… But, Genny, we’d all have different distances to go and some’d have to refuel once, maybe twice, and even if we got to Al Shargaz they’d still impound us without proper clearances.” He studied her. “Andy believes that’s wot the partners’re going to do?”

“No, no, he doesn’t, not yet, nor does Duncan, not for certain. But it is a possibility and Iran’s getting worse every day - that’s why I’m here, to ask Andy. You… you can’t put that in a letter or telex.”

“You phoned Andy?”

“Yes, and said as much as I dared - Duncan said to be careful - and Andy told me he’d try to check in London and when he arrived in a couple of days he’d decide what we should plan to do.” She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “We should be prepared, shouldn’t we, Scrag?”

“I wondered why you’d left the Dunc. He sent you?” “Of course. Andy‘11 be here in a couple of days.” Scragger’s mind was buzzing. If we do a bunk, someone’s bound to get hurt. What’d I do about Kish, Lavan, and Lengeh radar who could scramble twenty fighters in minutes to catch us before we were into friendly skies if we took off without clearance? “Dunc thinks they’re going to do us proper?” “No,” she had said. “He doesn’t - but I do.” “In that case, Genny, just between us, we’d better make a plan.” He remembered how her face had lit up, and thought again what a lucky man Duncan McIver was even though he was as ornery and opinionated as a man could be.

His eyes were watching the sea when he heard the 206 wind up and saw it neatly airborne. Ed’s a bonzer pilot, he thought.

“Hey, Scrag!”

“Yes, Willi?”

“You swim and I’ll watch.” Willi climbed onto the raft. “Good on you, mate.” Along with abundant edible fish there were also predators, sharks and stingrays, and others - with occasional poisonous jellyfish - but few here in these shallows, and provided you kept your eyes open you could see their shadows a long way off with plenty of time to make the raft. Scragger touched wood, as always, before he dived into the six feet of water that was lukewarm.

Willi Neuchtreiter was also naked. He was a short stocky man of forty-eight with brown hair and more than five thousand hours in helicopters, ten years with the German Army and eight with S-G - working Nigeria, the North Sea, Uganda, and here. His peaked cap was on the raft and he put it on and his sunglasses, squinted at the 206 that was heading out into the Gulf, then watched Scragger. In moments the sun had dried him. He enjoyed the sun and swimming and being at Lengeh.

So different from home, he thought. Home was in Kiel in northern Germany on the Baltic where the climate was harsh and mostly cold. His wife and three children had gone home last year because of his children’s educational needs, and he had elected to do two months here and one in Kiel, and had got a transfer back to the North Sea to be closer. Next month, after his leave, he would not return to Lengeh.

Shit on the North Sea with its foul moods and constant danger, on the crummy quarters and the vast boredom of two weeks flying off a rig a hundred miles offshore to earn one week at home in Kiel and barely enough money to pay the mortgage and schooling and stay ahead with a little to spare for holidays. But you’ll be near the kids and Hilda and Ma and Pa, your homeland is always your homeland. Yes, it is, and with any luck, some day soon, all Germans will mix freely with all Germans, Ma can visit her family in Schwerin whenever she wants - and Schwerin and all our other Schwerins won’t be occupied anymore. Oh, God, let me live to see that day.

“Scrag, a shadow’s coming in.”

Scragger had seen it almost at the same time, and he swam back to the raft and got aboard. The shadow came in fast. It was a shark. “Stone the crows,” he gasped. “Look at her size!”

The shark slowed, then leisurely began to circle, its large dorsal fin cutting the calm surface. Dull gray, lethal and unhurried. Both men watched silently, awed. Then Scragger chuckled. “How about it, Willi?” “Yes, by God Harry, he’s not Jaws but he’s the biggest beetch I’ve ever seen so I think we get him, by God!” Gleefully, he got the fishing tackle that was in the dinghy. “What about bait? What you think for bait?” “The sea bass, the big one!”

Laughing, Willi reached down into the cage and pulled out the squirming fish and baited the steel shark hook. There was blood on his hands now and he washed them off in the water, watching the prey. Then he got up, checked the short length of chain attached to the hook, knotted it carefully to the heavy nylon fishing line that was on the reel of the rod. “Here you are, Scrag.” “No, cobber. You spotted her first!”

Excitedly Willi wiped the sea salt off his forehead with the back of his hand, settled his cap jauntily, and looked at the shark that still circled twenty yards away. With great care he threw the bait directly into its path, gently tightened the line. The shark passed the bait and continued circling. Both men cursed. Willi reeled in. The sea bass danced and kicked spasmodically, dying fast. A thin trail of blood was in its wake. Again Willi cast perfectly. Again nothing happened.

“Goddamn,” Willi said. This time he left the bait where it was, watching it settle lower and lower until it lay on the bottom, keeping just enough tension on the line. The shark came around, passed over it, almost touching it with its belly, and continued circling.

“Maybe he’s not hungry.”

“Those sonsofbeetches’re always hungry. Maybe he knows we’re waiting for him - or he’s going to trick us. Scrag, get a smaller fish and throw it just where the bait is as he comes around.”

Scragger chose a rock cod. He threw it deftly. The fish fell into the water ten yards ahead of the shark, sensed the danger, and fled for the sandy bottom. The shark paid no attention to it, or to the sea bass so close by, just flicked its tail and circled. “Let the bait stay where it is,” Scragger said. “That bugger can’t’ve not got its scent.”

Now they could see the yellow eyes and the three small pilot fish hovering over its head, the thin line of the vast mouth under the blunt nose, the sleek skin and power of the great tail. Another circuit. A little closer this time. “Betcha he’s nearer eight feet than six, Willi.” “That sonofabitch’s watching us, Scrag,” Willi said uneasily, his excitement gone now, a hollowness in its place.

Scragger frowned, having the same feeling. He looked away from the eyes to the dinghy. No weapons there of any value, just a small sheath knife, a light aluminum three-pronged fishing spear and some oars. Even so, he tugged on the painter to bring the dinghy closer, knelt down, and reached for the knife and fishing spear. Wish I had a gun, he thought. A sudden warning cry from Willi made him jump back and he just had time to see the shark coming straight for him at full speed. It smashed against the side of the rubber dinghy, its ugly head now out of the water, jaws gaping as it lunged at him, crashing against the oil drums, making the bow of the dinghy rear up out of the water. Then it was gone, both men aghast. “By God Harry…” Willi shouted and pointed. The shark was charging toward the bait. They saw it take it and the hook into its mouth and swim away, the line singing off the reel. Willi held his breath, tightened the line, then with both hands on the rod, he struck hard. “Gotttt heemmm!” he shouted, taking the strain, the reel shrieking as the line rushed out, the hook deeply embedded now.

“Bloody bastard near did me,” Scragger said, his heart racing, watching the taut line. “Don’t let the bugger cheat you.”

Willi put more strain on the line and began to fight him, the line taut. “Watch him, Willi, he’ll turn and come back fast…” But the shark did not, just slowed and fought the line and hook in a frenzy, boiling the water around it, half in and out of the water, rolling over and turning. But the hook held and the line was strong enough and Willi gave the fish just enough leeway, allowing it to swim off a way, then once more began to reel in. Minutes passed. The strain of fighting such a fish without a harness or chair, unable to use his legs to help him, was overwhelming. But Willi held on. Abruptly the shark stopped fighting, beginning to circle again. Slower. “Good on you, Willi, you got him, Willi.”

“Scrag, if he comes in fast see if you can keep the line from fouling, and when I get him near enough, jab him with the harpoon.” Willi felt the pain in his back and hands but now he was exhilarated, waiting for the next move. It came quickly.

The shark swirled and headed for them. Frantically Willi reeled in to take up the slack lest the shark turn again and snap the line, but it kept barreling in and went directly under the raft. Miraculously the line did not foul and when the shark came out on the other side to charge off toward deeper water, Willi let him take line with him and gradually got the tension back. Once more the shark tried to shake off the hook in a paroxysm of rage, churning the water white, and once more Willi held him. But his muscles were weakening, he knew he would not be able to hold him alone and swore silently. “Give me a hand, Scrag.”

“Okay, mate.”

Together the two men held the rod now, Willi working the reel, pulling the shark in, playing him, closer and closer. The shark was slowing. “He’s tiring, Willi.” Inch by inch they pulled him in. Now the shark was thirty yards out from the raft just making headway, its great tail waving slowly back and forth, almost wallowing in the water. To breathe, a shark must have forward motion. If it stops it drowns.

Patiently they fought it, its huge weight hurting them. Now they could see its great size, the yellow eyes, jaws tight shut, the pilot fish. Twenty-five yards, twenty, eighteen, seventeen…

Then it happened. The shark came to life and tore away from them for fifty yards at incredible speed, line screeching off the reel, then turned ninety degrees at full speed and was going away but Willi somehow got tension back on the line, forcing the fish to circle, but he could not bring it nearer. Another circuit, Willi using all his strength on the reel to no avail. On the next circuit he gained a little. Another inch. Another, then both men lurched and nearly fell overboard as the line came free. “Lost heem by God Harry…”

Both were panting and aching and bitterly disappointed. There was no sign of the shark now. “God cursed line,” Willi said, reeling in, swearing in two languages. But it wasn’t the line. It was the chain. The links nearest the hook were mashed. “That bugger must’ve just chewed through it!” Scragger said, awed.

“He was playing with us, Scrag,” Willi said disgustedly. “He could have bust it any time he wanted. He was giving us the finger.” They searched the water all around but there was no sign of it. “He could be on the bottom, waiting,” he said thoughtfully.

“More likely he’s two miles away, mad as a rabid dingo.”

“I betcha he’s mad, Scrag. That hook’ll do him no good at all.” Both men searched the sea. Nothing. Then they noticed the rubber dinghy was listing by the bow and half submerged. Scragger bent down and carefully examined it, his eyes on the sea and under the raft.

“Look,” he said. There was a great rip in one of the air chambers. “The bugger must’ve done it when he came charging in.” The air was escaping fast. “No problem. We can make the shore in time. Let’s go.”

Willi looked at the raft, then at the sea. “You go, Scrag. Me I wait for the wood dinghy with someone up front with a machine gun.”

“There’s no problem, for God’s sake. C’me on.”

“Scrag,” Willi said sweetly, “I love you like a brother but I’m not moving. That beetch frightened me to death.” He sat down in the center of the raft and put his arms around his knees. “That motherless beetch’s lurking somewhere, bottoming. You want to go, okay, but me, I know the Book says when in doubt, duck. Order up the other boat on the walkie-talkie.” “I’ll bring her myself.” the dinghy squelched as Scragger stepped carefully into it, nearly capsized, and he scrambled back on the raft cursing, quicker than he wanted to. “Wot the hell’re you laughing about?”

“You got out of there like you got jellyfish on your bum.” Willi was still laughing. “Scrag, why don’t you swim home?”

“Get stuffed.” Scragger looked at the shore, heart pounding. Today it seemed far away when most days it was so close.

“You swim and you’re crazy,” Willi said, seriously now. “Don’t do it.” Scragger paid no attention to him. You know something? he was thinking. You’re scared fartless. That bugger was a small one and you hooked him and he got away and now he’s miles out in the Gulf. Yes, but where? He put a tentative toe in the water. Something below caught his eye. He knelt on the side of the raft and pulled up the cage. It was empty. The whole side was torn off. “Stone the crows!”

“I’ll call up the boat,” Willi said, reaching for the walkie-talkie. “With a machine gun.”

“No need for that, Willi,” Scragger said with a show of bravado. “Race you to the shore.”

“Not on your Nelly! Scrag, for God’s sake don’t…” Willi was appalled as Scragger dived over the side. He saw him surface and strike out strongly, then all at once turn back and scramble back onto the raft, spluttering and choking with laughter.

“Fooled you, huh? You’re right, me son, anyone who swims ashore’s crazy! Call up the boat, I’m fishing for more dinner.”

When the boat came, one of the mechanics was on the tiller with two excited Green Bands in the bow, others watching from the beach. They were halfway back to shore when the shark appeared out of nowhere and began circling. The Green Bands started firing and, in their excitement, one fell overboard. Scragger managed to grab his gun and opened up on the shark that raced for the petrified man now standing in the shallow water. The bullets went into the shark’s head and into the eyes and though the shark was dead it did not believe it, just rolled over thrashing, its jaws working and tail working, then went driving ahead for its prey. But without the guidance of scent or eyesight it missed the man and went on up the sloping bottom until it beached itself and thrashed around, half in and half out of the water. “Scrag,” Willi said, when he could talk, “you’ve the luck of the devil. If you’d swum in he’d’ve got you. You’ve the luck of the devil.”

Chapter 37

AT RIG ROSA - ZAGROS: 3:05 P.M. Tom Lochart got out of the 206 stiffly and shook hands with Mimmo Sera, the “company man” who greeted him warmly. With Lochart was the Schlumberger expert, Jesper Almqvist, a tall young Swede in his late twenties. He carried his special case with the necessary down-hole tools - all his other equipment already here, on site. “Buon giorno, Jesper, good to see you. She’s waiting for you.”

“Okay, Mr. Sera, I’ll go to work.” The young man walked off toward the rig. He had logged most of the wells in the field.

“Come inside for a moment, Tom.” Sera led the way through the snow to the office trailer. Inside it was warm and a pot of coffee was on the big-bellied, iron, wood-burning furnace near the far wall. “Coffee?” “Thanks, I’m bushed, the trip from Tehran was boring.” Sera handed him a cup. “What the hell’s going on?” “Thanks. I don’t know exactly - I just dropped off JeanLuc at the base, had a brief word with Scot, then thought it best to bring Jesper at once and come see you myself. Haven’t seen Nitchak Khan yet; I’ll do that soon as I get back but Scot was quite clear: Nitchak Khan told him the komiteh had given us forty-eight hours to leave. McI - ”

“But why? Mamma mia, if you leave we’ll have to close down the whole field completely.”

“I know. My God, the coffee’s good! Nitchak’s always been reasonable in the past - you heard this komiteh shot Nasiri and burned the schoolhouse?” “Yes, terrible. He was a fine fellow, though pro-Shah.”

“So were we all - when the Shah was in power,” Lochart said, thinking of Sharazad and Jared Bakravan and Emir Paknouri and HBC - always back to HBC, and Sharazad. At dawn he had left her, hating to leave her. She was still deep in sleep. He had thought about waking her but there was little to say. Zagros was his responsibility - and she looked so exhausted, the bruise on her face vivid. His note said: “Back in a couple of days. Any problem see Mac or Charlie. All my love.” He looked back at Sera. “McIver’s got an appointment this morning with a top official in the government, so with any luck he can straighten everything out. He said he’d get a message to us soon as he got back. Your radio’s working?”

Sera shrugged. “As usual: from time to time.”

“If I hear anything I’ll get word to you, either tonight or first thing. I hope it’s all a storm in a bucket of shit. But if we have to clear out, McIver told me temporarily to base out of Kowiss. There’s no way in hell we can service you from there. What do you think?”

“If you’re forced out, we’ll have to evacuate. You’ll have to ferry us to Shiraz. We’ve company HQ there; they can put us up or fly us out until we’re allowed back. Madonna, there would be eleven bases to close, double shifts.” “We could use both 212s, no sweat.”

“Plenty of sweat, Tom.” Sera was very worried. “There’s no way to close down and get the men out in forty-eight hours. No way at all.” “Maybe it won’t be necessary. Let’s hope, huh?” Lochart got up. “If we have to evacuate, most of the crew’ll cheer - we haven’t had a replacement in weeks and they’re all overdue leave.” Sera got up and glanced out of the window. They could just see the afternoon sun glinting off the crest over Rig Bellissima. “You heard what a fine job Scot did, with Pietro?”

“Yes. The lads call him Bomber Pietro now. Sorry about Mario Guineppa.” “Che sarŕ, sarŕ! Doctors’re all stronzi - he had a medical last month or so. It was perfect. Stronzo!” The Italian looked at him keenly. “What’s up, Tom?”

“Nothing.”

“How was Tehran?”

“Not good.”

“Did Scot tell you anything I don’t know?”

“A reason for the komiteh’s order? No. No, he didn’t. Maybe I can get something out of Nitchak Khan.” Lochart shook hands and went off. Once he was airborne, he thought of the story Scot had told him, JeanLuc, and Jesper about what happened in the village after the komiteh had sentenced Nitchak Khan to death: “The moment they marched Nitchak Khan out of the schoolhouse and I was alone, I slipped out the back window and sneaked into the forest as quietly as I could. A couple of minutes later I heard a lot of firing and rushed back to base as fast as possible - must admit I was scared fartless. It took me quite a time, bloody snow’s in ten-foot drifts in places. Not long after I got back old Nitchak Khan and the mullah and some of the villagers came up here - my God, I was so relieved! I thought for certain Nitchak and the mullah’d been shot and I guess they were just as relieved because they stared at me pop-eyed, thinking me dead too.”

“Why?” Tom had asked.

“Nitchak said that just before the komiteh left they fired the schoolhouse, supposedly with me still in it. He said they had ordered all foreigners out of the Zagros. Everyone - particularly us with our choppers, out by tomorrow night.”

Lochart was watching the land below, the base not far off, the village nearby. The afternoon sun was sliding off it, going behind the mountains. There was plenty of daylight left but no longer the sun to warm them. Just before he had left with Jesper for Rig Rosa and no one was near, Scot had told him really what happened. “I saw it all, Tom. I didn’t run off when I said I did. I haven’t dared tell anyone but I was watching out of the schoolhouse window, frightened to bloody death, and saw it all. Everything happened so fast. My God, you should’ve seen old Nitchak’s wife with the rifle, talk about a tigress. And tough! She shot a Green Band in the belly, then left him to scream a bit and… banggg! stopped it. I’ll bet she was the one who shot the first bastard, the leader, whoever the hell he was. Never seen such a woman, never’d believe she could be like that.” “What about Nasiri?”

“Nasiri never had a chance. He just ran off and they shot him. I’m sure they shot him just because he was a witness and not a villager. That got my wits working, and my legs, and I sneaked out of the window like I said, and when Nitchak came up here I pretended to believe his story. But I swear to God, Tom, all those komiteh bastards were dead before I left the village, so Nitchak must’ve ordered the schoolhouse burned.”

“Nitchak Khan wouldn’t do that, not with you in it. Someone must’ve seen you sneak out.”

“I hope to Christ you’re wrong because then I’m a living threat to the village - the only witness.”

Lochart landed and walked down to the village. He went alone. Nitchak Khan and the mullah were waiting for him in the coffeehouse as arranged. And many villagers, no women. The coffeehouse was the meeting house, a one-room hut made from logs and mud wattle with a sloping roof and crude chimney, the rafters black from years of the wood fire’s smoke. Rough carpets to sit on.

“Salaam, Kalandar, peace be upon you,” Lochart said, using the honorific title to imply that Nitchak Khan was also leader of the base. “Peace be upon you, Kalandar of the Hying Men,” the old man said politely. Lochart heard the slap and saw there was none of the friendliness of olden times within the eyes. “Please sit here in comfort. Your journey was beneficent?”

“As God wants. I missed my home here in the Zagros, and my friends of the Zagros. You are blessed by God, Kalandar.” Lochart sat on the uncomfortable carpet and exchanged the interminable pleasantries, waiting for Nitchak Khan to allow him to come to the point. The room was claustrophobic and smelled rancid, the air heavy with body odors and goat smells and sheep smells. The other men watched silently.

“What brings Your Excellency to our village?” Nitchak Khan said and a current of expectancy went through the closeness.

“I was shocked to hear that strangers came to our village and had the impertinence to lay evil hands on you.”

“As God wants.” Nitchak’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Strangers came to our village but they went away leaving our village as it has always been. Your camp, unfortunately, is not to be the same.”

“But why, Kalandar? We have been good for the village and employ many of your peo - ”

“It is not for me to question our government or these komitehs of our government or our Commander of the People, the Ayatollah himself. The young flier saw and heard, so there is nothing more to be said.” Lochart perceived the trap. “The young flier heard and saw only what happened in the schoolhouse, Kalandar. I ask that we, as old but known guests…” he chose the word carefully, “that we be allowed time to seek a change in a ruling that appears to go against the interests of the Zagros.” “The Zagros extends a thousand miles and crosses Kash’kai lands into Bakhtiari and the lands of a hundred other tribes. Yazdek is Yazdek,” Nitchak rasped, then quoted from the Rubáiyát, “‘Resign your body to fate and put up with pain,/Because what the Pen has written for you, /It will not unwrite.’”

“True, but did not Omar Khayyám also write: ‘The good and evil that are in man’s heart, /The joy and sorrow that are our fortune and destiny, Do not impugn them to the wheel of heaven because, in the light of reason, The wheel is a thousand times more helpless than you.’”

A rustle went through the villagers. The old mullah nodded, pleased, and said nothing. Nitchak Khan’s eyes smiled though his mouth did not and Lochart knew the meeting would be better now. He blessed Sharazad who had opened his ears and eyes and senses to the Rubáiyát that, in Farsi, was beyond elegance.

Everyone waited. Nitchak Khan scratched his beard, reached into his pocket, and found a pack of cigarettes. Lochart casually brought out the pishkesh, a gold-plated Dunhill lighter he had bought from Effer Jordon for just this purpose: “Effer, I’ll goddamn kill you if it doesn’t work first time!” He caressed the flint. The wick ignited and he breathed again. His hand was very steady as he leaned forward and held the light for the old man. Nitchak Khan hesitated, then puffed and took a deep drag of smoke. “Thank you.” His eyes narrowed as Lochart put the lighter on the carpet in front of him.

“Perhaps you would accept this gift from all of us in our camp who are grateful for your guidance and protection. After all, didn’t you break down the gates and take possession of the base in the name of the People? Didn’t you win the toboggan race, beating the best of us, through the quality of your courage?”

Another rustle in the room, everyone waited filled with delight as the contest stiffened, though all knew the Infidel had said only what was true. The silence grew, then the Khan reached over ana picked up the lighter and looked at it closely. His gnarled thumb clicked up the lid as he had seen others in the camp do. With hardly any motion it lit the very first time and everyone was as pleased as he was with the quality of the pishkesh. “What guidance does His Excellency need?”

“Nothing in particular, not really, Excellency Kalandar,” Lochart said deprecatingly, continuing the game according to ancient custom. “But there must be something that might make His Excellency’s lot better?” The old man stubbed his cigarette into the earth.

At length Lochart allowed himself to be persuaded. “Well, since Your Excellency has the magnanimity to ask, if Your Excellency would intercede for us with the komiteh to give us a little more time, I would be very grateful. Your Excellency, who knows these mountains like the inside of his own eating bowl, knows we cannot obey the orders of strangers who obviously don’t know we cannot clear the rigs of personnel, nor safeguard the rigs - the Zagros property of the illustrious Yazdek branch of the Kash’kai - nor take away our machines and spares by tomorrow sunset.”

“True, strangers know nothing,” Nitchak Khan said agreeably. Yes, he thought, strangers know nothing and those sons of dogs who dared to try to implant their filthy strangers’ ways were quickly punished by God. “Perhaps the komiteh would grant an extra day.”

“That would be more than I would dare ask. But, Kalandar, it would hardly be enough to show them how little they know about your Zagros. Perhaps they need to be taught a lesson. They should be told at least two weeks - after all, you are kalandar of Yazdek and of all eleven rigs and the whole Zagros knows of Nitchak Khan.”

Nitchak Khan was very proud and so were the villagers, pleasantly swept along with the Infidel’s logic. He took out his cigarettes and his lighter. It lit the first time. “Two weeks,” he said and everyone was very satisfied, including Lochart. Then he added, to give himself time to consider if two weeks was too long, “I will send a messenger and ask for two weeks.” Lochart got up and thanked the Khan profusely. Two weeks would give McIver time. Outside, the air tasted like wine and he filled his lungs gratefully, pleased with the way he had handled the delicate negotiation. “Salaam, Nitchak Khan, peace be upon you.”

“And upon you.”

Across the square was the mosque, and beside it the ruined schoolhouse. The other side of the mosque was Nitchak Khan’s two-storied house and, at the door, his wife and two of his children with some other village women also colorfully dressed. “Why was the schoolhouse burned, Kalandar?” “One of the komiteh was heard to say, ‘Thus should perish everything foreign. Thus will perish the base and all that it contains - we need no foreigners here, want no foreigners here.’”

Lochart was saddened. That’s what most of you believe, if not all of you, he thought. And yet lots of us try to be part of Iran, speak the language, want to be accepted but never will be. Then why do we stay, why do we try? Perhaps for the same reason Alexander the Great stayed, why he and ten thousand of his officers married Iranian women in one vast ceremony - because there’s a magic to them and to Iran that is indefinable, totally obsessive, that consumes as I am consumed.

A burst of laughter came from the women surrounding Nitchak Khan’s wife at something she had said.

“It’s better when wives are happy, eh? That’s God’s gift to men, eh?” the Khan said jovially, and Lochart nodded, thinking how fantastically lucky Nitchak Khan had been and what a gift of God his wife was - like Sharazad was to him and, thinking of her, once more the horror of last night welled up, his terror of almost losing her, her madness and unhappiness, then hitting her and seeing the bruises when all he wanted was her happiness in this world and the next, if there was a next.

“And lucky for me, God made her such a fine shot, eh?” “Yes,” Lochart said before he could stop himself. His stomach heaved and he cursed himself for letting his attention wander. He saw the shrewd eyes watching him and added hastily, “Shot? Your wife’s a fine shot? Please excuse me, Excellency, I didn’t hear you clearly. You mean with a rifle?”

The old man said nothing, just studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. Lochart kept his gaze steady and looked back across the square, wondering if it had been a deliberate trap. “I’ve heard that many Kash’kai women can use a rifle. It would seem that, er, that God has blessed you in many ways, Kalandar.”

After a moment Nitchak Khan said, “I will send word to you tomorrow, how much time the komiteh agrees. Peace be upon you.”

Going back to the base Lochart asked himself, Was it a trap I fell into? If the remark was involuntary, made from pride in her, then perhaps, perhaps we’re safe and Scot’s safe. In any event we’ve time - perhaps we have, but perhaps Scot hasn’t.

The sun had gone from this part of the plateau and the temperature had quickly fallen below freezing again. The cold helped to clear his head but did not eliminate his anxiety or overcome his weariness.

A week, two weeks, or a few days, you’ve not much time, he thought. In Tehran, McIver had told him about getting export licenses for three 212s to go to Al Shargaz “for repairs.” “Tom, I’ll send one of yours, one from here, and one from Kowiss - thence to Nigeria, but for God’s sake keep that part to yourself. Here’re the exit papers dated for Wednesday next. I think you should go yourself, and get out while you can. You get out and stay at Al Shargaz - there’re plenty of pilots there to take the 212 onwards.” Mac just doesn’t understand, he thought. He came up out of the trees and saw the base, Scot and JeanLuc waiting for him beside a 212. I’ll send Scot on the ferry whatever happens, Lochart thought, and having made the decision, some of his concern left him. The main decision’s do we start the evacuation or not? To decide that, you have to decide how far to trust Nitchak Khan. Not very far at all.