Whirlwind

“That was Nigeria, the mechanics stayed behind. We’d leave no one.”

“If just one expat gets left behind, he’ll be grabbed, tossed into jail, and become a hostage for all of us and all the birds - unless you’re prepared to let him take the flak. If you’re not, they’ll use him to force us back and when we come back they’ll be plenty bloody irritated. What about all our Iranian employees?”

Doggedly Gavallan said, “If luck’s against us it’ll be a disaster whatever we do. I think we should come up with a proper plan with all the final details, in case. That’ll take weeks - and we’d better keep the planning super secret, just between us.”

McIver shook his head. “We’ll have to consult Rudi, Scragger, Lochart, and Starke, if you want to be serious.”

“Just as you say.” Gavallan’s back was aching and he stretched. “Once it’s properly planned… We don’t have to press the final tit until then.” They walked for a while in silence, snow crunching loudly. Now they were almost at the end of the apron. “We’d be asking a hell of a lot from the lads,” McIver said.

Gavallan did not appear to have heard him. “We can’t just leave fifteen years of work, can’t toss away all our savings, yours, Scrag’s, and everything,” he said. “Our Iran’s gone. Most of the fellows we’ve worked with over the years have fled, are in hiding, dead - or against us if they like it or not. Work’s at a minimum. We’ve got nine choppers working out of twenty-six here. We’re not being paid for the little we do, or any back money. I think that’s all a write-off.”

Doggedly McIver said, “It’s not as bad as you think. The partn - ” “Mac, you’ve got to understand I can’t write off the money we’re owed plus our birds and spares and stay in business. I can’t. Our thirteen 212s are worth $13 million, nine 206s another $1.3 odd million, three Alouettes another $1.5 million, and 3 million of spares - $20 million give or take a few dollars. I can’t write that off. Ian warned me Struan’s needs help this year, there’s no spare cash - Linbar’s made some bad decisions and … well you know what I think of him and he of me. But he’s still taipan. I can’t write off Iran, can’t get out of the new contracts for the X63s, can’t battle Imperial who’re presently clobbering us in the North Sea with their unfair bloody bookkeeping with taxpayers’ money. Can’t be done.” “You’d be asking a hell of a lot from the lads, Chinaboy.” “And from you, Mac, don’t forget you. It’d be a team effort, not just for me, for them too - because it’s that or go under.”

“Most of our lads can get jobs with no problem. The market’s desperate for trained chopper pilots who’re oilers.”

“So what? Bet you all of them’d rather be with us, we look after them, pay top dollar, we’ve the best safety record - S-G’s the best chopper company on earth, and they know it! You and I know we’re part of the Noble House, by God, and that means something too.” Gavallan’s eyes suddenly lit up with his irrepressible twinkle. “It’d be a great caper if we pulled it off. I’d love to shove Linbar’s nose in it. When the time comes we’ll ask the lads. Meanwhile all systems go, eh, laddie?”

“All right,” McIver said without enthusiasm. “For the planning.” Gavallan looked at him. “I know you too well, Mac. Soon you’ll be raring to go and I’ll be the one saying, Hold it, what about so-and-so…” But McIver wasn’t listening. His mind was trying to formulate a plan, despite the impossibility of it - except for the British registry. Could that make the difference?

“Andy, about the plan. We’d better have a code name.” “Genny said we should call it ‘Whirlwind’ - that’s what we’re mixed up in.”

BOOK THREE

Thursday - February 22

Chapter 42

NORTHWEST OF TABRIZ: 11:20 A.M. From where he sat on the cabin steps of his parked 212 high up on the mountainside, Erikki could see deep into Soviet Russia. Far below the river Aras flowed eastward toward the Caspian, twisting through gorges and marking much of the Iran-USSR border. To his left he could see into Turkey, to soaring Mount Ararat, 15,500 feet, and the 212 was parked not far from the cave mouth where the secret American listening post was.

Was, he thought with grim amusement. When he had landed here yesterday afternoon - the altimeter reading 8,562 feet - the motley bunch of leftist fedayeen fighters he had brought with him stormed the cave, but the cave was empty of Americans and when Cimtarga inspected it he found all the important equipment destroyed and no cipher books. Much evidence of a hasty departure, but nothing of real value to be scavenged. “We’ll clean it out anyway,” Cimtarga had said to his men, “clean it out like the others.” To Erikki he had added, “Can you land there?” He pointed far above where the complex of radar masts stood. “I want to dismantle them.”

“I don’t know,” Erikki had said. The grenade Ross had given him was still taped in his left armpit - Cimtarga and his captors had not searched him - and his pukoh knife was still in its back scabbard. “I’ll go and look.” “We’ll look, Captain. We’ll look together,” Cimtarga had said with a laugh. “Then you won’t be tempted to leave us.”

He had flown him up there. The masts were secured to deep beds of concrete on the northern face of the mountain, a small flat area in front of them. “If the weather’s like today it’d be okay, but not if the wind picks up. I could hover and winch you down.” He had smiled wolfishly. Cimtarga had laughed. “Thanks, but no. I don’t want an early death.” “For a Soviet, particularly a KGB Soviet, you’re not a bad man.” “Neither are you - for a Finn.”

Since Sunday, when Erikki had begun flying for Cimtarga, he had come to like him - not that you can really like or trust any KGB, he thought. But the man had been polite and fair, had given him a correct share of all food. Last night he had split a bottle of vodka with him and had given him the best place to sleep. They had slept in a village twenty kilometers south on carpets on a dirt floor. Cimtarga had said that though this was all mostly Kurdish territory the village was secretly fedayeen and safe. “Then why keep the guard on me?”

“It’s safe for us, Captain - not safe for you.”

The night before last at the Khan’s palace when Cimtarga and guards had come for him just after Ross had left, he had been driven to the air base and, in darkness and against IATC regulations, had flown to the village in the mountains north of Khoi. There, in the dawn, they had collected a full load of armed men and had flown to the first of the two American radar posts. It was destroyed and empty of personnel like this one. “Someone must have tipped them we would be coming,” Cimtarga said disgustedly. “Matyeryebyets spies!”

Later Cimtarga told him locals whispered that the Americans had evacuated the night before last, whisked away by helicopters, unmarked and very big. “It would have been good to catch them spying. Very good. Rumor says the bastards can see a thousand miles into us.”

“You’re lucky they weren’t here, you might have had a battle and that would have created an international incident.”

Cimtarga had laughed. “Nothing to do with us - nothing. It was the Kurds again, more of their rotten work - bunch of thugs, eh? They’d’ve been blamed. Rotten yezdvas, eh? Eventually the bodies would have been found - on Kurdish land. That’d be proof enough for Carter and his CIA.” Erikki shifted on the plane’s steps, his seat chilled by the metal, depressed and weary. Last night he had slept badly again - nightmares about Azadeh. He hadn’t slept well since Ross had appeared.

You’re a fool, he thought for the thousandth time. I know, but that doesn’t help. Nothing seems to help. Maybe the flying’s getting to you. You’ve been putting in too many hours in bad conditions, too much night flying. Then there’s Nogger to worry about - and Rakoczy to brood about and the killings. And Ross. And most of all Azadeh. Is she safe?

He had tried to make his peace with her about her Johnny Brighteyes the next morning. “I admit I was jealous. Stupid to be jealous. I swore by the ancient gods of my forefathers that I could live with your memory of him - I can and I will,” he had said, but saying the words had not cleansed him. “I just didn’t think he’d be so… so much a man and so… so dangerous. That kookri would be a match for my knife.”

“Never, my darling. Never. I’m so glad you’re you and I’m me and we’re together. How can we get out of here?”

“Not all of us, not together at the same time,” he told her honestly. “The soldiers’d be better to get out while they can. With Nogger, and them, and while you’re here - I don’t know, Azadeh. I don’t know how we can escape yet. We’ll have to wait. Maybe we could get into Turkey…” He looked eastward into Turkey now, so close and so far with Azadeh still in Tabriz - thirty minutes by air to her. But when? If we got into Turkey and if my chopper wasn’t impounded, and if I could refuel we could fly to Al Shargaz, skirting the border. If if if! Gods of my ancestors, help me! Over vodka last night Cimtarga had been as taciturn as ever, but he had drunk well and they had shared the bottle glass to glass to the last drop. “I’ve another for tomorrow night, Captain.”

“Good. When will you be through with me?”

“It’ll take two to three days to finish here, then back to Tabriz.” “Then?”

“Then I’ll know better.”

But for the vodka Erikki would have cursed him. He got up and watched the Iranians piling the equipment for loading. Most of it seemed to be very ordinary. As he strolled over the broken terrain, his boots crunching the snow, his guard went with him. Never a chance to escape. In all five days he had never had a single chance. “We enjoy your company,” Cimtarga had said once, reading his mind, his Oriental eyes crinkling.

Above, he could see some men working on the radar masts, dismantling them. Waste of time, he thought. Even I know there’s nothing special about them. “That’s unimportant, Captain,” Cimtarga had said. “My Master enjoys bulk. He said get everything. More is better than less. Why should you worry - you’re paid by the hour.” Again the laugh, not taunting.

Feeling his neck muscles taut, Erikki stretched and touched his toes and, in that position, let his arms and head hang freely, then waggled his head in as big a semicircle as he could, letting the weight of his head stretch the tendons and ligaments and muscles and smooth out the kinks, forcing nothing, just using the weight. “What’re you doing?” Cimtarga asked, coming up to him.

“It’s great for neck ache.” He put his dark glasses back on - without them the reflected light from the snow was uncomfortable. “If you do it twice a day you’ll never get neck ache.”

“Ah, you get neck aches too? Me, I’m always getting them - have to go to a chiropractor at least three times a year. That helps?”

“Guaranteed. A waitress told me about it - carrying trays all day gives them plenty of neck and backache, like pilots; it’s a way of life. Try it and you’ll see.” Cimtarga bent over as Erikki had done and moved his head, “No, you’re doing it wrong. Let your head and arms and shoulders hang freely, you’re too stiff.”

Cimtarga did as he was told and felt his neck crack and the joints ease and when he raised himself again, he said, “That’s wonderful, Captain. I owe you a favor.”

“It’s a return for the vodka.”

“It’s worth more than a bottle of vod - ”

Erikki stared at him blankly as blood spurted out of Cimtarga’s chest in the wake of the bullet that pierced him from behind, then came a thraaakkk followed by others as tribesmen poured out of ambush from the rocks and trees, shrieking battle cries and “Allah-u Akbarrr,” firing as they came. The attack was brief and violent and Erikki saw Cimtarga’s men going down all over the plateau, quickly overwhelmed. His own guard, one of the few who was carrying a weapon, had opened up at the first bullet but was hit at once, and now a bearded tribesman stood over him and gleefully finished him with the rifle butt. Others charged into the cave. More firing, then silence again.

Two men rushed him and he put his hands up, feeling naked and foolish, his heart thundering. One of these turned Cimtarga over and shot him again. The other bypassed Erikki and went to the cabin of the 212 to make sure no one was hiding there. Now the man who had shot Cimtarga stood in front of Erikki, breathing hard. He was small and olive-skinned and bearded, dark eyes and hair, and wore rough garments and stank.

“Put down your hands down,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am Sheik Bayazid, chief here. We need you and helicopter.”

“What do you want with me?”

Around them the tribesmen were finishing off the wounded and stripping the dead of anything of value. “CASEVAC.” Bayazid smiled thinly at the look on Erikki’s face. “Many of us work the oil and rigs. Who is this dog?” He motioned at Cimtarga with his foot.

“He called himself Cimtarga. He was a Soviet. I think also KGB.” “Of course Soviet,” the man said roughly. “Of course KGB - all Soviets in Iran KGB. Papers, please.” Erikki gave him his ID. The tribesman read it and nodded half to himself. And, to Erikki’s further surprise, handed it back. “Why you flying Soviet dog?” He listened silently, his face darkening as Erikki told him how Abdollah Khan had entrapped him. “Abdollah Khan no man to offend. The reach of Abdollah the Cruel very wide, even in the lands of the Kurds.”

“You’re Kurds?”

“Kurds,” Bayazid said, the lie convenient. He knelt and searched Cimtarga. No papers, a little money that he pocketed, nothing else. Except the holstered automatic and ammunition which he also took. “Have you full fuel?” “Three quarter full.”

“I want go twenty miles south. I direct you. Then pick up CASEVAC, then go Rezaiyeh, to hospital there.”

“Why not Tabriz - it’s much closer.”

“Rezaiyeh in Kurdistan. Kurds are safe there, sometimes. Tabriz belong to our enemies: Iranians, Shah, or Khomeini no difference. Go Rezaiyeh.” “All right. The Overseas Hospital would be best. I’ve been there before and they’ve a helipad. They’re used to CASEVACs. We can refuel there - they’ve chopper fuel, at least they had in … in the old days.”

Bayazid hesitated. “Good. Yes. We go at once.”

“And after Rezaiyeh - what then?”

“And then, if serve us safely, perhaps you released to take your wife from the Gorgon Khan.” Sheik Bayazid turned away and shouted for his men to hurry up and board the airplane. “Start up, please.”

“What about him?” Erikki pointed at Cimtarga. “And the others?” “The beasts and birds soon make here clean.”

It took them little time to board and leave, Erikki rilled with hope now. No problem to find the site of the small village. The CASEVAC was an old woman. “She is our chieftain,” Bayazid said.

“I didn’t know women could be chieftains.”

“Why not, if wise enough, strong enough, clever enough, and from correct family? We Sunni Muslims - not leftists or heretic Shi’a cattle who put mullahs between man and God. God is God. We leave at once.” “Does she speak English?”

“No.”

“She looks very ill. She may not last the journey.”

“As God wants.”

But she did last the hour’s journey and Erikki landed on the helipad. The Overseas Hospital had been built, staffed, and sponsored by foreign oil companies. He had flown low all the way, avoiding Tabriz and military airfields. Bayazid had sat up front with him, six armed guards in the back with their high chieftain. She lay on the stretcher, awake but motionless. In great pain but without complaining.

A doctor and orderlies were at the helipad seconds after touchdown. The doctor wore a white coat with a large red cross on the sleeve over heavy sweaters, and he was in his thirties, American, dark rings around bloodshot eyes. He knelt beside the stretcher as the others waited in silence. She groaned a little when he touched her abdomen even though his hands were healing hands. In a moment he spoke to her gently in halting Turkish. A small smile went over her and she nodded and thanked him. He motioned to the orderlies and they lifted the stretcher out of the cabin and carried her away. At Bayazid’s order, two of his men went with her.

The doctor said to Bayazid in halting dialect, “Excellency, I need name and age and…” He searched for the word. “History, medical history.” “Speak English.”

“Good, thank you, Agha. I’m Doctor Newbegg. I’m afraid she’s near the end, Agha, her pulse is almost zero. She’s old and I’d say she was hemorrhaging - bleeding - internally. Did she have a fall recently?”

“Speak slower, please. Fall? Yes, yes, two days ago.” Bayazid stopped at the sound of gunfire not far away, then went on: “Yes, two days ago. She slip in snows and fell against a rock, on her side against a rock.” “I think she’s bleeding inside. I’ll do what we can but… sorry, I can’t promise good news.”

“Insha’Allah.”

“You’re Kurds?”

“Kurds.” More firing, closer now. They all looked off to where the sound came from. “Who?”

“I don’t know, just more of the same, I’m afraid,” the doctor said uneasily. “Green Bands against leftists, leftists against Green Bands, against Kurds - many factions - and all’re armed.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll do what I can for the old lady - perhaps you’d better come with me, Agha, you can give me the details as we go.” He hurried off.

“Doc, do you still have fuel here?” Erikki called after him. The doctor stopped and looked at him blankly. “Fuel? Oh, chopper fuel? I don’t know. Gas tank’s in back.” He went up the stairs to the main entrance, his white coattail flapping.

“Captain,” Bayazid said, “you will wait till I return. Here.” “But the fuel? I ca - ”

“Wait here. Here.” Bayazid rushed after the doctor. Two of his men went with him. Two stayed with Erikki.

While Erikki waited, he checked everything. Tanks almost empty. From time to time cars and trucks arrived with wounded to be met by doctors and medics. Many eyed the chopper curiously but none approached. The guards made sure of that.

During the flight here Bayazid had said: “For centuries we Kurds try for independent. We a separate people, separate language, separate customs. Now perhaps six million Kurds in Azerbaijan, Kurdistan, over Soviet border, this side of Iraq, and Turkey.” He had almost spat the word. “For centuries we fight them all, together or singly. We hold the mountains. We are good fighters. Salah-al-din - he was Kurd. You know of him?” Salah-al-din - Saladin - was the chivalrous Muslim opponent of Richard the Lion-Hearted during the Crusades of the twelfth century, who made himself Sultan of Egypt and Syria and captured the Kingdom of Jerusalem in A.D. 1187 after smashing the allied might of the Crusaders.

“Yes, I know of him.”

“Today other Salah-al-dins among us. One day we recapture again all the holy places - after Khomeini, betrayer of Islam, is stamped into joub.” Erikki had asked, “You ambushed Cimtarga and the others and wiped them out just for the CASEVAC?”

“Of course. They enemy. Yours and ours.” Bayazid had smiled his twisted smile. “Nothing happens in our mountains without us knowing. Our chieftain sick - you nearby. We see the Americans leave, see scavengers arrive, and you were recognized.”

“Oh? How?”

“Redhead of the Knife? The Infidel who kills assassins like lice, then given a Gorgon whelp as reward! CASEVAC pilot?” The dark, almost sloe eyes were amused. “Oh, yes, Captain, know you well. Many of us work timber as well as oil - a man must work. Even so, it’s good you not Soviet or Iranian.” “After the CASEVAC will you and your men help me against Gorgon Khan?” Bayazid had laughed. “Your blood feud is your blood feud, not ours. Abdollah Khan is for us, at moment. We not go against him. What you do is up to God.” It was cold in the hospital forecourt, a slight wind increasing the chill factor. Erikki was walking up and down to keep his circulation going. I’ve got to get back to Tabriz. I’ve got to get back and then somehow I’ll take Azadeh and we’ll leave forever.

Firing nearby startled him and the guards. Outside the hospital gates, the traffic slowed, horns sounding irritably, then quickly snarled. People began running past. More firing and those trapped in their vehicles got out and took cover or fled. Inside the gates the expanse was wide, the 212 parked on the helipad to one side. Wild firing now, much closer. Some glass windows on the top floor of the hospital blew out. The two guards were hugging the snow behind the plane’s undercarriage, Erikki fuming that his airplane was so exposed and not knowing where to run or what to do, no time to take off, and not enough fuel to go anywhere. A few ricochets, and he ducked down as the small battle built outside the walls. Then it died as quickly as it had begun. People picked themselves up out of cover, horns began sounding, and soon the traffic was as normal and as spiteful as ever.

“Insha” Allah,” one of the tribesmen said, then cocked his rifle and came on guard. A small gasoline truck was approaching from behind the hospital, driven by a young Iranian with a broad smile. Erikki went to meet it. “Hi, Cap,” the driver said happily, his accent heavily New York. “I’m to gas you up. Your fearless leader, Sheik Bayazid, fixed it.” He greeted the tribesmen in Turkish dialect. At once they relaxed and greeted him back. “Cap, we’ll fill her brimming. You got any temp tanks, or special tanks?” “No. Just the regular. I’m Erikki Yokkonen.”

“Sure. Red the Knife.” The youth grinned. “You’re kinda a legend in these parts. I gassed you once, maybe a year ago.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m ‘Gasoline’ Ali - Ali Reza mat is.”

They shook hands and, while they talked, the youth began the refuel. “You went to American school?” Erikki asked.

“Hell, no. I was sort of adopted by the hospital, years ago, long before this one was built, when I was a kid. In the old days the hospital worked out of one of the Golden Ghettos on the east side of town - you know, Cap, U.S. Personnel Only, an ExTex depot.” The youth smiled, screwed the tank cap back carefully, and started to fill the next. “The first doc who took me in was Abe Weiss. Great guy, just great. He put me on the payroll, taught me about soap and socks and spoons and toilets - hell, all sorts of gizmos un-Iranian for street rats like me, with no folks, no home, no name, and no nothing. He used to call me his hobby. He even gave me my name. Then, one day, he left.”

Erikki saw the pain in the youth’s eyes, quickly hidden. “He passed me on to Doc Templeton, and he did the same. At times it’s kinda hard to figure where I’m at. Kurd but not, Yank but not - Iranian but not, Jew but not, Muslim but not Muslim.” He shrugged. “Kinda mixed up, Cap. The world, everything. Huh?”

“Yes.” Erikki glanced toward the hospital. Bayazid was coming down the steps with his two fighters beside orderlies carrying a stretcher. The old woman was covered now, head to foot.

“We leave soon as fuel,” Bayazid said shortly.

“Sorry,” Erikki said.

“Insha’Allah.” They watched the orderlies put the stretcher into the cabin. Bayazid thanked them and they left. Soon the refuel was complete. “Thanks, Mr. Reza.” Erikki stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

The youth stared at him. “No one’s ever called me mister before, Cap, never.” He pummeled Erikki’s hand. “Thanks - any time you want gas, you got it.”

Bayazid climbed in beside Erikki, fastened his belt, and put on the headset, the engines building. “Now we go to village from whence we came.” “What then?” Erikki asked.

“I consult new chieftain,” Bayazid said, but he was thinking, this man and the helicopter will bring a big ransom, perhaps from the Khan, perhaps from the Soviets, or even from his own people. My people need every rial we can get.

NEAR TABRIZ ONE - IN THE VILLAGE OF ABU MARD: 6:16 P.M. Azadeh picked up the bowl of rice and the bowl of horisht, thanked the headman’s wife, and walked across the duty, refuse-fouled snow to the hut that was set a little apart. Her face was pinched, her cough not good. She knocked, then went through the low doorway. “Hello, Johnny. How do you feel? Any better?” “I’m fine,” he said. But he wasn’t.

The first, night they had spent in a cave not far away, huddled together, shivering from the cold. “We can’t stay here, Azadeh,” he had said in the dawn. “We’ll freeze to death. We’ll have to try the base.” They had gone through the snows and watched from hiding. They saw the two mechanics and even Nogger Lane from time to time - and the 206 - but all over the base were armed men. Dayati, the base manager, had moved into Azadeh and Erikki’s cabins - he, his wife and children. “Sons and daughters of dogs,” Azadeh hissed, seeing the wife wearing a pair of her boots. “Perhaps we could sneak into the mechanics’ huts. They’ll hide us.”

“They’re escorted everywhere; I’ll bet they’ve even guards at night. But who are the guards, Green Bands, the Khan’s men, or who?”

“I don’t recognize any of them, Johnny.”

“They’re after us,” he said, feeling very low, the death of Gueng preying on him. Both Gueng and Tenzing had been with him since the beginning. And there was Rosemont. And now Azadeh. “Another night in the open and you’ll have had it, we’ll have had it.”

“Our village, Johnny. Abu Mard. It’s been in our family for more than a century. They’re loyal, I know they are. We’d be safe there for a day or two.”

“With a price on my head? And you? They’d send word to your father.” “I’d ask them not to. I’d say Soviets were trying to kidnap me and you were helping me. That’s true. I’d say that we need to hide until my husband comes back - he’s always been very popular, Johnny, his CASEVACs saved many lives over the years.”

He looked at her, a dozen reasons against. “The village’s on the road, almost right on the road an - ”

“Yes, of course you’re quite right and we’ll do whatever you say, but it sprawls away into the forest. We could hide there - no one’d expect that.” He saw her tiredness. “How do you feel? How strong do you feel?” “Not strong, but fine.”

“We could hike out, go down the road a few miles - we’d have to skirt the roadblock, it’s a lot less dangerous than the village. Eh?” “I’d…I’d rather not. I could try.” She hesitated, then said, “I’d rather not, not today. You go on. I’ll wait. Erikki may come back today.” “And if he doesn’t?” “I don’t know. You go on.”

He looked back at the base. A nest of vipers. Suicide to go there. From where they were on a rise, he could see as far as the main road. Men still manned the roadblock - he presumed Green Bands and police - a line of traffic backed up and waiting to leave the area. No one’ll give us a ride now, he thought, not unless it’s for the reward. “You go to the village. I’ll wait in the forest.”

“Without you they’ll just return me to my father - I know them, Johnny.” “Perhaps they’ll betray you anyway.”

“As God wants. But we could get some food and warmth, perhaps even a night’s rest. In the dawn we could sneak away. Perhaps we could get a car or truck from them - the kalandar has an old Ford.” She stifled a sneeze. Armed men were not far away. More than likely there were patrols out in the forest - coming here they had had to detour to avoid one. The village’s madness, he thought. To get around the roadblock’ll take hours in daylight, and by night - we can’t stay outside another night. “Let’s go to the village,” he said. So they had gone yesterday and Mostafa, the kalandar, had listened to her story and kept his eyes away from Ross. News of their arrival had gone from mouth to mouth and in moments all the village knew and mis news was added to the other, about the reward for the saboteur and kidnapper of the Khan’s daughter. The kalandar had given Ross a one-room hut with dirt floor and old mildewed carpets. The hut was well away from the road, on the far edge of the village, and he noticed the steel-hard eyes and matted hair and stubbled beard - his carbine and kookri and ammunition-heavy knapsack. Azadeh he invited into his home. It was a two-room hovel. No electricity or running water. The joub was the toilet.

At dusk last night, hot food and a bottle of water had been brought to Ross by an old woman.

“Thank you,” he said, his head aching and the fever already with him. “Where is Her Highness?” The woman shrugged. She was heavily lined, pockmarked, with brown stubs of teeth. “Please ask her to receive me.” Later he was sent for. In the headman’s room, watched by the headman, his wife, some of his brood, and a few elders, he greeted Azadeh carefully - as a stranger might a highborn. She wore chador of course and knelt on carpets facing the door. Her face had a yellowish, unhealthy pallor, but he thought it might be from the light of the sputtering oil lamp. “Salaam, Highness, your health is good?”

“Salaam, Agha, yes, thank you, and yours?” “There is a little fever I think.” He saw her eyes flick up from the carpet momentarily. “I have medicine. Do you need any?” “No. No, thank you.”

With so many eyes and ears what he wanted to say was impossible. “Perhaps I may greet you tomorrow,” he said. “Peace be upon you, Highness.” “And upon you.”

It had taken him a long time to sleep. And her. With the dawn the village awoke, fires were stoked, goats milked, vegetable horisht set to stew - little to nourish it but a morsel of chicken, in some huts a piece of goat or sheep, the meat old, tough, and rancid. Bowls of rice but never enough. Food twice a day in good times, morning and before last light. Azadeh had money and she paid for their food. This did not go unnoticed. She asked that a whole chicken be put into tonight’s horisht to be shared by the whole household, and she paid for it. This, too, did not go unnoticed. Before last light she had said, “Now I will take food to him.” “But, Highness, it’s not right for you to serve him,” the kalandar’s wife said. “I’ll carry the bowls. We can go together if you wish.” “No, it’s better if I go alone beca - ”

“God protect us, Highness. Alone? To a man not your husband? Oh no, that would be unseemly, that would be very unseemly. Come, I will take it.” “Good, thank you. As God wants. Thank you. Last night he mentioned fever. It might be plague. I know how Infidels carry vile diseases that we are not used to. I only wished to save you probable agony. Thank you for sparing me.”

Last night everyone in the room had seen the sheen of sweat on the Infidel’s face. Everyone knew how vile Infidels were, most of them Satan worshipers and sorcerers. Almost everyone secretly believed that Azadeh had been bewitched, first by the Giant of the Knife, and now again by the saboteur. Silently the headman’s wife had handed Azadeh the bowls and she had walked across the snow.

Now she watched him in the semidarkness of the room that had as window a hole in the adobe wall, no glass, just sacking covering most of it. The air was heavy with the smell of urine and waste from the joub outside. “Eat, eat while it’s hot. I can’t stay long.”

“You okay?” He had been lying under the single blanket, fully dressed, dozing, but now he sat cross-legged and alert. The fever had abated somewhat with the help of drugs from his survival kit but his stomach was upset. “You don’t look so good.”

She smiled. “Neither do you. I’m fine. Eat.”

He was very hungry. The soup was thin but he knew that was better for his stomach. Another spasm started building but he held on and it went away. “You think we could sneak off?” he said between mouthfuls, trying to eat slowly.

“You could, I can’t.”

While he had been dozing all day gathering his strength, he had tried to make a plan. Once he had started to walk out of the village. A hundred eyes were on him, everyone watching. He went to the edge of the village then came back. But he had seen the old truck. “What about the truck?” “I asked the headman. He said it was out of order. Whether he was lying or not I don’t know.”

“We can’t stay here much longer. A patrol’s bound to come here. Or your father will hear about us or be told. Our only hope is to run.” “Or to hijack the 206 with Nogger.” He looked at her. “With all those men there?” “One of the children told me that they went back to Tabriz today.” “You’re sure?”

“Not sure, Johnny.” A wave of anxiety went over her. “But there’s no reason for the child to lie. I, I used to teach here before I was married - I was the only teacher they had ever had and I know they liked me. The child said there’s only one or two left there.” Another chill swirled up and made her weak. So many lies, so many problems the last few weeks, she thought. Is it only weeks? So much terror since Rakoczy and the mullah burst in on Erikki and me after our sauna. Everything so hopeless now. Erikki, where are you? she wanted to scream, where are you?

He finished the soup and the rice and picked at the last grain, weighing the odds, trying to plan. She was kneeling opposite him and she saw his matted hair and filth, his exhaustion and gravity. “Poor Johnny,” she murmured and touched him. “I haven’t brought you much luck, have I?”

“Don’t be silly. Not your fault - none of this is.” He shook his head. “None of it. Listen, this’s what we’ll do: we’ll stay here tonight, tomorrow after first light we’ll walk out. We’ll try the base - if that doesn’t work then we’ll hike out. You try to get the headman to help us by keeping his mouth shut, his wife too. The rest of the villagers should behave if he orders it, at least to give us a start. Promise them a big reward when things are normal again, and here…” He reached into his pack into the secret place, found the gold rupees, ten of them. “Give him five, keep the other five for emergency.”

“But… but what about you?” she said, wide-eyed and filled with hope at so much potential pishkesh.

“I’ve ten more,” he said, the lie coming easily. “Emergency funds, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government.”

“Oh, Johnny, I think we’ve a chance now - this is so much money to them.” They both glanced at the window as a wind picked up and rustled the sacking that covered it. She got up and adjusted it as best she could. Not all the opening could be covered. “Never mind,” he said. “Come and sit down.” She obeyed, closer than before. “Here. Just in case.” He handed her the grenade. “Just hold the lever down, pull the pin out, count three, and throw. Three, not four.”

She nodded and pulled up her chador and carefully put the grenade into one of her ski-jacket pockets. Her tight ski pants were tucked into her boots. “Thanks. Now I feel better. Safer.” Involuntarily, she touched him and wished she hadn’t for she felt the fire. “I’d… I’d better go. I’ll bring you food at first light. Then we’ll leave.”

He got up and opened the door for her. Outside it was dark. Neither saw the figure scuttle away from the window, but both felt eyes feeding on them from every side.

“What about Gueng, Johnny? Do you think he’ll find us?”

“He’ll be watching, wherever he is.” He felt a spasm coming. ” ‘Night, sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams.”

They had always said it to each other in the olden time. Their eyes touched and their hearts and both of them were warmed and at the same time filled with foreboding. Then she turned, the darkness of her chador making her at once almost invisible. He saw the door of the headman’s hut open and she went in and then the door closed. He heard a truck grinding up the road not far off, then a honking car that went past and soon faded away. A spasm came and it was too much so he squatted. The pain was big but little came out and he was thankful that Azadeh had gone. His left hand groped for some snow and he cleansed himself. Eyes were still watching him, all around. Bastards, he thought, then went back into the hut and sat on the crude straw mattress. In the darkness he oiled the kookri. No need to sharpen it. He had done that earlier. Lights glinted off the blade. He slept with it out of its scabbard.

AT THE PALACE OF THE KHAN: 11:19 P.M. The doctor held the Khan’s wrist and checked his pulse again. “You must have plenty of rest, Highness,” he said worriedly, “and one of these pills every three hours.”

“Every three hours… yes,” Abdollah Khan said, his voice small and breathing bad. He was propped on cushions in the bed that was made up on deep carpets. Beside the bed was Najoud, his eldest daughter, thirty-five, and Aysha, his third wife, seventeen. Both women were white-faced. Two guards stood at the door and Ahmed knelt beside the doctor. “Now… now leave me.”

“I’ll come back at dawn with the ambulance an - ” “No ambulance! I stay here!” The Khan’s face reddened, another pain went through his chest. They watched him, hardly breathing. When he could speak he said throatily, “I stay… here.”

“But Highness, you’ve already had one heart attack, God be thanked just a mild one,” the doctor said, his voice quavering. “There’s no telling when you could have… I’ve no equipment here; you should have immediate treatment and observation.”

“What… whatever you need, bring it here. Ahmed, see to it!” “Yes Highness.” Ahmed looked at the doctor.

The doctor put his stethoscope and blood pressure equipment into his old-fashioned bag. At the door he slipped his shoes on and went out. Najoud and Ahmed followed him. Aysha hesitated. She was tiny and had been married two years and had a son and a daughter. The Khan’s face had an untoward pallor and his breath rasped heavily. She knelt closer and took his hand but he pulled it away angrily, rubbing his chest, cursing her. Her fear increased. Outside in the hall, the doctor stopped. His face was old and lined, older than his age, his hair white. “Highness,” he said to Najoud, “better he should be in hospital. Tabriz is not good enough. Tehran would be much better. He should be in Tehran though the trip there might… Tehran is better than here. His blood pressure’s too high, it’s been too high for years but, well, as God wants.”

“Whatever you need we’ll bring here,” Ahmed said.

Angrily the doctor said, “Fool, I can’t bring an operating theater and dispensary and aseptic surroundings!”

“He’s going to die?” Najoud said, her eyes wide.

“In God’s time, only in God’s time. His pressure’s much too high… I’m not a magician and we’re so short of supplies. Have you any idea what caused the attack - was there a quarrel or anything?”

“No, no quarrel, but it was surely Azadeh. It was her again, that stepsister of mine.” Najoud began wringing her hands. “It was her, running off with the saboteur yesterday morning, it wa - ”

“What saboteur?” the doctor asked astonished.

“The saboteur everyone is looking for, the enemy of Iran. But I’m sure he didn’t kidnap her, I’m sure she ran off with him - how could he kidnap her from inside the palace? She’s the one who caused His Highness such rage - we’ve all been in terror since yesterday morning….”

Stupid hag! Ahmed thought. The insane, roaring outburst was because of the men from Tehran, Hashemi Fazir and the Farsispeaking Infidel, and what they demanded of my Master and what my Master had to agree to. Such a little thing, giving over to them a Soviet, a pretended friend who was an enemy, surely no cause to explode? Clever of my Master to set everything into motion: the day after tomorrow the burnt offering comes back over the border into the web and the two enemies from Tehran come back into the web. Soon my Master will decide and then I will act. Meanwhile, Azadeh and the saboteur are safely bottled in the village, at my Master’s will - word sent to him by the headman the first moment. Few men on earth are as clever as Abdollah Khan and only God will decide when he should die, not this dog of a doctor. “Let us go on,” he said. “Please excuse me, Highness, but we should fetch a nurse and drugs and some equipment. Doctor, we should hurry.” The door at the far end of the corridor opened. Aysha was even paler. “Ahmed, His Highness wants you for a moment.”

When they were alone, Najoud caught the doctor by the sleeve and whispered, “How bad is His Highness? You must tell me the truth. I’ve got to know.” The doctor lifted his hands helplessly. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I’ve been expecting worse than this for… for a year or more. The attack was mild. The next could be massive or mild, in an hour or a year, I don’t know.”

Najoud had been in a panic ever since the Khan had collapsed a couple of hours before. If the Khan died, then Hakim, Azadeh’s brother, was his legitimate heir - Najoud’s own two brothers had died in infancy. Aysha’s son was barely a year old. The Khan had no living brothers, so his heir should be Hakim. But Hakim was in disgrace and disinherited so there would have to be a regency. Her husband, Mahmud, was senior of the sons-in-law. He would be regent, unless the Khan ordered otherwise.

Why should he order otherwise? she thought, her stomach once more a bottomless pit. The Khan knows I can guide my husband and make us all strong. Aysha’s son - pshaw, a sickly child, as sickly as the mother. As God wants, but infants die. He’s not a threat, but Hakim - Hakim is. She remembered going to the Khan when Azadeh had returned from school in Switzerland: “Father, I bring you bad tidings but you must know the truth. I overheard Hakim and Azadeh. Highness, she told him she’d been with child but with the help of a doctor had cast it out.”

“What?”

“Yes … yes I heard her say it.”

“Azadeh could not… Azadeh would not, could not do that!” “Question her - I beg you do not say from where you heard it - ask her before God, question her, have a doctor examine her, but wait, that’s not all. Against your wishes, Hakim’s still determined to become a pianist and he told her he was going to run away, asking Azadeh to come with him to Paris ‘then you can marry your lover,’ he said, but she said, Azadeh said, ‘Father will bring you back, he’ll force us back. He’ll never permit us to go without his prior permission, never.’ Then Hakim said, ‘I will go. I’m not going to stay here and waste my life. I’m going!’ Again she said, ‘Father will never permit it, never.’ ‘Then better he’s dead,’ Hakim said and she said, ‘I agree.’”

“I - I don’t - believe it!”

Najoud remembered the face gone purple, and how terrified she had been. “Before God,” she had said, “I heard them say it, Highness, before God. Then they said we must plan, we m - ” She had quailed as he shouted at her, telling her to tell it exactly.

“Exactly he said, Hakim said, ‘A little poison in his halvah, or in a drink, we can bribe a servant, perhaps we could bribe one of his guards to kill him or we could leave the gates open at night for assassins … there are a hundred ways for any one of a thousand enemies to do it for us, everyone hates him. We must think and be patient.

It had been easy for her to weave her spell, deeper and deeper into the fabrication so that soon she was believing it - but not quite. God will forgive me, she told herself confidently as she always told herself. God will forgive me. Azadeh and Hakim have always hated us, the rest of the family, wanted us dead, outcast, to take all our heritage unto themselves, they and their witch of a mother who cast an evil spell over Father to turn his face from us for so many years. Eight years he was under the spell - Azadeh this and Azadeh that, Hakim this and Hakim that. Eight years he dismissed us and our mother, his first wife, took no notice of me, carelessly married me to this clod, Mahmud, this foul-smelling, now impotent, vile, snoring clod, and so ruined my life. I hope my husband dies, eaten by worms, but not before he becomes Khan so my son will become Khan after him. Father must get rid of Hakim before he dies. God keep him alive to do that - he must do it before he dies - and Azadeh must be humbled, cast out, destroyed too - even better, caught in her adultery with the saboteur, oh yes, then my revenge would be complete.

Friday - February 23

Chapter 43

NEAR TABRIZ ONE, AT THE VILLAGE OF ABU MARD: 6:17 A.M. In the dawn, the face of another Mahmud, the Islamic-Marxist mullah, was contorted with rage. “Have you lain with this man?” he shouted. “Before God have you lain with him?”

Azadeh was on her knees in front of him, panic-stricken. “You’ve no right to burst into th - ”

“Have you lain with this man?”

“I… I am faithful to my… my husband,” she gasped. It was only seconds ago that she and Ross had been sitting on the carpets in the hut, hastily eating the meal she had brought him, happy together, ready for immediate departure. The headman had gratefully and humbly accepted his pishkesh - four gold rupees to him and one she had secretly given to his wife - telling them to sneak out of the village by the forest side the moment they had finished eating, blessing her - then the door had burst open, aliens had rushed them, overpowering him and dragging them both into the open, shoving her at Mahmud’s feet and battering Ross into submission. “I’m faithful, I swear it. I’m faithf - ”

“Faithful? Why aren’t you wearing chador?” he had shouted down at her, most of the village collected around them now, silent and afraid. Half a dozen armed men leaned on their weapons, two stood over Ross who was face downward in the snow, unconscious, blood trickling from his forehead. “I was … I was wearing chador but I… I took it off while I was eat - ” “You took off your chador in a hut with the door closed eating with a stranger? What else had you taken off?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said in more panic, pulling her unzipped parka closer about her, “I was just eating and he’s not a stranger but an old friend of mi… old friend of my husband,” she corrected herself hastily but the slip had not gone unnoticed. “Abdollah Khan is my father and you have no r - ”

“Old friend? If you’re not guilty you’ve nothing to fear! Before God, have you lain with him? Swear it!”

“Kalandar, send for my father, send for him!” The kalandar did not move. All eyes were grinding into her. Helplessly she saw the blood on the snow, her Johnny groaning, coming around. “I swear by God I’m faithful to my husband!” she screamed. The cry went over them all and into Ross’s mind and seared him awake.

“Answer the question, woman! Is it yes or no? In the Name of God, have you lain with him?” The mullah was standing over her like a diseased crow, the villagers waiting, everyone waiting, the trees and the wind waiting - even God. Insha’Allah!

Her fear left her. In its place was hate. She stared back at this man Mahmud as she got up. “In the Name of God, I am and have always been faithful to my husband,” she pronounced. “In the Name of God, yes, I loved this man, years upon years ago.”

Her words made many that were there shudder and Ross was appalled that she had admitted it.

“Harlot! Loose woman! You openly admit yourself guilty. You will be punished accord - ”

“No,” Ross shouted over him. He dragged himself onto his knees and though the two mujhadin had guns at his head, he ignored them. “It was not the fault of Her Highness. I - I’m to blame, only me, only me!” “You’ll be punished, Infidel, never fear,” Mahmud said, then turned to the villagers. “You all heard the harlot admit fornication, you all heard the Infidel admit fornication. For her mere is but one punishment - for the Infidel… what should happen to the Infidel?”

The villagers waited. The mullah was not their mullah, nor of their village, nor a real mullah but an Islamic-Marxist. He had come uninvited. No one knew why he had come here, only that he had appeared suddenly like the wrath of God with leftists - also not of their village. Not true Shi’as, only madmen. Hadn’t the Imam said fifty times all such men were madmen who only paid lip service to God, secretly worshiping the Satan Marx-Lenin. “Well? Should he share her punishment?”

No one answered him. The mullah and his men were armed.

Azadeh felt all eyes boring into her but she could no longer move or say anything. She stood there, knees trembling, the voices distant, even Ross’s shouting, “You’ve no jurisdiction over me - or her. You defile God’s name…” as one of the men standing over him gave him a brutal shove to send him sprawling then put a booted foot on his neck pinioning him. “Castrate him and be done with it,” the man said and another said, “No, it was the woman who tempted him - didn’t I see her lift her chador to him last night in the hut. Look at her now, tempting us all. Isn’t the punishment for him a hundred lashes?”

Another said, “He put his hands on her, take off his hands.” “Good,” Mahmud said. “First his hands, then the lash. Tie him up!” Azadeh tried to cry out against this evil but no sound came out, the blood roaring in her ears now, her stomach heaving, her mind unhinged as they dragged her Johnny to his feet, fighting, kicking, to tie him spread-eagled between rafters that jutted from the hut - remembering the time she and Hakim were children and he, filled with bravado, had picked up a stone and thrown it at the cat, and the cat squealed as it rolled over and got up, now injured, and tried to crawl away, squealing all the time until a guard shot it, but now… now she knew no one would shoot her. She lurched at Mahmud with a scream, her nails out, but her strength failed her and she fainted. Mahmud looked down at her. “Put her against that wall,” he said to some of his men, “then bring her her chador.” He turned and looked at the villagers. “Who is the butcher here? Who is the butcher of the village?” No one replied. His voice roughened. “Kalandar, who is your butcher?” Quickly the headman pointed to a man in the crowd, a small man with rough clothes. “Abrim, Abrim is our butcher.”

“Go and get your sharpest knife,” Mahmud told him. “The rest of you collect stones.”

Abrim went to do his bidding. As God wants, the others muttered to each other. “Have you ever seen a stoning?” someone asked. A very old woman said, “I saw one once. It was in Tabriz when I was a little girl.” Her voice quavered. “The adulteress was the wife of a bazaari, yes, I remember she was the wife of a bazaari. Her lover was a bazaari too and they hacked off his head in front of the mosque, then the men stoned her. Women could throw stones too if they wanted but they didn’t, I didn’t see any woman do it. It took a long time, the stoning, and for years I heard the screams.” “Adultery is a great evil and must be punished, whoever the sinner, even her. The Koran says a hundred lashes for the man … the mullah is the lawgiver, not us,” the kalandar said.

“But he’s not a true mullah and the Imam has warned against their evil!” “The mullah is the mullah, the law, the law,” the kalandar said darkly, secretly wanting the Khan humbled and this woman who had taught new disturbing thoughts to their children destroyed. “Collect the stones.” Mahmud stood in the snow, ignoring the cold and the villagers and the saboteur who cursed and moaned and, frenzied, tried to fight out of his bonds, and the woman inert at the wall.

This morning, before dawn, coming to take over the base, he had heard about the saboteur and her being in the village. She of the sauna, he had thought, his anger gathering, she who had flaunted herself, the highborn whelp of the cursed Khan who pretends to be our patron but who has betrayed us and betrayed me, already engineering an assassination attempt on me last night, a burst of machine-gun fire outside the mosque after last prayer that killed many but not me. The Khan tried to have me murdered, me who am protected by the Sacred Word that Islam together with Marx-Lenin is the only way to help the world rise up.

He looked at her, seeing the long legs encased in blue ski pants, hair uncovered and flowing, breasts bulging against the blue and white ski jacket. Harlot, he thought, loathing her for tempting him. One of his men threw the chador over her. She moaned a little but did not come out of her stupor. “I’m ready,” the butcher said, fingering his knife.

“First the right hand,” Mahmud said to his men. “Bind him above the wrists.” They bound strips of sacking ripped from the window tightly, villagers pressing forward to see better, and Ross used all his energy to stop his terror from bursting the dam, saw only the pockmarked face above the carving knife, the bedraggled mustache and beard, the eyes blank, the man’s thumb testing the blade absently. Then his eyes focused. He saw Azadeh come out of her spell and he remembered.

“The grenade!” he shrieked. “Azadeh, the grenade!”

She heard him clearly and fumbled for it in her side pocket as he shrieked again and again, further startling the butcher, dragging everyone’s attention to himself. The butcher came forward cursing him, took hold of his right hand firmly, fascinated by it, moved it a little this way and that, the knife poised, deciding where to slice through the sinews of the joint, giving Azadeh just enough tune to pick herself up and hurtle across the small space to shove him in the back, sending him flying and the knife into the snow, then to turn on Mahmud, pull the pin out, and stand there trembling, the lever held in her small hand.

“Get away from him,” she screamed. “Get away!”

Mahmud did not move. Everyone else scattered, trampling some, rushing for safety across the square, cursing and shouting.

“Quick, over here, Azadeh,” Ross called out. “Azadeh!” She heard him through her mist and obeyed, backing toward him, watching Mahmud, flecks of foam at the comer of her mouth. Then Ross saw Mahmud turn and stalk off toward one of his men out of range and he groaned, knowing what would happen now. “Quick, pick up the knife and cut me loose,” he said to distract her. “Don’t let go of the lever - I’ll watch them for you.” Behind her he saw the mullah take the rifle from one of his men, cock it, and turn toward them. Now she had the butcher’s knife and she reached for the bonds on his right hand and he knew the bullet would kill or wound her, the lever would fly off, four seconds of waiting, and then oblivion for both of them - but quick and clean and no obscenity. “I’ve always loved you, Azadeh,” he whispered and smiled and she looked up, startled, and smiled back.

The rifle shot rang out, his heart stopped, then another and another, but they did not come from Mahmud but from the forest and now Mahmud was screaming and twisting on the snow. Then a voice followed the shots: “Allah-u Akbar! Death to all enemies of God! Death to all leftists, death to all enemies of the Imam!” With a bellow of rage one of the mujhadin charged the forest and died. At once the rest fled, falling over themselves in their panic-stricken rush to hide. Within seconds the village square was empty but for the babbling howls of Mahmud, his turban no longer on bis head. In the forest the leader of the four-man Tudeh assassination team who had tracked him since dawn silenced him with a burst of machine-gun fire, then the four of them retreated as silently as they had arrived.

Blankly Ross and Azadeh looked at the emptiness of the village. “It can’t be… can’t be…” she muttered, still deranged.

“Don’t let go of the lever,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t let go of the lever. Quick, cut me loose… quick!”

The knife was very sharp. Her hands were trembling and slow and she cut him once but not badly. The moment he was free he grabbed the grenade, his hands tingling and hurting, but held the lever, began to breathe again. He staggered into the hut, found his kookri that had been mixed up in the blanket in the initial struggle, stuck it in its scabbard and picked up his carbine. At the doorway he stopped. “Azadeh, quick, get your chador and the pack and follow me.” She stared at him. “Quick!”

She obeyed like an automaton, and he led her out of the village into the forest, grenade in his right hand, gun in the left. After a faltering run of a quarter of an hour, he stopped and listened. No one was following them. Azadeh was panting behind him. He saw she had the pack but had forgotten the chador. Her pale blue ski clothes showed clearly against the snow and trees. He hurried on again. She stumbled after him, beyond talking. Another hundred yards and still no trouble.

No place to stop yet. He went on, slower now, a violent ache in his side, near vomiting, grenade still ready, Azadeh flagging even more. He found the path that led to the back of the base. Still no pursuit. Near the rise, at the back of Erikki’s cabin, he stopped, waiting for Azadeh, then his stomach heaved, he staggered and went down on his knees and vomited. Weakly, he got up and went up the rise to better cover. When Azadeh joined him she was laboring badly, her breath coming in great gulping pants. She slumped into the snow beside him, retching.

Down by the hangar he could see the 206, one of the mechanics washing it down. Good, he thought, perhaps it’s being readied for a flight. Three armed revolutionaries were huddled on a nearby veranda under the overhang of a trailer in the lee of the small wind, smoking. No sign of life over the rest of the base, though chimney smoke came from Erikki’s cabin and the one shared by the mechanics, and the cookhouse. He could see as far as the road. The roadblock was still there, men guarding it, some trucks and cars held up.

His eyes went back to the men on the veranda and he thought of Gueng and how his body had been tossed like a sack of old bones into the filth of the semi under their feet, perhaps these men, perhaps not. For a moment his head ached with the strength of his rage. He glanced back at Azadeh. She was over her spasm, still more or less in shock, not really seeing him, a dribble of saliva on her chin and a streak of vomit. With his sleeve he wiped her face. “We’re fine now, rest awhile then we’ll go on.” She nodded and sank back on her arms, once more in her own private world. He returned his concentration to the base.

Ten minutes passed. Little change. Above, the cloud cover was a dirty blanket, snow heavy. Two of the armed men went into the office and he could see them from time to time through the windows. The third man paid little attention to the 206. No other movement. Then a cook came out of the cookhouse, urinated on the snow, and went back inside again. More time. Now one of the guards walked out of the office and trudged across the snow to the mechanics’ trailer, an M16 slung over his shoulder. He opened the door and went inside. In a moment he came out again. With him was a tall European in flight gear and another man. Ross recognized the pilot Nogger Lane and the other mechanic. The mechanic said something to Lane, then waved and went back inside his trailer again. The guard and the pilot walked off toward the 206.

Everyone pegged, Ross thought, his heart fluttering. Awkwardly he checked his carbine, the grenade in his right hand inhibiting him, then put the last two spare magazines and the last grenade from his haversack into his side pocket. Suddenly fear swept into him and he wanted to run, oh, God help me, to run away, to hide, to weep, to be safe at home, away anywhere…. “Azadeh, I’m going down there now,” he forced himself to say. “Get ready to rush for the chopper when I wave or shout. Ready?” He saw her look at him and nod and mouth yes, but he wasn’t sure if he had reached her He said it again and smiled encouragingly. “Don’t worry.” She nodded mutely. Then he loosened his kookri and went over the rise like a wild beast after food.

He slid behind Erikki’s cabin, covered by the sauna. Sounds of children and a woman’s voice inside. Dry mouth, grenade warm in his hand. Slinking from cover to cover, huge drums or piles of pipe and saws and logging spares, always closer to the office trailer. Peering around to see the guard and the pilot nearing the hangar, the man on the veranda idly watching them. The office door opened, another guard came out, and beside him a new man, older, bigger, cleanshaven, possibly European, wearing better quality clothes and armed with a Sten gun. On the thick leather belt around his waist was a scabbarded kookri.

Ross released the lever. It flew off. “One, two, three,” and he stepped out of cover, hurled the grenade at the men on the veranda forty yards away, and ducked behind the tank again, already readying another.

They had seen him. For a moment they were stock-still, then as they dropped for cover the grenade exploded, blowing most of the veranda and overhang away, killing one of them, stunning another, and maiming the third. Instantly Ross rushed into the open, carbine leveled, the new grenade held tightly in his right hand, index finger on the trigger. There was no movement on the veranda, but down by the hangar door the mechanic and pilot dropped to the snow and put their arms over their heads in panic, the guard rushed for the hangar and for an instant was in the clear. Ross fired and missed, charged the hangar, noticed a back door, and diverted for it. He eased it open and leaped inside. The enemy was across the empty space, behind an engine, his gun trained on the other door. Ross blew his head off, the firing echoing off the corrugated iron walls, then ran for the other door. Through it he could see the mechanic and Nogger Lane hugging the snow near the 206. Still in cover, he called to them. “Quick! How many more hostiles’re here?” No answer. “For Christ sake, answer me!” Nogger Lane looked up, his face white. “Don’t shoot, we’re civilians, English - don’t shoot!”

“How many more hostiles are here?”

“There… there were five… five… this one here and the rest in… in the office… I think in the office…”

Ross ran to the back door, dropped to the floor, and peered out at ground level. No movement. The office was fifty yards away - the only cover a detour around the truck. He sprang to his feet and charged for it. Bullets howled off the metal and then stopped. He had seen the automatic fire coming from a broken office window.

Beyond the truck was a little dead ground, and in the dead ground was a ditch that led within range. If they stay in cover they’re mine. If they come out and they should, knowing I’m alone, the odds are theirs.

He slithered forward on his belly for the kill. Everything quiet, wind, birds, enemy. Everything waiting. In the ditch now. Progress slow. Getting near. Voices and a door creaking. Silence again. Another yard. Another. Now! He got his knees ready, dug his toes into the snow, eased the lever off the grenade, counted three, lurched to his feet, slipped but just managed to keep his balance, and hurled the grenade through the broken window, past the man standing there, gun pointing at him, and hit the snow again. The explosion stopped the burst of gunfire, almost blew out his own eardrums, and once again he was on his feet charging the trailer, firing as he went. He jumped over a corpse and went on in still firing. Suddenly his gun stopped and his stomach turned over, until he could jerk out the empty mag and slam in the new. He killed the machine gunner again and stopped. Silence. Then a scream nearby. Cautiously he kicked the broken door away and went on to the veranda. The screamer was legless, demented, but still alive. Around his waist was the leather belt and the kookri that had been Gueng’s. Fury blinded Ross, and he tore it out of the scabbard. “You got that at the roadblock?” he shouted in Farsi.

“Help me help me help me…” A paroxysm of some foreign language then, “… whoareyou who… help meeee…” The man continued screaming and mixed with it was, “… helpmehelp-meee yes I killed the saboteur… helpme…” With a bloodcurdling scream Ross hacked downward and when his eyes cleared he was staring into the face of the head that he held up in his left hand. Revolted, he dropped it and turned away. For a moment he did not know where he was, then his mind cleared, his nostrils were filled with the stench of blood and cordite, he found himself in the remains of the trailer and looked around.

The base was frozen, but men were running toward it from the roadblock. Near the chopper Lane and the mechanic were still motionless in the snow. He rushed for them, hugging cover.

Nogger Lane and the mechanic Arberry saw him coming and were panic-stricken - the stubble-bearded, matted-haired, wild-eyed maniac tribesman mujhadin or fedayeen who spoke perfect English, whose hands and sleeves were bloodstained from the head that only moments ago they had seen him hack off with a single stroke and a crazed scream, the bloody short sword-knife still in his hand, another in a scabbard, carbine in the other. They scrambled to their knees, hands up. “Don’t kill us - we’re friends, civilians, don’t kill u - ”

“Shut up! Get ready to take off. Quick!”

Nogger Lane was dumbfounded. “What?”

“For Christ’s sake, hurry,” Ross said angrily, infuriated by the look on their faces, completely oblivious of what he looked like. You,” he pointed at the mechanic with Gueng’s kookri. “You, see that rise there?” “Yes … yes, sir,” Arberry croaked.

“Go up there fast as you can, there’s a lady there, bring her down …” He stopped, seeing Azadeh come out of the forest edge and start running down the little hill toward them. “Forget that, go and get the other mechanic, hurry for Christ’s sake, the bastards from the roadblock’ll be here any minute. Go on, hurry!” Arberry ran off, petrified but more petrified of the men he could see coming down the road. Ross whirled on Nogger Lane. “I told you to get started.”

“Yes … yessir… that… that woman… that’s not Azadeh, Erikki’s Azadeh, is it?”

“Yes - I told you to start up!”

Nogger Lane never got a 206 into takeoff mode quicker, nor did the mechanics ever move faster. Azadeh still had a hundred yards to go and already the hostiles were too close. So Ross ducked under the whirling blades and got between her and them and emptied the magazine at them. Their heads went down and they scattered, and he threw the empty in their direction with a screaming curse. A few heads came up. Another burst and another, conserving ammunition, kept them down, Azadeh close now but slowing. Somehow she made a last effort and passed him, reeling drunkenly for the backseat to be half pulled in by the mechanics. Ross fired another short burst retreating, groped into the front seat, and they were airborne and away.

Chapter 44

KOWISS AIR BASE: 5:20 P.M. Starke picked up the card he had been dealt and looked at it. The ace of spades. He grunted, Superstitious like most pilots, but just slid it importantly into his hand. The five of them were in his bungalow playing draw poker: Freddy Ayre, Doc Nutt, Pop Kelly, and Tom Lochart who had arrived late yesterday from Zagros Three with another load of spares, continuing the evacuation but too late to fly back. Because of the order forbidding flying today, Holy Day, he was grounded here until dawn tomorrow. There was a wood fire in the grate, the afternoon cold. In front of all of them were piles of rials, the biggest in front of Kelly, the smallest Doc Nutt’s.

“How many cards, Pop?” Ayre asked.

“One,” Kelly said without hesitation, discarded, and put the four he was keeping face downward on the table in front of him. He was a tall, thinnish man with a crumpled face, thin fair hair, ex-RAF, and in his early forties. “Pop” was his nickname because he had seven children and another en route. Ayre dealt the one card with a flourish. Kelly just stared at it for a moment, then, without looking at it, slowly mixed it with the others, then very carefully and elaborately picked up the hand, sneaked a look at the merest sliver of the top right comer, card by card, and sighed happily. “Bullshit!” Ayre said and they all laughed. Except Lochart who stared moodily at his cards. Starke frowned, worried about him but very glad that he was here today. There was Gavallan’s secret letter that John Hogg had brought on the 125 to discuss.

“1,000 rials for openers,” Doc Nutt said and everyone looked at him. Normally he would bet 100 rials at the most.

Absently Lochart studied his hand, not interested in the game, his mind on Zagros - and Sharazad. The BBC last night had reported major clashes during the Women’s Protest marches in Tehran, Isfahan, and Meshed with more marches scheduled for today and tomorrow. ‘Too rich for me,” he said and threw in his cards.

“See you, Doc, and up a couple of thousand,” Starke said and Doc Nutt’s confidence vanished. Nutt had drawn two cards, Starke one, Ayre three. Kelly looked at his straight, 4-5-6-7-8. “Your 2,000, Duke, and up 3,000!” “Fold,” Ayre said instantly, throwing away two pairs, kings and tens. “Fold,” Doc Nutt said with a sigh of relief, shocked with himself for being so rash initially and threw in the three queens he had been dealt, sure that Starke had filled a straight, flush or full house.

“Your 3,000, Pop, and up 30 - thousand,” Starke said sweetly, feeling very good inside. He had split a pair of sixes to keep four hearts, going for a flush. The ace of spades had made it a very busted flush but a winning hand if he could bluff Kelly to back off.

All eyes were on Kelly. The room was silent. Even Lochart was suddenly interested.

Starke waited patiently, guarding his face and hands, uneasy about the air of confidence surrounding Kelly and wondering what he would do if Kelly raised him again, knowing what Manuela’ d say if she found out he was preparing to put a week’s pay on a busted flush.

She’d bust a girdle for starters, he thought and smiled.

Kelly was sweating. He had seen Starke’s sudden smile. He had caught him bluffing once but that was weeks ago and not for 30 thousand, only 4. I can’t afford to lose a week’s pay, still, the bugger could be bluffing. Something tells me old Duke’s bluffing, and I could use an extra week’s wages. Kelly rechecked his cards to make sure that his straight was a straight - of course it’s a bloody straight for God’s sake and Duke’s bluffing! He felt his mouth begin to say, “I’ll see your 30,000,” but he stopped it and said instead, “Up yours, Duke,” threw his cards in and everyone laughed. Except Starke. He picked up the pot, slid his cards into the deck, and shuffled them to make sure they could not be seen. “I’ll bet you were bluffing, Duke,” Lochart said and grinned. “Me? Me with a straight flush?” Starke said innocently amid jeers. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to do the rounds. Let’s quit, continue after dinner, huh? Tom, you wanta come along?” “Sure.” Lochart put on his parka and followed Starke outside. This was the best time of day for them in normal times - just before sundown, flying done, all the choppers washed and refueled ready for tomorrow, a drink to look forward to, time to read a little, write a few letters, listen to some music, eat, call home, then bed.

The base checked out fine. “Let’s stroll, Tom,” Starke said. “When’re you going back to Tehran?” “How about tonight?” “Bad, huh?”

“Worse. I know Sharazad was on the Women’s March even though I told her not to, then there’s all the rest.”

Last night Lochart had told him about her father, and all about the loss of HBC. Starke had been appalled, still was, and once more blessed his luck that he had not known when he had been taken by Hussain and his Green Bands for questioning.

“Mac’ll have got hold of Sharazad by now, Tom. He’ll make sure she’s okay.” When Lochart had arrived, they had got on to McIver on the HF, reception good for a change, and had asked him to see that she was safe. In a few minutes they would again have their one daily allowable radio link with Tehran HQ - “You’re restricted but only until we’re back to normal when you can call all you want - any day now,” Major Changiz, the base commander, had said. And though they were monitored by the main tower across at the air force base, the link kept their sanity and gave an appearance of normality. Starke said, “After Zagros Three’s cleaned out Sunday and you’re all here, why not take the 206, Monday, first thing? I’ll fix it with Mac.” 736 “Thanks, that’d be dandy.” Now that his own base was closed down, Lochart was nominally under Starke’s command.

“Have you thought of getting the hell out, taking the 212 instead of Scot? Once he’s out of the Zagros he should be okay. Or even better, both of you going? I’ll talk to Mac.”

“Thanks but no, Sharazad can’t leave her family just now.” They walked on awhile. Night was coming fast, cold but crisp, the air smelling heavily of gasoline from the huge refinery nearby that was still almost totally shut down and mostly dark, except for the tall stacks burning off oil vapor. On the base, lights were already on in most of their bungalows, hangars, and cookhouse - they had their own backup generators in case base power went out. Major Changiz had told Starke there was no chance the base generator system would be interfered with now: “The revolution is completely over, Captain, the Imam is in charge.” “And the leftists?”

“The Imam has ordered them eliminated, unless they conform to our Islamic state,” Major Changiz had said, his voice hard and ominous. “Leftists, Kurds, Baha’is, aliens - any enemy. The Imam knows what to do.” Imam. It was the same at Starke’s questioning in front of Hussain’s komiteh. Almost as though he were semidivine, Starke had thought. Hussain had been the chief judge and prosecutor and the room, part of the mosque, crowded with hostile men of all ages, all Green Bands, five judges - no bystanders. “What do you know of the escape of the enemies of Islam from Isfahan by helicopter?” “Nothing,”

At once one of the other four judges, all young men, rough and hardly literate, said, “He’s guilty of crimes against God and crimes against Iran as an exploiter for American Satanists.

Guilty.”

“No,” Hussain said. “This is a court of law, Koranic law. He is here to answer questions, not yet for crimes, not yet. He is not accused of any crime. Captain, tell us everything you have heard about the Isfahan crime.” The air in the room had been fetid. Starke saw not a friendly face, yet all knew who he was, all knew about the battle against the fedayeen at Bandar Delam. His fear was a dull ache, knowing he was on his own now, at their mercy.

He took a breath and chose his words carefully. “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful,” he said, starting as all the suras of the Koran begin, and an astonished stir went through

737 the room. “I know nothing myself, I have witnessed nothing to do with it or been part of it. I was in Bandar Delam at the time. To my knowledge none of my people have had anything to do with it. I only know what Zataki of Abadan told me when he returned from Isfahan. Exactly he said: ‘We heard that Tuesday some Shah supporters, all officers, fled south in a helicopter piloted by an American. God curse all Satanists.’ That’s all he said. That’s all I know.”

“You’re a Satanist,” one of the other judges interrupted triumphantly, “you’re American. You’re guilty.”

“I am a person of the Book and I’ve already proved I’m no Satanist. If it wasn’t for me many here would be dead.”

“If we’d died at the base we’d be in Paradise now,” a Green Band at the back of the room said angrily. “We were doing the Work of God. It was nothing to do with you, Infidel.”

Shouts of agreement. Suddenly Starke let out a bellow of rage. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he shouted, “I’m a person of the Book, and the Prophet gave us special privileges and protections!” He was shaking with rage now, his fear vanished, hating this kangaroo court and their blindness and stupidity and ignorance and bigotry. “The Koran says: ‘Oh, People of the Book, overstep not the bounds of truth in your religion; neither follow the desires of those who have already gone astray and caused many others to stray from the evenness of the path.’ I haven’t,” he ended harshly, bunching his fists, “and may God curse him who says otherwise.”

Astonished, they all stared at him, even Hussain.

One of the judges broke the silence. “You… you quote the Koran? You read Arabic as well as speak Farsi?”

“No. No, I don’t but th - ”

“Then you had a teacher, a mullah?”

“No. No, I rea - ”

“Then you’re a sorcerer!” another shouted. “How can you know the Koran if you had no teacher nor read Arabic, the holy language of the Koran?” “I read it in English, my own language.”

Even greater astonishment and disbelief until Hussain spoke. “What he says is true. The Koran is translated into many foreign languages.” More astonishment. A young man peered at him myopically through cracked, thick-lensed glasses, his face pitted. “If it is translated into other languages, Excellency, then why isn’t it in Farsi for us to read - if we could read?”

Hussain said, “The language of the Holy Koran is Arabic. To know the Holy Koran properly the Believer must read Arabic. Mullahs of all countries learn Arabic for this reason. The Prophet, whose Name be praised, was Arab. God spoke to him in that language for others to write down. To know the Holy Book truly it must be read as it was written.” Hussain turned his black eyes on Starke. “A translation is always less than the original. Isn’t it?”

Starke saw the curious expression. “Yes,” he said, his intuition telling him to agree. “Yes, yes, it is. I would like to be able to read the original.” Another silence. The young man with glasses said, “If you know the Koran so well that you can quote from it to us like a mullah, why aren’t you Muslim, why aren’t you a Believer?”

A rustle went through the room. Starke hesitated, almost La panic, not knowing how to answer but sure that the wrong answer would hang him. The silence grew, then he heard himself say, “Because God has not yet taken away the skin over my ears nor, not yet, opened my spirit,” then added involuntarily, “I do not resist and I wait. I wait patiently.” The mood in the room changed. Now the silence was kind. Compassionate. Hussain said softly, “Go to the Imam and your waiting will be ended. The Imam would open your spirit to the glory of God. The Imam would open your spirit. I know, I’ve sat at the Imam’s feet. I’ve heard the Imam preaching the Word, giving the Law, spreading the Calm of God.” A sigh went through the room and now all concentrated on the mullah, watched his eyes and the light therein, heard the newness to his voice and the growing ecstasy therein - even Starke who felt chilled and at the same time elated. “Hasn’t the Imam come to open the spirit of the world? Hasn’t the Imam appeared among us to cleanse Islam of Evil and to spread Islam throughout the world, to carry the message of God… as has been promised? The Imam is.” The word hung in the room. They all understood. So did Starke. Mahdi! he thought, hiding his shock. Hussain’s implying Khomeini’s in reality the Mahdi, the legendary twelfth Imam who vanished centuries ago and Shi’as believe is just hidden from human sight - the Immortal One, promised by God to reappear some day to rule over a perfected world.

He saw them all staring at the mullah. Many nodding, tears running down the faces of others, all rapt and satisfied and not a disbeliever among them. Good God, he thought, dumbfounded, if Iranians give Khomeini that mantle there’ll be no end to his power, there’ll be twenty, thirty million men, women, and kids desperate to do his bidding, who’ll rush happily to death at his merest whim - and why not? Mahdi would guarantee them a place in Heaven, guarantee it! Someone said, “God is Great,” others echoed it and they talked, one with another, Hussain leading them, Starke forgotten. At length they noticed him and they let him go, saying, “See the Imam, see and believe…” Walking back to camp his feet had been strangely light, and he remembered now how the air had never tasted better, never had he been so full of the joy of life. Perhaps that’s because I was so close to death, he thought. I was a dead man and somehow I was given back life. Why? And Tom, why did he escape Isfahan, Dez Dam, even HBC herself? Is there a reason? Or was it just luck?

And now in the dusk he watched Lochart, gravely concerned for him. Terrible about HBC, terrible about Sharazad’s father, terrible that Tom and Sharazad are in a cauldron of no escape. Soon they’ll both have to choose: exile together, probably never to return here - or to part, probably forever. “Tom, there’s something special. Very secret, just between us. Johnny Hogg brought a letter from Andy Gavallan.” They were safely away from the base, strolling along the boundary road, skirting the eight-strand barbed-wire fence, and no fear of anyone overhearing. Even so He kept his voice down. “Basically Andy’s mighty downbeat on our future here and says he’s considering evacuating to cut his losses.”

“No need for that,” Lochart said quickly, a sudden bite in his voice. “Things‘11 get back to normal - they have to. Andy’s got to sweat it out - we’re sweating it out, so can he.”

“He’s sweating it out plenty, Tom. It’s simple economics, you know that as well as any. We’re not being paid for work done months ago, we’ve not enough work now for the birds and pilots here that he’s paying out of Aberdeen, Iran’s in a shambles, and we’re getting a hard time all over.” “You mean because Zagros Three’s been closed down there’ll be a huge write-off on the books? Not my goddamn fault th - ”

“Slow down, Tom. Andy’s heard on the grapevine all foreign airplane companies, joint ventures or what the hell ever, particularly choppers, are going to be nationalized mighty damned soon.”

Lochart was filled with a sudden hope. Wouldn’t this give me a perfect excuse to stay? If they steal - nationalize - our birds they’ll still need trained pilots, I can speak Farsi, I could train Iranians which’s got to be their end plan and - and what about HBC? Back to HBC, he thought helplessly, always back to HBC. “How does he know, Duke?”

“Andy said it was an ‘impeccable’ source. What he’s asking us - you, Scrag, Rudi, and me - is if he and Mac can come up with a workable plan, would we and however many pilots it takes fly all our birds into the Wild Blue across the Gulf?”

Lochart gaped at him. “Jesus, you mean just take off, no clearance no nothing?”

“Sure - but keep your voice down.”

“He’s crazy! How could we coordinate Lengeh, Bandar Delam, Kowiss, and Tehran - everyone’d have to go at the same time and the distances won’t add up.”

“Somehow they’re gonna have to, Tom. Andy said it’s that or close up.”

“I don’t believe it! The company’s operating all over the world.”

“He says if we lose Iran we’re through.”

“Easy for him,” Lochart said bitterly. “It’s just money. Easy to twist our arm when you’re nice and safe and all you risk’s money. He’s saying if he just pulls personnel and leaves everything else, S-G’s going belly-up?” “Yes. That’s what he’s saying.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Starke shrugged. Their ears caught the faint banshee wail and they turned and looked past their base to the far side of their part of the field. In the falling light they could just see Freddy Ayre with his bagpipes where, by common consent, he was allowed to practice. “Goddamn,” Starke said sourly, “that noise drives me crazy.”

Lochart ignored him. “Surely you’re not going along with a goddamn hijack, because that’s what it’ll be! No way would I go along with that.” He saw Starke shrug. “What do the others say?”

“They don’t know yet and won’t be asked yet. As I said this’s between us at the moment.” Starke glanced at his watch. “Almost time to call Mac.” He saw a tremor go through Lochart. The lament of the bagpipes drifted on the wind. “How anyone can claim that’s music, goddamned if I know,” he said. “Andy’s idea’s worth considering, Tom. As an end plan.”

Lochart did not answer him, feeling bad, the twilight bad, everything bad. Even the air smelled bad, polluted by the nearby refinery, and he wished he was back in Zagros, up near the stars where the air and the earth were not polluted, all of him desperate to be in Tehran where it was even more polluted - but she was there. “Count me out,” he said.

“Think about it, Tom.”

“I have, I’m out, it’s crazy, the whole idea. Soon as you think it out you’ll see it’s a mad dog scheme.”

“Sure, old buddy.” Starke wondered when his friend would realize that he, Lochart, of all of them, was counted in - one way or another.

Chapter 45

AT THE HOTEL INTERNATIONAL, AL SHARGAZ: 6:42 P.M. “Could you do it, Scrag?” Gavallan said, sunset near.

“It’d be easy for me to sneak my five birds and men out of Lengeh, Andy,” Scragger said. “It’d have to be the right sort of day and we’d have to slide under Kish radar but we could do it - if the lads wanted to be part of the caper. But with all our spares too? No way, not possible.” “Would you do it, if it was possible?” Gavallan asked. He had arrived on today’s flight from London, all his business news from Aberdeen rotten - Imperial Air putting on the pressure, undercutting him in the North Sea, the oil companies squeezing him and Linbar calling a special board meeting to investigate S-G’s “possible” mismanagement. “Would you, Scrag?” “Just me on my tod and everyone else safe and out? Like a shot.” “Would your lads do it?”

Scragger thought for a moment and sipped his beer. They were sitting at a table on one of the immaculate terraces surrounding the swimming pool of this, the newest of the hotels in the tiny sheikdom, other guests scattered around but none near, the air balmy and in the seventies with just enough breeze to tremble the palm fronds and promise a perfect evening. “Ed Vossi would.” He grinned. “He’s got enough Aussie larceny and Yankee get-up-and-go. Don’t think Willi Neuchtreiter would. It’d be tough for him to break so many regs when it’s not his tail and he’s not threatened. Wot does Duke Starke say? And Tom Lochart and Rudi?”

“I don’t know yet. I sent a letter to Duke via Johnny Hogg Wednesday.” “That’s kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Yes and no. Johnny Hogg’s a safe courier, but it’s a big problem - to have safe communications. Tom Lochart’ll soon be in Kowiss - you heard about Zagros?”

“Too right! They’re all bonkers up in the mountains. What about old Rudi?” “Don’t know how to get to him safely yet. Maybe Mac’ll have an idea. I’m on the 125 in the morning to Tehran and we’re to talk at the airport. Then I’ll come right back and I’m booked on the night flight to London.” “You’re pushing it a bit, aren’t you, old son?” “I’ve a few problems, Scrag.” Gavallan stared into his glass, absently swirling the whisky around the ice cubes. Other guests were going past. Three were girls, bikinied, golden skins, long black hair, towels casually around their shoulders. Scragger noticed them, sighed, then turned his attention back to Gavallan. “Andy, I may have to take Kasigi back to Iran-Toda in a day or two - old Georges’s been touching his toes since Kasigi agreed to pay him two dollars over spot. Kasigi thinks it’ll go to twenty dollars a barrel by Christmas.” Gavallan’s worry increased. “If it does it’ll send a shock wave through every industrialized nation - inflation’s going to soar again. I suppose if anyone’d know it’d be them.” Earlier, the moment Scragger had mentioned Kasigi and Toda, he had reacted instantly, as Struan’s supplied crews and leased many of the ships Toda built and were old associates. “Years ago I knew this Kasigi’s boss, man called Hiro Toda. Did he ever mention it?” “No, no, he never did. You knew him where? In Japan?” “No, Hong Kong. Toda was doing business with Struan’s - the company I used to work for - in those days it was Toda Shipping, shipbuilders mostly, not the huge conglomerate they are today.” Gavallan’s face hardened. “My family were Shanghai China traders from way back. Our company got more or less wiped out in the First World War, then we joined up with Struan’s. My old man was at Nanking in ‘31 when the Japs raped it, and he got caught in Shanghai just after Pearl Harbor and never made it out of POW camp.” He watched the reflections of his glass, his gloom increasing. “We lost a lot of good chums in Shanghai and Hong Kong. I can never forgive them for what they did in China, never will, but then, we have to move on, don’t we? Have to bury the hatchet someday though you’d best keep your eye on the tooth marks.”

“It’s the same for me.” Scragger shrugged. “Kasigi seems okay.” “Where is he now?”

“Kuwait. He’s back tomorrow and I’m to take him to Lengeh for consultations in the morning.”

“If you go to Iran-Toda, you think you might be able to get over to see Rudi? Maybe sound him out?”

“Too right. That’s a good idea, Andy.”

“When you see Kasigi, mention I know his chairman.”

“Sure, sure I will. I could ask him if h - ” He stopped, glanced over Gavallan’s shoulder. “Look, Andy, now there’s a sight for sore eyes!” Gavallan looked around, westward. The sunset was unearthly - reds and purples and browns and golds painting the distant clouds, the sun almost three quarters under the horizon, bloodying the waters of the Gulf, the touch of wind flickering the candles on the starched tablecloths already laid for dinner on the dining terrace. “You’re right, Scrag,” he said at once. “It’s the wrong time to be serious, it can wait. There’s no sight in the world like a sunset.”

“Eh?” Scragger was staring at him blankly. “For God’s sake, I didn’t mean the sunset - I meant the sheila.”

Gavallan sighed. The sheila was Paula Giancani, just out of the pool below them, her bikini briefer than brief, the beads of water on her olive skin glistening and bejeweled by the sunset, now drying her legs and arms and back and now her legs again, putting on a gossamer swimming wrap, totally and joyously aware there was not a man within sight who did not appreciate her performance - or a woman who was not envious. “You’re a horny bastard, Scrag.”

Scragger laughed and thickened his accent. “It’s me one joy in life, old cock! Cor’, that Paula’s one for the book.”

Gavallan studied her. “Well, Italian girls generally have something extra special about them, but that young lady… she’s not a stunner like Sharazad, and doesn’t have Azadeh’s exotic mystery, but I agree, Paula’s something else.”

Along with everyone else, they watched her walk through the tables, lust following, envy following, until she had vanished into the vast hotel lobby. They were all having dinner later, Paula, Genny, Manuela, Scragger, Gavallan, Sandor Petrofi, and John Hogg. Paula’s Alitalia jumbo was again at Dubai, a few miles down the highway, waiting for clearance to go to Tehran for another load of Italian nationals, and Genny McIver had met her by chance shopping.

Scragger sighed. “Andy, old chap, I’d certainly like to give her one, no doubt about it!”

“Wouldn’t do you a bit of good, Scrag.” Gavallan chuckled and ordered another whisky and soda from a crisply dressed, smiling Pakistani waiter who came instantly, some of the other guests already elegantly and expensively dressed for a lovely evening, latest Paris fashions, much décolletage, starched white dinner jackets - along with the expensive casual. Gavallan wore well-cut tan tropicals, Scragger regulation uniform, short-sleeved white shirt with epaulets and bars, black trousers and shoes. “Beer, Scrag?” “No, thanks, mate. I’ll nurse this and get ready for Pulsating Paula.” “Dreamer!” Gavallan turned back to the sunset, feeling better, put back together by his old friend. The sun was almost under the horizon, never more beautiful, reminding him of sunsets in China in the old days, sweeping him back to Hong Kong and Kathy and Ian, laughter in the Great House on the Peak, all the family fine and strong, their own house on a promontory at Shek-o - when they were young and together, Melinda and Scot still children, amahs padding about, sampans and junks and ships of all sizes far below in the sunset on a safe sea.

The tip of the sun went under the sea. With great solemnity, Gavallan quietly clapped his hands.

“Wot’s that for, Andy?”

“Urn? Oh, sorry, Scrag. In the old days we used to applaud the sun, Kathy and I, the very second after it disappeared. To thank the sun for being there and for the unique performance and for being alive to be able to enjoy it - the last time ever you’d see that particular sunset. Like tonight. You’ll never see that one again.” Gavallan sipped his whisky, watching the afterglow. “The first person who introduced me to the idea was a wonderful fellow, we became good friends - still are. Great man, his wife’s crackerjack, too. I’ll tell you about them sometime.” He turned his back to the west and leaned forward and said softly, “Lengeh. You think it’s possible?”

“Oh, yes - if it was just us at Lengeh. We’d still have to plan very careful, Kish radar’s more itchy than ever, but we could slip under her on the right day. Big problem’s that our Iranian ground crew and staff, along with our presently friendly but zealous komiteh and our new unfriendly IranOil joker, would know within minutes we’d done a bunk, they’d have to with all birds up and away. At once they’d holler to IATC and they’d radio an all-points alert to Dubai, Abu Dhabi, here - in fact from Oman through Saudi and Kuwait up to Baghdad - telling them to impound us on arrival. Even if we all got here… well, the old sheik’s a great guy, liberal and a friend, but hell, he couldn’t go against Iran ATC when they were right - even if they were wrong. He couldn’t pick a fight with Iran, he’s got a good percentage of Shi’as among his Sunnis, not as bad as some on the Gulf, worse’n others.”

Gavallan got up and walked to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the old city - once a great pearling port, pirate stronghold, and slave market, trading center and, like Sohar in Oman, called the Port of China. Since ancient times the Gulf was the golden sea link between the Mediterranean - then center of the world - and Asia. Seafaring Phoenician traders, who came from Oman originally, dominated this incredibly wealthy trade route, landing the goods of Asia and India at Shatt-al-Arab, thence by short caravan routes to their markets, eventually to carve their own seaborne Mediterranean empire, founding city-states like Carthage to threaten even Rome herself. The old walled city was beautiful in the dying light, flat roofs, unspoiled and protected from modem buildings, the sheik’s fort dominating it. Over the years Gavallan had come to know the old sheik and to admire him. The sheikdom was surrounded by the Emirates but was an independent, sovereign enclave barely twenty miles deep with seven miles of coastline. But inland and out to sea for a hundred miles up to Iranian waters, within easy drilling, was a pool of oil many billion barrels thick. So Al Shargaz had the old city and a separate new city with a dozen modern hotels and skyscrapers, and an airport that could just handle a jumbo. In riches nothing to compare with the Emirates, or Saudi, or Kuwait but enough for abundance in everything, if chosen wisely. The sheik was as wise as his Phoenician ancestors were worldly-wise, as fiercely independent, and though he himself could not read or write, his sons were graduates from the best universities on earth. He and his family and his tribe owned everything, his word was law, he was Sunni, not a fundamentalist, and tolerant with his foreign subjects and guests, provided they behaved.

“He also detests Khomeini and all fundamentalists, Scrag.” “Yes. But he still daren’t pick a fight with Khomeini - that won’t help us.” “It won’t hurt us.” Gavallan felt cleansed by the sunset. “I plan to hire a couple of jumbo freighters, get them here, and when our choppers arrive we strip rotors, stuff their bellies full, and blast off. Speed’s the key - and planning.”

Scragger whistled. “You really mean to do it?”

“I really mean to see if we can do it, Scrag, and what the odds are. This’s the big one, if we lose all our Iranian choppers, equipment, and spares, we close. No insurance covers us and we’re still liable to pay what we owe. You’re a partner, you can see the figures tonight. I brought them for you - and for Mac.”

Scragger thought about his stake in the company, all the stake he had, and about Nell and his kids and their kids back in Sydney, and the station of Baldoon that had been the family sheep and cattle station for a century but was lost in the great drought, that he had had his eyes on for years and years and years to repossess for them.

“No need for me t’look at figures, Andy. If you say it’s that bad, it’s that bad.” He was watching the patterns of the sky. “Tell you what, I’ll take care of Lengeh if you can figure a plan and if the others’re in. After dinner maybe we could talk logistics for an hour, and finish up over breakfast. Kasigi won’t be back from Kuwait until 9:00 A.M. We’ll figure her out.”

“Thanks, Scrag.” Gavallan clapped him on the shoulder, towering over him. “I’m damned glad you were here, damned glad you’ve been with us all these years. For the first time I think we’ve a chance and I’m not dreaming.” “One condition, old sport,” Scragger added.

Gavallan was instantly on guard. “I can’t square your medical if it’s not up to scratch. There’s no way th - ”

“Do you mind?” Scragger was pained. “It’s nothing to do with Dirty Duncan and my medical - that’s going to be good till I’m seventy-three. No, the condition is at dinner you sit me next to Pulsating Paula, Genny on her other side, Manuela beside me, and that horny Hungarian Sandor way down the other end along with Johnny Hogg.”

“Done!”

“Bonzer! Now don’t you worry, mate, I’ve been sodded about by enough generals in five wars to’ve learned something. Time to change for dinner. Lengeh was getting boring and no doubt about it.” He walked off, thin, straight, and sprightly.

Gavallan gave over his credit card to the smiling Pakistani waiter. “No need for that, sahib, please just sign the bill,” the man said. Then added softly, “If I might suggest, Effendi, when you pay, don’t use American Express, it is the most expensive for the management.”

Bemused, Gavallan left a tip and walked off.

On the other side of the terrace two men watched him leave. Both were well dressed and in their forties, one American, the other Middle Eastern. Both wore tiny hearing aids. The man who was Middle Eastern was toying with an old-fashioned fountain pen, and as Gavallan passed a well-dressed Arab and a very attractive young European girl in deep conversation, the man with the fountain pen became curious, pointed it at them and steadied it. At once both men could hear the voices in their earphones; “my dear, $500 U.S. is much more than market price,” the man was saying.

“It depends what market forces concern you, my dear,” she replied, her Middle-European accent pleasing, and they saw her smile gently. “The fee includes the very best silk underwear you wish to rip to pieces and the probe you require inserted at your moment of truth. Expertise is expertise and special services require special handling and if your schedule only permits between six and eight tomorrow evening - ”

The voices vanished as the man turned the cap and put the pen on the tabletop with a wry smile. He was handsome and olive-skinned, an importer-exporter of fine carpets like generations of his forebears, American educated, his name Aaron ben Aaron - his main occupation major, Israeli Special Intelligence. “I’d never have figured Abu bin Talak as kinky,” he said dryly.

The other man grunted. “They’re all kinky. I wouldn’t have figured the girl for a hooker.”

Aaron’s long fingers toyed with the pen, reluctant to let it go. “Great gadget, Glenn, saves so much time. Wish I’d had one years ago.” “KGB’ve got a new model out this year, good for a hundred yards’ range.” Glenn Wesson sipped his bourbon on the rocks. He was American, a longtime oil trader. Real profession, career CIA. “It’s not as small as this but effective.”

“Can you get us some?”

“Easier for you to do it. Just get your guys to ask Washington.” They saw Gavallan disappear into the lobby. “Interesting.”

“What’d’you think?” Aaron asked.

“That we could throw a British chopper company to the Khomeini wolves anytime we want - along with all their pilots. That’d make Talbot bust a gut and Robert Armstrong and all MI6 which isn’t a bad idea.” Wesson laughed softly. “Talbot needs a good shafting from time to time. What’s the problem with S-G, you think they’re an MI6 cover operation?”

“We’re not sure what they’re up to, Glenn. We suspect just the reverse, that’s why I thought you should listen in. Too many coincidences. On the surface they’re legit - yet they’ve a French pilot Sessonne who’s sleeping with, and sponsoring, a well-connected PLO courier, Sayada Bertolin; they’ve a Finn, Erikki Yokkonen, closely associated with Abdollah Khan who’s certainly a double agent leaning more to the KGB than our side and openly, violently anti-Jew; Yokkonen’s very close to the Finnish Intelligence man, Christian Tollonen, who’s suspect by definition, Yokkonen’s family connections in Finland would position him to be a perfect deep-cover Soviet asset and we just got a buzz that he’s up in the Sabalan with his 212, helping Soviets dismantle your covert radar sites all over.” “Jesus. You sure?”

“No - I said a buzz. But we’re checking it out. Next, the Canadian Lochart: Lochart’s married into a known anti-Zionist bazaari family, PLO agents are living in his apartment right now, h - ”

“Yes, but we heard the pad was commandeered and don’t forget he tried to help those pro-Shah, pro-Israel officers escape.”

“Yes, but they got shot out of the skies, they’re all dead and curiously he isn’t. Valik and General Seladi would certainly have been in or near any cabinet-in-exile - we lost another two very important assets. Lochart’s suspect, his wife and her family’re pro-Khomeini which means anti-us.” Aaron smiled sardonically. “Aren’t we the great Satan after you? Next: the American Starke helps put down a fedayeen attack at Bandar Delam, gets very friendly with another rabid anti-Shah, anti-Israel zealot Zataki who - ” “Who?”

“An anti-Shah fighter, intellectual, Sunni Muslim who organized Abadan oilfield strikes, blew up three police stations, and now is heading up the Abadan Revolutionary Komiteh and not long for this earth. Drink?” “Sure, thanks. Same. You mentioned Sayada Bertolin - we’ve had her tabbed too. You think she could be turned?”

“I wouldn’t trust her. Best thing to do with her is just watch and see who she leads to. We’re after her controller - can’t peg him yet.” Aaron ordered for Wesson and a vodka for himself. “Back to S-G. So Zataki’s enemy. Starke speaks Farsi, like Lochart. Both keep bad company. Next Sandor Petrofi: Hungarian dissident with family still in Hungary, another potential KGB mole or at least a KGB tool. Rudi Lutz, German with close family over the Iron Curtain, always suspect, Neuchtreiter in Lengeh the same.” He nodded to where Scragger had been. “The old man’s just a trained killer, a mercenary to point at us, you, anyone with the same result. Gavallan? You should get your London people to tab him - don’t forget he chose all the others, don’t forget he’s British - quite possibly his whole operation’s a KGB cover an - ” “No way,” Wesson said, suddenly irritated. Goddamn, he thought, why’re these guys so paranoid - even old Aaron who’s the best there is. “It’s all too pat. No way.”

“Why not? He could be fooling you. The British are past masters at it - like Philby, McLean, Blake, and all the rest.”

“Like Crosse.” Wesson’s lips went into a thin line. “In that you’re right, old buddy.” “Who?”

“Roger Crosse - ten-odd years back, Mister Spymaster, but buried and covered up with all the skill Limeys have - he’s one of those from the Old Boys’ Club, the foulest traitors of them all.”

“Who was Crosse?”

“Armstrong’s ex-boss and friend from Hong Kong Special Branch in the old days. Officially a minor deputy director of MI6 but really top of their cream operation, Special Intelligence, traitor, terminated by the KGB at his own request just before we were going to nail the bastard.” “You proved it? That they terminated him?”

“Sure. Poison dart from close range, SOP, that’s what sent him onward. We had him cornered, no way he could get away like the others. We had him nailed, triple agent. At that time we’d a plant inside the Soviet embassy in London - guy called Brodnin. He gave us Crosse then disappeared, poor bastard, someone must’ve fingered him.”

“God cursed British, they breed spies like lice.”

“Not true, they’ve some great catchers too - we’ve all got traitors.” “We don’t.”

“Don’t bet on it, Aaron,” Wesson said sourly. “There’re traitors all over - with all the leaks in Tehran before and since the Shah left, there’s got to be another high-up traitor our side.”

“Talbot or Armstrong?”

Wesson winced. “If it’s either of them we should just quit.” “That’s what the enemy wants you to do, quit and get to hell out of the Middle East. We can’t, so we think differently,” Aaron said, eyes dark and cold, face set, watching him carefully. “Talking of that, why should our old friend Colonel Hashemi Fazir get away with murdering the new SAVAMA hatchet man, General Janan?”

Wesson blanched. “Janan’s dead? You’re sure?”

“Car bomb, Monday night.” Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “Why so sorry? Was he one of yours?”

“Could have been. We, er, we were negotiating.” Wesson hesitated, then sighed. “But Hashemi’s still alive? I thought he was on the Revolutionary Komiteh’s urgent condemned list.”

“He was, not now. I heard this morning his name’s off, his rank’s confirmed, Inner Intelligence’s reinstated - supposedly all approved by on high.” Aaron sipped his drink. “If he’s back in favor, after all he did for the Shah and us, he’s got to have a very high protector.”

“Who?” Wesson saw the other shrug, eyes ranging the terraces. His smile vanished. “That could mean he’s been working for the Ayatollah all the time.”

“Perhaps.” Aaron toyed with the fountain pen again. “Another curiosity. Tuesday Hashemi was seen getting on the S-G 125 at Tehran Airport with Armstrong; they went to Tabriz and were back in three hours-odd.” “I’ll be goddamned!”

“What’s that all add up to?”

“Jesus, I don’t know - but I think we better find out.” Wesson dropped his voice further. “One thing’s certain, for Hashemi to get back in favor he’s got to know where some very important bodies are buried, huh? Such information would be highly valuable… highly valuable, say to the Shah.” “Shah?” Aaron started to smile, stopped as he saw Wesson’s expression. “You don’t seriously figure the Shah’s got a chance to come back?”

“Stranger things’ve happened, old buddy,” Wesson said confidently and finished his drink. Why is it these guys don’t understand what’s going on in the world? he was thinking. It’s time they smartened up, stopped being so one-track about Israel, the PLO, and the whole Middle East, and gave us room to maneuver. “Sure the Shah’s gotta chance, though his son’s a better bet - soon’s Khomeini’s dead and buried it’ll be civil war, the army’ll take over and they’ll need a figurehead. Reza’d be a great constitutional monarch.” Aaron ben Aaron kept the disbelief off his face with difficulty, astounded that Wesson could still be so naive. After all the years you’ve been in Iran and the Gulf, he thought, how can you still misunderstand the explosive forces ripping Iran apart? If he had been a different man he would have cursed Wesson for the stupidity he represented, the hundreds of alarm signals disregarded, the hills of secret intelligence reports gathered with so much blood and cast aside unread, their years of pleading with politicians and generals and Intelligence - American and Iranian - warning of the gathering conflagration.

All to no avail. For years and years. The Will of God, he thought. God does not want it to be easy for us. Easy? In all history it’s never once been easy for us. Never never never. He saw Wesson watching him. “What?” “You wait and see. Khomeini’s an old man, he won’t last the year. He’s old and time’s with us - you wait and see.”

“I will.” Aaron put aside his inclination to argue violently. “Meanwhile, the problem in hand: S-G could be a front for enemy cells. When you think about it, chopper pilots specializing in oil support’d be valuable assets for all kinds of sabotage if the going get worse.”

“Sure. But Gavallan wants out of Iran. You heard him.” “Maybe he knew we were listening, or it’s a ploy he’s pulling.”

“Come on, Aaron. I think he’s kosher, and the rest of it’s coincidence.” Wesson sighed. “Okay, I’ll put a tab on him, and he won’t shit without you knowing, but hell, old buddy, you guys see enemies under the bed, on the ceiling, and under the carpet.” “Why not? There’re plenty around - known, unknown, active, or passive.” Aaron was methodically watching around him, checking on newcomers, expecting enemies, aware of the multitude of enemy agents in Al Shargaz and the Gulf. And we know about enemies, here, outside in the old city and in the new city, up the road to Oman and down the road to Dubai and Baghdad and Damascus, to Moscow and Paris and London, across the sea to New York, south to both the Capes and north to the Arctic Circle, wherever there’re people who’re not Jews. Only a Jew not automatically suspect and even then, these days, you’ve got to be careful.

There’re many among the Chosen who don’t want Zion, don’t want to go to war or pay for war, don’t want to understand Israel hangs in the balance with the Shah, our only ally in the Middle East and sole OPEC supplier of oil for our tanks and planes cast aside, don’t want to know our backs are to the Wailing Wall and we’ve to fight and die to protect our God-given land of Israel we repossessed with God’s help at such cost!

He looked up at Wesson, liking him, forgiving him his faults, admiring him as a professional but sorry for him: he wasn’t a Jew and therefore suspect. “I’m glad I was bom a Jew, Glenn. It makes life so much easier.” “How?”

“You know where you stand.”

AT DISCO TEX, HOTEL SHARGAZ: 11:52 P.M. Americans, British, and French dominated the room - some Japanese and other Asians. Europeans in the majority, many, many more men than women, their ages ranging between twenty-five and forty-five - the Gulf expat work force had to be young, strong, preferably unmarried, to survive the hard, celibate life. A few drunks, some noisy. Ugly and not so ugly, overweight and not so overweight, most of them lean, frustrated, and volcanic. A few Shargazi and others of the Gulf, but only the rich, the Westernized, the sophisticated, and men. Most of these sat on the upper level drinking soft drinks and ogling, and the few who danced on the small floor below danced with European women: secretaries, embassy personnel, airline staff, nurses, or other hotel staff - partners at a premium. No Shargazi or Arabian women were here.

Paula danced with Sandor Petrofi, Genny with Scragger, and Johnny Hogg was cheek to cheek with the girl who had been deep in conversation on the terrace, swaying at half tempo. “How long’re you staying, Alexandra?” he murmured.

“Next week, only until next week. Then I must join my husband in Rio.” “Oh, but you’re so young to be married! You’re all alone till then?”

“Yes, alone, Johnny. It’s sad, no?”

He did not reply, just held her a little tighter and blessed his luck that he had picked up the book she had dropped in the lobby. The strobe lights dazzled him for a moment, then he noticed Gavallan on the upper level, standing at the rail, grave and lost in thought, and again felt sorry for him. Earlier he had reluctantly arranged tomorrow’s night flight to London for him, trying to persuade him to rest over a day. “I know how jet lag plays hell with you, sir.”

“No problem, Johnny, thanks. Our takeoff for Tehran’s still at 10:00 A.M.?”

“Yes, sir. Our clearance’s still priority - and the charter onward to Tabriz.”

“Let’s hope that goes smoothly, just there and straight back.” John Hogg felt the girl’s loins against him. “Will you have dinner tomorrow? I should be back sixish.”

“Perhaps - but not before nine.”

“Perfect.”

Gavallan was looking down on the dancers, hardly seeing them, then turned and went down the stairs and outside onto the ground-floor terrace. The night was lovely, moon huge, no clouds. Around were acres of delicately floodlit, beautifully kept gardens within the encircling walls, some of the sprinklers on.

The Shargaz was the biggest hotel in the sheikdom, on one side the sea, the other the desert, its tower eighteen stories, with five restaurants, three bars, cocktail lounge, coffee shop, the disco, two swimming pools, saunas, steam rooms, tennis courts, health center, shopping mall with a dozen boutiques and antiques, an Aaron carpet shop, hairdressing salons, video library, bakery, electronics, telex office, typing pool, with, like all the modem European hotels, all rooms and suites air-conditioned, bathrooms and bidets en suite, twenty-four-hour room service - mostly smiling Pakistanis - same-day cleaners, instant pressing, a color TV in every room, in-house movies, stock market channel, and satellite distant dialing to every capital in the world.

True, Gavallan thought, but still a ghetto. And though the rulers of Al Shargaz and Dubai and Sharjah are liberal and tolerant so expats can drink in the hotels, can even buy liquor, though God help you if you resell any to a Muslim, our women can drive and shop and walk about, that’s no guarantee it’ll last. A few hundred yards away, Shargazi are living as they’ve lived for centuries, a few miles away over the border liquor’s forbidden, a woman can’t drive or be on the streets alone and has to cover her hair and arms and shoulders and wear loose pants, and over there in the real desert, people exist on a stratum of life that’s pitiless.

A few years ago he had taken a Range Rover and a guide and, together with McIver and Genny and his new wife Maureen, had gone out into the desert to spend the night in one of the oases on the edge of Rub’ al-Khali, the Empty Quarter. It had been a perfect spring day. Within minutes of their passing the airport, the road became a track that quickly petered out and they were grinding over the stony expanse under the bowl of sky. Picnic lunch, then on again, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, detouring in the wilderness where it never rained and nothing grew. Nothing. On again. When they stopped and turned the engine off, the silence came at them like a physical presence, the sun bore down, and space enveloped them.

That night was blue-black, stars enormous, tents fine and carpets soft, and even greater silence, greater space, so much space inconceivable. “I hate it, Andy,” Maureen had whispered. “It frightens me to death.” “Me too. Don’t know why but it does.” Around the palm trees of the oasis, the desert went to every horizon, taunting and unearthly. “The immensity seems to suck the life out of you. Imagine what it’s like in summer!” She trembled. “It makes me feel less than a grain of sand. It’s crushing me - somehow it’s taken my balance away. Och, ay, laddie, once is enough for me. It’s me for Scotland - London at a pinch - and never again.” And she had never come back. Like Scrag’s Nell, he thought. Don’t blame them. It’s tough enough in the Gulf for men, but for women… He glanced around. Genny was coming out of the French windows, fanning herself, looking much younger than in Tehran. “Hello, Andy. You’re the wise one, it’s so stuffy in there, and the smoke, ugh!”

“Never was much of a dancer.”

“The only time I get to dance is when Duncan’s not with me. He’s such a stickin-the-mud.” She hesitated. “On tomorrow’s flight, do you think I co - ”

“No,” he said kindly. “Not yet. In a week or so - let the dust settle.” She nodded, not hiding her disappointment. “What did Scrag say?” “Yes - if the others are in and it’s feasible. We had a good talk and we’re having breakfast.” Gavallan put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry about Mac, I’ll make sure he’s all right.”

“I’ve another bottle of whisky for him, you don’t mind, do you?” “I’ll put it in my briefcase - we’re on notice by IATC not to have any booze as aircraft stores - no problem, I’ll hand carry it.”

“Then perhaps you’d better not, not this time.” She found his gravity unsettling, so unusual in him. Poor Andy, anyone can see he’s beside himself with worry. “Andy, can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course, Genny.”

“Use this colonel and Roberts, no, Armstrong, the VIPs you’ve got to ferry to Tabriz. Why not ask them to route you back through Kowiss, say you need to pick up some engines for repair, eh? Then you can talk to Duke directly.” “Very good idea - go to the top of the class.”

She reached up and gave him a sisterly kiss. “You’re not bad yourself. Well, it’s me back to the fray - haven’t been so popular since the war.” She laughed and so did he. “Night, Andy.”

Gavallan went back to his hotel that was just down the road. He did not notice the men tailing him, nor that his room had been searched, his papers read, nor that now the room was bugged and the phone tapped.

Saturday - February 24

Chapter 46

AT TEHRAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:58 A.M. The cabin door of the 125 closed behind Robert Armstrong and Colonel Hashemi Fazir. From the cockpit, John Hogg gave Gavallan and McIver, who stood on the tarmac beside his car, a thumbs-up and taxied away, outward bound for Tabriz. Gavallan had just arrived from Al Shargaz and this was the first moment he and McIver had been alone.

“What’s up, Mac?” he said, the chill wind tugging at their winter clothes and billowing the snow around them.

“Trouble, Andy.”

“I know that. Tell it to me quickly.”

McIver leaned closer. “I’ve just heard we’ve barely a week, before we’re grounded pending nationalization.”

“What?” Gavallan was suddenly numb. “Talbot told you?”

“No, Armstrong, a few minutes ago when the colonel was in the loo and we were alone.” McIver’s face twisted. “The bastard told me with his smooth, put-on politeness, ‘I wouldn’t bet on more than ten days if I were you - a week’d be safe - and don’t forget, Mr. McIver, a closed mouth catches no flies.’”

“My God, does he know we are planning something?” A gust speckled them with powdered snow.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know, Andy.”

“What about HBC? Did he mention her?”

“No. When I asked about the papers, all he said was, “They’re safe.’” “Did he say when we’re to meet today?”

McIver shook his head. ” ‘If I’m back in time I’ll be in touch.’ Bastard.” He jerked his car door open.

In turmoil Gavallan brushed off the excess snow and slid into the warmth. The windows were fogged up. McIver switched the defrost and fan to maximum, heat already at maximum, then pushed the music cassette home, jacked the sound up, turned it down again, cursing.

“What else’s up, Mac?”

“Just about everything,” McIver blurted out. “Erikki’s been kidnapped by Soviets or the KGB and he’s somewhere up near the Turkish border with his 212, doing Christ knows what - Nogger thinks he’s being forced to help them clean out secret U.S. radar sites. Nogger, Azadeh, two of our mechanics and a British captain barely escaped from Tabriz with their lives, they got back yesterday and they’re at my place at the moment - at least they were when I left this morning. My God, Andy, you should have seen the state they were in when they arrived. The captain was the same one who saved Charlie at Doshan Tappeh and whom Charlie dropped off at Bandar-e Pahlavi…” “He what?”

“It was a secret op. He’s a captain in the Gurkhas… name’s Ross, John Ross, he and Azadeh were both pretty incoherent, Nogger too was pretty excited, and, at least they’re safe now but…” McIver’s voice became brittle. “Sony to tell you we’ve lost a mechanic at Zagros, Effer Jordon, he was shot an - ”

“Jesus Christ! Old Effer dead?”

“Yes… yes, I’m afraid so and your son was nicked… not badly,” McIver added hastily as Gavallan blanched. “Scot’s all right, he’s okay an - ” “How badly?”

“Bullet through the fleshy part of the right shoulder. No bones touched, just a flesh wound - JeanLuc said they’ve penicillin, a medic, the wound’s clean. Scot won’t be able to ferry the 212 out tomorrow to Al Shargaz so I asked JeanLuc to do it and take Scot with him, then come back to Tehran on the next 125 flight and we’ll get him back to Kowiss.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know exactly. I got a relayed message from Starke this morning who’d just picked it up from JeanLuc. It seems that terrorists are operating in the Zagros, I suppose the same bunch that attacked Bellissima and Rosa, they must’ve been hiding in ambush in the forests around our base. Effer Jordon and Scot were loading spares into the 212 just after dawn this morning and got sprayed. Poor old Effer got most of the bullets and Scot just one…” Again McIver added hurriedly, seeing Gavallan’s face, “JeanLuc assured me Scot’s all right, Andy, honest to God!”

“I wasn’t thinking just about Scot,” Gavallan said heavily. “Effer’s been with us damn nearly since we started - hasn’t he got three kids?” “Yes, yes, he has. Terrible.” McIver let in the clutch and eased the car through the snow back toward their office. “They’re all still at school, I think.”

“I’ll do something about them soon as I get back. Go on about Zagros.” “Nothing much more. Tom Lochart wasn’t there - he had to stay overnight at Kowiss Friday. JeanLuc said they didn’t see any of the attackers, no one did, the shots just came out of the forest - the base’s in chaos anyway what with our birds working overtime, bringing men from all the outlying rigs and ferrying them in batches to Shiraz, everyone pitching in to clear out before the deadline tomorrow at sunset.”

“Will they make it?”

“More or less. We’ll get out all our oilers and our chaps, most of our valuable spares and all choppers to Kowiss. The rig support equipment’ll have to be left but that’s not our responsibility. God knows what’ll happen to the base and rigs without servicing.”

“It’ll all go back to wilderness.”

“I agree, bloody stupid waste! Bloody stupid! I asked Colonel Fazir if there was anything he could do. The bastard just smiled his thin rotten smile and said it was hard enough to find out what the hell was going on at the office next door in Tehran, let alone so far south. I asked him what about the komiteh at the airport - could they help? He said no, that komitehs have almost no liaison with anyone else, even in Tehran. To quote him: ‘Up in the Zagros among the half-civilized nomads and tribesmen, unless you’ve guns, you’re Iranian, preferably an ayatollah, you’d best do what they say.’” McIver coughed and blew his nose irritably. “The bastard wasn’t laughing at us, Andy. Even so, he wasn’t unhappy either.” Gavallan was in dismay, so many questions to ask and to be answered, everything in jeopardy, here and at home. A week to doomsday? Thank God that Scot… poor old Effer… Christ Almighty, Scot shot! Gloomily he looked out of the windshield and saw they were nearing the freight area. “Stop the car for a minute, Mac, better to talk in private, eh?”

“Sorry, yes, I’m not thinking too clearly.”

“You’re all right? I mean your health?”

“Oh, that’s fine, if I get rid of this cough… It’s just that… it’s just that I’m afraid.” McIver said it flat but the admission spiked through Gavallan. “I’m out of control, I’ve already lost one man, there’s HBC still hanging over us, old Erikki’s in danger, we’re all in danger, S-G and everything we’ve worked for.” He fiddled with the wheel. “Gen’s fine?” “Yes, yes, she is,” Gavallan said patiently, concerned for him. This was the second time he had answered that question. McIver had asked him the moment he had come down the steps of the 125. “Genny’s fine, Mac,” he said, repeating what he had said earlier, “I’ve mail from her, she’s talked to both Hamish and Sarah, both families’re fine and young Angus has his first tooth. Everyone’s well at home, all in good shape and I’ve a bottle of Loch Vay in my briefcase from her. She tried to talk her way past Johnny Hogg onto the 125 - to stow away in the loo - even after I’d said no, so sorry.” For the first time he saw a glimmer of a smile on McIver. “Gen’s ornery, no doubt about it. Glad she’s there and not here, very glad, curious though how you miss ‘em.” McIver stared ahead. “Thanks, Andy.” “Nothing.” Gavallan thought a moment. “Why get JeanLuc to take the 212? Why not Tom Lochart? Wouldn’t it be better to have him out?”

“Of course, but he won’t leave Iran without Sharazad… there’s another problem.” The music on the tape went out and he turned it over and started it again. “I can’t track her down. Tom was worried about her, asked me to go to her family’s home near the bazaar which I did. Couldn’t get an answer, didn’t seem to be anyone there, Tom’s sure she was on the Women’s Protest March.”

“Christ! We heard about the riots and arrests on the BBC-and attacks by nutters on some of the women. You think she’s in jail?” “I hope to God she isn’t - you heard about her father? Oh, of course, I told you myself last time you were here, didn’t I?” McIver wiped the windshield absently. “What would you like to do - wait here until the bird comes back?” “No. Let’s go into Tehran - do we have time?” Gavallan glanced at his watch. It read 12:25.

“Oh, yes. We’ve got a load of ‘redundant’ stores to put aboard. We’ll have time if we leave now.”

“Good. I’d like to see Azadeh and Nogger - and this man Ross - and particularly Talbot. We could go past the Bakravan house on the off chance. Eh?”

“Good idea. I’m glad you’re here, Andy, very glad.” He eased in the clutch, the wheels skidding.

“So’m I, Mac. Actually I’ve never been so down either.”

McIver coughed and cleared his throat. “Home news is lousy?” “Yes.” Idly Gavallan wiped away the condensation from his side window with the back of his glove. “There’s a special board meeting of Struan’s Monday. I’ll have to come up with answers about Iran. Damned nuisance!” “Will Linbar be there?”

“Yes. That bugger’s going to ruin the Noble House before he’s through. Stupid to expand into South America when China’s on the threshold of opening up.”

McIver frowned at the new edge to Gavallan’s voice but said nothing. For many years he had known of their rivalry and hatred, the circumstances of David MacStruan’s death and everyone’s surprise in Hong Kong that Linbar had achieved the top job. He still had many friends in the Colony who sent him clippings of the latest piece of gossip or rumor - the lifeblood of Hong Kong - about the Noble House and their rivals. But he never discussed them with his old friend.

“Sorry, Mac,” Gavallan had said gruffly, “don’t want to discuss those sort of things, or what goes on with Ian, Quillan, Linbar, or anyone else connected with Struan’s. Officially I’m no longer with the Noble House. Let’s leave it at that.”

Fair enough, McIver had thought at the time and had continued to hold his peace. He glanced across at Gavallan. The years have been kind to Andy, he told himself, he’s still as grand a looking man as ever - even with all the troubles. “Not to worry, Andy. Nothing you can’t do.”

“I wish I believed that right now, Mac. Seven days presents an enormous problem, doesn’t it?”

“That’s the understatement of the y - ” McIver noticed his fuel gauge was on empty and he exploded: “Someone must’ve siphoned my tank while she was parked.” He stopped and got out a moment and came back and slammed the door. “Bloody bastard broke the sodding lock. I’ll have to fill up - fortunately we’ve still got a few five-gallon drums left and the underground tank’s still half full of chopper fuel for emergencies.” He lapsed into silence, his mind beset with Jordon and Zagros and HBC and seven days. Who do we lose next? Silently he began to curse and then he heard Genny’s voice saying, We can do it if we want to, I know we can, I know we can…

Gavallan was thinking about his son. I won’t rest easily until I see him with my own eyes. Tomorrow, with any luck. If Scot’s not back before my plane to London, I’ll cancel and go Sunday. And somehow I’ve got to see Talbot - maybe he can give me some help. My God, only seven days… It took McIver no time to refuel, then he swung out of the airport into the traffic. A big USAF jet transport came low overhead in the landing pattern. “They’re servicing about five jumbos a day, still with military controllers and ‘supervising’ Green Bands, everyone giving orders, countermanding them and no one listening anyway,” McIver said. “BA’s promised me three seats on every one of their flights for our nationals - with baggage. They hope to get a jumbo in every other day.”

“What’d they want in return?”

“The crown jewels!” McIver said, trying to lighten their depression but the joke sounded flat. “No, nothing, Andy. The BA manager, Bill Shoesmith, is a great chap and doing a great job.” He swung around the burned-out wreck of a bus that was on its side half across the road as though it were neatly parked. “The women are marching again today - rumor has it they are going to go on and on until Khomeini relents.”

“If they stick together he’ll have to.”

“I don’t know what to think these days.” McIver drove on awhile then jerked a thumb out of the window at the pedestrians walking this way and that. “They seem to know all’s well in the world. The mosques are packed, marches in support of Khomeini are multitudes, Green Bands’re fighting the leftists fearlessly who fight back equally fearlessly.” He coughed wheezily. “Our employees, well, they just give me the usual Iranian flattery and politeness and you never know what they’re really thinking. Ex-cept you’re sure they want us O-U-T!” He swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming car that was on the wrong side of the road, horn blaring, going much too fast for the snow conditions - then drove on again. “Bloody twit,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the fact I love old Lulu, I’d swap her for a beat-up half-track and have at the bloody lot of them!” He glanced at Gavallan and smiled. “Andy, I’m so glad you’re here. Thanks. I feel better now. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Gavallan said calmly but inside he was churning. “What about Whirlwind?” he asked, not able to bottle it any longer.

“Well, whether it’s seven days or seventy…” McIver swerved to avoid another accident neatly, returned the obscene gesture, and drove on again. “Let’s pretend we’re all agreed, and we could push the button if we wanted on D day, in seven days - no, Armstrong said best not to count on more than a week, so let’s make it six, six days from today, Friday next - a Friday’d be best anyway, right?”

“Because it’s their Holy Day, yes, my thought too.”

“Then adapting what we’ve come up with - Charlie and me: Phase One: From today on we send out every expat and spare we can, every way we can, by the 125, by truck out to Iraq or Turkey, or as baggage and excess baggage by BA. Somehow I’ll get Bill Shoesmith to increase our seat reservations and get priority of freight space. We’ve already got two of our 212s out ‘for repair’ and the Zagros one’s due off tomorrow. We’ve five birds left here in Tehran, one 212, two 206s, and two Alouettes. We send the 212 and the Alouettes to Kowiss ostensibly to service Hotshot’s request for choppers though why he wants them, God only knows - Duke says his birds are not all employed as it is. Anyway, we leave our two 206s here as camouflage.” “Leave them?”

“There’s no way we get all our choppers out, Andy, whatever our lead time. Now, on D minus two, next Wednesday, the last of our headquarters staff - Charlie, Nogger, our remaining pilots and mechanics, and me - we get on the 125 Wednesday and flit the coop to Al Shargaz, unless of course we can get some of them out beforehand by BA. Don’t forget we’re supposed to be up to strength, one in for one out. Next we th - ”

“What about papers, exit permits?”

“I’ll try to get blanks from Ali Kia - I’ll need some blank Swiss checks, he understands pishkesh but he’s also a member of the board, very clever, hot and hungry, but not anxious to risk his skin. If we can’t, then we’ll just pishkesh our way onto the 125. Our excuse to the partners, Kia or whomever, when they discover we’ve gone is that you’ve called an urgent conference at Al Shargaz - it’s a lame excuse but that’s beside the point. That ends Phase One. If we’re prevented from going, then that ends Whirlwind because we’d be used as hostages for the return of all birds, and I know you won’t agree to expend us. Phase Two: we set up sh - ”

“What about all your household things? And all those of the chaps who have apartments or houses in Tehran?”

“The company’ll have to pay fair compensation - that should be part of Whirlwind’s profit and loss. Agreed?”

“What’ll that add up to, Mac?”

“Not a lot. We’ve no option but to pay compensation.”

“Yes, yes, I agree.”

“Phase Two: We set up shop at Al Shargaz by which time several things have happened. You’ve arranged for the 747 jumbo freighters to arrive at Al Shargaz the afternoon of D minus one. By then, Starke somehow has secretly cached enough forty-gallon drums on the shore to carry them across the Gulf. Someone else’s cached more fuel on some godforsaken island off Saudi or the Emirates for Starke if he needs them, and for Rudi and his lads from Bandar Delam who definitely will. Scrag has no fuel problems. Meanwhile, you’ve arranged British registry for all birds we plan to ‘export,’ and you’ve got permission to fly through Kuwait, Saudi, and Emirate airspace. I’m in charge of Whirlwind’s actual operation. At dawn on D day you say to me go or no-go. If it’s no-go, that’s final. If it’s go, I can abort the go order if I think it’s prudent, then that becomes final too. Agreed?”

“With two provisos, Mac: you consult with me before you abort, as I’ll consult with you before go or no-go, and second, if we can’t make D day we try again D plus one and D plus two.”

“All right.” McIver took a deep breath. “Phase Three: at dawn on D day, or D plus one or D plus two - three days is the maximum I think we could sweat out - we radio a code message which says ‘Go!’ The three bases acknowledge and at once all escaping birds get airborne and head for Al Shargaz. There’s likely to be a four-hour difference between Scrag’s arrivals and the last ones, probably Duke’s - if everything goes well. The moment the birds land anywhere outside Iran we replace the Iranian registry numbers with British ones and that makes us partially legal. The moment they land at Al Shargaz the 747s are loaded, and take off into the Wild Blue with everyone aboard.” McIver exhaled. “Simple.”

Gavallan did not reply at once, sifting the plan, seeing the holes - the vast expanse of dangers. “It’s good, Mac.”

“It isn’t, Andy, it isn’t good at all.”

“I saw Scrag yesterday and we had a long talk. He says Whirlwind’s possible for him and he’s in if it’s a go. He said he’d sound out the others over the weekend and let me know, but he was sure on the right day he could get his birds and lads out.”

McIver nodded but said nothing more, just drove on, the roads icy and dangerous, twisting through the narrow streets to avoid the main highways he knew would be congested. “We’re not far from the bazaar now.” “Scrag said he might be able to get into Bandar Delam in the next few days and see Rudi and sound him out - letters’re too risky. By the way, he gave me a note for you.”

“What’s it say, Andy?”

Gavallan reached into the back for his briefcase. He found the envelope and put on reading glasses. “It’s addressed: D. D. Captain McIver, Esq.” “I’ll give him whatfor one day with his bloody ‘Dirty Duncan,’” McIver said. “Read it out.”

Gavallan opened the envelope, pulled out the paper with another attached to it, and grunted. “The letter just says: ‘Get stuffed.’ Clipped to it’s a medical report…” He peered at it. “… signed by Dr. G. Gernin, Australian Consulate, Al Shargaz. The old bastard’s ringed cholesterol normal, blood pressure 130/85, sugar normal… everything’s bloody normal and there’s a P.S. in Scrag’s writing: ‘I’m going to buzz you on me f’ing seventy-third birthday, old cock!’”

“I hope he does, the bugger, but he won’t, time’s not on his side. He’ll m - ” McIver braked cautiously. The street led out onto the square in front of the bazaar mosque but the exit was blocked by shouting men, many waving guns. There was no way to turn aside or detour, so McIver slowed and stopped. “It’s the women again,” he said catching sight of the surging demonstration beyond, cries and countercries growing in violence. Traffic on both sides of the street piled up with great suddenness, horns blaring angrily. There were no sidewalks, just the usual muck-filled joubs and banked snow, a few street stalls and pedestrians.

They were hemmed in on all sides. Bystanders began to join those ahead, pressing into the roadway around the cars and trucks. Among them were urchins and youths, and one made a rude sign at Gavallan through his side window, another of them kicked the fender, then another, and they all ran off laughing.

“Rotten little bastards.” McIver could see them in the rearview mirror, other youths collecting around them. More men pushed past, more hostile looks, and a couple banged the sides carelessly with their firearms. Ahead the main part of the marching women, “Allah-u Akbarrrrr…” dominating, were passing the junction.

A sudden crash startled them as a stone slammed against the car, narrowly missing the window, then the whole car began to rock as urchins and youths swarmed around it, jumping on and off the bumpers, making more obscene gestures. McIver’s rage exploded and he tore the door open, sending a couple of the youths sprawling, then jumped out and ripped into the pack that scattered at once. Gavallan got out equally fast, to charge those trying to overturn the car at the rear. He belted one and sent nun flying. Most of the others retreated, slipping and shouting, amid curses from pedestrians, but two of the bigger youths rushed Gavallan from behind. He saw them coming and smashed one in the chest, slammed the other against a truck, stunning him, and the truck driver laughed and thumped the side of his cabin. McIver was breathing hard. On his side the youths were out of range, shouting obscenities. “Look out, Mac!”

McIver ducked. The stone narrowly missed his head and smashed into the side of a truck, and the youths, ten or twelve of them, surged forward. There was nowhere for McIver to go so he stood his ground by the hood and Gavallan put his back to the car, also at bay. One of the youths darted at Gavallan with a piece of wood raised as a club while three others came at him from the side. He twisted away but the club caught the edge of his shoulder and he gasped, lunged at the youth, hit him in the face off balance, slipped, and sprawled in the snow. The rest came in for the kill. Suddenly he was not on the snow surrounded by hacking feet but being helped up. An armed Green Band was helping him, the youths cowering against the wall under the leveled gun of another, an elderly mullah nearby shouting at them in rage, pedestrians encircling them all. Blankly he saw McIver was also more or less unhurt near the front of the car, then the mullah came back to him and spoke to him in Farsi.

“Man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam, Agha” - Sorry, I don’t speak your language, Excellency - Gavallan croaked, his chest hurting him. The mullah, an old man with white beard and white turban and black robes, turned and shouted above the din at the watchers and people in other cars.

Reluctantly a driver nearby got out and came over and greeted the mullah deferentially, listened to him, then spoke to Gavallan in good though stilted English: “The mullah informs you that the youths were wrong to attack you, Agha, and have broken the law, and that clearly you were not breaking a law or provoking them.”

Again he listened to the mullah a moment, then once more turned to Gavallan and McIver. “He wishes you to know that the Islamic Republic is obedient to the immutable laws of God. The youths broke the law which forbids attacking unarmed strangers peacefully going about their business.” The man, bearded, middle-aged, his clothes threadbare, turned back to the mullah who now loudly addressed the crowd and the youths and there was widespread approval and agreement. “You are to witness that the law is upheld, the guilty punished and justice done at once. The punishment is fifty lashes, but first the youths will beg your forgiveness and the forgiveness of all others here.”

In the midst of the uproar from the nearby demonstration, the terrified youths were shoved and kicked in front of McIver and Gavallan where they went down on their knees and abjectly begged forgiveness. Then they were herded back against the wall and thrashed with mule scourges readily offered by the interested and jeering crowd. The mullah, the two Green Bands, and others selected by the mullah enforced the law. Pitilessly. “My God,” Gavallan muttered, sickened.

The driver-translator said sharply, “This is Islam. Islam has one law for all people, one punishment for each crime, and justice immediate. The law is God’s law, untouchable, everlasting, not like in your corrupt West where laws can be twisted and justice twisted and delayed for the benefit of lawyers who fatten on the twistings and corruptions and vilenesses or misfortunes of others…” Screams of some of the youths interrupted him. “Those sons of dogs have no pride,” the man said contemptuously, going back to his car.

When the punishment was over, the mullah gently admonished those youths who were still conscious, then dismissed them and went forward with his Green Bands. The crowd drifted away leaving McIver and Gavallan beside the car. Their attackers were now pathetic bundles of inert, bloodstained rags or moaning youths trying to drag themselves to their feet. Gavallan went forward to help one of them, but the youth scrambled away petrified so he stopped, then came back. The fenders were dented, there were deep scratches in the paintwork from stones the youths had used maliciously. McIver looked older than before. “Can’t say they didn’t deserve it, I suppose,” Gavallan said.

“We’d’ve been trampled and very bloody hurt if the mullah hadn’t come along,” McIver said throatily, so glad that Genny had not been here. She’d have been punished by every lash they got, he thought, his chest and back aching from the blows. He pulled his eyes off his car, eased his shoulders painfully. Then he noticed the man who had translated for them in a nearby car still in the traffic jam and trudged painfully across the snow to him. “Thanks, thanks for helping us, Agha,” he said to him, shouting through the window and above the noise. The car was old and bent and four other men were crammed into the other seats.

The man rolled down the window. “The mullah asked for a translator, I was helping him, not you,” he said, his lips curling. “If you had not come to Iran, those young fools would not have been tempted by your disgusting display of material wealth.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to th - ”

“And if it wasn’t for your equally disgusting films and television that glorify your godless street gangs and rebellious classrooms that the Shah imported at the behest of his masters to corrupt our youth - my own son and own pupils included-those poor fools would be all correctly law-abiding. Better for you to leave before you too are caught breaking the law.” He rolled down the window and, angrily, jabbed the horn.

AT LOCHART’S APARTMENT: 2:37 P.M. Her knuckles rapped a short code on the penthouse door. She was wearing a veil and dirt-stained chador. A series of knocks answered her. Again she tapped four rapid and one slow. At once the door swung open a crack, Teymour was there with a gun in her face, and she laughed. “Don’t you trust anyone, my darling?” she said in Arabic, Palestinian dialect.

“No, Sayada, not even you,” he replied, and when he was sure she truly was Sayada Bertolin and alone, he opened the door wider, and she pulled away her veil and scarf and went into his arms. He kicked the door shut and relocked it. “Not even you.” Then they kissed hungrily. “You’re late.” “On time. You’re early.” Again she laughed and broke away and handed him the bag. “About half’s there, I’ll bring the rest tomorrow.”

“Where did you leave the rest?”

“In a locker at the French Club.” Sayada Bertolin put her chador aside and was transformed. She wore a padded ski jacket and warm cashmere turtleneck sweater and tartan skirt and thick socks and high fur boots, all of it couturier. “Where are the others?” she asked.

His eyes smiled. “I sent them out.”

“Ah, love in the afternoon. When do they return?”

“Sunset.”

“Perfect. First a shower - the water’s still hot?”

“Oh, yes, and central heating’s on, and the electric blanket. Such luxury! Lochart and his wife knew how to live, this’s a veritable pasha’s - what’s the French word? - ah, yes, gargonničre.”

Her laugh warmed him. “You’ve no idea what a pishkesh a hot shower is, my darling, so much nicer than a bath - let alone the rest.” She sat on a chair to slip off her boots. “But it was old lecher Jared Bakravan, not Lochart, who knew how to live - originally this apartment was for a mistress.” “You?” he asked without malice.

“No, my darling, he required them young, very young. I’m mistress to no one, not even my husband. Sharazad told me. Old Jared knew how to live, a pity he didn’t have more luck in his dying.”

“He had served his purpose.”

“That was no way for such a man. Stupid!”

“He was a notorious usurer and Shah supporter, even though he gave to Khomeini lavishly. He had offended the laws of God an - ” “The laws of zealots, my darling, zealots - as you and I break all sorts of laws, eh?” She got up and kissed him lightly, walked down the corridor on the lovely carpets, and went into Sharazad and Lochart’s bedroom, across it into the luxurious mirrored bathroom, and turned on the shower, and stood there waiting for the water to heat up. “I always loved this apartment.” He leaned against the doorway. “My superiors thank you for suggesting it. How was the march?”

“Awful. Iranians are such animals, hurling abuse and filth at us, waving their penises at us, all because we want to be a little equal, want to dress as we want, to try to be beautiful for such a little time, we’re young such a little time.” Again she put her hand under the water, testing it. “Your Khomeini will have to relent.”

He laughed. “Never - that’s his strength. And only some are animals, Sayada, the rest know no better. Where’s your civilized Palestinian tolerance?” “Your men here have put it all into a squatting hole, Teymour. If you were a woman you’d understand.” She tried the water again and felt the heat beginning. “It’s time I went back to Beirut - I never feel clean here. I haven’t felt clean in months.”

“I’ll be glad to get back too. The war here is over, but not in Palestine, Lebanon, or Jordan - they need trained fighters there. There are Jews to kill, the curse of Zion to cast out, and holy places to recapture.” “I’m glad you’ll be back in Beirut,” she said, her eyes inviting. “I’ve been told to go home too in a couple of weeks which suits me perfectly-then I can still be a marcher. The protest planned for Thursday’s going to be the biggest ever!”

“I don’t understand why you bother, Iran’s not your problem and all your marches and protest meetings will achieve nothing.”

“You’re wrong - Khomeini’s not a fool - I take part in the marches for the same reason I work for the PLO - for our home, for equality, equality for the women of Palestine … and yes, and for women everywhere.” Her brown eyes were suddenly fiery and he had never seen her more beautiful. “Women are on the march, my darling, and by God of the Copts, the One God, and by your Marxist-Lenin you secretly admire, the day of man’s dominance is over!” “I agree,” he said at once and laughed.

Abruptly she laughed with him. “You’re a chauvinist - you who know differently.” The temperature of the water was perfect. She took off her ski jacket. “Let’s shower together.”

“Good, tell me about the papers.”

“Afterward.” She undressed without shame and so did he, both aroused but patient, for they were confident lovers - lovers of three years, in Lebanon and Palestine and here in Tehran - and he soaped her and she soaped him and they toyed, one with another, their playing gradually more intimate and more sensuous and more erotic until she cried out and cried again, and then, the instant he was within they melded perfectly, ever more urgent now, one with another, imploding together - then later at peace together lying in the bed the electric blanket warming them.

“What’s the time?” she said sleepily with a great sigh.

“Time for love.”

Quietly she reached over and he jerked, unprepared, and retreated protesting, then caught her hand and held her closely. “Not yet, not even you, my love!” she said, content in his arms.

“Five minutes.”

“Not for five hours, Teymour.”

“One hour…”

“Two hours,” she said smiling. “In two you’ll be ready again but by then I won’t be here - you’ll have to bed one of your soldier whores.” She stifled a yawn, then stretched as a cat would stretch. “Oh, Teymour, you’re a wonderful lover, wonderful.” Then her ears caught a sound. “Is that the shower?”

“Yes. I left it running. What luxury, eh?”

“Yes, yes, it is, but a waste.”

She slid out of bed and closed the bathroom door, used the bidet, then went into the shower, and sang to herself as she washed her hair, then wrapped a fine towel around herself, dried her hair with an electric dryer and when she came back she expected to find him contentedly asleep. But he wasn’t. He was lying in bed with his throat cut. The blanket that half covered him was soaked with blood, his severed genitals were neatly on the pillow beside him, and two men stood there watching her. Both were armed, their revolvers fitted with silencers. Through the open bedroom door she saw another man by the front door, on guard.

“Where’re the rest of the papers?” one of the men said in curiously accented English, the revolver pointed at her.

“At… at the French Club.”

“Where at the French Club?”

“In a locker.” She had been too many years in the PLO undercover, and too versed in life to panic. Her heartbeat was slow and she was trying to decide what to do before she died. There was a knife in her handbag but she had left the handbag on the bedside table and now it was on the bed, the contents spilled out, and there was no knife. No weapon near at hand to help her. Nothing but time - at sunset the others came back. It was nowhere near sunset. “In the ladies’ section,” she added.

“Which locker?”

“I don’t know - there are no numbers and it’s the custom to give whatever you want kept safely to the woman attendant, you sign your name in the book which she initials, and she will give whatever it is back to you when you ask for it - but only to you.”

The man glanced at the other one who nodded briefly. Both men were dark-haired and dark-eyed, mustached, and she could not place the accent. They could be Iranian, Arab, or Jew - and from anywhere, from Egypt to Syria or south to Yemen. “Get dressed. If you try anything you will not go to hell painlessly like this man - we did not wake him first. Clear?” “Yes.” Sayada went back and began to dress. She did not try to hide. The man stood at the doorway and watched carefully, not her body but her hands. They’re professionals, she thought, sickened.

“Where did you get the papers?” “From someone called Ali. I’ve never seen him befo - ” “Stop!” The word cut like a razor though it was softly said. “The next time you lie to us I will slice off that beautiful nipple and make you eat it, Sayada Bertolin. One lie, to experiment, is forgiven. Never again. Go on.”

Fear now gushed through her “The man’s name was Abdollah bin Ali Saba, and this morning he went with me to the old tenement near the university. He led the way to the apartment and we searched where we had been told.” “Who told you?’

“The ‘Voice.’ The voice on the phone - I only know him as a voice. From… from time to time, he calls me with special instructions.” “How do you recognize him?”

“By his voice, and there is always a code.” She pulled her sweater over her head and now she was dressed, except for her boots. The automatic with the silencer had never wavered. “The code is that he always mentions the previous day in some way or another in the first few minutes, whatever the day is.” “Go on.”

“We searched under the floorboards and found the material - letters, files, and some books. I put them into my bag and went to the French Club and… and then, because the strap on the bag broke, I left half and came here.” “When did you meet the man, Dimitri Yazernov?” “I never have, I was just told to go there with Abdollah and to make sure that no one was watching, to find the papers and to give them to Teymour.” “Why Teymour?” “I did not ask. I never ask.” “Wise. What does - what did Teymour do?” “I don’t know, exactly, other than he’s… he was an Iranian, trained as a Freedom Fighter by the PLO,” she said. “Which branch?”

“I don’t know.” Beyond the man she could see into the bedroom but she kept her eyes away from the bed and on this man who knew too much. From the questioning they could be agents of SAVAMA, KGB, CIA, MI6, Israel, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, even one of the PLO extremist groups who did not acknowledge Arafat as leader - all of whom would like possession of the contents of the U.S. ambassador’s safe.

“When does the Frenchman, your lover, return?”

“I don’t know,” she said at once, allowing her surprise to show. “Where is he now?”

“At his base in the Zagros. It’s called Zagros Three.”

“Where is the pilot Lochart?”

“I think also at Zagros.”

“When does he return here?”

“You mean here? This apartment? I don’t think he’ll ever return here.” “To Tehran?”

Her eyes strayed to the bedroom as much as she tried to resist and she saw Teymour. Her stomach revolted, she groped for the toilet and was violently sick. The man watched without emotion, satisfied that one of her barriers was broken. He was used to bodies reacting of their own volition to terror. Even so, his gun covered her and he watched carefully in case of a trick. When the spasm had passed, she cleaned her mouth with a little water, trying to dominate her nausea, cursing Teymour for being so stupid as to send the others away. Stupid! she wanted to shriek, stupid when you’re surrounded by enemies on the Right, or the Left, or in the Center - did it ever bother me before to make love when others were around, so long as the door was closed? She leaned back against the basin, facing her nemesis.

“First we go to the French Club,” he said. “You will get the rest of the material and give it to me. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“From now on you will work for us. Secretly. You will work for us. Agreed?” “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. You can die. Badly.” The man’s lips thinned even more and his eyes became reptilian. “After you have died, a child by the name of Yassar Bialik will receive attention.”

All color left her face.

“Ah, good! Then you remember your little son who lives with your uncle’s family in Beirut’s Street of the Flower Merchants?” The man stared at her, then demanded, “Well, do you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, barely able to talk. Impossible for them to know about my darling Yassar, even my husband doesn’t kn - “What happened to the boy’s father?”

“He… he was killed… he was… killed.”

“Where?”

“In… the Golan Heights.”

“Sad to lose a young husband just a few months married,” the man said thinly. “How old were you then?”

“Sev… seventeen.”

“Your memory does not fail you. Good. Now if you choose to work for us, you and your son and uncle and his family are safe. If you do not obey us perfectly, or if you try to betray us, or commit suicide, the boy Yassar will cease to be a man and cease to see. Clear?”

Helplessly she nodded, her face ashen.

“If we die, others will make sure we are avenged. Do not doubt it. Now, what’s your choice?”

“I will serve you,” and make my son safe and be avenged but how, how? “Good, on me eyes and balls and cock of your son you will serve us?”

“Yes. PI… please, who… who do I serve?”

Both men smiled. Without humor. “Never ask again or try to find out. We will tell you when it is necessary, if it is necessary. Clear?” “Yes.”

The man with the gun unscrewed the silencer and put it and the gun into his pocket. “We want to know immediately when either the Frenchman or Lochart return - you will make it your duty to find out - also how many helicopters they have here in Tehran and where. Clear?”

“Yes. How do I get in touch with you, please?”

“You will be given a phone number.” The eyes flattened even more. “For yourself alone. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“Where does Armstrong live? Robert Armstrong?”

“I don’t know.” Warning signals rushed through her. Rumor had it that Armstrong was a trained assassin employed by MI6.

“Who is George Telbot?”

“Talbot? He’s an official in the British embassy.”

“What official? What’s his job?”

“I don’t know, just an official.”

“Are either of them your lovers?”

“No. They… they go to the French Club sometimes. Acquaintances.” “You will become Armstrong’s mistress. Clear?”

“I… I will try.”

“You have two weeks. Where is Lochart’s wife?”

“I… I think at die Bakravan family house near the bazaar.” “You will make sure. And get a key to the front door.” The man saw her eyes flicker and hid his amusement. If diat goes against your scruples, he thought, never mind. Soon you’ll be eating shit widi great joy if we wish it. “Get your coat, we go at once.”

Her knees were weak as she went across the bedroom, heading for the front door.

“Wait!” The man stuffed the contents back into her handbag and then, as an afterthought, carelessly wrapped that which was on the pillow in one of her paper tissues and put that also into the handbag. “To remind you to obey.” “No, please.” Her tears flooded. “I can’t… not that.”

The man shoved the handbag into her hands. “Then get rid of it.” In misery she staggered back to the bathroom and threw it into the squatter and was very sick again, more man before.

“Hurry up!”

When she could make her legs work she faced him. “When the others… when they come back and find… if I’m not here they … they will know that… that I’m part of those who… who did this and…”

“Of course. Do you think we’re fools? Do you think we’re alone? The moment the four of them return they’re dead and this place conflagrated.”

AT MCIVER’S APARTMENT: 4:20 P.M. Ross said, “I don’t know, Mr. Gavallan, I don’t remember much after I left Azadeh on the hill and went into the base, more or less up to the time we got here.” He was wearing one of Pettikin’s uniform shirts and a black sweater and black trousers and black shoes and was shaved and neat, but his face showed his utter exhaustion. “But before that, everything happened as… as I told you.”

“Terrible,” Gavallan said. “But, thank God for you, Captain. But for you the others’d be dead. Without you they’d all be lost.

Let’s have a drink, it’s so damned cold. We’ve some whisky.” He motioned to Pettikin. “Charlie?”

Pettikin went to the sideboard. “Sure, Andy.”

“I won’t, thanks, Mr. McIver,” Ross said.

“I’m afraid I will and the sun’s not over the yardarm,” McIver said.

“So will I,” Gavallan said. The two of them had arrived not long ago, still shaken from their almost disaster and worried because at the Bakravan house they had used the iron door knocker again and again but to no avail. Then they had come here. Ross, dozing on the sofa, had almost leaped out of sleep when the front door opened, kookri threateningly in his hand. “Sorry,” he had said shakily, sheathing the weapon. “That’s all right,” Gavallan had pretended, not over his fright. “I’m Andrew Gavallan. Hi, Charlie! Where’s Azadeh?”

“She’s still asleep in the spare bedroom,” Pettikin answered. “Sorry to make you jump,” Gavallan had said. “What happened, Captain, at Tabriz?” So Ross had told them, disjointedly, jumping back and forth until he had finished. Exploding out of heavy sleep had disoriented him. His head ached, everything ached, but he was glad to be telling what had happened, reconstructing everything, gradually filling in the blank parts, putting the pieces into place. Except Azadeh. No, I can’t put her in place yet. This morning when he had come out of a malevolent wake-sleep dream, he had been terrified, everything mixed up, jet engines and guns and stones and explosions and cold, and staring at his hands to make sure what was dream and what was real. Then he had seen a man peering at him and had cried out, “Where’s Azadeh?”

“She’s still asleep, Captain Ross, she’s in the spare room down the hall,” Pettikin had told him, calming him. “Remember me? Charlie Pettikin - Doshan Tappeh?”

Searching his memory. Things coming back slowly, hideous things. Big blanks, very big. Doshan Tappeh? What about Doshan Tappeh? Going there to hitch a chopper ride and… “Ah, yes, Captain, how are you? Good to… to see you. She’s asleep?”

“Yes, like a baby.”

“Best thing, best thing for her to sleep,” he had said, his brain still not working easily.

“First a cuppa. Then a bath and shave and I’ll fix you up with some clothes and shaving gear. You’re about my size. You hungry? We’ve eggs and some bread, the bread’s a bit stale.”

“Oh, thanks, no, no, I’m not hungry - you’re very kind.”

“I owe you one - no, at least ten. I’m damned pleased to see you. Listen, much as I’d like to know what happened… well, McIver’s gone to the airport to pick up our boss, Andy Gavallan. They’ll be back shortly, you’ll have to tell them so I can find out then - so no questions till then, you must be exhausted.”

“Thanks, yes it’s… it’s still all a bit… I can remember leaving Azadeh on the hill, then almost nothing, just flashes, dreamlike, until I woke a moment ago. How long have I been asleep?”

“You’ve been out for about sixteen hours. We, that’s Nogger and our two mecs, half carried you both in here and then you both passed out. We put you and Azadeh to bed like babies - Mac and I. We undressed you, washed part of the muck off, carried you to bed - not too gently by the way - but you never woke up, either of you.”

“She’s all right? Azadeh?”

“Oh, yes. I checked her a couple of times but she’s still flat out. What did… sorry, no questions! First a shave and bath. ‘Fraid the water’s barely warm but I’ve put the electric heater in the bathroom, it’s not too bad….”

Now Ross was watching Pettikin who was handing the whisky to McIver and to Gavallan. “Sure you won’t, Captain?”

“No, no thanks.” Without noticing it he felt his right wrist and rubbed it. His energy level was ebbing fast. Gavallan saw the man’s tiredness and knew there was not much time. “About Erikki. You can’t remember anything else to give us an idea where he might be?”

“Not any more than I’ve told you. Azadeh may be able to help - the Soviet’s name was something like Certaga, the man Erikki was forced to work with up by the border - as I said they were using her as a threat and there was some complication about her father and a trip they were going to make together - sorry, I can’t remember exactly. The other man, the one who was friends with Abdollah Khan was called Mzytryk, Petr Oleg.” That reminded Ross about Vien Rosemont’s code message for the Khan, but he decided that was none of Gavallan’s business, nor about all the killing, nor about shoving the old man in front of the truck on the hill, nor that one day he would go back to the village and hack off the head of the butcher and the kalandar who, but for the grace of God or the spirits of the High Land, would have stoned her and mutilated him. He would do that after the debriefing when he saw Armstrong, or Talbot, or the American colonel, but before that he would ask them who had betrayed the operation at Mecca. Someone had. For a moment the thought of Rosemont and Tenzing and Gueng blinded him. When the mist cleared, he saw the clock on the mantelpiece. “I have to go to a building near the British embassy. Is that far from here?”

“No, we could take you if you like.”

“Could that be now? Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll pass out again if I don’t get with it.”

Gavallan glanced at McIver. “Mac, let’s go now… perhaps I can catch Talbot. We’ll still have time to come back to see Azadeh, and Nogger if he’s here.”

“Good idea.”

Gavallan got up and put on his heavy coat.

Pettikin said to Ross, “I’ll lend you a coat and some gloves.” He saw his eyes stray down the corridor. “Would you like me to wake Azadeh?” “No, thanks. I’ll… I’ll just look in.”

“It’s the second door on the left.”

They watched him go along the corridor, his walk noiseless and catlike, open the door noiselessly and stand there a moment and close it again. He collected his assault rifle and the two kookris, his and Gueng’s. He thought a moment, then put his on the mantelpiece.

“In case I don’t get back,” he said, “tell her this’s a gift, a gift for Erikki. For Erikki and her.”

Chapter 47

AT THE PALACE OF THE KHAN: 5:19 P.M. The kalandar of Abu Mard was on his knees and petrified. “No, no, Highness, I swear it was the mullah Mahmud who told us t - ”

“He’s not a real mullah, you son of a dog, everyone knows that! By God, you… you were going to stone my daughter?” the Khan shrieked, his face mottled, his breath coming in great pants, “You decided? You decided you were going to stone my daughter?”

“It was him, Highness,” the kalandar whimpered, “it was the mullah who decided after questioning her and her admitting adultery with the saboteur…”

“You son of a dog! You aided and abetted that false mullah … Liar! Ahmed told me what happened!” The Khan propped himself on his bed pillows, a guard behind him, Ahmed and other guards close to the kalandar in front of him, Najoud, his eldest daughter, and Aysha, his young wife, seated to one side trying to hide their terror at his rage and petrified that he would turn on them. Kneeling beside the door still in his travel-stained clothes and filled with dread was Hakim, Azadeh’s brother, who had just arrived and had been rushed here under guard in response to the Khan’s summons, and who had listened with equal rage to Ahmed relating what had happened at the village. “You son of a dog,” the Khan shouted again, his mouth salivating. “You let… you let the dog of a saboteur escape… you let him drag my daughter off with him… you harbor the saboteur and then… then you dare to judge one of my - MY - family and would stone… without seeking my - MY - approval?”

“It was the mullah…” the kalandar cried out, repeating it again and again. “Shut him up!”

Ahmed hit him hard on one of his ears, momentarily stunning him. Then dragged him roughly back onto his knees and hissed, “Say one more word and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

The Khan was trying to catch his breath. “Aysha, give me… give me one of those… those pills…” She scurried over, still on her knees, opened the bottle and put a pill into his mouth and wiped it for him. The Khan kept the pill under his tongue as the doctor had told him and in a moment the spasm passed, the thundering in his ears lessened, and the room stopped weaving. His bloodshot eyes went back onto the old man who was whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. “You son of a dog! So you dare to bite the hand that owns you - you, your butcher, and your festering village. Ibrim,” the Khan said to one of the guards. “Take him back to Abu Mard and stone him, have the villagers stone him, stone him, then cut off the hands of the butcher.” Ibrim and another guard pulled the howling man to his feet, smashed him into silence, and opened the door, stopped as Hakim said harshly, “Then bum the village!”

The Khan looked at him, his eyes narrowed. “Yes, then bum the village,” he echoed and kept his eyes on Hakim who looked back at him, trying to be brave. The door closed and now the quiet heightened, broken only by Abdollah’s labored breathing. “Najoud, Aysha, leave!” he said. Najoud hesitated, wanting to stay, wanting to hear sentence pronounced on Hakim, gloating that Azadeh had been caught in her adultery and was therefore due punishment whenever she was recaptured. Good, good, good. With Azadeh they both perish, Hakim and the Redhead of the Knife. “I will be within instant call, Highness,” she said.

“You can go back to your quarters. Aysha - you wait at the end of the corridor.” Both women left. Ahmed closed the door contentedly, everything going as planned. The other two guards waited in silence. The Khan shifted painfully, motioning to them. “Wait outside. Ahmed, you stay.” When they had gone and there were just the three of them in the big, cold room he turned his gaze back to Hakim. “Bum the village, you said. A good idea. But that doesn’t excuse your treachery, or your sister’s.” “Nothing excuses treachery against a father, Highness. But neither Azadeh nor I have betrayed you or plotted against you.”

“Liar! You heard Ahmed! She admitted fornicating with the saboteur, she admitted it.”

“She admitted ‘loving’ him, Highness, years and years ago. She swore before God she had never committed adultery or betrayed her husband. Never! In front of those dogs and sons of dogs and worse, that mullah of the Left Hand, what should the daughter of a Khan say? Didn’t she try to protect your name in front of that godless mob of shit?”

“Still twisting words, still protecting the whore she became?” Hakim’s face went ashen. “Azadeh fell in love as Mother fell in love. If she’s a whore, then you whored my mother!”

Blood surged back into the Khan’s face. “How dare you say such a thing!” “It’s true. You lay with her before you were married. Because she loved you she let you secretly into her bedroom and so risked death. She risked death because she loved you and you begged her. Didn’t our mother persuade her father to accept you, and persuade your father to allow you to marry her, instead of your older brother who wanted her as a second wife for himself?” Hakim’s voice broke, remembering her in her dying, him seven, Azadeh six, not understanding very much, only that she was in terrible pain from something called “tumor” and outside, in the courtyard, their father Abdollah beset with grief. “Didn’t she always stand up for you against your father and your older brother and then, when your brother was killed and you became heir, didn’t she heal the breach with your father?” “You can’t… can’t know such things, you were… you were too young!” “Old Nanny Fatemeh told us, she told us before she died, she told us everything she could remember….”

The Khan was hardly listening, remembering too, remembering his brother’s hunting accident he had so deftly engineered - old Nanny might have known about that too and if she did then Hakim knows and Azadeh knows, all the more reason to silence them. Remembering, too, all the magic times he had had with Napthala the Fair, before and after marriage and during all the days until the beginning of the pain. They had been married not even one year when Hakim was bom, two when Azadeh appeared, Napthala just sixteen then, tiny, physically a pattern of Aysha but a thousand times more beautiful, her long hair like spun gold. Five more heavenly years, no more children, but that never mattered, hadn’t he a son at long last, strong and upright - where his three sons from his first wife had all been born sickly, soon to die, his four daughters ugly and squabbling. Wasn’t his wife still only twenty-two, in good health, as strong and as wonderful as the two children she had already birthed? Plenty of time for more sons. Then the pain beginning. And the agony. No help from all the doctors in Tehran.

Insha’Allah, they said.

No relief except drugs, ever more strong as she wasted away. God grant her the peace of Paradise and let me find her there.

He was watching Hakim, seeing the pattern of Azadeh who was a pattern of the mother, listening to him running on: “Azadeh only fell in love, Highness. If she loved that man, can’t you forgive her? Wasn’t she only sixteen and banished to school in Switzerland as later I was banished to Khoi?” “Because you were both treacherous, ungrateful, and poisonous!” the Khan shouted, his ears beginning to thunder again. “Get out! You’re to… to stay away from all others, under guard, until I send for you. Ahmed, see to it, then come back here.”

Hakim got up, near tears, knowing what was going to happen and powerless to prevent it. He stumbled out, Ahmed gave the necessary orders to the guards and came back into the room. Now the Khan’s eyes were closed, his face very gray, his breathing more labored than before. Please God do not let him die yet, Ahmed prayed.

The Khan opened his eyes and focused. “I have to decide about him, Ahmed. Quickly.”

“Yes, Highness,” his counselor began, choosing his words carefully, “you have but two sons, Hakim and the babe. If Hakim were to die or,” he smiled strangely, “happened to become sightless and crippled, then Mahmud, husband of Her Highness Najoud will be regent unt - ”

“That fool? Our lands and power would be lost within a year!” Patches of redness flared in the Khan’s face and he was finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly. “Give me another pill.” Ahmed obeyed and gave him water to drink, gentling him. “You’re in God’s hands, you will recover, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” the Khan muttered, pain in his chest. “The Will of God the mullah died in time… strange. Petr Oleg kept his bargain… though he… the mullah died too fast… too fast.” “Yes, Highness.”

In time the spasm again passed. “Wh… what’s your advice … about Hakim?” Ahmed pretended to think a moment. “Your son Hakim is a good Muslim, he could be trained, he has managed your affairs in Khoi well, and has not fled as perhaps he could have done. He is not a violent man - except to protect his sister, eh? But that’s very important, for therein lies his key.” He came closer and said softly, “Decree him your heir, High - ” “Never!” “Providing he swears by God to guard his young brother as he would his sister, providing further his sister returns at once of her own will to Tabriz. In truth, Highness, you have no real evidence against them, Only hearsay. Entrust me to find out the truth of him and of her - and to report secretly to you.”

The Khan was concentrating, listening carefully, though the effort was taxing him. “Ah, the brother’s the bait to snare the sister - as she was the bait to snare the husband?”

“As they’re both bait for the other! Yes, Highness, of course you thought of it before me. In return for giving the brother your favor, she must swear before God to stay here to help him.” “She’ll do that, oh, yes, she’ll do that!” “Then they’ll both be within your reach and you can toy with them at your pleasure, giving and withholding at your whim, whether they’re guilty or not.” “They’re guilty.”

“If they’re guilty, and I will know quickly if you give me complete authority to investigate, then it’s God’s will that they will die slowly, that you decree Fazulia’s husband to be Khan after you, not much better than Mahmud. If they’re not guilty, then let Hakim remain heir, providing she stays. And if it were to happen, again at God’s will, that she is a widow, she’d even betroth him whom you choose, Highness, to keep Hakim your heir - even a Soviet, should he escape the trap, no?”

For the first time today, the Khan smiled. This morning when Armstrong and Colonel Hashemi Fazir had arrived to take possession of Petr Oleg Mzytryk, they had pretended to be suitably concerned about the Khan’s health as he had pretended outwardly to be sicker than he had felt at that time. He had kept his voice wan and hesitant and very low so they both had had to lean forward to hear him. “Petr Oleg is coming here today. I was going to meet him but I asked him to come here because of my… because I’m sick. I sent him word to come here and he should be at the border at sunset. At Julfa. If you go at once you’ll be in plenty of time… he sneaks over the border in a small Soviet helicopter gunship and lands near a side road off the Julfa-Tabriz road where his car is waiting for him… no chance to miss the turning, it’s the only one… a few kilometers north of the city… it’s the only side road, desolate country, soon little more than a track. How you… how you take him is your affair and… and as I cannot be present, you will give me a tape of the… the investigation?”

“Yes, Highness,” Hashemi had said. “How would you advise us to take him?”

“Choke the road both sides of the turnoff with a couple of old, heavily laden farm trucks… firewood or crates of fish… the road’s narrow and twisting and potholed and heavy with traffic, so an ambush should be easy. But… but be careful, there’re always Tudeh cars to run interference for him, he’s a wise man and fearless… there’s a poison capsule in his lapel.” “Which one?”

“I don’t know … I don’t know. He will land near sunset. You can’t miss the turnoff, it’s the only one….”

Abdollah Khan sighed, lost in his thoughts. Many times he had been picked up by the same helicopter to go to the dacha at Tbilisi. Many good times there, the food lavish, the women young and accommodating, full-lipped and hungry to please - then, if he was lucky, Vertinskya, the hellcat, for further entertainment.

He saw Ahmed watching him. “I hope Petr escapes the trap. Yes, it would be good for him to… to have her.” Tiredness swamped him. “I’ll sleep now. Send my guard back and after I’ve eaten tonight, assemble my ‘devoted’ family here and we will do as you suggest.” His smile was cynical. “It’s wise to have no illusions.”

“Yes, Highness.” Ahmed got to his feet. The Khan envied him his lithe and powerful body.

“Wait, there was something… something else.” The Khan thought a moment, the process strangely tiring. “Ah, yes, where’s Redhead of the Knife?”

“With Cimtarga, up near the border, Highness. Cimtarga said they might be away for a few days. They left Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday? What’s today?”

“Saturday, Highness,” Ahmed replied, hiding his concern.

“Ah, yes, Saturday.” Another wave of tiredness. His face felt strange and he lifted his hand to rub it but found the effort too much. “Ahmed, find out where he is. If anything happens… if I have another attack and I’m… well, see that… that I’m taken to Tehran, to the International Hospital, at once. At once. Understand?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Find out where he is and… and for the next few days keep him close by… overrule Cimtarga. Keep He of the Knife close by.”

“Yes, Highness.”

When the guard came back into the room, the Khan closed his eyes and felt himself sinking into the depths. “There is no other God but God…” he muttered, very afraid.

NEAR THE NORTH BORDER, EAST OF JULFA: 6:05 P.M. It was near sunset and Erikki’s 212 was under a crude, hastily constructed lean-to, the roof already a foot deep in snow from the storm last night, and he knew much more exposure in subzero weather would ruin her. “Can’t you give me blankets or straw or something to keep her warm?” he had asked Sheik Bayazid the moment they had arrived back from Rezaiyeh with the body of the old woman, the chieftain, two days ago. “The chopper needs warmth.”

“We do not have enough for the living.”

“If she freezes she won’t work,” he had said, fretting that the Sheik would not allow him to leave at once for Tabriz, barely sixty miles away - worried sick about Azadeh and wondering what had happened to Ross and Gueng. “If she won’t work, how are we going to get out of these mountains?” Grudgingly, the Sheik had ordered his people to construct the lean-to and had given him some goat-and sheepskins that he had used where he thought they would do the most good. Just after dawn yesterday he had tried to leave. To his total dismay Bayazid had told him that he and the 212 were to be ransomed.

“You can be patient, Captain, and free to walk our village with a calm guard, to tinker with your airplane,” Bayazid had said curtly, “or you can be impatient and angry and you will be bound up and tethered as a wild beast. I seek no trouble, Captain, want none, or argument. We seek ransom from Abdollah Khan.”

“But I’ve told you he hates me and won’t help me to be rans - ”

“If he says no, we seek ransom elsewhere. From your company in Tehran, or your government - perhaps your Soviet employers. Meanwhile, you stay here as guest, eating as we eat, sleeping as we sleep, sharing equally. Or bound and tethered and hungry. Either way you stay until ransom is paid.” “But that might take months an - ”

“Insha’Allah!”

All day yesterday and half the night Erikki had tried to think of a way out of the trap. They had taken his grenade but left him his knife. But his guards were watchful and constant. In these deep snows, it would be almost impossible for him in flying boots and without winter gear to get down to the valley below, and even then he was in hostile country. Tabriz was barely thirty minutes away by 212, but by foot?

“More snow tonight, Captain.”

Erikki looked around. Bayazid was a pace away and he had not heard him approach. “Yes, and a few more days in this weather and my bird, my airplane, won’t fly - the battery’ll be dead and most of the instruments wrecked. I have to start her up to charge the battery and warm her pots, have to. Who’s going to ransom a wrecked 212 out of these hills?” Bayazid thought a moment. “For how long must engines turn?”

“Ten minutes a day - absolute minimum.”

“All right. Just after full dark, each day you may do it, but first you ask me. We help you drag her - why is it ‘she,’ not an ‘it’ or a ‘he’?” Erikki frowned. “I don’t know. Ships are always ‘she’ - this is a ship of the sky.” He shrugged.

“Very well. We help you drag her into open and you start her up and while her engines running there will be five guns within five feet, should you be tempted.”

Erikki laughed. “Then I won’t be tempted.”

“Good.” Bayazid smiled. He was a handsome man though his teeth were bad. “When do you send word to the Khan?”

“It’s already gone. In these snows it takes a day to get down to road, even on horseback, but not long to reach Tabriz. If the Khan replies favorably, at once, perhaps we hear tomorrow, perhaps the day after, depending on the snows.”

“Perhaps never. How long will you wait?”

“Are all people from the Far North so impatient?”

Erikki’s chin jutted. “The ancient gods were very impatient when they were held against their will - they passed it on to us. It’s bad to be held against your will, very bad.”

“We are a poor people, at war. We must take what the One God gives us. To be ransomed is an ancient custom.” He smiled thinly. “We learned from Saladin to be chivalrous with our captives, unlike many Christians. Christians are not known for their chivalry. We are treat - ” His ears were sharper than Erikki’s and so were his eyes. “There, down in the valley!” Now Erikki heard the engine also. It took him a moment to pick out the low-flying camouflaged helicopter approaching from the north. “A Kajychokiv 16. Close-support Soviet army gunship … what’s she doing?”

“Heading for Julfa.” The Sheik spat on the ground. “Those sons of dogs come and go as they please.”

“Do many sneak in now?”

“Not many - but one is too many.”

NEAR THE JULFA TURNOFF: 6:15 P.M. The winding side road through the forest was snow heavy and not plowed. A few cart and truck tracks and those made by the old four-wheel drive Chevy that was parked under some pines near the open space, a few yards off the main road. Through their binoculars Armstrong and Hashemi could see two men in warm coats and gloves sitting in the front seat, the windows open, listening intently.

“He hasn’t much time,” Armstrong muttered.

“Perhaps he’s not coming after all.” They had been watching for half an hour from a slight rise among the trees overlooking the landing area. Their car and the rest of Hashemi’s men were parked discreetly on the main road below and behind them. It was very quiet, little wind. Some birds went overhead, cawing plaintively.

“Hallelujah!” Armstrong whispered, his excitement picking up. One man had opened the side door and got out. Now he was looking into the northern sky. The driver started the engine. Then, over it, they heard the incoming chopper, saw her slip over the rise and fall into the valley, hugging the treetops, her piston en-gine throttled back nicely. She made a perfect landing in a billowing cloud of snow. They could see the pilot and another man beside him. The passenger, a small man, got out and went to meet the other. Armstrong cursed. “You recognize him, Robert?”

“No. That’s not Suslev - Petr Oleg Mzytryk. I’m certain.” Armstrong was bitterly disappointed. “Facial surgery?”

“No, nothing like that. He was a big bugger, heavyset, tall as I am.” They watched as he met the other, then handed over something.

“Was that a letter? What did he give him, Robert?” “Looked like a package, could be a letter.” Armstrong muttered another curse, concentrating on their lips.

“What’re they saying?” Hashemi knew Armstrong could lip-read. “I don’t know - it’s not Farsi, or English.” Hashemi swore and refocused his already perfectly focused binoculars. “It looked like a letter to me.” The man spoke a few more words then went back to the chopper. At once the pilot put on power and swirled away. The other man then trudged back to the Chevy. “Now what?” Hashemi said exasperated. Armstrong watched the man walking toward the car. “Two options: intercept the car as planned and find out what ‘it’ is, providing we could neutralize those two bastards before they destroyed ‘it’ - but that’d blow that we know the arrival point for Mister Big - or just tail them, presuming it’s a message for the Khan giving a new date.” He was over his disappointment that Mzytryk had avoided the trap. You must have the luck in our game, he reminded himself. Never mind, next time we’ll get him and he’ll lead us to our traitor, to the fourth and fifth and sixth man and I’ll piss on their graves and Suslev’s - or whatever Petr Oleg Mzytryk calls himself - if the luck’s with me. “We needn’t even tail them - he’ll go straight to the Khan.” “Why?”

“Because he’s a vital pivot in Azerbaijan, either for the Soviets or against them, so they’d want to find out firsthand just how bad his heart is - and who he’s chosen as regent till the babe conies of age, or more likely is levitated. Doesn’t the power go with the title, along with the lands and the wealth?”