Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Yes, but you’ve covered ours as best you can.”

  “Hope so.” When the Shah had left and violence everywhere increased, McIver had issued British IDs to all Americans. “They should be all right unless the Green Bands, police, or SAVAK check them against their licenses.” By Iranian law all foreigners had to have a current visa, which had to be canceled before they could leave the country, a current ID card giving their corporate affiliate—and all pilots a current annual Iran pilot’s license. For a further measure of safety McIver had had corporate IDs made and signed by the chief of their Iranian partners in Tehran, General Valik. So far there had been no problems. To the Americans, McIver had said, “Better you have these to show if necessary,” and had issued orders for all personnel to carry photographs of both Khomeini and the Shah. “Make sure you use the right one if you’re stopped!”

  Pettikin was trying to call Bandar Delam on the HF with no success. “We’ll try later,” McIver said. “All bases’ll be listening out at 0830—that’ll give us time to decide what to do. Christ, it’s going to be bloody difficult. What do you think? Status quo, except for dependents?”

  Very concerned, Pettikin got up and took a candle and peered at the operations map pinned to the wall. It showed the status of their bases, crew, ground staff, and aircraft. The bases were scattered over Iran, from air force and army training bases at Tehran and Isfahan, to high-altitude oil-rig support in the Zagros, a logging operation in Tabriz in the northwest, a uranium survey team near the Afghan border, from a pipeline survey on the Caspian, to four oil operations on or near the Gulf, and the last, far to the southeast, another at Lengeh on the Strait of Hormuz. Of these only five were operational now: Lengeh, Kowiss, Bandar Delam, Zagros, and Tabriz. “We’ve fifteen 212s, including two non-operational on their two-thousand-hour checks, seven 206s, and three Alouettes, all supposed to be working at the moment…”

  “And all leased on binding legal contracts, none of which have been rescinded, but none of which we’re being paid for,” McIver said testily. “There’s no way we can base them all at Kowiss—we can’t even legally remove any one of them without the approval of the contractor, or our dear partners’ approval—not unless we could declare force majeure.”

  “There isn’t any yet. It has to be status quo, as long as we can. Talbot sounded confident. Status quo.”

  “I wish it was status quo, Charlie. My God, this time last year we had almost forty 212s working and all the rest.” McIver poured himself another whisky.

  “You’d better go easy,” Pettikin said quietly. “Genny’ll give you hell. You know your blood pressure’s up and you’re not to drink.”

  “It’s medicinal, for Christ’s sweet sake.” A candle guttered and went out. McIver got up and lit another and went back to staring at the map. “I think we’d better get Azadeh and the Flying Finn back. His 212’s on its fifteen-hundred-hour so he could be spared for a couple of days.” This was Captain Erikki Yokkonen and his Iranian wife, Azadeh, and their base was near Tabriz in East Azerbaijan Province, to the far northwest, near the Soviet border. “Why not take a 206 and fetch them? That’d save him three hundred and fifty miles of lousy driving and we’ve got to take him some spares.”

  Pettikin was beaming. “Thanks, I could do an outing. I’ll file a flight plan by HF tonight and leave at dawn, refuel at Bandar-e Pahlavi, and buy us some caviar.”

  “Dreamer. But Gen’d like that. You know what I think of the stuff.” McIver turned away from the map. “We’re very exposed, Charlie, if things got dicey.”

  “Only if it’s in the cards.”

  McIver nodded. Absently his eyes fell on the telephone. He picked it up. How there was a dial tone. Excitedly he began to dial: 00, international; 44, British Isles; 224, Aberdeen in Scotland, 765-8080. He waited and waited, then his face lit up. “Christ, I’m through!”

  “S-G Helicopters, hold the line, please,” the operator said before he could interrupt and put him on hold. He waited, fuming. “S-G Helico—”

  “This’s McIver in Tehran, give me the Old Man, please.”

  “He’s on the phone, Mr. McIver.” The girl sniffed. “I’ll give you his secretary.”

  “Hello, Mac!” Liz Chen said almost at once. “Hang on a tick, I’ll get Himself. You all right? We’ve been trying to get you for days; hang on.”

  “All right, Liz.”

  A moment, then Gavallan said happily, “Mac? Christ, how did you get through? Wonderful to hear from you—I’ve got a laddie permanently dialing you, your office, your apartment, ten hours a day. How’s Genny? How did you get through?”

  “Just luck, Andy. I’m at home. I’d better be fast in case we’re cut off.” McIver told him most of what Talbot had said. He had to be circumspect because rumor had it that SAVAK, the Iranian secret police, often tapped telephones, particularly of foreigners. It was standing company procedure for the last two years to presume someone was listening—SAVAK, CIA, MI5, KGB, someone.

  There was a moment’s silence. “First, obey the embassy and get all our dependents out at once. Alert the Finnish embassy for Azadeh’s passport. Tell Tom Lochart to expedite Sharazad’s—I got him to apply two weeks ago, just in case. He’s, er, got some mail for you, by the way.”

  McIver’s heart picked up a beat. “Good, he’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get on to BA and see if I can get them guaranteed seating. As backup, I’ll send our company 125. She’s scheduled for Tehran tomorrow. If you’ve any problem with BA, send all dependents and spare bods out by her, starting tomorrow. Tehran’s still open, isn’t it?”

  “It was today,” McIver said carefully.

  He heard Gavallan say equally carefully, “The authorities, thank God, have everything under control.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mac, what do you recommend about our Iranian ops?”

  McIver took a deep breath. “Status quo.”

  “Good. All indications here, up to the highest levels, say it should be business as usual soon. We’ve got lots of face in Iran. And future. Listen, Mac, that rumor about Guerney was correct.”

  McIver brightened perceptibly. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. A few minutes ago I got a telex from IranOil confirming we’ll get all Guerney contracts at Kharg, Kowiss, Zagros, and Lengeh to begin with. Apparently the order to squeeze came from on high, and I did have to make a generous pishkesh contribution to our partners’ slush fund.” A pishkesh was an ancient Iranian custom, a gift given in advance for a favor that might be granted. It was also ancient custom for any official legitimately to keep pishkesh given him in the course of his work. How else could he live? “But never mind that, we’ll quadruple our Iranian profits, laddie.”

  “That’s wonderful, Andy.”

  “And that’s not all: Mac, I’ve just ordered another twenty 212s and today I confirmed the order for six X63s—she’s a smasher!”

  “Christ, Andy, that’s fantastic—but you’re pushing it, aren’t you?”

  “Iran may be, er, in temporary difficulties, but the rest of the world’s scared fartless about alternate sources of oil. The Yanks have their knickers in a twist, laddie.” The voice picked up another beat. “I’ve just confirmed another huge deal with ExTex for new contracts in Nigeria, Saudi, and Borneo, another with All-Gulf Oil in the Emirates. In the North Sea it’s just us, Guerney, and Imperial Helicopters.” Imperial Helicopters was a subsidiary of Imperial Air, the second semi-government airline in opposition to British Airways. “It’s paramount you keep everything stable in Iran—our contracts, aircraft, and spares’re part of our collateral for the new aircraft. For God’s sake keep our dear partners on the straight and narrow. How are the dear sweet people?”

  “Just the usual.”

  Gavallan knew this meant rotten as usual. “I’ve just had a session with General Javadah in London myself.” Javadah had left Iran with all his family a year ago, just before the troubles became overt. For the past three months two of their
other Iranian partners, and families, had been visiting London “for medical reasons,” four others were in America also with their families. Three remained in Tehran. “He’s bullish—though expensive.”

  McIver put him away for more important problems. “Andy, I’ve got to have some money. Cash.”

  “It’s in the post.”

  McIver heard the rich laugh and felt the warmer for it. “Up yours, Chinaboy!” he said. Chinaboy was his private nickname for Gavallan who, before going to Aberdeen, had spent most of his previous life as a China trader, based first in Shanghai, then with Struan’s in Hong Kong where they had first met. At that time McIver had had a small, struggling helicopter service in the colony. “For God’s sake, we’re way behind paying our ground crews, there’s all the pilots’ expenses, almost everything’s got to be bought on the…” He stopped himself in time. In case someone was listening. He was going to say black market. “The bloody banks are still closed and the little cash I’ve left is for heung yau.” He used the Cantonese expression, literally meaning “fragrant grease,” the money used to grease palms.

  “Javadah’s promised that General Valik in Tehran’ll give you half a million rials tomorrow. I’ve got a telex confirming.”

  “But that’s barely $6,000 and we’ve bills for twenty times that amount.”

  “I know that, laddie, but he says both Bakhtiar and the Ayatollah want the banks open so they’ll open within the week. As soon as they’re open he swears IHC will pay us everything they owe.”

  “Meanwhile has he released A stock yet?” This was a code that McIver and Gavallan used for funds held outside Iran by IHC, almost $6 million. IHC was almost $4 million behind on payments to S-G.

  “No. He claims that he has to have the partners’ formal approval. The standoff stays.”

  Thank God for that, McIver thought. Three signatures were needed on this account, two from the partners, one from S-G, so neither side could touch this particular fund without the other. “It’s pretty dicey, Andy. With the down payment on the new aircraft, lease payments on our equipment here, you’re on the edge, aren’t you?”

  “All life’s on the edge, Mac. But the future’s rosy.”

  Yes, McIver thought, for the helicopter business. But here in Iran? Last year the partners had forced Gavallan to assign real ownership of all S-G helicopters and spares in Iran to IHC. Gavallan had agreed, providing he could buy everything back at a moment’s notice, without a refusal on their part, and provided they kept up the lease payments on the equipment on time and made good any bad debts. Since the crisis began and the banks closed, IHC had been in default and Gavallan had been making the lease payments on all Iranian-based helicopters from S-G funds in Aberdeen—the partners claiming it was not their fault the banks had closed, Javadah and Valik saying as soon as everything’s normal of course we’ll repay everything—don’t forget, Andrew, we’ve got you all the best contracts for years; we got them, we did; without us S-G can’t operate in Iran. As soon as everything’s normal…

  Gavallan was saying, “Our Iranian contracts’re still very profitable, we can’t fault our partners on that, and with Guerney’s we’ll be like pigs in wallah!” Yes, McIver thought, even though they’re squeezing and squeezing and each year our share gets smaller and theirs fatter. “…They’ve a lock on the country, always have had, and they swear by all that’s holy, it’ll all settle down. They have to have choppers to service their fields. Everyone here says it’ll blow over. The minister, their ambassador, ours. Why shouldn’t it? The Shah did his best to modernize, the people’s income’s up, illiteracy down. Oil revenues are huge—and’ll go higher once this mess’s over, the minister says. So do my contacts in Washington, even old Willie in ExTex, for God’s sake, and he should know if anyone does. The betting’s fifty to one it’ll all be normal in six months, with the Shah abdicating in favor of his son Reza and a constitutional monarchy. Meanwhile I think we sh—”

  The line went dead. McIver jigged the plunger anxiously. When the line came back it was just a constant busy signal. Angrily he slammed the receiver down. The lights came on suddenly.

  “Bugger,” Genny said, “candlelight’s so much prettier.”

  Pettikin smiled and switched the lights off. The room was prettier, more intimate, and the silver sparkled on the table she had laid earlier. “You’re right, Genny, right again.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. You get an extra helping. Dinner’s almost up. Duncan, you can have another whisky, not as strong as the one you sneaked—don’t look so innocent—but after speaking to our Fearless Leader even I need extra sustenance. You can tell me what he said over dinner.” She left them.

  McIver told Pettikin most of what Gavallan had said—Pettikin was not a director of S-G or IHC so, of necessity, McIver had to keep his own counsel on much of it. Deep in thought, he wandered over to the window, glad to have talked to his old friend. It’s been a lot of years, he thought. Fourteen.

  In the summer of ’65 when the Colony was poised on revolution with Mao Tse-tung’s Red Guards rampaging all over Mainland China, tearing the motherland apart and now spilling over into the streets of Hong Kong and Kowloon, Gavallan’s letter had arrived. At that time McIver’s helicopter business was on the edge of disaster, he was behind on lease payments on his small chopper, and Genny was trying to cope with two teenage children in a tiny, noisy flat in Kowloon where the riots were the worst.

  “For God’s sake, Gen, look at this!” The letter said: “Dear Mr. McIver, You may remember we met once or twice at the races when I was with Struan’s a few years back—we both won a bundle on a gelding called Chinaboy. The taipan, Ian Dunross, suggested I write to you as I have great need of your expertise immediately—I know that you taught him to fly a chopper, and he recommends you highly. North Sea oil is a fait accompli. I have a theory that the only way to supply the rigs in all weather conditions is by helicopter. That is presently not possible—I think you’d call it Instrument Flight Rules, IFR. We could make it possible. I’ve got the weather, you’ve got the skill. One thousand pounds a month, a three-year contract to prove or disprove, a bonus based on success, transportation for you and your family back to Aberdeen, and a case of Loch Vay whisky at Christmas. Please phone as soon as possible…”

  Without saying a word Genny had casually handed him back the letter and started out of the room, the constant noise of the great city—traffic, Klaxons, street vendors, ships, jets, blaring discordant Chinese music through the windows that rattled in the wind.

  “Where the hell’re you going?”

  “To pack.” Then she laughed and ran back and hugged him. “It’s a gift from heaven, Duncan, quick, call him, call him now…”

  “But Aberdeen? IFR in all weather? My God, Gen, it’s never been done. There isn’t the instrumentation, I don’t know if it’s poss—”

  “For you it is, my lad. Of course. Now, where the devil have Hamish and Sarah gone?”

  “Today’s Saturday, they’ve gone to the movies an—”

  A brick crashed through one of the windows, and the tumult of a riot began again. Their apartment was on the second floor and faced a narrow street in the heavily populated Mong Kok area of Kowloon. McIver pulled Genny to safety then cautiously looked out. In the street below, five to ten thousand Chinese, all shouting, Mao, Mao, Kwai Loh! Kwai Loh—Foreign Devil, Foreign Devil—their usual battle cry, were surging toward the police station a hundred yards away where a small detachment of uniformed Chinese police and three British officers waited silently behind a barricade.

  “My God, Gen, they’re armed!” McIver gasped. Usually the police just had batons. Yesterday the Swiss consul and his wife had been burned to death nearby when a mob had overturned their car and set it on fire. Last night on radio and television the governor had warned that he had ordered the police to take whatever steps necessary to stop all rioting. “Get down, Gen, out of the way…”

  His words were drowned by police loudspeakers as the superintendent c
ommanded the massed rioters in Cantonese and English to disperse. The mob paid no attention and attacked the barricade. Again the order to stop was disregarded. Then the firing began and those in front panicked and were trampled as others fought to get away. Soon the street was clear except for the dozen or so bodies lying in the dirt. It was the same on Hong Kong Island. The next day the whole Colony was once more at peace; there were no more serious riots, only a few pockets of hard-core Red Guards trying to whip up the crowds who were quickly deported.

  Within the week McIver sold his interest in his helicopter business, flew to Aberdeen ahead of Genny, and hurled himself into his new job with gusto. It had taken her a month to pack, settle their apartment, and sell what they didn’t need. By the time she arrived he had found an ideal apartment near the McCloud heliport that she promptly declined: “For goodness’ sake, Duncan, it’s a million miles away from the nearest school. An apartment in Aberdeen? Now that you’re as rich as Dunross, we, my lad, we are renting a house…”

  He smiled to himself, thinking about those early days, Genny loving being back in Scotland—she had never really liked Hong Kong, life so difficult there with little money and children to care for—he loving his work, Gavallan a great man to work for and with, but hating the North Sea, all the cold and the wet and the aches that the salt-heavy air brought. But the five-odd years there had been worth it, renewing and increasing his old contacts in the still tiny international helicopter world—most of the pilots ex-RAF, -RCAF, -RAAF, -USAF, and all the allied services—against the day they could expand. Always a generous bonus at Christmas, carefully put away for retirement, and always the case of Loch Vay: “Andy, that was the one condition that really got me!” Gavallan always the driving force, living up to his motto for the company, Be Bold. In East Scotland nowadays, Gavallan was known as “the Laird,” from Aberdeen to Inverness and south as far as Dundee, with tentacles reaching to London, New York, Houston—wherever there was oil power. Yes, old Chinaboy’s great and he can also wrap you and most men around his little finger, McIver thought without rancor. Look how you got here…