Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Listen, Mac,” Andrew Gavallan had said one day in the late sixties, “I’ve just met a top general in the Iranian General Staff at a shoot. General Beni-Hassan. Great shot, he got twenty brace to my fifteen! Over the weekend I spent a lot of time with him and sold him on close-support helicopters for infantry and tank regiments along with a whole program for training their army and air force—as well as helicopters for their oil business. We, laddie, are in like Flynn.”

  “But we’re not equipped to do half of that.”

  “Beni-Hassan’s a smashing fellow and the Shah’s a really go-ahead monarch—with great plans for modernization. You know anything about Iran?”

  “No, Chinaboy,” McIver had said, suspiciously, recognizing the twinkling exuberance. “Why?”

  “You’re booked on Friday for Bahrain, you and Genny…now wait a moment, Mac! What do you know about Sheik Aviation?”

  “Genny’s happy in Aberdeen, she doesn’t want to move, the kids are finishing school, we’ve just put the down payment on a house, we’re not moving and Genny’ll kill you.”

  “Of course,” Gavallan said airily. “Sheik Aviation?”

  “It’s a small but good helicopter company that services the Gulf. They’ve three 206s and a few fixed-wing feeder planes, based in Bahrain. Well thought of and they do a lot of work for ARAMCO, ExTex, and I think IranOil. Owned and operated by Jock Forsyth, ex-paras and pilot who formed the company in the fifties with an old chum of mine, Scrag Scragger, an Aussie. Scrag’s the real owner, ex-RAAF, AFC and Bar, DFC and Bar, now a chopper fanatic. First they were based in Singapore where I first met Scrag. We, er, we were on a bender and I don’t remember who started it but the others said it was a draw. Then they moved to the Gulf with an ex-ExTex executive who happened to have a great contract to launch them there. Why?”

  “I’ve just bought them. You take over as managing director on Monday. Scragger and all their pilots and personnel will stay on or not, as you suggest, but I think we’ll need their knowledge—I found them all good fellows—Forsyth’s happy to retire to Devon. Curious, Scragger didn’t mention he knew you, but then I only spent a few moments with him and dealt with Forsyth. From now on we’re S-G Helicopters Ltd. Next Friday I want you to go to Tehran…listen, for Christ’s sake…on Friday to set up an HQ there. I’ve made a date for you to meet Beni-Hassan and sign the papers for the air force deal. He said he’d be glad to introduce us to the right people, all over. Oh, yes, you’ve 10 percent of all profits, 10 percent of the stock in the new Iran subsidiary, you’re managing director of Iran—which includes the rest of the Gulf for the time being…”

  Of course McIver had gone. He could never resist Andrew Gavallan and he had enjoyed every moment, but he had never found out how Gavallan had persuaded Genny. When he had gone home that night she had his whisky and soda ready and wore a sweet smile. “Hello, dear, did you have a nice day?”

  “Yes, what’s up?” he asked suspiciously.

  “You’re what’s up. Andy says there’s a wonderful new opportunity for us in some place called Tehran in some place called Persia.”

  “Iran. It used to be called Persia, Gen, modern word’s Iran. I, er, I th—”

  “How exciting! When are we leaving?”

  “Er, well, Gen, I thought we’d talk it over and if you like I’ve fixed it so that I could do two months on and one month off back here an—”

  “And what do you plan to do for the two months, nights and Sundays?”

  “I, er, well I’ll be working like the devil and there wo—”

  “Sheik Aviation? You and old Scragger east of Suez together drinking and cavorting?”

  “Who, me? Come on there’ll be so much to do we won’t ha—”

  “No, you won’t, my lad. Huh! Two on and one off? Over Andy’s dead body and I mean dead. We go as a family by God or we don’t go by God!” Even more sweetly, “Don’t you agree, darling heart?”

  “Now look here, Gen—”

  Within a month they were once more starting afresh, but it had been exciting and the best time he had ever had, meeting all sorts of interesting people, laughing with Scrag and the others, finding Charlie and Lochart and Jean-Luc and Erikki, making the company into the most efficient, the safest flying operation in Iran and the Gulf, molding it the way he alone decided. His baby. His alone.

  Sheik Aviation was the first of many acquisitions and amalgamations Gavallan made. “Where the hell do you get all the money, Andy?” he had once asked.

  “Banks. Where else? We’re a triple-A risk and Scots to boot.”

  It wasn’t until much later that he discovered, quite by chance, that the S of S-G Helicopters really stood for Struan’s that was also the secret source of all their financing and civilian intelligence, and S-G their subsidiary.

  “How did you find out, Mac?” Gavallan had asked gruffly.

  “An old friend in Sydney, ex-RAF, who’s in mining, wrote to me and said he’d heard Linbar spouting about S-G being part of the Noble House—I didn’t know but it seems Linbar’s running Struan’s in Australia.”

  “He’s trying to. Mac, between us, Ian wanted Struan’s involvement kept quiet—David wants to continue the pattern so I’d prefer you to keep it to yourself,” Gavallan had said quietly. David was David MacStruan, the then taipan.

  “Of course, not even Genny. But it explains a lot and gives me a grand feeling to know the Noble House’s covering us. I often wondered why you left.”

  Gavallan had smiled but not answered. “Liz knows about Struan’s, of course, the Inner Office, and that’s all.”

  McIver had never told anyone. S-G had thrived and grown as the oil business had grown. So had his profits. So had the value of his stock in the Iran venture. When he retired in six or seven years he would be comfortably well off. “Isn’t it time to quit?” Genny would say every year. “There’s more than enough money, Duncan.”

  “It’s not the money,” he would always say…

  McIver was staring at the red glow to the southeast over Jaleh that now had deepened and spread. His mind was in turmoil. Jaleh’s got to make it hit the fan again all over Tehran, he thought.

  He sipped his whisky. No extra need to be nervous, he thought, the weight of it all bearing down. What the devil was Chinaboy going to say when we were cut off? He’ll get me word if it was important—he’s never failed yet. Terrible about Stanson. That’s the third civilian, all American, to be murdered by “unknown gunmen” in the last few months—two ExTex and one from Guerney. Wonder when they’ll start on us—Iranians hate the British just as much as the Yanks. Where to get more cash? We can’t operate on half a million rials a week. Somehow I’ll have to lean on the partners, but they’re as devious as anyone on earth and past masters at looking after number one.

  He took the last swallow of his whisky. Without the partners we’re stymied, even after all these years—they’re the ones who know who to talk to, which palm to touch with how much or what percentage, who to flatter, who to reward. They’re the Farsi speakers, they’ve the contacts. Even so, Chinaboy was right: whoever wins, Khomeini, Bakhtiar, or the generals, they have to have choppers…

  In the kitchen Genny was almost in tears. The secret can of haggis that she had kept hidden so carefully for half a year and had just opened was defective and the contents ruined. And Duncan loves it so. How could he, a mess up of minced sheep heart and liver and lungs and oatmeal, onion, suet, seasonings, and stock, all stuffed into a bag made from the poor bloody sheep’s stomach, then boiled for several hours. “Ugh! Bugger everything!” She had had young Scot Gavallan—sworn to secrecy—bring the can back after his last leave for this special occasion.

  Today was their wedding anniversary and this was her secret surprise for Duncan. Sod everything!

  It’s not Scot’s fault the bloody tin’s defective, she thought in misery. Even so, shit shit shit! I’ve planned this whole bloody dinner for months and now it’s ruined. First the bloody butcher lets me down even tho
ugh I’d paid twice as much as usual in advance, sod his “Insha’Allah,” and then because the bloody banks are closed I’ve no cash to bribe the rotten sod’s rival to sell me the leg of good fresh lamb not old mutton he’d promised, then the grocery store pulls a sudden strike, then…

  The window of the small kitchen was half open and she heard another burst of machine-gun fire. Closer this time. Then wafted on the wind came the distant, deep-throated sound of the mobs: “Allahhh-u Akbarrr… Allahhh-u Akbarrr…” repeated over and over. She shivered, finding it curiously menacing. Before the troubles began she used to find the muezzin’s call to prayer five times daily from the minarets reassuring. But not now, not from the throats of the mobs.

  I hate this place now, she thought. Hate the guns and hate the threats. There was another in the mailbox, their second—like the other, badly typed and copied on the cheapest of paper: “On December 1 we gave you and family one month to leave our country. You are still here. You are now our enemies and we will fight you categorically.” No signature. Almost every expat in Iran got one.

  Hate the guns, hate the cold and no heat and no light, hate their rotten toilets and squatting like an animal, hate all the stupid violence and destruction of something that was really very nice. Hate standing in queues. Sod all queues! Sod the rotten bugger who screwed up the tin of haggis, sod this rotten little kitchen and sod corned beef pie! For the life of me I can’t understand why the men like it. Ridiculous! Canned corned beef mixed with boiled potatoes, a little onion butter and milk if you have it, bread crumbs on top, and baked till it’s brown. Ugh! And as for cauliflower, the smell of it cooking makes me want to puke but I read it’s good for diverticulitis and anyone can see Duncan’s not as well as he should be. So silly to think he can fool me. Has he fooled Charlie? I doubt it. And as for Claire, what a fool to leave such a good man! I wonder if Charlie ever found out about the affair she had with that Guerney pilot. No harm in that I suppose if you’re not caught—difficult being left so much alone and if that’s what you want. But I’m glad they parted friends though I thought she was a selfish bitch.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Automatically she straightened her hair and stared at her reflection. Where’s all your youth gone? I don’t know, but it’s gone. At least mine has, Duncan’s hasn’t, he’s still young, young for his age—if only he’d look after himself. Damn Gavallan! No, Andy’s all right. So glad he remarried such a nice girl. Maureen’ll keep him in line and so will little Electra. I was so afraid he was going to marry that Chinese secretary of his. Ugh! Andy’s all right and so was Iran. Was. Now it’s time to leave and to enjoy our money. Definitely. But how?

  She laughed out loud. More of the same, I suppose.

  Carefully she opened the oven, blinked against the heat and smell, then shut the door again. Can’t stand corned beef pie, she told herself irritably.

  Dinner was very good, the corned beef pie golden brown on top, just as they liked it. “Will you open the wine, Duncan? It’s Persian, sorry, but it’s the last bottle.” Normally they were well stocked with both French and Persian wines but the mobs had smashed and burned all Tehran’s liquor shops, encouraged by the mullahs, following Khomeini’s strict fundamentalism—drinking any form of alcohol being prohibited by the Koran. “The man in the bazaar told me there’s none officially on sale anywhere and even drinking in the Western hotels is officially forbidden now.”

  “That won’t last, the people won’t stand for it—or fundamentalism—for long,” Pettikin said. “Can’t, not in Persia. Historically, the Shahs’ve always been tolerant and why not? For almost three thousand years Persia’s been famous for the beauty of its women—look at Azadeh and Sharazad—and their vineyards and wines. What about the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, isn’t that a hymn to wine, women, and song? Persia forever, I say.”

  ‘“Persia’ sounds so much better than ‘Iran,’ Charlie, so much more exotic, as it used to be when we first came here, so much nicer,” Genny said. For a moment she was distracted by more firing, then went on, talking to cover her nervousness. “Sharazad told me they’ve always called it Iran, or Ayran themselves. Seems that Persia was what the ancient Greeks called it, Alexander the Great and all that. Most Persians were happy when Reza Shah decreed Persia was to be henceforth Iran. Thank you, Duncan,” she said and accepted the glass of wine, admiring its color, and smiled at him.

  “Everything’s grand, Gen,” he said and gave her a little hug.

  The wine had been savored. And the pie. But they were not merry. Too much to wonder about. More tanks going by. More firing. The red glow over Jaleh spreading. The chant of distant mobs. Then halfway through the dessert—trifle, another McIver favorite—one of their pilots, Nogger Lane, staggered in, his clothes badly torn, his face deeply bruised, helping a girl. She was tall and dark-haired and dark-eyed, rumpled and in shock, mumbling pathetically in Italian, one sleeve almost ripped out of her coat, her clothes and face and hands and hair filthy, as though she had fallen in the gutter.

  “We got caught between…between the police and some bastard mobs,” he said in a rush, almost incoherently. “Some bugger’d siphoned my tank so…but the mob, there were thousands of them, Mac. One moment the street was normal, then everyone else started running and they…the mobs, they came out of a side street and a lot had guns…it was the God cursed chanting over and over, Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbar, that made your blood curdle… I’d never…then stones, firebombs, tear gas—the lot—as the police and troops arrived. And tanks. I saw three, and I thought the bastards were going to open up. Then someone started firing from the crowd, then there were guns everywhere and…and bodies all over the place. We ran for our lives, then a swarm of the bastards saw us and started shrieking ‘American Satan’ and charged after us and cornered us in an alley. I tried to tell ’em I was English and Paula, Italian, and not…but they were crowding me and…and if it hadn’t been for a mullah, a big bastard with a black beard and black turban, this…this bugger called them off and Christ, they let us go. He cursed us and told us to piss off…” He accepted the whisky and gulped it, trying to catch his breath, his hands and knees shaking uncontrollably now, quite unnoticed by him. McIver, Genny, and Pettikin were listening aghast. The girl was sobbing quietly.

  “Never, never been in the middle of a nightmare like that, Charlie,” Nogger Lane continued shakily. “Troops were all as young as the mobs and they all seemed scared shitless, too much to take night after night, mobs screaming and throwing stones… A Molotov cocktail caught a soldier in the face and he burst into flames, screaming through the flames with no…and then those bastards cornered us and started manhandling Paula, trying to get at her, pawing her, tearing at her clothes. I went a bit mad myself and got hold of one bastard and smashed his face in, I know I hurt him because his nose went into his head and if it hadn’t been for this mullah…”

  “Take it easy, laddie,” Pettikin said worriedly, but the youth paid no attention and rushed onward.

  “…if it hadn’t been for this mullah who pulled me off I’d’ve gone on smashing until that bugger was pulp; I wanted to claw out his eyes, Jesus Christ, I tried to, I know I did… Jesus Christ, I’ve never killed anything with my hands, never wanted to until tonight but I did and would have…” His hands were trembling as he brushed his fair hair out of his eyes, his voice edged now and rising. “Those bastards, they had no right to touch us but they were grabbing Paula and…and…” The tears began gushing, his mouth worked but no words came out, a fleck of foam was at the comers of his lips, “and…and…kill… I wanted to killlll—”

  Abruptly Pettikin leaned over and belted the young man backhanded across the face, knocking him spread-eagled on the sofa. The others almost leaped out of themselves at the suddenness. Lane was momentarily stunned, then he groped to his feet to hurl himself at his attacker.

  “Hold it, Nogger!” Pettikin roared. The command stopped the youth in his tracks. He stared at the older man stupidly, fists bun
ched. “What the bloody hell’sthematterwithyou, youdamn near broke my bloodyjaw,” he said furiously. But the tears had stopped and his eyes were clean again. “Eh?”

  “Sorry, lad, but you were going, flipping, I’ve seen it aco—”

  “The bloody hell I was,” Lane said menacingly, his senses back, but it took them time to explain and to calm him and calm her. Her name was Paula Giancani, a tall girl, a stewardess from an Alitalia flight.

  “Paula, dear, you’d better stay here tonight,” Genny said. “It’s past curfew. You understand?”

  “Yes, understand. Yes, I speak English, I th—”

  “Come along, I’ll lend you some things. Nogger, you take the sofa.”

  Later Genny and McIver were still awake, tired but not sleepy, gunfire somewhere in the night, chanting somewhere in the night. “Like some tea, Duncan?”

  “Good idea.” He got up with her. “Oh, damnit, I forgot.” He went over to the bureau and found the little box, badly wrapped. “Happy anniversary. It’s not much, just a bracelet I got in the bazaar.”

  “Oh, thank you, Duncan.” As she unwrapped it she told him about the haggis.

  “What a bugger! Never mind. Next year we’ll have it in Scotland.”

  The bracelet was rough amethysts set in silver. “Oh, it’s so pretty, just what I wanted. Thank you, darling.”

  “You too, Gen.” He put his arm around her and kissed her absently.

  She didn’t mind about the kiss. Most kisses nowadays, hers as well, were just affectionate, like patting a beloved dog. “What’s troubling you, dear?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  She knew him too well. “What—that I don’t know yet?”

  “It’s getting hairier and hairier. Every hour on the hour. When you were out of the room with Paula, Nogger told us they’d come from the airport. Her Alitalia flight—it’d been chartered by the Italian government to evacuate their nationals and had been grounded for two days—had got clearance to leave at midday, so he’d gone to see her off. Of course takeoff was delayed and delayed, as usual, then just before dusk the flight was grounded again, the whole airport closed down, and everyone was told to leave. All Iranian staff just vanished. Then almost immediately a group of heavily armed, and he meant heavily armed revolutionaries, started spreading out all over the place. Most of ’em were wearing green armbands, but some had IPLO on them, Gen, the first Nogger’d seen. ‘Iranian Palestine Liberation Organization.’”