“So, Captain, I apologize for the intrusion.” The man was dark-haired, a little under six feet, in his thirties, his face weather-beaten, his eyes dark and Slavic—Mongol blood somewhere in his heritage. “My name is Fedor Rakoczy.”
“Rakoczy was a Hungarian revolutionary,” Erikki said curtly. “And from your accent you’re Georgian. Rakoczy’s not Georgian. What’s your real name—and KGB rank?”
The man laughed. “It is true my accent is Georgian and that I am Russian from Georgia, from Tbilisi. My grandfather came from Hungary but he was no relation to the revolutionary who in ancient times became prince of Transylvania. Nor was he Muslim, like my father and me. There, you see, we both know a little of our history, thanks be to God,” he said pleasantly. “I’m an engineer on the Iran-Soviet natural gas pipeline, based just over the border at Astara on the Caspian—and pro-Iran, pro-Khomeini, blessings be upon him, anti-Shah and anti-American.”
He was glad that he had been briefed about Erikki Yokkonen. Part of his cover story was true. He certainly came from Georgia, from Tbilisi, but he was not a Muslim, nor was his real name Rakoczy. His real name was Igor Mzytryk and he was a captain in the KGB, a specialist attached to the 116th Airborne Division that was deployed just across the border, north of Tabriz, one of the hundreds of undercover agents who had infiltrated northern Iran for months and now operated almost freely. He was thirty-four, a KGB career officer like his father, and he had been in Azerbaijan for six months. His English was good, his Farsi and Turkish fluent, and although he could not fly, he knew much about the piston-driven Soviet Army close-support helicopters of his division. “As to my rank,” he added in his most gentle voice, “it is friend. We Russians are good friends of Finns, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, that’s true. Russians are—not Party members. Holy Russia was a friend in the past, yes, when we were a grand duchy of Russia. Soviet Russia was friendly after ’17 when we became independent. Soviet Russia is now. Yes, now. But not in ’39. Not in the Winter War. No, not then.”
“Nor were you in ’41,” Rakoczy said sharply. “In ’41 you went to war against us with the stinking Nazis; you sided with them against us.”
“True, but only to take back our land, our Karelian, our province you’d stolen from us. We didn’t walk on to Leningrad as we could have done.” Erikki could feel the knife in the center of his back and he was very glad of it. “Are you armed?”
“No. You said not to come armed. My gun is outside the door. I have no pukoh knife nor need to use one. By Allah, I’m a friend.”
“Good. A man has need of friends.” Erikki watched the man, loathing what he represented: the Soviet Russia that, unprovoked, had invaded Finland in ’39 the moment Stalin had signed the Soviet-German nonaggression pact. Finland’s little army had fought back alone. They had beaten off the Soviet hordes for one hundred days in the Winter War and then they had been overrun. Erikki’s father had been killed defending Karelian, the southern and eastern province, where the Yokkonens had lived for centuries. At once Soviet Russia had annexed the province. At once all Finns left. All of them. Not one would stay under a Soviet flag, so the land became barren of Finns. Erikki was just ten months old then and in that exodus thousands died. His mother had died. It was the worst winter in living memory.
And in ’45, Erikki thought, bottling his rage, in ’45 America and England betrayed us and gave our lands to the aggressor. But we’ve not forgotten. Nor have the Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, East Germans, Czechs, Hungarians, Bulgars, Slavs, Romanians—the list endless. There will be a day of reckoning with the Soviets, oh, yes, one day there will surely be a day of reckoning with the Soviets—most of all by Russians who suffer their lash most of all. “For a Georgian you know a lot about Finland,” he said calmly.
“Finland is important to Russia. The detente between us works, is safe, and a lesson to the world that anti-Soviet American imperialistic propaganda is a myth.”
Erikki smiled. “This is not the time for politics, eh? It’s late. What do you want with me?”
“Friendship.”
“Ah, that’s easily asked, but as you would know, for a Finn, given with difficulty.” Erikki reached over to the sideboard for an almost empty vodka bottle and two glasses. “Are you Shi’ite?”
“Yes, but not a good one, God forgive me. I drink vodka sometimes if that’s what you ask.”
Erikki poured two glasses. “Health.” They drank. “Now, please come to the point.”
“Soon Bakhtiar and his American lackeys will be thrown out of Iran. Soon Azerbaijan will be in turmoil, but you will have nothing to fear. You are well thought of here, so is your wife and her family, and we would like your…your cooperation in bringing peace to these mountains.”
“I’m just a helicopter pilot, working for a British company, contracted to Iran-Timber, and I’m without politics. We Finns have no politics, don’t you remember?”
“We’re friends, yes. Our interests of world peace are the same.”
Erikki’s great right fist slammed down on the table, the sudden violence making the Russian flinch as the bottle skittered away and fell to the floor. “I’ve asked you politely twice to come to the point,” he said in the same calm voice. “You have ten seconds.”
“Very well,” the man said through his teeth. “We require your services to ferry teams into the camps within the next few days. We…”
“What teams?”
“The mullahs of Tabriz and their followers. We requ—”
“I take my orders from the company, not mullahs or revolutionaries or men who come with guns in the night. Do you understand?”
“You will find it is better to understand us, Captain Yokkonen. So will the Gorgons. All of them,” Rakoczy said pointedly, and Erikki felt the blood go into his face. “Iran-Timber is already struck and on our side. They will provide you with the necessary orders.”
“Good. In that case I will wait and see what their orders are.” Erikki got up to his great height. “Good night.”
The Russian got up too and stared at him angrily. “You and your wife are too intelligent not to understand that without the Americans and their fornicating CIA, Bakhtiar’s lost. That motherless madman Carter has ordered U.S. Marines and helicopters into Turkey, an American war fleet into the Gulf, a task force with a nuclear carrier and support vessels, with marines and nuclear-armed aircraft—a war fleet an—”
“I don’t believe it!”
“You can. By God, of course they’re trying to start a war, for of course we have to react, we have to match war game with war game, for of course they’ll use Iran against us. It’s all madness—we don’t want nuclear war…” Rakoczy meant it with all his heart, his mouth running away with him. Only a few hours ago his superior had warned him by code radio that all Soviet forces on the border were on Yellow Alert—one step from Red—because of the approaching carrier fleet, all nuclear missiles on equal alert. Worst of all, vast Chinese troop movements had been reported all along the five thousand miles of shared border with China. “That motherfucker Carter with his motherfucking Friendship Pact with China’s going to blow us all to hell if he gets half a chance.”
“If it happens, it happens,” Erikki said.
“Insha’Allah, yes, but why become a running dog for the Americans, or their equally filthy British allies? The People are going to win, we are going to win. Help us and you won’t regret it, Captain. We only need your skills for a few da—”
He stopped suddenly. Running footsteps were approaching. Instantly Erikki’s knife was in his hand and he moved with catlike speed between the front door and the bedroom door as the front door burst open.
“SAVAK!” a half-seen man gasped, then took to his heels.
Rakoczy jumped for the doorway, scooped up his machine pistol. “We require your help, Captain. Don’t forget!” He vanished into the night.
Azadeh came out into the living room. With the gun ready, her face white. “What was that about a c
arrier? I didn’t understand him.”
Erikki told her. Her shock was clear. “That means war, Erikki,”
“Yes, if it happens.” He put on his parka. “Stay here.” He closed the door after him. Now he could see lights from approaching cars that were racing along the rough dirt road that joined the base to the main Tabriz-Tehran road. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out two cars and an army truck. In a moment the lead vehicle stopped and police and soldiers fanned out into the night. The officer in charge saluted. “Ah, Captain Yokkonen, good evening. We heard that some revolutionaries were here, or Communist Tudeh—firing was reported,” he said, his English perfect. “Her Highness is all right? There’s no problem?”
“No, not now, thank you, Colonel Mazardi,” Erikki knew him quite well. The man was a cousin of Azadeh, and chief of police in this area of Tabriz. But SAVAK? That’s something else, he thought uneasily. If he is, he is, and I don’t want to know. “Come in.”
Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coining and they told him what had occurred.
“The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?” he asked.
“Yes, but it was obviously a lie,” Erikki said. “He had to be KGB.”
“And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?”
“No.”
The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. “So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic-Marxist—that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.” He was tall and very good-looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. “Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea-bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar’ll give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini—we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.” He got up. “Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.”
He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, “Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”
“There’s no need to leave, Erikki.”
“If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.”
“There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian, Erikki.”
He looked at her. “I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force, and why the KGB think ‘you and your wife are much too intelligent,’ why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they ‘require’ my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while there’s time.”
SATURDAY
February 10
AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 3:32 A.M. Led by the mullah, Hussain Kowissi, the shouting mob was pressing against the barred, floodlit main gate and the nearby barbed-wire fence that surrounded the huge base, the night dark, very cold, with snow everywhere. There were three to four thousand of them, youths mostly, a few armed, some young women in chadors well to the front, adding their cries to the tumult: “God is Great… God is Great…”
Inside the gate, facing the mob, platoons of nervous soldiers were spread out on guard, their rifles ready, other platoons in reserve, all officers with revolvers. Two Centurion tanks, battle ready, waited in the center of the roadway, engines growling, the camp commander and a group of officers nearby. Behind them were trucks filled with more soldiers, headlights trained on the gate and the fence—soldiers outnumbered twenty or thirty to one. Behind the trucks were the hangars, base buildings, barracks, and the officers’ mess, knots of milling, anxious servicemen everywhere, all hastily dressed, for the mob had arrived barely half an hour ago demanding possession of the base in the name of Ayatollah Khomeini.
Again the voice of the camp commander came over the loudspeakers. “You will disperse at once!” His voice was harsh and threatening, but the mob’s chant overpowered him, “Allah-u Akbarrr…”
The night was overcast, obscuring even the southern foothills of the snowcapped Zagros Mountains that towered behind the base. The base was S-G’s main HQ in southern Iran as well as home for two Iranian Air Force squadrons of F4s and, since martial law, a detachment of Centurions and the soldiers. Outside the fence, eastward, the giant oil refinery sprawled over hundreds of acres, the tall stacks belching smoke, many sending jets of flame into the night as the excess gas was burned off. Though the whole plant was struck and shut down, parts were floodlit: a skeleton staff of Europeans and Iranians were permitted by the strike komiteh to try to keep the refinery and its feeder pipelines and storage tanks safe.
“God is Great…” Hussain shouted again, and at once the mob took up the cry and again the cry went into the heads and hearts of the soldiers. One of those in the front rank was Ali Bewedan, a conscript like all the others, young like all the others, not so long ago a villager like all the others and those outside the fence. Yes, he thought, his head hurting, heart pounding, I’m on the side of God and ready to be martyred for the Faith and for the Prophet, whose Name be praised! Oh, God, let me be a martyr and go straight to Paradise as promised to the Faithful. Let me spill my blood for Islam and Khomeini but not for protecting the evil servants of the Shah!
The living words of Khomeini kept pounding in his ears, words from the cassette their mullah had played in the mosque two days ago: “…Soldiers: join with your brothers and sisters doing God’s work, flee your barracks with your arms, disobey the illegal orders of the generals, tear down the illegal government! Do God’s work, God is Great…”
His heart picked up tempo as he heard the voice again, the rich, deep peasant voice of the leader of leaders, that made everything clear. “God is Great, God is Great…”
The young soldier did not realize that now he was shouting with the mob, his eyes fixed on his mullah who was outside the gate, on God’s side, outside, clawing at the gate, leading what he knew were his brothers and sisters, trying to break it down. His brother soldiers nearby shifted, even more nervously, staring at him, not daring to say anything, the baying going into their heads and hearts equally. Many of those inside the fence wished to open the gate. Most would have done so if it were not for their officers and sergeants and the inevitable punishments, even death, that all knew was the reward for mutiny.
“On God’s side, outside…”
The young man’s brain seemed to explode with the words and he did not hear the sergeant shouting at him, nor see him, but only the gate that was closed against the Faithful. He flung down his rifle and ran for the gate, fifty yards away. For an instant there was a vast silence, all eyes within and without riveted on him, transfixed.
Colonel Mohammed Peshadi, the camp commander, stood near his lead tank, a lithe man with graying hair, his uniform immaculate. He watched the youth screaming, “Allahhhh-u Akkbarrr…” the only voice now.
When the youth was five yards from the fence, the colonel motioned to the senior sergeant beside him. “Kill him,” he said quietly.
The sergeant’s ears were filled with the battle cry of the youth who now was tearing at the bolts. In one fluid motion, he jerked the rifle from the nearest soldier, cocked it, leaned momentarily on the side of the tank, put the sights on the back of the youth’s head, and pulled the trigger. He saw the face blow outward, showering those on the other side of the gate. Then the body slumped and hung obscenely on the barbed wire.
A submachine gun began to chatter among them. At that moment the colonel stabbed a finger at the officer in the tank.
At once a tongue of flame leaped from the barrel of the four-inch gun that was aimed just over the heads of the crowd and loaded with a blank charge, but the suddenness of the explosion sent attackers reeling from the gate in panic, half a dozen soldiers dropped their rifles in equal shock, a few fled, and many of the unarmed watchers scattered in fright. The second tank fired, its barrel closer to the ground, the shaft of flame lower.
The mob broke. Men and women fled from the gate and the fence, trampling one another in their haste. Again the lead tank fired and again the tongue of flame and again the earsplitting detonation and the mob redoubled its effort to get away. Only the mullah Hussain remained at the gate. He reeled drunkenly, momentarily blinded and deafened, then his hands caught the stanchions of the gate and he hung on. Immediately, instinctively, many went forward to help him, soldiers, sergeants, and one officer.
“Stay where you are!” Colonel Peshadi roared, then took the microphone on the long lead and switched to full power. His voice blasted the night. “All soldiers stay where you are! Safety catches on! SAFETY CATCHES ON! All officers and sergeants take charge of your men! Sergeant, come with me!”
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