Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “She will be all right, I promise you.” He continued speaking in Russian, “providing you behave as your friend has been taught to behave.” He kept his eyes on him as he reached into his small bag and brought out a fresh magazine. “Just so you know. Now face forward, please.”

  Trying to contain his fury, Erikki did as he was told. He put on the headset. There was no way they could be overheard by Rakoczy—there was no intercom in the back—and it felt strange for both of them to be so free and yet so imprisoned. “How did you find us, Charlie, who sent you?” he said into the mouth mike, his voice heavy.

  “No one did,” Pettikin said. “What the hell’s with that bastard? I went to Tabriz to pick up you and Azadeh, got kidnapped by the sonofabitch in the back, and then he hijacked me to Tehran. It was just luck for Christ’s sake—what the hell happened to you?”

  “We ran out of fuel.” Erikki told him briefly what had happened. “When the engine stopped, I knew I was finished. Everyone seems to have gone mad. One moment it was all right, then we were surrounded again, just like at the roadblock. I locked all the doors but it was only a matter of time…” Again he craned around. Azadeh had her eyes open and had pulled the chador off her face. She smiled at him wearily, reached forward to touch him but Rakoczy stopped her. “Please excuse me, Highness,” he said in Farsi, “but wait till we land. You will be all right.” He repeated it in Russian, adding to Erikki, “I have some water with me. Would you like me to give it to your wife?”

  Erikki nodded. “Yes. Please.” He watched while she sipped gratefully. “Thank you,”

  “Do you want some?”

  “No, thank you,” he said politely even though he was parched, not wishing any favors for himself. He smiled at her encouragingly. “Azadeh, like manna from heaven, eh? Charlie like an angel!”

  “Yes…yes. It was the Will of God. I’m fine, fine now, Erikki, praise be to God. Thank Charlie for me…”

  He hid his concern. The second mob had petrified her. And him, and he had sworn that if he ever got out of this mess alive, never again would he travel without a gun and, preferably, hand grenades. He saw Rakoczy watching him. He nodded and turned back again. “Matyeryebyets,” he muttered, automatically checking the instruments.

  “That bugger’s a lunatic—no need to kill anyone, I told him to fire over their heads.” Pettikin dropped his voice slightly, uneasy at talking so openly even though there was no way Rakoczy could hear. “The bastard damn near killed me a couple of times. How do you know him, Erikki? Were you or Azadeh mixed up with the Kurds?”

  Erikki stared at him. “Kurds? You mean the matyeryebyets back there?”

  “Yes, him of course—Ali bin Hassan Karakose. He comes from Mount Ararat. He’s a Kurd Freedom Fighter.”

  “He’s not a Kurd but a turd, Soviet and KGB!”

  “Christ Almighty! You’re sure?” Pettikin was openly shocked.

  “Oh, yes. He claims he’s Muslim but I bet that’s a lie too. ‘Rakoczy’ he called himself to me, another lie. They’re all liars—at least why should they tell us, the enemy, anything?”

  “But he swore it was the truth and I gave him my word.” Angrily Pettikin told him about the fight and the bargain he had made.

  “You’re the fool, Charlie, not him—haven’t you read Lenin? Stalin? Marx? He’s only doing what all KGB and committed Communists do: use anything and everything to forward the ‘sacred’ Cause—absolute world power for the USSR Communist party—and get us to hang ourselves to save them the trouble. My God, I could use a vodka!”

  “A double brandy’d be better.”

  “Both together would be even better.” Erikki studied the ground below. They were cruising easily, the engines sounding good and plenty of fuel. His eyes searched the horizon for Tehran. “Not long now. Has he said where to land yet?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps we’ll get a chance then.”

  “Yes.” Pettikin’s apprehension increased. “You mentioned a roadblock. What happened there?”

  Erikki’s face hardened. “We got stopped. Leftists. Had to make a run for it. We’ve no papers left, Azadeh and I. Nothing. A fat bastard at the roadblock kept everything and there wasn’t time to get them back.” A tremor went through him. “I’ve never been so scared, Charlie. Never. I was helpless in that mob and almost shitting with fear because I couldn’t protect her. That stinking fat bastard took everything, passport, ID, flying licenses, everything.”

  “Mac’ll get you more, your embassy’ll give you passports.”

  “I’m not worried about me. What about Azadeh?”

  “She’ll get a Finnish passport too. Like Sharazad’ll get a Canadian one—no need to worry.”

  “She’s still in Tehran, isn’t she?”

  “Sure. Tom should be there too. He was due in from Zagros yesterday with mails from home…” Strange, Pettikin thought in passing. I still call England home even with Claire gone, everything gone. “He’s just back off leave.”

  “That’s what I’d like to do, go on leave. I’m overdue. Perhaps Mac can send a replacement.” Erikki punched Pettikin lightly. “Tomorrow can take care of tomorrow, eh? Hey, Charlie, that was a great piece of flying. When I first saw you, I thought I was dreaming or already dead. You saw my Finnish flag?”

  “No, that was Ali—what did you call him? Rekowsky?”

  “Rakoczy.”

  “Rakoczy recognized it. If he hadn’t I wouldn’t have been any the wiser. Sorry.” Pettikin glanced across. “What’s he want with you?”

  “I don’t know but whatever it is, it’s for Soviet purposes.” Erikki cursed for a moment. “So we owe our lives to him too?”

  After a moment Pettikin said, “Yes. Yes, I couldn’t have done it alone.” He glanced around. Rakoczy was totally alert, Azadeh dozing, shadows over her lovely face. He nodded briefly, then turned back. “Azadeh seems okay.”

  “No, Charlie, no, she’s not,” Erikki said, an ache inside him. “Today was terrible for her. She said she’d never been that close to villagers ever… I mean surrounded, bottled in. Today they got under her guard. Now she’s seen the real face of Iran, the reality of her people—that and the forcing of the chador.” Again a shiver went through him. “That was a rape—they raped her soul. Now I think everything will be different for her, for us. I think she’ll have to choose: family or me, Iran or exile. They don’t want us here. It’s time for us to leave, Charlie. All of us.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Perhaps for you and Azadeh it’s different but they’ll still need oil so they’ll still need choppers. We’re good for a few more years, good years. With the Guerney contracts and all th—” Pettikin stopped, feeling a tap on his shoulder, and he glanced around. Azadeh was awake now. He could not hear what Rakoczy said so he slipped one earphone off. “What?”

  “Don’t use the radio, Captain, and be prepared to land on the outskirts where I’ll tell you.”

  “I… I’ll have to get clearance.”

  “Don’t be a fool! Clearance from whom? Everyone’s too busy down there. Tehran Airport’s under siege—so is Doshan Tappeh and so’s Galeg Morghi. Take my advice and make your landfall the small airport of Rudrama after you’ve dropped me.”

  “I have to report in. The military insist.”

  Rakoczy laughed sardonically. “Military? And what would you report? That you landed illegally near Qazvin, helped murder five or six civilians, and picked up two foreigners fleeing—fleeing from whom? From the People!”

  Grimly Pettikin turned back to make the call but Rakoczy leaned forward and shook him roughly. “Wake up! The military doesn’t exist anymore. The generals have conceded victory to Khomeini! The military doesn’t exist anymore—they’ve given in!”

  They all stared at him blankly. The chopper lurched. Hastily Pettikin corrected. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Late last night the generals ordered all troops back to their barracks. All services—all men. They’ve left the field to Khomeini and his
revolution. Now there’s no army, no police, no gendarmes between Khomeini and total power—the People have conquered!”

  “That’s not possible,” Pettikin said.

  “No,” Azadeh said, frightened. “My father would have known.”

  “Ah, Abdollah the Great?” Rakoczy said with a sneer. “He’ll know by now—if he’s still alive.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “It’s…it’s possible, Azadeh,” Erikki said, shocked. “That’d explain why we saw no police or troops—why the mob was so hostile!”

  “The generals’d never do that,” she said shakily, then turned on Rakoczy. “It would be suicide, for them and thousands. Tell the truth, by Allah!”

  Rakoczy’s face mirrored his glee, delighted to twist words and sow dissension to unsettle them. “Now Iran’s in the hands of Khomeini, his mullahs, and his Revolutionary Guards.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  Pettikin said, “If that’s true Bakhtiar’s finished. He’ll nev—”

  “That weak fool never even began!” Rakoczy started laughing. “Ayatollah Khomeini has frightened the balls off the generals and now he’ll cut their throats for good measure!”

  “Then the war’s over.”

  “Ah, the war,” Rakoczy said darkly. “It is. For some.”

  “Yes,” Erikki said, baiting him. “And if what you say is true, it’s all over for you too—all the Tudeh and all Marxists. Khomeini will slaughter you all.”

  “Oh, no, Captain. The Ayatollah was the sword to destroy the Shah, but the People wielded the sword.”

  “He and his mullahs and the People will destroy you—he’s as anti-Communist as he is anti-American.”

  “Better you wait and see and not further delude yourselves, eh? Khomeini’s a practical man and exults in power, whatever he says now.”

  Pettikin saw Azadeh whiten and he felt an equal chill. “And the Kurds?” he asked roughly, “What about them?”

  Rakoczy leaned forward, his smile strange. “I am a Kurd whatever the Finn told you about Soviet and KGB. Can he prove what he says? Of course not. As to the Kurds, Khomeini will try to stamp us out—if he’s allowed to—with all tribal or religious minorities, and foreigners and the bourgeoisie, landowners, moneylenders, Shah supporters, and,” he added with a sneer, “and any and all people who will not accept his interpretation of the Koran—and he’ll spill rivers of blood in the Name of his Allah, his, not the real One God—if the bastard’s allowed to.” He glanced out of the window below, checking his bearings, then added even more sardonically, “This heretic Sword of God has served his purpose and now he’s going to be turned into a plowshare—and buried!”

  “You mean murdered?” Erikki said.

  “Buried”—again the laugh—“at the whim of the People.”

  Azadeh came to life and tried to claw his face, cursing him. He caught her easily and held her while she struggled. Erikki watched, gray-faced. There was nothing he could do. For the moment.

  “Stop it!” Rakoczy said harshly. “You of all people should want this heretic gone—he’ll stamp out Abdollah Khan and all the Gorgons and you with them if he wins.” He shoved her away. “Behave, or I shall have to hurt you. It’s true, you of all people should want him dead.” He cocked the machine gun. “Turn around, both of you.”

  They obeyed, hating the man and the gun. Ahead, the outskirts of Tehran were about ten miles away. They were paralleling the road and railway, the Elburz Mountains to their left, approaching the city from the west. Overhead the sky was overcast, the clouds heavy, and no sun showed through.

  “Captain, you see the stream where the railway crosses it? The bridge?”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Pettikin said, trying to make a plan to overcome him, as Erikki was also planning—wondering if he could whirl and grab him but he was on the wrong side.

  “Land half a mile south, behind that outcrop. You see it?”

  Not far from this outcrop was a secondary road that headed for Tehran. A little traffic. “Yes. And then?”

  “And then you’re dismissed. For the moment.” Rakoczy laughed and nudged the back of Pettikin’s neck with the barrel of the gun. “With my thanks. But don’t turn around anymore. Stay facing ahead, both of you, and keep your seat belts locked and know that I’m watching you both very closely. When you land, land firmly and cleanly and when I’m clear, take off. But don’t turn around or I may become frightened. Frightened men pull triggers. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Pettikin studied the landing site. He adjusted his headset. “It look all right to you, Erikki?”

  “Yes. Watch the snow dunes.” Erikki tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  “We should have a plan.”

  “I think he’s…he’s too clever, Charlie.”

  “Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

  “I only need one.”

  The landing was clean and simple. Snow, whipped up by the idling blades, billowed alongside the windows. “Don’t turn around!”

  Both men’s nerves were jagged. They heard the door open and felt the cold air. Then Azadeh screamed, “Erikkiiii!”

  In spite of the order both craned around. Rakoczy was already out, dragging Azadeh after him, kicking and struggling and trying to hang on to the door, but he overpowered her easily. The gun was slung over his shoulder. Instantly Erikki jerked his door open and darted out, slid under the fuselage, and charged. But he was too late. A short burst at his feet stopped him. Ten yards away, clear of the rotors, Rakoczy had the gun leveled at them with one hand, the other firm in the neck of her chador. For a moment she was equally still, then she redoubled her efforts, shouting and screaming, flailing at him, catching him unawares. Erikki charged.

  Rakoczy grabbed her with both hands, shoved her violently at Erikki, breaking the charge and bringing Erikki down with her. At the same moment he leaped backward, turned, and raced away, whirled again, the gun ready, his finger tightening on the trigger. But there was no need to pull it, the Finn and the woman were still on their knees, half stunned. Beyond them the pilot was still in his seat. Then he saw Erikki come to his senses, and shove her behind him protectively, readying another charge.

  “Stop!” he ordered, “or this time I will kill you all. STOP!” He put a warning burst into the snow. “Get back in the plane—both of you!” Now totally alert, Erikki watched him suspiciously. “Go on—you’re free. Go!”

  Desperately afraid, Azadeh scrambled into the backseat. Erikki retreated slowly, his body shielding her. Rakoczy kept the gun unwavering. He saw the Finn sit on the backseat, the door still open, his feet propped against skid. At once the engines picked up speed. The chopper eased a foot off the ground, slowly swung around to face him, the back door closing. His heart pounded even more. Now, he thought, do you all die or do we live to fight another day?

  The moment seemed to him to last forever. The chopper backed away, foot by foot, still so tempting a target. His finger tightened slightly. But he did not squeeze the further fraction. A few more yards then she twisted, hurried away through the snowfields, and went into the sky.

  Good, he thought, tiredness almost overcoming him. It would have been better to have been able to keep the woman as a hostage, but never mind. We can grab old Abdollah Khan’s daughter tomorrow, or the day after. She can wait and so can Yokkonen. Meanwhile there’s a country to possess, generals and mullahs and ayatollahs to kill…and other enemies.

  AT TEHRAN AIRPORT: 5:05 P.M. McIver was driving carefully along the road that followed the barbed-wire security fence, heading for the gate that led to the freight area. The road was snow banked, slippery, and unplowed. It was just below freezing, the sky heavy and dull, night not more than an hour away. Again he looked at his watch. Not much time, he thought, still seething over the closure of his office last night by the komiteh. Early this morning he had tried to sneak back into the building, but it was still guarded and all of his entreaties to be allowed to check the telex had proved fruitless.
<
br />   “Damned people!” Genny had said when he had stomped back into their apartment. “There must be something we can do. What about George Talbot? Could he help?”

  “I doubt it, but it’s worth a try—if Valik was…” McIver stopped. “Tom would have refueled by now and be almost there—wherever there is.”

  “Let’s hope,” she said with a silent prayer, “hope for the best. Did you see any shops open?”

  “None, Gen. It’s canned soup for lunch and a bottle of beer.”

  “Sorry, we’re out of beer.”

  He had tried to call Kowiss and the other bases on his HF but could get no answer from them. Neither could he tune into the BBC or AFN. He had listened briefly to the inevitable anti-American tirade from Radio Free Iran in Tbilisi and had turned it off in disgust. The phone was dead. He had tried to read, but he could not, his mind beset with worries about Lochart, Pettikin, Starke, and all the others, hating being cut off from his office and telex and, for the moment, out of control. Never happened before, never. Damn the Shah for leaving and letting everything fall apart. Used to be wonderful. Any problem and out to the airport, get on a shuttle to Isfahan, Tabriz, Abadan, Hormuz, Al Shargaz, or wherever, then chopper the rest of the way, wherever you felt like it. Sometimes Genny coming along for the ride—picnic lunches and ice-cold beer.

  “Sod everything!”

  Just after lunch the HF had crackled into life. It was Freddy Ayre at Kowiss relaying a message that the 125 jet would be at Tehran Airport around 5:00 P.M. today, coming from Al Shargaz, a tiny independent sheikdom eight hundred miles south of Tehran on the other side of the Gulf where S-G had an office.

  “Did he say he had clearance, Freddy?” McIver had asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know. All our HQ in Al Shargaz said: ‘ETA Tehran 1700, tell McIver—can’t raise him,’ repeated several times.”

  “How’re things with you?”