Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Quite right—good.” The mullah nodded, satisfied.

  Gavallan and McIver cursed inwardly even more, and Sabolir, who had been silently watching and listening to the byplay, understanding very clearly how the two men were trying to manipulate the mullah, chortled to himself, carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes, staring at the floor for safety. Once, a moment ago, when the mullah’s attention was elsewhere, he had deftly caught McIver’s eye and half smiled at him, encouragingly, pretending friendship, petrified McIver would misconstrue all those previous favors which were only repayment for his smoothing the way of inbound spares and outbound crews. On the radio this morning, a spokesman for the “Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh” had urged all loyal citizens to denounce anyone who had committed crimes “against Islam.” During today three of his colleagues had been arrested which had sent a shudder of horror through the whole airport. Islamic Guards gave no specific reasons, just dragged the men away and put them into Evin Jail—the loathed SAVAK prison—where, it was rumored, half a hundred “enemies of Islam” had been shot today after summary trials. One of those arrested was one of his own men who had accepted the 10,000 rials and the three 5-gallon cans of gasoline from McIver’s storeroom yesterday—the man had kept one, and the other two he himself had correctly taken home last night as was his due. Oh, God, let them not search my house.

  Over the HF was Johnny Hogg, his voice still breezy: “EchoTangoLimaLima, thank you. Up the revolution and good day.” Then on their own channel, tersely: “HQ confirm.”

  McIver reached over and switched to their channel. “Standby One!” he ordered, deeply conscious of the mullah. “Do you thi—”

  “Ah. You talk direct with the aircraft—a private channel?”

  “Company channel, Excellency. It’s normal practice.”

  “Normal. Yes. So EP-HBC is at Bandar Delam?” the mullah said and read from the paper: “‘Delivering spares.’ Is that right?”

  “Yes,” McIver said, praying.

  “When is this aircraft due to return?”

  McIver could feel the weight of the mullah’s attention on him. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to raise Bandar Delam. As soon as I can, I’ll tell you. Now, Excellency, about clearances for our various flights, do you th—”

  “EP-HFC. EP-HFC is in Tabriz?”

  “She’s at the small Forsha airstrip,” McIver said, not feeling very good at all, praying that the madness at the Qazvin roadblock had gone unreported and would be forgotten. Again he wondered where Erikki was—he was supposed to have met them at the apartment at three o’clock to come out to the airport but had never appeared.

  “Forsha airstrip?”

  He saw the mullah staring at him and concentrated with an effort. “EP-HFC went to Tabriz on Saturday to deliver spares and pick up a crew change. She returned last night. She’ll be on the new manifest tomorrow.”

  The mullah was suddenly grim. “But any incoming or outgoing aircraft must be instantly reported. We have no record of any inward clearance yesterday.”

  “Captain Pettikin couldn’t raise Tehran ATC yesterday. The military were in charge, I believe. He tried calling all the way inbound.” McIver added quickly, “If we’re to resume operations, who will authorize our IranOil flights? Mr. Darius as usual?”

  “Er, yes, I would think so. But why wasn’t its arrival reported today?”

  Gavallan said with a forced brightness, “I’m very impressed with your efficiency, Excellency. It’s a pity the military air traffic controllers on duty yesterday don’t share it. I can see the new Islamic republic will far surpass any Western operation. It will be a pleasure to serve our new employers. Up the new! May we know your name?”

  “I, I’m Mohammed Tehrani,” the man said, diverted again.

  “Then Excellency Tehrani, may I ask that you give us the benefit of your authority? If my Echo Tango Lima Lima could have your permission to land tomorrow, we could immeasurably improve our efficiency to parallel your own. I can then make sure our company gives the Ayatollah Khomeini and his personal assistants—like yourself—the service he and they have a right to expect. The spares ETLL will carry will put back two more 212s into operation and I can return to London to increase our support for the Great Revolution. Of course, you agree?”

  “It’s not possible. The komiteh w—”

  “I’m sure the komiteh would take your advice. Oh, I noticed you’ve had the misfortune to break your glasses. Terrible. I can hardly see without mine. Perhaps I could have the 125 bring a new pair for your tomorrow from Al Shargaz?”

  The mullah was unsettled. His eyes were very bad. The wish for new glasses, good glasses, almost overpowered him. Oh, it would be an unbelievable treasure, a gift from God. Surely God has put this thought into the foreigner’s head. “I don’t think… I don’t know. The komiteh couldn’t do what you ask so quickly.”

  “I know it’s difficult, but if you’d intercede for us with your komiteh, surely they’d listen. It would help us immeasurably and we’d be in your debt,” Gavallan added, using the time-honored phrase that in any language meant, what do you want in exchange? He saw McIver switch to the tower frequency, offer the mike. “You press the button to talk, Excellency, if you would honor us with your assistance…”

  The mullah Tehrani hesitated, not knowing what to do. As he looked at the mike, McIver glanced at Sabolir, pointedly.

  Sabolir understood at once, his reflexes perfect. “Of course whatever you decide, Excellency Tehrani, your komiteh will agree,” he said, his voice unctuous. “But tomorrow, tomorrow I understand you are ordered to visit the other airfields, to make sure where and how many civilian helicopters are in your area which is all Tehran? Yes?”

  “Those are orders, yes,” the mullah agreed. “I and some members of my komiteh have to visit the other airfields tomorrow.”

  Sabolir sighed heavily, pretending disappointment, and McIver had difficulty not laughing so overplayed was the performance. “Unfortunately it would not be possible for you to visit them all by car or foot and still be back to supervise, personally, the arrival and immediate turnaround of this single aircraft that has, through no fault of its own, been turned away because of arrogant traffic controllers in Kish and Isfahan who dared not to consult you first.”

  “True, true,” the mullah agreed. “They were at fault!”

  “Would 7:00 A.M. suit you, Excellency Tehrani?” McIver said at once. “We’d be glad to help our airport komiteh. I’ll give you my best pilot and you’ll be back in plenty of time to, er, to supervise the turnaround. How many men would come with you?”

  “Six…” the mullah said absently, overwhelmed with the idea of being able to complete his orders—God’s work—so conveniently and luxuriously, like a veritable ayatollah. “This…this could be done?”

  “Of course!” McIver said. “At 7:00 A.M. here. Captain, er, Chief Captain Nathaniel Lane will have a 212 ready. Seven including yourself, and up to seven wives. You of course would fly in the cockpit with the pilot. Consider it arranged.”

  The mullah had only flown twice in his life—to England and university and home again, packed into a special, student-charter Iran Air flight. He beamed and reached for the mike: “At 7:00 A.M.”

  McIver and Gavallan did not betray their relief at their victory. Nor did Sabolir.

  Sabolir was content that the mullah was entrapped. As God wants! Now if I’m falsely accused, now I have an ally, he told himself. This fool, this son of a dog false mullah, hasn’t he accepted a bribe—clearly not pishkesh—two in fact, some new glasses and wasteful, unauthorized air travel? Hasn’t he deliberately allowed himself to become the dupe of these glib and ever-devious English who still think they can seduce us with trinkets and steal our heritage for a few rials? Listen to the fool, giving the foreigners what they want!

  He glanced at McIver. Pointedly. And caught his eye. Then once more looked back at the floor. Now you arrogant Western son of a dog, he thought, what valuable favor should
you do for me in return for my assistance?

  AT THE FRENCH CLUB: 7:10 P.M. Gavallan accepted the glass of red wine from the uniformed French waiter, McIver, the white.

  Both touched glasses and drank gratefully, tired after their journey from the airport. They were sitting in the lounge with other guests, mostly Europeans, men and women, overlooking the snow-covered gardens and tennis courts, the chairs comfortable and modern, the bar extensive—many other rooms for banquets, dancing, dining, cards, sauna in other parts of this fine building that was in the best part of Tehran. The French Club was the only expat club still functioning—the American Services Club, with its huge complex of entertainment facilities, sports field, and baseball pitch, as well as the British, Pars-American, German clubs, and most others had been closed, their bars and stocks of liquor smashed.

  “My God, that’s good,” McIver said, the ice-cold, cleansing wine taking away the dross. “Don’t tell Gen we stopped by.”

  “No need to, Mac. She’ll know.”

  McIver nodded. “You’re right, never mind. I managed to book here tonight for dinner—costs an arm and a leg but worth it. Used to be standing room only at this time of night…” He looked around at a burst of laughter from some Frenchmen in a far corner. “For a moment it sounded like Jean-Luc, seems years since we had his pre-Christmas party here—wonder if we’ll ever have another.”

  “Sure you will,” Gavallan said to encourage him, concerned that the fire seemed to be out of his old friend. “Don’t let that mullah get to you.”

  “He gave me the creeps—so did Armstrong come to think of it. And Talbot. But you’re right, Andy, I shouldn’t let it get me down. We’re in better shape than we were two days ago…” More laughter distracted him and he began thinking of all the great times he had had here with Genny and Pettikin and Lochart—won’t think about him now—and all the other pilots and their many friends, British, American, Iranian. All gone, most gone. It used to be: “Gen, let’s go over to the French Club, the tennis finals are this afternoon…” Or: “Valik’s cocktail party’s on from 8:00 P.M. at the Iranian Officers Club…” Or: “There’s a polo match, baseball match, swimming party, skiing party…” Or: “Sorry, can’t this weekend we’re going to the ambassador’s do on the Caspian…” Or: “I’d love to, Genny can’t, she’s shopping for carpets in Isfahan…”

  “It used to be we had so much to do here, Andy, the social life was the best ever, no doubt about that,” he said. “Now it’s hard just trying to keep in touch with our ops.”

  Gavallan nodded. “Mac,” he said kindly, “straight answer to a straight question: Do you want to quit Iran and let someone else take over?”

  McIver stared at him blankly. “Good God, whatever gave you that idea? No, absolutely no! You mean you think because I was a bit down that… Good God, no,” he said, but his mind was suddenly jerked into asking the same question, unthinkable a few days ago: are you losing it, your will, your grip, your need to continue—is it time to quit? I don’t know, he thought, achingly chilled by the truth, but his face smiled. “Everything’s fine, Andy. Nothing we can’t deal with.”

  “Good. Sorry, I hope you didn’t mind me asking. I think I was encouraged by the mullah—except when he was talking about ‘our Iranian aircraft.’”

  “The truth is that Valik and the partners’ve been acting like our aircraft were theirs ever since we signed that contract.”

  “Thank God it’s a British contract, enforceable under British law.” Gavallan glanced over McIver’s shoulder and his eyes widened slightly. The girl coming into the room was in her late twenties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and stunning. McIver followed his glance, brightened, and got up. “Hello, Sayada,” he said, beckoning her. “May I introduce Andrew Gavallan? Andy, this’s Sayada Bertolin, a friend of Jean-Luc. Would you like to join us?”

  “Thanks, Mac, but no, sorry I can’t, I’m just about to play squash with a friend. You’re looking well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gavallan.” She put out her hand and Gavallan shook it. “Sorry, got to dash, give my love to Genny.”

  They sat down again. “Same again, waiter, please,” Gavallan said. “Mac, between you and me, that bird’s made me feel positively weak!”

  McIver laughed. “Usually it’s the reverse! She’s certainly very popular, works in the Kuwaiti embassy, she’s Lebanese and Jean-Luc’s smitten.”

  “My word, I don’t blame him…” Gavallan’s smile faded. Robert Armstrong was coming through the far doorway with a tall, strong-faced Iranian in his fifties. He saw Gavallan, nodded briefly, then continued with his conversation and led the way out and up the stairs where there were other lounges and rooms. “Wonder what the devil that man’s g—” Gavallan stopped as recollection flooded his mind. “Robert Armstrong, chief superintendent CID Kowloon, that’s who he is…or was!”

  “CID? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, CID or Special Branch…wait a minute…he, yes, that’s right, he was a friend of Ian’s come to think of it, that’s where I met him, at the Great House on the Peak, not at the races, though I might have seen him there too with Ian. If I remember rightly it was the night Quillan Gornt came as a very unwelcome guest…can’t remember exactly, but I think it was Ian and Penelope’s anniversary party, just before I left Hong Kong…my God, that’s almost sixteen years ago, no wonder I didn’t remember him.”

  “I had the feeling he remembered you the instant we met at the airport yesterday.”

  “So did I.” They finished their drinks and left, both of them curiously unsettled.

  TEHRAN UNIVERSITY: 7:32 P.M. The rally of over a thousand leftist students in the forecourt quadrangle was noisy and dangerous, too many factions, too many zealots, and too many of them armed. It was cold and damp, not yet dark, though already there were a few lights and torches in the twilight.

  Rakoczy was at the back of the crowd, melded into it, haphazardly dressed like the others, looking like them though now his cover had been changed and he was no longer Smith or Fedor Rakoczy, the Russian Muslim, the Islamic-Marxist sympathizer, but here in Tehran had reverted to Dimitri Yazernov, Soviet representative on the Tudeh Central Committee—a post he had had from time to time over the past few years. He stood in a corner of the quadrangle with five of the Tudeh student leaders, out of the sharpening wind, his assault rifle over his shoulder, armed and ready, and he was waiting for the first gun to go off. “Any moment now,” he said softly.

  “Dimitri, who do I take out first?” one of the leaders asked nervously.

  “The mujhadin—that motherless bastard, the one over there,” he said patiently, pointing at the black-bearded man, much older than the others. “Take your time, Farmad, and follow my lead. He’s professional and PLO.”

  The others stared at him astonished. “Why him if he’s PLO?” Farmad asked. He was squat, almost misshapen, with a large head and small intelligent eyes. “The PLO have been our great friends over the years, giving us training and support and arms.”

  “Because now the PLO will support Khomeini,” he explained patiently. “Hasn’t Khomeini invited Arafat here next week? Hasn’t he given the PLO the Israeli mission headquarters as its permanent headquarters? The PLO can supply all the technicians that Bazargan and Khomeini need to replace the Israelis and the Americans—especially in the oil fields. You don’t want Khomeini strong, do you?”

  “No, but the PLO have been v—”

  “Iran isn’t Palestine. Palestinians should stay in Palestine. You won the revolution. Why give strangers your victory?”

  “But the PLO have been our allies,” Farmad persisted, and Rakoczy was glad that he had found the flaw before some measure of power was passed over to this man.

  “Allies who have become enemies have no value. Remember the aim.”

  “I agree with Comrade Dimitri,” another said, an edge to his voice, his eyes cold and very hard. “We don’t want PLO giving orders here. If you don’t want to take him out, Farmad, I will. All of them and all the Green Ba
nd dogs too!”

  “The PLO’re not to be trusted,” Rakoczy said, continuing the same lesson, planting the same seeds. “Look how they vacillate and change positions even on their home ground, one moment saying they’re Marxist, the next Muslim, the next flirting with the archtraitor Sadat then attacking him. We have documents to prove it,” he added, the disinformation Fitting in perfectly, “and documents that prove they plan to assassinate King Hussein, and take over Jordan and make a separate peace with Israel and America. They’ve had secret meetings with the CIA and Israel already. They’re not truly anti-Israel…”

  Ah, Israel, he was thinking as he let his mouth continue the well-thought-out lesson, how important you are to Mother Russia, set there so nicely in the cauldron, a perpetual irritant guaranteed to enrage all Muslims forever, particularly the oh so oil rich sheikdoms, guaranteed to set all Muslims against all Christians, our prime enemy—your American, British, and French allies—meanwhile to curb their power and keep them and the West off-balance while we consume vital prizes—Iran this year, Afghanistan also, Nicaragua next year, then Panama and others, always to the same plan: possession of the Strait of Hormuz, Panama, Constantinople, and the treasure chest of South Africa. Ah, Israel, you’re a trump card for us to play in the world Monopoly game. But never to discard or sell! We’ll not forsake you! Oh, we’ll let you lose many battles but never the war, we’ll allow you to starve but not to die, we’ll permit your banking compatriots to finance us and therefore their own destruction, we’ll suffer you to bleed America to death, we’ll strengthen our enemies—but not too much—and assist you to be raped. But don’t worry, we’ll never let you disappear. Oh, no! Never. You’re far too valuable.

  “PLOs are arrogant and full of themselves,” a tall student said darkly, “and never polite and never conscious of Iran’s importance in the world and know nothing of our ancient history.”