Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Like me, he thought and wondered what Erikki would say if he knew that he was an Iranian intelligence expert, that he knew a lot about Rakoczy and many other foreign agents, that his prime job was to try to know everything about Iran but to do nothing and never to interfere with any of the combatants, internal or external, just to wait and watch and learn and remember. What’s Armstrong still doing here?

  He got up to cover his disquiet, pretending to want to see the crowd better. “Did they find out what they wanted to know?” he asked.

  Again Erikki shrugged. “I don’t know. I never caught up with them. I was…” He stopped and studied the other man. “Is it important?”

  “No—no, not at all. You hungry? Are you and Azadeh free for dinner?”

  “Sorry, not tonight.” Erikki glanced at his watch. “I’d better be getting back. Thanks again for the help.”

  “Nothing. You were saying about McIver and your Gavallan? They have a plan to change operations here?”

  “I don’t think so. I was supposed to meet them at 3:00 P.M. to go to the airport but seeing you and getting the passports was more important to me.” Erikki stood up and put out his hand, towering over him. “Thanks again.”

  “Nothing.” Christian shook hands warmly. “See you tomorrow.”

  Now in the street the shouting had ceased and there was an ominous silence. Both men ran for the window. All attention turned toward the main road once called Roosevelt. Then they heard the growing, “Allahhhh-uuuu Akbarrrr!”

  Erikki muttered, “Is there a back way out of the building?”

  “No. No, there isn’t.”

  The new oncoming horde had mullahs and Green Bands in their front ranks, most of them armed like the following mass of the young men. All were shouting in unison, God is Great, God is Great, totally outnumbering the student demonstration in front of the embassy, though the men there were equally armed.

  At once the leftists poured into well-chosen defensive positions in doorways and among the traffic. Men, women, and children trapped in cars and trucks began to scatter. The Islamics approached fast. As the front ranks flowed along the sidewalks and through the stalled vehicles and approached the floodlit walls, the tempo of their shouting increased, their pace quickened, and everyone readied. Then, astonishingly, the students began to retreat. Silently. The Green Bands hesitated, nonplussed.

  The retreat was peaceful and so the horde became peaceful. Soon the protesters had moved away and now none of them threatened the embassy. Mullahs and Green Bands began directing traffic. Those bystanders who had fled or abandoned their vehicles breathed again, thanked God for His intercession and swarmed back. At once the hooting and cursing opened up in a growing frenzy as cars and trucks and pedestrians fought for space. The great iron gates of the embassy did not open, though a side door did.

  Christian’s throat felt dry. “I’d’ve bet my life there was going to be a pitched battle.”

  Erikki was equally astonished. “It’s almost as though they’d expected the Green Bands and knew where they were coming from and when. It was almost as though it was a rehearsal for som—” He stopped and went closer to the window, his face suddenly flushed. “Look! Down there in the doorway, that’s Rakoczy.”

  “Where? Wh—Oh, you mean the man in the flight jacket talking to the short guy?” Christian squinted into the darkness below. The two men were half in shadow, then they shook hands and came into the light. It was Rakoczy all right. “Are you sure that…”

  But Erikki had already pulled the front door open and was halfway down the stairs. Christian had a fleeting glimpse of him as he pulled the great pukoh knife from his belt holster and slipped it into his sleeve, haft in his palm. “Erikki, don’t be a fool,” he shouted but Erikki had already vanished. Christian rushed back to the window and was just in time to see Erikki run out of the doorway below, shove through the crowds in pursuit, Rakoczy nowhere to be seen.

  But Erikki had him in view. Rakoczy was half a hundred yards away and he just caught sight of him turning south into Roosevelt to disappear. When Erikki got to the corner, he saw the Soviet ahead, walking quickly but not too quickly, many pedestrians between them, the traffic slow and very noisy. Making a detour around a tangle of trucks, Rakoczy stepped out into the road, waited for a hooting, battered old Volkswagen to squeeze past and glanced around. He saw Erikki. It would have been almost impossible to miss him—almost a foot taller than most everyone else. Without hesitation Rakoczy took to his heels, weaving through the crowds, and cut down a side street, running fast. Erikki saw him go and raced after him. Pedestrians cursed both of them, one old man sent flying into the filthy dirt as Rakoczy shoved past into another turning.

  The side street was narrow, refuse strewn everywhere, no stalls or shops open now and no streetlights, a few weary pedestrians trudging homeward with multitudes of doorways and archways leading to hovels and staircases of more hovels—the whole area smelling of urine and waste and offal and rotting vegetables.

  Rakoczy was a little more than forty yards ahead. He turned into a smaller alley, crashing through the street stalls where families were sleeping—howls of rage in his wake—changed direction and fled into a passageway and into another, cut across it into an alley, quite lost now, into another, down this and into another. Aghast, he stopped, seeing that this was a cul-de-sac. His hand went for his automatic, then he noticed a passageway just ahead and rushed for it.

  The walls were so close he could touch both of them as he charged down it, his chest heaving, going ever deeper into the curling, twisting warren. Ahead an old woman was emptying night soil into the festering joub and he sent her sprawling as others cowered against the walls to get out of his way. Now Erikki was only twenty yards behind, his rage feeding his strength, and he jumped over the old woman who was still sprawled, half in and half out of the joub, and redoubled his efforts, closing the gap. Just around the corner his adversary stopped, pulled an ancient street stall into the way, and, before Erikki could avoid it, he crashed into it and went down half stunned. With a bellow of rage he groped to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment, climbed over the wreckage, then rushed onward again, the knife now openly in his hand, and turned the corner.

  But the passageway ahead was empty. Erikki skidded to a stop. His breath was coming in great, aching gasps and he was bathed in sweat. It was hard to see though his night vision was very good. Then he noticed the small archway. Carefully he went through it, knife ready. The passage led to an open courtyard strewn with rubble and the rusty skeleton of a ravaged car. Many doorways and openings led off this dingy space, some with doors, some leading to rickety stairways and upper stories. It was silent—the silence ominous. He could feel eyes watching him. Rats scuttled out of some refuse and vanished under a pile of rubble.

  To one side was another archway. Above it was an ancient inscription in Farsi that he could not read. Through the archway the darkness seemed deeper. The pitted vaulted entrance stopped at an open doorway. The door was wooden and girt with bands of ancient iron and half off its hinges. Beyond, there seemed to be a room. As he went closer he saw a candle guttering.

  “What do you want?”

  The man’s voice came out of the darkness at him, the hair on Erikki’s neck twisted. The voice was in English—not Rakoczy’s—the accent foreign, a gruff eeriness to it.

  “Who—who’re you?” he asked uneasily, his senses searching the darkness, wondering if it was Rakoczy pretending to be someone else.

  “What do you want?”

  “I—I want—I’m following a man,” he said, not knowing where to talk to, his voice echoing eerily from the unseen, high-vaulted roof above.

  “The man you seek is not here. Go away.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Go away.”

  The candle flame was just a tiny speck of light in the darkness, making the darkness seem more strong. “Did you see anyone come this way—come running this way?”

  The
man laughed softly and said something in Farsi. At once rustling and some muted laughter surrounded Erikki and he whirled, his knife protectively weaving in front of him. “Who are you?”

  The rustling continued. All around him. Somewhere water dripped into a cistern. The air smelled dank and rancid. Sound of distant firing. Another rustle. Again he whirled, feeling someone close by but seeing no one, only the archway and the dim night beyond. The sweat was running down his face. Cautiously he went to the doorway and put his back against a wall, sure now that Rakoczy was here. The silence grew heavier.

  “Why don’t you answer?” he said. “Did you see anyone?”

  Again a soft chuckle. “Go away.” Then silence.

  “Why’re you afraid? Who are you?”

  “Who I am is nothing to you, and there’s no fear here, except yours.” The voice was as gentle as before. Then the man added something in Farsi and another ripple of amusement surrounded him.

  “Why do you speak English to me?”

  “I speak English to you because no Iranian or reader of the language of the Book would come here by day or by night. Only a fool would come here.”

  Erikki’s peripheral vision saw something or someone go between him and the candle. At once his knife came on guard. “Rakoczy?”

  “Is that the name of the man you seek?”

  “Yes—yes that’s him. He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you, whoever you are!”

  Silence, then a deep sigh. “As God wants,” and a soft order in Farsi that Erikki did not understand.

  Matches flickered all around him. Candles caught, and small oil lamps. Erikki gasped. There were ragged bundles against the walls and columns of the high-domed cavern. Hundreds of them. Men and women. The diseased, festering remains of men and women lying on straw or beds of rags. Eyes in ravaged faces staring at him. Stumps of limbs. One old crone was almost beside his feet and he leaped away in panic to the center of the doorway.

  “We are all lepers here,” the man said. He was propped against a nearby column, a helpless mound of rags. Another rag half covered the sockets of his eyes. Almost nothing was left of his face except his lips. Feebly he waved the stump of an arm. “We’re all lepers here—unclean. This is a house of lepers. Do you see this man among us?”

  “No—no. I’m—I’m sorry,” Erikki said shakily.

  “Sorry?” The man’s voice was heavy with irony. “Yes. We are all sorry. Insha’Allah! Insha’Allah.”

  Erikki wanted desperately to turn and flee but his legs would not move. Someone coughed, a hacking, frightful cough. Then his mouth said, “Who—who are you?”

  “Once I was a teacher of English—now I am unclean, one of the living dead. As God wants. Go away. Bless God for His mercy.”

  Numbed, Erikki saw the man motion with the remains of his arms. Obediently, around the cavern the lights began to go out, eyes still watching him.

  Outside in the night air, he had to make a grim effort to stop himself from running away in terror, feeling filthy, wanting to cast off his clothes at once and bathe and soap and bathe and soap and bathe again.

  “Stop it,” he muttered, his skin crawling, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  WEDNESDAY

  February 14

  AT EVIN JAIL: 6:29 A.M. The jail was like any other modern jail—in good days or bad—gray, brooding, high-walled, and hideous.

  Today the false dawn was strange, the glow below the horizon curiously red. No overcast or even clouds in the sky—the first time for weeks—and though it was still cold it promised to be a rare day. No smog. The air crisp and clean for a change. A kind wind took away the smoke from the still-burning wrecks of cars and barricades from last night’s clashes between the now legal Green Bands and the now illegal loyalists, leftists, combined with suspect police and armed forces, as well as the smoke from countless cooking and heating fires of the Tehrani millions.

  The few pedestrians who passed the prison walls and the huge door that was wrecked and broken off its hinges, and the Green Band guards who lolled there, averted their eyes and quickened their pace. Traffic was light. Another truck filled with Guards and prisoners ground its gears, stopped briefly at the main gate to be inspected. The temporary barricade opened and closed again. Inside the walls was a sudden volley of rifle fire. Outside the Green Bands yawned and stretched.

  With the arrival of the sun the call of the muezzins from the minarets began—their voices mostly carried by loudspeakers, the voices on cassette. And wherever the call was heard, the Faithful stopped what they were doing, faced Mecca, knelt for first prayer.

  Jared Bakravan had stopped the car just up the road. Now, with his chauffeur and the others, he knelt and prayed. He had spent much of the night trying to reach his most important friends and allies. The news of Paknouri’s unlawful arrest and his own unlawful summons had swept through the bazaar. Everyone was instantly enraged, but no one came forward to marshal the thousands to stage a protest or strike or to close the bazaar. He had had plenty of advice: to protest to Khomeini personally, to Prime Minister Bazargan personally, not to appear at the court, to appear but to refuse to answer any questions, to appear and to answer some questions, to appear and answer all questions. “As God wants,” but no one had volunteered to go with him, not even his great friend and one of the most important lawyers in Tehran who swore it was more important for him to be seeing the High Court judges on his behalf. No one volunteered, except his wife and son and three daughters who prayed on their own prayer mats behind him.

  He finished praying and got up shakily. At once the chauffeur began to collect the prayer mats. Jared shivered. This morning he had dressed carefully and wore a heavy coat and suit and Astrakhan hat but no jewelry. “I… I will walk from here,” he said.

  “No, Jared,” his tearful wife began, hardly noticing the distant gunfire. “Surely it is better to arrive as a leader should arrive. Aren’t you the most important bazaari in Tehran? It wouldn’t fit your position to walk.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.” He sat in the back of the car. It was a big blue Mercedes, new and well kept. His wife, a plump matron, her expensive coiffure hidden under a chador that also covered her long brown mink, got in beside him and held on to his arm, her makeup streaked by her tears. His son, Meshang, was equally tearful. And his daughters, Sharazad among them, all had chadors. “Yes…yes, you’re right. God curse these revolutionaries!”

  “Don’t worry, Father,” Sharazad said. “God will protect you—the Revolutionary Guards are only following the Imam’s orders and the Imam only follows God’s orders.” She sounded so confident but looked so dejected that Bakravan forgot to tell her not to refer to Khomeini as “Imam.”

  “Yes,” he told her, “of course it’s all a mistake.”

  “Ali Kia swore on the Koran Prime Minister Bazargan would stop all this nonsense,” his wife said. “He swore he would see him last night. Orders are probably already at the…already there.”

  Last night he had told Ali Kia that without Paknouri there could be no loan, that if he himself was troubled the bazaar would revolt and all funds stopped to the government, to Khomeini, to the mosques, and to Ali Kia personally. “Ali won’t fail,” he said grimly. “He daren’t. I know too much about them all.”

  The car stopped outside the main gate. Idly the Green Bands stared at it. Jared Bakravan summoned his courage. “I won’t be long.”

  “God protect you. Weil wait here for you—we’ll wait here.” His wife kissed him and so did the others and there were more tears and then he was standing in front of the Green Bands. “Salaam,” he said. “I’m—I’m a witness at the court of Mullah Ali’allah Uwari.”

  The leader of the Guards took the paper, glanced at it upside down, gave it to one of the others who could read. “He’s from the bazaar,” the other youth said. “Jared Bakravan.”

  The leader shrugged. “Show him where to go.” The other man led the
way through the broken doorway. Bakravan followed, and as the barricade closed behind him, much of his confidence vanished. It was somber and dank in this small open dirt area between the walls and the main building complex. The air stank. Eastward, hundreds of men were crammed together, sitting or lying down, huddled miserably against the cold. Many wore uniforms—officers. Westward, the space was empty. Ahead was a tall iron-barred gate and it swung open to admit him. In the waiting room were dozens of other men, weary frightened men, sitting in rows on benches or standing or just sitting on the floor, some uniformed officers, and he noticed one full colonel. Some of the others he recognized, important businessmen, court favorites, administrators, deputies—but none he knew intimately. A few recognized him. There was a sudden hush.

  “Hurry up,” the Guard said irritably. He was a pockmarked youth and he shoved through to the desk, to the harassed clerk who sat there. “Here’s another for Excellency Mullah Uwari.”

  The clerk accepted the paper and waved at Bakravan. “Take a seat—you’ll be called when you’re needed.”

  “Salaam, Excellency,” Bakravan said, shocked at the man’s rudeness. “When will that be? I was to be here just after fir—”

  “As God wants. You’ll be called when you’re needed,” the man said waving him away.

  “But I’m Jared Bakravan of the baz—”

  “I can read, Agha!” the man said more rudely. “When you’re wanted you’ll be called! Iran’s an Islamic state now, one law for all, not one for the rich another for the people.”

  Bakravan was jostled by others being shoved toward the clerk. Weak with rage, he made his way toward a wall. To one side a man was using a latrine bucket that was already overfull, urine spilling onto the floor. Eyes watched Bakravan. A few muttered, “God’s peace on you.” The room smelled vile. His heart was pounding. Someone made a space for him on a bench and, thankfully, he sat down. “The Blessings of God upon thee, Excellencies.”