Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “The pilot, HBC’s pilot, Ali Abbasi, he was going to kill me.” Half asleep Lochart told him what had happened. Then he noticed Rudi had gone chalky. “What’s the matter?”

  Rudi jerked his thumb outside. “That’s his brother—Hushang Abbasi—he’s the one who totaled HBC…”

  TEHRAN: 4:17 P.M. Both men were staring anxiously at the telex machine in the S-G penthouse office, “Come on for God’s sake!” McIver muttered and glanced again at his watch. The 125 was due at five-thirty. “We’ll have to leave soon, Andy, you never know about traffic.”

  Gavallan was rocking absently in a creaky old chair. “Yes, but Genny’s not here yet. Soon as she arrives we’ll leave. If worst comes to worst I can call Aberdeen from Al Shargaz.”

  “If Johnny Hogg makes it through Kish and Isfahan airspace, and the clearance holds in Tehran.”

  “He’ll arrive this time, I’ve a good feeling our mullah Tehrani wants the new glasses. Hope to God Johnny’s got them for him.”

  “So do I.”

  This was the first day the komiteh had allowed any foreigners back into the building. Most of the morning had been spent cleaning up and restarting their generator that had, of course, run out of fuel. Almost at once the telex machine had chattered into life: “Urgent! Please confirm your telex is working and inform Mr. McIver I have an Avisyard telex for the boss. Is he still in Tehran?” The telex was from Elizabeth Chen in Aberdeen. “Avisyard” was a company code, used rarely, meaning a top classified message for McIver’s eyes only and to operate the machine himself. It took him four tries to get the Aberdeen callback.

  “So long as we haven’t lost a bird,” Gavallan said with an inward prayer.

  “I was thinking that too.” McIver eased his shoulders. “Any idea what could merit an Avisyard?”

  “No.” Gavallan hid his sadness, thinking about the real Avisyard, Castle Avisyard, where he had spent so many happy years with Kathy, who had suggested the code. Don’t think about Kathy now, he told himself. Not now.

  “I hate bloody telex machines—they’re always going wrong,” McIver was saying, his stomach churning, mostly because of the row that he had had last night with Genny, insisting that she go on the 125 today, also because there was still no news from Lochart. Added to that, again none of the Iranian office staff had reported for work, only the pilots who had come in this morning. McIver had sent them all away except Pettikin whom he had put on standby. Nogger Lane had wandered in around noon, reporting that his flight with the mullah Tehrani, six Green Bands, and five women went well. “I think our friendly mullah wants another ride tomorrow. He expects you 5:30 P.M. sharp at the airport.”

  “All right. Nogger, you relieve Charlie.”

  “Come on, Mac, old chap, I’ve worked hard all morning, above and beyond the call, and Paula’s still in town.”

  “How well I know, ‘old chap,’ and the way things look she’ll be here for the week!” McIver had told him. “You relieve Charlie, you get your hot little tail into a chair, bring our aircraft ledgers up to date, and one more bloody word out of you I’ll post you to bloody Nigeria!”

  They had waited, grimly conscious that telexes had to go part of the way through phone lines. “Bloody lot of wire between here and Aberdeen,” McIver muttered.

  Gavallan said, “Soon as Genny arrives we’ll leave. I’ll make sure she’s all right in Al Shargaz before I go home. You’re quite right to insist.”

  “I know, you know, and the whole of Iran knows but she bloody doesn’t!”

  “Women,” Gavallan said diplomatically. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Don’t think so. Squeezing our two remaining partners helped a lot.” Gavallan had tracked them down, Mohammed Siamaki and Turiz Bakhtiar—a common surname in Iran for those from the rich and powerful and multitudinous Bakhtiar tribe of which the ex-prime minister was one of the chiefs. Gavallan had extracted 5 million rials in cash—a little over $60,000, a pittance against what the partners owed—with promises for more every week, in return for a promise, and a handwritten note, to reimburse them personally “outside the country, should it be necessary, and passage on the 125 should it be necessary.”

  “All right, but where’s Valik—how do I get hold of him?” Gavallan had asked, pretending to know nothing about his escape.

  “We already told you: he’s on vacation with his family,” Siamaki had said, rude and arrogant as always. “He’ll contact you in London or Aberdeen—there’s the overdue matter of our funds in the Bahamas.”

  “Our joint funds, dear partner, and there’s the matter of almost $4 million owing on work already completed, apart from our aircraft lease payments overdue, long overdue.”

  “If the banks were open you’d have the money. It’s not our fault the Shah’s pestilential allies ruined him and ruined Iran. We are not to blame for any of the catastrophes, none. As to the monies owed, haven’t we paid in the past?”

  “Yes. Usually six months late, but I agree, dear friends, eventually we have extracted our share. But if all joint ventures are suspended as the mullah Tehrani told me, how do we operate from now on?”

  “Some joint ventures, not all—your information is exaggerated and incorrect, Gavallan. We are on notice to get back to normal as soon as possible—crews can leave once their replacements are safely here. Oil fields must be returned to full production. There will be no problems. But to forestall any trouble, once more we have bailed out the partnership. Tomorrow my illustrious cousin, Finance Minister Ali Kia, joins the board a—”

  “Hold on a minute! I have prior approval of any change in the board!”

  “You used to have that power, but the board voted to change that bylaw. If you wish to go against the board you can bring it up at the next meeting in London—but under the circumstances the change is necessary and reasonable. Minister Kia has assured us we’ll be exempt. Of course Minister Kia’s fees and percentage will come out of your share…”

  Gavallan tried not to watch the telex machine but he found it difficult, trying to think a way out of the trap. “One moment everything seems okay, the next it’s rotten again.”

  “Yes. Yes, Andy, I agree. Talbot was today’s clincher.”

  This morning, early, they had met Talbot briefly. “Oh, yes, old boy, joint ventures are definitely persona non grata now, so sorry,” he had told them dryly. “The ‘On High’ have decreed that all joint ventures are suspended, pending instructions, though what instructions and from whom, they didn’t impart. Or who the ‘On High’ are. We presume the Olympian decree is from the dear old Komiteh, whoever they are! On the other side of the coin, old chap, the Ayatollah and Prime Minister Bazargan have both said all foreign debts will be honored. Of course Khomeini overrides Bazargan and issues counterinstructions, Bazargan issues instructions which the Revolutionary Komiteh overrules, the local komitehs are vigilantes who’re taking their own version of law as gospel, and not one rotten little urchin has yet handed in a weapon. The jails are filling up nicely, heads are rolling—and apart from the tumbrils it all has a jolly old tediously familiar ring, old boy, and rather suggests we should all retire to Margate for the duration.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Our advice to evacuate all unessential personnel still stands the moment the airport opens which is God knows when but promised for Saturday—we’ve got BA to cooperate with chartered 747s. As to the illustrious Ali Kia, he’s a minor official, very minor indeed, with no power and a good-weather friend to all sides. By the way. we’ve just heard that the U.S. ambassador in Kabul was abducted by anti-Communist, Shi’ite fundamentalist mujhadin who tried to exchange him for other mujhadin held by the pro-Soviet government. In the following shoot-out he was killed. Things are heating up rather nicely…”

  The telex clicked on, their attention zeroed, but the machine did not function. Both of them cursed.

  “Soon as I get to Al Shargaz I can phone the office and find out what’s the problem…” Gavallan glanced at the doo
r as it opened. To their surprise it was Erikki—he and Azadeh had been due to meet them at the airport. Erikki was smiling his usual smile but there was no light behind it.

  “Hello, boss, hi, Mac.”

  “Hi, Erikki. What’s up?” McIver looked at him keenly.

  “Slight change of plan. We’re, er, well, Azadeh and I are going back to Tabriz first.”

  Yesterday evening Gavallan had suggested that Erikki and Azadeh take immediate leave. “We’ll find a replacement. How about coming with me tomorrow? Perhaps we could get Azadeh replacement papers in London…”

  “Why the change, Erikki?” he asked. “Azadeh’s had second thoughts about leaving Iran without Iranian papers?”

  “No. An hour ago we got a message—I got a message from her father. Here, read it for yourself.” Erikki gave it to Gavallan, who shared it with McIver. The handwritten note said: “From Abdollah Khan to Captain Yokkonen: I require my daughter to come back here at once and ask you to grant her permission.” It was signed, Abdollah Khan. The message was repeated in Farsi on the other side.

  “You’re sure it’s his handwriting?” Gavallan asked.

  “Azadeh’s sure, and she also knew the messenger.” Erikki added, “The messenger told us nothing else, only that there’s lots of fighting going on there.”

  “By road’s out of the question.” McIver turned to Gavallan. “Maybe our mullah Tehrani’d give Erikki a clearance? According to Nogger, he was like a dog-eating wallah after his joyride this morning. We could fit Charlie’s 206 with long-range tanks, and Erikki could take her, maybe with Nogger or one of the others to bring her right back?”

  Gavallan said, “Erikki, you know the risk you’re taking?”

  “Yes.” Erikki had not yet told them about the killings.

  “You’ve thought it through—everything? Rakoczy, the roadblock, Azadeh herself? We could send Azadeh back alone and you could get on the 125 and we’d put her on Saturday’s flight.”

  “Come on, boss, you’d never do that and neither will I—I couldn’t leave her.”

  “Of course, but it had to be said. All right. Erikki, you take care of the long-range tanks, we’ll try for the clearance. I’d suggest you both come back to Tehran as quickly as possible and take the 125 on Saturday. Both of you. It might be wise for you to transfer and do a tour somewhere else—Australia, Singapore, perhaps—or Aberdeen, but that might be too cold for Azadeh, you let me know.” Gavallan cheerfully stuck out his hand. “Happy Tabriz, eh?”

  “Thanks.” Erikki hesitated. “Any news of Tom Lochart?”

  “No, not yet—still can’t raise Kowiss or Bandar Delam. Why? Sharazad’s getting anxious?”

  “More than that. Her father’s in Evin Jail an—”

  “JesusChrist,” McIver exploded, Gavallan equally shocked, knowing the rumors of arrests and firing squads. “What for?”

  “For questioning—by a komiteh—no one knows what for or how long he’ll be held.”

  Gavallan said uneasily, “Well, if it’s only for questioning…what happened, Erikki?”

  “Sharazad came home half an hour or so ago in tears. When she went back last night after dinner to her parents’ house all hell had broken loose. Apparently some Green Bands went into the bazaar, grabbed Emir Paknouri—you remember, her ex-husband—for ‘crimes against Islam’ and ordered Bakravan to appear at dawn for questioning—for what reason no one knows.” Erikki took a breath. “They went with him to the prison this morning, she, her mother, sisters, and brother. They got there just after dawn and waited and waited and would be still waiting if they hadn’t been told to clear off around 2:00 P.M. by Green Bands on guard there.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  Erikki broke it. “Mac, try Kowiss. Get them to contact Bandar Delam—Tom should know about Sharazad’s father.” He noticed the look between the two men. “What’s going on with Tom?”

  “He’s on a charter to Bandar Delam.”

  “Yes, you told me that. Mac’s told me that and so has Sharazad. Tom told her he’d be back in a few days.” Erikki waited. Gavallan just looked back at him. “Well,” he said, “you must have good reasons.”

  “I think so,” Gavallan said. Both he and McIver were convinced that Tom Lochart would not willingly have gone on to Kuwait, whatever bribe Valik offered him—both equally afraid that he had been forced.

  “All right—you’re the boss. Well, I’ll be off. Sorry for bringing bad news but I thought you’d better know.” Erikki forced a smile. “Sharazad wasn’t in good shape. See you in Al Shargaz!”

  “Sooner the better, Erikki.”

  McIver said, “If you bump into Gen—don’t mention about Sharazad’s father, eh?”

  “Of course.”

  After Erikki had left, McIver said, “Bakravan’s a pretty important bazaari to summarily arrest.”

  “I agree.” After a pause Gavallan said, “Hope to God Erikki’s not going into a trap. That message bit’s very smelly, very sm—”

  The telex chattering made them both jump. They read the telex, line by line, as it came through. Gavallan began cursing and continued to curse until the machine stopped. “God curse Imperial Helicopters to hell!” He ripped the telex out, Mac sent their call sign back and “Standby One.” Gavallan reread it.

  Again it was from Liz Chen: “Dear Boss, we’ve tried you every hour on the hour since we heard from Johnny Hogg you stayed in Tehran. Sorry to bring bad tidings but early Monday morning Imperial Air and Imperial Helicopters jointly announced ‘new financial arrangements to revitalise their competitive position in the North Sea. IH have been allowed to write off 17.1 million sterling of taxpayers’ money and have capitalised another 48 million of their 68 million debt by issuing paper to the head company in lieu of the debt.’ We’ve just heard secretly that 18 of our 19 North Sea contracts due to be renewed by various companies have been awarded to IH under real cost. Thurston Dell of ExTex urgently needs to talk to you. Our ops in Nigeria urgently need 3 repeat 3 212s—can you provide from Iran redundancies? Presume you will go to Al Shargaz or Dubai with John Hogg today. Please advise! Mac—if Himself has already left, please advise. Love to Genny.”

  “We’re buggered!” Gavallan said. “It’s highway bloody robbery with tax-payers’ money.”

  “Then, then take them to court,” McIver said nervously, shocked at Gavallan’s color. “Unfair competition!”

  “I can’t, for God’s sake,” then even louder and more angry, “unless the government screams there’s bugger all I can do! Without having to service their legitimate debt they can bid way under even our cost! Dew neh loh moh on Callaghan and all his pinkos!”

  “Come on, Andy, they’re not all pinkos!”

  “I know that, for God’s sake,” Gavallan roared, “but it sounds right!” Then his good nature overcame his fury and he laughed though his heart was still working hard. “Bloody government,” he added sourly, “they don’t know their arse from a hole in the ground.”

  McIver could feel his own hands shaking. “Christ, Andy, I thought you were going to bust a blood vessel.” He was well aware of the implications of the telex. All his own nest egg was in S-G stocks and shares. “Eighteen contracts out of nineteen, that dents our whole North Sea ops!”

  “It dents us everywhere. With those amounts of write-offs IH can undercut us worldwide. And Thurston wanting me to call urgently? That’s got to mean ExTex’ll back out, the very least renegotiate, because of a new ‘adjusted’ IH bid and I’ve signed the contract for our X63s.” Gavallan took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Then he saw Nogger Lane gaping from the doorway. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Er, er, nothing, sir, I thought the place was on fire…” Nogger Lane hurriedly closed the door.

  “Andy,” McIver said softly when it was safe, “Struan’s. Won’t they pick up the slack for you?”

  “Struan’s could, though not easily this year—but Linbar won’t.” Gavallan kept his voice down equally. “When he h
ears about all this he’ll dance a bloody jig. The timing couldn’t be more perfect for him.” He smiled wryly, thinking about Ian Dunross’s call and his warnings. He had not told McIver about them—McIver was not part of Struan’s though an old Mend of Ian’s too. Where the devil does Ian get his information?

  He smoothed out the telex. This was the culmination of a number of problems with Imperial Helicopters. Six months ago IH had deliberately headhunted one of his senior executives who had taken with him many S-G secrets. Only last month Gavallan had lost a very important North Sea Board of Trade tender to IH—after a year of work and huge investment. The board of trade specifications were to develop electronic equipment for a helicopter air-sea rescue operation in all weather conditions, day or night, so that choppers could safely go out a hundred miles over the North Sea, hover, pick eight men out of the sea, and return safely—in zero-zero conditions and gale-force winds—fast. In winter months, even with a sea survival suit, about an hour was maximum life expectancy and endurance in those seas.

  With Ian Dunross’s private enthusiasm: “Don’t forget, Andy, such knowledge and equipment would also fit perfectly into our projected China Seas endeavors,” Gavallan had committed half a million pounds and a year of work developing the electronics and guidance systems with an electronics company. Then, on the great day, the official test pilot had found he couldn’t work the equipment, even though six of S-G’s line pilots, including Tom Lochart and Rudi Lutz, later had had no trouble. Even so, S-G could not get the necessary certification in time. “The unfairness of the whole rotten business,” he had written McIver, “is that IH’s got the contract using a Guerney 661 with non-certificated Danish equipment aboard. We get the runaround and they get dispensations. It’s a bastard—by the way, of course I can’t prove it, but I’d bet real money the test pilot was got at—he’s been sent ‘on a long rest.’ Oh, we’ll get the money back and the contract in a year or so because our equipment’s better, safer, and British built. Meanwhile Imperial’s operating at safety levels, I think, that can be improved.”