Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Young? I’m twenty-two years old, and old, old, old. I know it, and know why, and I’ve a brain and have eyes and can even write my own name and know we can have better, as the Imam knows, once foreigners are expelled and the evil of foreign ways torn out. The Imam, God protect him, is wise and good and talks to God, obeys only God, and God knows that women are not chattel to be abused and cast back into the days of the Prophet as some fanatics want. The Imam will protect us from extremists, and won’t allow them to repeal the Shah’s Family Act that gave us the vote and protection against summary divorce—he won’t allow our votes and rights and our freedoms to be taken away or our rights to choose if we want to wear chador or not, never when he sees how strongly we are against it. Not when he sees our staunch resolve. Throughout the land.

  Fatima dried her tears and felt happier at the thought of the planned demonstrations in three days, and some of the pain left her. Yes, we women’ll demonstrate through the streets of Kowiss, proudly supporting our sisters in the great cities of Tehran and Qom and Isfahan, except I shall of course wear chador by choice, because of Hussain. Oh, how wonderful to be able to show our solidarity both as women and for the revolution.

  The news of the planned marches in Tehran had rushed throughout Iran, by what means no one was sure. But all women knew. Everywhere women decided to follow suit, and all women approved—even those who did not dare to say so.

  AT THE AIR BASE: 10:20 A.M. Starke was in the S-G tower watching the 125 come in with full flaps to touch down and turn on full reverse thrust. Zataki and Esvandiary were also there with two Green Bands—Zataki clean-shaven now.

  “Turn right at the end of the runway, Echo Tango Lima Lima,” Sergeant Wazari, the young USAF-trained air traffic controller said throatily. He had on rough civilian clothes in place of his neat uniform. His face was badly bruised, nose mashed, three teeth missing, and his ears swollen from the public beating Zataki had given him. Now he could not breathe through the nose. “Park in front of main base tower.”

  “Roger.” Johnny Hogg’s voice came back over the loudspeaker. “I repeat we are cleared to pick up three passengers, to deliver urgently required spares, with immediate turnaround and departure for Al Shargaz. Please confirm.”

  Wazari turned to Zataki, his fear open. “Excellency, please excuse me but what should I say?”

  “You say nothing, vermin.” Zataki picked up his stubby machine gun. To Starke he said, “Tell your pilot to park, to stop his engines, then to put everyone in the aircraft onto the tarmac. The aircraft will be searched and if cleared by me, it may go onward, and if it is not cleared it will not go onward. You come with me, and you too,” he added to Esvandiary. He went out.

  Starke did as he was ordered and turned to follow, but for a second he and the young sergeant were alone. Wazari caught him by the arm and whispered pathetically, “For the love of God, help me get aboard her, Captain, I’ll do anything, anything…”

  “I can’t—it’s impossible,” Starke said, sorry for him. Two days ago Zataki had paraded everyone and beaten the man senseless for “crimes against the revolution,” brought him around, made him eat filth, and beat him senseless again. Only Manuela and the very sick had been allowed to stay away. “Impossible!”

  “Please… I beg you, Zataki’s mad, he’ll k—” Wazari turned away in panic as a Green Band reappeared in the doorway. Starke walked past him, down the stairs, and out onto the tarmac, masking his disquiet. Freddy Ayre was at the wheel of a waiting jeep. Manuela was in it, along with one of his British pilots, and Jon Tyrer, a bandage around his eyes. Manuela wore loose pants, long coat, and her hair was tied up under a pilot’s hat.

  “Follow us, Freddy,” Starke said and got in beside Zataki in the back of the waiting car. Esvandiary let out the clutch and sped off to intercept the 125 that now was turning off the main runway, an accompanying swarm of trucks of Green Bands and two motorcyclists weaving around dangerously. “Crazy!” Starke muttered.

  Zataki laughed, his teeth white. “Enthusiasts, pilot, not crazy.”

  “As God wants.”

  Zataki glanced at him, no longer bantering: “You speak our language, you’ve read the Koran, and you know our ways. It is time you said the Shahada before two witnesses and became Muslim. I would be honored to be a witness.”

  “I, too,” Esvandiary said at once, also wanting to help save a soul though not for the same reasons: IranOil would need expert pilots to get full production going while replacement Iranians were trained and a Muslim Starke could be one. “I too would be honored to be a witness.”

  “Thank you,” Starke told them in Farsi. Over the years the thought had occurred to him. Once, when Iran was calm and all he had to do was fly as many missions as he could and look after his men and laugh with Manuela and the children—was that only half a year ago?—he had said to her, “You know, Manuela, there’s so much in Islam that’s great.”

  “Were you thinkin’ of four wives, darlin’?” she had said sweetly and instantly he was on guard.

  “C’me on, Manuela, I was being serious. There’s a lot in Islam.”

  “For men, not for women. Doesn’t the Koran say: ‘And the Faithful’—all men by the way—‘will lie on silken couches and there will be the houris whom neither man nor djinn hath touched’—Conroe, honey, I never could work that out, why should they be perpetual virgins? Does that do somethin’ for a man? And do women get the same deal, youth and as many horny young men as they want?”

  “Would you listen, for crissake! I meant that if you lived in the desert, the deep Saudi or Sahara desert—remember the time we were in Kuwait and we went out, just you and me, we went out into the desert, the stars as big as oysters and the quiet so vast, the night so clean and limitless, us insignificant, you remember how touched we were by the Infinite? Remember how I said, I can understand how, if you were a nomad and born into a tent, you could be possessed by Islam?”

  “And remember, darlin’, how I said we weren’t born in no goddamn tent.”

  He smiled, remembering how he had caught her and kissed her under the stars and they had taken each other, their fill of each other, under the stars. Later he had said, “I meant the pure teaching of Mohammed, I meant how with so much space, so terrifying in its vastness, that you need a safe haven and that Islam could be such a haven, maybe the only one, his original teaching, not narrow, twisted interpretations of fanatics.”

  “Why, sure, darlin’,” she had said in her most honeyed voice, “but we don’t live in no desert, never will, and you’re Conroe ‘Duke’ Starke, helicopter pilot, and the very moment you start afiguring on those four wives I’m off, me and the kids, and even Texas won’t be big enough to escape the roasting you’ll get from Manuela Rosita Santa de Cuellar Perez, honey sugar baby lamb…”

  He saw Zataki staring at him and inhaled the raw smell of gasoline and snow and winter. “Perhaps I will one day,” he told Zataki and Esvandiary. “Perhaps I will—but in God’s time, not mine.”

  “May God hurry the time. You’re wasted as an Infidel.”

  But now all of Starke’s concentration was on the 125 that was coming into its parking slot, and on Manuela who must leave today. Difficult for her, goddamn difficult, but she has to go.

  This morning, early, McIver in Tehran had told Starke by HF they had permission for the 125 to stop off at Kowiss, provided it was also approved in Kowiss, that she would be bringing spares, and there’d be space for three passengers outbound. At length Major Changiz and Esvandiary had agreed but only after Starke had irritably told them in front of Zataki, “You know our crew changes are long overdue. One of our 212’s waiting for spares, and two of the 206s are ready for their fifteen-hundred-hour checks. If I can’t have fresh crews and spares, I can’t operate, and you’ll be responsible for not obeying Ayatollah Khomeini—not me.”

  The car stopped beside the 125, the engines whining down. The door was not yet open and he could see John Hogg peering out of the cockpit window. Trucks
and guns ringed her, excitable Green Bands milling around.

  Zataki tried to make himself heard, then, exasperated, fired a burst into the air. “Get away from the airplane,” he ordered. “By God and the Prophet only my men will search it! Get away!” Sullenly the other Green Bands moved back a little. “Pilot, tell him to open the door quickly, and get everyone out quickly before I change my agreement!”

  Starke gave the thumbs-up to Hogg. In a moment the door was opened by the second pilot. The steps came down. At once Zataki leaped up them and stood at the top, machine gun ready. “Excellency you don’t need that,” Starke told him. “Everybody out, quick as you can, okay?”

  There were eight passengers—four of them pilots, three mechanics, and Genny McIver. “My God, Genny! I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Hello, Duke. Duncan thought it best and…well, never mind. Is Manuela going to co—” She saw her and went over to her. They embraced and Starke noticed the age on Genny.

  He followed Zataki into the empty, low-ceilinged aircraft. Extra seats had been lashed in. At the back, near the toilet, were several crates. “Spares and the spare engine you needed,” Johnny Hogg called out from the pilot’s seat, handing him the manifest. “Hello, Duke!”

  Zataki took the manifest and jerked a thumb at Hogg. “Out!”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m responsible for the aircraft, sorry,” Hogg said.

  “Last time. Out.”

  Starke said, “Get out of your seat a moment, Johnny. He just wants to see if there are any guns. Excellency, it would be safer if the pilot was allowed to stay in place. I will vouch for him.”

  “Out!”

  Reluctantly John Hogg eased himself out of the small cockpit. Zataki made sure nothing was in the side pockets, then waved him back into the seat and studied the cabin. “Those are the spares you need?”

  “Yes,” Starke said, and politely made room on the landing where Zataki shouted for some of his men to carry the crates onto the tarmac. The men did this carelessly, banging the sides of the doorway and the steps, making the pilots wince. Then Zataki searched the aircraft carefully, finding nothing that irritated him. Except the wine on ice and the liquor in the cabinet.

  “No more liquor into Iran. None. Confiscated!” He had the bottles smashed on the tarmac and ordered the crates opened. One jet engine and many other spares. Everything on the manifest. Starke watched from the cabin doorway, trying to make himself inconspicuous.

  Zataki said, “Who are these passengers?” The second officer gave him the list of names. It was headed in English and Farsi: “Temporarily redundant pilots and mechanic, all overdue leave and replacement.” He began to scrutinize it, and them.

  “Duke,” Johnny Hogg said cautiously from the cockpit, “I’ve some money for you and a letter from McIver. Is it safe?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Two envelopes in my inside uniform pocket, hanging up. The letter’s private, Mac said.”

  Starke found them and stuffed them into his inner parka pocket. “What’s going on in Tehran?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “The airport’s a madhouse, thousands trying to get on the three or four planes they’ve allowed in so far,” Hogg said rapidly, “with at least six jumbos stacked in a holding pattern aimlessly waiting for permission to land. I, er, I just jumped the queue, peeled in without a real clearance, and said, Oh, so sorry, I thought I was cleared, picked up my lot, and scarpered. Hardly had time to chat with McIver—he was surrounded by trigger-happy revs and an odd mullah or two—but he seems okay. Pettikin, Nogger, and the others seemed okay. I’m based at Al Shargaz for at least a week to shuttle back and forth as I can.” Al Shargaz was not far from Dubai, where S-G had its HQ that side of the Gulf. “We’ve permission from Tehran ATC to bring in spares and crew to match those we intend to take out—looks like they’re going to keep us more or less one for one and up to strength—with flights scheduled Saturdays and Wednesdays.” He stopped for breath. “Mac says for you to find excuses for me to come here from time to time—I’m to be kind of a courier for him and Andy Gavallan till normality re—”

  “Watch it,” Starke said, behind his hand, seeing Zataki glance up at the airplane. He had been watching him inspect the passengers and their documents. Then he saw Zataki beckon him and he went down the stairs. “Yes, Excellency?”

  “This man has no exit permit.”

  The man was Roberts, one of the fitters, middle-aged, very experienced. Anxiety etched his already-lined face. “I told him I couldn’t get one, Cap’n Starke, we couldn’t get one, the immigration offices’re still all closed. There was no problem at Tehran.”

  Starke glanced at the document. It was only four days past expiration. “Perhaps you could let it go this time, Excellency. It’s true that the off—”

  “No correct exit permit, no exit. He stays!”

  Roberts went white. “But Tehran passed me and I’ve got to be in Lon—”

  Zataki grabbed him by the parka and jerked him out of line to send him sprawling. Enraged, Roberts scrambled to his feet. “By God, I’m cleared an—” He stopped. One of the Green Bands had a rifle in his chest, another was behind him, both now ready to pull the triggers.

  Starke said, “Wait by the jeep, Roberts. Goddamnit, wait by the jeep!”

  One of the Green Bands roughly shoved the mechanic toward it as Starke tried to cover his own worry. Jon Tyrer and Manuela did not have up-to-date exit papers either.

  “No exit permits, no exit!” Zataki repeated venomously and took the next man’s papers.

  Genny, next in line, was very frightened, hating Zataki and the violence and the smell of the fear surrounding her, sorry for Roberts who needed to be back in England as one of his children was very ill, polio suspected, and no mail or phones and the telex sporadic. She watched Zataki slowly going through the pilot’s papers next to her. Rotten bastard! she thought. I’ve got to get on that plane, got to. Oh, how I wish we were all leaving. Poor Duncan, he simply won’t look after himself, won’t bother to eat properly and he’s bound to get his ulcers back. “My exit permit’s not current,” she said trying to sound timid, and let some tears glisten her eyes.

  “Nor mine,” Manuela said in a small voice.

  Zataki looked at them. He hesitated. “Women are not responsible, men are responsible. You two women may leave. This time. Go aboard.”

  “Can Mr. Roberts come too?” Genny asked, pointing to the mechanic, “He’s rea—”

  “Get aboard!” Zataki shouted in one of his sudden, maniacal rages, blood in his face. The two women fled up the stairs, everyone else in momentary panic, and even his own Green Bands shifted nervously.

  “Excellency, you were right,” Starke said in Farsi, forcing himself to be outwardly calm. “Women should not argue.” He waited and everyone waited, hardly breathing, the dark eyes boring into him. But he kept his gaze level. Zataki nodded and, sullenly, continued examining the papers in his hand.

  Yesterday Zataki had come back from Isfahan and Esvandiary had authorized a flight for tomorrow afternoon to carry him back to Bandar Delam again. The sooner the better, Starke thought grimly.

  And yet he felt sorry for Zataki. Last night he found him leaning against a helicopter, his hands pressed to his temples, in great pain. “What is it, Agha?”

  “My head. I—it’s my head.”

  He had persuaded him to see Dr. Nutt and taken him privately to the doctor’s bungalow.

  “Just give me aspirin, or codeine, Doctor, whatever you have,” Zataki had said.

  “Perhaps you’d let me examine you and th—”

  “No examine!” Zataki had shouted. “I know what’s wrong with me. SAVAK is wrong with me, prison is wrong with me…” And later, when the codeine had taken away some of the pain, Zataki had told Starke that about a year and a half ago he had been arrested, accused of anti-Shah propaganda. At the time he was working as a journalist for one of the Abadan newspapers. He had been jailed for eight
months and then, just after the Abadan fire, released. He had not told Starke what they had done to him. “As God wants, pilot,” he had said bitterly. “But since that day, I bless God every day for one more day of life to stamp out more SAVAKs and Shah men, his lackey police and lackey soldiers and any and all who assisted his evil—once I supported him, didn’t he pay for my education, here and in England? But he was to blame for SAVAK! He was to blame! That part of my vengeance is just for me—I still haven’t started on my revenge for my wife and sons murdered in the Abadan fire.”

  Starke had held his peace. The how or why or who of the arson that had caused almost five hundred deaths had never come to light.

  He watched Zataki work slowly and laboriously down the line of would-be passengers—how many more with incomplete or not current papers Starke did not know, everyone tense, a brooding pall over them. Soon it would be Tyrer’s turn and Tyrer must go. Doc Nutt had said to be safe Tyrer should be examined at Al Shargaz or Dubai as soon as possible where there were marvelous hospital facilities. “I’m sure he’s all right, but it’s best for him to rest his eyes for the time being. And listen, Duke, for the love of God, keep out of Zataki’s way and warn the others to do the same. He’s ripe to explode and God only knows what’ll happen then.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Medically, I don’t know. Psychologically he’s dangerous, very dangerous. I’d say manic-depressive, certainly paranoiac, probably caused directly by his prison experiences. Did he tell you what they did to him?”

  “No. No, he didn’t.”

  “If it was up to me, I’d recommend he be under sedatives and absolutely nowhere near firearms.”