Oh, I knew you’d come to beg my help, why else did I keep them safe, why else did I meet them secretly in Tabriz two days ago and bring them here secretly if not for you? Perhaps. Pity Vien Rosemont got killed, he was useful. Even so, the information and warning contained in the code he gave the captain for me is more than useful. He’ll be difficult to replace.
Yes, and also true that if you receive a favor you must return a favor. The Infidel Erikki is only one. He rang a bell and when the servant appeared, he said, “Tell my daughter Azadeh she will join us for food.”
AT TEHRAN: 4:17 P.M. Jean-Luc Sessonne banged the brass knocker on the door of McIver’s apartment. Beside him was Sayada Bertolin. Now that they were off the street and alone, he cupped her breasts through her coat and kissed her. “I promise we won’t be long, then back to bed!”
She laughed. “Good.”
“You booked dinner at the French Club?”
“Of course. We’ll have plenty of time!”
“Yes, chérie.” He wore an elegant, heavy raincoat over his flying uniform and his flight from Zagros had been uneasy, no one answering his frequent radio calls though the airwaves were filled with excitable Farsi which he did not speak or understand.
He had kept at regulation height, and made a standard approach to Tehran’s International Airport. Still no answer to his calls. The wind sock was full and showed a strong crosswind. Four jumbos were on the apron near the terminal along with a number of other jets, one a burned-out wreck. He saw some were loading, surrounded by too many men, women, and children with no order to them, the fore and aft steps to the cabins dangerously overcrowded, discarded suitcases and luggage scattered everywhere. No police or traffic wardens that he could see, nor at the other side of the terminal building where all approach roads were clogged with standstill traffic that was jammed nose to tail. The parking lot was solid but more cars were trying to squeeze in, the sidewalks packed with laden people.
Jean-Luc thanked God that he was flying and not walking and he landed at the nearby airfield of Galeg Morghi without trouble, bedded the 206 in the S-G hangar, and organized an immediate ride into town with the help of a $10 bill. First stop at the Schlumberger office and a dawn date fixed to fly back to Zagros. Then to her apartment. Sayada had been home. As always the first time after being so long apart was immediate, impatient, rough, selfish, and mutually explosive.
He had met her at a Christmas party in Tehran a year and two months and three days ago. He remembered the evening exactly. The room was crowded and the moment he arrived, he saw her as though the room was empty. She was alone, sipping a drink, her dress sheer and white.
“Vous parlez français, madame?” he had asked, stunned by her beauty.
“Sorry, m’sieur, only a few words. I would prefer English.”
“Then in English: I am overjoyed to meet you but I have a dilemma.”
“Oh? What?”
“I wish to make love to you immediately.”
“Eh?”
“You are the manifestation of a dream…” It would sound so much better in French but never mind, he had thought. “I’ve been looking for you forever and I need to make love to you, you are so desirable.”
“But…but my…husband is over there. I’m married.”
“That is a condition, madam, not an impediment.”
She had laughed and he had known she was his. Only one thing more would make everything perfect. “Do you cook?”
“Yes,” she had said with such confidence that he knew she would be superb, that in bed she would be divine, and that what she lacked he would teach her. How lucky she is to have met me, he thought happily, and banged on the door again.
Their months together had flown by. Her husband rarely visited Tehran. He was a Lebanese banker in Beirut, of French extraction, “and therefore civilized,” Jean-Luc had said with total confidence, “so of course he would approve of our liaison, chérie, should he ever find out. He is quite old compared to you, of course he would approve.”
“I’m not so sure, chéri, and he’s only fifty and you’re f—”
“Divine,” he had said, helping her. “Like you.” For him it was true. He had never known such skin and silky hair and long limbs and a sinuous passion that was a gift of heaven. “Mon Dieu,” he had gasped one night, kept lingering on the summit by her magic, “I die in your arms.” Later she had kissed him and brought him a hot towel and slid back into bed. This was on a holiday in Istanbul in the fall of last year, and the utter sensuality of that city had surrounded them.
For her the affair was exciting, but not an affair to end all affairs. She had discussed Jean-Luc with her husband the night of the party. “Ah,” he had said, amused, “so that was why you wanted to meet him!”
“Yes. I thought him interesting—even though French and totally self-centered as always—but he excited me, yes, yes, he did.”
“Well, you’ll be here in Tehran for two years, I can’t be here more than a few days a month—too dangerous—and it would be a shame for you to be alone, every night. Wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, then I have your permission?”
“Where is his wife?”
“In France. He’s in Iran for two months, then has one month with her.”
“Perhaps it would be a very good idea, this liaison—good for your soul, good for your body, and good for our work. More importantly, it would divert attention.”
“Yes, that occurred to me too. I told him I did not speak French and he has many advantages—he’s a member of the French Club!”
“Ah! Then I agree. Good, Sayada. Tell him I’m a banker of French extraction, which is partially true—wasn’t my great-great-grandfather a foot soldier with Napoleon on his Middle East drive toward India? Tell your Frenchman we’re Lebanese for many generations, not just a few years.”
“Yes, you are wise as always.”
“Get him to make you a member of the French Club. That would be perfect! A great deal of power there. Somehow the Iran-Israel entente must be broken, somehow the Shah must be curbed, somehow we have to split Israel from Iran oil or the archfiend Begin will be tempted to invade Lebanon to cast our fighters out. With Iranian oil he’ll succeed and that will be the end of another civilization. I’m tired of moving.”
“Yes, yes, I agree…”
Sayada was very proud. So much accomplished in the year, unbelievable how much! Next week Leader Yasir Arafat was invited to Tehran for a triumphal meeting with Khomeini as a thank-you for his help to the revolution: oil exports to Israel were finished, the fanatically anti-Israel Khomeini installed—and the pro-Israel Shah expelled into ignominy. So much progress since she had first met Jean-Luc. Inconceivable progress! And she knew that she had helped her husband who was highly placed in the PLO, by acting as a special courier taking messages and cassettes to and from Istanbul, to and from the French Club in Tehran—oh, how much intrigue to persuade the Iraqis to allow Khomeini to leave for the safe harbor of France where he would no longer be muzzled—to and from all sorts of places escorted by my handsome lover. Oh, yes, she thought contentedly, Jean-Luc’s friends and contacts have been so useful. One day soon we will get back to Gaza and regain our lands and houses and shops and vineyards…
McIver’s door swung open. It was Charlie Pettikin. “Good God, Jean-Luc, what the hell’re you doing here? Hi, Sayada, you look more beautiful than ever, come on in!” He shook hands with Jean-Luc and gave her a friendly kiss on both cheeks and felt the warmth of her.
Her long, heavy coat and hood hid most of her. She knew the dangers of Tehran and dressed accordingly: “It saves so much bother, Jean-Luc: I agree it’s stupid and archaic but I don’t want to be spat on, or have some rotten thug wave his penis at me or masturbate as I pass by—it’s not and never will be France. I agree it’s unbelievable that now in Tehran I have to wear some form of chador to be safe, yet a month ago I didn’t. Whatever you say, chéri, the old Tehran’s gone forever…”
Pity in some
ways, she thought, going into the apartment. It had had the best of the West and best of the East—and the worst. But now, now I pity Iranians, particularly the women. Why is it Muslims, particularly Shi’as, are so narrow-minded and won’t let their women dress in a modern way? Is it because they’re so repressed and sex-besotted? Or is it because they’re frightened they’d be shown up? Why can’t they be open-minded like us Palestinians, or Egyptians, Shargazi, Dubaians, or Indonesians, Pakistanis, or so many others? It must be impotence. Well nothing’s going to keep me from joining the Women’s Protest March. How dare Khomeini try to betray us women who went to the barricades for him!
It was cold inside the apartment, the electric fire still down to half power, so she kept her coat on, just opened it to be more comfortable, and sat on one of the sofas. Her dress was warm and Parisian and slit to the thigh. Both men noticed. She had been here many times and thought the apartment drab and uncomfortable though she liked Genny very much. “Where’s Genny?”
“She went to Al Shargaz this morning on the 125.”
“Then Mac’s gone?” Jean-Luc said.
“No, just her, Mac’s out at th—”
“I don’t believe it!” Jean-Luc said. “She swore she’d never leave without old Dirty Duncan!”
Pettikin laughed. “I didn’t believe it either but she went like a lamb.” Time enough to tell Jean-Luc the real reason why she went, he thought.
“Things’ve been bad here?”
“Yes, and getting worse. Lots more executions.” Pettikin thought it better not to mention Sharazad’s father in front of Sayada. No point in worrying her. “How about tea? I’ve just made some. You hear about Qasr Jail today?”
“What about it?”
“A mob stormed it,” Pettikin said, going into the kitchen for extra cups. “They broke down the door and released everyone, strung up a few SAVAKs and police, and now the rumor is Green Bands have set up shop with kangaroo courts and they’re filling the cells with whom the hell ever and emptying them as quickly in front of firing squads.”
Sayada would have said that the prison had been liberated and that now enemies of the revolution, enemies of Palestine, were getting their just punishment. But she held her peace and listened attentively as Pettikin continued: “Mac went to the airport with Genny early, then to the Ministry, then here. He’ll be back soon. How was the traffic at the airport, Jean-Luc?”
“Jammed for miles.”
“The Old Man’s stationed the 125 at Al Shargaz for a couple of weeks to get all our people out—if necessary—or bring in fresh crews.”
“Good. Scot Gavallan’s overdue for leave and also a couple of our mechanics—can the 125 get clearance to stop at Shiraz?”
“We’re trying next week. Khomeini and Bazargan want full oil production back, so we think they’ll cooperate.”
“You’ll be able to bring in new crews, Charlie?” Sayada asked, wondering if a British 125 should be allowed to operate so freely. Damn British, always conniving!
“That’s the plan, Sayada.” Pettikin poured more boiling water into the teapot and did not notice the grimace on Jean-Luc’s face. “We’ve been more or less ordered by the British embassy to evacuate all nonessential personnel—we got out a few redundancies, and Genny, and then Johnny Hogg went to pick up Manuela Starke at Kowiss.”
“Manuela’s at Kowiss?” Sayada was as surprised as Jean-Luc.
Pettikin told him how she had arrived and McIver had sent her down there. “So much going on it’s difficult to keep tabs on everything. What’re you doing here and how’re things at Zagros? You’ll stay for dinner—I’m cooking tonight.”
Jean-Luc hid his horror. “Sorry, mon vieux, tonight is impossible. As to Zagros, at Zagros things are perfect, as always; after all it is the French sector. I’m here to fetch Schlumberger—I return at dawn tomorrow and will have to bring them back in two days—how can I resist the extra flying?” He smiled at Sayada and she smiled back. “In fact, Charlie, I’m long overdue a weekend—where’s Tom Lochart, when’s he coming back to Zagros?”
Pettikin’s stomach twisted. Since they had had the call three days ago from Rudi Lutz at Abadan Tower reporting that HBC had been shot down trying to sneak over the border and that Tom Lochart was “back off leave,” they had had no further information other than one formal call relayed through Kowiss that Lochart had started back for Tehran by road. No official inquiries, yet, about the hijack.
I wish to God Tom was back, Pettikin thought. If Sayada wasn’t here I’d tell Jean-Luc about it, he’s a bigger friend of Tom’s than I am, but I don’t know about Sayada. After all, she’s not family, she works for Kuwaitis and this HBC business could be called treason.
Absently he poured a cup and handed it to Sayada, another to Jean-Luc, hot, black, with sugar and goat’s milk which neither of them liked but accepted out of politeness. “Tom’s done what he had to do,” he said carefully, making it sound light. “He started back from Bandar Delam day before yesterday by road. God knows how long he’ll take but he should’ve been here last night. Easy. Let’s hope he arrives today.”
“That would be perfect,” Jean-Luc said. “Then he could take the Schlumberger team back to Zagros and I’d take a few days’ leave.”
“You’ve just had leave. And you’re in command.”
“Well, at the very least he can come back with me, take over the base, and I’ll return here Sunday.” Jean-Luc beamed at Sayada. “Voilà, it’s all fixed.” Without noticing it, he took a sip of tea and almost choked. “Mon Dieu, Charlie, I love you like a brother but this is merde.”
Sayada laughed and Pettikin envied him. Still, he thought, his heart picking up a beat, Paula’s Alitalia flight’s due back any day…what wouldn’t I give to have her eyes light up for me like Sayada’s do for M’sieur Seduction himself.
Better go easy, Charlie Pettikin. You could make a damn fool of yourself. She’s twenty-nine, you’re fifty-six, and you’ve only chatted her up a couple of times. Yes. But she excites me more than I’ve been excited in years and now I can understand Tom Lochart going overboard for Sharazad.
The warning buzzer went on the High Frequency transmitter-receiver on the sideboard. He got up and turned up the volume. “HQ Tehran, go ahead!”
“This is Captain Ayre in Kowiss for Captain McIver. Urgent.” The voice was mixed with static and low.
“This is Captain Pettikin, Captain McIver’s not here at the moment. You’re two by five.” This was a measure, one to five, of the signal strength. “Can I help?”
“Standby One.”
Jean-Luc grunted. “What’s with Freddy and you? Captain Ayre and Captain Pettikin?”
“It’s just a code,” Pettikin said absently staring at the set, and Sayada’s attention increased. “It just sort of developed and means someone’s there or listening in who shouldn’t. A hostile. Replying with the same formality means you got the message.”
“That’s very clever,” Sayada said. “Do you have lots of codes, Charlie?”
“No, but I’m beginning to wish we had. It’s a bugger not knowing what’s going on really—no face-to-face contact, no mail, phones and the telex ropy with so many trigger-happy nutters muscling us all. Why don’t they turn in their guns and let’s all live happily ever after?”
The HF was humming nicely. Outside the windows, the day was overcast and dull, the clouds promising more snow, the late afternoon light making all the city roofs drab and even the mountains beyond. They waited impatiently.
“This is Captain Ayre at Kowiss…” Again the voice was eroded by static and they had to concentrate to hear clearly. “…first I relay a message received from Zagros Three a few minutes ago from Captain Gavallan.” Jean-Luc stiffened. “The message said exactly: ‘Pan pan pan’”—the international aviation distress signal just below Mayday—‘“I’ve just been told by the local komiteh we are no longer persona grata in Zagros and to evacuate the area with all expatriates from all our rigs within forty-eight
hours, or else. Request immediate advice on procedure.’ End of message. Did you copy?”
“Yes,” Pettikin said hastily, jotting some notes.
“That’s all he said, except he sounded chocker.”
“I’ll inform Captain McIver and call you back as soon as possible.” Jean-Luc leaned forward and Pettikin let him take the mike.
“This’s Jean-Luc, Freddy, please call Scot and tell him I’ll be back as planned tomorrow before noon. Good to talk to you, thanks, here’s Charlie again.” He handed the mike back, all of his bonhomie vanished.
“Will do, Captain Sessonne. Nice to talk to you. Next: the 125 picked up our outgoings along with Mrs. Starke, including Captain Jon Tyrer who’d been wounded in an aborted leftist counterattack at Bandar Delam…”
“What attack?” Jean-Luc muttered.
“First I’ve heard of it,” Pettikin was just as concerned.
“…and, according to plan, will bring back replacement crews in a few days. Next: Captain Starke.” They all heard the hesitation and underlying anxiety and the curious stilted delivery as though this information was being read: “Captain Starke has been taken into Kowiss for questioning by a komiteh…” Both men gasped. “…to ascertain facts about a mass helicopter escape of pro-Shah air force officers from Isfahan on the thirteenth, last Tuesday, believed to have been piloted by a European. Next: air operations continue to improve under close supervision of the new management. Mr. Esvandiary is now our IranOil area manager and wants us to take over all Guerney contracts. To do this would require three more 212s and one 206. Please advise. We need spares for HBN, HKJ, and HGX and money for overdue wages. That’s all for now.”
Pettikin kept scribbling, his brain hardly working. “I’ve, er, I’ve noted everything and will inform Captain McIver as soon as he returns. You said, er, you said ‘an attack on Bandar Delam.’ Please give the details.”
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