Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Of course, Tommy. How long would we be gone?”

  He hesitated. “A few weeks—perhaps longer.” He felt her change in his arms, imperceptibly.

  “When would you want to leave?”

  “Very soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  She moved out of his embrace without moving. “I wouldn’t be able to leave Mother, not for a while. She’s…she’s torn apart with grief, Tommy, and…and if I went I’d be afraid for her. And then there’s poor Meshang—he has to run the business, he has to be helped—there’s so much to do and to look after.”

  “Do you know about the confiscation order?”

  “What order?”

  He told her. Tears filled her eyes again and she sat up, her pain for the moment forgotten. She stared at the oil flame and at the shadows it cast. “Then we’ve no home, nothing. As God wants,” she said dully. Then almost at once in a different voice, “No, not as God wants! As Green Bands want. Now we have to join together to save the family, otherwise they will have beaten Father—we cannot allow them to murder him and then beat him as well, that would be terrible.”

  “Yes, I agree, but this ferry’d solve our problems for a few weeks…”

  “You’re right, Tommy, as always, yes, yes, it would if we needed to leave but this is our home just as much if not more, oh, how happy we’ll be here! In the morning I will get servants and bring everything of ours from the apartment—pah! what are a few carpets and trinkets when we have this house and ourselves. I will arrange everything—oh, we will be happy here.”

  “But if y—”

  “This theft makes it even more important for us to be here, to resist, to protest—it makes the march, oh, so much more important.” She put a finger on his lips as she saw him start to speak. “If you must do this ferry—and of course you must do your work—then go, my darling, but hurry back quickly. In a few weeks Tehran will be normal and kind again and I know that is what God wants.”

  Oh, yes, she thought confidently, her happiness overcoming the pain, by then it will be my second month and Tommy will be so proud of me and meanwhile it will be wonderful to live here, surrounded by family, Father avenged, the house filled with laughter again. “Everyone will help us,” she said, lying back in his arms, so tired but so happy. “Oh, Tommy, I’m so glad you’re home, we’re home, it will be so wonderful, Tommy.” Her words became slower as waves of sleep washed over her. “We’ll all help Meshang…and those abroad will come back, Aunt Annoush and the children…they’ll help…and Uncle Valik will guide Meshang…”

  Lochart did not have the heart to tell her.

  SUNDAY

  February 18

  AT THE KHAN’S PALACE, TABRIZ: 3:13 A.M. In the darkness of the small room Captain Ross opened the leather cover of his watch and peered at the luminous figures. “All set, Gueng?” he whispered in Gurkhali.

  “Yes, sahib,” Gueng whispered, glad that the waiting was over.

  Carefully and quietly both men got off their pallets that lay on old, smelly carpets on the hard-packed, earthen floor. They were fully dressed, and Ross picked his way across to the window and peered out. Their guard was slumped down beside the door, fast asleep, his rifle in his lap. Two hundred yards away beyond the snow-covered orchards and outbuildings was the four-story palace of the Gorgon Khan, The night was dark and cold with some clouds, a nimbus around the moon that came through brightly from time to time.

  More snow, he thought, then eased the door open. Both men stood there, searching the darkness with all their senses. No lights anywhere. Noiselessly Ross moved over to the guard and shook him but the man did not wake from the drugged sleep that was good for at least two hours. It had been easy to give him the drug in a piece of chocolate, kept for just that purpose in their survival kit—some of the chocolate dragged, some poisoned. Once more he concentrated on the night, waiting patiently for the moon to go behind a cloud. Absently he scratched at the bite of a bedbug. He was armed with his kookri, and one grenade. “If we’re stopped, Gueng, we’re only going for a stroll,” he had told him earlier. “Better to leave our weapons here. Why have kookris and one grenade? It’s an old Gurkha custom—an offense against our regiment to be unarmed.”

  “I think I would like to take all our weapons now and slip back into the mountains and make our way south, sahib.”

  “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to but it’s a rotten gamble,” Ross had said. “It’s a rotten gamble. We’ll be trapped in the open—those hunters’re still searching and they won’t give up till we’re caught. Don’t forget we only just made it to the safe house. It was only the clothes that saved us.” After the ambush where Vien Rosemont and Tenzing had been killed, he and Gueng had stripped some of their attackers and put tribesmen’s robes over their uniforms. He had considered dumping their uniforms entirely but thought that unwise. “If we’re caught we’re caught and that’s the end of it.”

  Gueng had grinned. “Therefore better you become a good Hindu now. Then if we get killed, it’s not an end but a beginning.”

  “How do I do that, Gueng? Become a Hindu?” He smiled wryly, remembering the perplexed look on Gueng’s face and the vast shrug. Then they had tidied the bodies of Vien Rosemont and Tenzing and left them together in the snow according to the custom of the High Lands: “This body has no more value to the spirit, and because of the immutability of rebirth, it is bequeathed to the animals and to the birds that are other spirits struggling in their own karma toward Nirvana—the place of Heavenly Peace.”

  The next morning they had spotted those who followed relentlessly. When they came down out of the hills into the outskirts of Tabriz, their pursuers were barely half a mile behind. Only their camouflage had saved them, allowing them to be lost in the crowds, many tribesmen as tall as he and with blue eyes, many as well armed. More luck was with them and he had found the back door of the filthy little garage the first time, used Vien Rosemont’s name, and the man there had hidden them. That night Abdollah Khan had come with his guards, very hostile and suspicious. “Who told you to ask for me?”

  “Vien Rosemont, He also told us about this place.”

  “Who is this Rosemont? Where is he now?”

  Ross had told him what had happened at the ambush and noticed something new behind the man’s eyes now, even though he remained hostile.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Who are you?”

  “Before Vien died he asked me to give you a message—he was delirious and his dying bad, but he made me repeat it three times to make sure. He said: Tell Abdollah Khan that Peter’s after the Gorgon’s head and Peter’s son is worse than Peter, The son plays with curds and whey and so does the father who’ll try to use a Medusa to catch the Gorgon.’” He saw the other man’s eyes light up at once but not happily. “So it means something to you?”

  “Yes. It means you know Vien. So Vien’s dead. As God wants, but that’s a pity. Vien was good, very good, and a great patriot. Who are you? What was your mission? What were you doing in our mountains?”

  Again he hesitated, remembering that Armstrong had told him at his briefing not to trust this man too far. Yet Rosemont whom he had trusted had said in his dying, “You can trust that old bastard with your life. I have, half a dozen times, and he’s never failed me. Go to him, he’ll get you out…”

  Abdollah Khan was smiling, his mouth cruel like his eyes. “You can trust me—I think you have to.”

  “Yes.” But not very far at all, he added silently, loathing the word, the word that costs millions their lives, more millions their freedom and every adult on earth peace of mind at some time or another, “It was to neutralize Sabalan,” he said and told him what had happened there.

  “God be praised! I will pass word to Wesson and Talbot.”

  “Who?”

  “Ah, doesn’t matter. I’ll get you south. Come with me, it’s not safe here—the hue and cry’s out, with a reward, for ‘two British saboteurs, two enemies of Islam.’ Who are you?”
/>
  “Ross. Captain Ross and this is Sergeant Gueng. Who were the men chasing us? Iranians—or Soviets? Or Soviet-led?”

  “Soviets don’t operate openly in my Azerbaijan—not yet.” The Khan’s lips twisted into a strange smile. “I have a station wagon outside. Get into it quickly and lie down in the back. I’ll hide you and when it’s safe, get you both back to Tehran—but you have to obey my orders. Explicitly.”

  That was two days ago, but then the coming of the Soviet strangers and the arrival of the helicopter had made everything different. He saw the moon go behind a cloud and he tapped Gueng on the shoulder. The small man vanished into the orchard. When the all-clear signal came out of the night, he followed. They leapfrogged each other, moving very well until they were beside the corner of the north wing of the great house. No guards or guard dogs yet though Gueng had seen some Doberman pinschers chained up.

  It was an easy climb up a balustrade to the first-floor balcony, Gueng led. He hurried down half its length, passed the corridor of shuttered windows to the staircase that climbed to the next balcony. At the top he waited, getting his bearings. Ross came alongside. Gueng pointed at the second set of windows and took out his kookri but Ross shook his head and motioned to a side door that he had noticed, deep in shadow. He tried the handle. The door squeaked loudly. Some night birds skeetered out of the orchard, calling to one another. Both men concentrated on where the birds had come from, expecting to see a patrol. None appeared. Another moment to make sure, then Ross led the way inside, adrenaline heightening his tension.

  The corridor was long, many doors either side, some windows to the south. Outside the second door he stopped, warily tried the handle. This door opened silently and he went in quickly, Gueng following, his kookri out and grenade ready. The room seemed to be an anteroom—carpets, lounging pillows, old-fashioned Victorian furniture and sofas. Two doors led off it. Praying it was the correct choice, Ross opened the door nearest the corner of the building and went in. The curtains were drawn but a crack of moonlight to one side showed them the bed clearly and the man he sought and a woman asleep there under the thick quilt. It was the right man but he had not expected a woman. Gueng eased the door closed. Without hesitation they went to either side of the bed, Ross taking the man and Gueng the woman. Simultaneously they clapped the bunched handkerchiefs over the mouths of the sleepers, holding them down with just enough pressure under their noses to keep them from crying out.

  “We’re friends, pilot, don’t cry out,” Ross whispered, close to Erikki’s ear, not knowing his name or who the woman was, only recognizing him as the pilot. He saw the blank fright of the sudden awakening transformed into blinding rage as sleep vanished and the great hands came up to rip him apart. He avoided their grasp, increasing the pressure just under Erikki’s nose, holding him down easily. “I’m going to release you, don’t cry out, pilot. We’re friends, we’re British. British soldiers. Just nod if you’re awake and you understand.” He waited, then felt more than saw the huge man nod, watching his eyes. The eyes shouted danger. “Keep her gagged, Gueng, until we’re all set this side,” he said softly in Gurkhali, then to Erikki, “Pilot, don’t be afraid, we’re friends.”

  He released the pressure and leaped out of the way as Erikki lunged at him, then squirmed in the bed to get at Gueng but stopped rigid. Moonlight glinted off the curved kookri held near her throat. Azadeh’s eyes were wide open and she was petrified.

  “Don’t! Leave her alone…” Erikki said hoarsely in Russian, seeing only Gueng’s Oriental eyes, thinking it must be one of Cimtarga’s men, still confused and in panic. He was heavy with sleep, his head aching from hours of flying, mostly on instruments in bad conditions. “What do you want?”

  “Speak English. You’re English, aren’t you?”

  “No, no, I’m Finnish.” Erikki peered at Ross, little more than a silhouette in the shaft of moonlight. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Sorry to wake you like this, pilot,” Ross said hastily, coming a little closer, keeping his voice down. “Sorry, but I had to talk to you secretly. It’s very import—”

  “Tell this bastard to let my wife go! Now!”

  “Wife? Oh, yes…yes, of course, sorry. She…she won’t scream? Please tell her not to scream.” He watched the huge man turn toward the woman who lay motionless under the heavy quilt, her mouth still covered, the kookri unwavering. He saw him reach out warily and touch her, eyes on the kookri. His voice was gentle and encouraging but he did not speak English or Farsi but another language. In panic Ross thought it was Russian and he was further disoriented, expecting a British S-G pilot, without a bed partner, not a Finn with a Russian wife, and he was petrified he had led Gueng into a trap. The big man’s eyes came back on him and more danger was there.

  “Tell him to let my wife go,” Erikki said in English, finding it hard to concentrate. “She won’t scream.”

  “What did you say to her? Was it Russian?”

  “Yes, it was Russian and I said, ‘This bastard’s going to release you in a second. Don’t shout out. Don’t shout out, just move behind me. Don’t move quickly, just behind me. Don’t do anything unless I go for the other bastard, then fight for your life.’”

  “You’re Russian?”

  “I told you, Finnish, and I tire quickly of men with knives in the night, British, Russian, or even Finnish.”

  “You’re a pilot with S-G Helicopters?”

  “Yes, hurry up and let her go whoever you are or I’ll start something.”

  Ross was not yet over his own panic. “Is she Russian?”

  “My wife’s Iranian, she speaks Russian and so do I,” Erikki said icily, moving slightly to get out of the narrow beam of moonlight into shadows. “Move into the light, I can’t see you, and for the last time tell this little bastard to release my wife, tell me what you want, and then get out.”

  “Sorry about all this. Gueng, let her go now.”

  Gueng did not move. Nor did the curved blade. In Gurkhali he said, “Yes, sahib, but first take the knife from under the man’s pillow.”

  In Gurkhali Ross replied, “If he goes for it, brother, even touches it, kill her, I’ll get him.” Then in English he said pleasantly, “Pilot, you have a knife under your pillow. Please don’t touch it, sorry, but if you do until this is all okay…please be patient. Let her go, Gueng,” he said, his attention never leaving the man. With the side of his eyes he saw the vague shape of a face, long hair touseled and half covering her, then she moved behind the great shoulders, bunching her long-sleeved, winter nightclothes closer. Ross had his back to the light and he saw little of her, only the hatred in her half-seen eyes, even from the shadows. “Sorry to arrive like a thief in the night. Apologies,” he said to her. She did not answer. He repeated the apology in Farsi. She still did not answer. “Please apologize to your wife for me.”

  “She speaks English. What the hell do you want?” Erikki felt a little better now that she was safe, still very aware how close the other man with the curved knife was.

  “We’re sort of prisoners of the Khan, pilot, and I came to warn you and to ask your help.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “I helped one of your captains a few days ago—Charles Pettikin.” He saw the name register at once so he relaxed a little. Quickly he told Erikki about Doshan Tappeh and the SAVAK attack and how they had escaped, describing Pettikin accurately so there could be no mistake.

  “Charlie told us about you,” Erikki said, astonished, no longer afraid, “but not that he’d dropped you off near Bandar-e Pahlavi—only that some British paratroopers had saved him from a SAVAK who’d have blown his head off.”

  “I asked him to forget my name. I, er, we were on a job.”

  “Lucky for Charlie you, we—” Ross saw the woman whisper in her husband’s ear, distracting him. The man nodded and turned his eyes back again. “You can see me, I can’t see you, move into the light—as to Abdollah, if you were his prisoners, you’d be chained up, o
r in a dungeon, not loose in the palace.”

  “I was told the Khan would help us if we had trouble. We had trouble and he said he’d hide us until he could get us back to Tehran. Meanwhile he put us in a hut, out of sight, across the estate. There’s a permanent guard on us.”

  “Hide you from what?”

  “We were on a, er, classified job, and being hunted an—”

  “What classified job? I still can’t see you, move into the light.”

  Ross moved but not enough. “We had to blow some secret American radar stuff to prevent it being pinched by Soviets or their supporters. I rec—”

  “Sabalan?”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “I’m being forced to fly a Soviet and some leftists to ransack radar sites near the border, then take the stuff down to Astara on the coast. One of them was wrecked on the north face—they got nothing out of that one and so far the rest haven’t produced anything worthwhile—as far as I know. Go on—warn me about what?”

  “You’re being forced?”

  “My wife’s hostage to the Khan and the Soviets—for my cooperation and good behavior,” Erikki said simply.

  “Christ!” Ross’s mind was working overtime, “I, er, I recognized the S-G decal when you were circling and came to warn you Soviets were here, they came here early this morning, and they’re planning to kidnap you with the friendly help of the Khan—it seems he’s playing both ends against the middle, double agent.” He saw Erikki’s astonishment. “Our people should know that quickly.”

  “Kidnap me to do what?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I sent Gueng on a recce after your chopper arrived—he slipped out of a back window. Tell them, Gueng.”