“Christ! We heard about the riots and arrests on the BBC—and attacks by nutters on some of the women. You think she’s in jail?”
“I hope to God she isn’t—you heard about her father? Oh, of course, I told you myself last time you were here, didn’t I?” McIver wiped the windshield absently. “What would you like to do—wait here until the bird comes back?”
“No. Let’s go into Tehran—do we have time?” Gavallan glanced at his watch. It read 12:25.
“Oh, yes. We’ve got a load of ‘redundant’ stores to put aboard. We’ll have time if we leave now.”
“Good. I’d like to see Azadeh and Nogger—and this man Ross—and particularly Talbot. We could go past the Bakravan house on the off chance. Eh?”
“Good idea. I’m glad you’re here, Andy, very glad.” He eased in the clutch, the wheels skidding.
“So’m I, Mac. Actually I’ve never been so down either.”
McIver coughed and cleared his throat. “Home news is lousy?”
“Yes.” Idly Gavallan wiped away the condensation from his side window with the back of his glove. “There’s a special board meeting of Struan’s Monday. I’ll have to come up with answers about Iran. Damned nuisance!”
“Will Linbar be there?”
“Yes. That bugger’s going to ruin the Noble House before he’s through. Stupid to expand into South America when China’s on the threshold of opening up.”
McIver frowned at the new edge to Gavallan’s voice but said nothing. For many years he had known of their rivalry and hatred, the circumstances of David MacStruan’s death and everyone’s surprise in Hong Kong that Linbar had achieved the top job. He still had many friends in the Colony who sent him clippings of the latest piece of gossip or rumor—the lifeblood of Hong Kong—about the Noble House and their rivals. But he never discussed them with his old friend.
“Sorry, Mac,” Gavallan had said gruffly, “don’t want to discuss those sort of things, or what goes on with Ian, Quillan, Linbar, or anyone else connected with Struan’s. Officially I’m no longer with the Noble House. Let’s leave it at that.”
Fair enough, McIver had thought at the time and had continued to hold his peace. He glanced across at Gavallan. The years have been kind to Andy, he told himself, he’s still as grand a looking man as ever—even with all the troubles. “Not to worry, Andy. Nothing you can’t do.”
“I wish I believed that right now, Mac. Seven days presents an enormous problem, doesn’t it?”
“That’s the understatement of the y—” McIver noticed his fuel gauge was on empty and he exploded: “Someone must’ve siphoned my tank while she was parked.” He stopped and got out a moment and came back and slammed the door. “Bloody bastard broke the sodding lock. I’ll have to fill up—fortunately we’ve still got a few five-gallon drums left and the underground tank’s still half full of chopper fuel for emergencies.” He lapsed into silence, his mind beset with Jordon and Zagros and HBC and seven days. Who do we lose next? Silently he began to curse and then he heard Genny’s voice saying, We can do it if we want to, I know we can, I know we can…
Gavallan was thinking about his son. I won’t rest easily until I see him with my own eyes. Tomorrow, with any luck. If Scot’s not back before my plane to London, I’ll cancel and go Sunday. And somehow I’ve got to see Talbot—maybe he can give me some help. My God, only seven days…
It took McIver no time to refuel, then he swung out of the airport into the traffic. A big USAF jet transport came low overhead in the landing pattern. “They’re servicing about five jumbos a day, still with military controllers and ‘supervising’ Green Bands, everyone giving orders, countermanding them and no one listening anyway,” McIver said. “BA’s promised me three seats on every one of their flights for our nationals—with baggage. They hope to get a jumbo in every other day.”
“What’d they want in return?”
“The crown jewels!” McIver said, trying to lighten their depression but the joke sounded flat. “No, nothing, Andy. The BA manager, Bill Shoesmith, is a great chap and doing a great job.” He swung around the burned-out wreck of a bus that was on its side half across the road as though it were neatly parked. “The women are marching again today—rumor has it they are going to go on and on until Khomeini relents.”
“If they stick together he’ll have to.”
“I don’t know what to think these days.” McIver drove on awhile then jerked a thumb out of the window at the pedestrians walking this way and that. “They seem to know all’s well in the world. The mosques are packed, marches in support of Khomeini are multitudes, Green Bands’re fighting the leftists fearlessly who fight back equally fearlessly.” He coughed wheezily. “Our employees, well, they just give me the usual Iranian flattery and politeness and you never know what they’re really thinking. Except you’re sure they want us O-U-T!” He swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming car that was on the wrong side of the road, horn blaring, going much too fast for the snow conditions—then drove on again. “Bloody twit,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the fact I love old Lulu, I’d swap her for a beat-up half-track and have at the bloody lot of them!” He glanced at Gavallan and smiled. “Andy, I’m so glad you’re here. Thanks. I feel better now. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Gavallan said calmly but inside he was churning. “What about Whirlwind?” he asked, not able to bottle it any longer.
“Well, whether it’s seven days or seventy…” McIver swerved to avoid another accident neatly, returned the obscene gesture, and drove on again. “Let’s pretend we’re all agreed, and we could push the button if we wanted on D day, in seven days—no, Armstrong said best not to count on more than a week, so let’s make it six, six days from today, Friday next—a Friday’d be best anyway, right?”
“Because it’s their Holy Day, yes, my thought too.”
“Then adapting what we’ve come up with—Charlie and me: Phase One: From today on we send out every expat and spare we can, every way we can, by the 125, by truck out to Iraq or Turkey, or as baggage and excess baggage by BA. Somehow I’ll get Bill Shoesmith to increase our seat reservations and get priority of freight space. We’ve already got two of our 212s out ‘for repair’ and the Zagros one’s due off tomorrow. We’ve five birds left here in Tehran, one 212, two 206s, and two Alouettes. We send the 212 and the Alouettes to Kowiss ostensibly to service Hotshot’s request for choppers though why he wants them, God only knows—Duke says his birds are not all employed as it is. Anyway, we leave our two 206s here as camouflage.”
“Leave them?”
“There’s no way we get all our choppers out, Andy, whatever our lead time. Now, on D minus two, next Wednesday, the last of our headquarters staff—Charlie, Nogger, our remaining pilots and mechanics, and me—we get on the 125 Wednesday and flit the coop to Al Shargaz, unless of course we can get some of them out beforehand by BA. Don’t forget we’re supposed to be up to strength, one in for one out. Next we th—”
“What about papers, exit permits?”
“I’ll try to get blanks from Ali Kia—I’ll need some blank Swiss checks, he understands pishkesh but he’s also a member of the board, very clever, hot and hungry, but not anxious to risk his skin. If we can’t, then we’ll just pishkesh our way onto the 125. Our excuse to the partners, Kia or whomever, when they discover we’ve gone is that you’ve called an urgent conference at Al Shargaz—it’s a lame excuse but that’s beside the point. That ends Phase One. If we’re prevented from going, then that ends Whirlwind because we’d be used as hostages for the return of all birds, and I know you won’t agree to expend us. Phase Two: we set up sh—”
“What about all your household things? And all those of the chaps who have apartments or houses in Tehran?”
“The company’ll have to pay fair compensation—that should be part of Whirlwind’s profit and loss. Agreed?”
“What’ll that add up to, Mac?”
“Not a lot. We’ve no option but t
o pay compensation.”
“Yes, yes, I agree.”
“Phase Two: We set up shop at Al Shargaz by which time several things have happened. You’ve arranged for the 747 jumbo freighters to arrive at Al Shargaz the afternoon of D minus one. By then, Starke somehow has secretly cached enough forty-gallon drums on the shore to carry them across the Gulf. Someone else’s cached more fuel on some godforsaken island off Saudi or the Emirates for Starke if he needs them, and for Rudi and his lads from Bandar Delam who definitely will. Scrag has no fuel problems. Meanwhile, you’ve arranged British registry for all birds we plan to ‘export,’ and you’ve got permission to fly through Kuwait, Saudi, and Emirate airspace. I’m in charge of Whirlwind’s actual operation. At dawn on D day you say to me go or no-go. If it’s no-go, that’s final. If it’s go, I can abort the go order if I think it’s prudent, then that becomes final too. Agreed?”
“With two provisos, Mac: you consult with me before you abort, as I’ll consult with you before go or no-go, and second, if we can’t make D day we try again D plus one and D plus two.”
“All right.” McIver took a deep breath, “Phase Three: at dawn on D day, or D plus one or D plus two—three days is the maximum I think we could sweat out—we radio a code message which says ‘Go!’ The three bases acknowledge and at once all escaping birds get airborne and head for Al Shargaz. There’s likely to be a four-hour difference between Scrag’s arrivals and the last ones, probably Duke’s—if everything goes well. The moment the birds land anywhere outside Iran we replace the Iranian registry numbers with British ones and that makes us partially legal. The moment they land at Al Shargaz the 747s are loaded, and take off into the Wild Blue with everyone aboard.” McIver exhaled. “Simple.”
Gavallan did not reply at once, sifting the plan, seeing the holes—the vast expanse of dangers. “It’s good, Mac.”
“It isn’t, Andy, it isn’t good at all.”
“I saw Scrag yesterday and we had a long talk. He says Whirlwind’s possible for him and he’s in if it’s a go. He said he’d sound out the others over the weekend and let me know, but he was sure on the right day he could get his birds and lads out.”
McIver nodded but said nothing more, just drove on, the roads icy and dangerous, twisting through the narrow streets to avoid the main highways he knew would be congested. “We’re not far from the bazaar now.”
“Scrag said he might be able to get into Bandar Delam in the next few days and see Rudi and sound him out—letters’re too risky. By the way, he gave me a note for you.”
“What’s it say, Andy?”
Gavallan reached into the back for his briefcase. He found the envelope and put on reading glasses. “It’s addressed: D. D. Captain McIver, Esq.”
“I’ll give him whatfor one day with his bloody ‘Dirty Duncan,’” McIver said. “Read it out.”
Gavallan opened the envelope, pulled out the paper with another attached to it, and grunted. “The letter just says: ‘Get stuffed.’ Clipped to it’s a medical report…” He peered at it. “…signed by Dr. G. Gernin, Australian Consulate, Al Shargaz. The old bastard’s ringed cholesterol normal, blood pressure 130/85, sugar normal…everything’s bloody normal and there’s a P.S. in Scrag’s writing: ‘I’m going to buzz you on me f’ing seventy-third birthday, old cock!’”
“I hope he does, the bugger, but he won’t, time’s not on his side. He’ll m—” McIver braked cautiously. The street led out onto the square in front of the bazaar mosque but the exit was blocked by shouting men, many waving guns. There was no way to turn aside or detour, so McIver slowed and stopped. “It’s the women again,” he said catching sight of the surging demonstration beyond, cries and countercries growing in violence. Traffic on both sides of the street piled up with great suddenness, horns blaring angrily. There were no sidewalks, just the usual muck-filled joubs and banked snow, a few street stalls and pedestrians.
They were hemmed in on all sides. Bystanders began to join those ahead, pressing into the roadway around the cars and trucks. Among them were urchins and youths, and one made a rude sign at Gavallan through his side window, another of them kicked the fender, then another, and they all ran off laughing.
“Rotten little bastards.” McIver could see them in the rearview mirror, other youths collecting around them. More men pushed past, more hostile looks, and a couple banged the sides carelessly with their firearms. Ahead the main part of the marching women, “Allah-u Akbarrrrr…” dominating, were passing the junction.
A sudden crash startled them as a stone slammed against the car, narrowly missing the window, then the whole car began to rock as urchins and youths swarmed around it, jumping on and off the bumpers, making more obscene gestures. McIver’s rage exploded and he tore the door open, sending a couple of the youths sprawling, then jumped out and ripped into the pack that scattered at once. Gavallan got out equally fast, to charge those trying to overturn the car at the rear. He belted one and sent him flying. Most of the others retreated, slipping and shouting, amid curses from pedestrians, but two of the bigger youths rushed Gavallan from behind. He saw them coming and smashed one in the chest, slammed the other against a truck, stunning him, and the truck driver laughed and thumped the side of his cabin. McIver was breathing hard. On his side the youths were out of range, shouting obscenities.
“Look out, Mac!”
McIver ducked. The stone narrowly missed his head and smashed into the side of a truck, and the youths, ten or twelve of them, surged forward. There was nowhere for McIver to go so he stood his ground by the hood and Gavallan put his back to the car, also at bay. One of the youths darted at Gavallan with a piece of wood raised as a club while three others came at him from the side. He twisted away but the club caught the edge of his shoulder and he gasped, lunged at the youth, hit him in the face off balance, slipped, and sprawled in the snow. The rest came in for the kill. Suddenly he was not on the snow surrounded by hacking feet but being helped up. An armed Green Band was helping him, the youths cowering against the wall under the leveled gun of another, an elderly mullah nearby shouting at them in rage, pedestrians encircling them all. Blankly he saw McIver was also more or less unhurt near the front of the car, then the mullah came back to him and spoke to him in Farsi.
“Man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam, Agha”—Sorry, I don’t speak your language, Excellency—Gavallan croaked, his chest hurting him. The mullah, an old man with white beard and white turban and black robes, turned and shouted above the din at the watchers and people in other cars.
Reluctantly a driver nearby got out and came over and greeted the mullah deferentially, listened to him, then spoke to Gavallan in good though stilted English: “The mullah informs you that the youths were wrong to attack you, Agha, and have broken the law, and that clearly you were not breaking a law or provoking them.”
Again he listened to the mullah a moment, then once more turned to Gavallan and McIver. “He wishes you to know that the Islamic Republic is obedient to the immutable laws of God. The youths broke the law which forbids attacking unarmed strangers peacefully going about their business.” The man, bearded, middle-aged, his clothes threadbare, turned back to the mullah who now loudly addressed the crowd and the youths and there was widespread approval and agreement. “You are to witness that the law is upheld, the guilty punished and justice done at once. The punishment is fifty lashes, but first the youths will beg your forgiveness and the forgiveness of all others here.”
In the midst of the uproar from the nearby demonstration, the terrified youths were shoved and kicked in front of McIver and Gavallan where they went down on their knees and abjectly begged forgiveness. Then they were herded back against the wall and thrashed with mule scourges readily offered by the interested and jeering crowd. The mullah, the two Green Bands, and others selected by the mullah enforced the law. Pitilessly.
“My God,” Gavallan muttered, sickened.
The driver-translator said sharply, “This is Islam. Islam has one law
for all people, one punishment for each crime, and justice immediate. The law is God’s law, untouchable, everlasting, not like in your corrupt West where laws can be twisted and justice twisted and delayed for the benefit of lawyers who fatten on the twistings and corruptions and vilenesses or misfortunes of others…” Screams of some of the youths interrupted him. “Those sons of dogs have no pride,” the man said contemptuously, going back to his car.
When the punishment was over, the mullah gently admonished those youths who were still conscious, then dismissed them and went forward with his Green Bands. The crowd drifted away leaving McIver and Gavallan beside the car. Their attackers were now pathetic bundles of inert, bloodstained rags or moaning youths trying to drag themselves to their feet. Gavallan went forward to help one of them, but the youth scrambled away petrified so he stopped, then came back. The fenders were dented, there were deep scratches in the paintwork from stones the youths had used maliciously. McIver looked older than before. “Can’t say they didn’t deserve it, I suppose,” Gavallan said.
“We’d’ve been trampled and very bloody hurt if the mullah hadn’t come along,” McIver said throatily, so glad that Genny had not been here. She’d have been punished by every lash they got, he thought, his chest and back aching from the blows. He pulled his eyes off his car, eased his shoulders painfully. Then he noticed the man who had translated for them in a nearby car still in the traffic jam and trudged painfully across the snow to him.
“Thanks, thanks for helping us, Agha,” he said to him, shouting through the window and above the noise. The car was old and bent and four other men were crammed into the other seats.
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