He stared at the letter, then sat back a moment, half listening to a story Paula was telling about their incoming flight to Tehran. So the button’s pushed. Don’t delude yourself, Andy, I knew you’d push it from the first moment—that’s why I said, All right, provided I can abort Whirlwind if I think it’s too risky and my decision’s final. I think you must push the button all the way—you’ve no alternative if you want to survive.
The wine tasted very good. He finished the glass, then opened Genny’s letter. It was just news about home and the kids, all of them healthy and in place, but he knew her too well not to read the underlying concern: “Don’t worry, Duncan, and don’t sweat out winds, any winds. And don’t think I plan on a rose-covered cottage in England. It’s us for the Casbah and me for a yashmak and I’m practicing belly dancing so you’d better hurry. Luv, Gen.”
McIver smiled to himself, got up, and poured himself some wine, calmer now. “Here’s to women, bless ’em.” He touched glasses with Pettikin. “Smashing wine, Paula. Andy sends you a hug…” At once she smiled and reached over and touched him and he felt the current rush up his arm. What the hell is it about her? he asked himself, unsettled, and quickly said to Sayada, “He’d send one to you too if he knew you were here.” A candle on the mantelpiece was guttering. “I’ll get it. Any messages?”
“One from Talbot. He’s doing all he can to find Erikki. Duke’s delayed at Bandar Delam by a storm but he should be back at Kowiss tomorrow.”
“And Azadeh?”
“She’s better today. Paula and I walked her home. She’s okay, Mac. You better have something to eat, there’s bugger all for dinner.”
Sayada said, “How about dining at the French Club? The food’s still passable.”
“I’d love to,” Paula said brightly and Pettikin cursed. “What a wonderful idea, Sayada! Charlie?”
“Wonderful. Mac?”
“Sure, if it’s my treat and you don’t mind an early night.” McIver held his glass up to the light, admiring the color of the wine. “Charlie, I want you to take the 212 to Kowiss bright and early, Nogger’ll take the Alouette—you can help Duke out for a couple of days. I’ll send Shoesmith in a 206 to bring you back Saturday. All right?”
“Sure,” Pettikin said, wondering why the change of plan that had been for McIver, Nogger, and him to get aboard the Wednesday flight, two other pilots to go to Kowiss tomorrow. Why? Must be Andy’s letter. Whirlwind? Is Mac aborting?
IN THE SLUMS OF JALEH: 6:50 P.M. The old car stopped in the alleyway. A man got out of the side door and looked around. The alley was deserted, high walls, a joub to one side that long ago was buried under snow and refuse. Across from where the car had stopped, dimly seen in the reflection from the headlights, was a broken-down square. The man tapped on the roof. The headlights were doused. The driver got out and went to help the other man who had opened the trunk. Together they carried the body, wrapped and bound in a dark blanket, across the square.
“Wait a moment,” the driver said in Russian. He took out his flashlight and switched it on briefly. The circle of light found the opening in the far wall they sought.
“Good,” the other said and they went through it, then once more stopped to get their bearings. Now they were in a cemetery, old, almost derelict. The light went from gravestone to gravestone—some of the writing Russian, some in Roman letters—to find the open grave, newly dug. A shovel stood upright in the mound of earth.
They went and stood on the lip. The taller man, the driver, said, “Ready?”
“Yes.” They let the body fall into the hole. The driver shone the light onto it. “Straighten him up.”
“He won’t give a shit,” the other man said and took up the shovel. He was broad-shouldered and strong and he began to fill the grave. The driver lit a cigarette, irritably threw the match into the grave. “Maybe you should say a prayer for him.”
The other laughed. “Marx-Lenin wouldn’t approve—nor old Stalin.”
“That mother fornicator—may he rot!”
“Look what he did for Mother Russia! He made us an empire, the biggest in the world, he screwed the British, outsmarted the Americans, built the biggest and best army, navy, air force, and made the KGB all powerful.”
“For damn near every rouble we’ve got and twenty million lives. Russian lives.”
“Expendables! Scum, fools, the dregs, plenty more where they came from.” The man was sweating now and he gave the shovel to the other, “What the hell’s the matter with you anyway—you’ve been pissed off all day.”
“Tired, I’m just tired. Sorry.”
“Everyone’s tired. You need a few days off. Apply for Al Shargaz—I had a great three days, didn’t want to come back. I’ve applied for a transfer there—we’ve quite an operation now, growing every day, the Israelis have stepped up their ops too—so’ve the CIA. What’s happened since I was away?”
“Azerbaijan’s warming up nicely. There’s a rumor old Abdollah Khan’s dying or dead.”
“The Section 16/a?”
“No, heart attack. Everything else’s normal. You really had a good time?”
The other laughed. “There’s an Intourist secretary who’s very accommodating.” He scratched his scrotum at the thought. “Who is this poor sod anyway?”
“His name wasn’t listed,” the driver said.
“Never is. So who was he?”
“Agent called Yazernov, Dimitri Yazernov.”
“Means nothing to me. To you?”
“He was an agent from Disinformation on the university detail; I worked with him for a short time, a year back. Smartass, university type, full of ideological bullshit. It seems he was caught by Inner Intelligence and interrogated seriously.”
“Bastards! They killed him, eh?”
“No.” The taller man stopped shoveling a moment and looked around. No chance of them being overheard and while he did not believe in ghosts or God or anything but the Party and the KGB—the spearhead of the Party—he did not like this place. He lowered his voice. “When he was sprung, almost a week ago, he was in bad shape, unconscious, should never’ve been moved, not in his state. SAVAMA got him away from Inner Intelligence—the director thinks SAVAMA worked him over too before handing him back.” He leaned on the shovel a moment. “SAVAMA gave him to us with the report that they thought he’d been cleared out through the third level. The director said to find out who he was fast, if he had other secret clearances, or was an internal spy or a plant from higher up, and what the hell he’d told them—who the hell he was. He’s not carried on our files as anything other than an agent on the university detail.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and began shoveling again. “I heard the team waited and waited for him to regain consciousness, then today gave up waiting and tried to wake him up.”
“A mistake? Someone gave him too much?”
“Who knows—the poor sod’s dead.”
“That’s the one thing that scares me,” the other said with a shiver. “Getting fed too much. Nothing you can do about it. He never woke up? Never said anything?”
“No. Not a damned thing. The shit’s that he was caught at all. It was his own fault—the mother was working on his own.”
The other cursed. “How’d he get away with that?”
“Buggered if I know! I remember him as one of those who think they know it all and sneer at the Book. Smart? Bullshit! These bastards cause more trouble than they’re worth.” The taller man worked strongly and steadily. When he was tired the other took a turn.
Soon the grave was filled. The man patted the earth flat, his breathing heavy. “If this mother got himself caught, why’re we taking all this trouble, then?”
“If the body can’t be repatriated, a comrade’s entitled to be buried properly, that’s in the Book. This’s a Russian cemetery, isn’t it?”
“Sure, of course it is, but damned if I’d like to be buried here.” The man wiped the dirt off his hands then turned and relieved himself on the
nearest gravestone.
The taller man was working a gravestone loose. “Give me a hand.” Together they lifted the stone and replanted it at the head of the grave they had just filled.
Damn the young bastard for dying, he thought, cursing him. Not my fault he died. He should’ve withstood the dose. Sodding doctors! They’re supposed to know! We had no option, the bastard was sinking anyway and there were too many questions to be answered, like what was so important about him that that archbastard Hashemi Fazir did the interrogation himself, along with that sonofabitch Armstrong? Those two high-flying professionals don’t waste their time on small fry. And why did Yazernov say “Fedor…” just before he croaked? What’s the significance of that?
“Let’s go home,” the other man said. “This place’s foul and it stinks, it stinks worse than normal.” He took the shovel and trudged off into the night.
Just then the writing on the stone caught the driver’s eye but it was too dark to read. He switched on the light momentarily. The writing said, “Count Alexi Pokenov, Plenipotentiary to Shah Nasiru’d Din, 1830-1862.”
Yazernov’d like that, he thought, his smile twisted.
AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE, NEAR THE BAZAAR: 7:15 P.M. The outer door in the wall swung open. “Salaam, Highness.” The servant watched Sharazad as she swept past happily, followed by Jari, into the forecourt and pulled the chador off and was now shaking her hair and puffing it with her fingertips more comfortably. “The…your husband’s back, Highness; he came back just after sunset.”
For a moment Sharazad was frozen in the light of the oil lamps that flickered in the snow-covered courtyard leading to the front door.
Then it’s over, she was thinking. Over before it began. It almost began today, I was ready and yet not…and now, now I’m saved from…from my lust—was it lust or love, was that what I was trying to decide? I don’t know, I don’t know but…but tomorrow I’ll see him a last time, I have to see him once more, have to, just…just once more…just to say good-bye…
Tears filled her eyes and she ran into the house and into the rooms and salons and up the stairs and into their suite and into his arms. “Oh, Tommyyyyyy, you’ve been away such a long time!”
“Oh, I’ve missed you, where have you… Don’t cry, my darling, there’s no need to cry…”
His arms were around her and she caught the faint, familiar oil-gasoline smell that came from his flight clothes hanging on a peg. She saw his gravity. HBC flared into her head but she put it all away and, not giving him a second, she stood on tiptoe, kissed him, and said in a rush, “I’ve such wonderful news, I’m with child, oh, yes, it’s true and I’ve seen a doctor and tomorrow I’ll get the result of the test but I know!” Her smile was vast and true. “Oh, Tommy,” she continued in the same rush, feeling his arms tighten even more, “will you many me, please please please?”
“But we are mar—”
“Say it, oh, please, please say it!” She looked up and saw he was still pale and smiling only a very little but that was enough for the moment, and she heard him say, Of course I’ll marry you, “No, say it properly, I marry you, Sharazad Bakravan. I marry you I marry you I marry you,” then hearing him say it and that made everything perfect. “Perfect,” she burst out and hugged him back, then pushed away and ran over to the mirror to repair her makeup. She caught sight of Lochart in the mirror, his face so severe, unsettled. “What is it?”
“You’re sure, sure about the child?”
She laughed. “Oh, I’m sure, but the doctor needs proof, husbands need proof. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes…yes, it is.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I love you!”
In her head she heard the other I love you that had been said with such passion and longing, and she thought how strange that though her husband’s love was sure and proven, Ibrahim’s was not—yet Ibrahim’s was without reservation whereas, even after her wonderful news, her husband frowned at her.
“The year and a day have gone, Tommy, the year and a day you wanted,” she said gently and got up from the dressing table, put her hands around his neck, smiling up at him, knowing that it was up to her to help him: “Foreigners aren’t like us, Princess,” Jari had said, “their reactions are different, training different, but don’t worry, just be your own delightful self and he will be clay in your hands…” Tommy’ll be the best father ever, she promised herself, irrepressibly happy that she had not melted this afternoon, that she had made her announcement, and now they would live happily ever after. “We will, Tommy, won’t we?”
“What?”
“Live happily ever after.”
For a moment her joy obliterated his misery about Karim Peshadi and about what to do and how to do it. He caught her up in his arms and sat in the deep chair, cradling her. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, we will. There’s so much to talk ab—” Jari’s knock on the door interrupted him.
“Come in, Jari.”
“Please excuse me, Excellency, but His Excellency Meshang and Her Highness have arrived and are waiting to have the pleasure of seeing you both when convenient.”
“Tell His Excellency we’ll be there as soon as we’ve changed.” Lochart did not notice Jari’s relief as Sharazad nodded and beamed at her.
“I’ll ran your bath, Highness,” Jari said and went into the bathroom. “Isn’t it wonderful about Her Highness, Excellency? Oh, many congratulations, Excellency, many congratulations…”
“Thank you, Jari,” Lochart said, not listening to her, thinking about the child to be, and Sharazad, lost in worry and happiness. So complicated now, so difficult.
“Not difficult,” Meshang said after dinner.
Conversation had been boring with Meshang dominating it as he always did now that he was head of the household, Sharazad and Zarah hardly talking, Lochart saying little—no point in mentioning Zagros as Meshang had always been totally disinterested in his opinions or what he did. Twice he had almost blurted out about Karim—no reason to tell them yet, he had thought, hiding his despair. Why be the bearer of bad tidings?
“You don’t find life in Tehran difficult now?” he said. Meshang had been moaning about all the new regulations implanted on the bazaar.
“Life is always difficult,” Meshang said, “but if you’re Iranian, a trained bazaari, with care and understanding, with hard work and logic, even the Revolutionary Komiteh can be curbed—we’ve always curbed tax collectors and overloads, shahs, commissars, or Yankee and British pashas.”
“I’m glad to hear it, very glad.”
“And I’m very glad you’re back, I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Meshang said. “My sister has told you about the child to be?”
“Yes, yes, she has. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, yes, it is. God be praised. What are your plans?”
“How do you mean?”
“Where are you going to live? How are you going to pay for everything now?”
The silence was vast. “We’ll manage,” Lochart began. “I int—”
“I don’t see how you can, logically. I’ve been going through last year’s bills an—” Meshang stopped as Zarah got up.
“I don’t think this is a good time to talk about bills,” she said, her face suddenly white, Sharazad’s equally so.
“Well, I do,” Meshang said harshly. “How’s my sister going to survive? Sit down, Zarah, and listen! Sit down! And when I say you will not go on a protest march or anything else in future you will obey or I’ll whip you! Sit down!” Zarah obeyed, shocked at his bad manners and violence. Sharazad was stunned, her world collapsing. She saw her brother turn on Lochart. “Now, Captain, your bills for the last year, the bills paid by my father, not counting the ones still owing and due, are substantially more than your salary. Is that true?”
Sharazad’s face was burning with shame and anger and before Lochart could answer she said quickly in her most honeyed voice, “Darling Meshang, you’re quite right to be concerned about us but the apar—”
“Kindly keep quiet! I have to ask your husband, not you, it’s his problem, not yours. Well, Cap—”
“But darling Mesh—”
“Keep quiet! Well, Captain, is it true or isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s true,” Lochart replied, desperately seeking a way out of the abyss. “But you’ll remember His Excellency gave me the apartment, in fact the building, and the other rents paid the bills and the rest was for an allowance to give to Sharazad for which I was eternally grateful. As to the future, I’ll take care of Sharazad, of course I will.”
“With what? I’ve read your divorce settlement and it’s clear that with the payments you make to your previous wife and child there’s little chance you can keep my sister out of penury.”
Lochart was choked with rage. Sharazad shifted in her chair and Lochart saw her fear and dominated his urge to smash Meshang into the table. “It’s all right, Sharazad. Your brother has the right to ask. That’s fair, he has the right.” He read the smugness under the etched handsome face and knew that the fight was joined. “We’ll manage, Meshang, I’ll manage. Our apartment, it won’t be commandeered forever, or we can take another. We’ll m—”
“There is no apartment, or building. It burned down on Saturday. It’s all gone, everything.”
They gaped at him, Sharazad the most shocked. “Oh, Meshang, you’re sure? Why didn’t you tell me? Wh—”
“Is your property so abundant you don’t check it from time to time? It’s gone, all of it!”
“Oh, Christ!” Lochart muttered.
“Better you don’t blaspheme,” Meshang said, finding it hard not to gloat openly. “So there’s no apartment, no building, nothing left. Insha’Allah. Now, now how do you intend to pay your bills?”
“Insurance!” Lochart burst out. “There’s got to be in—”
A bellow of laughter drowned him, Sharazad knocked over a glass of water that no one noticed. “You think insurance will be paid?” Meshang jeered. “Now? Even if there was any? You’ve taken leave of all your senses, there is no insurance, there never was. So, Captain: many debts, no money, no capital, no building—not that it was even legally yours, merely a face-saving way my father arranged to provide you with the means to look after Sharazad.” He picked up a piece of halvah and popped it into his mouth. “So what do you propose?”
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