Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  My poor old friend, Jean-Luc thought sadly. Thank God I’ll never have to kowtow to any woman—how lucky Marie-Christene is that she’s married to me who can wisely guard her fortune!

  The last items he packed were his flight instruments and half a dozen pairs of sunglasses. All his clothes he had put away in one locked cupboard. Of course I shall be reimbursed by the company and buy new ones. Who needs old clothes?

  Now he was finished, everything neat and tidy. He looked at the clock. It had taken him only twenty-two minutes. Perfect. The La Doucette in the freezer was cool, the freezer still working in spite of the electricity cuts. He opened the bottle and tried it. Perfect. Three minutes later the door knocker sounded. Perfect.

  “Sayada, chérie, how beautiful you are,” he said warmly and kissed her, but he was thinking, you don’t look good at all, tired and weary. “How are you, chérie?”

  “I’ve had a chill, nothing to worry about,” she said. This morning she had seen her worry lines and the dark rings in her mirror and knew Jean-Luc would notice. “Nothing serious and I’m over it now. And you, chéri?”

  “Today fine, tomorrow?” He shrugged, helped her off with her coat, lifted her easily into his arms and sank into the embrace of the sofa. She was very beautiful and he was saddened to leave her. And Iran. Like Algiers, he thought.

  “What’re you thinking about, Jean-Luc?”

  “’63, being shoved out of Algiers. Just like Iran in a way, we’re being forced out the same.” He felt her stir in his arms. “What is it?”

  “The world’s so awful sometimes.” Sayada had told him nothing about her real life. “So unfair,” she said sickened, remembering the ’67 war in Gaza and the death of her parents, then fleeing—her story much like his—remembering more the catastrophe of Teymour’s murder and them. Nausea swept into her as she pictured little Yassar and what they would do to her son if she misbehaved. If only I could find out who they are…

  Jean-Luc was pouring the wine that he had put on the table in front of them. “Bad to be serious, chérie. We’ve not much time. Santé!”

  The wine tasted cool and delicate and of spring. “How much time? Aren’t you staying?”

  “I must leave in an hour.”

  “For Zagros?”

  “No, chérie, for the airport, then Kowiss.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I won’t,” he said and felt her stiffen. But he held her firmly and, in a moment, she relaxed again, and he continued—never a reason not to trust her implicitly “Between us, Kowiss is temporary, very. We’re pulling out of Iran, the whole company—it’s obvious we’re not wanted, we can’t operate freely anymore, the company’s not being paid. We’ve been tossed out of the Zagros…one of our mechanics was killed by terrorists a few days ago and young Scot Gavallan missed getting killed by a millimeter. So we’re pulling out. C’est fini.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. I don’t know exactly.”

  “I’ll… I will miss…will miss you, Jean-Luc,” she said and nestled closer.

  “And I’ll miss you, chérie,” he said gently, noticing the silent tears now flooding her cheeks. “How long are you staying in Tehran?”

  “I don’t know.” She kept the misery out of her voice. “I’ll give you an address in Beirut, they’ll know where to find me.”

  “You can find me through Aberdeen.”

  They sat there on the sofa, she lying in his arms, the clock on the mantelpiece over the fireplace ticking, normally so soft but now so loud, both of them conscious of the time that passed and the ending that had occurred—not of their volition.

  “Let’s make love,” she murmured, not wanting to but knowing that bed was expected of her.

  “No,” he said gallantly, pretending to be strong for both of them, knowing that bed was expected of him and then they would get dressed and be French and sensible about the ending of their affair. His eyes strayed to the clock. Forty-three minutes left.

  “You don’t want me?”

  “More than ever.” His hand cupped her breast and his lips brushed her neck, her perfume light and pleasing, ready to begin.

  “I’m glad,” she murmured in the same sweet voice, “and so glad that you said no. I want you for hours, my darling, not for a few minutes—not now. It would spoil everything to hurry.”

  For a moment he was nonplussed, not expecting that gambit in the game they played. But now that it was said he was glad too. How brave of her to forgo such pleasure, he thought, loving her deeply. Much better to remember the great times than to thrash around hurriedly. It certainly saves me a great deal of sweat and effort and I didn’t check if there’s any hot water. Now we can sit and chat and enjoy the wine, weep a little and be happy. “Yes, I agree. For me too.” Again his lips brushed her neck. He felt her tremble and for a moment he was tempted to inflame her. But decided not to. Poor baby, why torment her?

  “How are you all leaving, my darling?”

  “We’ll fly out together. Wine?”

  “Yes, yes, please, it’s so good.” She sipped the wine, dried her cheeks, and chatted with him, probing this extraordinary “pullout.” Both they and the Voice will find all this very interesting, perhaps even bring me to discover who they are. Until I know I can’t protect my son. Oh, God, help me to corner them.

  “I love you so much, chéri,” she said.

  AT TEHRAN AIRPORT: 6:05 P.M. Johnny Hogg, Pettikin, and Nogger stared at McIver blankly. “You’re staying—you’re not leaving with us?” Pettikin stuttered.

  “No. I told you,” McIver said briskly. “I’ve got to accompany Kia to Kowiss tomorrow.” They were beside his car in their parking lot, away from alien ears, the 125 on the apron, laborers loading the last few crates, the inevitable group of Green Band guards watching. And a mullah.

  “The mullah’s one we’ve never seen before,” Nogger said nervously, like all of them trying to hide it.

  “Good. Is everyone else ready to board?”

  “Yes, Mac, except Jean-Luc.” Pettikin was very unsettled. “Don’t you think you’d better chance leaving Kia?”

  “That’d really be crazy, Charlie. Nothing to worry about. You can set up everything at Al Shargaz Airport with Andy. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll get on the 125 tomorrow at Kowiss with the rest of the lads.”

  “But for God’s sake they’re all cleared, you’re not,” Nogger said.

  “For God’s sake, Nogger, none of us’re cleared from here, for God’s sake,” McIver added with a laugh. “How the hell will we be sure of our Kowiss lads until they’re airborne and out of Iran airspace? Nothing to worry about. First things first, we’ve got to get this part of the show in the air.” He glanced at the taxi skidding to a stop. Jean-Luc got out, gave the driver the other half of the note, and strolled over carrying a suitcase.

  “Alors, mes amis,” he said with a contented smile, “Ça marche?”

  McIver sighed. “Jolly sporting of you to advertise you’re going on a holiday, Jean-Luc.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” McIver liked Jean-Luc, for his ability, his cooking, and single-mindedness. When Gavallan had told Jean-Luc about Whirlwind, Jean-Luc had said at once, “Me, I will certainly fly out one of the Kowiss 212s—providing I can be on the Wednesday flight to Tehran and go into Tehran for a couple of hours.”

  “To do what?”

  “Mon Dieu, you Anglais! To say adieu to the Imam perhaps?”

  McIver grinned at the Frenchman. “How was Tehran?”

  “Magnifique!” Jean-Luc grinned back, and thought, I haven’t seen Mac so young in years. Who’s the lady? “Et toi, mon vieux?”

  “Good.” Behind him, McIver saw Jones, the copilot, come down the steps two at a time, heading for them. Now there were no more crates left on the tarmac and their Iranian ground crew were all strolling back to the office. “You all set aboard?”

  “All set, Captain, except for passengers,” Jones said, matter of fact. “ATC’s g
etting itchy and says we’re overdue. Quick as you can, all right?”

  “You’re still cleared for a stop at Kowiss?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  McIver took a deep breath. “All right, here we go, just as we planned, except I’ll take the papers, Johnny.” Johnny Hogg handed them to him and the three of them, McIver, Hogg, and Jones, went ahead, straight to the mullah, hoping to distract him. By prearrangement the two mechanics were already aboard, ostensibly loaders. “Good day, Agha,” McIver said, and ostentatiously handed the mullah the manifest, their position blocking a direct view of the steps. Nogger, Pettikin, and Jean-Luc went up them nimbly to vanish inside.

  The mullah leafed through the manifest, clearly not accustomed to it. “Good. Now inspect,” he said, his accent thick.

  “No need for that, Agha, ev—” McIver stopped. The mullah and the two guards were already going for the steps. “Soon as you’re aboard, start engines, Johnny,” he said softly and followed.

  The cabin was piled with crates, the passengers already seated, seat belts fastened. All eyes studiously avoided the mullah. The mullah stared at them. “Who men?”

  McIver said brightly, “Crews for replacements, Agha.” His excitement picked up as the engines began to howl. He motioned haphazardly at Jean-Luc. “Pilot for Kowiss replacement, Agha,” then more hurriedly, “Tower komiteh wants the aircraft to leave now. Hurry, all right?”

  “What in crates?” The mullah looked at the cockpit as Johnny Hogg called out in perfect Farsi, “Sorry to interrupt, Excellency, as God wants, but the tower orders us to take off at once. With your permission, please?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Excellency Pilot.” The mullah smiled. “Your Farsi is very good, Excellency.”

  “Thank you, Excellency, God keep you, and His blessings on the Imam.”

  “Thank you, Excellency Pilot, God keep you.” The mullah left.

  On his way out McIver leaned into the cockpit. “What was that all about, Johnny? I didn’t know you spoke Farsi.”

  “I don’t,” Hogg told him dryly—and what he had said to the mullah. “I just learned that phrase, thought it might come in handy.”

  McIver smiled. “Go to the top of the class!” Then he dropped his voice. “When you get to Kowiss get Duke to arrange with Hotshot, however he can, to pull the lads’ ferry forward, early as possible in the morning. I don’t want Kia there when they take off—get ’em out early however he can. Okay?”

  “Yes, of course, I’d forgotten that. Very wise.”

  “Have a safe flight—see you in Al Shargaz.” From the tarmac he gave them a beaming thumbs-up as they taxied away.

  The second they were airborne, Nogger exploded, with a cheer, “We did it!” that everyone echoed, except Jean-Luc who crossed himself superstitiously and Pettikin touched wood. “Merde,” Jean-Luc called out. “Save your cheers, Nogger, you may be grounded in Kowiss. Save your cheers for Friday, too much dust to blow across the Gulf between now and then!”

  “Right you are, Jean-Luc,” Pettikin said, sitting in the window seat beside him, watching the airport receding. “Mac was in good humor. Haven’t seen him that happy for months and he was pissed off this morning. Curious how people can change.”

  “Yes, curious. Me, I would be very pissed off indeed to have such a change of plan.” Jean-Luc was getting himself comfortable and sat back, his mind on Sayada and their parting that had been significant and sweet sorrow. He glanced at Pettikin and saw the heavy frown. “What?”

  “I suddenly wondered how Mac’s getting to Kowiss.”

  “By chopper, of course. There’re two 206s and an Alouette left.”

  “Tom ferried the Alouette to Kowiss today, and there aren’t any pilots left.”

  “So he is going by car, of course. Why?”

  “You don’t think he’d be crazy enough to fly Kia himself, do you?”

  “Are you mad? Of course not, he’s not that cr—” Jean-Luc’s eyebrows soared. “Merde, he’s that crazy.”

  AT INNER INTELLIGENCE HQ: 6:30 P.M. Hashemi Fazir stood at the window of his vast office, looking out over the roofs of the city and the minarets, huge mosque domes among the modern tall high-rise hotels and buildings, the last of the muezzins’ sunset calls dying away. A few more city lights on than usual. Distant gunfire. “Sons of dogs,” he muttered, then, without turning added sharply, “That’s all she said?”

  “Yes, Excellency. ‘In a few days.’ She said she was ‘fairly sure’ the Frenchman did not know exactly when they were leaving.”

  “She should have made sure. Careless. Careless agents are dangerous. Only 212s, eh?”

  “Yes, she was sure about that. I agree she’s careless and should be punished.”

  Hashemi heard the malicious pleasure in the voice but did not let it disturb his good humor, just let his mind wander, deciding what to do about Sayada Bertolin and her information. He was very pleased with himself.

  Today had been excellent. One of his secret associates had been appointed number two to Abrim Pahmudi in SAVAMA. At noon a telex from Tabriz had confirmed the death of Abdollah Khan. Immediately he had telexed back to arrange a private appointment tomorrow with Hakim Khan and requisitioned one of SAVAMA’s light, twin-engined airplanes. Talbot’s assist into hell had gone perfectly, and he had found no traces of the men responsible—a Group Four team—when he had inspected the bomb area, for, of course, he had been instantly summoned. Those nearby had seen no one park the car: “One moment there was God’s peace, the next Satan’s rage.”

  An hour ago Abrim Pahmudi had called personally, ostensibly to congratulate him. But he had avoided the trap and had carefully denied the explosion had anything to do with him—better not to draw attention to the similarity with the first car bomb that blew General Janan to pieces, better to keep Pahmudi guessing and off guard and under pressure. He had hid his laughter and said gravely, “As God wants, Excellency, but clearly this was another cursed leftist terrorist attack. Talbot wasn’t the target though his convenient demise certainly eliminates that problem. Sorry to tell you but the attack was again against the favored of the Imam.” Blaming terrorists and claiming the attack was against the ayatollahs and mullahs who frequented the restaurant would frighten them and it nicely led the trail away from Talbot and so would avoid possible British retaliation—certainly from Robert Armstrong if he ever found out—and so squashed several scorpions with one stone.

  Hashemi turned and looked at the sharp-faced man, Suliman al Wiali, the Group Four team leader who had planted today’s car bomb—the same man who had caught Sayada Bertolin in Teymour’s bedroom. “In a few minutes I’m leaving for Tabriz. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. A tall Englishman, Robert Armstrong, will be with me. Assign one of your men to follow him, make sure the man knows where Armstrong lives, then have him finish him off somewhere in the streets, after dark. Don’t do it yourself.”

  “Yes, Excellency. When?”

  Hashemi thought through his plan again and could find no flaw. “Holy Day.”

  “This is the same man you wanted the Sayada woman to fornicate with?”

  “Yes. But now I’ve changed my mind.” Robert’s no longer of any value, he thought. More than that, his time has come.

  “Do you have any other work for her, Excellency?”

  “No. We’ve broken the Teymour ring.”

  “As God wants. May I make a suggestion?”

  Hashemi studied him. Suliman was his most efficient, trustworthy, and deadly Group Four leader with a cover job as a minor agent for Inner Intelligence reporting directly to him. Suliman claimed that originally he came from the Shrift Mountains north of Beirut before his family was murdered and he was driven out by Christian militiamen, and Hashemi had inducted him five years ago after bribing him out of a Syrian prison where he had been condemned to death for murder and banditry on both sides of the borders, his sole defense: “I only killed Jews and Infidels as God ordered, so I do God’s work. I am an Avenger.”
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  “What suggestion?” he asked.

  “She’s an ordinary PLO courier, not a very good one and in her present state dangerous and a possible threat—easy to be subverted by Jews or CIAs and used against us. Like good farmers we should plant seeds where we can to reap a future crop.” Suliman smiled. “You’re a wise farmer, Excellency. My suggestion is I tell her it’s time to go back to Beirut, that we, the two of us who caught her in her harlotry, now want her to work for us there. We let her overhear us talking privately—and we pretend to be part of a cell of Christian militiamen from southern Lebanon, acting under Israeli orders for their CIA masters.” The man laughed quietly, seeing his employer’s surprise.

  “And then?”

  “What would turn a lukewarm, anti-Israeli, Palestinian Copt into a permanent, fanatic hellcat bent on vengeance?”

  Hashemi looked at him. “What?”

  “Say some of these same ‘Christian militiamen, acting under Israeli orders for their CIA masters,’ maliciously, openly hurt her child, hurt him badly, the day before she arrived back, then vanished—wouldn’t that make her a fiendish enemy of our enemies?”

  Hashemi lit a cigarette to hide his disgust, “I agree only that her usefulness is over,” he said and saw a flash of irritation.

  “What value has her child, and what future?” Suliman said scornfully. “With such a mother and living with Christian relatives he will remain Christian and go to hell.”

  “Israel is our ally. Stay out of Middle Eastern affairs or they will eat you up. It’s forbidden!”

  “If you say it is forbidden it is forbidden, Master.” Suliman bowed and nodded agreement. “On the head of my children.”