“And what the hell you figure on doing?”
McIver beamed. “Me, I’ll be a passenger. Meanwhile, I’m just bloody Kia’s very private bloody pilot.”
IN THE TOWER: 4:50 P.M. “I repeat, Mr. Siamaki,” McIver said tightly into the mike, “there’s a special conference in Al Sh—”
“And I repeat, why wasn’t I informed at once?” The voice over the loudspeaker was shrill and irritated.
McIver’s knuckles were white from the grip on the mike’s stem, and he was being watched intently by a Green Band and Wazari whose face was still swollen from the beating Zataki had given him. “I repeat, Agha Siamaki,” he said, his voice tidy, “Captains Pettikin and Lane were needed for an urgent conference in Al Shargaz and there was no time to inform you.”
“Why? I’m here in Tehran. Why wasn’t the office informed, where are their exit permits? Where?”
McIver pretended to be slightly exasperated. “I already told you, Agha, there was no time—phones in Tehran aren’t working—and I cleared their exits with the komiteh at the airport, personally with His Excellency the mullah in charge.” The Green Band yawned, bored, non-English-speaking, and noisily cleared his throat. “Now if you’ll excu—”
“But you and Captain Pettikin have removed your valuables from your apartment. Is that so?”
“Merely a precaution to remove temptation from vile mujhadin and fedayeen burglars and bandits while we’re away,” McIver said airily, very conscious of Wazari’s attention and sure that the tower at the air base was monitoring this conversation. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Minister Kia requires my presence!”
“Ah, Minister Kia, ah, yes!” Siamaki’s irritability softened a little. “What, er, what time do you both arrive back in Tehran tomorrow?”
“Depending on the winds…” McIver’s eyes almost crossed as he had a sudden, almost overwhelming, desire to blurt out about Whirlwind. I must be going potty, he thought. With an effort he concentrated. “Depending on Minister Kia, the winds, and refueling, sometime in the afternoon.”
“I will be waiting for you; I may even meet you at the airport if we know your ETA; there are checks to be signed and many rearrangements to be discussed. Please give Minister Kia my best wishes and wish him a pleasant stay in Kowiss. Salaam.” The transmission clicked off. McIver sighed, put the mike down. “Sergeant, while I’m here I’d like to call Bandar Delam and Lengeh.”
“I’ll have to ask base,” Wazari said.
“Go ahead.” McIver looked out the window. The weather was deteriorating, the southeaster crackling the wind sock and the stays of the radio mast. Thirty knots, gusting to thirty-five on the counter. Too much, he thought. The upended mud tank that had crashed through the roof was only a few yards away. He could see Hogg and Jones patiently waiting in the 125 cockpit, the cabin door invitingly open. Through the other window he saw Kia and Esvandiary had finished their inspection and were heading this way, toward the offices directly below. Idly he saw that a connector on the main roof aerial was loose, then noticed the wire almost free. “Sergeant, you’d better fix that right smartly, you could lose all transmission.”
“Jesus, sure, thanks.” Wazari got up, stopped. Over the loudspeaker came: “This is Kowiss Tower. Request to call Bandar Delam and Lengeh approved.” He acknowledged, switched frequencies, and made the call.
“This’s Bandar Delam, go ahead Kowiss.” McIver’s heart picked up, recognizing Rudi Lutz’s voice.
Wazari handed the mike to McIver, his eyes outside on the faulty connection. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, picked up some tools, opened the door onto the roof, and went out. He was still within easy hearing distance. The Green Band yawned, watching disinterestedly.
“Hello, Captain Lutz, McIver. I’m overnighting here,” McIver said matter-of-factly, choosing the words very carefully. “Had to escort a VIP, Minister Kia, from Tehran. How’re things at Bandar Delam?”
“We’re five by five but if…” The voice stopped. McIver had heard the inrush of breath and concern, quickly bottled. He glanced at Wazari who was squatting beside the connector. “How long…how long’re you staying, Mac?” Rudi asked.
“I’ll be en route tomorrow as planned. Providing the weather holds,” he added carefully.
“Understand. No sweat.”
“No sweat. All systems go for a long and happy year. How about you?”
Another pause. “Everything five by five. All systems go for a long and happy year and vive the Imam!”
“Quite right. Reason for the call is that HQ Aberdeen urgently wants information about your ‘updated impress file.’” This was code for Whirlwind’s preparations. “Is it ready?”
“Yes, yes, it is. Where should I send it?” Code for: Do we still head for Al Shargaz?
“Gavallan’s in Al Shargaz on an inspection trip so send it there—it’s important you make a special effort and get it there quickly. I heard in Tehran there was a BA flight going into Abadan tomorrow. Get it on that flight for Al Shargaz tomorrow, all right?”
“Loud and clear. I’ve been working on the details all day.”
“Excellent. How’s your crew change situation?”
“Great. Outgoing crew’ve gone, incoming replacements due Saturday, Sunday at the latest. Everything’s prepared for their arrival. I’ll be on the next crew change.”
“Good, I’m here if you want me. How’s your weather?”
A pause. “Stormy. It’s raining now. We’ve a southeaster.”
“Same here. No sweat.”
“By the way, Siamaki called Numir, our IranOil manager, a couple of times.”
“What about?” McIver said.
“Just checking on the base, Numir said.”
“Good,” McIver said carefully. “Glad he’s interested in our operations. I’ll call tomorrow, everything’s routine. Happy landings.”
“You too, thanks for calling.”
McIver signed off cursing Siamaki. Nosy bloody bastard! He looked outside. Wazari still had his back to him, kneeling beside the base of the aerial, near the skylight of the office below, totally concentrated, so he left him to it and made the call to Lengeh.
Scragger was quickly on the other end. “Hello, sport. Yes, we heard you were on the routine side trip escorting a VIP—Andy called from Al Shargaz. What’s the poop?”
“Routine. Everything’s as planned. HQ Aberdeen needs information of your ‘updated impress file.’ Is it ready?”
“Ready as she’ll ever be. Where should I send it?”
“Al Shargaz, that’s easiest for you. Can you get it over tomorrow?”
“Gotcha, old sport, I’ll plan on it. How’s your weather?”
“Southeasterly, thirty to thirty-five knots. Johnny said it might lighten tomorrow. You?”
“About the same. Let’s hope she dies down. No problem for us.”
“Good. I’ll call tomorrow. Happy landings.”
“Same to you. By the way, how’s Lulu?”
McIver cursed under his breath, because in the excitement of the change of plan, having to escort Kia, he had totally forgotten his pledge to his car to save her from a fate worse than. He had just left her in one of the hangars as a further indication to the staff there he was returning tomorrow. “She’s fine,” he said. “How’s your medical?”
“Fine. How’s yours, old sport?”
“See you soon, Scrag,” Wryly McIver clicked off the sender. Now he was very tired. He stretched and got up, noticed that the Green Band had gone and Wazari was standing at the doorway from the roof, his face strange. “What’s the matter?”
“I…nothing, Captain.” The young man closed the door, chilled, was startled to see the tower empty but for the two of them. “Where’s the Green Band?”
“I don’t know.” Quickly Wazari checked the stairwell, then turned on him and dropped his voice: “What’s going on, Captain?”
McIver’s fatigue left him. “I don’t understand.”
“All those calls fro
m Siamaki, telexes, guys leaving Tehran without permits, all the guys leaving here, spares going out, sneaked out.” He jerked a thumb at the skylight. “Minister arriving all of a sudden.”
“Crews need replacements, spares become redundant. Thanks for your help.” McIver began to walk around him but Wazari stood in his way.
“Something’s mighty goddamn crazy! You can’t tell me th—” He stopped, footsteps approaching from downstairs. “Listen, Captain,” he whispered urgently, “I’m on your side, I’ve a deal with your Captain Ayre, he’s gonna help me…”
The Green Band came stomping up the stairs into the room, said something in Farsi to Wazari, whose eyes widened.
“What did he say?” McIver asked.
“Esvandiary wants you below.” Wazari smiled sardonically, then went back out onto the roof again and squatted beside the connector, fiddling with it.
IN ESVANDIARY’S OFFICE: 5:40 P.M. Tom Lochart was frozen with rage, and so was McIver. “But our exit permits are valid and we’ve clearance to send personnel out today, right now!”
“With Minister Kia’s approval the permits’re held up until the replacements arrive,” Esvandiary said curtly. He sat behind the desk, Kia beside him, Lochart and McIver standing in front of him. On the desk was the pile of permits and passports. It was nearing sunset now. “Agha Siamaki agrees too.”
“Quite correct.” Kia was amused and pleased at their discomfiture. Damned foreigners. “No need for all this urgency, Captain. Much better to do things in an orderly fashion, much better.”
“The flight is orderly, Minister Kia,” McIver said tight-lipped. “We’ve the permits. I insist the plane leaves as planned!”
“This is Iran, not England.” Esvandiary sneered, “Even there I doubt if you could insist on anything.” He was very pleased with himself. Minister Kia had been delighted with his pishkesh—the revenue from a future oil well—and had at once offered him a seat on the IHC board. Then, to his vast amusement, Kia had explained that exit permits should have fees attached to them: Let the foreigners sweat, the minister had added. By Saturday they will be most anxious of their own accord to press on you say three hundred U.S. dollars in cash, per head. “As the minister says,” he said importantly, “we should be orderly. Now I’m busy, good aftern—”
The door swung open and now Starke was in the small office, his face blotchy, his good fist bunched, left arm in a sling. “What the hell’s with you, Esvandiary? You can’t cancel the permits!”
McIver burst out, “For God’s sake, Duke, you shouldn’t be here!”
“The permits’re postponed, not canceled. Postponed!” Esvandiary’s face contorted. “And how many times do I have to tell you ill-mannered people to knock? Knock! This isn’t your office, it’s mine, I ran this base, you don’t, and Minister Kia and I are having a meeting that you’ve all interrupted! Now get out, get out the lot of you!” He turned to Kia as though the two of them were alone and said in Farsi in a new voice, “Minister, I do apologize for all of this, you see what I have to deal with. I strongly recommend we nationalize all foreign airplanes and use our own p—”
Starke’s jaw jutted. He bunched his fist. “Listen you sonofabitch.”
“GET OUT!” Esvandiary reached into his drawer where there was an automatic. But he never pulled it out. The mullah Hussain came through the door, Green Bands behind him. A sudden silence pervaded the room.
“In the Name of God, what’s going on here?” Hussain said in English, cold hard eyes on Esvandiary and Kia. At once Esvandiary got up and began to explain, speaking Farsi, Starke cut in with their side, and soon both men were getting louder and louder. Impatiently Hussain held up his hand. “First you, Agha Esvandiary. Please speak Farsi so my komiteh can understand.” He listened impassively to the long-winded Farsi address, his four Green Bands crowding the door. Then he motioned to Starke. “Captain?”
Starke was carefully brief and blunt.
Hussain nodded at Kia. “Now you, Excellency Minister. May I see your authority to override Kowissi authority and exit permits?”
“Override, Excellency Mullah? Postpone? Not I,” Kia said easily. “I’m merely a servant of the Imam, God’s peace upon him, and of his personally appointed prime minister and his government.”
“Excellency Esvandiary said you approved the postponement.”
“I merely agreed with his wish for an orderly rearrangement of foreign personnel.”
Hussain looked down at the desk. “Those are the exit permits with passports?”
Esvandiary’s mouth went dry. “Yes, Excellency.”
Hussain scooped them up and handed them to Starke. “The men and airplane will leave at once.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” Starke said, the strain of standing getting to him.
“Let me help.” McIver took the passports and permits from him. “Thank you, Agha,” he said to Hussain, elated with their victory.
Hussain’s eyes were just as cold and hard as ever. “The Imam has said, ‘If foreigners want to leave, let them leave, we have no need of them.’”
“Er, yes, thank you,” McIver said, not liking to be near this man at all. He went out. Lochart followed.
Starke was saying in Farsi, “I’m afraid I have to go on the airplane too, Excellency.” He told him what Doc Nutt had said, adding in English, “I don’t want to go but well, that’s it. Insha’Allah.”
Hussain nodded absently. “You won’t need an exit permit. Go aboard. I will explain to the komiteh. I will see the airplane leave.” He walked out and went up to the tower to inform Colonel Changiz of his decision.
It took no time at all for the 125 to be filled. Starke was last to the gangway, legs very shaky now. Doc Nutt had given him enough painkillers to get him aboard. “Thank you, Excellency,” he said to Hussain over the howl of the jets, still afraid of him yet liking him, not knowing why. “God’s peace be with you.” Over Hussain now hung a strange pall. “Corruption and lies and cheating are against the laws of God, aren’t they?”
“Yes, yes they are.” Starke saw Hussain’s indecision. Then the moment passed.
“God’s peace be with you, Captain.” Hussain turned and stalked off. The wind freshened slightly.
Weakly Starke climbed the steps, using his good hand, wanting to walk tall. At the top he held onto the handrail and turned back a moment, head throbbing, chest very bad. So much left here, so much, too much, not just choppers and spares and material things—so much more. Goddamn, I should be staying, not leaving. Bleakly he waved farewell to those who were left behind and gave them a thumbs-up, achingly aware that he was thankful not to be among them.
In the office Esvandiary and Kia watched the 125 taxiing away. God’s curse on them, may they all burn for interfering, Esvandiary thought. Then he threw off his fury, concentrating on the vast feast that selected friends who desperately wished to meet Minister Kia, his friend and fellow director, had arranged, the entertainment of dancers to follow, then the temporary marriages…
The door opened. To his astonishment, Hussain came in, livid with rage, Green Bands crowding after him. Esvandiary got up. “Yes, Excellency? What can I d—” He stopped as a Green Band roughly pulled him out of the way to allow Hussain to sit behind the desk. Kia sat where he was, perplexed.
Hussain said, “The Imam, God’s peace on him, has ordered komitehs to cast out corruption wherever it is to be found. This is the Kowiss air base komiteh. You are both accused of corruption.”
Kia and Esvandiary blanched and both started talking, claiming that this was ridiculous and they were falsely accused. Hussain reached over and jerked the gold band of the gold watch on Esvandiary’s wrist. “When did you buy this and with what did you pay?”
“My…my savings and—”
“Liar. Pishkesh for two jobs. The komiteh knows. Now, what about your scheme to defraud the state, secretly offering future oil revenues to corrupt officials for future services?”
“Ridiculous, Excellency, lies all
lies!” Esvandiary shouted in panic.
Hussain looked at Kia who also had gone pasty gray. “What officials, Excellency?” Kia asked, keeping his voice calm, sure that his enemies had set him up to be trapped far away from the seat of his influence. Siamaki! It has to be Siamaki!
Hussain motioned to one of the Green Bands who went out and brought in the radio operator, Wazari. “Tell them, before God, what you told me,” he ordered.
“As I told you earlier, I was on the roof, Excellency,” Wazari said nervously; “I was checking one of our lines and overheard them through the skylight. I heard him make the offer.” He pointed a blunt finger at Esvandiary, delighted for an opportunity for revenge. If it hadn’t been for Esvandiary, I’d’ve never have been picked on by that madman Zataki, never been beaten and hurt, never been almost killed. “They were speaking English and he said, I can arrange to divert oil revenues from new wells, I can keep the wells off the lists and can divert funds to you…”
Esvandiary was appalled. He had carefully sent all the Iranian staff out of the office building and further, for safety, talked English. Now he was damned. He heard Wazari finish and Kia begin to speak, quietly, calmly, avoiding all complicity, saying he was only leading this corrupt and evil man on; “I was asked to visit here for just this purpose, Excellency, sent here by the Imam’s government, God protect him, for just this purpose: to root out corruption wherever it existed. May I congratulate you on being so zealous. If you will allow me, the moment I get back to Tehran, I will commend you directly to the Revolutionary Komiteh itself—and of course to the prime minister.”
Hussain looked at the Green Bands. “Is Esvandiary guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty, Excellency.”
“Is the man Kia guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty,” Esvandiary shouted before they could answer.
One of the Green Bands shrugged. “All Tehranis are liars. Guilty,” and the others nodded and echoed him.
Kia said politely, “Tehrani mullahs and ayatollahs are not liars, Excellencies, the Revolutionary Komiteh not liars, nor the Imam, God save him, who perhaps could be called Tehrani because he lives there now. I just happen to live there too. I was born in Holy Qom, Excellencies,” he added, blessing the fact for the first time in his life.
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