Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Got to decide soon. In conjunction with Charlie Pettikin I’ve got to decide soon.

  He went through the NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS door, down the corridor, double-glazed windows the length of it. On the apron the 707 was being guided into its disembarking slot by a FOLLOW ME car, the sign in English and Farsi. Several Fokkerwolf forty-passenger prop feeders were parked neatly, a Pan Am jumbo that was part of the evacuation milk run to Tehran, and half a dozen private jets, their 125 among them. Wish it was Saturday, he thought. No, perhaps I don’t.

  On the door of their office suite was S-G HELICOPTERS, SHEIK AVIATION.

  “Hello, Scot.”

  “Hello, Dad.” Scot grinned. He was alone, duty officer, and he sat in front of the HF that was on standby, a book in his lap, his right arm in a sling. “Nothing new except a message to call Roger Newbury at home. Shall I get him?”

  “In a moment, thanks.” Gavallan handed him the Met reports. Scot scanned them rapidly. The phone rang. Without stopping reading, he picked it up. “S-G?” He listened a moment. “Who? Oh, yes. No, he’s not here, sorry. Yes, I’ll tell him. ’Bye.” He replaced the phone, sighed. “Johnny Hogg’s new bird, Alexandra—‘the Hot Tamale’ Manuela calls her because she’s certain he’s going to get his pecker burned.” Gavallan laughed. Scot looked up from the reports. “Neither one thing or the other. Could be very good, lots of cover. But if the wind picks up could be rotten, Saturday better than Friday.” His blue eyes watched his father who stared out of the window at the apron traffic, passengers disembarking from the jet.

  “I agree.” Gavallan said, noncommittally. “There’s someth—” He stopped as the HF came to life: “Al Shargaz, this is Tehran Head Office, do you read?”

  “This is Al Shargaz, Head Office, you’re four by five, go ahead,” Scot said.

  “Director Siamaki wants to talk to Mr. Gavallan immediately.”

  Gavallan shook his head. “I’m not here,” he whispered.

  “Can I take a message, Head Office?” Scot said into the mike. “It’s a little late but I’ll get it to him as soon as possible.”

  Waiting. Static. Then the arrogant voice Gavallan detested. “This is Managing Director Siamaki. Tell Gavallan to call me back tonight. I’ll be here until 10:30 tonight or anytime after 9:00 A.M. tomorrow. Without fail. Understand?”

  “Five by five, Head Office,” Scot said sweetly. “Over and out!”

  “Bloody twit,” Gavallan muttered. Then more sharply, “What the devil’s he doing in the office at this time of night?”

  “Snooping, has to be, and if he plans to ‘work’ on Holy Day…that’s pretty suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “Mac said he would clean the safe out of important stuff and throw his key and the spare into the joub. Bet those buggers have duplicates,” Gavallan said testily. “I’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the pleasure of talking with him. Scot, is there any way we can jam him listening to our calls?”

  “No, not if we use our company frequencies which’s all we’ve got.”

  His father nodded. “When Johnny comes in, remind him I may want him airborne tomorrow at a moment’s notice.” It was part of the Whirlwind plan to use the 125 as a high-altitude VHF receiver/transmitter to cover those choppers only equipped with VHF. “From seven o’clock onward.”

  “Then it’s a go for tomorrow.”

  “Not yet.” Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. “Good evening, Mr. Newbury, please, Mr. Gavallan returning his call.” Roger Newbury was one of the officials at the British consulate who had been very helpful, easing permits for them. “Hello, Roger, you wanted me? Sorry, you’re not at dinner, are you?”

  “No, glad you called. Couple of things: first, bit of bad news, we’ve just heard George Talbot’s been killed.”

  “Good God, what happened?”

  “ ’Fraid it’s all rather rotten. He was in a restaurant where there were some rather high-level ayatollahs. A terrorist car bomb blew the place to bits and him with it, yesterday lunchtime.”

  “How bloody awful!”

  “Yes. There was a Captain Ross with him, he was hurt too. I believe you knew him?”

  “Yes, yes, I’d met him. He helped the wife of one of our pilots get out of a mess at Tabriz. A nice young man. How badly was he hurt?”

  “We don’t know, it’s all a bit sketchy, but our embassy in Tehran got him to the Kuwait International Hospital yesterday; I’ll get a proper report tomorrow and will let you know. Now, you asked if we could find out the whereabouts of your Captain Erikki Yokkonen.” A pause and the rustle of papers and Gavallan held on to his hope, “We had a telex this evening from Tabriz, just before I left the office: ‘Please be advised in answer to your query about Captain Erikki Yokkonen, he is believed to have escaped from his kidnappers and is now believed to be with his wife at the palace of Hakim Khan. A further report will be forthcoming tomorrow as soon as this can be checked.’”

  “You mean Abdollah Khan, Roger.” Excitedly Gavallan covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Scot, “Erikki’s safe!”

  “Fantastic,” Scot said, wondering what the bad news had been.

  “The telex definitely says Hakim Khan,” Newbury was saying.

  “Never mind, thank God he’s safe.” And thank God another major hurdle against Whirlwind is removed. “Could you get a message to him for me?”

  “I could try. Come in tomorrow. Can’t guarantee it’ll reach him, the situation in Azerbaijan is quite fluid. We could certainly try.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Roger. Very thoughtful of you to let me know. Terribly sorry about Talbot and young Ross. If there’s anything I can do to help Ross, please let me know.”

  “Yes, yes, I will. By the way, the word’s out.” It was said flat.

  “Sorry?”

  “Let’s say, ‘Turbulences,’ ” Newbury said delicately.

  For a moment Gavallan was silent, then he recovered. “Oh?”

  “Oh. It seems a certain Mr. Kasigi wanted you to service Iran-Toda from yesterday and you told him you wouldn’t be able to give him an answer for thirty days. So, er, we added two to two and with all the rumors got a bull’s-eye, the word’s out.”

  Gavallan was trying to get cool. “Not being able to service Iran-Toda’s a business decision, Roger, nothing more. Operating anywhere in Iran’s bloody now, you know that. I couldn’t handle Kasigi’s extra business.”

  “Really?” Newbury’s voice was withering. Then, sharply, “Well, if what we hear is true we’d strongly, very strongly advise against it.”

  Gavallan said stubbornly, “You surely don’t advise me to support Iran-Toda when all Iran’s falling apart, do you?”

  Another pause. A sigh. Then, “Well, mustn’t keep you, Andy. Perhaps we could have lunch. On Saturday.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d, I’d like that.” Gavallan hung up.

  “What was the bad?” Scot asked.

  Gavallan told him about Talbot and Ross and then about “turbulences.” “That’s too close to Whirlwind to be funny.”

  “What’s this about Kasigi?”

  “He wanted two 212s from Bandar Delam at once to service Iran-Toda—I had to stall.” Their meeting had been brief and blunt: “Sorry, Mr. Kasigi, it’s not possible to service you this week, or the next. I couldn’t, er, consider it for thirty days.”

  “My chairman would greatly appreciate it. I understand you know him?”

  “Yes, I did, and if I could help I certainly would. Sorry, it’s just not possible.”

  “But…then can you suggest an alternative? I must get helicopter support.”

  “What about a Japanese company?”

  “There isn’t one. Is there…is there someone else to hold me over?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Guerney’ll never go back but they might know of someone.” He had given him their phone number and the distraught Japanese had rushed off.

  He looked at his son. “Damned shame but nothing I could do to help h
im.” Scot said, “If the word’s out…” He eased the sling more comfortably. “If the word’s out then it’s out. All the more reason to press the titty.”

  “Or to cancel. Think I’ll drop by and see Duke. Track me down if anyone calls. Nogger’s taking over from you?”

  “Yes. Midnight. Jean-Luc’s still booked on the dawn flight to Bahrain, Pettikin to Kuwait. I’ve confirmed their seats.” Scot watched him.

  Gavallan did not answer the unsaid question. “Leave it like that for the moment.” He saw his son smile and nod and his heart was suddenly overflowing with love and concern and pride and fear for him, intermixed with his own hopes for a future that depended on his being able to extract all of them from the Iranian morass. He was surprised to hear himself say, “Would you consider giving up flying, laddie?”

  “Eh?”

  Gavallan smiled at his son’s astonishment. But now that he had said it, he decided to continue. “It’s part of a long-term plan. For you and the family. In fact I’ve two—just between ourselves. Of course both depend on whether we stay in business or not. The first is you give up flying and go out to Hong Kong for a couple of years to learn that end of Struan’s, back to Aberdeen for perhaps another year, then back to Hong Kong again where you’d base. The second’s that you go for a conversion course on the X63s, spend six months or so in the States, perhaps a year learning that end of the business, then to the North Sea for a season. Then out to Hong Kong.”

  “Always back to Hong Kong?”

  “Yes. China will open up sometime for oil exploration and Ian and I want Struan’s to be ready with a complete operation, support choppers, rigs, the whole kit and caboodle.” He smiled strangely. “Oil for the lamps of China” was code for Ian Dunross’s secret plan, most of which Linbar Struan was not party to. “Air Struan’ll be the new company and its area of responsibility and operation’d be China, the China Seas, and the whole China basin. Our end plan is that you’d head it.”

  “Not much potential there,” Scot said with pretended diffidence. “Do you think Air Struan would have a future?” Then he let his smile out.

  “Again this is all just between us—Linbar’s not been given all the facts yet.”

  Scot frowned. “Will he approve me going out there, joining Struan’s and doing this?”

  “He hates me, Scot, not you. He hasn’t opposed you seeing his niece, has he?”

  “Not yet. No, he hasn’t, not yet.”

  “The timing’s right and we have to have a future plan—for the family. You’re the right age, I think you could do it.” Gavallan’s eyes picked up light. “You’re half-Dunross, you’re a direct descendant of Dirk Struan, and so you’ve responsibilities above and beyond yourself. You and your sister inherited your mother’s shares, you’d qualify for the Inner Office if you’re good enough. That burk Linbar’ll have to retire one day—even he can’t destroy the Noble House totally. What do you say to my plan?”

  “I’d like to think it over, Dad.”

  What’s there to think over, laddie, he thought. “Night, Scot, I may drop back later.” He gave him a careful pat on his good shoulder and walked out. Scot won’t fail me, he told himself proudly.

  In the spacious Customs and Immigration hall, passengers were trickling in from Immigration, others waiting for their baggage. The arrival board announced that the Gulf Air Flight 52 from Muscat, Oman’s capital, had arrived on time and was due to leave in fifteen minutes for Abu Dhabi, Bahrain, and Kuwait. The newstand was still open so he wandered over to see what papers were in. He was reaching for the London Times when he saw the headline, PRIME MINISTER CALLAGHAN CITES LABOUR’S SUCCESSES, and changed his mind. What do I need that for? he thought. Then he saw Genny McIver.

  She was sitting alone, near the boarding gate with a small suitcase beside her. “Hello, Genny, what are you doing here?”

  She smiled sweetly. “I’m going to Kuwait.”

  He smiled sweetly back. “What the hell for?”

  “Because I need a holiday.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The button’s not even pushed yet and anyway, there’s nothing you can do there, nothing. You’d be in the way. You’re much better off waiting here. Genny, for God’s sake be reasonable.”

  The set smile had not even flickered. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am reasonable, I’m the most reasonable person you know. Duncan McIver isn’t. He’s the most misguided, misbegotten twit I’ve ever come across in all my born days and to Kuwait I am going.” It was all said with an Olympian calm.

  Wisely he changed tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going instead of sneaking off like this? I’d’ve been worried to death if you’d been missing.”

  “If I’d asked you you’d’ve shanghaied me. I asked Manuela to tell you later, flight time, hotel, and phone number. But I’m glad you’re here, Andy. You can see me off. I’d like someone to see me off, hate seeing myself off—oh, you know what I mean!”

  It was then he saw how frail she seemed. “You all right, Genny?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s just…well, I just must be there, have to be, I can’t sit here, and anyway part of this was my idea, I’m responsible too, and I don’t want anything—anything—to go wrong.”

  “It won’t,” he said and both of them touched the wooden seat. Then he slipped his arm through hers. “It’s going to be all right. Listen, one good piece of news.” He told her about Erikki.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Hakim Khan?” Genny searched her memory. “Wasn’t Azadeh’s brother, the one who was living in…blast, I’ve forgotten, someplace near Turkey, wasn’t his name Hakim?”

  “Perhaps the telex was right then and it is Hakim ‘Khan.’ That should be great for them.”

  “Yes. Her father sounded like an awful old man.” She looked up at him. “Have you decided yet? If it’s tomorrow?”

  “No, not yet, not finally.”

  “What about the weather?”

  He told her. “Not much of a decider, either way,” she said.

  “Wish Mac was here. He’d be wise in a situation like this.”

  “No wiser than you, Andy.” They looked across at the departure board as the announcer called for passengers on Flight 52. They got up. “For what it’s worth, Andy, all other things being equal, Mac’s decided it’s tomorrow.”

  “Eh? How do you know that?”

  “I know Duncan. ’Bye, darling Andy.” She kissed him hurriedly and did not look back.

  He waited until she had vanished. Deep in thought he went outside, not noticing Wesson near the newsstand, putting his fountain pen away.

  BOOK FOUR

  AL SHARGAZ—THE OASIS HOTEL: 5:37 A.M. Gavallan stood at his window, already dressed, night still heavy except to the east, dawn due soon now. Threads of mist came in from the coast, half a mile away, to vanish quickly in the desert reaches. Sky eerily cloudless to the east, gradually building to thick cover overall. From where he was he could see most of the airfield. Runway lights were on, a small jet already taxiing out, and the smell of kerosene was on the wind that had veered more southerly. A knock on the door. “Come in! Ah, morning, Jean-Luc, morning, Charlie.”

  “Morning, Andy. If we’re to catch our flight it’s time to leave,” Pettikin said, his nervousness running the words together. He was due to go to Kuwait, Jean-Luc to Bahrain.

  “Where’s Rodrigues?”

  “He’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Good, then you’d best be on your way.” Gavallan was pleased that his voice sounded calm. Pettikin beamed, Jean-Luc muttered merde, “With your approval, Charlie, I propose pushing the button at 7:00 A.M. as planned—provided none of the bases pull the plug beforehand. If they do we’ll try again tomorrow. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. No calls yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Pettikin could hardly contain his excitement. “Well, off we go into the wild blue yonder! Come on, Jean-Luc!”

  Jean-Luc’s eyebrows soared.
“Mon Dieu, it’s Boy Scouts time!” Then he went for the door. “Great news about Erikki, Andy, but how’s he going to get out?”

  “I don’t know. I’m seeing Newbury at the Consulate first thing to try to get a message to him—to get out via Turkey. Both of you call me the second you land. I’ll be in the office from six. See you later.”

  He closed the door after them. Now it was done. Unless one of the bases aborted.

  AT LENGEH: 5:49 A.M. False dawn’s light was barely perceptible through the overcast. Scragger wore a raincoat and trudged through the drizzle and puddles toward the cookhouse that had the only light on in the base. The wind pulled at his peaked flying cap, driving the soft rain into his face.

  To his surprise Willi was already in the cookhouse, sitting near the wood stove drinking coffee. “Morning, Scrag, coffee? I’ve just made it.” He motioned with his head into a corner. Curled up on the floor, fast asleep and near to the warmth, was one of the camp Green Bands. Scragger nodded and took off his raincoat.

  “Tea for me, me son. You’re up early, where’s the cook?”

  Willi shrugged and put the kettle back on the stove. “Late. I thought I’d have an early breakfast. I’m going to have some scrambled. How about if I cook for you too?”

  Scragger was suddenly famished. “You’re on! Four eggs for me and two pieces of toast and I’ll go easy at lunch. We have any bread, sport?” He watched Willi open the refrigerator. Three loaves, plenty of eggs and butter. “Good oh! Can’t eat eggs without buttered toast. They don’t taste right.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Wind’s veered almost south and up to thirty knots.”

  “My nose says she’ll lessen.”

  “My arse says she’ll lessen too but still she’s shitty.”

  Scragger laughed. “Have confidence, mate.”

  “I’ll be much more confident with my passport.”

  “Too right, so will I—but the plan still stays.” When he had got back last night from the sergeant, Vossi and Willi had been waiting for him. Well away from prying ears he had told them what had happened.

  Willi had said at once, and Vossi agreed, “We better alert Andy we may have to abort.”