Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “They’re bloody idiots,” Gavallan said, talking to hide his grinding anxiety—his eyes seeking the incomers. “Bloody government doesn’t know its arse from a hole in the ground, French the same. They should just write off research and development costs—they’re written off already in actuality—then she’s a perfectly viable business proposition for certain runs and priceless. LA to Japan’s a natural, to Australia, Buenos Aires too… Anyone see our birds yet?”

  “Tower’s in a better position, Dad.” Scot eased up the tower frequency. “Concorde 001 you’re next for takeoff. Bon voyage,” the controller was saying. “When airborne call Baghdad on 119.9.”

  “Thank you, 119.9.” Concorde was moving proudly, supremely confident that all eyes were on her.

  “By God, she’s worth looking at.”

  “Tower, this is Concorde 001. What’s the fire truck for?”

  “We’ve three choppers inbound for the north helipad, one on one engine…”

  IN THE CONTROL TOWER: “…Would you like us to divert them until you’re off?” the controller asked. His name was Sinclair and he was English, an ex-RAF officer like many of the controllers employed in the Gulf.

  “No, no thanks, just curious.”

  Sinclair was a short, stocky, bald man, and he sat in a swivel chair at a low desk with a panoramic view. Around his neck hung a pair of high-powered binoculars. He put them to his eyes and focused. Now he could see the three choppers in V formation. Earlier he had positioned the one with the failed engine at the head of the V—he knew it was Scragger but pretended not to know. Around him in the tower was an abundance of first-class radar and communication equipment, telexes, with three Shargazi trainees and a Shargazi controller. The controller was concentrating on his radar screen, positioning the other six airplanes presently in the system.

  Without losing the choppers in his binoculars, Sinclair clicked on his sender: “HSVT, this is the tower, how are you doing?”

  “Tower, HSVT.” Scragger’s voice was clear and precise. “No problem. Everything in the Green. I see Concorde approaching for takeoff—would you like me to hold or hurry up?”

  “HSVT, continue your direct approach at safety maximum. Concorde, go into position and hold.” Sinclair called out to one of the trainees on the Ground Control, “Mohammed, soon as the chopper lands I turn him over to you, all right?”

  “Yes, Sayyid.”

  “Are you in contact with the fire truck?”

  “No, Sayyid.”

  “Then do it quickly! That’s your responsibility.” The youth started to apologize. “Don’t worry, you made a mistake, that’s over, get on with it!”

  Sinclair adjusted the focus a hair. Scragger was fifty feet off, approach perfect. “Mohammed, tell the fire truck to get with it—come on for God’s sake, those buggers should be ready with the foam hoses.” He heard the young controller cursing the fire fighters again, then saw them piling out, readying their hoses. Again he moved the glasses over to the Concorde waiting patiently, lined up in the center of the runway, ready for takeoff, nowhere near any danger even if all three choppers blew up. Holding the Concorde for thirty seconds against a million-to-one chance her wake turbulence could cause a freak whirlwind for the wounded chopper was a small price. Whirlwind. Godalmighty!

  The rumor that S-G was going to stage an illegal pullout of Iran had been all over the field for two days now. His binoculars went from the Concorde back to Scragger’s chopper. Her skids touched down. The fire fighters closed in. No fire. “Concorde 001, you’re cleared for takeoff,” he said calmly, “HFEE and HYYR land when convenient, Pan Am 116 you’re cleared to land, runway 32, wind twenty knots at 160.”

  Behind him a telex chattered. He paused a moment watching the Concorde take off, marveling at her power and angle of climb, then again centered on Scragger, deliberately not noticing the tiny figures ducking under the rotors with stencils and paint. Another man, Nogger Lane, who on Gavallan’s instructions had privately given him advance notice of what was going on—though long after he already knew—was waving the fire truck away. Scragger was to one side retching, and the other man, he assumed the second pilot, was urinating monstrously. The other two choppers settled into their landings. Painters swarmed over to them. Now what on earth are they doing?

  “Good,” he murmured, “no fire, no fuss, no farting about.”

  “Sayyid Sinclair, you should read this telex perhaps.”

  “Uh?” Absently he glanced at the youth who was awkwardly trying to use the spare binoculars on the choppers. One look at the telex was enough. “Mohammed, have you ever used binoculars backward?” he asked.

  “Sayyid?” The youth was perplexed.

  Sinclair took the glasses from him, unfocused them, and gave them back reversed. “Train them on the choppers and tell me what you see?”

  It took the youth a few moments to get the image centered. “They’re so far away I can hardly make the three of them out.”

  “Interesting. Here, sit in my chair a moment.” Puffed with pride the youth obeyed. “Now, call Concorde and ask for a position report.”

  The other trainees were filled with envy, all else forgotten. Mohammed’s fingers trembled with excitement holding down the transmit. “Concorde, this…this is Bahrain Tower, please, your position report, please.”

  “Tower, 001, going through thirty-four thousand for sixty-two thousand, Mach 1.3 for Mach 2”—fifteen hundred miles per hour—“heading 290, leaving your area now.”

  “Thank you, Concorde, good day…oh, call Baghdad 119.9, good day!” he said beaming and when the time was correct Sinclair pointedly picked up the telex and frowned.

  “Iranian choppers?” He gave the youth the spare glasses. “Do you see any Iranian choppers here?”

  After examining the three incoming strangers very carefully, the youth shook his head. “No, Sayyid, those are British, the only others here we know are Shargazi.”

  “Quite right.” Sinclair was frowning. He had noticed that Scragger was still slumped on the ground, Lane and some of the others standing around him. Not like Scragger, he thought. “Mohammed, send a medic and ambulance over to those British choppers on the double.” Then he picked up the phone, dialed. “Mr. Gavallan, your birds are down safe and sound. When you have a moment could you drop by the tower?” He said it in the peculiarly casual, understated English way that only another Englishman would detect at once meant “urgently.”

  IN THE S-G OFFICE: Gavallan said into the phone, “I’ll be there right away, Mr. Sinclair. Thanks.”

  Scot saw his face. “More trouble, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. Call me if anything happens.” At the door, Gavallan stopped. “Damn, I forgot about Newbury. Call him and see if he’s available this afternoon. I’ll go to his house, anywhere—fix whatever you can. If he wants to know what’s going on, just say, ‘Six out of seven so far, one on standby and two to go He hurried away with, “’Bye, ’bye, Manuela. Scot, try Charlie again and find out where the devil he is.”

  “Okay.” Now they were alone, Scot and Manuela. His shoulder was aching and intruding more and more. He had noticed her depression. “Dubois’ll turn up, you’ll see,” he said, wanting to sound very confident and mask his own fear they were lost. “And nothing could kill old Fowler.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” she said, her tears near. She had seen her husband stumble and was achingly aware of the extent of his pain. Soon I’m going to have to leave for the hospital and the hell with Farsi. “It’s the waiting.”

  “Only a few more hours, Manuela, two more birds and five bods. Then we can celebrate,” Scot added, hoping against hope, and thinking: Then the weight’ll be off the Old Man too, he’ll smile again and live a thousand years.

  My God, give up flying? I love flying and don’t want a desk job. Hong Kong for part of the year’d be fine but Linbar? I can’t deal with Linbar! The Old Man’ll have to deal with him—I’d be lost…

  The old, nagging question leaped into
his mind: What’d I do if the Old Man wasn’t around? A chill went through him. Not if, when, it’s going to happen someday… It could happen any day. Look at Jordon, Talbot—or Duke or me. A fraction of an inch and you’re dead—or you’re alive. The Will of God? Karma? Joss? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter! All I’m sure of is since I was hit I’m different, my whole life’s different, my certainty that nothing would ever touch me has vanished forever and all that’s left is a God-cursed, icy, stench-ridden certainty of being very mortal. Christ Almighty! Does that always happen? Wonder if Duke feels the same?

  He looked at Manuela. She was staring at him. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he said and began to dial Newbury.

  “I just said, ‘Isn’t it three birds and eight bods? You forgot Erikki and Azadeh—nine if you count Sharazad.”

  TEHRAN, AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 1:14 P.M. Sharazad stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, naked, examining the profile of her stomach, seeing if there was an added roundness yet. This morning she had noticed that her nipples seemed more sensitive and her breasts appeared tight. “No need to worry,” Zarah, Meshang’s wife, had laughed. “Soon you’ll be like a balloon and in tears, you’ll be wailing that you’ll never be able to get into your clothes again and oh how ugly you look! Don’t worry, you will—get into your clothes—and you won’t look ugly.”

  Sharazad was very happy today, dawdling, and she frowned at herself and peered closer to see if she had any wrinkles, looking at herself this way and that, trying her hair up and down, bunched or to one side, contented and pleased with what she saw. The bruises were fading. Her body was quite dry from her bath and she powdered herself, stepped into her underclothes.

  Jari bustled in. “Oh, Princess, aren’t you ready yet? His Eminence your brother is expected back for lunch any minute and the whole house is frightened he’ll be in another of his rages, oh, please hurry, we don’t want to excite him now do we?…” Automatically she pulled the plug out of the bath, began tidying, all the time fussing and muttering and coaxing Sharazad along. In moments Sharazad was dressed. Stockings—no panty hose on sale for months now, even on the black market—no need for a bra. Warm blue cashmere dress of Paris cut with matching short-sleeved shawl coat. A quick brush and her naturally wavy hair was perfect, the barest touch of lip makeup, a line of kohl around her eyes.

  “But, Princess, you know how your brother doesn’t like makeup!”

  “Oh, but I’m not going out, and Meshang’s not…” Sharazad was going to say “my father” but stopped herself, not wanting to bring back that tragedy from the recesses of her mind. Father’s in Paradise, she told herself firmly. His Day of Mourning, the fortieth day since he died, is still twenty-five days away and until then we must get on with living.

  And loving?

  She had not asked Jari what had happened at the coffee shop, the day she had sent her there to tell him her husband had returned and that what had never begun was ended. I wonder where he is, if he’ll continue to visit me in my dreams?

  There was a commotion downstairs and they knew Meshang had arrived. She checked herself a last time, then went to meet him.

  After the night of his clash with Lochart, Meshang had moved back into the house with his family. The house was very big, Sharazad still had her rooms and was delighted that Zarah and her three children noised away the crushing silence and gloom that had previously been pervading it. Her mother was a recluse now, in her own wing, even eating there, served only by her own maid, praying and weeping most of the day. Never coming out, never inviting any of them in: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” was all she would whimper through the locked door.

  During the hours that Meshang was in the house, Sharazad, Zarah, and others in the family were careful to cajole and flatter him. “Don’t worry,” Zarah had told her. “He’ll be to heel soon enough. He thinks I’ve forgotten he insulted me and hit me and dares to flaunt the young whore that that vile son of a dog Kia tempted him with! Oh, don’t worry, darling Sharazad, I’ll have my revenge—it was unforgivable bad manners to treat you and…your husband like that. Soon we’ll be able to travel again… Paris, London, even New York… I doubt if he’ll have the time to go with us and then, ah, and then we’ll kick up our heels, wear see-throughs, and have fifty suitors each!”

  “I don’t know about New York—putting oneself in so much danger of Satan,” Sharazad had said. But in her secret heart she trembled with excitement at the thought. I’ll go to New York with my son, she promised herself. Tommy will be there. Soon we’ll be normal again, the power of the mullahs over Khomeini will be broken, may God open his eyes, their control of the Green Bands eliminated, the Revolutionary Komiteh disbanded, we’ll have a true, fairly elected democratic Islamic government with Prime Minister Bazargan its leader under God, women’s rights will never be touched again, the Tudeh no longer outlawed but working for all and there will be peace in the land—just as he said would happen.

  I’m glad I am who I am, Sharazad thought. “Hello, darling Meshang, how nice you look today but so tired, oh, you mustn’t work so hard for all of us. Here, let me pour you some more cool lemon and water, just the way you like it.”

  “Thank you.” Meshang was lounging on the carpets, propped against cushions, his shoes off, already eating. A small brazier was ready to barbecue the kebabs, and twenty or thirty dishes of horisht and rice and vegetables and sweetmeats and fruit were within easy reach. Zarah was nearby and she beckoned Sharazad to sit on the carpet beside her.

  “How do you feel today?”

  “Wonderful, not the least bit sick.”

  Meshang’s face became sour. “Zarah was sick all the time, and moping, not like a normal woman. Let’s hope you’re normal, but you’re so thin… Insha’Allah.”

  Both women put on a smile, hiding their loathing, understanding each other. “Poor Zarah,” Sharazad said. “How was your morning, Meshang? It must be terribly difficult for you with so much to do, so many of us to look after.”

  “It’s difficult because I’m surrounded by fools, dear Sister. If I had efficient staff, trained as I am, it would all be so easy.” And so much easier if you had not beguiled my father, twisted him, failed your first husband, and disgraced us with your choice of the second. So much anguish you’ve caused me, dear Sister, you with your consumptive-looking face and body and stupidity—me who has worked all hours to rescue you from yourself. Praise be to God my efforts have borne such fruits!

  “It must be terribly hard for you, Meshang, I wouldn’t know where to start,” Zarah was saying and she was thinking, Simple to run the business providing you know where the keys are, the bank accounts, the debtors’ paper—and all the skeletons. You don’t want us to have equality and the vote because we’d easily work you into the joub and take the best jobs.

  The rich lamb horisht and crisped golden rice was delicious, fragrantly spiced just as he liked, and he ate with enjoyment. Mustn’t eat too much, he told himself. I don’t want to get too tired before little Yasmin this afternoon. I never realized how succulent a zinaat could be, or lips so grasping. If she gets with child then I shall marry her and Zarah can rot.

  He glanced at his wife. Immediately she stopped eating, smiled at him, and gave him a napkin to take the grease and dribbles of soup from his beard. “Thank you,” he said politely and once more concentrated on his plate. After I’ve had Yasmin, he was thinking, after her I can sleep an hour and then back to work. I wish that dog Kia was back, we’ve much to talk about, much to plan. And Sharazad will ha—

  “Meshang, dearest, did you hear the rumor the generals have decided to launch their coup,” Zarah asked, “and that the army’s ready to take over?”

  “Of course, it’s all over the bazaar.” Meshang felt a twinge of anxiety. He had hedged as best he could in case it was true. “The son of Mohammed the goldsmith swears his cousin who is a telephone operator at army headquarters overheard one of the generals saying they’ve waited to give an American task force
time to get in range, and it’ll be supported by an airborne landing.”

  Both women were shocked. “Parachutists! Then we should leave at once, Meshang,” Zarah said. “It won’t be safe in Tehran, we’d better go to our house in the Caspian and wait for the war to end. When could you leave? I’ll start packing immed—”

  “What house on the Caspian! We don’t have any house on the Caspian!” Meshang said irritably. “Wasn’t it confiscated along with all our other property that we worked generations to acquire? God curse the thieves after all we’ve done for the revolution and for mullahs over the generations?” He was red in the face. A dribble of horisht went into his beard. “And now…”

  “Do forgive me, you’re right, dearest Meshang, you’re right as usual. Do forgive me, I spoke without thinking. You’re right as usual but if it pleases you we could go and stay with my uncle Agha Madri, they have a spare villa on the coast, we could take that and we could leave tomorr—”

  “Tomorrow? Don’t be ridiculous! Do you think I won’t have enough warning?” Meshang wiped his beard, somewhat mollified by her abject apology, and Sharazad thought how fortunate she had been with her two husbands who had never mistreated her or shouted at her. I wonder how Tommy’s getting on at Kowiss or wherever he is. Poor Tommy, as if I could leave my home and family and go into exile forever.

  “Of course we bazaaris will have warning,” Meshang said again. “We’re not empty-headed fools.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, dear Meshang,” Zarah said soothingly. “I’m sorry, I only meant I was worried for your safety and wanted to be prepared.” However foul he is, she thought, her insides fluttering, he’s our only defense against the mullahs and their equally vile Green Band thugs. “Do you believe the coup will happen?”