Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Hakim Khan shifted uneasily on his cushions, the pain in his back surfacing, and wanted to shout with rage because all the pain and anguish had been unnecessary, and now, hardly able to stand without pain, he might be permanently injured. Put that aside for later, he told himself grimly, and deal with this dangerous son of a dog who sits there patiently like an accomplished salesman of precious carpets who has laid out his wares and now waits for the negotiation to begin. If I want to buy.

  To buy Erikki out of the trap I shall have to give this dog a personal pishkesh, of value to him not SAVAMA, God curse them by any name. What? Petr Oleg Mzytryk at least. I could pass him over to Hashemi without a belch, if he comes, when he comes. He’ll come. Yesterday Ahmed sent for him in my name—I wonder how Ahmed is, did his operation go well? I hope the fool doesn’t die; I could use his knowledge for a while more. Fool to be caught off guard, fool! Yes he’s a fool but this dog isn’t. With the gift of Mzytryk and more help in Azerbaijan, and a promise of future friendship, I can buy Erikki out of the trap. Why should I?

  Because Azadeh loves him? Unfortunately she is sister to the Khan of all the Gorgons and this is a khan’s problem, not a brother’s problem.

  Erikki’s a hazard to me and to her. He’s a dangerous man with blood on his hands. The tribesmen, be they Kurds or not, will seek vengeance—probably. He’s always been a bad match though he brought her great joy, still brings her happiness—but no children—and now he cannot stay in Iran. Impossible. No way for him to stay. I couldn’t buy him two years of protection and Azadeh’s sworn by God to stay here at least two years—how cunning my father was to give me power over her. If I buy Erikki out of the trap she can’t go with him. In two years many estrangements could happen by themselves. But if he’s no good for her, why buy him out? Why not let them take Erikki to checkmate a treason? It’s treason to steal our property.

  “This is too serious a matter to answer at once,” he said.

  “There is nothing for you to answer, Highness. Only Captain Yokkonen. I understand he’s still here.”

  “The doctor ordered him to rest.”

  “Perhaps you would send for him, Highness.”

  “Of course. But a man of your importance and learning would understand there are rules of honor and hospitality in Azerbaijan, and in my tribe. He is my brother-in-law and even SAVAMA understands family honor.” Both men knew this was just an opening gambit in a delicate negotiation—delicate because neither wanted SAVAMA’s wrath on their heads, neither knew yet how far to go, or even if a private deal was wanted. “I presume many know of this…this treason?”

  “Only me, here in Tabriz, Highness. At the moment,” Hashemi said at once, conveniently forgetting Armstrong to whom he had suggested this phony telex this morning: “There’s no way that son of a dog, Hakim, can expose it as a hoax, Robert,” he had said, delighted with his own brilliance. “He’s got to barter. We barter the Finn for Mzytryk at no cost to ourselves. That bloodthirsty maniac Finn can fly off into the sunset when we get what we want—until then we bottle him up.”

  “Say Hakim Khan won’t agree, won’t or can’t deliver Mzytryk?”

  “If he doesn’t want to barter, we seize Erikki anyway. Whirlwind’s bound to leak soon and I can use Erikki for all sorts of concessions—he’s hostage at least for $15 million worth of planes…or perhaps I barter him to the tribesmen as a peace offering… The fact that he’s a Finn helps. I could link him closely with Rakoczy and the KGB and cause the Soviets all sorts of mischief, equally the CIA, eh? Even MI6, eh?”

  “The CIA’ve never harmed you. Or MI6.”

  “Insha’Allah! Don’t interfere in this, Robert. Erikki and the Khan are an internal Iranian matter. On your own head, don’t interfere. With the Finn I can get important concessions.” But important only to me, Robert, not to SAVAMA, Hashemi had thought and smiled to himself. Tomorrow or the next day we will return to Tehran and then my assassin follows you into the night and then, poof, you’re blown out like a candle. “He’ll deliver him,” he had said calmly.

  “If Hakim gives up Erikki, he’ll get hell and damnation and no peace from his beloved sister. I think she’d go to the stake for him.”

  “She may have to.”

  Hashemi remembered the glow of joy he had felt and now it was even better. He could see Hakim Khan’s disquiet and was sure he had him trapped. “I’m sure you’ll understand, Highness, but I have to answer this telex quickly.”

  Hakim Khan decided on a partial offer. “Treason and conspiracy should not go unpunished. Anywhere it is to be found. I’ve sent for the traitor you wanted. Urgently.”

  “Ah. How long will it take for Mzytryk to answer?”

  “You’d have a better idea of that than me. Wouldn’t you?”

  Hashemi heard the flatness and cursed himself for making the slip. “I would be astonished if Your Highness wasn’t answered very quickly,” he said with great politeness. “Very quickly.”

  “When?”

  “Within twenty-four hours, Highness. Personally or by messenger.” He saw the young Khan shift painfully and tried to decide whether to delay or to press home his advantage, sure the pain was genuine. The doctor had given him a detailed diagnosis of the Khan’s possible injuries and those of his sister. To cover every eventuality he had ordered the doctor to give Erikki some heavy sedation tonight, just in case the man tried to escape.

  “The twenty-four hours will be up at seven this evening, Colonel.”

  “There is so much to do in Tabriz, Highness, following your advice of this morning, that I doubt if I could deal with the telex before then.”

  “You destroy the leftist mujhadin headquarters tonight?”

  “Yes, Highness,” now that we have your permission, and your guarantee of no repercussions from the Tudeh, Hashemi wanted to add but did not. Don’t be stupid! This young man’s not as three-faced as the dog Abdollah, may he burn in hell. This one’s easier to deal with—providing you have more cards than he has and are not afraid to show your fangs when needed. “It would be unfortunate if the captain was not available for…for questioning this evening.”

  Hakim Khan’s eyes narrowed at the unnecessary threat. As if I didn’t understand, you rude son of a dog. “I agree.” There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Azadeh opened it. “Sorry to interrupt, Highness, but you told me to remind you half an hour before it was time to go to the hospital for X rays. Greetings, peace be with you, Colonel.”

  “And God’s peace be with you, Highness.” I’m glad such beauty will be forced into chador soon, Hashemi was thinking. She’d tempt Satan, let alone the unwashed illiterate scum of Iran. He looked back at the Khan. “I should be going, Highness.”

  “Please come back at seven, Colonel. If I’ve any news before then I’ll send for you.”

  “Thank you, Highness.”

  She closed the door after him. “How’re you feeling, Hakim, darling?”

  “Tired. Lots of pain.”

  “Me too. Do you have to see the colonel later?”

  “Yes, It doesn’t matter. How’s Erikki?”

  “Asleep.” She was joyous. “We’re so lucky, the three of us.”

  IN TABRIZ CITY: 4:06 P.M. Robert Armstrong checked the action of the small automatic, his face grim, “What’re you going to do?” Henley asked, not liking the gun at all. He was also English, but much smaller, with a wispy mustache, and he wore glasses and sat behind the desk in the untidy, grubby office, under a picture of Queen Elizabeth.

  “Best you don’t ask that. But don’t worry, I’m a copper, remember? This’s just in case some villain tries to do me. Can you get the message to Yokkonen?”

  “I can’t go to the palace uninvited, what the hell’d be my excuse?” Henley’s eyebrows soared. “Do I say to Hakim Khan, ‘Terribly sorry, old boy, but I want to speak to your brother-in-law about getting a chum out of Iran by private helicopter.’” His banter vanished. “You’re quite wrong about the colonel, Robert. T
here’s no proof whatsoever the colonel’s responsible for Talbot.”

  “If you had you wouldn’t admit it,” Armstrong said, angry with himself for exploding when Henley had told him about the “accident.” Again his voice rasped. “Why the devil did you wait till today to tell me Talbot was blown up? For God’s sake it happened two days ago!”

  “I don’t decide policy, I just carry messages and anyway we’ve just heard. Besides, you’ve been difficult to track down. Everyone thought you’d left, last seen boarding a British aircraft bound for Al Shargaz. Damn it, you’ve been ordered out for almost a week and you’re still here, not on any assignment I know of, and whatever you’ve decided to do, don’t, except kindly remove yourself from Iran because if you’re caught and they get you to the third level, a lot of people are going to be very bloody peed off.”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint them.” Armstrong got up and put on his old raincoat with the fur collar. “See you soon.”

  “When?”

  “When I bloody choose.” Armstrong’s face tightened, “I’m not under your authority and what I do and when I come and go is not up to you. Just see my report’s kept in the safe until you’ve a diplomatic bag to pass it urgently to London, and keep your bloody mouth shut.”

  “You’re not usually so rude, or so touchy. What the hell’s up, Robert?”

  Armstrong stalked out and down the steps and out into the cold of the day. It was overcast and promised to snow again. He went down the crowded street. Passersby and street merchants pretended not to notice him, presumed he was Soviet, and cautiously went about their own business. Though he was watching to see if he was being followed, his mind was sifting ways and means to deal with Hashemi. No time to consult his superiors, and no real wish to. They would have shaken their heads: “Good God, our old friend Hashemi? Send him onwards on suspicion he levitated Talbot? First we’d need proof…”

  But there’ll never be any proof and they won’t believe about Group Four teams or about Hashemi fancying himself as a modern Hasan ibn al-Sabbah. But I know. Wasn’t Hashemi bursting with happiness about assassinating General Janan? Now he’s got bigger fish to skewer. Like Pahmudi. Or the whole Rev Komiteh, whoever they are—I wonder if he’s pegged them yet? I wonder if he’d go for the Imam himself? No telling. But one way or another he’ll pay for old Talbot—after we’ve got Petr Oleg Mzytryk. Without Hashemi I’ve no chance of getting him, and through him the sodding traitors we all know are operating up top in Whitehall, Philby’s bosses, the fourth, fifth, and sixth man—in the Cabinet, MI5, or MI6. Or all three.

  His rage was all possessive, making his head ache. So many good men betrayed. The touch of his automatic pleased him. First Mzytryk, he thought, then Hashemi. All that’s left to decide is when and where.

  BAHRAIN—AT THE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 4:24 P.M. Jean-Luc was on the phone in Mathias’s office. “…No, Andy, we’ve nothing either.” He glanced at Mathias who listened, and gravely made a thumbs-down to him.

  “Charlie’s beside himself,” Gavallan was saying. “I just got off the phone to him. Damn shame but nothing we can do but wait. Same with Dubois and Fowler.” Jean-Luc could hear the great weariness in Gavallan’s voice.

  “Dubois will turn up—after all he’s French. By the way I told Charlie if…when,” he corrected himself hastily, “when Tom Lochart and Freddy Ayre land, to tell them to refuel at Jellet and not come here, unless there’s an emergency. Mathias put the spare fuel on Jellet himself so we know it’s there. Andy, you’d better call Charlie and add your authority because Bahrain could be difficult, I don’t want to risk another confrontation—their warning was clear whether we’re flying on British registry or not. I still don’t know how we squeaked Rudi, Sandor, and Pop through. I’m certain they’ll impound any Iran registers, and the crews—and next time they’ll check the paint and papers.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him at once, Jean-Luc, there’s no reason for you to come back to Al Shargaz; why not go direct to London tomorrow, then up to Aberdeen? I’m posting you to the North Sea until we get sorted out, all right?”

  “Good idea. I’ll report in Aberdeen on Monday,” Jean-Luc said quickly, stealing a free weekend. Mon Dieu, I’ve earned it, he thought, and changed the subject to give Gavallan no time to argue. “Has Rudi arrived yet?”

  “Yes, safe and sound. All three of them’re bedded down. So’re Vossi and Willi too. Scrag’s fine. Erikki’s out of danger, Duke’s mending slowly but surely…if it wasn’t for Dubois and Fowler, Mac, Tom and their lot… Hallelujah! I’ve got to go, ’bye.”

  “Au revoir.” Then to Mathias, “Merde, I’m posted to the North Sea.”

  “Merde.”

  “What’s Alitalia’s extension?”

  “It’s 22134. Why?”

  “If I have to invoke the pope himself, I’m on the early flight to Rome tomorrow with the connection to Nice—I need Marie-Christene, the kids, and some decent food. Espèce de con on the North Sea!” Worriedly he looked at the clock. “Espèce de con on this waiting! Where’re our Kowiss birds, eh?”

  KUWAIT—OFFSHORE: 4:31 P.M. The red fuel-warning light came on. McIver and Wazari saw it instantly and both cursed. “How much we got left, Captain?”

  “With this bloody wind, not much.” They were just ten feet off the waves.

  “How far we got to go?”

  “Not far.” McIver was exhausted and feeling terrible. The wind had freshened to nearly thirty-five knots, and he had been nursing the 212, trying to eke out their fuel, but there was not much he could do at this low level. Visibility was still poor, the overcast thinning rapidly as they neared the coast. He looked out of his window across at Ayre, pointed at his instrument panel, and gave a thumbs-down. Ayre nodded. His warning light had not yet come on. Now it did.

  “Bloody hell,” Kyle, Ayre’s mechanic said. “We’ll be in the open in a few minutes and sitting bloody ducks.”

  “Not to worry. If Mac doesn’t call Kuwait soon, I’m going to.” Ayre peered upward, thought he glimpsed the fighters above them, but it was just two seabirds. “Christ, for a moment…”

  “Those bastards wouldn’t dare follow us this far, would they?”

  “I don’t know.” Since leaving the coast they had been playing hide-and-seek with the two jet fighters. Abeam Kharg, happily sneaking past in the rain and haze, not varying their height over the waves, he and McIver had been spotted: “This is Kharg radar control: choppers illegally outward bound on heading 275 degrees, climb to one thousand and hold—climb to one thousand and hold,”

  For a moment they were in shock, then McIver waved Ayre to follow him, turned 90 degrees due north away from Kharg, and went even lower to the sea. In a few minutes his earphones were filled with the Farsi from the fighters to air force control and back again. “They’re being given our coordinates, Captain,” Wazari gasped. “Orders to arm their rockets…now they’re reporting they’re armed…

  “This is Kharg! Choppers illegally on course 270, climb to one thousand and hold. If you do not obey you will be intercepted and shot down; I repeat you will be intercepted and shot down.”

  McIver took his hand off the collective to rub his chest, the pain returning, then doggedly held the course as Wazari gave him snatches of what was being said, “…the leader’s saying follow me down…now the wingman says all rockets armed…how’re we going to find them in this shit… I’m slowing down…we don’t want to miss them… Ground controller says, ‘Confirm rockets armed, confirm kill…’ Jesus, they’re confirming rockets armed and on collision course with us.”

  Then the two jet fighters had come hurtling at them from out of the murk ahead but to the right and fifty feet above them and then they were past and vanished. “Christ, did they see us?”

  “Jesus, Captain, I don’t know but those bastards carry heat seekers.”

  McIver’s heart was racing as he motioned to Ayre and went into hover, just above the waves, to throw the hunters off. “Tell me what they’re say
ing, Wazari, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Pilots’re cursing…reporting they’re at two thousand, two hundred knots…one’s saying there’re no holes in the soup and the ceiling’s around four hundred…difficult to see the surface… Controller’s saying go ahead to international line and get between it and the pirates… Jesus, pirates? Get between them and Kuwait…see if the cloud cover’s any thinner…stay in ambush at two thousand…”

  What to do? McIver was asking himself. We could bypass Kuwait and head direct Jellet. No good—with this wind we’d never make it. Can’t turn back. So it’s Kuwait and hope we can slither past them.

  At the international line the clouds were just enough to hide them. But the fighters were lurking somewhere there in a holding pattern, waiting for a window, or for the clouds to thin, or for their prey to presume they were safe and climb up into regulation and approach height. For a quarter of an hour the military channel had been silent. They could hear Kuwait controllers now.

  “I’m going to cut one engine to save gas,” McIver said.

  “You want me to call Kuwait, Skipper?”

  “No, I’ll do that. In a minute. You’d better go back into the cabin and prepare to hide. See if you can find some sea overalls, there’re some in the locker. Use a sea safety coverall. Dump your uniform over the side and have a Mae West handy.”

  Wazari blanched. “We’re going into the sea?”

  “No. Just camouflage, in case we’re inspected,” McIver lied, not expecting to make the coast. His voice was calm and his head was calm though his limbs were leaden.

  “What’s the plan when we land, Skipper?”

  “We’ll have to play that as it happens. Do you have any papers?”