Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  The enemy was closing fast and Sharazad saw their clenched fists, the tumult growing on both sides, shouts more hoarse, nerves more stretched, anticipation rocketing—“There is no other God but God…” Now their enemies were so near she could see individual faces. Suddenly she realized they were not massed satanic revolutionaries, not all of them, but the vast majority students, men and women of her own age, the women bravely not chadored and shouting for women’s rights, the vote, and all the sensible, God given, hard fought for, never-turning-back things.

  She was transported back to the heady excitement of the Women’s March, all of them in their best clothes, hair free, as free as their hair, with freedom and justice for all in their new Islamic republic where she and her son-to-be and Tommy would live happily ever after. But there again in front of her was the knife-wielding fanatic tearing the future away, but that didn’t matter for her Ibrahim had stopped him, Ibrahim the student leader, he was there to save her. Oh, Ibrahim, are you here tonight, leading them now as you did with us? Are you here once more fighting for freedom and justice and women’s rights or were you martyred in Kowiss as you wanted, killing your evil, two-faced mullah who murdered your father as mine was also murdered?

  But…but Father was killed by Islamics, not leftists, she thought bewildered. And the Imam’s still implacably for everything as it was in the Prophet’s time… And Meshang… And Tommy forced out. And forced divorce and forced marriage to that foul old man and no rights!

  “What am I doing here?” she gasped in the pandemonium. “I should be over there with them, I should be over there with them, not here…no, no, not there either! What about my child, my son-to-be, it’s dangerous for him an—”

  Somewhere a gun went off, then others and mayhem became general, those in the fore trying to retreat and those behind trying to get to the fight. Around Sharazad there was a mindless surge. She felt herself being crushed and carried forward, her feet hardly touching the ground. A woman beside her screamed and went under the feet. An old man stumbled, and vanished below mumbling the Shahada, almost bringing her down. Someone’s elbow went into her stomach, she cried out in pain and her fear became terror. “Tommyyyy! Help meeeeee…” she shrieked.

  A hundred yards or so ahead Tom Lochart was pressed against a shop front by the student marchers, his coat torn, peaked cap gone, more desperate than he had ever been. For hours he had been searching the groups of students hoping against hope to find her, sure she was somewhere among them. Where else would she go? Surely not to this student’s apartment, the one Jari said she met, this Ibrahim or whatever his name was who meant nothing. Better she’s there than here, he thought in despair. Oh, God, let me find her.

  Chanting women passed, most in Western dress, jeans, jackets, and then he saw her. He fought alongside but once more he had made a mistake and he apologized and shoved his way to the side again, a few curses shouted after him. Then he thought he saw her on the far side of the roadway but again he was mistaken. The girl wore similar ski clothes to Sharazad and had the same hairstyle and was about her age. But she carried a Marxist-Islamic banner and, scourged by his disappointment, he cursed her, hating her for her stupidity. The shouts and countershouts were reaching him too, agitating him, and he wanted to pick up the cudgel and smash the evil out of them.

  Oh, God, help me find her. “God IS great,” he muttered, and though he was frantic with worry for her, at the same time his heart was soaring. Becoming Muslim will make all the difference. Now they will accept me, I’m one of them, I can go on the Hajj to Mecca, I can worship in any mosque, color or race means nothing to God. Only belief. I believe in God and that Mohammed was the Prophet of God, I won’t be fundamentalist, or Shi’a. I’ll be orthodox Sunni. I’ll find a teacher and study and learn Arabic. And I’ll fly for IranOil and the new regime and we will be happy, Sharazad and I…

  A gun went off nearby, fires of a burning tire barricade soared into the air as small groups of screaming students were throwing themselves at the ranks of the Green Bands, other guns began firing, and now the whole street erupted into shouting, heaving bodies, the weak crushed underfoot. A berserk phalanx of youths dragged him with them toward the fighting.

  Eighty yards away Sharazad was screaming, fighting for her life, trying to shove and kick and push her way to the side where there would be comparative safety. Her chador was torn away, her scarf vanished. She was bruised, pain in her stomach. Those around her were a mob now, hacking at those opposing it, all for themselves but wrapped into the mob beast. The battle waged back and forth, no one knowing who was friend or enemy, except mullahs and Green Bands who shouted, trying to control the riot. With an earsplitting roar, the Islamic mob hesitated a moment, then advanced. The weak fell and were crushed. Men, women. Screams and shouts and pandemonium, all calling on their own version of God.

  Desperately the students fought back but they were swamped. Relentlessly. Many went down. Feet trampled them. Now the rest broke, the rout began, and the sides intermixed.

  Lochart used his superior height and strength to batter his way to the side and now stood between two cars, protected by them for the moment. A few yards away he saw a small, half-hidden alleyway that led toward a broken-down mosque where there would be sanctuary. Ahead was a huge explosion as a car tank exploded, scattering flames. The fortunate were killed instantly, the wounded began to scream. In the flame light he thought he caught a glimpse of her, then a group of fleeing youths swarmed over him, a fist went into his back, others pummeled him out of the way, and he fell under their boots.

  Sharazad was only thirty yards away, hair awry, clothes torn, still locked into the press of the mob, still pulled along by the juggernaut, still screaming for help, no one hearing or caring. “Tommyyyy…help meeeeee…”

  The crowd parted momentarily. She darted for the opening, squeezing her way toward the barred and locked shops and parked cars. The tumult was lessening. Arms pushed for breathing space, hands wiped sweat and filth off, and men saw their neighbors. “You God-cursed Communist harlot,” the man in her path shouted, eyes almost out of his sockets with rage.

  “I’m not, I’m not, I’m Muslim,” she gasped, but his hands had caught her ski jacket—the zipper wrecked—his hand went in and grabbed her breast.

  “Harlot! Muslim women don’t flaunt themselves, Muslim women wear chad—”

  “I lost it—it was torn off me,” she shrieked.

  “Harlot! God curse you! Our women wear chador.”

  “I lost it—it was torn off me,” she shrieked again and tried to pull away, “There is no oth—”

  “Harlot! Whore! Satanist!” he shouted, his ears closed to her, the madness on him and the feel of her breast through her silk shirt and undershirt further inflaming him. His fingers clawed at the silk and ripped it away and now he held her roundness, his other hand dragging her closer to subdue her and strangle her as she kicked and screamed. Those nearby jostled them, or tried to move out of the way, hard to see in the darkness that was only rent by the light from fires, not know what was going on except someone had caught a leftist whore here in the ranks of the Godly. “By God, she’s not a leftist, I heard her shouting for the Imam…” someone called out but cries ahead overrode him, another pocket of fighting flared up and men shoved forward to help or elbowed space to retreat and they left her and him together.

  She fought him with her nails and feet and voice, his breath and obscenities choking her. With a final effort she called on God for help, hacked upward and missed and remembered her gun. Her hand grasped it, shoved it into him, and pulled the trigger. The man screamed, most of his genitals blown off, and he collapsed howling. There was a sudden hush around her. And space. Her hand came out of the pocket still holding the gun. A man near to her grabbed it.

  Blankly she stared down at her attacker who twisted and moaned in the dirt.

  “God is Great,” she stuttered, then noticed her disarray and pulled her jacket together, looked up and saw the hatred surro
unding her. “He was attacking me… God is Great, God is Great…”

  “She’s just saying that, she’s a leftist…” a woman screeched.

  “Look at her clothes, she’s not one of us…”

  Just a few yards away, Lochart was picking himself out of the dirt, head hurting, ears ringing, hardly able to see or to hear. With a great effort he stood upright, then shouldered his way forward toward the dark mouth of the alley and safety. Others had had the same thought and already the entrance was clogged. Then her voice, mingled with shouting, reached him and he turned back.

  He saw her at bay, backed against a wall, a mob around her, clothes half torn off, the sleeve of her jacket ripped away, eyes staring, a grenade in her hand. At that second a man made a move at her, she pulled the pin out, the man froze, everyone began to back off, Lochart burst through the cordon to reach her and seized the grenade, keeping the lever down. “Get away from her,” he roared in Farsi and stood in front of her, protecting her. “She’s Muslim, you sons of dogs. She’s Muslim and my wife and I’m Muslim!”

  “You’re a foreigner and she’s a leftist by God!”

  Lochart darted at the man and his fist now armored with the grenade crushed the man’s mouth in, shattering his jaw. “God is Great,” Lochart bellowed. Others took up the shout and those who disbelieved him did nothing, afraid of him but more afraid of the grenade. Holding her tightly with his free arm, half guiding, half carrying her, Lochart went at the first rank, grenade ready. “Please let us pass, God is Great, peace be with you.” The first rank parted, then the next, and he shoved through, muttering, “God is great… Peace be with you,” continually until he had broken out of the cordon and into the crowded alley, stumbling in the filth and potholes, bumping people here and there in the darkness. A few lights were on outside the mosque ahead. At the fountain he stopped, broke the ice, and with one hand scooped some water into his face, the torrent in his brain still raging. “Christ,” he muttered and used more water.

  “Oh, Tommyyyy!” Sharazad cried out, her voice far off and strange, near breaking. “Where did you come from, where, oh I… I was so afraid, so afraid.”

  “So was I,” he stammered, the words hard to get out. “I’ve been searching for hours for you, my darling.” He pulled her to him. “You all right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes.” Her arms were tight around him, her face buried in his shoulder.

  Sudden firing, more shrieks back toward the street. Instinctively he held her tighter but sensed no danger here. Just half-seen crowds passing in the semi-darkness, the firing becoming more distant and the noise of the riot decreasing.

  We’re safe at last. No, not yet, there’s still the grenade—no pin to make it safe, no way to make it safe. Over her head and those of the passersby, he saw a burned-out building by the side of the mosque across the little square. I can get rid of it there safely, he persuaded himself, not thinking clearly yet, holding on to her and gathering strength from her embrace. The crowds had increased, now packing the alley. Until their numbers lessened it would be difficult and dangerous to dispose of the grenade across the square so he moved her closer to the fountain where the darkness was deeper. “Don’t worry. We’ll wait a second, then go on.” They were talking English, softly—so much to tell, so much to ask. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, oh, yes. How did you find me? How? When did you get back? How did you find me?”

  “I… I flew back tonight and went to the house but you’d gone.” Then he burst out, “Sharazad, I’ve become Muslim.”

  She gaped at him. “But…but that was just a trick, a trick to get away from them!”

  “No, I swear it! I really have. I swear it. I said the Shahada in front of three witnesses, Meshang and Zarah and Jari, and I believe. I do believe. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  Her disbelief vanished seeing the joy in him, his voice telling her over and over what had happened. “Oh, how wonderful, Tommy,” she said, beyond herself with happiness, at the same time utterly certain that, for them, nothing would change. Nothing will change Meshang, she thought. Meshang will find a way to destroy us whether my Tommy’s a Believer or not. Nothing will change, the divorce will stay, the marriage will stay. Unless…

  Her fears vanished. “Tommy, can we leave Tehran tonight? Can we run away tonight, my darling?”

  “There’s no need for that, not now. I’ve wonderful plans. I’ve quit S-G. Now that I’m Muslim I can stay and fly for IranOil, don’t you see?” Both were oblivious of the crowds passing, packed more tightly, anxious to be home. “No need to worry, Sharazad.”

  Someone stumbled and jostled him, then another, a pileup beginning that encroached on their little sanctuary. She saw him shove a man away and others began to curse. Quickly she took his hand, and pulled him into the mainstream. “Let’s go home, husband,” she said loudly in coarsened Farsi, cautioning him, holding on tightly, then whispered, “Speak Farsi,” then a little louder, “We’re not safe here and we can talk better at home.”

  “Yes, yes, woman. Better we go home.” Walking was better and safer and Sharazad was here and tomorrow would solve tomorrow, tonight there would be a bath and sleep and food and sleep and no dreams or only happy ones.

  “If we wanted to leave tonight secretly, could we? Could we, Tommy?”

  Tiredness washed over him and he almost shouted at her that didn’t she understand what he had just told her? Instead he held back the anger and just said, “There’s no need to escape now.”

  “You’re quite right, husband, as always. But could we?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so,” he said wearily, and told her how, stopping and starting again with the rest of the pedestrians as the alley narrowed, more claustrophobic every moment.

  Now she was aglow, quite sure she could convince him. Tomorrow they would leave. Tomorrow morning I’ll collect my jewels, we’ll pretend to Meshang we’ll meet him in the bazaar at lunchtime, but by then we will be flying south in Tommy’s plane. He can fly in the Gulf states or Canada or anywhere, you can be Muslim and Canadian without harm, they told me when I went to the embassy. And soon, in a month or so we’ll come home to Iran and live here forever…

  Contentedly she went even closer to him, hidden in the crowd and by the darkness, not afraid anymore, certain their future would be grand. Now that he’s a Believer he will go to Paradise, God is Great, God is Great, and so will I, and together, with the Help of God, we will leave sons and daughters behind us. And then, when we are old, if he dies first, on the fortieth day I will make sure his spirit is remembered perfectly, and then, afterward, I will curse his younger wife or wives and their children, then put my affairs in order and peacefully wait to join him—in God’s time. “Oh, I do love you, Tommy, I’m so sorry that you’ve had so much trouble…trouble over me…”

  Now they were breaking out of the alley into a street. The crowds were even heavier, swarming all over the roadway and in the traffic. But there was a lightness on them all, men, women, mullahs, Green Bands, young and old, the night well spent doing God’s work. “Allah-u Akbar!” someone shouted, the words echoed and reechoed by a thousand throats. Ahead an impatient car lurched, bumped into some pedestrians who bumped into others who brought down others amid curses and laughter. Sharazad and Lochart among them, no one hurt. He had caught her safely and, laughing together, they rested on the ground a moment, the grenade still tight in his hand. They did not hear its warning hiss—without knowing it, in falling he had slackened the lever an instant, but just enough. For an infinity of time he smiled at her and she at him. “God is Great,” she said and he echoed her just as confidently. And, the same instant, they died.

  SATURDAY

  March 3

  AL SHARGAZ: 6:34 A.M. The tip of the sun crested the horizon and turned black desert into a crimson sea, staining the old port city and dhows in the Gulf beyond. From the minaret loudspeakers muezzins began but the music in their voices did not please Gavallan or any of the other S-G
personnel on the veranda of the Oasis Hotel, finishing a hurried breakfast. “It gets to you, Scrag, doesn’t it?” Gavallan said.

  “Right you are, sport,” Scragger said. He, Rudi Lutz, and Pettikin shared Gavallan’s table, all of them tired and dispirited. Whirlwind’s almost complete success was turning into a disaster. Dubois and Fowler still missing—in Bahrain, McIver not yet out of danger. Tom Lochart back in Tehran, God knows where. No news of Erikki and Azadeh. No sleep for most of them last night. And sunset today still their deadline.

  From the moment yesterday when the 212s had started landing, they had all helped to strip them, removing rotors and tail booms for storing on the jumbo freighters when they arrived, if they arrived. Last night Roger Newbury had returned from the Al Shargaz palace meeting with the foreign minister in a foul humor: “Not a bloody thing I can do, Andy. The minister said he and the Sheik had been asked to make a personal inspection of the airport by the new Iranian representative or ambassador who had seen eight or nine strange 212s at the airport, claiming them to be their ‘hijacked’ Iran registereds. The minister said that of course His Highness, the Sheik, had agreed—how could he refuse? The inspection’s at sunset with the ambassador, I’m ‘cordially invited’ as the British rep for a thorough check of IDs, and if any’re found to be suspect, old boy, tough titty!”

  Gavallan had been up all night trying to bring the arrival of the freighters forward, or to get substitutions from every international source he could conjure up. None were available. The best his present charterers could do was “perhaps” to bring forward the ETA to noon tomorrow, Sunday. “Bloody people,” he muttered and poured some more coffee. “When you’ve got to have a couple of 747s there’re none—and usually with a single phone call you can get fifty.”

  Pettikin was equally worried, also about McIver in Bahrain hospital.