Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Kasigi smiled properly for the first time. “Thank you. I’ll phone the moment I have any news.” He half bowed, then strode off.

  “You think he’ll do it, Andy?” Scragger asked hopefully.

  “Honest to God I don’t know.” Gavallan waved at a waiter for the bill.

  “How you going to solve him in time?”

  Gavallan started to answer and stopped. He had just noticed Pettikin and Paula at a table by the swimming pool, their heads close together. “I thought Paula was off to Tehran this morning.”

  “She was. Maybe the flight was canceled or she took a sickie,” Scragger said absently, afraid to be grounded.

  “What?”

  “That’s Aussie. If it’s a nice day and a sheila suddenly wants the afternoon off to swim or make love or just goof off, she calls in to the office during her lunch break and says she’s feeling horrible. Sick. Sickie.” Scragger’s eyebrows soared. “Sheilas Down Under are very accommodating sometimes. That Paula’s something else—Charlie’s a goner.”

  Gavallan saw the pleasure on their faces under the umbrella, oblivious of the world. Apart from worry over Dubois, Erikki, and the others, he had read the piece in the morning’s papers about the sudden stock market crash in Hong Kong: “Many of the major companies, headed by Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con of China, lost 30 percent of their value or more in the day, with the whole market plunging and no end in sight. The statement issued by the Taipan, Mr. Linbar Struan, saying that this was just a seasonal hiccup brought a slashing rebuff from the government and his rivals. The more sensational press was rife with widely circulated rumors of insider trading among the Big Four and manipulation by selling short to bring prices tumbling from their record high.” That’s got to be why I can’t get hold of Ian. Has he gone to Hong Kong? Bloody Linbar! His balance sheet this year’ll be red top to bottom.

  With an effort he put brakes on his mind. He saw Pettikin reach over and cover Paula’s hand. She did not take it away. “You think he’ll pop the question, Scrag?”

  “If he doesn’t he’s a mug.”

  “I agree.” Gavallan sighed and got up. “Scrag, I’m not going to wait. You sign the bill, then go down and get Charlie, say I’m sorry but he’s got to meet me in the office for an hour, then he’s got the rest of the day off, then get hold of Willi and Rudi. I’ll phone Jean-Luc, and between us we’ll come up with what Kasigi needs, if he can deliver. Don’t tell ’em why, just say it’s urgent and to keep their mouths closed tighter than a gnat’s bum.” He walked off. “Hey, Mr. Gavallan!” stopped him. It was the American Wesson who jovially got up from his table and stuck out his hand. “You got time for a drink and to visit awhile?”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Wesson, thanks, but, er, can I take a raincheck? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Hell, yes, anytime.” Wesson grinned at him and leaned closer, dropping his voice to a good-natured conspiratorial whisper, and for the first time Gavallan noticed the small hearing aid in the man’s left ear. “Only wanted to say, congratulations, you sure as hell showed those jokers your heels!”

  “We, er, we just got lucky. Sorry, got to dash. ’Bye.”

  “Sure, see you.” Thoughtfully Wesson picked up his pen and put it in his pocket. So Kasigi is gonna try and bail out Gavallan, he thought, meandering toward the lobby. I’d never’d figured that one. Shit, there’s no way the new regime’ll cooperate. Kasigi’s a pipe dreamer. Poor bastard must be going crazy, Iran-Toda’s a mess, and hell, even if they start now it’ll take years for that plant to be in production, and everyone knows Iran’s oil spigot’ll stay turned off, losing Japan 70 percent of her energy supply; there’s gotta be another soar in world prices, more inflation… Japan’s our only ally in the Pacific and the poor bastards’re going to be nailed.

  Jesus, with Gavallan’s Lengeh op closed down, isn’t the whole Siri field in jeopardy? How’ll de Plessey operate Siri without chopper support? Ambassador, huh? Interesting. How’s that gonna work? Who does what to whom? And how much do I pass on to old Aaron? The lot, that old bastard’ll figure where it all fits if anyone can.

  He wandered through the lobby and out to his car and did not notice Kasigi in a phone booth to one side.

  “…I quite agree, Ishii-san.” Kasigi was speaking deferentially in Japanese, sweat on his brow. “Please inform His Excellency we’ll get our equipment and crew, I’m sure of it—if you can arrange the rest.” He kept the nervousness out of his voice.

  “Ah, is that so? Excellent,” Ishii from the embassy said. “I’ll inform His Excellency at once. Now, what about the Iranian ambassador? Have you heard from him?”

  The bottom dropped out of Kasigi’s bottom. “He hasn’t accepted the invitation?”

  “No, so sorry, not yet, and it’s almost three o’clock. Very distressing. Please join the meeting as we agreed. Thank you, Kasigi-san.”

  “Thank you, Ishii-san,” he said, wanting to scream. Gently he replaced the phone.

  In the air-conditioned lobby he felt a little better and went to the reception desk. There he collected his messages—two from Hiro Toda to phone—and went upstairs to his room and locked the door. He crushed the messages into a ball, threw them into the toilet, and began to urinate on them. “Dear stupid cousin Hiro,” he said aloud in Japanese, “if I save your stupid neck which I have to do to save my own,” then added a stream of English obscenities as there were none in Japanese, “your family will be in debt to mine for eight generations for all the trouble you’re causing me.”

  He flushed the messages away, took off his clothes, showered, and lay naked on the bed in the cool breeze, wanting to gather energy and restore his tranquillity to prepare for the meeting.

  The Japanese ambassador’s chance remark that had initiated his whole scheme had been made to Roger Newbury at a British embassy reception a couple of days ago. The ambassador had mentioned that the new Iranian ambassador had been bewailing the closure of Iran-Toda that would have given the new Islamic state a tremendous position of economic power throughout the whole Gulf region. “His name’s Abadani, university trained, majored in economics, of course fundamentalist but not rabidly so. He’s quite young and not too experienced but he’s a career officer, speaks good English, and was in the Kabul embassy…”

  At the time the remarks had meant very little to Kasigi. Then Whirlwind happened. Tehran’s telexes had spread throughout the Gulf, and then rumors of Abadani’s demand for an inspection of Gavallan’s helicopters fixed for this evening—an inspection that would obviously prove they had been Iranian registered: “…and that, Kasigi-san, will create an international incident,” Ishii had told him late last night, “because now Kuwait, Saudi, Bahrain will be implicated—and that, I can assure you, one and all would prefer to avoid, most of all our Sheik.”

  In the dawn he had gone to see Abadani and had explained about Zataki and starting construction again, adding in great secrecy that the Japanese government was rearranging Iran-Toda as a National Project—therefore covering all future financing—and that with Excellency Abadani’s cooperation he could also start work in Bandar Delam immediately.

  “National Project? God be thanked! If your government is behind it formally, that would solve all financing forever. God be thanked. What can I do? Anything!”

  “To restart immediately I need helicopters and expatriate pilots and crew. The only way I can get them quickly is with the help of S-G Helicopters and Mr. Gavall—”

  Abadani had exploded.

  After listening politely and seemingly agreeably to a tirade about air piracy and enemies of Iran, Kasigi had obliquely returned to the attack.

  “You’re quite right, Excellency,” he had said, “but I had to choose between risking your displeasure by bringing it to your attention, or failing in my duty to your Great Country. Our choice is simple: If I don’t get helicopters I cannot restart. I’ve tried Guerney’s and others with no success and now I know I can only get them quickly through this dreadful man—of
course only for a few months as a stopgap until I can make my own arrangements for Japanese personnel. If I don’t restart at once that will precipitate this man Zataki, I assure you he and his Abadan komiteh is a law unto itself, making good his threat. That will shock and embarrass my government and cause them to delay implementation of total National Project financing and then…” He had shrugged. “My government will order Iran-Toda abandoned, and start a new petrochemical plant in a safe area like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, or Iraq.”

  “Safe? Iraq? Those thieves? Saudi or Kuwait? By God, they’re decadent sheikdoms ripe for overthrow by the people. Dangerous to attempt a long-term business with the sheiks, very dangerous. They don’t obey God’s law. Iran does now. Iran is in balance now. The Imam, God’s peace on him, has rescued us. He has ordered oil to flow. There must be some other way of getting helicopters and crews! Gavallan and his mob of pirates have our property. I can’t assist pirates to escape. Do you want pirates to escape?”

  “Heaven forbid, I would never suggest that. Of course we don’t know they are pirates, Excellency. I heard that these are just foul rumors spread by more enemies who want Iran hurt even more. Even if it were true, would you equate nine used airplanes against $3.1 billion already spent and another $1.1 billion my government might be persuaded to commit?”

  “Yes. Piracy is piracy, the law is the law, the Sheik has agreed to the inspection, the truth is the truth. Insha’Allah.”

  “I totally agree, Excellency, but you know that truth is relative and a postponement until after sunset tomorrow would be in your national interests…” He had bitten back a curse and corrected his slip quickly, “in the interests of the Imam and your Islamic state.”

  “God’s truth is not relative.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Kasigi said, outwardly calm but inwardly gnashing his teeth. How can anyone deal with these lunatics who use their beliefs as a coverall and “God” whenever they wish to close a legitimate line of logic. They’re all mad, blinkered! They won’t understand as we Japanese do you’ve got to be tolerant about other people’s beliefs, and that life is “from nothing into nothing,” and heaven and hell and god merely opium smoke from an abberated brain—until proven otherwise!

  “Of course you’re right, Excellency. But they won’t be his airplanes or crews—I just need his temporary connections.” Wearily he had waited and cajoled and listened, then played his penultimate card: “I’m sure the Sheik and the foreign minister would consider it an immense favor if you’d postpone the inspection until tomorrow so they could go to my ambassador’s special reception at eight this evening.”

  “Reception, Mr. Kasigi?”

  “Yes, it’s sudden but terribly important—I happen to know you’re invited as the most important guest.” Kasigi had dropped his voice even more. “I beg you not to mention where you got the knowledge but, again in private, I can tell you that my government is seeking long-term oil contracts that would prove astoundingly profitable to you if Iran can continue to supply us. It would be a perfect moment t—”

  “Long-term contracts? I agree the Shah-negotiated contracts are no good, one-sided and must go. But we value Japan as a customer. Japan’s never tried to exploit us. I’m sure your ambassador would not mind delaying his reception an hour until after the inspection. The Sheik, the foreign minister, Newbury, and I could go directly from the airport.”

  Kasigi was not sure how far he dared go. But, Mister Excuse for an Ambassador, he thought, if you don’t postpone your inspection, I will be revenged because you will have made me commit the only sin we acknowledge: failure. “It’s fortunate Iran’s so well represented here.”

  “I will certainly come to the reception, Mr. Kasigi, after the inspection.”

  Kasigi’s ultimate card had then been delivered with all the elegance needed: “I have a feeling, Excellency, you will soon be personally invited to my country to meet the most important, most important leaders there—for you of course realize how vital your Islamic state is to Japan—and to inspect facilities that would be valuable to Iran.”

  “We…we certainly need untainted friends,” Abadani said.

  Kasigi had watched him carefully and had seen no reaction, still the same pitiless eyes and inflexibility. “In these troubled times it’s essential to look after friends, isn’t it? You never know when disaster may strike you, whoever you are? Do you?”

  “That’s in the Hands of God. Only His.” There had been a long pause, then Abadani had said, “As God wants. I will consider what you have said.”

  Now in the privacy of his hotel bedroom, Kasigi was very afraid. It’s only essential to look after yourself. However wise or careful you are, you never know when disaster will strike. If gods exist, they exist only to torment you.

  JUST INSIDE TURKEY: 4:23 P.M. They had landed just outside the village this morning, barely a mile inside Turkey. Erikki would have preferred to have gone farther into safety but his tanks were dry. He had been intercepted and ambushed again, this time by two fighters and two Huey gunships and had had to endure them for more than a quarter of an hour before he could duck across the line. The two Hueys had not ventured after him but remained circling in station just their side of the border.

  “Forget them, Azadeh,” he had said joyously. “We’re safe now.”

  But they were not. The villagers had surrounded them, and the police had arrived. Four men, a sergeant, and three others, all in uniform—crumpled and ill fitting—with holstered revolvers. The sergeant wore dark glasses against the glare of the sun off the snow. None of them spoke English. Azadeh had greeted them according to the plan she and Erikki had concocted, explaining that Erikki, a Finnish citizen, had been employed by a British company under contract to Iran-Timber, that in the Azerbaijan riots and fighting near Tabriz his life had been threatened by leftists, that she, his wife, had been equally threatened, so they had fled.

  “Ah, the Effendi is Finnish but you’re Iranian?”

  “Finnish by marriage, Sergeant Effendi, Iranian by birth. Here are our papers.” She had given him her Finnish passport which did not include references to her late father, Abdollah Khan. “May we use the telephone, please? We can pay, of course. My husband would like to call our embassy, and also his employer in Al Shargaz.”

  “Ah, Al Shargaz.” The sergeant nodded pleasantly. He was heavyset, close-shaven, even so the blue-black of his beard showed through his golden skin. “Where’s that?”

  She told him, very conscious of the way she and Erikki looked, Erikki with the filthy, bloodstained bandage on his arm and the crude adhesive over his damaged ear, she with her hair matted and dirty clothes and face. Behind her the two Hueys circled. The sergeant watched them thoughtfully. “Why would they dare to send fighters into our airspace and helicopters after you?”

  “The Will of God, Sergeant Effendi. I’m afraid that on that side of the border many strange things are happening now.”

  “How are things over the border?” He motioned the other policemen toward the 212 and began to listen attentively. The three policemen wandered over, peered into the cockpit. Bullet holes and dried blood and smashed instruments. One of them opened the cabin door. Many automatic weapons. More bullet holes. “Sergeant!”

  The sergeant acknowledged but waited politely until Azadeh had finished. Villagers listened wide-eyed, not a chador or veil among them. Then he pointed to one of the crude village huts. “Please wait over there in the shade.” The day was cold, the land snowbound, the sun bright off the snow. Leisurely the sergeant examined the cabin and the cockpit. He picked up the kookri, half pulled it out of the scabbard, and shoved it home again. Then he beckoned Azadeh and Erikki with it. “How do you explain the guns, Effendi?” Uneasily Azadeh translated the question for Erikki.

  “Tell him they were left in my plane by tribesmen who were attempting to hijack her.”

  “Ah, tribesmen,” the sergeant said. “I’m astonished tribesmen would leave such wealth for you to fly away with. Can you e
xplain that?”

  “Tell him they were all killed by loyalists, and I escaped in the melee.”

  “Loyalists, Effendi? What loyalists?”

  “Police. Tabrizi police,” Erikki said, uncomfortably aware that each question would pull them deeper into the quicksand. “Ask him if I can use the telephone, Azadeh.”

  “Telephone? Certainly. In due time.” The sergeant studied the circling Hueys for a moment. Then he turned his hard brown eyes back to Erikki. “I’m glad the police were loyal. Police have a duty to the state, to the people, and to uphold the law. Gunrunning is against the law. Fleeing from police upholding the law is a crime. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but we’re not gunrunners, Sergeant Effendi, nor fleeing from police upholding the law,” Azadeh had said, even more afraid now. The border was so close, too close. For her the last part of their escape had been terrifying. Obviously Hakim had alerted the border area; no one but he had the power to arrange such an intercept so fast, both on the ground and in the air.

  “Are you armed?” the sergeant asked politely.

  “Just a knife.”

  “May I have it please?” The sergeant accepted it. “Please follow me.”

  They had gone to the police station, a small brick building with cells and a few offices and telephones near the mosque in the little village square. “Over the last months we’ve had many refugees of all sorts passing along our road, Iranians, British, Europeans, Americans, many Azerbaijanis, many—but no Soviets.” He laughed at his own joke. “Many refugees, rich, poor, good, bad, many criminals among them. Some were sent back, some went on. Insha’Allah, eh? Please wait there.”

  “There” was not a cell but a room with a few chairs and a table and bars on the windows, many flies and no way out. But it was warm and relatively clean. “Could we have some food and drink and use the telephone, please?” Azadeh asked. “We can pay, Sergeant Effendi.”