Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “I will order some for you from the hotel here. The food is good and not expensive.”

  “My husband asks, can he use the telephone, please?”

  “Certainly—in due course.”

  That had been this morning, and now it was late afternoon. In the intervening time the food had arrived, rice and mutton stew and peasant bread and Turkish coffee. She had paid with rials and was not overcharged. The sergeant had allowed them to use the foul-smelling hole in the ground squatter, and water from a tank and an old basin to wash in. There were no medical supplies, just iodine. Erikki had cleaned his wounds as best he could, gritting his teeth at the sudden pain, still weak and exhausted. Then, with Azadeh close beside him, he had propped himself on a chair, his feet on another, and had drifted off. From time to time the door would open and one or other of the policemen would come in, then go out again. “Matyeryebyets,” Erikki muttered. “Where can we run to?”

  She had gentled him and stayed close and kept a steel gate on her own fear. I must carry him, she thought over and over. She was feeling better now with her hair combed and flowing, her face clean, her cashmere sweater tidy. Through the door she could hear muttered conversation, occasionally a telephone ringing, cars and trucks going past on the road from and to the border, flies droning. Her tiredness took her and she slept fitfully, her dreams bad: noise of engines and firing and Hakim mounted like a Cossack charging them, both she and Erikki buried up to their necks in the earth, hooves just missing them, then somehow free, rushing from the border that was acres of massed barbed wire, the false mullah Mahmud and the butcher suddenly between them and safety and th—

  The door opened. Both of them awoke, startled. A major in immaculate uniform stood there, glowering, flanked by the sergeant and another policeman. He was a tall, hard-faced man. “Your papers please,” he said to Azadeh.

  “I, I gave them to the sergeant, Major Effendi.”

  “You gave him a Finnish passport. Your Iranian papers.” The major held out his hand. She was too slow. At once the sergeant went forward and grabbed her shoulder purse and spilled the contents onto the table. Simultaneously, the other policeman stalked over to Erikki, his hand on the revolver in his open holster, waved him into a corner against the wall. The major flicked some dirt off a chair and sat down, accepted her Iranian ID from the sergeant, read it carefully, then looked at the contents on the table. He opened the jewel bag. His eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”

  “They’re mine. Inherited from my parents.” Azadeh was frightened, not knowing what he knew or how much, and she had seen the way his eyes covered her. So had Erikki. “May my husband please use the telephone? He wish—”

  “In due course! You have been told that many times. In due course is in due course.” The major zipped up the bag and put it on the table in front of him. His eyes strayed to her breasts. “Your husband doesn’t speak Turkish?”

  “No, no, he doesn’t, Major Effendi.”

  The officer turned on Erikki and said in good English, “There’s a warrant out for your arrest from Tabriz. For attempted murder and kidnapping.”

  Azadeh blanched and Erikki held on to his panic as best he could. “Kidnapping whom, sir?”

  A flash of irritability washed over the major. “Don’t try to play with me. This lady. Azadeh, sister to the Hakim, the Gorgon Khan.”

  “She’s my wife. How can a hus—”

  “I know she’s your wife and you’d better tell me the truth, by God. The warrant says you took her against her will and flew off in an Iranian helicopter.” Azadeh started to answer but the major snapped, “I asked him, not you. Well?”

  “It was without her consent and the chopper is British not Iranian.”

  The major stared at him, then turned on Azadeh. “Well?”

  “It…it was without my consent…” The words trailed off.

  “But what?”

  Azadeh felt sick. Her head ached and she was in despair. Turkish police were known for their inflexibility, their great personal power and toughness. “Please, Major Effendi, perhaps we may talk in private, explain in private?”

  “We’re private now, madam,” the major said curtly, then seeing her anguish and appreciating her beauty, added, “English is more private than Turkish. Well?”

  So, haltingly, choosing her words carefully, she told him about her oath to Abdollah Khan and about Hakim and the dilemma, unable to leave, unable to stay and how Erikki, of his own volition and wisdom, had cut through the Gordian knot. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Yes, it was without my consent but in a way it was with the consent of my brother who helped Er—”

  “If it was with Hakim Khan’s consent then why has he put a huge reward on this man’s head, alive or dead,” the major said, disbelieving her, “and had the warrant issued in his name, demanding immediate extradition if necessary?” She was so shocked she almost fainted. Without thinking Erikki moved toward her, but the revolver went into his stomach. “I was only going to help her,” he gasped.

  “Then stay where you are!” In Turkish the officer said, “Don’t kill him.” In English he said, “Well, Lady Azadeh? Why?”

  She could not answer. Her mouth moved but made no sound. Erikki said for her, “What else could a Khan do, Major? A Khan’s honor, his face is involved. Publicly he would have to do that, wouldn’t he, whatever he approved in private?”

  “Perhaps, but certainly not so quickly, no, not so quickly, not alerting fighters and helicopters—why should he do that if he wanted you to escape? It’s a miracle you weren’t forced down, didn’t fall down with all those bullet holes. It sounds like a pack of lies—perhaps she’s so frightened of you she’ll say anything. Now, your so-called escape from the palace: exactly what happened?”

  Helplessly Erikki told him. Nothing more to do, he thought. Tell him the truth and hope. Most of his concentration was on Azadeh, seeing the blank horror pervading her, yet of course Hakim would react the way he had—of course dead or alive—wasn’t the blood of his father strong in his veins?

  “And the guns?”

  Once more Erikki told it exactly, about being forced to fly the KGB, about Sheik Bayazid and his kidnap and ransom and the attack on the palace, having to fly them off and then their breaking their oaths and so having to kill them somehow.

  “How many men?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Half a dozen, perhaps more.”

  “You enjoy killing, eh?”

  “No, Major, I hate it, but please believe us, we’ve been caught up in a web not of our seeking, all we want to do is be let go, please let me call my embassy…they can vouch for us…we’re a threat to no one.”

  The major just looked at him. “I don’t agree, your story’s too farfetched. You’re wanted for kidnapping and attempted murder. Please go with the sergeant,” he said and repeated it in Turkish. Erikki did not move, his fists bunched, and he was near exploding. At once the sergeant’s gun was out, both police converged on him dangerously, and the major said harshly, “It’s a very serious offense to disobey police in this country. Go with the sergeant. Go with him.”

  Azadeh tried to say something, couldn’t. Erikki thrust off the sergeant’s hand, contained his own impotent panic-rage, and tried a smile to encourage her. “It’s all right,” he muttered and followed the sergeant.

  Azadeh’s panic and terror had almost overwhelmed her. Now her fingers and knees were trembling, but she wanted so much to sit tall and be tall, knowing she was defenseless and the major was sitting there opposite her, watching her, the room empty but for the two of them. Insha’Allah, she thought and looked at him, hating him.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said, his eyes curious. Then he reached over and picked up her jewel bag. “For safekeeping,” he said thinly and stalked for the door, closed it after him, and went down the passageway.

  The cell at the end was small and dirty, more like a cage than a room, with a cot, bars on the tiny window, chains attached to a huge bolt
in one wall, a foul-smelling bucket in a corner. The sergeant slammed the door and locked it on Erikki. Through the bars the major said, “Remember, the Lady Azadeh’s…‘comfort’ depends on your docility.” He went away.

  Now, alone, Erikki started prowling the cage, studying the door, lock, bars, floor, ceiling, walls, chains—seeking a way out.

  AL SHARGAZ—AT THE AIRPORT: 5:40 P.M. A thousand miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was in an HQ office anxiously waiting near the phone, an hour yet for sunset. Already he had a promise of one 212 from a Paris company and two 206s from a friend at Aerospatiale at reasonable rates. Scot was in the other office, monitoring the HF, with Pettikin on the other phone there. Rudi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and Scragger were at the hotel on more phones tracking down possible crews, arranging possible logistics in Bahrain. No word yet from Kasigi.

  The phone rang. Gavallan grabbed it, hoping against hope for news about Dubois and Fowler, or that it was Kasigi. “Hello?”

  “Andy, it’s Rudi. We’ve three pilots from Lufttransportgesellschaft and they also promise two mecs. Ten percent over scale, one month on, two off. Hang on…a call on the other line, I’ll call you back, ’bye.”

  Gavallan made a notation on his pad, his anxiety giving him heartburn, and that made him think of McIver. When he had talked to him earlier he had not mentioned any of the deadline problems, not wanting to worry him further, promising that as soon as their choppers were safely out he would be on the next connection to Bahrain to see him. “Nothing to worry about, Mac, can’t thank you and Genny enough for all you’ve done…”

  Through the window he could see the lowering sun. The airport was busy. He saw an Alitalia jumbo landing and that reminded him of Pettikin and Paula; no opportunity yet to ask him what was what. Near the far end of the runway in the freight area, his eight 212s looked raped and skeletal without their rotors and rotor columns, mechanics still crating some of them. Where the hell’s Kasigi, for God’s sake? He had tried to call him several times at the hotel but he was out and no one knew where he was or when he would return.

  The door opened. “Dad,” Scot said, “Linbar Struan’s on our phone.”

  “Tell him to get stuffed…hold it,” Gavallan said quickly. “Just say I’m still out, but you’re sure I’ll call him the moment I return.” He muttered a string of Chinese obscenities. Scot hurried away. Again the phone rang. “Gavallan.”

  “Andrew, this is Roger Newbury, how are you?”

  Gavallan began to sweat. “Hello, Roger, what’s new?”

  “Sunset’s still the deadline. The Iranian insisted on coming by here to pick me up first so I’m standing by—we’re supposed to go together to meet the Sheik at the airport. We’ll arrive a few minutes early, then the three of us will go to the freight area to wait for His Nibs.”

  “What about the reception at the Japanese ambassador’s?”

  “We’re all supposed to go after the inspection—God only knows what’ll happen then but…well, ours not to reason. Sorry about all this but our hands are tied. See you soon. ’Bye.”

  Gavallan thanked him, put down the phone, and wiped his brow.

  Again the phone. Kasigi? He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Andy? Ian—Ian Dunross.”

  “My God, Ian.” Gavallan’s cares dropped away. “I’m so glad to hear from you, tried to reach you a couple of times.”

  “Yes, sorry I wasn’t available. How’s it going?”

  Gavallan told him guardedly. And about Kasigi. “We’ve about an hour to sunset.”

  “That’s one reason I called. Damned bad luck about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Lochart sounds as though he cracked, but then when love’s involved…” Gavallan heard his sigh and did not know how to interpret it. “You remember Hiro Toda, Toda Shipping?”

  “Of course, Ian.”

  “Hiro told me about Kasigi and their problem at Iran-Toda. They’re in a hell of a bind, so anything, anything you can do to help, please do.”

  “Got it. I’ve been working on it all day. Did Toda tell you Kasigi’s idea about their ambassador?”

  “Yes. Hiro called personally—he said they’re more than anxious to help but it’s an Iranian problem, and to be honest, they don’t expect very much as the Iranians would be quite within their rights.” Gavallan’s face mirrored his dismay. “Help them all you can. If Iran-Toda gets taken over…well, strictly between us…” Dunross switched to Shanghainese for a moment: “The underbelly of a nobly thought of company would be slashed mortally.” Then in English again. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  Though Gavallan had forgotten most of his Shanghainese he understood and his eyes almost crossed. He had had no idea that Struan’s was involved—Kasigi had never even implied it. “Kasigi’ll get his choppers and crew even if we miss our deadline and are impounded.”

  “Let’s hope you’re not. Next, did you see the papers about the Hong Kong stock exchange crash?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s bigger than they’re reporting. Someone’s pulling some very rough stuff and Linbar’s back is to the sea. If you get the 212s out and are still in business, you’ll still have to cancel the X63s.”

  Gavallan’s temperature went up a notch. “But, Ian, with those I can bust Imperial’s hold by giving clients better service and better safety, an—”

  “I agree, old chum. But if we can’t pay for them you can’t have them. Sorry, but there it is. The stock market’s gone mad, worse than usual, it’s bleeding over to Japan and we cannot afford to have Toda crash here either.”

  “Perhaps we’ll get lucky. I’m not going to lose my X63s. By the way did you hear Linbar’s giving Profitable a seat in the Inner Office?”

  “Yes. An interesting idea.” It was said flat and Gavallan could read neither positive nor negative. “I heard their side of the meeting in a roundabout way. If today is a success, you’re planning to be in London Monday?”

  “Yes. I’ll know better by sunset, or tomorrow sunset. If all goes well I’ll drop by and see Mac in Bahrain, then head for London. Why?”

  “I may want you to cancel London and meet me in Hong Kong. Something very bloody curious has come up—about Nobunaga Mori, the other witness with Profitable Choy when David MacStruan died. Nobunaga was burned to death a couple of days ago at his home at Kanazawa, that’s in the country just outside Tokyo, in rather strange circumstances. In today’s mail I got a very curious letter. Can’t discuss it on the phone but it’s plenty bloody interesting.”

  Gavallan held his breath. “Then David…it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Have to wait and see on that one, Andy, until we meet—either Tokyo or London, the very soonest. By the way Hiro and I had planned to stay at Kanazawa the night Nobunaga died but couldn’t make it at the last moment.”

  “My God, that was lucky.”

  “Yes. Well, got to go. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Nothing, unless you can give me an extension till Sunday night.”

  “I’m still working on that, never fear. Damned sorry about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver…that Tokyo number will take messages till Monday…”

  They said good-bye. Gavallan stared at the phone. Scot came in with more news about possible pilots and planes but he hardly heard his son. Was it murder after all? Christ! Goddamn Linbar and his back to the wall and bad investments. Somehow or another I’ve got to have the X63s, got to.

  Again the phone. The connection was bad and the accent of the caller heavy: “Long distance collect call for Effendi Gavallan.”

  His heart surged. Erikki? “This is Effendi Gavallan, I will accept the charge. Can you speak up, please, I can hardly hear you. Who is the call from?”

  “One moment please…” As he waited impatiently he looked at the gate near the end of the runway that the Sheik and the others would use if Kasigi failed and the inspection took place. His breath almost stopped as he saw a big limousine with a Shargazi flag on its fender appro
aching, but the car passed by in a cloud of dust and a voice on the other end of the phone he could hardly hear said, “Andy, it’s me, Marc, Marc Dubois…”

  “Marc? Marc Dubois?” he stuttered and almost dropped the phone, cupped his hand over one ear to hear better. “Christ Almighty! Marc? Are you all right, where the hell are you, is Fowler all right? Where the hell are you?” The answer was gibberish. He had to strain to hear. “Say again!”

  “We’re at Kor al Amaya…” Kor al Amaya was Iraq’s huge, half-mile-long, deep-sea oil terminal platform at the far end of the Gulf, off the mouth of the Shatt-al-Arab Estuary that divided Iraq and Iran, about five hundred miles northwest. “Can you hear me, Andy? Kor al Amaya…”

  AT THE KOR AL AMAYA PLATFORM: Marc Dubois also had one hand cupped over his ear and was trying to be guarded and not to shout down the phone. The phone was in the office of the platform manager, plenty of Iraqi and expats in the office outside able to overhear. “This line’s not private…vous comprenez?”

  “Got it, for God’s sake, what the hell happened? You were picked up?”

  Dubois made sure he was not being overheard and said carefully, “No, mon vieux, I was running out of fuel and, voilà, the tanker Oceanrider appeared out of the merde so I landed on her, perfectly, of course. We’re both fine, Fowler and me. Pas problème! What about everyone, Rudi and Sandor and Pop?”

  “They’re all here in Al Shargaz, everyone, your lot, Scrag’s, Mac, Freddy, though Mac’s in Bahrain at the moment. With you safe Whirlwind’s got ten out of ten—Erikki and Azadeh are safe in Tabriz though…” Gavallan was going to say Tom’s risking his life to stay in Iran. But there was nothing he or Dubois could do so instead he said happily, “How wonderful you’re safe, Marc. Are you serviceable?”

  “Of course, I, er, I just need fuel and instructions.”

  “Marc, you’re British registry now…hang on a sec…it’s G-HKVC. Dump your old numbers and put the new ones on. There’s been hell to pay and our late hosts have splattered the Gulf with telexes asking governments to impound us. Don’t go ashore anywhere.”