Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Time to go home, my darlin’.” He gathered her into his arms. “Time for all of us to go home.”

  “Home’s where you are,” she said, not afraid anymore.

  AT THE OASIS HOTEL: 11:52 P.M. In the darkness the telephone jangled discordantly, jerking Gavallan out of a deep sleep. He groped for it, switching on his side-table light. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Andrew, this is Roger Newbury, sorry to call so late but th—”

  “Oh, that’s all right, I said to call up till midnight, how did it go?” Newbury had promised to phone and tell him what happened at the rest of the reception. Normally Gavallan would have been awake but tonight he had excused himself from the celebration just after ten and within seconds was asleep. “What about tomorrow?”

  “Delighted to tell you His Excellency Abadani’s accepted an invitation from the Sheik to spend the day hawking at Al Sal oasis, so it looks very good he’ll be isolated all day. Personally, I don’t trust him, Andrew, and we strongly advise you to get your planes and all personnel out as quickly and discreetly as possible, also to close down here for a month or two till we can give you the word. All right?”

  “Yes, great news. Thanks.” Gavallan lay back, a new man, the bed seductive, sleep beckoning. “I’d already planned to close down,” he said with a mighty yawn. “Everyone’s confirmed out before sunset.” He had heard the nervousness in Newbury’s voice but put it down to all the excitement, stifled another yawn, and added, “Scragger and I will be the last—we’re on the plane to Bahrain with Kasigi to see McIver.”

  “Good. How the hell you managed Abadani I don’t know—and I don’t want to know either—but our collective hat’s off to you. Now, er, now hate to bring bad tidings along with the good but we’ve just had a telex from Henley in Tabriz.”

  Sleep vanished from Gavallan. “Trouble?”

  “Afraid so. It sounds bizarre but this’s what it says.” There was a rustle of paper, then, “Henley says: ‘We hear there was some sort of attack yesterday or last night on Hakim Khan’s life, Captain Yokkonen is supposed to be implicated. Last night he fled for the Turkish border in his helicopter, taking his wife Azadeh with him, against her will. A warrant for attempted murder and kidnapping has been issued in Hakim Khan’s name. A great deal of fighting between rival factions is presently going on in Tabriz which is making accurate reporting somewhat difficult. Further details will be sent immediately they are available.’ That’s all there is. Astonishing, what?” Silence. “Andrew? Are you there?”

  “Yes…yes, I am. Just…just, er, trying to collect my wits. There’s no chance there’d be a mistake?”

  “I doubt that. I’ve sent an urgent signal for more details; we might get something tomorrow. I suggest you contact the Finnish ambassador in London, alert him. The embassy number is 01-7668888. Sorry about all this.”

  Gavallan thanked him and, dazed, replaced the phone.

  SUNDAY

  March 4

  AT THE TURKISH VILLAGE: 10:20 A.M. Azadeh awoke with a start. For a moment she could not remember where she was, then the room came into focus—small, drab, two windows, the straw mattress of the bed hard, clean but coarse sheets and blankets—and she recalled that this was the village hotel and last night at sunset, in spite of her protests and not wanting to leave Erikki, she had been escorted here by the major and a policeman. The major had brushed aside her excuses and insisted on dining with her in the tiny restaurant that had emptied immediately they had arrived. “Of course you must eat something to keep up your strength. Please sit down. I will order whatever you eat for your husband and have them send it to him. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, also in Turkish, and sat down, understanding the implied threat, the hackles on her neck twisting. “I can pay for it.”

  The barest touch of a smile moved his full lips. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you, Major Effendi. When can my husband and I leave, please?”

  “I will discuss that with you tomorrow, not tonight.” He motioned to the policeman to stand guard on the door. “Now we will speak English,” he said, offering her his silver cigarette case.

  “No, thank you, I don’t smoke. When can I have my jewelry back, please, Major Effendi?”

  He selected a cigarette and began tapping the end on the case, watching her. “As soon as it is safe. My name is Abdul Ikail. I’m stationed at Van and responsible for this whole region, up to the border.” He used his lighter, exhaled smoke, his eyes never leaving her. “Have you been to Van before?”

  “No, no I haven’t.”

  “It’s a sleepy little place. It was,” he corrected himself, “before your revolution, though it’s always been difficult on the border.” Another deep intake of smoke. “Undesirables on both sides wanting to cross or to flee. Smugglers, drug dealers, arms dealers, thieves, all the carrion you can think of.” He said it casually, wisps of smoke punctuating the words. The air was heavy in the little room and smelled of old cooking, humans, and stale tobacco. She was filled with foreboding. Her fingers toyed with the strap of her shoulder bag.

  “Have you been to Istanbul?” he asked.

  “Yes. Yes, once for a few days when I was a little girl. I went with my father, he had business there and I, I was put on a plane for school in Switzerland.”

  “I’ve never been to Switzerland. I went to Rome once on a holiday. And to Bonn on a police course, and another one in London, but never Switzerland.” He smoked a moment, lost in thought, then stubbed out the cigarette in a chipped ashtray and beckoned the hotel owner who stood abjectly by the door, waiting to take his order. The food was primitive but good and served with great, nervous humility that further unsettled her. Clearly the village was not used to such an august presence.

  “No need to be afraid, Lady Azadeh, you’re not in danger,” he told her as though reading her mind. “On the contrary. I’m glad to have the opportunity to talk to you, it’s rare a person of your…your quality passes this way.” Throughout dinner, patiently and politely, he questioned her about Azerbaijan and Hakim Khan, volunteering little, refusing to discuss Erikki or what was going to happen. “What will happen will happen. Please tell me your story again.”

  “I’ve… I’ve already told it to you, Major Effendi. It’s the truth, it’s not a story. I told you the truth, so did my husband.”

  “Of course,” he said, eating hungrily. “Please tell it to me again.”

  So she had, afraid, reading his eyes and the desire therein, though he was always punctilious and circumspect. “It’s the truth,” she said, hardly touching the food in front of her, her appetite vanished. “We’ve committed no crime, my husband only defended himself and me—before God.”

  “Unfortunately God cannot testify on your behalf. Of course, in your case, I accept what you say as what you believe. Fortunately here we’re more of this world, we’re not fundamentalist, there’s a separation between Islam and state, no self-appointed men get between us and God, and we’re only fanatic to keep our own way of life as we want it—and other people’s beliefs or laws from being crammed down our throats.” He stopped, listening intently. Walking here in the falling light they had heard distant firing and some heavy mortars. Now, in the silence of the restaurant, they heard more. “Probably Kurds defending their homes in the mountains.” His lips curled disgustedly. “We hear Khomeini is sending your army, and Green Bands, against them.”

  “Then it’s another mistake,” she said. “That’s what my brother says.”

  “I agree. My family is Kurd.” He got up. “A policeman will be outside your door all night. For your protection,” he said with the same curious half smile that greatly perturbed her. “For your protection. Please stay in your room until I… I come for you or send for you. Your compliance assists your husband. Sleep well.”

  So she had gone to the room she had been given and then, seeing there was no lock or bolt on the door, had jammed a chair under the knob. The room was cold, the water in
the jug icy. She had washed and dried herself, then prayed, adding a special prayer for Erikki, and sat on the bed.

  With great care she slipped out the six-inch, steel hat pin that was secreted in the binding of her shoulder bag, studied it for a second. The point was needle sharp, the head small but big enough to grip for a thrust. She slid it into the underside of the pillow as Ross had shown her: “Then it’s no danger to you,” he had said with a smile, “a hostile wouldn’t notice it, and you can get it easily. A beautiful young girl like you should always be armed, just in case.”

  “Oh, but, Johnny, I’d never be able to…never.”

  “You will when—if—the time ever comes, and you should be prepared to. So long as you’re armed, know how to use the weapon whatever it is, and accept that you may have to kill to protect yourself, then you’ll never, ever, need to be afraid.” Over those beautiful months in the High Lands he had shown her how to use it. “Just an inch in the right place is more than enough, it’s deadly enough…” She had carried it ever since, but never once had to use it—not even in the village. The village. Leave the village to the night, not to the day.

  Her fingers touched the head of the weapon. Perhaps tonight, she thought. Insha’Allah! What about Erikki? Insha’Allah! Then she was reminded of Erikki saying, “Insha’Allah’s fine, Azadeh, and a great excuse, but God by any name needs a helping earthly hand from time to time.”

  Yes. I promise you I’m prepared, Erikki. Tomorrow is tomorrow and I will help, my darling. I’ll get you out of this somehow.

  Reassured she blew out the candle, curled up under the sheets and covers still dressed in sweater and ski pants. Moonlight came through the windows. Soon she was warm. Warmth and exhaustion and youth led her into sleep that was dreamless.

  In the night she was suddenly awake. The doorknob was turning softly. Her hand went to the spike and she lay there, watching the door. The handle went to the limit, the door moved a fraction but did not budge, held tightly closed by the chair that now creaked under the strain. In a moment the knob turned quietly back to its resting place. Again silence. No footsteps or breathing. Nor did the knob move again. She smiled to herself. Johnny had also showed her how to place the chair. Ah, my darling, I hope you find the happiness you seek, she thought, and slept again, facing the door.

  Now she was awake and rested and knew that she was much stronger than yesterday, more ready for the battle that would soon begin. Yes, by God, she told herself, wondering what had brought her out of sleep. Sounds of traffic and street vendors. No, not those. Then again a knock on the door.

  “Who is it, please?”

  “Major Ikail.”

  “One moment, please.” She pulled on her boots, straightened her sweater and her hair. Deftly she disengaged the chair. “Good morning, Major Effendi.”

  He glanced at the chair, amused. “You were wise to jam the door. Don’t do it again—without permission.” Then he scrutinized her. “You seem rested. Good. I’ve ordered coffee and fresh bread for you. What else would you like?”

  “Just to be let go, my husband and I.”

  “So?” He came into the room and closed the door and took the chair and sat down, his back to the sunlight that streamed in from the window. “With your cooperation that might be arranged.”

  When he had moved into the room, without being obvious she had retreated and now sat on the edge of the bed, her hand within inches of the pillow. “What cooperation, Major Effendi?”

  “It might be wise not to have a confrontation,” he said curiously. “If you cooperate…and go back to Tabriz of your own free will this evening, your husband will remain in custody tonight and be sent to Istanbul tomorrow.”

  She heard herself say, “Sent where in Istanbul?”

  “First to prison—for safekeeping—where his ambassador will be able to see him and, if it’s God’s will, to be released.”

  “Why should he be sent to prison, he’s done noth—”

  “There’s a reward on his head. Dead or alive.” The major smiled thinly. “He needs protection—there are dozens of your nationals in the village and near here, all on the edge of starvation. Don’t you need protection too? Wouldn’t you be a perfect kidnap victim, wouldn’t the Khan ransom his only sister at once and lavishly? Eh?”

  “Gladly I’ll go back if that will help my husband,” she said at once. “But if I go back, what…what guarantee do I have that my husband will be protected and be sent to Istanbul, Major Effendi?”

  “None.” He got up and stood over her. “The alternate is if you don’t cooperate of your own free will, you’ll be sent to the border today and he…he will have to take his chances.”

  She did not get up, nor take her hand away from the pillow. Nor look up at him. I’d do that gladly but once I’m gone Erikki’s defenseless. Cooperate? Does that mean bed this man of my own free will? “How must I cooperate? What do you want me to do?” she asked and was furious that her voice seemed smaller than before.

  He half laughed and said sardonically, “To do what all women have difficulty in doing: to be obedient, to do what they’re told without argument, and to stop trying to be clever.” He turned on his heel. “You will stay here in the hotel. I will return later. I hope by then you’ll be prepared…to give me the correct answer.” He shut the door after him.

  If he tries to force me, I will kill him, she thought. I cannot bed him as a barter—my husband would never forgive me, nor could I forgive myself, for we both know the act would not guarantee his freedom or mine, and even if it did he could not live with the knowledge and would seek revenge. Nor could I live with myself.

  She got up and went to the window and looked out at the busy village, snow-covered mountains around it, the border over there, such a little way.

  “The only chance Erikki has is for me to go back,” she muttered. “But I can’t, not without the major’s approval. And even then…”

  AT THE POLICE STATION: 11:58 A.M. Gripped by Erikki’s great fists, the lower end of the central iron bar in the window came free with a small shower of cement. Hastily he pushed it back into its hole, looked out of the cage door and down the corridor. No jailer appeared. Quickly he stuffed small pieces of cement and rubble back around the base camouflaging it—he had been working on this bar most of the night, worrying it as a dog would a bone. Now he had a weapon and a lever to bend the other bars out of shape.

  It’ll take me half an hour, no more, he thought, and sat back on his bunk, satisfied. After bringing the food last evening, the police had left him alone, confident in the strength of their cage. This morning they had brought him coffee that had tasted vile and a hunk of rough bread and had stared at him without understanding when he asked for the major and for his wife. He did not know the Turkish for “major” nor the officer’s name, but when he pointed at his lapel, miming the man’s rank, they had understood him and had just shrugged, spoken more Turkish that he did not understand, and gone away again. The sergeant had not reappeared.

  Each of us knows what to do, he thought, Azadeh and I, each of us is at risk, each will do the best we can. But if she’s touched, or hurt, no god will help him who touched her while I live. I swear it.

  The door at the end of the corridor opened. The major strode toward him. “Good morning,” he said, his nostrils crinkling at the foul smell.

  “Good morning, Major. Where’s my wife, please, and when are you letting us go?”

  “Your wife is in the village, quite safe, rested. I’ve seen her myself.” The major eyed him thoughtfully, noticed the dirt on his hands, glanced keenly at the lock on the cage, the window bars, the floor, and the ceiling. “Her safety and treatment are dependent on you. You do understand?”

  “Yes, yes, I do understand. And I hold you as the senior policeman here responsible for her.”

  The major laughed. “Good,” he said sardonically, then the smile vanished. “It seems best to avoid a confrontation. If you cooperate you will stay here tonight, tomorrow I�
�ll send you under guard to Istanbul—where your ambassador can see you if he wants—to stand trial for the crimes you’re accused of, or to be extradited.”

  Erikki dismissed his own problems. “I brought my wife here against her will. She’s done nothing wrong, she should go home. Can she be escorted?”

  The major watched him. “That depends on your cooperation.”

  “I will ask her to go back. I’ll insist, if that’s what you mean.”

  “She could be sent back,” the major said, taunting him. “Oh, yes. But of course it’s possible that on the way to the border or even from the hotel, she could be ‘kidnapped’ again, this time by bandits, Iranian bandits, bad ones, to be held in the mountains for a month or two, eventually to be ransomed to the Khan.”

  Erikki was ashen. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Not far away is the railway. Tonight you could be smuggled out of here and taken safely to Istanbul. The charges against you could be quashed. You could be given a good job, flying, training our fliers—for two years. In return you agree to become a secret agent for us, you supply us with information about Azerbaijan, particularly about this Soviet you mentioned, Mzytryk, information about Hakim Khan, where and how he lives, how to get into the palace—and anything else that is wanted.”

  “What about my wife?”

  “She stays in Van of her own free will, hostage to your behavior…for a month or two. Then she can join you, wherever you are.”

  “Provided she’s escorted back to Hakim Khan today, safely, unharmed and it’s proved to me she’s safe and unharmed, I will do what you ask.”

  “Either you agree or you don’t,” the major said impatiently. “I’m not here to bargain with you!”

  “Please, she’s nothing to do with any crimes of mine. Please let her go. Please.”

  “You think we’re fools? Do you agree or don’t you?”

  “Yes! But first I want her safe. First!”