In the Lap of the Gods

by Tony Criddle

  Jock Sinclair could have been somewhere in his mid-fifties to early sixties. His creviced face, and everything else about him looked lived in. It was if he’d fallen into a tumble drier and not been rescued soon enough. Nick had somehow expected the baseball cap, and knew most Scots were vertically challenged, but Sinclair was also wide and muscular. Nick looked at Chuck. It seemed to beg a question.

  “Jock’s feisty Nick, but he’s about the best flight engineer we’ve got. If he fixes it, it stays fixed.”

  When he got close, Sinclair scanned them with wary eyes then tossed a bunch of keys to his mechanic. “Stick the kettle on Imran, I need a pee.”

  The chat was casual until they’d drunk their coffee, then Sinclair took charge.

  “I’ve finished what maintenance there is Chuck. I’ll show Nick and Floyd around here then take them over to their shack myself. You can motor back to Tehran. We left the boys back home so there’s plenty of room in the truck, and I brought their keys.”

  The American nodded.

  “Okay. Give me a minute to clue Nick in about company regs: and I’ll be long gone.” Chuck took Nick’s elbow and steered him outside. He was jabbering before they’d left the veranda.

  “I’ll give you the short version and Jock can give you the rest. He’s been here a couple of years already and can answer any questions you might come up with.”

  “Sounds okay to me mate. It’s my first time in the middle east.”

  “Okay then. No bullshit. It’s all about oil and minerals and who controls them really, and the company wants to be part of it. Unfortunately, with the shah booted out and the ayatollah in charge, we just don’t know where we stand right now.”

  “I know what’s on the surface mate, but what’s underneath it?”

  The American weighed Nick up before he said any more.

  “Us Americans had been doing pretty good here for a lot of years under the shah’s protection, but recently that’s gone pear shaped. The Shiites rule now, and that’s the most radical brand of Islam there is, and they’ve got no reason to love the West. We’re not sure how this will pan out.”

  “That’s what I heard. So how did it happen? What went wrong?’

  “Iran’s history set up internal dissention a long time ago, but now it’s all about the 20th century. Oil wasn’t discovered until fairly recently either, so we think it’s more about Russia going communist in 1917 when Britain’s empire was getting a bit wobbly. Shall we say that the UK assisted a Brigadier Reza Khan to overthrow the incumbent in 1921 and he founded the Pahlavi Dynasty. It was a move to protect UK interests, but it didn’t work out all that well.”

  “So what happened? Was he a bad ruler?”

  “He was a pain in the arse in the end, but that wasn’t the real problem. He started flirting with Hitler in 1941 when Britain and the Commonwealth were up to their nuts in the Second World War. Right then they were pretty much on their own, and Iran was the back door to India, so the UK couldn’t let that go unchallenged. She invaded with some help from Russia and put his son Mohammed on the Peacock Throne, but that pissed the opposition off even more. Britain and Russia have been on the outer here ever since.”

  “I can see how that could happen, but what about now?”

  “There was a half-hearted coup against the current shah in 1954, and with Britain still bleeding financially from WW2 the CIA stepped in. They put Mohammed back on the throne and it obviously delighted him, so after that America couldn’t go wrong. Unfortunately there were a lot of people with Muslim backgrounds who weren’t so happy about that either, and they’re the ones doing all the shouting. We aren’t sure which way it will go yet.”

  “Jesus, so how do we play it then?”

  “Low key and by ear Nick, that’s all we can do. You’re the nominal leader down here, and the others will look to you for guidance, so try not to piss anybody off until we’re better informed. It’s all I can think of right now. The company and the embassy are always on the end of the phone if you need them, and as far as we know it’s only Tehran involved. If you keep your head down it could be all over before you know it.”

  Chuck was on his way back to the capital fifteen minutes later and Nick watched him go. He couldn’t get over the feeling that Chuck had seemed wary, almost secretive, throughout their time together.

  There were three people in the dusty black and white Buick tearing up vortexes of dust on its way north from Abadan – two by choice, and one with no choice at all. The vehicle was one of twenty delivered to Iran several years before as part of a job lot from America, and it really was a police car. A sturdy wire mesh separated the front from the back, the doors locked from the dash, and red and blue strip lights hung from a bar on the roof. There was a weapon’s rack in the trunk.

  The driver’s dark shirt held a few badges but didn’t show any rank tapes, and its rough cloth was already saturated with dark, wet sweat patches. Cold, pitiless eyes seemed to protect him from whatever he saw and his brutal, vague look said he was a follower not a leader.

  In the back, an elderly local sniffling noisily, his sallow face both anxious and intimidated. Dried blood streaked his worn countenance and he worked hard at the string of beads in his hand. He didn’t know why he was there, nor why it was late afternoon when they set off north.

  But it was the third male in the passenger seat who looked totally different. Tarek Achmed was loosely labelled a Mutawain or religious interrogator, and went out of his way to look it. He habitually wore several shades of black that made him look sinister, and right then was dressed in an ebony leather jacket over black jeans and black T-shirt. And if that wasn’t bad enough the whole was emphasised by a closely shaved skull, but it was his piercing eyes that chilled. Somehow they managed to look as if compassion had taken a holiday some time before. Achmed chose not to speak until they were well on their way.

  He pointed to a depression not far ahead. “Pull onto that track over there.” The driver nodded but didn’t stop before he was 100 metres along it.

  Achmed slithered from the passenger’s seat and opened a rear door. The man inside shrunk even further into himself as Achmed stared at him for several long seconds.

  “Out and stretch your legs Aref, and pee if you want to. The next stretch is a long one.”

  Aref wheedled. “Where are we going Mister Achmed. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You are a Christian leader who disparaged our beloved Allah Araf, that’s why Tehran wants you. I told the mullah that if I find you I’ll bring you up myself.”

  Arek picked up on the tone. “Does Tehran know I’m coming?”

  “The phones weren’t working, but they will when we get there.”

  It was a slim chance but he had to take it. “This is all a mistake Mister Achmed, nothing like that happened really. Is there any way we can straighten this out?’

  Tarek Achmed tried hard not to smile. It worked every time. He let the tension build.

  “Nobody really knows about your arrest yet Arek. You could buy yourself out and disappear I suppose, but you told me several times that you have no funds.”

  “I could get my hands on some Mister Achmed, but it would be back in Abadan.”

  “Not good enough I’m afraid, it’s too risky. Forget it, and get back in the car.”

  “No, no – I have some savings, quite a lot really. Take me back and I’ll give them to you.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. If I’m convinced, you can buy your freedom and disappear. If you are lying I’ll kill you, your wife and your son. What’s it to be?”

  There was no other way out of it. How much was his life worth anyway.

  “There is a small shrine to the Virgin Mary in my garden Mister Achmed. It has a loose stone behind the altar. There are diamonds in there.”

  “Fine Aref, you should be able to disappear in a couple of hours then. Hop in the car and we’ll be on our way.”

  The Christian elder stood taller as he turned towards t
he car. He didn’t hear Achmed draw a weapon, nor the explosion behind the bullet that took the top of his skull off. Achmed ordered the driver to help with the burial with an impassive face.

  Chapter seven

  Nick Evans had refilled his coffee mug before Jock Sinclair grabbed their attention again.

  “I’ve got some paperwork to finish then I give you a quick heads up on what we do and what we’ve got to do it with. After that I’ll give Floyd a quick run around before we go home. I’ll do you tomorrow if that’s okay with you laddie?” It didn’t sound belligerent, but Nick detected a hint of a challenge in it. Bugger – a pissing contest and I’ve only been here five minutes.

  Jock Sinclair wrote up the maintenance he’d just carried out in the aircraft documentation. It was an inviolate ritual that came first and the dregs of his coffee were cold when he got to them. He drained his cup although his mouth puckered distastefully, rinsed his mug, and turned back into the room. The others waited for him to speak.

  “Right people, heads up. Apart from here, the company’s got seven operations in country, three small ones like this near the mountains, and another four involved with oil exploration in the Gulf and sandy stuff. If you ask me we’ve got the best of it. We’re pretty much left alone down here.”

  “I thought we looked for oil as well.”

  “We don’t explore for oil Nick, our job is to find mineral deposits in the mountains, but any seepages we do see in the shale we report on. The company doesn’t want to miss anything, but they don’t make that obvious.”

  Webster jumped in. “They told me to give you an update on minerals Nick. Copper shows up as pale green smears, iron ore as dirty grey smudges, and chromate and manganese deposits glitter like mica chips in those softer rocks. Gold, tin and tungsten deposits sometimes show up as well, but they’re rarer than Vestal Virgins at a bikie conference. I’ll give you a proper brief before we go looking.” Webster grinned before he continued.

  “The thing is, mineral traces show up better from the air when the sun’s low, so I’ll give you a heads-up when we start flying.” Nick nodded as Jock Sinclair picked up the brief again.

  “Okay then. It sounds good if you say it quickly, but in fact we do things pretty much on a shoe string around here. I’ve got the degree in aircraft engineering, while one of you does the looking and the other takes him where he wants to look. Apart from that I’ve got four mechanics to help with the repairs and maintenance.” He half turned to the Pakistani who sat slightly apart.

  “Imran over there is the senior guy. Ignore the ugly bugger’s hooked beak and flashing eyes, all of them are like that in the Punjab where he comes from.” There was nothing subservient about Imran. He smiled lightly and raised a vertical index finger.

  Sinclair grinned. “Okay, I’ll take Floyd around the maps and reports while you look around up here. We can do the hangar when we come out next.”

  “Okay.”

  The cluttered room took up half the prefabricated unit and a thick glass window at one end took up most of the width. A sliding glass door opened onto a small veranda alongside that. On the side, two small aluminium framed windows let in some muted light, but that’s about all, and their outside ledges were festooned with a tangle of dusty cobwebs. The glass on the outsides was smeared and badly in need of a clean, but no-one seemed to notice. Then again it was all males out there anyway.

  But it was the number of things to sit on that had Nick Evans smiling. Several over-stuffed, unmatched armchairs sagging haphazardly around the room had probably been scavenged separately from the markets in Tehran, while two aluminium and plastic tables, with chairs that did match filled the centre of the room. A wood and felt card table and stainless chairs occupied one corner.

  The only other furniture was a utility steel cabinet propping up an outer wall, thick with dog-eared magazines strewn on its shelves. Some colourful booklets boasting garish pictures of motorcycles, cars or aeroplanes on the covers also spilled randomly over the plastic tables, but there was nothing solicitous or even vaguely pornographic in the room. Not even a spicy calendar. A two-year-old copy of Flight was the youngest magazine available.

  Two internal doors set into a painted ply wall blocked off the whole of the inboard end of the room. One led to a small locker room with slim metal cabinets for flight gear, the other larger cubicle held a desk and a mandatory drawing board. There was another small desk set under a standard window for the pilot, but Nick couldn’t see himself using it much. The floor was chipboard squares which had been varnished once, but now only glistened where no-one could walk.

  After a look through the map library Jock led Webster into the surveyor’s office and rifled through the large, oblong desk. Nick could see that it would take time so he made himself another coffee before moving on. Like most pilots he practically mainlined the stuff, and it didn’t take long to finish. Minutes later he descended the small veranda and turned down the side of the building.

  A gloomy, grease streaked workshop abutted the office area with entry through its own battered door. Inside, shrink-wrapped spare parts for the choppers and large, intricate tools were stacked on metal shelving around the grimy walls, while hand tools got highlighted in white on composite boards. A heavy vice was bolted to one corner of a stained work-bench. Obviously it was where Jock and his boys got their hands dirty, as self-respecting engineers were expected to.

  The last few feet of the weathered, pre-fabricated building were given over to a toilet, but labelling it a toilet was bordering on the posh side. Two deep holes had been bored in the sand then crowned with a smooth wooden box. Nick surmised it would hum both literally and figuratively in the high summer months. Slight discolouration in the nearby desert sands suggested they saw more urine than the holes ever did.

  Jock found Nick sprawled in an armchair when he’d finished with the surveyor. The afternoon had only run half its course by then, but Sinclair pointedly swept up the key ring and went out to lock the rest of the building. When he returned Nick waggled his coffee mug to let the Scot know he wasn’t above making coffee for anyone, but Sinclair declined. He clapped his hands for attention.

  “I’ll make do with whisky later Nick, the sun’s over the yard-arm somewhere on this frigging planet. We’ll get on home soon, but before we go I’ll clue you in on domestics.”

  Nick frowned. “Doesn’t the company take care of that?”

  “It does indeed mate, but some political stuff happens there as well, so you need to know about that too.”

  “Jesus. If I’d known it was this complicated I’d have stayed in Australia.” Nick smiled lazily to take the sting from his words but it didn’t reach his eyes. Webster scraped his chair around to face Sinclair more directly.

  “Right guys, Shahabad is about ten clicks from here and it’s a bit over twenty-eight from Qom. The Qom River and the secondary road to Golpayegan do run past the town but its main importance is that it’s a gateway into the Zagros foothills. The locals are semi-nomadic herders, and they can trace their ancestry back to the ancient Persians. Bakhtaran families club their sheep and goat herds together and take turns running them in the high pastures in the warmer weather, but they all own some lower pastures to take the pressure off when the weather turns shitty. They don’t have a lot in common with other Iranians, so they don’t even try to integrate with them. There are lots of them out there, but they’ve never really united, and they’re pretty low on the food chain because of it.”

  He paused. “If anybody’s got questions I’ll answer them, but it’s best if you see it all first.” There were no takers.

  “Okay then. The company rents two adjacent houses in Shahabad which are a sort of collective asset for the town. You and Floyd share one and me and the lads the other. I like my food spicy, the way the boys cook it, so the rent is taken out of my pay while they do some domestic stuff as their share. That allows them to send a bit more money home to their families.” He drained the dregs of his cold coff
ee before he continued.

  “An older lass called Sarah and something I can’t pronounce is your official housekeeper, and her husband Mohammed is the odd-job man for both of us. Sarah’s a town elder and administers the houses, so her English isn’t bad, but Mohammed doesn’t speak English at all.” He paused again. “Okay, if you guys have got that, we’ll see the town first and I’ll answer any questions later.”

  They were on their way within fifteen minutes and not long after took a left at a painted-on roundabout at the bottom of an incline. Only a few houses were visible from the river and Nick had envisaged mud Beau Geste castles set in shifting, beige sands. When they got there it was short on Legionnaires, but it did have a distinctly Arabic look about it.

  Shahabad sprawled along a valley covered in ankle deep, mobile dust, with the only healthy flora growing only along the moist banks of the river behind. Houses in the small town were mostly single storey, L-shaped boxes with flat, castellated rooves, and a high courtyard wall enclosed each building into a rectangle. A single door breeched the outer courtyard walls, sporting an oversized iron keyhole. Nick couldn’t see any other outer doors at all.

  It was no surprise that all the houses were built from adobe coated with white-washed animal dung, spread thick and liberally for durability. Other building materials were scarce away from the cities, and costs put them a long way down the wish list.

  “Is there any power out here Jock, I can’t see any pylons?”

  Sinclair pointed to a rise on the northern edge of town.

  “A single spur runs out from Qom from over there to these few blocks. The rest of the town makes do with kerosene. To be honest we use the stuff for some things too, but ours comes from fuel for the choppers. There aren’t too many other resources out here either, no post office or garage for instance and only the cop shop is connected to Qom by telephone. The company did spend some dough on decent phones out to the airfield though.”

  “So what religion do Bakhtaran’s go for?”