by Tony Criddle
“Sunni more in Iraq and Saudi, but not much in Iran. Still not supposed to drink alcohol, but some women can go school and work in some areas, and have vote and not so ugly dresses. Still too strict for us though.” This time she smiled.
“Okay, I’ll buy that, but I don’t understand Baha’i at all.”
Sarah smiled again. “It mostly in Iran among my people Nickie. Baha’i like taught today only in use about 150 years ago, but Bakhtaran peoples been worshipping pretty much same way, how you say – since time of stone. We make changes to suit us over many years.”
Nick Evans pondered before his eyes cleared. “You mean it’s been with you since the Neolithic, a long time ago, but it’s changed with the centuries. The last time was about 150 years ago.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes. Baha’i believe only one god but different religions worship him in own way. Also men have only one wife, and she work with him all the time. Children do too when older. Girls go to school as well as boys, and dance and singing and some bright clothes part of Bakhtaran way. Mullahs want us to stop drink and cover up more but it part of celebrations. None of my people will change anything. Government tried before but not many mullahs come into hills though.”
“How about what other people believe?”
“In south of country, some Jewish people, some Sunni and some Zoroastrian people, and not all Bakhtaran people Baha’i neither. Us and other religions not close together enough to tell government that sharia stuff not suit them though.”
“Thanks Sarah, you’ve given me something to think about.” He took her hands and squeezed. His own family couldn’t get it right either and they were of the same bloody religion.
There was another eighteen months to run on his contract but he couldn’t see it happening now.
Chapter Ten
He saw it before he heard it. “Shit! What was that?” The fluted legs of Nick’s chair screeched loudly as he scrambled to his feet. He grabbed for the well-used 10 × 10s. It was around lunch time and Sinclair and three of his lads were playing cards at the small table. They froze as if waiting for a command to continue, watching closely as the pilot squeezed onto the tiny, paint chipped veranda.
Outside, the blistering noon heat hit Nick in waves. With the humidity close to zero, the hot, musty smell of dry sand wafted strongly on the light breeze, and wavering mirages blurred the distant horizon. There was a pale demarcation between the sand and sky, which jumped and slid randomly, as if separated by a thin sheet of turgid water. Nick tweaked the binoculars and again saw what had grabbed his attention.
A smear of russet grew rapidly above the shimmering horizon, with the billowing front framed by bruised purple clouds that raced angrily skywards. Jagged forks of blinding light jumped spasmodically where the clouds muscled aggressively over the top of each other, and that caused the matt red vortex to bulge even more prominently. Distant rumbles of thunder now reached him every few seconds.
At first it reminded Nick of Uluru, that great, red monolith in the central Australian outback, but he soon picked up that its rolling front was preceded by a soft, distinct hiss peaking vaguely between the grumble of angry crashes. Nick knew exactly what it must be. He dashed back into the crew-room.
“There’s a bugger of a sand-storm on its way and it’s not far off, Jock. Get the hangar shut down.”
Any questions would have been superfluous and Sinclair didn’t waste time on them. He and his boys raced outside to the corrugated iron shed while Nick wrenched the door to the survey office open and yelled at a disconcerted Webster to get the windows closed.
Nick shut the air-conditioners down before racing to the small workshop for canvas sheets and cord, and in a mad dash around the demountable tied canvas around the louvered metal boxes. By then Jock and his Pakistani’s were breathing hard and ragged as they tumbled through the sliding door.
“I guess more flying is out of the question then laddie” Sinclair gasped, “it’s a pity we don’t keep a few bottles out here.” For any self-respecting Scottish engineer a bottle of whisky was the first tool when there was a problem to solve. Nick smiled.
And a few minutes later the first restless gust buffeted the building savagely, driving a vast red cloud of choking sand overhead that obliterated the blazing sun in seconds. Fine pastel dust filtered under the front door at first, but Jock quickly sealed the gap with an old, worn table cloth and by then the abrasive grit and howling winds were battering the building with an abandoned fury. The neon strips could barely cope with the gloom, and only yells got through the shrieks and bangs from the blistering storm. It didn’t blow out until early evening.
The visibility was still low when they motored home that evening, and apart from the vague, flickering lights of Qom little else showed. It was the first time Nick had driven back in the dark and the brooding emptiness was eerie. He turned to Sinclair who was driving.
“I didn’t notice how little you really see out here during the day, Jock.”
“Aye it’s a real surprise laddie. Just Qom and a few farms and villages lit with kerosene lamps. We fly night circuits every couple of months to keep your night hours up and we haven’t done that yet. You’ll see a bit more then.”
Nick Evans realised he’d have to do that soon. “Is Qom the biggest city around here?”
“It is lad, but it’s not that big really, it just spreads a bit. Ayatollah Khomeini did his training there when he was a young clergyman so now it’s considered the country’s holiest city, but all inland towns are communication centres anyway. That makes Qom seem a bit more important than it really is. It’s good for us because it’s too bloody holy for riots, but there isn’t any entertainment there for us either.”
Nick nodded. Sinclair had been there over two years already and knew the local area. It got Nick thinking.
“Right, we’ll get some night flying in next Wednesday and have our first look at the game tomorrow.”
“Suits me Nick but I’m not into trophy hunting. I’ve done some shooting for the pot before but if you want to get the heads mounted go with someone else.”
“That suits me too Jock. Sarah’s stews are great, but it’s always bloody stew and flat bread no matter what’s in it. Sometimes I fancy a roast or a stir-fry but I’d like to know where the meat comes from. What about a couple of quid on a one shot one carcass policy.”
“Aye, but we’ll be doing it from the chopper. You’ll have to land to get your shot in so I don’t have to shoot on the move either.” They were both grinning when they shook hands.
Chapter Eleven
The recent coup hadn’t exactly improved the company’s prospects in Iran but up to then it hadn’t affected the team much either. There was little point in an early morning rush however, so lounging in front of a biased, scratchy news service took precedence over an early morning flight.
Although TV wasn’t exactly an art form on the high desert plains, two snowy channels did beam in from Qom, but if the poor sound quality wasn’t bad enough they were both in Farsi. Nick had picked up some of the language from news and foreign documentaries by then, so he and Jock made reading between the lines something of a light-hearted competition. They confined it to bulletins and the odd history programs, that was about all they could stomach.
It was already into late autumn by then, and Nick had been in Iran virtually a year when his world started to change radically. As usually he was sprawled in an armchair half watching the early news bulletin, but that morning it was different.
The news normally started with the same wavering, snowy static, but this time the atmosphere seemed to crackle with tension. The ten-minute religious harangue it started with was also missing, and as the fuzzy picture hardened a wobbly camera swept over an angry, gesticulating crowd. Nick couldn’t place the venue, the camera gyrating wildly across the chanting, noisy hordes, but the dowdy chadors and scarfs definitely looked Iranian. The excitement driving the jostling masses transcended what they were wearing anyway.
Nick sat bolt upright. He’d never seen a crowd in this country as animated as they were. A procession of hyped up talking heads blustered through similar broadcasts, all shouting excitedly, fighting for their fifteen minutes of glory. Nick Evans dragged his chair closer.
The wavering back-drop flicked and jumped erratically at first but then it swung to a focused, wide-angle camera showing a gaggle of youngsters waving and yelling as they milled around the tall, red-brick outer walls of a dazzling white façade. The males were obvious, easy to identify, but most of the girls were hidden inside acres of flowing material billowing like collapsed tents dragged in from the nearby desert. And many of the youngsters held rough cardboard placards above their heads daubed in an untidy Arabic scrawl, but the picture of the US president on them was unmistakable. Nick still couldn’t place glimpses of the building although it looked familiar, but the city was definitely Tehran. It got his attention. He yelled for the surveyor and his housekeeper.
Sarah bustled in from the kitchen wiping plump hands on a muslin cloth, and the surveyor appeared from his bedroom. Nick trusted her English much more then he trusted his Farsi.
“Something heavy is happening guys. Can we pick the bones out of it?” The surveyor nodded absently and pulled up a chair. Sarah didn’t sit, instead moving behind Nick and unconsciously putting a light hand on his shoulder.
A different, animated babble now boomed from a local announcer. The flickering screen scanned to a horde that milled aimlessly through lush green gardens, bordered by concrete pavers and ornate cast iron lamp posts.
“Boharesta Square,” Sarah offered.
Other fuzzy landmarks swam into view, the atmosphere in each dark and excitable, and all containing quotas of Iranians shouting angrily to each other. Sarah could identify most of the sites. It was as if the whole population was on the move, as if people were filling up every open space that Tehran had to offer. Then the large white building inside the red brick walls that had first caught Nick’s attention swam back into view.
“American Embassy.” There was no hesitation.
And by then a camera had fought through to the gates which allowed the crowded courtyard to be photographed. It showed sullen, unarmed marines in khaki and white, surrounded by dozens of animated people in robes. Bewildered Caucasians were kept apart from the marines on the concrete steps of the entrance, but all were being blindfolded, and friends or relatives dragged local staff through the milling crowds, their Western garb dishevelled and askew and torn.
And the noise and excitement was growing not diminishing. A camera panned to an anonymous woman in a blue chador, down to the rusty bolt cutters she held in both hands, then to the embassy gates. A thick chain was still draped through the heavy steel bars on one side, but it had obviously been cut through, and now swung gently from one gate as more rioters nudged through the yawning entrance. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to explain the method of entry. Nick couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Christ, they’ve taken over the American Embassy. That’s part of a country’s home territory, you can’t do that.” He looked around wildly but the Canadian just shrugged.
“They say it not government, it done by students.”
“Well some of the bastards don’t look like students to me.”
It was mesmerising, horribly addictive, but the channel was soon recycling the same stories over and over, with the same howling crowd shots being repeated endlessly. Khomeini and his clergy remained ominously silent.
Sarah had chores to do and left Nick and the surveyor to toss around the implications, but it left them going round in circles. He jumped to his feet.
“I’ll try the phones at the airfield mate. Jock can come with me and we’ll try to raise someone in Tehran. Keep watching and if anything new pops up let me know.”
Nick hurried next door for Jock. He’d caught the news too.
That morning Laleh Amini fronted up to the American Embassy quite early. She had one report to finish and another she’d barely started, dealing with emigration trends linked to religious affiliations. It was already becoming a hot topic and there was a deadline.
Laleh skipped up the entrance steps and was let in through the heavy front doors by a young marine guard she’d known for some time. Even so she flashed her ID. Marines were like that. The banal pleasantries they swapped brought a smile to both faces, and only moments later she was letting herself into her small first floor office.
She flicked the kettle on before opening up a battered filling cabinet, and by the time she’d rooted out the reports the kettle was singing. Laleh made herself a jasmine tea and settled down with the paperwork.
Laleh remained completely absorbed for the next hour, barely registering the vehicles crunching the gravel of the car park below. Minor demo’s and even the odd flag burning had been going on for some time but usually they were over by mid-morning, quickly becoming a background hum. But on that morning there was something menacing about the yells. The loud, almost musical hubbub cut into her subconscious and she looked up. Mystified, she moved to the window.
It wasn’t all that chaotic out front yet but already leaning that way. Two gesticulating marines stood inside the perimeter walls against the large, wrought iron gates while an angry, swirling mob rattled the stout ironwork from the outside. As she watched, someone cut through a chain on the gates with bolt cutters and the horde poured into the car park. The two navy infantrymen were quickly overwhelmed.
Several other marines saw it happen and fired off tear gas canisters before flying down the embassy steps to help, but Laleh realised instantly that they wouldn’t use lethal weapons against an unarmed home crowd. Moments later the reinforcements were also surrounded by chanting youngsters and by then a number of embassy staff were being dragged out to the car park with them. She looked around and realised some of her files were sensitive. Laleh dashed back to her desk and began stacking them back into the cabinet.
A more insistent racket in the large working space outside the offices now virtually drowned out the muted sounds from outside. Looking through the half glass walls she saw dozens of robed locals racing through the large outer office in noisy excitement, tossing machines and papers towards the floor as they passed. Laleh rushed to lock the door but stopped a few paces short.
Two older males in jeans and black shirts peered in, one whippet thin, the other bordering on obese. They reminded her of a Laurel and Hardy film she’d seen. Laleh almost smiled until she saw their eyes.
The way the thin one opened her door and slowly edged in was creepy enough but it was terrifying when the obese one slowly closed off the venetian slats. Involuntarily she took a step backwards. The thin one continued his slow advance until she was hard up against her desk then unexpectedly slapped her across the face. Laleh ducked as her head snapped sideways, her eyes instantly leaking, only to see him already loosening his belt as she faced him again. She knew what was coming and her fury was mindless in its intensity. She launched herself at him, leading with her longish nails, and raked his sweating face and neck.
This time he cursed and hit her hard in the solar plexus with a balled fist. Laleh went sprawling backwards across her desk and hadn’t even gasped properly before her arms were pinned savagely above her head by the other one. Her assailant yanked her mini-skirt hard up around her waist and she felt a cold draft as her nylon panties were torn from her. All she could think of through her sobs was that the bastards had done this before.
Laleh screamed and struggled as she felt herself pulled half off the desk surface, but with her legs unsupported and torso pinned hard onto the desk-top, there was nothing much she could do. She caught a whiff of foul breath as her legs were spread, and groaned deeply when he roughly penetrated her. Time stood still for her after that, but really it was quick. She barely noticed when they changed places.
The obese one finished quickly too, but she only became aware of being dumped on the carpet when the thin one delive
red a final casual kick to her abdomen.
Nick Evans opened up the Cherokee along the sandy road to the airfield, beige grit arcing high from the racing rear wheels. Small, heavier pebbles spat viscously sideways as he drifted through the flat, dusty corners and the potholes on the road edges threw Sinclair around the confines of his seat. The Scot cursed bitterly as he yelled at Nick to slow down. The airfield was only a few kilometres away and the pilot wasn’t committed to such a destructive speed. He just couldn’t help himself.
Within minutes they were rolling into the ominously quiet drome. The squat company complex looked isolated, lifeless and forlorn still and there were no fresh wheel tracks around their buildings. There were no signs of life around the domestic terminus either, just a pair of vehicles parked in its hazy morning shade. Nick left it late screeching the SRV to a sliding halt outside the pre-fabricated crew-room. It would always be the crew-room to him, a hangover from his navy days.
Two hand-sets, one in the survey office the other in the communal centre, worked better than most phones. Instant communication with HQ in Tehran and decent air traffic and weather info were essential to his operation, so the system had absorbed a fair bit of company money. He headed for a phone while Jock checked out the hangar.
Nick tried head office in Tehran first but the phone on the other end rang endlessly. Repeating the call got the same result. Phoning the American Embassy obviously wouldn’t help much either, so he tried a number for the British Embassy.
He got patched through to Hawkins almost immediately.
“Gerry, Nick Evans at Qom, what the hell is going on up there?”
“You may well ask old son. We’re still trying to get a handle on it ourselves.”
