by Tony Criddle
“Have they really taken over the American Embassy?”
“That’s what it looks like, and we’re afraid it might happen here as well. The boss sent the local staff home just in case. That’s why I’m doing a stint on the phones.”
“But that’s bloody illegal, it just can’t happen.” Nick Evans knew he was stating the obvious but he didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re right about that Nick. It’s a real international cock-up. The government was quick to blame the students, said it had nothing to do with them, but our guess is that the mullahs are behind it. Khomeini’s pretty shrewd though and could be waiting to see what Carter does before he moves again. If there’s a violent America reaction the Ayatollah can quickly defuse it, but if there’s not he’ll milk it for all its worth. Our SIS bloke thinks that Carter will wimp out, so it’s anybody’s guess.”
“What about companies like mine?”
“The party line is that they’ve been closed temporarily to protect the staff but I reckon that’s bullshit. I don’t think the Americans are ever likely to open up again.”
“So how the hell do we get out?”
“Well, you’re better placed than most. I told you recently that you and Jock are British subjects, but working for an American company doesn’t exactly help you much. You’re on the Embassy social list though, and you’ve helped us with visiting dignitaries, so I reckon you’re pretty flame proof.” Hawkins sucked in a ragged breath, almost reluctant to go further.
“Take my advice, and back off for the moment Nick. A lot of people have been shot and others have been lynched and left hanging for days on building site scaffolding over the last year or so. No foreigners that we know about recently, but right now some sort of pay-back is definitely going on. It’s still a bit hazy, but it’s restricted to a few bigger cities, and most of the attention is on Tehran. Keep your head down and ring me in a week. It should be a lot clearer by then.”
Nick’s voice speeded up a notch, the sing-song Welsh tone now more audible. “We got enough stuff to survive that, okay Gerry, but a week sounds like a bloody long time before we get more information. After that we’ll start running out of things and none of us fancy tromping around Qom right now. I’ll give it a go, but if things do change I’ll be yelling immediately.”
“At-a-boy Nick.” Hawkins sounded relieved. “If you get a girl on the switch ask for extension 23, you’ll get straight through to me.”
Nick Evans looked thoughtful when he put the phone down. He briefed Sinclair when he got back to the crew room.
Chapter Twelve
The next day Nick took Jock on a short sortie more to observe how the game reacted to the chopper than to actually hunt. He ignored a bunch of camels breaking ahead of the chopper, their winter coats already streaming raggedly in the wind, then surprised a flock of mountaineering ibex leaping up a steep rock face. The helo could slide up and down the crags with them and that’s all they needed to know right then.
They went looking for gazelle after that and ran a small herd down just as they were about to quit. They could easily out distance them and follow where they went, but were surprised when they flared to a hover to let them go. The herd stopped too, nervously watching the chopper. It was too much of a temptation. Sinclair dropped a fine doe. They were flush with success when they returned with the carcass and overly flamboyant when they shared it out.
Two days later Nick took the Canadian on a meandering, low-key flight into the lower ranges, more for something to do than the chance of finding the big one.
There wasn’t a lot on the lower slopes, just acres of beige, dried grass being tugged at by shaggy sheep or multi-coloured goats. The herds were attended by thickly-clad locals on small, hairy ponies, but higher up, the rustic animal enclosures and adobe dwellings dotting the more sheltered valleys already looked abandoned for the winter. Those huts often acted as refuges from savage autumn storms in the cooling months as well, but most of the people had already moved lower for the winter by then. For Nick it had been more about escaping the soul crushing boredom, about escaping into a pristine, cool atmosphere as clear as the best Dartford crystal.
The chopper was back on the ground again by ten and Webster disappeared into his office with coffee, maps and forms. Nick leafed through a flight magazine for the twentieth time, but really he was watching the surveyor.
He couldn’t work out what all the writing was about, what Webster was so absorbed in. The flight had been short on possibilities, a busted flush, but the surveyor scribbled furiously for thirty minutes before rolling up what he was working on. Nick looked up when the Canadian left the office.
“It’s still quite early Nick. I think I’ll run this up to Tehran and try to find out what’s going on from my embassy.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Is that necessary Floyd? We didn’t find any minerals and the British Embassy said to give it a few more days yet.”
“I know, but I’d rather get a handle on things sooner than later. My lot might have something the Brits haven’t got.”
“Well, it’s your choice mate, but I don’t think I’d want to be driving around Tehran this week. You know the company office is closed down, don’t you?”
“I do buddy, but it’s only a few hours round trip. I’ll nip home for some stuff in the second jeep first.” He forestalled any more chit-chat by walking out. Nick followed his hurried movements but the penny had dropped. There wasn’t much he could do about it.
They all knew better than to bank in-country, and neither had many possessions with them. The fewer ties in Iran the better. Each received just enough at a local bank for their purchases and daily expenses, while the company payed for fuel, housing and airfield rental through the American Foreign Office in Washington. They had the odd knick-knack and a battered case or two for clothing, but that was about all. It wasn’t yet desperate, pressure hadn’t built up all that high, so drastic reaction wasn’t called for.
But Nick guessed what Webster was going home to collect. The reports and the rolled up maps were window dressing, his motivation for the trip if he was questioned. Nick watched him take off in a cloud of choking dust as Sinclair wiped greasy hands on a rag.
“Where’s Floyd off too?”
“He said Tehran for a chin-wag with his embassy, bet I don’t think we’ll see him again. Canada’s a bit remote from all this so I reckon he’s hoping they can get him out while things are a bit confused,” Nick was conciliatory. “Can’t blame him I suppose. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“Aye, you’re right laddie, but where the hell does that leave us?”
“All I can suggest is that we look as if we’re doing what we’re paid to do. You keep both birds filled up and ready and I’ll go through the paperwork in case there’s anything a bit iffy. We’re okay for food and other stuff right now, and the fuel and rent are still being paid, so we can relax. I’ll phone the embassy the day after tomorrow and see if anything new has turned up.”
“I’m okay with that laddie, but if the whisky runs out I start getting cranky.”
Nick Evans grinned. The Scot wasn’t joking.
Nick shredded some of the more doubtful reports and surveys that were stacked in the map drawers while Jock Sinclair finished up. With only one Cherokee out front he had to ferry the rest back home.
There wasn’t much that was controversial. Some of the jottings in the margins could be taken two ways, and there were some results only the company knew about, but within a half hour he was looking for something else to do.
Nick went back to sweeping the acres of shifting sands and rounded peaks with the powerful binoculars. Waning rays of sun glanced off rocks from a profusion of different angles by then, and delicate pastels and darker shadows flitted and jumped endlessly with the sun’s lowering passage. He was refocusing when the phone shrilled loud and insistently. Puzzled, he turned. It couldn’t be the company or the American Embassy, so who the hell was phoning him out there.
“Nick Evans, can I help you?” There was a long pause.
“Nick, do you recognise my voice? We played rugby at Dartmouth together in the good old days, and met briefly in Tehran about a year ago.” The English was impeccable with hardly a trace of an accent.
He thought hard before the puzzlement cleared. “Fred, is that you?”
“Close enough, Nick, that’ll do. I think I’m in deep shit friend, so I’m phoning from a hotel. I need to get away but I can’t trust the office phones, and driving from here would be too risky. There are only two pretty long roads out, so they’re easy to block, and I thought maybe you could do something. I know it’s a big ask, but you know what’s happening and where I come from. It’s not about getting the sack mate it’s about being topped, about disappearing all together.” Farhad Amini sounded edgy and desperate. “Think about it Nick. I can’t plan much else until I know one way or the other, but it’s got to be soon if you can.”
Nick hissed quietly. Right then he felt completely out of his depth. He had enough problems of his own and this was outside anything he could have dreamed about.
“Where are you Fred, and what the fuck do you want me to do?”
“I don’t trust the bloody phones at your end either Nick. If nobody is listening in now they soon will be. Give me a bell from some hotel in town at nine tomorrow morning if you’ll help. I’ll wait for thirty minutes and if I don’t hear from you I’ll try something else.”
“Give me the number and I’ll think about it Fred, that’s all I can promise.”
“Fair enough. Can you remember my personal score on the day we played against Sandhurst together?” Nick Evans grunted a yes. “Okay. Add that number to any different digits.” Amini rattled off a string of numbers.
Fred’s tally had been three points, it was the match saving try. “Okay Fred, nine o’clock tomorrow.” There was little else he could say right then no matter what his choice might be.
“Thanks Nick. I wouldn’t have asked unless I was desperate.”
Sinclair secured the hangar with a rusted chain and brass padlock and strolled back to the prefab with his laughing, jostling team. Nick was deep in thought on the veranda when they arrived, pre-occupation oozing from him in waves. The Scot sensed it before he even got close to the grimy sliding doors. Nick ran his fingers through longish, trendy hair.
“Imran, would you give me ten minutes with Jock before I drive you home?”
“No problems Mister Evans, we’ll get a coffee.” The Pakistanis were still laughing when they bundled into the communal area. He’d never been able to get them to call him by his first name.
Sinclair paused short of the veranda. Nick negotiated down the warped steps.
“So, what’s all the secrecy about laddie?”
Nick wasn’t sure where to begin.
“I’ve just had an weird phone call. Someone I knew a long time ago.” He stopped, still unsure.
“And?”
“He wants some sort of help,” the pilot blurted.
“So. Will you do it or not?”
“I don’t know what he wants yet but it sounds a bit complicated. I’ve got to phone from a hotel in Qom tomorrow. He’ll tell me then.”
“How well do you know the guy; do you trust him?”
“We were quite friendly once but that was at Dartmouth fourteen years ago. I’ve only seen him at an embassy cocktail party in Tehran since. He was at their defence HQ then. That’s the only other time we’ve met.”
“Time isn’t the issue here though laddie, it’s about something else. Would he help you if you needed it?”
“I suppose so but I don’t know really. I can’t imagine me asking anybody for help anyway.”
“That’s self-deluding bullshit Nick. You’re already leaning on the embassy and you know I’d be there for you.” Sinclair sounded angry, maybe even a little sad.
“Our job attracts either weirdos or loners laddie, and you’re not an odd-ball. You’ve been in combat and you’ve got a bravery medal, and anyone who flies those bloody things for a living isn’t a wimp. How about the weather you went up in looking for those two lost kids this year. They would have died in those mountains if you hadn’t persisted. No boyo, it’s not courage you lack, it’s a commitment to people. You’ve got a lot of acquaintances but not many friends, and you’ve deliberately kept it that way.”
Nick Evans exploded. “What are you, a fucking philosopher or psychiatrist or something. I don’t see you inundated with too many friends either.”
“I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you sonny, and I’ve got a lot of mates in the shit-holes we work in. That’s where they are though, not in some cosy headquarters somewhere. I’d help them and they’d help me if it was necessary, and we wouldn’t have to think about it. Maybe that’s the difference between you and me.”
“Well thanks for the bloody lesson Jock, but it doesn’t exactly help. I still don’t know what to do.”
“Aye, well if it’s my advice you’re after it can’t hurt to find out what he wants. We know what’s going on here, and only the shah’s people would have got overseas officer training fifteen years ago. No points for guessing why he wants to disappear. This regime will be feeding people like him their own bollocks before long.” Nick was still angry and defensive, but Jock made sense. The ego had taken yet another battering but he stifled a heated retort. It wasn’t the time or place and he knew it.
“Okay, I’ll make the phone call and you ride shotgun. If we take Sarah along and it’ll look like a shopping trip.”
“Aye, that sounds more like it laddie. The choppers are both serviceable and topped up and I’ve filled two 15-gallon plastic containers as well. It might be difficult to get a fuel bowser over before too long. If you’re okay with that we’ll be on our way home.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sleep hadn’t been easy to come by throughout that long, stuffy night and Nick was too agitated to stay in bed. He paced the empty house and courtyard before the dawn’s infancy, and wouldn’t have thought it possible but even the earth floors echoed eerily with Webster gone. Sarah wasn’t due for another two hours either, so he brewed up.
Back in the day his class found a different frustrating challenge in every flying lesson, but he hadn’t felt this agitated and insecure since then. And that got him thinking.
What the hell was he getting himself into, how risky would it be really? And if dangerous ears and eyes were already monitoring them, who the hell did they belong to?
What Jock had come up with the day before sounded reasonable then, and would leave him with some options, but somehow it didn’t feel quite the same today. Nick had a sneaking suspicion that once he heard Amini’s voice again he’d feel compelled to try whatever he wanted anyway. That cranky, enigmatic Scot had got under his guard had pricked his conscience again. Sinclair was forever an amateur philosopher and some of his jibes wriggled into areas that were supposed to be hidden and safe.
Then he was hit with another disquieting thought. Did he have any friends or were they just acquaintances, did he get along with people, or did he merely use them? He’d never married, hadn’t even had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks, and he’d certainly never met a woman he could consider a soul mate. He’d had no answers then so he’d quickly buried those fragmented, disturbing images, but it seemed to get harder each time. He’d begun to figure he was emotional drift-wood.
Nick Evans tried switching off. Qom was less than thirty minutes by road and it was some time yet before he had to go. He brewed another coffee and took a tentative, uninterested bite from a sandwich before picking up an old National Geographic. But he couldn’t concentrate, and his maps didn’t help much. He dumped them in frustration, dragged on shorts and T-shirt, and went for a run.
A spruced up Sinclair wandered in with forty minutes to spare looking cool, casual and unconcerned. Nick was back to pacing by then.
“Relax laddie, we’ll have a bet
ter handle on it shortly.”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. We could have enough problems of our own before this lot’s over.”
“Take the long view then Nick. A few more won’t make much bloody difference.”
“I knew you’d say that you prick, but I’ve been thinking about it. If we do pick him up, what happens after that? We’re restricted to Qom and Tehran and he’ll still be smack in the middle of a bloody huge country. His problems won’t be over by a long way.”
“Aye but we don’t know that laddie. He might have it all planned from here on in.”
Nick shook his head. “I doubt it. He doesn’t even know how he’s starting out yet, and if he stays here for a while we’ll have to be really careful. If we’re caught harbouring him we’ll be as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue.”
“Aye, well we better not get caught then, eh.”
Nick threw his hands towards the heavens.
Those with warrior genes can get a bit hyperactive at times. They need something concrete to settle them down. Nick Evans couldn’t wait any longer to be on the move. He gave Sarah a call.
“Bugger it Jock, let’s do it. I’m fed up with going around in circles.”
“Right sunshine, but I’m driving. You’re so wound up we’d be bloody lucky to get there in one piece.”
Nick knew better than to protest. What the hell, it was less than thirty kilometres anyway. Then he remembered he needed coins. In his haste he wrenched a top drawer out completely and left it on the dresser, but felt himself calm down as soon as they moved toward the vehicle. Sinclair could sense it too and smiled.
It took Jock Sinclair twenty-five minutes before edging through the outskirts of the small city. The crowds still seemed indifferent to the Europeans, but then again Qom had benefited from the odd company project over the years, and the people were used to seeing company vehicles on shopping trips. The explicit logos on the Cherokee attracted only a few casual side glances and that could end up being a bonus.
