Escape

by James Clavell

  ‘Yes, please, in ten minutes,’ she replied happily. ‘But first the master will have a whisky.’ At once Hassan went to the sideboard and poured the drink and brought the water, bowed, and left them.

  ‘By God, Gen, it’s just like the old days,’ McIver said with a beam.

  ‘Yes. Silly, isn’t it, that that’s only a few months ago?’ Up to then they had had a delightful live-in couple, the wife an exemplary cook of European and Iranian food who made up for the lighthearted malingering of her husband whom McIver had dubbed Ali Baba. Both had suddenly vanished, as had almost all expat servants. No explanation, no notice. ‘Wonder if they’re all right, Duncan?’

  ‘Sure to be. Ali Baba was a grafter and had to have enough stashed away to keep them for a month of Sundays. Did Charlie check in?’

  ‘Not yet. Paula’s staying the night again—Nogger isn’t. They went to dinner with some of her Alitalia crew.’ Her eyebrows arched. Paula was an air hostess. ‘Our Nogger’s sure she’s ripe for nogging, but I hope he’s wrong. I like Paula.’ They could hear Hassan in the kitchen. ‘That’s the sweetest sound in the world.’

  McIver grinned back at her and raised his glass. ‘Thank God for Sharazad and no washing up!’

  ‘That’s the best part.’ Genny sighed. ‘Such a nice girl, so thoughtful. Tom’s so lucky. Sharazad says he’s due tomorrow.’

  ‘Hope so, he’ll have mail for us.’ McIver decided not to mention the tank. ‘Do you think you could borrow Hassan or one of her other servants for a couple of days a week? It’d help you tremendously.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask—you know how it is.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, bloody annoying.’ Now it was almost impossible for any expats to find help, whatever you were prepared to pay. Up to a few months ago it had been easy to get fine, caring servants and then, with a few words of Farsi and their help, running a happy home, shopping, was usually a breeze.

  ‘That was one of the best things about Iran,’ she said. ‘Made such a difference—took all the agony out of living in such an alien country.’

  ‘You still think of it as alien—after all this time?’

  ‘More than ever. All the kindness, politeness, of the few Iranians we’d meet, I’ve always felt it was only on the surface—that their real feelings are the ones out in the open now—I don’t mean everyone, of course, not our friends; Annoush, for instance, now she’s one of the nicest, kindest people in the world.’ Annoush was the wife of General Valik, the senior of the partners in Tehran. ‘Most of the wives felt that, Duncan,’ she added, lost in her musing. ‘Perhaps that’s why expats flock together, all the tennis parties and skiing parties, boating, weekends on the Caspian—and servants to carry the picnic baskets and clean up. I think we had the life of Riley, but not any more.’

  ‘It’ll come back—hope to God it does, for them as well as us. Walking home I suddenly realised what I missed most. It was all the laughter. No one seems to laugh any more, I mean on the streets, even the kids.’ McIver was drinking his whisky sparingly.

  ‘Yes, I miss the laughter very much. I miss the Shah too. Sorry he had to go—everything was well ordered, as far as we were concerned, up to such a short time ago. Poor man, what a rotten deal we’ve given him now, him and that lovely wife of his—after all the friendship he gave our side. I feel quite ashamed—he certainly did his best for his people.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Genny, for most of them it seems it wasn’t good enough!’

  ‘I know. Sad. Life is very sad sometimes. Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. Hungry?’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  Candles made the dining room warm and friendly and took the chill off the apartment. Curtains were drawn against the night. At once Hassan brought the steaming bowls of various horisht—literally meaning soup but more like a thick stew of lamb or chicken and vegetables, raisins and spices of all kinds—and polo, the delicious Iranian rice that is parboiled, then baked in a buttered dish until the crust is firm and golden brown, a favourite of both of them. ‘Bless Sharazad, she’s a sight for sore eyes.’

  Genny smiled back at him. ‘Yes, she is, so’s Paula.’

  ‘You’re not so bad either, Gen.’

  ‘Get on with you, but for that you can have a nightcap. As Jean-Luc would say, Bon appétit!’ They ate hungrily, the food exquisite, reminding both of them of meals they had had in the houses of their friends.

  ‘Gen, I ran into young Christian Tollonnen at lunch, you remember Erikki’s friend from the Finnish embassy? He told me Azadeh’s passport was all ready. That’s good, but the thing that shook me was he said, in passing, about eight out of every ten of his Iranian friends or acquaintances are no longer in Iran and if it kept up in the new exodus, pretty soon there’d only be mullahs and their flocks left. Then I started counting and came up with about the same proportion—those in what we’d call the middle and upper class.’

  ‘I don’t blame them leaving. I’d do the same.’ Then she added involuntarily, ‘Don’t think Sharazad will.’

  McIver had heard an undercurrent and he studied her. Oh?’

  Genny toyed with a little piece of the golden crust and changed her mind about not telling him. ‘For the love of God don’t say anything to Tom who’d have a fit—and I don’t know how much is fact and how much a young girl’s idealistic make-believe—but she happily whispered she’d spent most of the day at Doshan Tappeh where, she says, there’s been a real insurrection, guns, grenades, the lot. . .’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘. . . militantly on the side of what she called “our Glorious Freedom Fighters” who turn out to be mutinying air force servicemen, some officers, Green Bands supported by thousands of civilians—against police, loyalist troops, and the Immortals. . ..’

  Monday

  Chapter 3

  At Tabriz One: 8:12 A.M. Charlie Pettikin was fitfully asleep, curled up on a mattress on the floor under a single blanket, his hands tied in front of him. It was just dawn and very cold. The guards had not allowed him a portable gas fire and he was locked into the section of Erikki’s cabin that would normally be a storeroom. Ice glistened on the inside of the panes of glass in the small window. The window was barred on the outside. Snow covered the sill.

  His eyes opened and he jerked upright, startled, not knowing where he was for the moment. Then his memory flooded back and he hunched against the wall, his whole body aching. ‘What a damned mess!’ he muttered, trying to ease his shoulders. With both hands he awkwardly wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and rubbed his face, feeling filthy. The stubble of his beard was flecked with grey. Hate being unshaved, he thought.

  Today’s Monday. I got here Saturday at sunset and they caught me yesterday. Bastards!

  On Saturday evening there had been many noises around the cabin trailer that had added to his disquiet. Once he was sure he heard muffled voices. Quietly he doused the lights, slid the bolt back, and stood on the stoop, the Verey pistol in his hand. With great care he had searched the darkness. Then he saw, or thought he saw, a movement thirty yards away, then another farther off.

  ‘Who are you?’ he called out, his voice echoing strangely. ‘What do you want?’

  No one answered him. Another movement. Where? Thirty, forty yards away—difficult to judge distances at night. Look, there’s another! Was it a man? Or just an animal or the shadow of a branch. Or perhaps—what was that? Over there by the big pine. ‘You! Over there! What do you want?’

  No answer. He could not make out if it was a man or not. Enraged and even a little frightened he aimed and pulled the trigger. The bang seemed like a clap of thunder and echoed off the mountains and the red flare ripped towards the tree, ricocheted off it in a shower of sparks, sprayed into another to bury itself spluttering and spitting in a snowdrift. He waited.

  Nothing happened. Noises in the forest, the roof of the hangar creaking, wind in the tr
eetops, sometimes snow falling from an overladen tree branch that sprang back, free once more. Making a big show he angrily stamped his feet against the cold, switched on the light, loaded the pistol again, and rebolted the door. ‘You’re getting to be an old woman in your old age,’ he said aloud, then added, ‘Bullshit! I hate the quiet, hate being alone, hate snow, hate the cold, hate being scared and this morning at Galeg Morghi shook me, God curse it and that’s a fact—but for young Ross I know that SAVAK bastard would’ve killed me!’

  He checked that the door was barred and all the windows, closed the curtains against the night, then poured a large vodka and mixed it with some frozen orange juice that was in the freezer and sat in front of the fire and collected himself. There were eggs for breakfast and he was armed. The gas fire worked well. It was cosy. After a while he felt better, safer. Before he went to bed in the spare bedroom, he rechecked the locks. When he was satisfied he took off his flying boots and lay on the bed. Soon he was asleep.

  In the morning the night fear had disappeared. After a breakfast of fried eggs on fried bread, just as he liked it, he tidied the room, put on his padded flying gear, unbolted the door and a submachine gun was shoved in his face, six of the revolutionaries crowded into the room and the questioning began. Hours of it.

  ‘I’m not a spy, not American. I keep telling you I’m British,’ over and over.

  ‘Liar, your papers say you’re South African. By Allah, are they false too?’ The leader—the man who called himself Fedor Rakoczy—was tough-looking, taller, and older than the others, with hard brown eyes, his English accented. The same questions over and over: ‘Where do you come from, why are you here, who is your CIA superior, who is your contact here, where is Erikki Yokkonen?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you fifty times I don’t know—there was no one here when I landed at sunset last night. I was sent to pick him up, him and his wife. They had business in Tehran.’

  ‘Liar! They ran away in the night, two nights ago. Why should they run away if you were coming to pick them up?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I was not expected. Why should they run away? Where’re Dibble and Arberry, our mechanics? Where’s our manager Dayati and wh—’

  ‘Who is your CIA contact in Tabriz?’

  ‘I haven’t one. We’re a British company and I demand to see our consul in Tabriz. I dem—’

  ‘Enemies of the people cannot demand anything! Even mercy. It is the Will of God that we are at war. In war people get shot!’

  The questioning had gone on all morning. In spite of his protests they had taken all his papers, his passport with the vital exit and residence permits, and had bound and thrown him in here with dire threats if he attempted to run away.

  Later, Rakoczy and two guards had returned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you brought the spares for the 212?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ Pettikin had said angrily. ‘Who the hell are you? Give me back my papers. I demand to see the British consul. Undo my hands, God dammit!’

  ‘God will strike you if you blaspheme! Down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness.’ They forced him to kneel. ‘Beg forgiveness!’

  He obeyed, hating them.

  ‘You fly a 212 as well as a 206?’

  ‘No,’ he said, awkwardly getting to his feet.

  ‘Liar! It’s on your licence.’ Rakoczy had thrown it on the table. ‘Why do you lie?’

  ‘What’s the difference? You believe nothing I say. You won’t believe the truth. Of course I know it’s on my licence. Didn’t I see you take it? Of course I fly a 212 if I’m rated.’

  ‘The komiteh will judge you and sentence you,’ Rakoczy had said with a finality that sent a shock wave up his spine. Then they had left him.

  At sunset they had brought him some rice and soup and gone away again. He had slept hardly at all and now, in the dawn, he knew how helpless he was. His fear began to rise up. Once in Vietnam he had been shot down and caught and sentenced to death by Viet Cong but his squadron had come back for him with gunships and Green Berets and they had shot up the village and the Viet Cong with it. That was another time that he had escaped a certainty. ‘Never bet on death until you’re dead. Thataway, old buddy,’ his young American commander had said, ‘thataway you sleep nights.’ The commander had been Conroe Starke. Their helicopter squadron had been mixed, American and British and some Canadian, based at Da-nang. What another bloody mess that was!

  Wonder how he’s doing now? he thought. Starke was in charge of their Kowiss base. Lucky bastard. Lucky to be safe at Kowiss and lucky to have Manuela. Now there’s one smasher and built like a koala bear—cuddly, with those big brown eyes of hers, and just the right amount of curves.

  He let his mind wander, wondering about her and Starke, about where were Erikki and Azadeh, about that Vietnam village—and about the young Captain Ross and his men. But for him! Ross was another saviour. In this life you have to have saviours to survive, those curious people who miraculously come into your life for no apparent reason just in time to give you the chance you desperately need, or to extract you from disaster or danger or evil. Do they appear because you prayed for help? At the very edge you always pray, somehow, even if it’s not to God. But God has many names.

  He remembered old Soames at the embassy with his, ‘Don’t forget, Charlie, Mohammed the Prophet proclaimed that Allah—God—has three thousand names. A thousand are known only to the angels, a thousand only to the prophets, three hundred are in the Torah, the Old Testament, another three hundred in the Zabur, that’s the Psalms of David, another three hundred in the New Testament, and ninety-nine in the Koran. That makes two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. One name has been hidden by God. In Arabic it’s called: Ism Allah ala’zam: the Greatest Name of God. Everyone who reads the Koran will have read it without knowing it. God is wise to hide His Greatest Name, eh?’

  Yes, if there is a God, Pettikin thought, cold and aching.

  The door opened. It was Rakoczy with his two men. Astonishingly, Rakoczy smiled, politely helped him to his feet and began undoing his bonds. ‘Good morning, Captain Pettikin. So sorry for the mistake. Please follow me.’ He led the way into the main room. Coffee was on the table. ‘Do you drink coffee black or English style with milk and sugar?’

  Pettikin was rubbing his chafed wrists, trying to get his mind working. ‘What’s this? The prisoner was offered a hearty breakfast?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Pettikin stared at him, still not sure. ‘With milk and sugar.’ The coffee tasted wonderful and revived him. He helped himself to more. ‘So it’s a mistake, all a mistake?’

  ‘Yes. I, er, checked your story and it was correct, God be praised. You will leave immediately. To return to Tehran.’

  Pettikin’s throat felt tight at his sudden reprieve—apparent reprieve, he thought suspiciously. ‘I need fuel. All our fuel’s been stolen, there’s no fuel in our dump.’

  ‘Your aircraft has been refuelled. I supervised it myself.’

  ‘You know about choppers?’ Pettikin was wondering why the man appeared so nervous.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Sorry, but I, er, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Smith. Mr Smith.’ Fedor Rakoczy smiled. ‘You will leave now, please. At once.’

  Pettikin found his flying boots and pulled them on. The other men watched him silently. He noted they were carrying Soviet machine pistols. On the table by the door was his overnight bag. Beside it were his documents. Passport, visa, work permit, and Iranian CAA-issued flying licence. Trying to keep the astonishment off his face, he made sure they were all there and stuck them in his pocket. When he went for the refrigerator, one of the men stood in his way and motioned him away. ‘I’m hungry,’ Pettikin said, still very suspicious.

  ‘There’s something to eat in your plane. Follow me, please.’

&nb
sp; Outside, the air smelled very good to him, the day crisp and fine with a clean, very blue sky. To the west more snow clouds were building. Eastward, the way over the pass was clear. All around him the forest sparkled, the light refracted by the snow. In front of the hangar was the 206, windshield cleaned, all windows cleaned. Nothing had been touched inside though his map case was now in a side pocket, not beside his seat where he normally left it. Very carefully he began a preflight check.

  ‘Please to hurry,’ Rakoczy said.

  ‘Of course.’ Pettikin made a great show of hurrying but he didn’t, missing nothing in his inspection, all his senses tuned to find a subtle sabotage, or even a crude one. Gas checked out, oil, everything. He could see and feel their growing nervousness. There was still no one else on the base. In the hangar he could see the 212 with its engine parts still neatly spread out. The spares that he had brought had been put on a bench nearby.

  ‘Now you are ready.’ Rakoczy said it as an order. ‘Get in, you will refuel at Bandar-e Pahlavi as before.’ He turned to the others, embraced both of them hastily and got into the right seat. ‘Start up and leave at once. I am coming to Tehran with you.’ He gripped his machine gun with his knees, buckled himself in, locked the door neatly, then lifted the headset from its hook behind him and put it on, clearly accustomed to the inside of a cockpit.

  Pettikin noticed that the other two had taken up defensive positions facing the road. He pressed the Engine Start. Soon the whine and the familiarity—and the fact that ‘Smith’ was aboard and therefore sabotage unlikely—made him light-headed. ‘Here we go,’ he said into the boom mike and took off in a scudding rush, banked sweetly and climbed for the pass.

  ‘Good,’ Rakoczy said, ‘very good. You fly very well.’ Casually he put the gun across his knees, muzzle pointing at Pettikin. ‘Please don’t fly too well.’