Then the CIA man said thoughtfully, ‘Must be something to stand on top of that mother.’
Ross saw him look out at the night and the thousands of feet of mountain below. When they had first met at the rendezvous near Bandar-e Pahlavi two days ago, if he hadn’t been told otherwise he would have thought him part Mongol or Nepalese or Tibetan, for the CIA man was dark-haired with a yellowish skin and Asian eyes and dressed like a nomad.
‘Your CIA contact’s Rosemont, Vien Rosemont, he’s half Vietnamese—half American,’ the CIA colonel had said at his briefing in Tehran. ‘He’s twenty-six, been here a year, speaks Farsi and Turkish, he’s second-generation CIA, and you can trust him with your life.’
‘It seems I’m going to have to, sir, one way or another, don’t you think?’
‘Huh? Oh, sure, yes. Yes, I guess so. You meet him just south of Bandar-e Pahlavi at those coordinates and he’ll have the boat. You’ll hug the coast until you’re just south of the Soviet border, then backpack in.’
‘He’s the guide?’
‘No. He, er, he just knows about Mecca—that’s our code name for the radar post. Getting the guide’s his problem—but he’ll deliver. If he’s not at the rendezvous, wait throughout Saturday night. If he’s not there by dawn, he’s blown and you abort. Okay?’
‘Yes. What about the rumours of insurrection in Azerbaijan?’
‘Far as we know there’s some fighting in Tabriz and the western part—nothing around Ardabil. Rosemont should know more. We, er, we know the Soviets are massed and ready to move in if the Azerbaijanis throw Bakhtiar supporters out. Depends on their leaders. One of them’s Abdollah Khan. If you run into trouble go see him. He’s one of ours—loyal.’
‘All right. And this pilot, Charles Pettikin, say he won’t take us?’
‘Make him. One way or another. There’s approval way up to the top for this op, both from your guys and ours, but we can’t put anything into writing. Right, Bob?’
The other man at the briefing, a Robert Armstrong, an Englishman from Special Branch, whom he had also never met before, had nodded agreement. ‘Yes.’
‘And the Iranians? They’ve approved it?’
‘It’s a matter of, er, of national security—yours and ours. Theirs too but they’re. . . they’re busy. Bakhtiar’s, well, he’s—he may not last.’
‘Then it’s true—the U.S. are jerking the rug?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, Captain.’
‘One last question: why aren’t you sending your fellows?’
Robert Armstrong had answered for the colonel. ‘They’re all busy—we can’t get any more here quickly—not with your elite training.’
We’re certainly well trained, Ross thought, easing his shoulders cut raw by his backpack straps—to climb, to jump, to ski, to snorkel, to kill silently or noisily, to move like the wind against terrorist or public enemy, and to blow everything sky-high if need be, above or under water. But I’m bloody lucky, I’ve everything I want: health, university, Sandhurst, paratroopers, special air services, and even my beloved Gurkhas. He beamed at both of them and said a Gurkhali obscenity in a vulgar dialect that sent them into silent fits of laughter. Then he saw Vien Rosemont and the guide looking at him. ‘Your pardon, Excellencies,’ he said in Farsi. ‘I was just telling my brothers to behave themselves.’
Meshghi said nothing, just turned his attention back to the night.
Rosemont had pulled off his boots and was massaging the chill out of his feet. ‘The guys I’ve seen, British officers, they’re not friends with their soldiers, not like you.’
‘Perhaps I’m luckier than others.’ With the side of his eyes Ross was watching the guide who had got up and was now standing at the mouth of the cave, listening. The old man had become increasingly edgy in the last few hours. How far do I trust him? he thought, then glanced at Gueng who was nearest. Instantly the little man got the message, nodded back imperceptibly.
‘The captain is one of us, sir,’ Tenzing was saying to Rosemont proudly. ‘Like his father and grandfather before him—and they were both Sheng’khan.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a Gurkhali title,’ Ross said, hiding his pride. ‘It means Lord of the Mountain. Doesn’t mean much outside the regiment.’
‘Three generations in the same outfit. That usual?’
Of course it’s not usual, Ross wanted to say, disliking personal questions, though liking Vien Rosemont personally. The boat had been on time, the voyage up the coast safe and quick, them hidden under sacking. Easily ashore at dusk and on their way to the next rendezvous where the guide had been waiting, fast into the foothills, and into the mountains, Rosemont never complaining but pressing forward hard, with little conversation and none of the barrage of questions he had expected.
Rosemont waited patiently, noticing Ross was distracted. Then he saw the guide move out of the cave, hesitate, then come back and squat against the cave mouth, rifle cradled on his lap.
‘What is it, Meshghi?’ Rosemont asked.
‘Nothing, agha. There are flocks in the valley, goats and sheep.’
‘Good.’ Rosemont leaned back comfortably. Lucky to find the cave, he thought, it’s a good place to hole up in. He glanced back at Ross, saw him looking at him. After a pause he added, ‘It’s great to be part of a team.’
‘What’s the plan from now on?’ Ross asked.
‘When we get to the entrance of the cave, I’ll lead. You and your guys stay back until I make sure, okay?’
‘Just as you like, but take Sergeant Tenzing with you. He can protect your tail—I’ll cover you both with Gueng.’
After a pause, Rosemont nodded. ‘Sure, sounds good. Okay, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sahib. Please tell me what you want simply. My English is not good.’
‘It’s just fine,’ Rosemont said, covering his nervousness. He knew Ross was weighing him like he was weighing them—too much at stake.
‘You just blow Mecca to hell,’ his director had told him. ‘We’ve a specialist team to help you; we don’t know how good they are but they’re the goddam best we can get. Leader’s a captain, John Ross, here’s his photo and he’ll have a couple of Gurkhas with him, don’t know if they speak English but they come recommended. He’s a career officer. Listen, as you’ve never worked close with Limeys before, a word of warning. Don’t get personal or friendly or use first names too fast—they’re as sensitive as a cat with a feather up its ass about personal questions, so take it easy, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Far as we know you’ll find Mecca empty. Our other posts nearer Turkey are still operating. We figure to stay as long as we can—by that time the brass’ll make a deal with the new jokers, Bakhtiar or Khomeini. But Mecca—goddam those bastards who’ve put us at so much risk.’
‘How much risk?’
‘We think they just left in a hurry and destroyed nothing. You’ve been there, for crissake! Mecca’s stuffed with enough top secret gizmos, listening gear, seeing gear, long-range radar, locked-in satellite ciphers and codes and computers to get our unfriendly KGB chief Andropov voted Man of the Year—if he gets them. Can you believe it—those bastards just hightailed it out!’
‘Treason?’
‘Doubt it. Just plain stupid, dumb—there wasn’t even a contingency plan at Sabalan, for crissake—anywhere else either. Not all their fault, I guess. None of us figured the Shah’d fold so goddam quick, or that Khomeini’d get Bakhtiar by the balls so fast. We got no warning—not even from SAVAK. . .’
And now we have to pick up the pieces, Vien thought. Or, more correctly, blow them to hell. He glanced at his watch, feeling very tired. He gauged the night and the moon. Better give it another half an hour. His legs ached, and his head. He saw Ross watching him and he smiled inside: I won’t fail, Limey. But will you?
‘An hour, then w
e’ll move out,’ Vien said.
‘Why wait?’
‘The moon’ll be better for us. It’s safe here and we’ve time. You’re clear what we do?’
‘Mine everything in Mecca you mark, blow it and the cave entrance simultaneously, and run like the clappers all the way home.’
Rosemont smiled and felt better. ‘Where’s home for you?’
‘I don’t know really,’ Ross said caught unawares. He had never asked himself the question. After a moment, more for himself than the American, he added, ‘Perhaps Scotland—perhaps Nepal. My father and mother are in Kathmandu, they’re as Scots as I am but they’ve been living there off and on since ’51 when he retired. I was even born there though I did almost all my schooling in Scotland.’ Both are home, for me, he thought. ‘What about you?’
‘Washington, D.C.—really Falls Church, Virginia, which is almost part of Washington. I was born there.’ Rosemont wanted a cigarette but knew it might be dangerous. ‘Pa was CIA. He’s dead now but he was at Langley for his last few years, which’s close by—CIA HQ’s at Langley.’ He was happy to be talking. ‘Ma’s still in Falls Church, haven’t been back in a couple of years. You ever been to the States?’
‘No, not yet.’ The wind had picked up a little and they both studied the night for a moment.
‘It’ll die down after midnight,’ Rosemont said confidently.
Ross saw the guide shift position again. Is he going to make a run for it? ‘You’ve worked with the guide before?’
‘Sure. I tramped all over the mountains with him last year—I spent a month here. Routine. Lotta the opposition infiltrate through this area and we try to keep tabs on ‘em—like they do us.’ Rosemont watched the guide. ‘Meshghi’s a good joe. Kurds don’t like Iranians, or Iraqis or our friends across the border. But you’re right to ask.’
Ross switched to Gurkhali. ‘Tenzing, watch everywhere and the pathfinder—you eat later.’ At once Tenzing slipped out of his pack and was gone into the night. ‘I sent him on guard.’
‘Good,’ Rosemont said. He had watched them all very carefully on the climb up and was very impressed with the way they worked as a team, leapfrogging, always one of them flanking, always seeming to know what to do, no orders, always safety catches off. ‘Isn’t that kinda dangerous?’ he had said early on.
‘Yes, Mr Rosemont—if you don’t know what you’re doing,’ the Britisher had said to him with no arrogance that he could detect. ‘But when every tree or corner or rock could hide hostiles, the difference between safety on and off could mean killing or being killed.’
Vien Rosemont remembered how the other had added guilelessly, ‘We’ll do everything we can to support you and get you out,’ and he wondered again if they would get in, let alone out. It was almost a week since Mecca had been abandoned. No one knew what to expect when they got there—it could be intact, already stripped, or even occupied. ‘You know this whole op’s crazy?’
‘Ours not to reason why.’
‘Ours but to do or die? I think that’s the shits!’
‘I think that’s the shits too if it’s any help.’
It was the first time they had laughed together. Rosemont felt much better. ‘Listen, haven’t said it before, but I’m happy you three’re aboard.’
‘We’re, er, happy to be here.’ Ross covered his embarrassment at the open compliment. ‘Agha,’ he called out in Farsi to the guide, ‘please join us at food.’
‘Thank you, agha, but I am not hungry,’ the old man replied without moving from the cave mouth.
Rosemont put his boots back on. ‘You got a lot of special units in Iran?’
‘No. Half a dozen—we’re here training Iranians. You think Bakhtiar will weather it?’ He opened his pack and distributed the cans of bully beef.
‘No. The word in the hills among the tribes is that he’ll be out—probably shot—within the week.’
Ross whistled. ‘Bad as that?’
‘Worse: that Azerbaijan’ll be a Soviet protectorate within the year.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Sure. But you never know’—Vien smiled—‘that’s what makes life interesting.’
Casually Ross offered the flask. ‘Best Iranian rotgut money can buy.’
Rosemont grimaced and took a careful sip, then beamed. ‘Jesus H. Christ, it’s real Scotch!’ He prepared to take a real swallow but Ross was ready and he grabbed the flask back.
‘Easy does it—it’s all we’ve got, agha.’
Rosemont grinned. They ate quickly. The cave was snug and safe. ‘You ever been to Vietnam?’ Rosemont asked, wanting to talk, feeling the time right.
‘No, never have. Almost went there once when my father and I were en route to Hong Kong but we were diverted to Bangkok from Saigon.’
‘With the Gurkhas?’
‘No, this was years ago, though we do have a battalion there now. I was,’ Ross thought a moment, ‘I was seven or eight, my father has some vague Hong Kong relations, Dunross, yes, that was their name, and there was some sort of clan gathering. I don’t remember much of Hong Kong except a leper who lay in the dirt by the ferry terminal. I had to pass him every day—almost every day.’
‘My dad was in Hong Kong in ’63,’ Vien said proudly. ‘He was Deputy Director of Station—CIA.’ He picked up a stone, toyed with it. ‘You know I’m half-Vietnamese?’
‘Yes, they told me.’
‘What else did they tell you?’
‘Just that I could trust you with my life.’
Rosemont smiled wryly. ‘Let’s hope they’re right.’ Thoughtfully he began checking the action of his M16. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Vietnam. My pa, my real pa, was Vietnamese, a planter, but he was killed just before I was born—that was when the French owned Indochina. He got clobbered by Viet Cong just outside Dien Bien Phu. Ma. . .’ The sadness dropped off him and he smiled. ‘Ma’s as American as a Big Mac and when she remarried she picked one of the greatest. No real pa could’ve loved me more. . .’
Abruptly Gueng cocked his carbine. ‘Sahib!’ Ross and Rosemont grabbed their weapons, then there was a keening on the wind, Ross and Gueng relaxed. ‘It’s Tenzing.’
The sergeant appeared out of the night as silently as he had left. But now his face was grim. ‘Sahib, many trucks on the road below—’
‘In English, Tenzing.’
‘Yes, sahib. Many trucks, I counted eleven, in convoy, on the road at the bottom of the valley. . .’
Rosemont cursed. ‘That road leads to Mecca. How far away were they?’
The little man shrugged. ‘At the bottom of the valley. I went the other side of the ridge and there’s a. . .’ He said the Gurkhali word and Ross gave him the English equivalent. ‘A promontory. The road in the valley twists, then snakes as it climbs. If the tail of the snake is in the valley and the head wherever the road ends, then four trucks were already well past tail.’
Rosemont cursed again. ‘An hour at best. We’d bett—’ At that moment there was a slight scuffle and their attention flashed to the cave mouth. They just had time to see the guide rushing away, Gueng in pursuit.
‘What the hell. . .’
‘For whatever reason, he’s abandoning ship,’ Ross said. ‘Forget him. Does an hour give us a chance?’
‘Sure. Plenty.’ Quickly they got into their packs and Rosemont armed his light machine gun. ‘What about Gueng?’
‘He’ll catch us up.’
‘We’ll go straight in. I’ll go first—if I run into trouble you abort. Okay?’
The cold was almost a physical barrier they had to fight through but Rosemont led the way well, the snow not bad on the meandering path, the moon helping, their climbing boots giving them good traction. Quickly they topped the ridge and headed down the other side. Here it was more slippery, the mountainside barren, just a few clumps of weeds and pla
nts fighting to get above the snow. Ahead now was the maw of the cave, the road running into it, many vehicle tracks in the snow.
‘They could’ve been made by our trucks,’ Rosemont said, covering his disquiet. ‘There’s been no snow for a couple of weeks.’ He motioned the others to wait and went forward, then stepped out on the road and ran for the entrance. Tenzing followed, using the ground for cover, moving as rapidly.
Ross saw Rosemont disappear into the darkness. Then Tenzing. His anxiety increased. From where he was he could not see far down the road, for it curled away, falling steeply. The strong moonlight made the crags and the wide valley more ominous, and he felt naked and lonely and hated the waiting. But he was confident. ‘If you’ve Gurkhas with you, you’ve always a chance, my son,’ his father had said. ‘Guard them—they’ll always guard you. And never forget, with luck, one day you’ll be Sheng’khan.’ Ross had smiled to himself, so proud, the title given so rarely: only to one who had brought honour to the regiment, who had scaled a worthy Nepalese peak alone, who had used the kukri and had saved the life of a Ghurka in the service of the Great Raj. His grandfather, Captain Kirk Ross, MC, killed in 1915 at the Battle of the Somme, had been given it posthumously; his father Lieutenant-Colonel Gavin Ross, DSO, was given it in Burma, 1943. And me? Well, I’ve scaled a worthy peak—K4—and that’s all so far but I’ve lots of time. . .
His fine-tuned senses warned him and he had his kukri out, but it was only Gueng. The little man was standing over him, breathing hard. ‘Not fast enough, sahib,’ he whispered happily in Gurkhali. ‘I could have taken you moments ago.’ He held up the severed head and beamed. ‘I bring you a gift.’
It was the first that Ross had seen. The eyes were open. Terror still contorted the face of the old man. Gueng killed him but I gave the order, he thought, sickened. Was he just an old man who was scared fartless and wanted to get out while the going was good? Or was he a spy or a traitor rushing to betray us to the enemy?
‘What is it, sahib?’ Gueng whispered, his brow furrowed.
‘Nothing. Put the head down.’
Escape Page 11
