Escape

by James Clavell

  Yes, he thought, looking up at the Soviet, she will do whatever I require of her now. Anything. ‘As God wants, but she may be a widow very soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope not too soon!’ Mzytryk’s laugh was good and infectious. ‘Not until her husband’s finished his assignment.’

  Abdollah Khan was warmed by the man’s presence and wise counsel and pleased that Mzytryk would do what was required of him. But I’ll still have to be a better puppeteer than ever before, he thought, if I’m to survive, and Azerbaijan to survive.

  All over the province and in Tabriz the situation now was very delicate, with insurrections of various kinds and factions fighting factions, with tens of thousands of Soviet soldiers poised just over the border. And tanks. And nothing between them and the Gulf to hinder them. Except me, he thought. And once they possessed Azerbaijan—with Tehran indefensible as history’s proved time and time again—then Iran will fall into their hands like the rotten apple Khrushchev forecast. With Iran the Gulf, the world’s oil, and Hormuz.

  He wanted to howl with rage. God curse the Shah who wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t wait, hadn’t the sense to crush a minor mullah-inspired rebellion not twenty years ago and send Ayatollah Khomeini into hell as I advised and so put into jeopardy our absolute, unstoppable, inevitable stranglehold over the entire world outside of Russia, Tsarist or Soviet—our real enemy.

  We were so close: the U.S. was eating out of our hands, fawning and pressing on us their most advanced weapons, begging us to police the Gulf and so dominate the vile Arabs, absorb their oil, make vassals of them and their flyblown, foul Sunni sheikdoms from Saudi to Oman. We could have overrun Kuwait in a day, Iraq in a week, the Saudi and Emirate sheiks would have fled to their Riviera flesh pots screaming for mercy! We could get whatever technology we wanted, whatever ships, airplanes, tanks, arms for the asking, even the Bomb, by God!—our German-built reactors would have made them for us!

  So close to doing God’s will, we Shi’as of Iran, with our superior intelligence, our ancient history, our oil, and our command of the strait that must eventually bring all the People of the Left Hand to their knees. So close to gaining Jerusalem and Mecca, control of Mecca—Holy of Holies.

  So close to being First on Earth, as is our right, but now, now all in jeopardy and we have to start again, and again outmanoeuvre the Satanic barbarians from the North and all because of one man.

  Insha’Allah, he thought, and that took some of his anger away. Even so, if Mzytryk had not been in the room he would have ranted and raved and beaten someone, anyone. But the man was here and had to be dealt with, the problems of Azerbaijan arranged, so he controlled his anger and pondered his next move. His fingers picked up the last of the halvah and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘You’d like to marry Azadeh, Petr?’

  ‘You’d like me, older than you, as a son-in-law?’ the man said with a deprecating laugh.

  ‘If it was the Will of God,’ he replied with the right amount of sincerity and smiled to himself for he had seen the sudden light in his friend’s eyes, quickly covered. So, he thought, the first time you see her you want her. Now if I really gave her to you when the monster’s disposed of, what would that do for me? Many things! You’re eligible, you’re powerful, politically it would be wise, and you’d beat sense into her and deal with her as she should be dealt with, not like the Finn who fawns on her. You’d be an instrument of revenge on her. There are many advantages. . .

  Three years ago Petr Oleg Mzytryk had taken over the immense dacha and lands that had belonged to his father—also an old friend of the Gorgons—near Tbilisi where, for generations, the Gorgons also had had very important business connections. Since then Abdollah Khan had got to know him intimately, staying at the dacha on frequent business trips. He had found Petr Oleg like all Russians, secretive, volunteering little. But, unlike most, helpful and friendly—and more powerful than any Soviet he knew, a widower with a married daughter, a son in the navy, grandchildren—and rare habits. He lived alone in the huge dacha except for servants and a strangely beautiful, strangely venomous Russian-Eurasian woman called Vertinskya, in her late 30s, whom he had brought out twice in three years, almost like a unique private treasure. She seemed to be part slave, part prisoner, part drinking companion, part whore, part tormentor and part wildcat. ‘Why don’t you kill her and have done with her, Petr?’ he had said when a raging violent quarrel had erupted and Mzytryk had physically whipped her out of the room, the woman spitting and cursing and fighting till servants hauled her away.

  ‘Not. . . not yet,’ Mzytryk had said, his hands trembling, ‘she’s far. . . far too valuable.’

  ‘Ah, yes. . . yes, now I understand,’ Abdollah Khan had said, equally aroused, having almost the same feeling about Azadeh—the reluctance to cast away such an object until she was truly cowed, truly humble and crawling—and he remembered how he had envied Mzytryk that Vertinskya was mistress and not daughter so the final act of revenge could be consummated.

  God curse Azadeh, he thought. Curse her who could be the twin of the mother who gave me so much pleasure, who reminds me constantly of my loss, she and her evil brother, both patterns of the mother in face and manner but not in quality, she who was like a houri from the Garden of God. I thought both of our children loved and honoured me, but no, once Napthala had gone to Paradise their true natures came to pass. I know Azadeh was plotting with her brother to murder me—haven’t I the proof? Oh, God, I wish I could beat her like Petr does his nemesis, but I can’t, I can’t. Every time I raise my hand against her I see my Beloved, God curse Azadeh to hell. . .

  ‘Be calm,’ Mzytryk said gently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were looking so upset, my friend. Don’t worry, everything will be all right. You will find a way to exorcise her.’

  Abdollah Khan nodded heavily. ‘You know me too well.’ That’s true, he thought, ordering tea for himself and vodka for Mzytryk, the only man he had ever felt at ease with.

  I wonder who you really are, he thought, watching him. In years gone by, in your father’s time at the dacha when we met, you used to say you were on leave, but you’d never say on leave from what, nor could I ever find out, however much I tried. At first I presumed it was the Soviet army for once when you were drunk you told me you’d been a tank commander during World War II at Sebastopol, and all the way to Berlin. But then I changed my mind and thought it more likely you and your father were KGB or GRU, for no one in the whole USSR retires to such a dacha with such lands in Georgia, the best part of the empire, without very particular knowledge and influence. You say you’re retired now—retired from what?

  Experimenting to find out the extent of Mzytryk’s power in the early days, Abdollah Khan had mentioned that a clandestine communist Tudeh cell in Tabriz was plotting to assassinate him and he would like the cell stamped out. It was only partially true, the real reason being that a son of a man he hated secretly and could not attack openly was part of the group. Within the week all their heads were stuck on spikes near the mosque with a sign, thus will all enemies of god perish, and he had wept cold tears at the funeral and laughed in privacy. That Petr Mzytryk had the power to eliminate one of their own cells was power indeed—and also, Abdollah knew, a measure of his own importance to them.

  He looked at him. ‘How long will you need the Finn?’

  ‘A few weeks.’

  ‘What if the Green Bands prevent him flying or intercept him?’

  The Soviet shrugged. ‘Let’s hope he will have finished the assignment. I doubt if there would be any survivors—either him or Cimtarga—if they’re found this side of the border.’

  ‘Good. Now, back to where we were before we were interrupted: you agreed there’ll be no massive support for the Tudeh here, so long as the Americans stay out and Khomeini doesn’t start a pogrom against them?’

  ‘Azerbaijan has always been within our frame of inte
rest. We’ve always said it should be an independent state—there’s more than enough wealth, power, minerals and oil to sustain it and. . .’ Mzytryk smiled, ‘and enlightened leadership. You could lift the flag, Abdollah. I’m sure you’d get all the support you need to be president—with our immediate recognition.’

  And then I’d be assassinated the next day while the tanks roll over the borders, the Khan told himself without venom. Oh, no, my fine friend, the Gulf is too much temptation even for you. ‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ he said earnestly, ‘but I would need time—meanwhile I can count also on the communist Tudeh being turned on the insurrectionists?’

  Petr Mzytryk’s smile remained the same but his eyes changed. ‘It would be curious for the Tudeh to attack their stepbrothers. Islamic-Marxism is advocated by many Muslim intellectuals—I hear even you support them.’

  ‘I agree there should be a balance in Azerbaijan. But who ordered leftists to attack the airfield? Who ordered them to attack and burn our railway station? Who ordered the blowing up of the oil pipeline? Obviously no one sensible. I hear it was the mullah Mahmud of the Hajsra mosque.’ He watched Petr carefully. ‘One of yours.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Ah,’ Abdollah Khan said with pretended joviality, disbelieving him. ‘I’m glad, Petr, because he’s a false mullah, not even a real Islamic-Marxist, a rabble-rouser—he’s the one who invaded Yokkonen’s base. Unfortunately he has as many as five hundred fighters supporting him, equally ill-disciplined. And money from somewhere. And helpers like Fedor Rakoczy. What does Rakoczy mean to you?’

  ‘Not much,’ Petr said at once, his smile the same and voice the same, far too clever to avoid the question. ‘He’s a pipeline engineer from Ashara, on the border, one of our Muslim nationals who is believed to have joined the mujhadin as a Freedom Fighter, strictly without permission or approval.’

  Petr kept his face bland but inside he was swearing obscenely, wanting to shout, My son, my son, have you betrayed us? You were sent to spy, to infiltrate the mujhadin and report back, that’s all! And this time you were sent to try to recruit the Finn, then to go to Tehran and organise university students, not to ally yourself to a mad dog mullah nor to attack airfields or kill scum beside a road. Have you gone mad? You stupid fool, what if you’d been wounded and caught? How many times have I told you they—and we—can break anyone in time and empty him or her of their secrets? Stupid to take such risks! The Finn’s temporarily important but not important enough to disobey orders, to risk your future, your brother’s future—and mine!

  If the son’s suspect, so is the father. If the father’s suspect so is the family. How many times have I told you that the KGB works by the Book, destroys those who won’t obey the Book, who think for themselves, take risks, and exceed instructions.

  ‘This Rakoczy’s unimportant,’ he said smoothly. Be calm, he ordered himself, beginning the litany: There’s nothing to worry about. You know too many secrets to be touched. So does my son. He’s good, they must be wrong about him. He’s been tested many times, by you and by other experts. You’re safe. You’re strong, you’ve your health, and you could beat and bed that little beauty Azadeh and still rape Vertinskya the same day. ‘What’s important is that you are the focus of Azerbaijan, my friend,’ he said in the same soothing voice. ‘You will get all the support you need and your views on the Islamic-Marxists will reach the right source. The balance you require, you will have.’

  ‘Good. I will count on it,’ the Khan said.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Mzytryk said, coming back to the main reason for his sudden trip here. ‘What about the British captain? Can you help us?’

  The day before yesterday a top secret, priority-coded telex from Centre had arrived at his home near Tbilisi telling him that the CIA’s covert radar listening post on Sabalan’s north face had been blown up by saboteurs just before friendly local teams sent to remove all cipher books, cipher machine, and computers had arrived. ‘See Ivanovitch personally at once,’ the telex had continued, using Abdollah Khan’s undercover name. ‘Tell him that the saboteurs were British—a captain and two Gurkhas—and an American CIA agent Rosemont (code name Abu Kurd), guided by one of our mercenaries who was murdered by them before he could lead them into an ambush. One soldier and the CIA agent were killed during their escape and the two survivors are believed to be heading towards Ivanovitch’s sector—arrange his cooperation. Section 16/a. Acknowledge.’ The Section 16 command meant: this person or persons are priority enemies who are to be intercepted, detained and brought back for interrogation by whatever means necessary. The added ‘a’ meant: if this cannot be done, eliminate them without fail.

  Mzytryk sipped the vodka, waiting. ‘We would appreciate your help.’

  ‘You’ve always got my help,’ Abdollah said. ‘But to find two expert saboteurs in Azerbaijan who are certain to be disguised by now is almost an impossibility. They’re bound to have safe houses to go to—there’s a British consulate in Tabriz, and dozens of routes out of the mountains that would bypass us.’ He got up and went to the window and stared out of it. From here he could see the 206 parked in the forecourt under guard. The day was still cloudless. ‘If I’d been leading that operation I’d pretend to head for Tabriz, but then I’d double back and go out by the Caspian. How did they go in?’

  ‘Caspian. But they were tracked this way. Two bodies were found in the snow, and tracks of the two others headed this way.’

  The failure of the Sabalan venture had sent a tremor of rage up the line. That there was so much CIA top secret equipment so near at hand had been a magnet for covert acquisition and infiltration for many years. In the last two weeks information that some of the radar posts had been evacuated but not destroyed in the retreat and panic they had helped foster, had had the hawks ready to move in immediately, in strength. Mzytryk, senior counsellor in this area, had advised caution, to use locals rather than Soviet teams so as not to antagonise Abdollah Khan—his exclusive contact and prize agent—nor risk an international incident.

  ‘It’s totally unwise to risk a confrontation,’ he had said, keeping to the Book—and his private plan. ‘What do we gain by immediate action—if we’ve not been fed disinformation and Sabalan’s not one great booby trap which is probable? A few cipher books that we may or may not already have. As to the advanced computers—our whole Operation Zatopek has that well in hand.’

  This was a highly controversial and innovative KGB covert operation—named after the Czech long-distance runner—set up in ’65. With an initial budget of ten million dollars of terribly scarce foreign currency, Operation Zatopek was to acquire a continuing supply of the most advanced and best Western technology by simple purchase through a network of bogus companies and not by the conventional and very expensive method of theft and espionage.

  ‘The money is nothing compared to the gains,’ his top-secret initial report to Centre had said when he had first returned from the Far East in ’64. ‘There are tens of thousands of corrupt businessmen and fellow travellers who will sell us the best and the most up to date for a profit. A huge profit to any individual would be a pittance to us—because we will save billions in research and development which we can spend on our navy, air force, and army. And, just as important, we save years of sweat, toil, and failure. At almost no cost we maintain parity with anything their minds can conceive. A few dollars under their rotten little tables will get us all their treasures.’

  Petr Mzytryk felt a glow when he remembered how his plan had been accepted—though naturally and rightly taken over by his superiors as their idea, as he had taken it from one of his own deep-cover agents in Hong Kong, a French national called Jacques de Ville in the big conglomerate of Struari’s who had opened his eyes: ‘It’s not against U.S. law to ship technology to France or West Germany or a dozen other countries, and not against these countries’ laws for a company to ship it on to other countries, where there are n
o laws against shipping goods to the Soviet Union. Business is business, Gregor, and money makes the world go around. Through Struan’s alone we could supply you tons of equipment the U.S. has forbidden you. We service China—why not you? Gregor, you seafarers don’t understand business. . .’

  Mzytryk smiled to himself. In those days he had been known as Gregor Suslev, captain of a small Soviet freighter that plied from Vladivostok to Hong Kong, his cover for his top-secret job of deputy controller for Asia for the KGB’s First Directorate.

  Over the years since ’64, when I first proposed the scheme, he thought so proudly, with a total outlay so far of eighty-five million dollars, Operation Zatopek has saved Mother Russia billions and provided a constant, ever-growing flow of NASA, Japanese, and European-developed gadgetry, electronic marvels, hardware, software, plans, robots, chips, micros, medicines, and all manner of magic to duplicate and manufacture at our leisure—with equipment developed by the same enemy, and bought and paid for with loans they provide that we’ll never repay. What fools they are!

  He almost laughed out loud. Even more important, Zatopek gives me a free hand to continue to operate and manoeuvre as I choose in this area, to play the Great Game the stupid British let slip from their grasp.

  He watched Abdollah Khan standing at the window, waiting patiently for him to decide on the favour he wanted in return for catching the saboteurs. Come on, Bad Fats, he thought grimly, using his secret nickname for him, we both know you can catch those matyeryebyets if you want to—if they’re still in Azerbaijan.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Abdollah Khan said, still with his back to him, and Mzytryk did not hide his smile. ‘If I intercept them, what then, Petr?’

  ‘Tell Cimtarga. He will make all arrangements.’

  ‘Very well.’ Abdollah Khan nodded to himself and came and sat down again. ‘That’s settled, then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Petr said, very satisfied. Such finality from Abdollah Khan promised quick success.