Escape

by James Clavell

  His heart began creaking, palpitating, and he lifted his hand to rub his chest but his hand did not move. Not an inch. Even now as he looked down at it lying on the counterpane, willing it to move, there was no motion. Nothing. Nor feeling. Neither in his hand nor in his arm. Fear gushed through him.

  Don’t be afraid, the nurse said, he reminded himself desperately, sound of waves roaring in his ears. You’ve had a stroke, that’s all, not a bad one, the doctor said and he said many people have strokes. Old Komargi had one a year or so ago and he’s still alive and active and claims he can still bed his young wife. With modern treatment. . . you’re a good Muslim and you’ll go to Paradise so there’s nothing to fear, nothing to fear, nothing to fear. . . nothing to fear if I die I go to Paradise. . .

  I don’t want to die, he shrieked. I don’t want to die, he shrieked again but it was only in his head and no sound came out.

  ‘What is it, Highness?’

  He saw Ahmed’s anxiety and that calmed him a little. God be thanked for Ahmed, I can trust Ahmed, he thought, sweat pouring out of him. Now what do I want him to do? ‘Family, all he’re later. First Aza’deh, H’kim Naj’oud—under’s’d?’

  ‘Yes Highness. To confirm the succession?’

  ‘Y’es.’

  ‘I have your permission to question Her Highness?’

  He nodded, his eyelids leaden, waiting for the pain in his chest to lessen. While he waited he moved his legs, feeling pins and needles in his feet. But nothing moved, not the first time, only the second and only then with an effort. Terror rushed back into him. In panic he changed his mind: ‘Pay ran’som quick’ly, get pil’ot here, Erikki here, me to Teh’ran. Understand?’ He saw Ahmed nod. ‘Quickly!’ he mouthed and motioned him to go but his left hand still did not move. Terrified he tried his right hand and it worked, not easily, but it moved. Part of his panic subsided. ‘Pay ran’som no’w—kee’p secr’t. Get nur’se.’

  Near the Iran-Soviet Border: 11:05 P.M. Erikki was pretending to sleep in the small, crude hut, his chin stubbled. A wick, floating in oil in an old chipped clay cup, was guttering and cast strange shadows. Embers in the rough stone fireplace glowed in the draughts. His eyes opened and he looked around. No one else was in the hut. Noiselessly he slid from under the blankets and animal skins. He was fully dressed. He put on his boots, made sure his knife was under his belt and went to the door, opened it softly.

  For a moment he stood there, listening, head slightly on one side. Layers of high clouds misted the moon and the wind moved the lightest of the pine branches. The village was quiet under its coverlet of snow. No guards that he could see. No movement near the lean-to where the 212 was parked. Moving as a hunter would move, he skirted the huts and headed for the lean-to.

  The 212 was bedded down, skins and blankets where they were most needed, all the doors closed. Through a side window of the cabin he could see two tribesmen rolled up in blankets sprawled full length on the seats snoring. Rifles beside them. He eased forward slightly. The guard in the cockpit was cradling his gun, wide awake. He had not yet seen Erikki. Quiet footsteps approaching, the smell of goat and sheep and stale tobacco preceding them.

  ‘What is it, pilot?’ the young Sheik Bayazid asked softly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Now the guard heard them and he peered out of the cockpit window, greeted his leader and asked what was the matter. Bayazid replied, ‘Nothing,’ waved him back on guard and searched the night thoughtfully. In the few days the stranger had been in the village he had come to like him and respect him, as a man and as a hunter. Today he had taken him into the forest, to test him, and then as a further test and for his own pleasure he had given him a rifle. Erikki’s first shot killed a distant, difficult mountain goat as cleanly as he could have done. Giving the rifle was exciting, wondering what the stranger would do, if he would, foolishly, try to turn it on him or even more foolishly take off into the trees when they could hunt him with great enjoyment. But the Redhead of the Knife had just hunted and kept his thoughts to himself, though they could all sense the violence simmering.

  ‘You felt something—danger?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Erikki looked out at the night and all around. No sounds other than the wind, a few night animals hunting, nothing untoward. Even so he was unsettled. ‘Still no news?’

  ‘No, nothing more.’ This afternoon one of the messengers had returned. ‘The Khan is very sick, near death,’ the man had said. ‘But he promises an answer soon.’

  Bayazid had reported all this faithfully to Erikki. ‘Pilot, be patient,’ he said, not wanting trouble.

  ‘What’s the Khan sick with?’

  ‘Sick—the messenger said they’d been told he was sick, very sick. Sick!’

  ‘If he dies, what then?’

  ‘His heir will pay—or not pay. Insha’Allah.’ The Sheik eased the weight of his assault rifle on his shoulder. ‘Come into the lee, it’s cold.’ From the edge of the hut now they could see down into the valley. Calm and quiet, a few specks of headlamps from time to time on the road far, far below.

  Barely thirty minutes from the palace and Azadeh, Erikki was thinking, and no way to escape.

  Every time he started engines to recharge his batteries and circulate the oil, five guns were pointing at him. At odd times he would stroll to the edge of the village or, like tonight, he would get up, ready to run and chance it on foot but never an opportunity, guards too alert. During the hunting today he had been sorely tempted to try to break out, useless of course, knowing they were just playing with him.

  ‘It’s nothing, pilot, go back to sleep,’ Bayazid said. ‘Perhaps there’ll be good news tomorrow. As God wants.’

  Erikki said nothing, his eyes raking the darkness, unable to be rid of his foreboding. Perhaps Azadeh’s in danger or perhaps. . . or perhaps it’s nothing and I’m just going mad with the waiting and the worry and what’s going on? Did Ross and the soldier make a break for it and what about Petr matyeryebyets Mzytryk and Abdollah? ‘As God wants, yes, I agree, but I want to leave. The time has come.’

  The younger man smiled, showing his broken teeth. ‘Then I will have to tie you up.’

  Erikki smiled back, as mirthlessly. ‘I’ll wait tomorrow and tomorrow night, then the next dawn I leave.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It will be better for you and better for me. We can go to the palace with your tribesman, I can lan—’

  ‘No. We wait.’

  ‘I can land in the courtyard, and I’ll talk to him and you’ll get the ransom and th—’

  ‘No. We wait. We wait here. It’s not safe there.’

  ‘Either we leave together or I leave alone.’

  The Sheik shrugged. ‘You have been warned, pilot.’

  At the Palace of the Khan: 11:38 P.M. Ahmed drove Najoud and her husband Mahmud down the corridor before him like cattle. Both were tousled and still in their nightclothes, both petrified, Najoud in tears, two guards behind them. Ahmed still had his knife out. Half an hour ago he had rushed into their quarters with the guards, dragged them out of their carpet beds, saying the Khan at long last knew they’d lied about Hakim and Azadeh plotting against him, because tonight one of the servants admitted he had overheard the same conversation and nothing wrong had been said.

  ‘Lies,’ Najoud gasped, pressed against the carpet bed, half blinded by the flashlight that one of the guards directed at her face, the other guard holding a gun at Mahmud’s head, ‘all lies. . .’

  Ahmed slid out his knife, needle sharp, and poised it under her left eye. ‘Not lies, Highness! You perjured yourself to the Khan, before God, so I am here at the Khan’s orders to take out your sight.’ He touched her skin with the point and she cried out, ‘No please I beg you I beg you please don’t. . . wait wait. . .’

  ‘You admit lying?’

  ‘No. I never lied. Let me see
my father he’d never order this without seeing me fir—’

  ‘You’ll never see him again! Why should he see you? You lied before and you’ll lie again!’

  ‘I. . . I never lied never lied. . .’

  His lips twisted into a smile. For all these years he had known she had lied. It had mattered nothing to him. But now it did. ‘You lied, in the Name of God.’ The point pricked the skin. The panic-stricken woman tried to scream but he held his other hand over her mouth and he was tempted to press the extra half inch, then out and in again the other side and out and all finished, finished for ever. ‘Liar!’

  ‘Mercy,’ she croaked, ‘mercy, in the Name of God. . .’

  He relaxed his grip but not the point of the knife. ‘I cannot grant you mercy. Beg the mercy of God, the Khan has sentenced you!’

  ‘Wait. . . wait,’ she said frantically, sensing his muscles tensing for the probe, ‘please. . . let me go to the Khan. . . let me ask his mercy I’m his daugh—’

  ‘You admit you lied?’

  She hesitated, eyes fluttering with panic along with her heart. At once the knife point went in a fraction and she gasped out, ‘I admit. . . I admit I exagg—’

  ‘In God’s Name did you lie or didn’t you?’ Ahmed snarled.

  ‘Yes. . . yes. . . yes I did. . . please let me see my father. . . please.’ The tears were pouring out and he hesitated, pretending to be unsure of himself, then glared at her husband who lay on the carpet nearby quivering with terror. ‘You’re guilty too!’

  ‘I knew nothing about this, nothing,’ Mahmud stuttered, ‘nothing at all, I’ve never lied to the Khan never never I knew nothing. . .’

  Ahmed shoved them both ahead of him. Guards opened the door of the sickroom. Azadeh and Hakim and Aysha were there, summoned at a moment’s notice, in nightclothes, all frightened, the nurse equally, the Khan awake and brooding, his eyes bloodshot. Najoud went down on her knees and blurted out that she had exaggerated about Hakim and Azadeh and when Ahmed came closer she suddenly broke, ‘I lied I lied I lied please forgive me Father please forgive me. . . forgive me. . . mercy. . . mercy. . .’ in a mumbling gibberish. Mahmud was moaning and crying, saying he knew nothing about this or he would have spoken up, of course he would have, before God, of course he would, both of them begging for mercy—everyone knowing there would be none.

  The Khan cleared his throat noisily. Silence. All eyes on him. His mouth worked but no sound came out. Both the nurse and Ahmed came closer. ‘Ah’med stay an’d Hakim, Aza’deh. . . res’t go—them un’der gu’ard.’

  ‘Highness,’ the nurse said gently, ‘can it no’ wait until tomorrow? You’ve tired yourself very much. Please, please make it tomorrow.’

  The Khan just shook his head. ‘N’ow.’

  The nurse was very tired. ‘I dinna accept any responsibility, Excellency Ahmed. Please make it as short as possible.’ Exasperated, she walked out. Two guards pulled Najoud and Mahmud to their feet and dragged them away. Aysha followed shakily. For a moment the Khan closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Now only his heavy, throttled breathing broke the silence. Ahmed and Hakim and Azadeh waited. Twenty minutes passed. The Khan opened his eyes. For him the time had been only seconds. ‘My so’n, trus’t Ahmed as fir’st confid’ant.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Swea’r by G’d, bo’th of you.’

  He listened carefully as they both chorused, ‘I swear by God I will trust Ahmed as first confidant.’ Earlier they had both sworn before all the family the same thing and everything else he required of them: to cherish and guard little Hassan; for Hakim to make Hassan his heir; for the two of them to stay in Tabriz, Azadeh to stay at least two years in Iran without leaving: ‘This way, Highness,’ Ahmed had explained earlier, ‘no alien outside influence, like that of her husband, could spirit her away before she’s sent north, whether guilty or innocent.’

  That’s wise, the Khan thought, disgusted with Hakim—and Azadeh—that they had allowed Najoud’s perjury to be buried for so many years and to let it go unpunished for so many years—loathing Najoud and Mahmud for being so weak. No courage, no strength. Well, Hakim’ll learn and she’ll learn. If only I had more time. . .

  ‘Aza’deh.’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Naj’oud. Wh’at punish’ment?’

  She hesitated, frightened again, knowing how his mind worked, feeling the trap close on her. ‘Banishment. Banish her and her husband and family.’

  Fool, you’ll never breed a Khan of the Gorgons, he thought but he was too tired to say it so he just nodded and motioned her to leave. Before she left, Azadeh went to the bed and bent and kissed her father’s hand. ‘Be merciful, please be merciful, Father.’ She forced a smile, touched him again, and then she left.

  He watched her close the door. ‘Hak’im?’

  Hakim also had detected the trap and was petrified of displeasing his father, wanting vengeance but not the malevolent sentence the Khan would pronounce. ‘Internal banishment for ever, penniless,’ he said. ‘Let them earn their own bread in future and expel them from the tribe.’

  A little better, thought Abdollah. Normally that would be a terrible punishment. But not if you’re a Khan and them a perpetual hazard. Again he moved his hand in dismissal. Like Azadeh, Hakim kissed his father’s hand and wished a good night’s sleep.

  When they were alone, Abdollah said, ‘Ah’med, what punis’h?’

  ‘Tomorrow banish them to the wastelands north of Meshed, penniless, with guards. In a year and a day when they’re sure they’ve escaped with their lives, when they’ve got some business going or house or hut, burn it and put them to death—and their three children.’

  He smiled. ‘G’ood, do i’t.’

  ‘Yes, Highness.’ Ahmed smiled back at him, very satisfied.

  ‘Now sl’eep.’

  ‘Sleep well, Highness.’ Ahmed saw the eyelids close and the face fall apart. In seconds the sick man was snoring badly.

  Ahmed knew he had to be most careful now. Quietly he opened the door. Hakim and Azadeh were waiting in the corridor with the nurse. Worriedly, the nurse went past him, took the Khan’s pulse, peering at him closely.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Azadeh asked from the doorway.

  ‘Who can say, lassie? He’s tired himself, tired himself badly. Best you all leave now.’

  Nervously, Hakim turned to Ahmed, ‘What did he decide?’

  ‘Banished to the lands north of Meshed at first light tomorrow, penniless and expelled from the tribe. He will tell you himself tomorrow, Highness.’

  ‘As God wants.’ Azadeh was greatly relieved that worse had not been ordered. Hakim was glowing that his advice had been taken. ‘My sister and I, we, er, we don’t know how to thank you for helping us, Ahmed, and, well, for bringing the truth out at long last.’

  ‘Thank you, Highness, but I only obeyed the Khan. When the time comes I will serve you as I serve His Highness, he made me swear it. Good night.’ Ahmed smiled to himself and closed the door and went back to the bed. ‘How is he?’

  ‘No’ so good, agha.’ Her back was aching and she was sick with tiredness. ‘I must have a replacement tomorrow. We should have two nurses and a sister in charge. Sorry, but I canna continue alone.’

  ‘Whatever you want you will have, provided you stay. His Highness appreciates your care of him. If you like I will watch him for an hour or two. There’s a sofa in the next room and I can call you in case anything happens.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Thank you, I could use a wee rest, but call me if he wakes, and anyway in two hours.’

  He saw her into the next room, told the guard to relieve him in three hours and dismissed him, then began a vigil. Half an hour later he quietly peered in at her. She was deeply asleep. He came back into the sickroom and locked the door, took a deep breath, tousled his hair and rushed fo
r the bed, shaking the Khan roughly. ‘Highness,’ he hissed as though in panic, ‘wake up, wake up!’

  The Khan clawed his way out of leaden sleep, not knowing where he was or what had happened or if he was nightmaring again. ‘Wh’at. . . wh’at. . .’ Then his eyes focused and he saw Ahmed, seemingly terrified which was unheard of. His spirit shuddered. ‘Wh’a—’

  ‘Quick, you’ve got to get up, Pahmudi’s downstairs, Abrim Pahmudi with SAVAMA torturers, they’ve come for you,’ Ahmed panted; ‘someone opened the door to them, you’re betrayed, a traitor betrayed you to him, Hashemi Fazir’s given you to Pahmudi and SAVAMA as a pishkesh, quick, get up, they’ve overpowered all the guards and they’re coming to take you away. . .’ He saw the Khan’s gaping horror, the bulging eyes, and he rushed on. ‘There’re too many to stop. Quick, you’ve got to escape. . .’

  Deftly he unclipped the saline drip and tore the bedclothes back, started to help the mouthing, frantic man to get up, abruptly shoved him back and stared at the door. ‘Too late,’ he gasped, ‘listen, here they come, here they come, Pahmudi at the head, here they come!’

  Chest heaving, the Khan thought he could hear their footsteps, could see Pahmudi, could see his thin gloating face and the instruments of torture in the corridor outside, knowing there would be no mercy and they would keep him alive to howl his life away. Demented he shouted at Ahmed, Quick, help me. I can get to the window, we can climb down if you help me! In the Name of God, Ahmeddddddd. . . but he could not make the words come out. Again he tried but still his mouth did not coordinate with his brain, his neck muscles stretched with effort, the veins overloaded.