Escape

by James Clavell

  It seemed for ever he was screaming and shouting at Ahmed who just stood watching the door, not helping him, footsteps coming closer and closer. ‘He’lp,’ he managed to gasp, fighting to get out of bed, the sheets and coverlet weighing him down, restricting him, drowning him, chest pains growing and growing, monstrous now like the noise.

  ‘There’s no escape, they’re here, I’ve got to let them in!’

  At the limit of his terror he saw Ahmed start for the door. With the remains of his strength he shouted at him to stop but all that happened was a strangled croak. Then he felt something twist in his brain and something else snap. A spark leaped across the wires of his mind and chain-reacted the core. Pain ceased, sound ceased. He saw Ahmed’s smile. His ears heard the quiet of the corridor and silence of the palace and he knew that he was truly betrayed. With a last, all-embracing effort, he lunged for Ahmed, the fires in his head lighting his way down into the funnel, red and warm and liquid, and there, at the nadir, he blew out all the fire and possessed the darkness.

  Ahmed made sure the Khan was dead, glad that he had not had to use the pillow to smother him. Hastily he reconnected the saline drip, checked that there were no telltale leaks, partially straightened the bed, and then, with great care examined the room. Nothing to give him away that he could see. His breathing was heavy, his head throbbing, and his exhilaration immense. A second check, then he walked over to the door, quietly unlocked it, noiselessly returned to the bed. The Khan was lying sightlessly against the pillows, blood haemorrhaged from his nose and mouth.

  ‘Highness!’ he bellowed. ‘Highness. . .’ then leaned forward and grabbed him for a moment, released him and rushed across the room, tore open the door. ‘Nurse!’ he shouted and rushed into the next room, grabbed the woman out of her deep sleep and half carried, half dragged her back to the Khan.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she muttered, weak with relief that it had not happened while she was alone, perhaps to be blamed by this knife-wielding, violent bodyguard or these mad people, screaming and raving. Sickly awake now, she wiped her brow and pushed her hair into shape, feeling naked without her headdress. Quickly she did what she had to and closed his eyes, her ears hearing Ahmed moaning and grief-stricken. ‘Nothing anyone could do, agha,’ she was saying. ‘It could have happened any time. He was in a great deal of pain, his time had come, better this way, better than living as a vegetable.’

  ‘Yes. . . yes, I suppose so.’ Ahmed’s tears were real. Tears of relief. ‘Insha’Allah, Insha’Allah.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I. . . I was dozing and he just. . . just gasped and started to bleed from his nose and mouth.’ Ahmed wiped some of the tears away, letting his voice break. ‘I grabbed him as he was falling out of bed and then. . . then I don’t know I. . . he just collapsed and. . . and I came running for you.’

  ‘Dinna worry, agha, nothing anyone could do. Sometimes it’s sudden and quick, sometimes not. Better to be quick, that’s a blessing.’ She sighed and straightened her uniform, glad it was over and now she could leave this place. ‘He, er, he should be cleaned before the others are summoned.’

  ‘Yes. Please let me help, I wish to help.’

  Ahmed helped her sponge away the blood and make him presentable and all the time he was planning: Najoud and Mahmud to be banished before noon, the rest of their punishment a year and a day from now; find out if Fazir caught Petr Oleg; make sure the ransom messenger’s throat was cut this afternoon as he had ordered in the Khan’s name.

  Fool, he said to the corpse, fool to think I’d arrange to pay ransom to bring back the pilot to fly you to Tehran to save your life. Why save a life for a few more days or a month? Dangerous to be sick and helpless with your sickness, minds become deranged, oh, yes, the doctor told me what to expect, losing more of your mind, more vindictive than ever, more dangerous than ever, dangerous enough to perhaps turn on me! But now, now the succession is safe, I can dominate the whelp and with the help of God marry Azadeh. Or send her north—her hole’s like any other.

  The nurse watched Ahmed from time to time, his deft strong hands and their gentleness, for the first time glad of his presence and not afraid of him, now watching him combing the beard. People are so strange, she thought. He must have loved this evil old man very much.

  Wednesday

  Chapter 18

  Tehran: 6:55 A.M. McIver continued sorting through the files and papers he had taken from the big office safe, putting only those that were vital into his briefcase. He had been at it since 5:30 this morning and now his head ached, his back ached, and the briefcase was almost full. So much more I should be taking, he thought, working as fast as he could. In an hour, perhaps less, his Iranian staff would arrive and he would have to stop.

  Bloody people, he thought irritably, never here when we wanted them but now for the last few days, can’t get rid of them, like bloody limpets: ‘Oh, no, Excellency, please allow me to lock up for you, I beg you for the privilege. . .’ or ‘Oh no, Excellency, I’ll open the office for you, I insist that is not the job for your Excellency.’ Maybe I’m getting paranoid but it’s just as though they’re spies, ordered in to watch us, the partners more nosy than ever. Almost as though someone’s on to us.

  And yet, so far—touch wood—everything’s working like a well-tuned jet: us out by noon today or a little after; already Rudi’s poised for Friday with all of his extra bods and a whole load of spares already out of Bandar-e Delam by road to Abadan where a BA Trident snuck in to evacuate British oilers; at Kowiss, by now Starke should have cached the extra fuel, all his lads still cleared to leave tomorrow on the 125—touch more wood—already three truck loads of spares out to Bushire for trans-shipment to Al Shargaz; at Lengeh Scrag’Il be having no problems, plenty of coastal ships available for his spares and nothing more to do but wait for D—no, not D-day—W-day.

  Only bad spot, Azadeh. And Erikki. Why the devil didn’t she tell me before leaving on a wild-goose chase after poor old Erikki? Never expected her to rush off like that! I could have told her about Whirlwind! My God, she escapes Tabriz with the skin of her skin and then goes and puts her pretty little head back in it. Women! They’re all crazy. Ransom? Balls! I’ll bet it’s another trap set by her father, the rotten old bastard.

  His stomach began churning. How the hell can we get them to safety? Must come up with something. We’ve two more days, perhaps. . .

  He whirled, startled, not having heard the door open. His chief clerk, Gorani, stood in the doorway, tall and balding, a devout Shi’ite, a good man who had been with them for many years. ‘Salaam, agha.’

  ‘Salaam. You’re early.’ McIver saw the man’s open surprise at all the mess—normally McIver was meticulously tidy—and felt as though he’d been caught with his hand in the chocolate box.

  ‘As God wants, agha. The Imam’s ordered normality and everyone to work hard for the success of the revolution. Can I help?’

  ‘Well, er, no, no, thank you. I, er, I’m just in a hurry. I’ve lots to do today, I’m off to the embassy.’ McIver knew his voice was running away from him but he was unable to stop it. ‘I’ve, er, appointments all day and must be at the airport by noon. I have to do some homework for the Doshan Tappeh komiteh. I won’t come back to the office from the airport so you can close early, take the afternoon off—in fact you can take the day off.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, agha, but the office should remain open until the us—’

  ‘No, we’ll close for the day when I leave. I’ll go straight home and be there if I’m needed. Please come back in ten minutes, I want to send some telexes.’

  ‘Yes, agha, certainly, agha.’ The man left.

  McIver hated the twistings of the truth. What’s going to happen to Gorani? he asked himself again, to him and all the rest of our people all over Iran, some of them fine, them and their families?

  Unsettled, he finished as best he could. There were a hundred
thousand rials in the cashbox. He left notes, relocked the safe, and sent some inconsequential telexes. The main one he had sent at 5:30 this morning to Al Shargaz: ‘Air freighting the five crates of parts to Al Shargaz for repairs as planned.’ Translated, the code meant that Nogger, Pettikin and he, and the last two mechanics he had not been able to get out of Tehran, were readying to board the 125 today, as planned, and it was still all systems go.

  ‘Which crates are these, agha?’ Somehow Gorani had found the copies of the telex.

  ‘They’re from Kowiss, they’ll go on the 125 next week.’

  ‘Oh very well. I’ll check it for you. Before you go, could you please tell me when does our 212 return? The one we loaned to Kowiss.’

  ‘Next week, why?’

  ‘Excellency Minister and Board Director Ali Kia wanted to know, agha.’

  McIver was instantly chilled. ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘He probably has a charter for it, agha. His assistant came here last night, after you had left, and he asked me. Minister Kia also wanted a progress report today of our three 212s sent out for repairs. I, er, I said I would have it today—he is coming this morning, so I can’t close the office.’

  They had never discussed the three aircraft, or the peculiarly great number of spares they had been sending out by truck, car, or as personal baggage—no aircraft space for freight. It was more than possible that Gorani would know the 212s did not need repair. He shrugged and hoped for the best. ‘They’ll be ready as planned. Leave a note on the door.’

  ‘Oh, but that would be very impolite. I will relay that message. He said he would return before noon prayer and particularly asked for an appointment with you. He has a very private message from Minister Kia.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to the embassy.’ McIver debated a moment. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ Irritably he picked up the briefcase and hurried down the stairs, cursing Ali Kia and then adding a curse for Ali Baba too.

  Ali Baba—so named because he reminded McIver of the Forty Thieves—was the wheedling half of their live-in couple who had been with them for two years but had vanished at the beginning of the troubles. Yesterday at dawn Ali Baba came back, beaming and acting as though he had just been away for the weekend instead of almost five months, happily insisting he take his old room back: ‘Oh, most definitely, agha, the home has to be most clean and prepared for the return of Her Highness; next week my wife will be here to do that but meanwhile I bring you tea-toast in a most instant as you ever liked. May I be sacrificed for you but I bargained mightily today for fresh bread and milk from the market at the oh so reasonable best price for me only, but the robbers charge five times last year’s, so sad, but please give me the money now, and as most soon as the Bank is opened you can pay me my mucroscupic back salary. . .’

  Bloody Ali Baba, the revolution hasn’t changed him a bit. ‘Mucroscupic?’ It’s still one loaf for us and five for him, but never mind, it was fine to have tea and toast in bed—but not the day before we sneak out. How the hell are Charlie and I going to get our luggage out without him smelling the proverbial rat?

  In the garage he unlocked his car. ‘Lulu, old girl,’ he said, ‘sorry, there’s bugger all I can do about it, it’s time for the Big Parting. Don’t quite know how I’m going to do it, but I’m not leaving you as a burnt offering or for some bloody Iranian to rape.’

  At the British Embassy: 0930 A.M. Talbot was waiting for him in a spacious, elegant office. ‘My dear Mr McIver, you’re bright and early, I heard all the adventures of young Ross—my word we were all very lucky, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, yes we were. How is he?’

  ‘Getting over it. Good man, did a hell of a good job. I’m seeing him for lunch and we’re getting him out on today’s BA flight—just in case he’s been spotted, can’t be too careful. Any news of Erikki? We’ve had some inquiries from the Finnish embassy asking for help.’

  McIver told him about Azadeh’s note. ‘Bloody ridiculous.’

  Talbot steepled his fingers. ‘Ransom doesn’t sound too good. There’s, er, there’s a rumour the Khan’s very sick indeed. Stroke.’

  McIver frowned. ‘Would that help or hurt Azadeh and Erikki?’

  ‘I don’t know. If he does pop off, well, it’ll certainly change the balance of power in Azerbaijan for a while, which will certainly encourage our misguided friends north of the border to agitate more than usual, which’ll cause Carter and his powers-that-be to fart more dust.’

  ‘What the devil’s he doing now?’

  ‘Nothing, old boy, sweet Fanny Adams—that’s the trouble. He scattered his peanuts and scarpered.’

  ‘Anything more on us being nationalised?’

  ‘It might well be you’ll lose positive control of your aircraft imminently,’ Talbot said with studied care and McIver’s attention zeroed. ‘It, er, might be more of a personal acquisition by interested parties.’

  ‘You mean Ali Kia and the partners?’

  Talbot shrugged. ‘Ours not to reason why, eh?’

  ‘This is official?’

  ‘My dear chap, good Lord, no!’ Talbot was quite shocked. ‘Just a personal observation, off the record. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Off the record, on Andy Gavallan’s instructions, all right?’

  ‘Let’s have it on the record.’

  McIver saw the slightly pink humourless face and got up, relieved. ‘No way, Mr Talbot. It was Andy’s idea to keep you in the picture, not mine.’

  Talbot sighed with practised eloquence. ‘Very well, off the record.’

  McIver sat. ‘We’re, er, we’re transferring our HQ to Al Shargaz today.’

  ‘Very wise. So?’

  ‘We’re going today. All remaining expat personnel. On our 125.’

  ‘Very wise. So?’

  ‘We’re er, we’re closing down all operations in Iran. On Friday.’

  Talbot sighed wearily. ‘Without personnel I’d say that’s axiomatic. So?’

  McIver was finding it very hard to say what he wanted to say. ‘We, er, we’re taking our aircraft out on Friday—this Friday.’

  ‘Bless my soul,’ Talbot said in open admiration. ‘Congratulations! How on earth did you twist that rotter Kia’s arm to get the permits? You must’ve promised him a life membership at the Royal Box at Ascot!’

  ‘Er, no, no, we didn’t. We decided not to apply for exit permits, waste of time.’ McIver got up. ‘Well, see you soo—’

  Talbot’s smile almost fell off his face. ‘No permits?’

  ‘No. You know yourself our birds’re going to be nicked, nationalised, taken over. Whatever you want to call it, there’s no way we could get exit permits so we’re just going.’ McIver added airily, ‘Friday we flit the coop.’

  ‘Oh, my word!’ Talbot was shaking his head vigorously, his fingers toying with a file on his desk. ‘Bless my soul, very very un-bloody-wise.’

  ‘There isn’t any alternative. Well, Mr Talbot, that’s all, have a nice day. Andy wanted to forewarn you so you could. . . so you could do whatever you want to do.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Talbot exploded.

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ McIver was equally exasperated. ‘You’re supposed to protect your nationals.’

  ‘But y—’

  ‘I’m just not going to be put out of business and that’s the end of it!’

  Talbot’s fingers drummed nervously. ‘I think I need a cup of tea.’ He clicked on the intercom. ‘Celia, two cups of the best and I think you better insert a modest amount of Nelson’s Blood into the brew.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Talbot,’ the adenoidal voice said and sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ Talbot said automatically. His fingers stopped drumming and he smiled sweetly at McIver. ‘I’m awfully glad you didn’t tell me anything about anything, old boy.’

  ‘So’m I. Could you
use your radio link to ask your man in Tabriz to get Erikki a message? All phone lines are down.’

  ‘How the hell can he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ McIver said patiently. ‘But he could get one to Azadeh and she might be able to pass it on. Please, it’s important.’

  ‘All right. Our radio link’s out but it’s promised for tomorrow or the next day. I’ll signal him—depending on the message.’

  ‘Ask him to tell Erikki, or tell Azadeh to tell him I said to Take a powder.’

  ‘That’s apt,’ Talbot said witheringly. ‘Rest assured, should I ever hear you’re in pokey doing—what’s the expression? Ah, yes, “doing porridge”—I shall be glad to visit you on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government and attempt to extricate you from the errors of your ways.’ His eyebrows went off his forehead. ‘Grand larceny! Bless my soul, but jolly good luck, old boy, and don’t worry about Erikki. I’ll get the message through to him somehow.’

  At McIver’s Apartment: 11:50 A.M. Pettikin came into the living room carrying a suitcase and was surprised to see the servant, Ali Baba, tentatively polishing the sideboard. ‘I didn’t hear you come back. I thought I’d given you the day off,’ he said irritably, putting down the suitcase.

  ‘Oh, yes, agha, but there is most much to do, the place she is filth-filled and the kitchen. . .’ His lush brown eyebrows rose to heaven.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s true but you can start in tomorrow.’ Pettikin saw him looking at the suitcase and swore. Directly after breakfast he had sent Ali Baba off for the day with instructions to be back at midnight, which normally would mean that he would not come back until the next morning. ‘Now off you go.’

  ‘Yes, agha, you are going on holiday or on the leaves?’

  ‘No, I’m, er, I’m going to stay with one of the pilots for a few days, so make sure my room’s cleaned tomorrow. Oh, yes, and you better give me your key, I’ve misplaced mine.’ Pettikin held out his hand, cursing himself for not thinking of it before. With curious reluctance, Ali Baba gave it to him. ‘Captain McIver wants the place to himself, he has work to do and doesn’t want to be disturbed. See you soon, good-bye.’