Whirlwind

  AT THE JULFA TURNOFF: 6:25 P.M. Hashemi Fazir and Armstrong were once more in ambush under the snow-laden trees. Below the Chevy waited, lights off, windows open, two men in the front seat, just as before. Down the slope behind them both sides of the Julfa-Tabriz road were primed for the intercept with half a hundred paramilitary poised. The sun had vanished over the mountains and now the sky was blackening perceptibly.

  “He’s not got much more time,” Hashemi muttered again.

  “He arrived at dusk last time. It’s not dusk yet.”

  “Piss on him and his ancestors—I’m chilled to the bone.”

  “Not long now, Hashemi, old chap!” If it was up to him, Armstrong knew he would wait forever to catch Mzytryk, alias Suslev, alias Brodnin. He had offered to wait in Tabriz after the debacle on Saturday: “Leave me the men, Hashemi, I’ll lead the ambush Tuesday. You go back to Tehran, I’ll wait here and get him and bring him to you.”

  “No, I’ll leave at once and be back early Tuesday. You can stay here.”

  “Here” was a safe house, an apartment overlooking the Blue Mosque, warm and stocked with whisky. “You really meant what you said to Abdollah Khan, Hashemi, that now you’re the law here and SAVAMA and Pahmudi are powerless without your support?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.”

  “Pahmudi really got under Abdollah’s skin. What’s that all about?”

  “Pahmudi had Abdollah banned from Tehran.”

  “Christ! Why?”

  “Old enmity, goes back years. Ever since Abdollah became Khan in ’53, he truculently advised various prime ministers and court officials to be cautious over political reforms and so-called modernizations. Pahmudi, the well-bred, European-trained intellectual, despised him, was always against him, always blocking him from private access to the Shah. Unfortunately for the Shah, Pahmudi had the Shah’s ear.”

  “To betray him in the end.”

  “Oh, yes, Robert, perhaps even from the beginning. The first time Abdollah Khan and Pahmudi clashed openly was in ’63 over the Shah’s proposed reforms, giving the women the vote, giving the voting franchise to non-Muslims and allowing non-Muslims to be elected to the Majlis. Of course Abdollah, along with every thinking Iranian, knew this would bring an immediate outcry from all religious leaders, particularly Khomeini who was just getting into his stride then.”

  “Almost unbelievable that no one could get to the Shah,” Armstrong had said, “to warn him.”

  “Many did, but no one with enough influence. Most of us agreed with Khomeini, openly or secretly. I did. Abdollah lost round after round with Pahmudi—against all our advice the Shah changed the calendar from the Islamic one as sacred to Muslims as B.C. and A.D. are to Christians and tried to force a phony counting back to Cyrus the Great…of course that blew the minds of all Muslims, and after near revolution it was withdrawn…” Hashemi finished his drink and poured another. “Then, publicly, Pahmudi told Abdollah to piss off, literally—I have it all documented—taunted him that he was stupid, behind the times, living in the Dark Ages, ‘Is it any wonder coming from Azerbaijan,’ and to stay out of Tehran until he was summoned or he would be arrested. Worse he jeered at him, at a major function, and had thinly veiled cartoons published in the press.”

  “I never took Pahmudi for that much of a fool,” Armstrong said to encourage him to continue, wondering if he would make a slip and reveal something of value.

  “Thank God he is—and why his days are numbered.”

  Armstrong remembered the strange confidence that had pervaded Hashemi and how unsettled he had been. The feeling had stayed with him all during the waiting for Hashemi to return to Tabriz, unwise to wander the streets that were still filled with rival mobs trying to possess them. During the day the police and loyalist army maintained the peace in the name of the Ayatollah—at night, it was difficult if not impossible to stop small groups of fanatics bent on violence from terrorizing parts of the city: “We can still stamp them out, easily, if that old devil Abdollah will help us,” Hashemi had said angrily.

  “Abdollah Khan still has so much power, even like that, half dead?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s still hereditary chief of a vast tribe—his wealth, hidden and real, would rival a shah’s, not Mohammed Reza Shah’s but certainly his father’s.”

  “He’s going to die soon. What then?”

  “His heir’ll have the same power—presuming that poor sonofabitch Hakim stays alive to use it. Did I tell you he’s made him heir?”

  “No. What’s strange about that?”

  “Hakim is his eldest son who’s been banished to Khoi for years in disgrace. He’s been brought back and reinstated.”

  “Why? Why was he banished?”

  “The usual—he was caught plotting to send his father on—as Abdollah did his father.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No, but curiously Abdollah’s father died at your Mzytryk’s dacha in Tbilisi.” Hashemi smiled sardonically at the effect of his information. “Of apoplexy.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Long enough. We’ll ask your Mzytryk if it’s true when we catch him. We will catch him, though it’d certainly be easier with Abdollah alive.” Hashemi became grimmer. “I hope he stays alive long enough to order support for us to stop the war. Then he can rot. I hate that vile old man for double-dealing and double-crossing and using us all for his own purposes, that’s why I taunted him with Pahmudi. Sure I hate him, even so I’d never deliver him to Pahmudi, he’s too much of a patriot in his own vile way. Well I’m off to Tehran, Robert, you know where to find me. You’d like company for your bed?”

  “Just hot and cold running water.”

  “You should experiment a little, try a boy for a change. Oh, for the love of God don’t be so embarrassed. There’re so many times you disappoint me, I don’t know why I’m so patient with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You English’re all so depraved and twisted about sex, too many of you overt or covert homosexuals which the rest of you find disgusting and sinful and vile in the extreme, against the laws of God—which it isn’t. And yet in Arabia where connection between men is historically normal and ordinary—because by law it’s hands off a woman unless you’re married to her or else—homosexuality as you understand it is unknown. So a man prefers sodomy, so what? That doesn’t interfere with his masculinity here. Give yourself a new experience—life is short, Robert. Meanwhile, she’ll be here to use if you wish. Don’t insult me by paying her.”

  “She” had been Caucasian, Christian, attractive, and he had partaken of her without need or passion, for politeness, and had thanked her and let her sleep in the bed and stay the next day, to clean and cook and entertain him and then, before he awoke this morning, she had vanished.

  Now Armstrong looked up into the western sky. It was much darker than before, the light going fast. They waited another half an hour.

  “The pilot won’t be able to see to land now, Robert. Let’s leave.”

  “The Chevy hasn’t moved yet.” Armstrong took out his automatic and checked the action. “I’ll leave when the Chevy leaves. Okay?”

  The thickset Iranian stared at him, his face hard. “There’ll be a car below, parked facing Tabriz. It’ll take you to our safe house. Wait for me there—I’m going back to Tehran now; there are some important things that cannot wait, more important than this son of a dog—I think he knows we’re on to him.”

  “When will you be back here?”

  “Tomorrow—there’s still the problem of the Khan.” He stomped off into the darkness, cursing.

  Armstrong watched him go, glad to be alone. Hashemi was becoming more and more difficult, more dangerous than usual, ready to explode, nerves too taut, too taut for a head of Inner Intelligence with so much power and a private band of trained assassins in secret. Robert, it’s time to begin a bailout. I can’t, I can’t, not yet. Come on, Mzytryk, there’s plenty of moonlight to land with, for God’s sake.

&n
bsp; Just after ten o’clock the Chevy’s lights came on. The two men wound up the windows and drove away into the night. Carefully Armstrong lit a cigarette, his gloved hand cupping the tiny flame against the wind. The smoke pleased him greatly. When he had finished he threw the stub into the snow and stubbed it out. Then he too left.

  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 drafts. 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 two 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 headlights 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 tribesmen, 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 bedclothes, 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 forever. “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 too 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 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.”