One of the Green Bands broke the silence. “What he says is true, Excellency, isn’t it?” He scratched his head. “About all Tehranis?”
“That not all Tehranis are liars? Yes, that’s true.” Hussain looked at Kia, also unsure. “Before God, are you guilty or not?”
“Of course not guilty, Excellency, before God!” Kia’s eyes were guileless. Fool, do you think you can catch me with that? Taqiyah gives me the right to protect myself if I consider my life threatened by false mullahs!
“How do you explain you’re a government minister, but also a director of this helicopter company?”
“The minister in charge…” Kia stopped, for Esvandiary was blubbering loudly and mouthing accusations. “I’m sorry, Excellencies, as God wants, but this noise, it’s difficult to speak without shouting.”
“Take him outside!” Esvandiary was dragged away. “Well?”
“The minister in charge of the Civil Aviation Board asked me to join the IHC board as the government’s representative,” Kia said, telling the twisted truth as though he were imparting a state secret, adding other exaggerations equally importantly. “We’re not sure of the loyalty of the directors. Also may I tell you privately, Excellency, that in a few days all foreign airplane companies are being nationalized…”
He talked to them intimately, modulating his voice for the most effect, and when he considered the moment perfect, he stopped and sighed, “Before God I confess I am without corruption like you, Excellency, and though without your great calling, I too have dedicated my life to serving the people.”
“God protect you, Excellency,” the Green Band burst out.
The others agreed and even Hussain had had most of his doubt pushed aside. He was about to probe a little more when they heard a distant muezzin from the air base calling to evening prayer, and he chided himself for being diverted from God. “Go with God, Excellency,” he said, ending the tribunal, and got up.
“Thank you, Excellency. May God keep you and all mullahs safe to rescue us and our great Islamic nation from the works of Satan!”
Hussain led the way outside. There, following his lead, they all ritually cleansed themselves, turned toward Mecca, and prayed—Kia, Green Bands, office staff, laborers, kitchen workers—all pleased and content that once more they could each openly testify their personal submission to God and the Prophet of God. Only Esvandiary wept through his abject prayers.
Then Kia came back into the office. In the silence, he sat behind the desk and allowed himself a secret sigh and many secret congratulations. How dare that son of a dog Esvandiary accuse me! Me, Minister Kia! May God burn him and all enemies of the state. Outside there was a burst of firing. Calmly he took out a cigarette and lit it. The sooner I leave this dung heap the better, he thought. A squall shook the building. Drizzle spotted the windows.
LENGEH: 6:50 P.M. The sunset was malevolent, clouds covering most of the sky, heavy and black-tinged. “It’ll be closed in by morning, Scrag,” the American pilot Ed Vossi said, his dark curly hair tugged by the wind that blew from the Hormuz up the Gulf toward Abadan. “Goddamn wind!”
“We’ll be all right, sport. But Rudi, Duke, and the others? If she holds or worsens they’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Goddamn wind! Why choose today to change direction? Almost as though the gods’re laughing at us.” The two men were standing on the promontory overlooking the Gulf beneath their flagpole, the waters gray and, out in the strait, white-topped. Behind them was their base and the airfield, still wet from this morning’s passing rain squall. Below and to the right was their beach and the raft they swam from. Since the day of the shark no one had ventured there, staying close in the shallows in case another lay in wait for them. Vossi muttered, “I’ll be goddamn glad when this’s all over.”
Scragger nodded absently, his thoughts reaching into the weather patterns, trying to read what would happen in the next twelve hours, always difficult in this season when the usually placid Gulf could erupt with sudden and monstrous violence. For 363 or 364 days a year the prevailing wind was from the northwest. Now it wasn’t.
The base was quiet. Only Vossi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and two mechanics were left. All the other pilots and mechanics and their British office manager had gone two days ago, Tuesday, while he was en route back from Bandar Delam with Kasigi.
Willi had got them all out to Al Shargaz by sea: “We had no trouble, Scrag, by God Harry,” Willi had told him delightedly when he landed. “Your plan worked. Sending ’em by boat was clever, better than by chopper, and cheaper. The komiteh just shrugged and took over one of the trailers.”
“They’re sleeping on base now?”
“Some of them, Scrag. Three or four. I’ve made sure we feed them plenty of rice and horisht. They’re not a bad group. Masoud’s trying to keep in their good books too.” Masoud was their IranOil manager.
“Why did you stay, Willi? I know how you feel about this caper, I told you to be on the boat, no need for you.”
“Sure there is, Scrag, by God Harry, but you’ll need a proper pilot along with you—you might get lost.”
Good old Willi, Scragger thought. Glad he stayed. And sorry.
Since getting back from Bandar Delam on Tuesday, Scragger had found himself greatly unsettled, nothing that he could isolate, just a feeling that elements over which he had no control were waiting to pounce. The pain in his lower stomach had lessened, but from time to time there was still a flick of blood in his urine. Not forewarning Kasigi about the Whirlwind pullout had added to his unease. Hell, he thought, I couldn’t have risked that, spilling Whirlwind. I did the best I could, telling Kasigi to go to Gavallan.
Yesterday, Wednesday, Vossi had taken Kasigi across the Gulf. Scragger had given Vossi a private letter to Gavallan explaining what had happened in Bandar Delam and his dilemma about Kasigi, leaving it to Gavallan to decide what to do. Also in the letter he had given details of his meeting with Georges de Plessey who was gravely concerned that troubles would again spill over into the Siri complex:
“Damage to pumping and piping at Siri’s worse than first thought and I don’t think she’ll be pumping this month. Kasigi’s fit to be tied as he’s got three tankers due at Siri for uplifts in the next three weeks according to the deal he worked out with Georges. It’s a carve-up, Andy. Nothing we can do. There’s little chance of avoiding sabotage if terrorists really decide to have at them. Of course I haven’t told Georges about anything. Do what you can for Kasigi and see you soonest, Scrag.”
On this morning’s routine call from Al Shargaz, Gavallan had said only he had received his report and was dealing with it. Otherwise he was noncommittal.
Scragger had not mentioned McIver, nor had Gavallan. He beamed. Bet my life Dirty Dunc flew the 206! Never would’ve bet old By the Book McIver’d’ve done it! Even so, bet my life he was like a pig in shit at the chance and no bloody wonder. I’d’ve done the same…
“Scrag!”
He glanced around. One look at Willi Neuchtreiter’s face was enough. “Wot’s up?”
“I just found out Masoud’s given all our passports to the gendarmes—every last one!”
Vossi and Scragger gaped at him. Vossi said, “What the hell he do that for?” Scragger was more vulgar.
“It was Tuesday, Scrag, when the others left on the boat. Of course a gendarme was there to see them off, count them aboard, and that’s when he asked Masoud for our passports. So Masoud gave them to him. If it’d been me I’d’ve done the same.”
“Wot the hell did he want them for?”
Willi said patiently, “To re-sign our residence permits in Khomeini’s name, Scrag, he wanted us to be legal—you’ve asked them enough times, haven’t you?” Scragger cursed for a full minute and never used the same word twice.
“For crissake, Scrag, we gotta get ’em back,” Vossi said shakily, “we gotta get ’em back, or Whirlwind’s blown.”
“I know that, sport.” Blankly Scragger was sifting pos
sibilities.
Willi said, “Maybe we could get new ones in Al Shargaz or Dubai—say we’d lost ’em.”
“For crissake, Willi,” Vossi exploded. “For crissake, they’d put us in the slammer so fast we wouldn’t know which way was up! Remember Masterson?” One of their mechanics, a couple of years ago, had forgotten to renew his Al Shargaz permit and had tried to bluff his way through Immigration. Even though the visa was only four days out of date and his passport otherwise valid, Immigration had at once marched him into jail where he languished very uncomfortably for six weeks, then to be let out but banished forever: “Dammit,” the resident British official had said, “you’re bloody lucky to get off so lightly. You knew the law. We’ve pointed it out until we’re blue in the face…”
“Goddamned if I’ll leave without mine,” Vossi said. “I can’t. Mine’s loaded with goddamn visas for all the Gulf states, Nigeria, the UK and hell and gone—it’d take me months to get new ones, months, if ever…and what about Al Shargaz, huh? That’s one mighty fine place but without a goddamn passport and their valid visa, into the slammer!”
“Too right, Ed. Bloody hell and tomorrow’s Holy Day when everything’s shut tighter’n a gnat’s arse. Willi, you remember who the gendarme was? Was he one of the regulars—or a Green Band?”
After a moment Willi said, “He wasn’t a Green Band, Scrag, he was a regular. The old one, the one with gray hair.”
“Qeshemi? The sergeant?”
“Yes, Scrag. Yes, it was him.”
Scragger cursed again. “If old Qeshemi says we’ve got to wait till Saturday, or Saturday week, that’s it.” In this area, gendarmes still operated as they had always done, as part of the military, without Green Band harassment, except that now they had taken off their Shah badges and wore armbands with Khomeini’s name scrawled on them.
“Don’t wait supper for me.” Scragger stomped off into the twilight.
AT THE LENGEH POLICE STATION: 7:32 P.M. The corporal gendarme yawned and shook his head politely, speaking Farsi to the base radio operator, Ali Pash, whom Scragger had brought with him to interpret. Scragger waited patiently, too used to Iranian ways to interrupt them. They had already been at it for half an hour.
“Oh, you wanted to ask about the foreigners’ passports? The passports are in the safe, where they should be,” the gendarme was saying. “Passports are valuable and we have them locked up.”
“Perfectly correct, Excellency, but the Captain of the Foreigners would like to have them back, please. He says he needs them for a crew change.”
“Of course he may have them back. Are they not his property? Have not he and his men flown many mercy missions over the years for our people? Certainly, Excellency, as soon as the safe is opened.”
“Please may it be opened now? The foreigner would appreciate your kindness very much.” Ali Pash was equally polite and leisurely, waiting for the gendarme to volunteer the information he sought. He was a good-looking Tehrani in his late twenties who had been trained at the U.S. Radio School at Isfahan and had been with IHC at Lengeh for three years. “It would certainly be a kindness.”
“Certainly, but he cannot have them back until the key reappears.”
“Ah, may I dare ask where the key is, Excellency?”
The corporal gendarme waved his hand to the big, old-fashioned safe that dominated this outer office. “Look, Excellency, you can see for yourself, the key is not on its peg. More than likely the sergeant has it in his safekeeping.”
“How very wise and correct, Excellency. Probably His Excellency the sergeant is at home now?”
“His Excellency will be here in the morning.”
“On Holy Day? May I offer an opinion that we are fortunate our gendarmerie have such a high sense of duty to work so diligently? I imagine he would not be early.”
“The sergeant is the sergeant but the office opens at seven-thirty in the morning, though of course the police station is open day and night.” The gendarme stubbed out his cigarette. “Come in the morning.”
“Ah, thank you, Excellency. Would you care for another cigarette while I explain to the captain?”
“Thank you, Excellency. It is rare to have a foreign one, thank you.” The cigarettes were American and highly appreciated but neither mentioned it.
“May I offer you a light, Excellency?” Ali Pash lit his own too and told Scragger what had been said.
“Ask him if the sergeant’s at home now, Ali Pash.”
“I did, Captain. He said His Excellency will be here in the morning.” Ali Pash hid his weariness, too polite to tell Scragger he had realized in the first few seconds that this man knew nothing, would do nothing, and this whole conversation and visit was a total waste of time. And of course gendarmes would prefer not to be disturbed at night about so insignificant an affair. What does it matter? Have they ever lost a passport? Of course not! What crew change? “If I may advise you, Agha? In the morning.”
Scragger sighed. “In the morning” could mean tomorrow or the following day. No point in probing further, he thought irritably. “Thank him for me and say I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”
Ali Pash obeyed. As God wants, the gendarme thought wearily, hungry and worried that another week had gone by and still there was no pay, no pay for months now, and the bazaari moneylenders were pressing for their loans to be repaid, and my beloved family near starving. “Shab be khayr, Agha,” he said to Scragger. “Good night.”
“Shab be khayr, Agha.” Scragger waited, knowing their departure would be as politely long-winded as the interview.
Outside in the small road that was the main road of the port town, he felt better. Curious bystanders, all men, surrounded his battered old station wagon, the winged S-G symbol on the door. “Salaam,” he said breezily and a few greeted him back. Pilots from the base were popular, the base and the oil platforms a main source of very profitable work, their mercy missions in all weather well known, and Scragger easily recognizable: “That’s the chief of the pilots,” one old man whispered knowledgeably to his neighbor, “he’s the one who helped young Abdollah Turik into the hospital at Bandar Abbas that only the highborn get into normally. He even went to visit his village just outside Lengeh, even went to his funeral.”
“Turik?”
“Abdollah Turik, my sister’s son’s son! The young man who fell off the oil platform and was eaten by sharks.”
“Ah, yes, I remember, the young man some say was murdered by leftists.”
“Not so loud, not so loud, you never know who’s listening. Peace be with you, pilot, greetings, pilot!”
Scragger waved to them cheerily and drove off.
“But the base is the other way, Captain. Where do we go?” Ali Pash asked.
“To visit the sergeant, of course.” Scragger whistled through his teeth, disregarding Ali Pash’s obvious disapproval.
The sergeant’s house was on the corner of a dingy, dirt street still puddled from this morning’s squall, just another door in the high walls across the joub. It was getting dark now so Scragger left the headlights on and got out. No sign of life in the whole street. Only a few of the high windows dimly lit.
Sensing Ali Pash’s nervousness he said, “You stay in the car. There’s no problem, I’ve been here before.” He used the iron knocker vigorously, feeling eyes everywhere.
The first time he had been here was a year or so ago when he had brought a huge food hamper, with two butchered sheep, some sacks of rice, and cases of fruit as a gift from the base to celebrate “their” sergeant getting the Shah’s Bronze Sepah Medal for bravery in action against pirates and smugglers who were endemic in these waters. The last time, a few weeks ago, he had accompanied a worried gendarme who wanted him to report at once the tragedy at Siri One, picking Abdollah Turik out of the shark-infested water. Neither time had he been invited into the house but had stayed in the little courtyard beyond the tall wooden door, and both times had been in daylight.
The door
creaked open. Scragger was not prepared for the sudden flashlight that momentarily blinded him. The circle of light hesitated, then went to the car and centered on Ali Pash who almost leaped out of the car, half-bowed, and called out, “Greetings, Excellency Chief Officer, peace be upon you. I apologize that the foreigner disturbs your privacy and dares to c—”
“Greetings.” Qeshemi overrode him curtly, clicked the light off, turning his attention back to Scragger.
“Salaam, Agha Qeshemi,” Scragger said, his eyes adjusting now. He saw the strong-featured man watching him, his uniform coat unbuttoned and the revolver loose in its holster.
“Salaam, Cap’tin.”
“Sorry to come here, Agha, at night,” Scragger said slowly and carefully, knowing Qeshemi’s English was as limited as his own Farsi was almost nonexistent. “Loftan, gozar nameh. Loftan”—Please, need passports. Please.
The gendarme sergeant grunted with surprise then waved a hard tough hand toward the town. “Passports in stat’ion, Cap’tin.”
“Yes. But, sorry, there is no key.” Scragger parodied opening a lock with a key. “No key,” he repeated.
“Ah. Yes. Understand. Yes, no key. To’morrow. To’morrow you get.”
“Is it possible, tonight? Please. Now?” Scragger felt the scrutiny.
“Why tonight?”
“Er, for a crew change. Men to Shiraz, crew change.”
“When?”
Scragger knew he had to gamble. “Saturday. If I have key, go station and return at once.”
Qeshemi shook his head. “To’morrow.” Then he spoke sharply to Ali Pash who at once bowed and thanked him profusely, again apologizing for disturbing him. “His Excellency says you can have them tomorrow. We’d, er, we’d better leave, Captain.”
Scragger forced a smile. “Mamnoon am, Agha”—Thank you, Excellency. “Mamnoon am, Agha Qeshemi.” He would have asked Ali Pash to ask the sergeant if he could have the passports as soon as the station opened but he did not wish to agitate the sergeant unnecessarily. “I will come after first prayer. Mamnoon am, Agha.” Scragger put out his hand and Qeshemi shook it. Both men felt the other’s strength. Then he got into the car and drove off.