McIver had considered leaving Wazari in hiding, but had decided against the risk. “Sorry, Sergeant, you’ll have to take your chances.”
“Who’s he?” the Immigration man had asked at once, Wazari’s complexion giving him away, and his fear.
“A radio-radar operator,” McIver said noncommittally.
The official had turned away and left Wazari standing there, sweating in the heavy, seaproofed plastic coverall, Mae West half done up.
“So, Captain, you think there’ll be a coup in Tehran, a military coup?”
“I don’t know,” McIver had told him. “Rumors abound like locusts. The English papers say it’s possible, very possible, and also that Iran’s caught up in a kind of madness—like the Terror of the French or Russian revolutions, the aftermath. May I get our mechanics to check everything while we wait?”
“Of course.” The man waited while McIver gave the orders, then he said, “Let’s hope the madness doesn’t spread across the Gulf, eh? No one wants any trouble this side of the Islamic Gulf.” He used the word with great deliberation, all the Gulf states loathing the term Persian Gulf. “It is the Islamic Gulf, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it is.”
“All maps will have to be changed. The Gulf is the Gulf, Islam is Islam and not just for the Shi’a sect.”
McIver said nothing, his caution increasing, adding to his disquiet. There were many Shi’as in Kuwait and most of the Gulf states. Many. Usually they were the poor. Rulers, the sheiks, were usually Sunni.
“Captain!” the Customs officer in the doorway of the 212 cabin parked on the helipad was beckoning to him. Ayre and Wazari had been told to wait away from the helicopters in the shade until inspections were finished. Mechanics were busy ground-checking. “Are you carrying arms of any kind?”
“No, sir—apart from the regulation Very light pistol.”
“Contraband of any kind?”
“No, sir. Just spares.” All the usual questions, interminably, that would be repeated as soon as they were released to the airport. At length the man thanked him and motioned him away. The Immigration officer had gone back to his car with their passports. The radio transmitter had been left on and McIver could hear Ground Control clearly. He saw the man scratch his beard thoughtfully, then pick up the mike and talk into it in Arabic. This increased his concern. Genny was sitting in the shade nearby and he went over to her.
“Stiff upper lip,” she whispered. “How’s it going?”
“Wish to God they’d let us get on with it,” McIver said irritably. “We’ll have to endure another hour at the airport and damned if I know what to do.”
“Has Charlie sa—”
“Captain!” The Immigration officer was beckoning him and Pettikin over to the car. “So you’re in transit, is that it?”
“Yes. To Al Shargaz. With your permission, we’ll leave at once,” McIver said. “We’ll go to the airport, file our flight plan, and take off as quickly as we can. Is that all right?”
“Where did you say you are in transit to?”
“Al Shargaz, via Bahrain for fuel.” McIver was getting sicker by the minute. Any airport official would know they would have to refuel before Bahrain even without this wind, and all airports between here and there were Saudi, so he would have to file a flight plan for a Saudi landing. Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Al Shargaz had all received the same telex. Kuwait too, and even if it had been intercepted here privately by a well-wisher, for whatever reason, the same would not be true of Saudi airports. Rightly, McIver thought, and saw the man look at the Iran registration letters under the cockpit windows. They had arrived under Iran registration, he would have to file the flight plan and leave under the same letters.
To their astonishment, the man reached into the pocket of his car and brought out a pad of forms. “I am inst—I will accept your flight plan here and clear you to Bahrain direct and you can leave at once. You can pay me the regulation landing fees and I’ll stamp your passports too. There’ll be no need to go to the airport.”
“What?”
“I will accept your flight plan now and you can leave direct from here. Please make it out.” He handed the pad to McIver. It was the correct form. “As soon as you’ve done it, sign it and bring it back.” Some flies circling in the car were bothering him and he waved them away. Then he picked up the radio mike, pointedly waited until McIver and Pettikin walked off, and talked quietly into it.
Hardly able to believe what had happened, they went to lean against their truck. “Jesus, Mac, do you think they know and are just letting us go?”
“I don’t know what to think. Don’t waste time, Charlie.” McIver shoved the pad into his hands and said more irritably than he meant to, “Just make out the flight plan before he changes his mind: Al Shargaz—if we happen to have an emergency on Jellet, that’s our problem. For God’s sake do it and let’s get airborne as quick as we can.”
“Sure. Right away.”
Genny said, “You’re not flying, are you, Duncan?”
“No, Charlie’s going to do that.”
Pettikin thought a moment, then took out a key and his money. “This’s my room key, Genny. Would you get my stuff for me, nothing there of any importance, pay the bill, and catch the next plane. Hughes—he’s the Imperial Air rep—he’ll get you a priority.”
“What about your passport and license?” she asked.
“Always carry them, frightened to death of losing them, and a $100 note—never know when you’ll need some baksheesh.”
“Consider it done.” She pushed her dark glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, smiled at her husband. “What’ll you do, Duncan?”
Without noticing it, McIver exhaled heavily. “I’ll have to go on, Gen. Daren’t stay here—doubt if they’d let me. They’re desperate not to rock any boat and want to see the last of us. It’s obvious, isn’t it—who ever heard of being cleared from a beach? We’re a bloody embarrassment and a threat to the state, of course we are. That’s the truth! Do what Charlie says, Gen. We’ll refuel at Jellet—change the registrations there and hope for the best—do you have the stencils, Charlie?”
“Brushes, paint, everything.” Pettikin did not stop filling in the forms. “What about Wazari?”
“He’s crew until someone asks a question. Put him down as radio operator. That’s no lie. If they don’t challenge him at Bahrain, they certain will at Al Shargaz. Perhaps Andy can work something out for him.”
“All right. He’s crew. That’s it, then.”
“Good. Gen, Jellet’s easy from here, Bahrain too, and Al Shargaz. Weather’s good, moon’ll be out, so a night jaunt’ll be fine. Do what Charlie says. You’ll be there in good time to meet us.”
“If you leave at once, you’ll need food and some bottled water,” she said. “We can get some here. I’ll get them, Charlie. Come along, Duncan, you need a drink.”
“Pour it for me at Al Shargaz, Gen.”
“I will. But I’ll pour you one now. You’re not flying, you need it, and so do I.” She went over to the Immigration officer and got permission to buy sandwiches and make a phone call.
“Back in a second, Charlie.” McIver followed her into the hotel lobby and went straight for the toilet. There he was very sick. It took him some time to recover. When he came out she was getting off the phone.
“Sandwiches any second, your drink’s poured, and I’ve booked you a call to Andy.” She led the way out to a table on the sumptuous bar terrace. Three ice-cold Perriers with sliced lemon, and a double tot of whisky straight, no ice, just the way he liked it. He downed the first Perrier without stopping. “My God, I needed that…” He eyed the whisky but did not touch it. Thoughtfully he sipped the second glass of Perrier, and watched her. When it was half gone he said, “Gen, I think I’d like you to come along.”
She was startled. Then she said, “Thank you, Duncan. I’d like that. Yes, yes, I would.”
The lines in his face crinkled. “You’d’ve come anyway. Wo
uldn’t you?”
She gave a little shrug. Her eyes dropped to the whisky. “You’re not flying, Duncan. The whisky would be good for you. It would settle the turn.”
“You noticed, eh?”
“Only that you’re very tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen you, but you’ve done wonderfully, you’ve done a smashing job, and you should rest. You’ve…you’ve been taking your pills and all that rubbish?”
“Oh, yes, though I’ll need a refill soon. No problem, but I felt pretty bloody a couple of times.” At her sudden anxiety, “I’m fine now, Gen. Fine.”
She knew better than to probe. Now that she was invited she could relax a little. Since he had landed she had been watching him very carefully, her concern growing. With the sandwiches she had ordered some aspirins, she had codeine-laced Veganin in her bag and the secret survival kit Dr. Nutt had given her. “What was it like flying again? Really?”
“From Tehran down to Kowiss was grand, the rest not so good. This last leg wasn’t good at all.” The thought of being hunted by the fighters and so near to disaster so many times made him feel bilious again. Don’t think about that, he ordered himself, that’s over. Whirlwind’s almost over, Erikki and Azadeh’re safe, but what about Dubois and Fowler, what the hell’s happened to them? And Tom? I could bloody strangle Tom, poor bugger.
“You all right, Duncan?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just tired—it’s been quite a couple of weeks.”
“What about Tom? What’ll you tell Andy?”
“I was just thinking about him. I’ll have to tell Andy.”
“That’s one hell of a spanner in Whirlwind, isn’t it?”
“He’s…he’s on his own, Gen. Maybe he can get Sharazad and sneak out again. If he’s caught…we’ll have to wait and see and hope,” he said. But he was thinking when he’s caught. McIver reached over and touched her, glad to be with her, not wanting to worry her more than she was now. Tough on her, all this. I think I’m going to die.
“Please excuse me, sahib, memsahib, your order’s been taken out to the helicopter,” the waiter said.
McIver handed him a credit card and the waiter left. “Which reminds me, what about your hotel bill, and Charlie’s? We’ll have to take care of them before we leave.”
“Oh, I phoned Mr. Hughes while you were in the loo,” she said, “and asked him if he’d take care of our bills and ship our bags and everything if I didn’t call back in an hour. I’ve my handbag, passport, and…what’re you smiling about?”
“Nothing…nothing, Gen.”
“It was just in case you asked me. I thought…” She watched the bubbles in her glass. Again the tiny shrug and she looked up and smiled so happily. “I’m ever so glad you asked me, Duncan. Thank you.”
AL SHARGAZ—ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY: 6:01 P.M. Gavallan got out of his car and walked briskly up the steps toward the front door of the Moroccan-style villa that was enclosed by high walls.
“Mr. Gavallan!”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Newbury!” He changed direction to join the woman who was half hidden, kneeling down, planting some seedlings near the driveway. “Your garden looks wonderful.”
“Thank you. It’s such fun and keeps me fit,” she said. Angela Newbury was tall and in her thirties, her accent patrician. “Roger’s in the gazebo and expecting you,” With the back of her gloved hand she wiped the perspiration off her forehead and left a smudge in its wake. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” he told her, omitting the news about Lochart. “Nine out of ten so far.”
“Oh, super, oh, that is a relief. Congratulations, we’ve all been so concerned. Wonderful, but for God’s sake don’t tell Roger I asked, he’d have a fit. Nobody’s supposed to know!”
He returned her smile and walked around the side of the house through the lovely gardens. The gazebo was in a clump of trees and flower beds, with chairs, side tables, portable bar and phone. His joy faded, seeing the look on Roger Newbury’s face. “What’s up?”
“You’re what’s up. Whirlwind’s what’s up. I made it perfectly clear that it was ill advised. How’s it going?”
“I’ve just heard our Kowiss two are safe in Kuwait and cleared on to Bahrain with no trouble, so that makes nine out of ten, if we include Erikki’s one in Tabriz, Dubois and Fowler’re still not accounted for but we’re hoping. Now what’s the problem, Roger?”
“There’s hell to pay all over the Gulf with Tehran screaming bloody murder and all our offices on alert. My Fearless Leader and yours truly, Roger Newbury Esquire, are cordially invited at seven-thirty to explain to the Illustrious Foreign Minister why there’s a sudden influx of helicopters here, albeit British registered, and how long they intend to stay.” Newbury, a short lean man with sandy hair and blue eyes and prominent nose, was clearly very irritated. “Glad about the nine out of ten, would you like a drink?”
“Thanks. A light Scotch and soda,”
Newbury went to fix it. “My Fearless Leader and I would be delighted to know what you suggest we say.”
Gavallan thought a moment. “The choppers are out the moment we can get them aboard the freighters.”
“When’s that?” Newbury gave him the drink.
“Thanks. The freighters’re promised by 6:00 P.M. Sunday. We’ll work all night and have them off Monday morning.”
Newbury was shocked. “Can’t you get them out before that?”
“The freighters were ordered for tomorrow but I was let down. Why?”
“Because, old boy, a few minutes ago we had a friendly, very serious high-level leak that so long as the choppers weren’t here by sunset tomorrow they might not be impounded.”
Now Gavallan was also shocked. “That’s not possible—can’t be done.”
“I’m suggesting that you’d be wise to make it possible. Fly them out to Oman or Dubai or wherever.”
“If we do that…if we do that we’ll be deeper in the mire.”
“I don’t think you can get any deeper, old boy. The way the leak put it was after sunset tomorrow you’ll be in over your eyeballs.” Newbury toyed with his drink, a lemon pressé. Blast all this, he was thinking. While we’re obliged to help our important trading interests salvage what they can from the Iran catastrophe we’ve got to remember the long term as well as the short. We can’t put Her Majesty’s Government at risk. Apart from that, my weekend’s ruined, I should be having a nice tall vodka gimlet with Angela and here I am, sipping slop. “You’ll have to move them.”
“Can you get us a forty-eight-hour reprieve, explain that the freighters are chartered but it’s got to be Sunday?”
“Wouldn’t dare suggest it, Andy. That would admit culpability.”
“Could you get us a forty-eight-hour transit permit to Oman?”
Newbury grimaced. “I’ll ask Himself but we couldn’t feel them out until tomorrow, too late now, and my immediate reaction’s that the request would correctly be turned down. Iran has a considerable goodwill presence there; after all they really did help put down Yemen-backed Communist insurgents. I doubt that they’d agree to offend a very good Mend however much the present fundamentalist line might displease them.”
Gavallan felt sick. “I’d better see if I can bring my freighters forward or get alternates—I’d say I’ve one chance in fifty.” He finished his drink and got up. “Sorry about all this.”
Newbury got up too. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said, genuinely sorry. “Keep me posted and I’ll do the same.”
“Of course. You said you might be able to get a message to Captain Yokkonen in Tabriz?”
“I’ll certainly try. What is it?”
“Just from me that he should, er, should leave as soon as possible, by the shortest route. Please sign it GHPLX Gavallan.”
Without comment Newbury wrote it down. “GHPLX?”
“Yes.” Gavallan felt sure that Erikki would understand this would be his new British registry number. “He’s not aware of, er, of certain developme
nts so if your man could also privately explain the reason for haste I’d be very, very grateful. Thanks for all your help.”
“For your sake, and his, I agree the sooner he leaves the better, with or without his aircraft. There’s nothing we can do to help him. Sorry, but that’s the truth.” Newbury fiddled with his glass. “Now he represents a very great danger to you. Doesn’t he?”
“I don’t think so. He’s under the protection of the new Khan, his brother-in-law. He’s as safe as he could ever be,” Gavallan said. What would Newbury say if he knew about Tom Lochart? “Erikki’ll be okay. He’ll understand. Thanks again.”
TABRIZ—AT THE INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL: 6:24 P.M. Hakim Khan walked painfully into the private room, the doctor and a guard following him. He was using crutches now and they made his walking easier, but when he bent or tried to sit, they did not relieve the pain. Only painkillers did that. Azadeh was waiting downstairs, her X ray better than his, her pain less than his.
Ahmed lay in bed, awake, his chest and stomach bandaged. The operation to remove the bullet lodged in his chest had been successful. The one in his stomach had done much damage, he had lost a great deal of blood, and internal bleeding had started again. But the moment he saw Hakim Khan he tried to raise himself.
“Don’t move, Ahmed,” Hakim Khan said, his voice kind. “The doctor says you’re mending well.”
“The doctor’s a liar, Highness.”
The doctor began to speak but stopped as Hakim said, “Liar or not, get well, Ahmed.”
“Yes, Highness. With the Help of God. But you, you are all right?”
“If the X ray doesn’t lie, I’ve just torn ligaments.” He shrugged. “With the Help of God.”