At that moment his disbelieving eyes saw the groups of riders break out of the forest a quarter of a mile away on both sides of him, police among them, and begin galloping across the rocky space to head them off. His ears told him the engines were in the Green. At once his hands shoved full throttle. Time slowing. Creeping off the ground, no way that the attackers could not shoot them down. A million years of time for them to rein in, aim, and fire, any one of the dozen men. The gendarme in the middle, the sergeant, he’s stopping, pulling the M16 out of his saddle holster!
Abruptly time came back at full speed and Erikki swung away and fled from them, weaving this way and that, expecting every second to be the last, then they were over the side, roaring down into the ravine at treetop level.
“Hold your fire,” the sergeant shouted to the overexcited tribesmen who were at the lip, aiming and firing, their horses cavorting. “In the Name of God I told you we were ordered to capture them, to save her and kill him, not kill her!” Reluctantly the others obeyed and when he came up to them he saw the 212 was well away down in the valley. He pulled out the walkie-talkie and switched on: “HQ, this is Sergeant Zibri. The ambush failed. His engines were going before we got into position. But he’s flushed out of his hiding place.”
“Which way is he heading?”
“He’s turning north toward the Khoi-Van road.”
“Did you see Her Highness?”
“Yes. She looked petrified. Tell the Khan we saw the kidnapper strap her into the seat and it looked as though the kidnapper also had a strap around her wrist. She…” The sergeant’s voice picked up excitedly. “Now the helicopter’s turned eastward, it’s keeping about two or three kilometers south of the road.”
“Good. Well done. We’ll alert the air force…”
TEHRAN—AT INNER INTELLIGENCE HQ: 9:54 A.M. Group Four assassin Suliman al Wiali tried to stop his fingers from trembling as he took the telex from the SAVAMA colonel: “Chief of Inner Intelligence Colonel Hashemi Fazir was killed last night, bravely leading the charge that overran the leftist mujhadin HQ, together with the English adviser Armstrong. Both men were consumed by fire when the traitors blew up the building, (signed) Chief of Police, Tabriz.”
Suliman was not yet over his fright at the sudden summons, petrified that this official had already found incriminating papers in Fazir’s safe about Group Four assassins—the safe open and empty behind him. Surely my Master wouldn’t have been that careless, not here in his own office! “The Will of God, Excellency,” he said, handing the telex back and hiding his fury. “The Will of God. Are you the new leader of Inner Intelligence, Excellency?”
“Yes. What were your duties?”
“I’m an agent, Excellency,” Suliman told him, fawning as would be expected, disregarding the past tense. His fear began to leave him. If these dogs suspected anything, I wouldn’t be standing here, he reasoned, his confidence growing, I’d be in a dungeon screaming. These incompetent sons of dogs don’t deserve to live in the world of men. “The colonel ordered me to live in Jaleh and keep my ears and eyes open and smoke out Communists.” He kept his eyes blank, despising this lean-faced, pompous man who sat at Fazir’s desk.
“How long have you been employed?”
“Three or four years, I don’t remember exactly, Excellency, it’s on my card. Perhaps it’s five, I don’t remember. It should be on my card, Excellency. About four years and I work hard and will serve you with all my power.”
“SAVAMA is absorbing Inner Intelligence. From now on you will report to me. I’ll want copies of your reports since you began.”
“As God wants, Excellency, but I can’t write, at least I write very badly and Excellency Fazir never required written reports,” Suliman lied guilelessly. He waited in silence, shuffling his feet and acting dull-witted. SAVAK or SAVAMA, they’re all liars and more than likely they arranged my Master’s murder. God curse them—these dogs’ve ruined my Master’s plan. They’ve done me out of my perfect job! My perfect job with real money and real power and real future. These dogs are thieves, they’ve stolen my future and my safety. Now I’ve no job, no pinpointed enemies of God to slay. No future, no safety, no protec—Unless!
Unless I use my wits and skills and take over where my Master was stopped!
Son of a burnt father, why not? It’s the Will of God that he’s dead and I’m alive, that he’s the sacrifice and I’m not. Why not induct more teams? I know the Master’s techniques and part of his plan. Even better, why not raid his house and empty the safe in the cellar he never knew I knew about. Not even his wife knows about that one. Now that he’s dead it should be easy. Yes, and better I go tonight, get there first before these turd eaters of the Left Hand do it. What riches that safe could contain—should contain! Money, papers, lists—my Master loved lists like a dog loves shit! May I be sacrificed if the safe doesn’t contain a list of the other Group Fours. Didn’t my late Master plan to be today’s al-Sabbah? Why not me instead? With assassins, real assassins who are already fearless of death and seek martyrdom as their guaranteed passport to Paradise…
He almost laughed aloud. To cover it he belched. “Sorry, Excellency, I’m not feeling well, can I leave, pl—”
“Where did Colonel Fazir keep his papers?”
“Papers, Excellency? May I be your sacrifice, Excellency, but what should a man like me know about papers? I’m just an agent, I reported to him and he sent me away, most times with a boot and a curse—it will be grand to work for a real man.” He waited confidently. Now what would Fazir have wanted me to do? Certainly to be avenged which is clearly to dispose of Pahmudi who’s responsible for his death—and this dog who dares to sit at his desk. Why not? But not until I’ve emptied the real safe. “Please can I go, Excellency? My bowels are overful and I’ve the parasite disease.”
Distastefully, the colonel looked up from the card that told him nothing. No files in the safe, just money. A marvelous pishkesh for me, he thought, but where are his files? Fazir must have kept files somewhere. His home? “Yes, you can go,” he said irritably, “but report to me once a week. Personally to me. And don’t forget, unless you do a good job…we don’t intend to employ malingerers.”
“Yes, Excellency, certainly, Excellency, thank you, Excellency, I’ll do my best for God and the Imam, but when should I report?”
“The day after Holy Day, every week.” Testily the colonel waved him away. Suliman shuffled out and promised himself that before the next reporting day this colonel would be no more. Son of a dog, why not? Already my power reaches to Beirut and to Bahrain.
BAHRAIN: 12:50 P.M. Due south, almost seven hundred miles away, Bahrain was balmy and sunny, the beaches full with weekend vacationers, windsurfers offshore enjoying the fine breeze, hotel terrace tables filled with men and women, scantily dressed to bask in the fine spring sunshine. One of these was Sayada Bertolin.
She wore a filmy sundress over her bikini and sipped a citron pressé and sat alone, her table shaded by a green umbrella. Idly she watched the bathers and the children playing in the shallows—one small boy a pattern of her own son. It’ll be so good to be home again, she thought, to hold my son in my arms again and yes, yes, even to see my husband again. It’s been such a long time away from civilization, from good food and good talk, from good coffee and croissants and wine, from newspapers and radio and TV and all the wonderful things we take for granted. Though not me. I’ve always appreciated them and have always worked for a better world and justice in the Middle East.
But now? Her joy left her.
Now I’m not just a PLO sympathizer and courier but a secret agent for Lebanese Christian militia, their Israeli overlords and their CIA overlords—thank God I was fortunate to overhear them whispering together when they thought I had already left after getting their orders to return to Beirut. Still no names, but enough to pinpoint their origin. Dogs! Filthy vile dogs! Christians! Betrayers of Palestine! There’s still Teymour to be revenged. Dare I tell my husband who’ll tell oth
ers in the Council? I daren’t. They know too much.
Her attention focused out to sea and she was startled. Among the windsurfers she recognized Jean-Luc, hurtling shoreward, beautifully balanced on the precarious board, leaning elegantly against the wind. At the very last second, he twisted into the wind, stepped off in the shallows, and allowed the sail to collapse. She smiled at such perfection.
Ah, Jean-Luc how you do love yourself! But I admit that had flair. In many things you’re superb, as a chef, as a lover—ah, yes, but only from time to time, you’re not varied enough or experimental enough for us Middle Easterns who understand eroticism, and you’re too concerned with your own beauty, “I’ll admit you’re beautiful,” she murmured, moistening pleasantly at the thought. In lovemaking you’re above average, chéri, but no more. You’re not the best. My first husband was the best, perhaps because he was the first. Then Teymour. Teymour was unique. Ah, Teymour I’m not afraid to think of you now, now that I’m out of Tehran. There I couldn’t. I won’t forget you, or what they did. I’ll take revenge for you on Christian militia one day.
Her eyes were watching Jean-Luc, wondering what he was doing here, elated he was here, hoping he would see her, not wanting to make the first move to tempt fate but ready to wait and see what fate had in store. She glanced in her hand mirror, added a touch of gloss to her lips, perfume behind her ears. Again she waited. He started up from the beach. She pretended to concentrate on her glass, watching him in its reflection, leaving it up to chance.
“Sayada! Mon Dieu, chérie! What are you doing here?”
She was suitably astonished and then he was kissing her and she tasted the sea salt and smelled the sun oil and sweat and decided this afternoon would be perfect after all. “I just arrived, chéri. I arrived last night from Tehran,” she said breathlessly, letting her desire fill her. “I’m wait-listed on Middle Eastern’s noon flight to Beirut tomorrow—but what are you doing here, it’s like a miracle!”
“It is, how lucky we are! But you can’t go tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sunday. Tomorrow we’ll have a barbecue, lobsters and oysters!”
He was completely confident and Gallic and charmingly persuasive and she thought, Why not? Beirut can wait. I’ve waited so long one more day won’t matter.
And he was thinking, How perfect! The weekend was going to be a disaster but now love this afternoon, then siesta. Later I’ll choose a perfect dinner, then we’ll dance a little and love tenderly and sleep soundly, ready for another perfect day tomorrow. “Chérie, I’m desolate but I must leave you for almost an hour,” he said with the perfect touch of sadness. “We will lunch here—you stay at this hotel? Perfect, so do I: 1623. About one-thirty, quarter to two? Don’t change, you look perfect. C’est bon?” He bent down and kissed her and let his hand stray to her breast, felt her tremor and was pleased.
AT THE HOSPITAL: 1:16 P.M. “Good morning, Dr. Lanoire. Captain McIver, is it good or bad?” Jean-Luc said, speaking French to him—Anton Lanoire’s father came from Cannes, his mother was Bahraini, a Sorbonne-trained daughter of an illiterate fisherman who still fished as he had always done, still lived in a hovel though he was a multimillionaire owner of oil wells.
“It’s middling.”
“How middling is that?”
The doctor steepled his fingers. He was a distinguished man in his late thirties, trained in Paris and London, trilingual, Arabic, French, and English. “We won’t know with much accuracy for a few days; we still have to make several tests. We’ll know the real good or bad when he has an angiogram a month from now, but in the meantime Captain McIver’s responding to treatment and is not in pain.”
“But is he going to be all right?”
“Angina is quite ordinary, usually. I understand from his wife he’s been under very great stress for the last few months, and even worse for the last few days on this Whirlwind exercise of yours—and no wonder. What courage! I salute him and you and all those who took part. At the same time I’d strongly advise that all pilots and crews be given two or three months off.”
Jean-Luc beamed. “May I have that in writing, please. Of course the three months sick leave should be with full pay—and allowances.”
“Of course. What a magnificent job all of you did for your company, risking your lives—you should all get a well-deserved bonus! I wonder why more of you don’t have heart attacks. The two months is to recuperate, Jean-Luc—it’s essential you have a careful checkup before you continue flying.”
Jean-Luc was perplexed. “We can all expect heart attacks?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all.” Lanoire smiled. “But it would be very wise to be checked thoroughly—just in case. You know angina’s caused by a sudden blockage of blood? A stroke’s when the same happens to the brain. Arteries get clogged and that’s it! Insha’Allah. It can happen anytime.”
“It can?” Jean-Luc’s discomfort increased. Piece of shit! It’d just be my luck to have a heart attack.
“Oh, yes,” the doctor continued helpfully. “I’ve known patients in their thirties and early forties with perfectly normal blood pressure, normal cholesterol, and normal EKGs—electrocardiograms—and poof!” He parodied with his hands expressively. “Within a few hours—poof!”
“Poof! Just like that?” Jean-Luc sat down uneasily.
“I can’t fly but I would imagine flying creates a lot of stress, especially somewhere like the North Sea. And stress is perhaps the biggest cause of angina, when part of the heart dies an—”
“My God, old Mac’s heart died?” Jean-Luc was shocked.
“Oh, no, just a part. Every time you have an attack of angina, however mild, a part’s lost forever. Dead.” Dr. Lanoire smiled. “Of course you can go on quite a long time before you run out of tissue.”
Mon Dieu, Jean-Luc thought squeamishly. I don’t like this at all. North Sea? Bucket of shit, I’d better apply for a transfer before I even go there! “How long will Mac be in the hospital?”
“Four or five days. I would suggest you leave him today and visit tomorrow, but don’t tax him. He must have a month’s leave, then some further tests.”
“What are his chances?”
“That’s up to God.”
Upstairs on the veranda of a pleasant room overlooking the blue waters, Genny was dozing in a chair, today’s London Times, brought by BA’s early flight, open on her lap. McIver lay comfortably in the starched clean bed. The breeze came off the sea and touched him and he woke up. Wind’s changed, he thought. It’s back to the standard northeasterly. Good. He moved to see better out into the Gulf. The slight movement awakened her instantly. She folded the paper and got up.
“How’re you feeling, luv?”
“Fine. I’m fine now. No pain. Just a bit tired. Vaguely heard you talking to the doc, what did he say?”
“Everything seems fine. The attack wasn’t bad. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days, then a month off and then some more tests—he was very encouraging because you don’t smoke, you’re ever so fit, considering.” Genny stood over the bed, against the light, but he could see her face and read the truth thereon. “You can’t fly anymore—as a pilot,” she said and smiled.
“That’s a bugger,” he said dryly. “Have you been in touch with Andy?”
“Yes. I called last night and this morning and will check again in an hour or so. Nothing yet on young Marc Dubois and Fowler but all our birds are safe at Al Shargaz and being stripped for freighting out tomorrow. Andy was so proud of you—and Scrag. I talked to him this morning too.”
The shadow of a smile. “It’ll be good to see old Scrag. You’re okay?”
“Oh, yes.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m ever so glad you’re better—you did give me a turn.”
“I gave me a turn, Gen.” He smiled and held out his hand and said gruffly, “Thanks, Mrs. McIver.”
She took it and put it to her cheek, then bent down and touched his lips with hers, warmed by the enormity of the affection in his face. “You did give me such a
turn,” she said again.
He noticed the newspaper. “That’s today’s, Gen?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Seems years since I saw one. What’s new?”
“More of the usual.” She folded the paper and put it aside carelessly, not wanting him to see the section she had been reading in case it worried him. “Stock market collapse in Hong Kong.” That’ll certainly affect Struan’s and that bastard Linbar, she thought, but will it touch S-G and Andy? Nothing Duncan can do, so never mind. “Strikes, Callaghan’s messing up poor old Britain more than ever. They say he might call a snap election this year, and if he does Maggie Thatcher’s got a good chance. Wouldn’t that be super? Be a change to have someone sensible in charge.”
“Because she’s a woman?” He smiled wryly, “That’d certainly set the cat among the chickens. Christ Almighty, a woman PM! Don’t know how she ever wangled the leadership away from Heath in the first place…she must have iron-plated knickers! If only the bloody Liberals’d stayed out of the way…” His voice trailed off and she saw him look out to sea, some passing dhows beautiful.
Quietly she sat down and waited, wanting to let him drift back into sleep, or talk a little, whatever pleased him. He must be getting better if he’s already taking off after the Libs, she thought, bemused, letting herself drift, watching the sea. Her hair was moved by the breeze that smelled of sea salt. It was pleasant just sitting, knowing that he was all right now, “responding to treatment. No need to worry, Mrs. McIver.” Easy to say, hard not to do.
There’ll be a huge change in our lives, has to be, apart from losing Iran and all our stuff there, lot of old rubbish, most of it that I won’t miss. Now that Whirlwind’s over—I must’ve been mad to suggest it, but oh it worked so well! Now we’ve most of our lads out safely—can’t think of Tom or Marc or Fowler, Erikki or Azadeh or Sharazad, God bless them all—and our best equipment and our face so we’re still in business, our stake in S-G’s got to be worth something. We won’t be penniless and that’s a blessing. I wonder how much we could get for our shares? I suppose we do have a share? But what about the “stock market collapse”? I hope that hasn’t buggered us again.