Whirlwind

  “Perhaps first you’d like to watch her spoiled. First.”

  Erikki lunged for him through the bars and the whole cage door shuddered under the impact. But the major stood there just out of range and laughed at the great hand clawing for him impotently. He had judged the distance accurately, far too practiced to be caught unawares, far too experienced an investigator not to know how to taunt and threaten and tempt, how to jeer and exaggerate and use the prisoner’s own fears and terrors, how to twist truths to break through the curtain of inevitable lies and half-truths—to get at the real truth.

  His superiors had left it up to him to decide what to do about both of them. Now he had decided. Without hurrying he pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Erikki’s face. And cocked the pistol. Erikki did not back off, just held the bars with his huge hands, his breath coming in great pants.

  “Good,” the major said calmly, holstering the gun. “You have been warned your behavior gauges her treatment.” He walked away. When Erikki was alone again, he tried to tear the cage door off its hinges. The door groaned but held firm.

  AL SHARGAZ INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 4:39 P.M. From the driver’s seat of his car Gavallan watched the loading hatch of a 747 freighter close on half the 212s, crates of spares and rotors. Pilots and mechanics were feverishly loading the second jumbo, just one more 212 carcass to get aboard, a dozen crates and piles of suitcases. “We’re on schedule, Andy,” Rudi, the loading master, said, pretending not to notice his friend’s pallor. “Half an hour.”

  “Good.” Gavallan handed him some papers. “Here are clearances for all mechanics to go with her.”

  “No pilots?”

  “No. All pilots’re on the BA flight. But make sure they’re in Immigration by six-ten. BA can’t hold the flight. Make sure everyone’s there, Rudi. They’ve got to be on that flight—I guaranteed it.”

  “Don’t worry. What about Duke and Manuela?”

  “They’ve already gone. Doc Nutt went with them, so they’re launched. I…that’s about all.” Gavallan was finding it hard to think.

  “You and Scrag’re still on the six-thirty-five to Bahrain?”

  “Yes. Jean-Luc’ll meet us. We’re taking Kasigi to set up his op and get ready for his Iran-Toda birds. I’ll see you all off.”

  “See you in Aberdeen.” Rudi shook his hand firmly and rushed away, Gavallan let in the clutch, ground the gears and cursed, then went back to the office.

  “Anything, Scrag?”

  “No, no, not yet, sport. Kasigi called. I told him he’s in business, gave him the chopper registrations, names of pilots and mecs. He said he’s booked on our flight to Kuwait tonight, then he’ll catch a ride to Abadan, then to Iran-Toda.” Scragger was as perturbed as the others about the way Gavallan looked. “Andy, you’ve covered every possibility.”

  “Have I? I doubt it, Scrag. I haven’t got Erikki and Azadeh out.”

  During the night, till very late London time, Gavallan had contacted everyone of importance he could think of. The Finnish ambassador had been shocked: “But it’s impossible! One of our nationals couldn’t possibly be involved in such an affair. Impossible! Where will you be this time tomorrow?” Gavallan had told him and had watched the night turn into dawn. No way to contact Hakim Khan other than through Newbury and Newbury was handling that possibility. “It’s a bitch, Scrag, but there you are.” Numbly he picked up the phone, put it down again. “Are you all checked out?”

  “Yes. Kasigi’ll meet us at the gate. I’ve sent all our bags to the terminal and had them checked in. We can stay here till the last moment and go straight over.”

  Gavallan stared at the airport. Busy, normal, gentle day. “I don’t know what to do, Scrag. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

  AT THE POLICE STATION IN THE TURKISH VILLAGE: 5:18 P.M. “…just as you say, Effendi. You will make the necessary arrangements?” the major said deferentially into the phone. He was sitting at the only desk in the small, scruffy office, the sergeant standing nearby, the kookri and Erikki’s knife on the desktop. “…Good. Yes…yes, I agree. Salaam.” He replaced the phone, lit a cigarette, and got up. “I’ll be at the hotel.”

  “Yes, Effendi.” The sergeant’s eyes glinted with amusement but, carefully, he kept it off his face. He watched the major straighten his jacket and hair and put on his fez, envying him his rank and power. The phone rang. “Police, yes?…oh, hello, Sergeant.” He listened with growing astonishment. “But…yes…yes, very well.” Blankly he put the phone back on its hook. “It…it was Sergeant Urbil at the border, Major Effendi. There’s an Iran Air Force truck with Green Bands and a mullah coming to take the helicopter and the prisoner and her back to Ir—”

  The major exploded. “In the Name of God who allowed hostiles over our border without authority? There’re standing orders about mullahs and revolutionaries!”

  “I don’t know, Effendi,” the sergeant said, frightened by the sudden rage. “Urbil just said they were waving official papers and insisted—everyone knows about the Iranian helicopter so he just let them through.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “He didn’t say, Effendi.”

  “Get your men, all of them, with submachine guns.”

  “But…but what about the prisoner?”

  “Forget him!” the major said and stormed out cursing.

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE VILLAGE: 5:32 P.M. The Iran Air Force truck was a four-wheel drive, part tanker and part truck, and it turned off the side road that was little more than a track onto the snow, changed gears, and headed for the 212. Nearby, the police sentry went to meet it.

  Half a dozen armed youths wearing green armbands jumped down, then three unarmed, uniformed Iran Air Force personnel, and a mullah. The mullah slung his Kalashnikov. “Salaam. We’re here to take possession of our property in the name of the Imam and the people,” the mullah said importantly. “Where is the kidnapper and the woman?”

  “I… I don’t know anything about that.” The policeman was flustered. His orders were clear: stand guard and keep everyone away until you’re told otherwise. “You’d better go to the police station first and ask there.” He saw one of the air force personnel open the cockpit door and lean into the cockpit; the other two were reeling out refueling hoses. “Hey, you three, you’re not allowed near the helicopter without permission!”

  The mullah stood in his path. “Here is our authority!” He waved papers in the policeman’s face and that rattled him even more, for he could not read.

  “You better go to the station first…” he stammered, then with vast relief saw the station police car hurtling along the little road toward them from the direction of the village. It swerved off into the snow, trundled a few yards and stopped. The major, sergeant, and two policemen got out, riot guns in their hands. Surrounded by his Green Bands, the mullah went toward them, unafraid. “Who’re you?” the major said harshly.

  “Mullah Ali Miandiry of the Khoi komiteh. We have come to take possession of our property, the kidnapper, and the woman, in the name of the Imam and the people.”

  “Woman? You mean Her Highness, the sister of Hakim Khan?”

  “Yes. Her.”

  “‘Imam’? Imam who?”

  “Imam Khomeini, peace be on him.”

  “Ah, Ayatollah Khomeini,” the major said, affronted by the title. “What ‘people’?”

  Just as toughly the mullah shoved some papers toward him. “The people of Iran. Here is our authority.”

  The major took the papers, scanned them rapidly. There were two of them, hastily scrawled in Farsi. The sergeant and his two men had spread out, surrounding the truck, submachine guns in their hands. The mullah and Green Bands watched them contemptuously.

  “Why isn’t it on the correct legal form?” the major said. “Where’s the police seal and the signature of the Khoi police chief?”

  “We don’t need one. It’s signed by the komiteh.”

  “What komiteh? I know nothing about komitehs.” br />
  “The Revolutionary Komiteh of Khoi has authority over this area and the police.”

  “This area? This area’s Turkey!”

  “I meant authority over the area up to the border,”

  “By whose authority? Where is your authority? Show it to me.”

  A current went through the youths. “The mullah’s shown it to you,” one of them said truculently. “The komiteh signed the paper.”

  “Who signed it? You?”

  “I did,” the mullah said. “It’s legal. Perfectly legal. The komiteh is the authority.” He saw the air force personnel staring at him. “What are you waiting for? Get the helicopter refueled!”

  Before the major could say anything, one of them said deferentially, “Excuse me, Excellency, the panel’s in a mess, some of the instruments are broken. We can’t fly her until she’s checked out. It’d be safer to g—”

  “The Infidel flew it all the way from Tabriz safely by night and by day, landed it safely, why can’t you fly it during the day?”

  “It’s just that it’d be safer to check before flying, Excellency.”

  “Safer? Why safer?” one of the Green Bands said roughly, walking over to him. “We’re in God’s hands doing God’s work. Do you want to delay God’s work and leave the helicopter here?”

  “Of course not, of co—”

  “Then obey our mullah and refuel it! Now!”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the pilot said lamely. “As you wish.” Hastily the three of them hurried to comply—the major shocked to see that the pilot, a captain, allowed himself to be overridden so easily by the young thug who now stared back at him with flat, challenging eyes.

  “The komiteh has jurisdiction over the police, Agha,” the mullah was saying. “Police served the Satan Shah and are suspect. Where is the kidnapper and the…the sister of the Khan?”

  “Where’s your authority to come over the border and ask for anything?” The major was coldly furious.

  “In the Name of God, Imam Khomeini, this is authority enough!” The mullah stabbed his finger at the papers. One of the youths cocked his gun.

  “Don’t,” the major warned him. “If you pull a single trigger on our soil, our forces will come over your border and burn everything between here and Tabriz!”

  “If it’s the Will of God!” The mullah stared back, dark eyes and dark beard and just as resolved, despising the major and the loose regime the man and uniform represented to him. War now or later was all the same to him, he was in God’s hands and doing God’s work and the Word of the Imam would sweep them to victory—over all borders. But now was not the time for war, too much to do in Khoi, leftists to overcome, revolts to put down, the Imam’s enemies to destroy, and for that, in these mountains, every helicopter was priceless.

  “I… I ask for possession of our property,” he said, more reasonably. He pointed at the markings. “There are our registrations, that’s proof that it is our property. It was stolen from Iran—you must know there was no permission to leave Iran, legally it is still our property. The warrant,” he pointed to the papers in the major’s hand, “the warrant is legal, the pilot kidnapped the woman, so we will take possession of them too. Please.”

  The major was in an untenable situation. He could not possibly hand over the Finn and his wife to illegals because of an illegal piece of paper—that would be a gross dereliction of duty and would, correctly, cost him his head. If the mullah forced the issue he would have to resist and defend the police station, but obviously he had insufficient men to do so, obviously he would fail in the confrontation. Equally he was convinced that the mullah and Green Bands were prepared to die this very minute as he himself was not.

  He decided to gamble. “The kidnapper and the Lady Azadeh were sent to Van this morning. To extradite them you have to apply to Army HQ, not to me. The…the importance of the Khan’s sister meant that the army took possession of both of them.”

  The mullah’s face froze. One of the Green Bands said sullenly, “How do we know that’s not a lie?” The major whirled on him, the youth jumped back a foot, Green Bands behind the truck aimed, the unarmed airmen dropped to the ground aghast, the major’s hand went for his revolver.

  “Stop!” the mullah said. He was obeyed, even by the major who was furious with himself for allowing pride and reflexes to overcome his self-discipline. The mullah thought a moment, considering possibilities. Then he said, “We will apply to Van. Yes, we will do that. But not today. Today we will take our property and we will leave.” He stood there, legs slightly apart, assault rifle over his shoulder, supremely confident.

  The major fought to hide his relief. The helicopter had no value to him or his superiors and was an extreme embarrassment. “I agree they’re your markings,” he said shortly. “As to ownership, I don’t know. If you sign a receipt leaving ownership open, you may take it and leave.”

  “I will sign a receipt for our helicopter.”

  On the back of the warrant the major scrawled what would satisfy him and perhaps satisfy the mullah. The mullah turned and scowled at the airmen who hurriedly began reeling in the fuel hoses, and the pilot stood beside the cockpit once more, brushing the snow off. “Are you ready now, pilot?”

  “Any moment, Excellency.”

  “Here,” the major said to the mullah, handing him the paper.

  With barely concealed derision the mullah signed it without reading it. “Are you ready now, pilot?” he said.

  “Yes, Excellency, yes.” The young captain looked at the major and the major saw—or thought he saw—the misery in his eyes and the unspoken plea for asylum that was impossible to grant. “Can I start up?”

  “Start up,” the mullah said imperiously, “of course start up.” In seconds the engines began winding up sweetly, rotors picking up speed. “Ali and Abrim, you go with the truck back to the base.”

  Obediently the two young men got in with the air force driver. The mullah motioned them to leave and the others to board the helicopter. The rotors were thrashing the air and he waited until everyone was in the cabin, then unslung his gun, sat beside the pilot, and pulled the door closed.

  Engines building, an awkward liftoff, the 212 started trundling away. Angrily the sergeant aimed his submachine gun. “I can blow the motherless turds out of the sky, Major.”

  “Yes, yes, we could.” The major took out his cigarette case. “But we’ll leave that to God. Perhaps God will do that for us.” He used the lighter shakily, inhaled, and watched the track and the helicopter grinding away. “Those dogs will have to be taught manners and a lesson.” He walked over to the car and got in. “Drop me at the hotel.”

  AT THE HOTEL: Azadeh was leaning out of the window, searching the sky. She had heard the 212 start up and take off and was filled with the impossible hope that Erikki had somehow escaped. “Oh, God, let it be true…”

  Villagers were also looking up at the sky and now she too saw the chopper well on its way back to the border. Her insides turned over. Has he bartered his freedom for mine? Oh, Erikki…

  Then she saw the police car come into the square, stop outside the hotel, and the major get out, straighten his uniform. Her face drained. Resolutely she closed the window and sat on the chair facing the door, near the pillow. Waiting. Waiting. Now footsteps. The door opened. “Follow me,” he said. “Please.”

  For a moment she did not understand. “What?”

  “Follow me. Please.”

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously, expecting a trap and not wanting to leave the safety of the hidden spike. “What’s going on? Is my husband flying the helicopter? It’s going back. Have you sent him back?” She felt her courage leaving her fast, her anxiety that Erikki had given himself up in return for her safety making her frantic. “Is he flying it?”

  “No, your husband’s in the police station. Iranians came for the helicopter, for him and you,” Now that the crisis was over, the major felt very good. “The airplane was Iran-registered, had no clearance to leave
Iran, so therefore they still had a right to it. Now, follow me.”

  “Where to, please?”

  “I thought you might like to see your husband.” The major enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed the danger, wondering where her secreted weapon was. These women always have a weapon or venom of some kind, death of some kind lurking for the unwary rapist. Easy to overcome if you’re ready, if you watch their hands and don’t sleep. “Well?”

  “There are…there are Iranians at the police station?”

  “No, This is Turkey, not Iran, no alien is waiting for you. Come along, you’ve nothing to fear.”

  “I’ll… I’ll be right down. At once.”

  “Yes, you will—at once,” he said. “You don’t need a bag, just your jacket. Be quick before I change my mind.” He saw the flash of fury and it further amused him. But this time she obeyed, seething, put on her jacket and went down the stairs, hating her helplessness. Across the square beside him, eyes watching them. Into the station and the room, the same one as before. “Please wait here.”

  Then he closed the door and went into the office. The sergeant held out the phone for him. “I have Captain Tanazak, Border Station duty officer, for you, sir.”

  “Captain? Major Ikail. The border’s closed to all mullahs and Green Bands until further orders. Arrest the sergeant who let some through a couple of hours ago and send him to Van in great discomfort. An Iranian truck’s coming back. Order it harassed for twenty hours, and the men in it. As for you, you’re subject to court-martial for failing to ensure standing instructions about armed men!” He put the phone down, glanced at his watch. “Is the car ready, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Effendi.”

  “Good.” The major went through the door, down the corridor to the cage, the sergeant following him. Erikki did not get up. Only his eyes moved. “Now, Mr. Pilot, if you’re prepared to be calm, controlled, and no longer stupid, I’m going to bring your wife to see you.”

  Erikki’s voice grated. “If you or anyone touches her I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll tear you to pieces.”

  “I agree it must be difficult to have such a wife. Better to have an ugly one than one such as her—unless she’s kept in purdah. Now do you want to see her or not?”