“But, Excell—”
“Come on!” Buttoning his flight jacket against the breeze, Ayre hurried out. Pavoud wiped his sweating palms. The other Iranians watched him, equally anxious.
“As God wants,” one of them said, blessing God it was Pavoud, not him.
At the 212 the ground check continued. Ayre arrived as the cars arrived. His smile vanished. The cars were crammed with armed men, Green Bands, and they fanned out around the chopper, a few uniformed airmen among them.
The mullah Hussain Kowissi got out of the front seat of the lead car, his turban very white and his dark robes new, his boots old and well used. Over his shoulder was his AK47. Clearly he was in command. Other men opened the back doors of the first car and half pulled Colonel Peshadi out, then his wife. Peshadi shouted at them, cursing them, and they backed off a little. He straightened his uniform greatcoat and braided, peaked cap. His wife wore a heavy winter coat and gloves and a little hat and shoulder bag. Her face was white and drawn but, like her husband, she held her head high and proudly. She reached back into the car for a small tote bag but one of the Green Bands grabbed it, and after a slight hesitation handed it to her.
Ayre tried to keep the shock off his face. “What’s going on, sir?”
“We’re…we’re being sent to Isfahan under guard! Under guard! My base…my base was betrayed and is in the hands of mutineers!” The colonel did not keep the fury off his face as he whirled on Hussain, in Farsi: “I say again, what has my wife to do with this? EH?” he added with a roar. One of the nervous Green Bands nearby shoved a rifle into his back. Without looking around the colonel smashed the rifle away. “Son of a whore dog!”
“Stop!” Hussain said in Farsi. “It is orders from Isfahan. I’ve shown you the orders that you and your wife are to be sent at once t—”
“Orders? A dung filthy piece of paper scrawled in an illegible illiterate handwriting and signed by an ayatollah I’ve never heard of?”
Hussain walked over to him. “Get aboard, both of you,” he warned, “or I’ll have you dragged there!”
“When the aircraft is ready!” Contemptuously the colonel took out a cigarette. “Give me a light,” he ordered the man nearest to him, and when the man hesitated, he snarled, “Are you deaf? A light!”
The man smiled wryly and found some matches, and all those around nodded approval, even the mullah, admiring courage in the face of death—courage in the face of hell, for surely this man was a Shah man and headed for hell. Of course hell! Didn’t you hear him shout, “Long live the Shah,” only hours ago when, in the night, we invaded and took possession of the camp and his fine house, helped by all the base’s soldiers and airmen and some of the officers, the rest of the officers now in cells? God is Great! It was the Will of God, God’s miracle that the generals caved in like the walls of shit the mullahs told us they were. The Imam was right again, God protect him.
Hussain went over to Ayre who was rigid, appalled by what was going on, trying to understand, Marc Dubois beside him, equally shocked, the ground check stopped. “Salaam,” the mullah said trying to be polite. “You have nothing to fear. The Imam has ordered everything back to normal.”
“Normal?” Ayre echoed angrily. “That’s Colonel Peshadi, tank commander, hero of your expeditionary force sent to Oman to help put down a Marxist-supported rebellion and invasion from South Yemen!” That had been in ’73 when the Shah was asked for help by Oman’s sultan. “Hasn’t Colonel Peshadi got the Zolfaghar, your highest medal given only for gallantry in battle?”
“Yes. But now Colonel Peshadi is needed to answer questions concerning crimes against the Iranian people and against the laws of God! Salaam, Captain Dubois, I’m glad that you’re going to fly us.”
“I was asked to fly a CASEVAC. This isn’t a CASEVAC,” Dubois said.
“It’s a casualty evacuation—the colonel and his wife are to be evacuated to Command Headquarters in Isfahan.” Hussain added with a sardonic smile, “Perhaps they are casualties.”
Ayre said, “Sorry, our aircraft are under license to IranOil. We can’t do what you ask.”
The mullah turned and shouted, “Excellency Esvandiary!”
Kuram Esvandiary, or “Hotshot” as he was nicknamed, was in his early thirties, popular with the expats, very efficient, and S-G trained—he had had two years of training at S-G HQ at Aberdeen on a Shah grant. He came from the back and, for a moment, not one of the S-G men recognized their station manager. Normally he was a meticulous dresser and clean-shaven, but now he had three or four days’ growth of heavy beard, and wore rough clothes with a green armband, slouch hat, an M16 slung over his shoulder. “The trip’s sanctioned, here,” he said, giving Ayre the usual forms, “I’ve signed them and they’re stamped.”
“But, Hotshot, surely you realize this isn’t a legitimate CASEVAC?”
“My name’s Esvandiary—Mr. Esvandiary,” he said without a smile and Ayre flushed. “And it’s a legitimate order from IranOil who employ you under contract here in Iran.” His face hardened. “If you refuse a legitimate order in good flying conditions, you’re breaking your contract. If you do that without cause then we’ve the right to seize all assets, aircraft, hangars, spares, houses, equipment, and order you out of Iran at once.”
“You can’t do that,”
“I’m IranOil’s chief representative here now,” Esvandiary said curtly. “IranOil’s owned by the government. The Revolutionary Komiteh under the leadership of the Imam Khomeini, peace be upon him, is the government. Read your IranOil contract—also the contract between S-G and Iran Helicopters. Are you flying the charter or refusing to?”
Ayre held on to his temper. “What about…what about Prime Minister Bakhtiar and the gov—”
“Bakhtiar?” Esvandiary and the mullah stared at him. “Haven’t you heard yet? He’s resigned and fled, the generals capitulated yesterday morning, the Imam and the Revolutionary Komiteh are Iran’s government now.”
Ayre and Dubois and those expats nearby gaped at him. The mullah said something in Farsi they did not understand. His men laughed.
“Capitulated?” was all Ayre could say.
“It was the Will of God the generals came to their senses,” Hussain said, his eyes glittering. “They were arrested, the whole General Staff. All of them. As all enemies of Islam will be arrested now. We got Nassiri too—you’ve heard of him?” the mullah asked witheringly. Nassiri was the hated head of SAVAK whom the Shah had arrested a few weeks ago and who was in jail awaiting trial. “Nassiri was found guilty of crimes against humanity and shot—along with three other generals, Rahimi, martial law governor of Tehran, Naji, governor general of Isfahan, Paratrooper Commander Khosrowdad. You’re wasting time. Are you flying or not?”
Ayre was barely able to think. If what they say is true, then Peshadi and his wife are as good as dead. It’s all so fast, all so impossible. “We…of course we will fly a…a legal charter. Just exactly what is it you want?”
“To transport His Excellency mullah Hussain Kowissi to Isfahan at once—with his personnel. At once,” Esvandiary interrupted impatiently, “with the prisoner and his wife.”
“They’re… Colonel and Mrs. Peshadi’re not on the manifest.”
Even more impatiently Esvandiary ripped the paper out of his hands, wrote on it. “Now they are!” He motioned past Ayre and Dubois to where Manuela was standing in the background, her hair carefully tucked into a hat, wearing overalls. He had noticed her the moment he had arrived—enticing as always, unsettling as always. “I should arrest her for illegal trespass,” he said, his voice raw. “She has no right on this base—there are no married quarters, nor’re any allowed by base and S-G rules.”
Over by the 212, Colonel Peshadi angrily shouted in English, “Are you flying today or not? We’re getting cold. Hurry it up, Ayre—I want to spend as little time as possible with these vermin!”
Esvandiary and the mullah flushed. Ayre called back, feeling better for the man’s bravery, “Yes
, sir. Sorry. Okay, Marc?”
“Yes.” To Esvandiary, Dubois said, “Where’s my military clearance?”
“Attached to the manifest. Also for your return trip tomorrow.” Esvandiary added in Farsi to the mullah: “I suggest you board, Excellency.”
The mullah walked off. Guards motioned Peshadi and his wife aboard. Heads high, they went up the steps without faltering. Armed men piled in after them and the mullah took the front left seat beside Dubois.
“Wait a minute,” Ayre began, now over the shock. “We’re not flying armed men. It’s against the rules—yours and ours!”
Esvandiary shouted an order, jerked a thumb at Manuela. At once four armed men surrounded her. Others moved much closer to Ayre. “Now, give Dubois a thumbs-up!”
Grimly aware of the danger, Ayre obeyed. Dubois acknowledged and started up. Quickly he was airborne. “Now into the office,” Esvandiary said above the howl of the engines. He called the men off Manuela and ordered them back into the cars. “Leave one car here and four guards—I have more orders for these foreigners. You,” he added toughly to Pavoud, “you get an up-to-date on all aircraft here, all spares, all transport, as well as the quantity of gasoline, also numbers of personnel, foreign and Iranians, their names, jobs, passport numbers, residence permits, work permits, flying licenses. Understand?”
“Yes, yes, Excellency Esvandiary. Yes, cert—”
“And I want to see all passports and permits tomorrow. Get busy!”
The man left hurriedly. Esvandiary was bowed through the front door. He led the way into Starke’s office and took the main chair and sat behind the desk, Ayre following him. “Sit down.”
“Thanks, you’re so kind,” Ayre said witheringly, taking the chair opposite him. The two men were of an age and they watched each other.
The Iranian took out a cigarette and lit it. “This will be my office from now on,” he said. “Now that at long last Iran is back in Iranian hands we can begin to make the necessary changes. For the next two weeks you will operate under my personal guidance until I am sure the new way is understood. I am the top IranOil authority for Kowiss and I’ll issue all flight permits; no one takes off without written approval and always with an armed guard an—”
“It’s against air law and Iranian law and it’s forbidden. Apart from that it’s bloody dangerous. Finish!”
There was a big silence. Then Esvandiary nodded. “You will carry guards who will have guns—but no ammunition.” He smiled. “There, you see, we can compromise. We can be reasonable, oh, yes. You’ll see, the new era will be good for you too.”
“I hope it is. For you too.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning every revolution I’ve ever read about always begins by feeding off itself, friends quickly become enemies and even quicker die.”
“Not with us.” Esvandiary was totally confident. “It won’t be that way with us. Ours was a real people’s revolution—of all the people. Everyone wanted the Shah out—and his foreign masters.”
“I hope you’re right.” You poor bastard, Ayre thought, once having liked him. If your leaders can judge, condemn, and shoot four top generals—all good men except for Nassiri—in less than twenty-four hours, can arrest and abuse fine patriots like Peshadi and his wife, God help you. “Are you finished with me for the present?”
“Almost.” A shaft of anger went through Esvandiary. Through the windows he noticed Manuela walking back to the bungalow with some of the pilots, and his lust increased his rage. “It would be good to learn manners and that Iran is an Asian, an Oriental country, a world power and never, never again to be exploited by British, Americans, or even Soviets. Never again.” He slouched in his chair and put his feet on the desk as he had seen Starke and Ayre do a hundred times, the soles of his feet toward Ayre, always an insult in this part of the world. “British were worse than the Americans. They’ve caused us national shame for a hundred and fifty years, treating our ancient Peacock Throne and country as their private fief, using the defense of India as an excuse. They’ve dictated to our rulers, occupied us three times, forced unequal treaties on us, bribed our leaders to grant them concessions. For a hundred and fifty years British and Russians have partitioned my country, the British helped those other hyenas to steal our northern provinces, our Caucasus, and helped put Reza Khan on the throne. They occupied us, with the Soviets, in your world war and only our own supreme efforts broke the chain and threw them out.” Abruptly the man’s face contorted and he screamed, “Didn’t they?”
Ayre had not moved, nor had his eyes flickered. “Hotshot, and I’ll never call you that again,” he said quietly, “I don’t want lectures, just to do the job. If we can’t work out a satisfactory method, then that’s something else. We’ll have to see. If you want this office, jolly good. If you want to act up a storm, jolly good—within reason—you’ve a right to celebrate. You’ve won, you’ve the guns, you’ve the power, and now you’re responsible. And you’re right, it is your country. So let’s leave it at that. Eh?”
Esvandiary stared at him, his head aching with the suppressed hatred of years that need never be suppressed again. And though he knew it was not Ayre’s fault, he was equally certain that a moment ago he would have sprayed him and them with bullets if they had not obeyed and flown the mullah and the traitor Peshadi to the judgment and the hell he deserves. I’ve not forgotten the soldier Peshadi had murdered—the one who wanted to open the gate to us—or the others murdered two days ago when Peshadi beat us off and hundreds died, my brother and two of my best friends among them. And all the other hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands who’ve died all over Iran… I’ve not forgotten them, not one.
A dribble of saliva was running down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and got his control back, remembering the importance of his mission. “All right, Freddy.” He said “Freddy” involuntarily. “All right, and that’s…that’s the last time I’ll call you that. All right, we’ll leave it at that.”
He got up, very tired now but proud of the way he had dominated them and very confident he could make these foreigners work and behave until they were expelled. Very soon now, he thought. I’ll have no difficulty putting the partners’ long-term plan into effect here. I agree with Valik. We’ve plenty of Iranian pilots and we need no foreigners here. I can run this operation—as a partner—praise God that Valik was always a secret Khomeini supporter! Soon I’ll have a big house in Tehran and my two sons will go to university there, so will my darling little Fatmeh, though perhaps she should also go to the Sorbonne for a year or two.
“I’ll return at 9:00 A.M.” He did not close the door behind him.
“Bloody hell,” Ayre muttered. A fly began battering itself against a windowpane. He did not notice it or the noise it made. At a sudden thought he went into the outer office. Pavoud and the others were at the windows, watching the aliens leave. “Pavoud!”
“Yes…yes, Excellency?”
Ayre noticed the man’s face had a grayish tinge and he looked much older than usual. “Did you know about the generals, that they’ve given in?” he asked, feeling sorry for him.
“No, Excellency,” Pavoud lied easily, used to lying. He was locked in his own mind, trying to remember, petrified that he might have slipped up in the past three years and given himself away to Esvandiary, never for a moment dreaming that the man could have been a secret Islamic Guard. “We’d…we’d heard rumors about their capitulation—but you know how rumors circulate.”
“Yes—yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“I…do you mind if I sit down, please?” Pavoud groped for a chair, feeling very old. He had been sleeping badly this last week and the two-mile bicycle ride here this morning from the little four-room house in Kowiss he shared with his brother’s family—five adults and six children—had been more tiring than usual. Of course he and all the people of Kowiss had heard about the generals meekly giving up—the first news coming from the mosque, spread by t
he mullah Hussain who said he had got it by secret radio from Khomeini Headquarters in Tehran so it must be true.
At once their Tudeh leader had called a meeting, all of them astounded at the generals’ cowardice: “It just shows how foul the influence of the Americans who betrayed them and so bewitched them that they’ve castrated themselves and committed suicide, for of course they’ve all got to die whether we do it or that madman Khomeini!”
Everyone filled with resolve, at the same time frightened of the coming battle against the zealots and the mullahs, the opiate of the people, and Pavoud himself was wet with relief when the leader said they were ordered not to take to the streets yet but to stay hidden and wait, wait until the order came for the general uprising. “Comrade Pavoud, it’s vital you keep on the best of terms with the foreign pilots at the air base. We will need them and their helicopters—or will need to inhibit their use to the enemies of the People. Our orders are to lie low and wait, to have patience. When we finally get the order to take to the streets against Khomeini, our comrades to the north will come over the border in legions…”
He saw Ayre watching him. “I’m all right, Captain, just worried by all this, and the…the new era.”
“Just do what Esvandiary asks.” Ayre thought a moment. “I’m going to the tower to let HQ know what’s happened. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.”
Ayre frowned, then went along the corridor and up the stairs. The astonishing change in Esvandiary who for years had been affable, friendly, with never a glimmer of anti-British had rocked him. For the first time in Iran he felt their future was doomed.
To his surprise the tower room was empty. Since Sunday’s mutiny there had been a permanent guard—Major Changiz had shrugged, blood on his uniform, “I’m sure you’ll understand, ‘national emergency.’ We had many loyal men killed here today and we haven’t found all traitors—yet. Until further orders you will transmit only during daylight hours, then absolute minimum. All flights are canceled until further notice.”