The airwaves were silent but for static. They waited. Then again Ayre’s voice, not stilted now: “I’ve no information other than there was an anti-Ayatollah Khomeini attack that Captains Starke and Lutz helped put down. Afterward Captain Starke brought the wounded here for treatment. Of our personnel only Tyrer was creased. That is all.”
Pettikin felt a bead of sweat on his face and he wiped it off. “What…what happened to Tyrer?”
Silence. Then: “A slight head wound. Dr. Nutt said he’d be okay.”
Jean-Luc said, “Charlie, ask him what was that about Isfahan.”
As though in dreamtime, Pettikin saw his fingers click on the sender switch. “What was that about Isfahan?”
They waited in the silence. Then: “I have no information other than what I gave you.”
“Someone’s telling him what to say,” Jean-Luc muttered.
Pettikin pressed the sending button, changed his mind. So many questions to ask that Ayre clearly could not answer. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, glad that his voice sounded firmer. “Please ask Hotshot to put his request for the extra choppers in writing, with suggested contract time and payment schedule. Put it on our 125 when they bring replacements. Keep…keep us informed about Captain Starke. McIver’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Wilco. Out.”
Now only static. Pettikin fiddled with the switches. The two men looked at each other, oblivious of Sayada who sat quietly on the sofa, missing nothing. “‘Close supervision’? That sounds bad, Jean-Luc.”
“Yes. Probably means they have to fly with armed Green Bands.” Jean-Luc swore, all his thinking on Zagros and how young Scot Gavallan would cope without his leadership. “Merde! When I left this morning everything was five by five with Shiraz ATC as helpful as a Swiss hotelier off-season. Merde!”
Pettikin was suddenly reminded of Rakoczy and how close he had come to disaster. For a second he considered telling Jean-Luc, then decided against it. Old news! “Maybe we should contact Shiraz ATC for help?”
“Mac might have an idea. Mon Dieu, doesn’t sound too good either for Duke—these komitehs’re breeding like lice. Bazargan and Khomeini better deal with them quickly before the two of them’re bitten to death.” Jean-Luc got up, very concerned, and stretched, then saw Sayada curled up on the sofa, her untouched cup of tea on the small table beside her, smiling at him.
At once his bonhomie returned. There’s nothing more I can do for young Scot at the moment, or for Duke, but there is for Sayada. “Sorry, chérie,” he said with a beam. “You see, without me there are always problems at Zagros. Charlie, we’ll leave now—I’ve got to check the apartment but we’ll return before dinner. Say 8:00 P.M.; by then Mac should be back, eh?”
“Yes. Won’t you have a drink? Sorry, we’ve no wine. Whisky?” He offered it halfheartedly as this was their last three quarters of a bottle.
“No thanks, mon vieux.” Jean-Luc got into his coat, noticed in the mirror that he was looking as dashing as ever, and thought of the cases of wine and the tins of cheese he had had the wisdom to tell his wife to stock in their apartment. “À bientôt, I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Charlie,” Sayada said, watching both of them carefully as she had done since the HF came to life, “what did Scotty mean about the helicopter escape?”
Pettikin shrugged. “All sorts of rumors about all sorts of escapes, by land, sea, and air. Always ‘Europeans’ supposed to be involved,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “We’re blamed for everything.”
And why not, you are responsible, Sayada Bertolin thought without malice. Politically, she was delighted to see them both sweating. Personally, she wasn’t. She liked both of them and most of the pilots, particularly Jean-Luc who pleased her immensely and amused her constantly. I’m lucky to be Palestinian, she told herself, and Coptic Christian—of ancient lineage. That gives me strengths they don’t have, an awareness of a heritage back to biblical times, an understanding of life they could never reach, along with the capacity to dissociate politics from friendship and the bedchamber—as long as it is necessary and prudent. Haven’t we had thirty centuries of survival training? Hasn’t Gaza been settled for three thousand years?
“There’s a rumor Bakhtiar’s slipped out of the country and fled to Paris.”
“I don’t believe that, Charlie,” Sayada said. “But there’s another that I do,” she added, noticing he had not answered her question about the Isfahan helicopter. “It seems your General Valik and his family fled to join the other IHC partners in London. Between them they’re supposed to have salted away millions of dollars.”
“Partners?” Jean-Luc said contemptuously. “Robbers, all of them, whether here or London, every year worse than before.”
“They’re not all bad,” Pettikin said.
Jean-Luc said, “Those cretins steal the sweat of our brow, Sayada. I’m astounded Old Man Gavallan lets them get away with it.”
“Come off it, Jean-Luc,” Pettikin said. “He fights them every inch of the way.”
“Every inch of our way, old friend. We do the flying, he doesn’t. As for Valik…” Jean-Luc shrugged with Gallic extravagance. “If I was an Iranian of wealth, I would have gone months ago with all I could collect. It’s been clear for months that the Shah was out of control. Now it’s the French Revolution and the Terror all over again but without our style, sense, civilized heritage, or manners.” He shook his head disgustedly. “What a waste! When you think of all the centuries of teaching and wealth we French’ve put in trying to help these people crawl out of the Dark Ages and what have they learned? Not even how to make a decent loaf of bread!”
Sayada laughed and, on tiptoe, kissed him. “Ah, Jean-Luc, I love you and your confidence. Now, mon vieux, we should go, you’ve lots to accomplish!”
After they had left, Pettikin went to the window and stared out at the rooftops. There was the inevitable sporadic gunfire and some smoke near Jaleh. Not a big fire but enough. A stiff breeze scattered the smoke. Clouds reached down the mountains. The cold from the windows was strong, ice and snow on the sills. In the street below were many Green Bands. Walking or in tracks. Then from minarets everywhere muezzins began calling to afternoon prayer. Their calls seemed to surround him.
Suddenly he was filled with dread.
AT THE MINISTRY OF AVIATION: 5:04 P.M. Duncan McIver was sitting wearily on a wooden chair in a corner of the crowded antechamber of the deputy minister. He was cold and hungry and very irritable. His watch told him he had been waiting almost three hours.
Scattered around the room were a dozen other men, Iranians, some French, American, British, and one Kuwaiti wearing a galabia—a long-flowing Arabian robe—and headband. A few moments ago the Europeans had politely stopped chatting as, in response to the muezzins’ calls that still came through the tall windows, the Muslims had knelt, faced Mecca, and prayed the afternoon prayer. It was short and quickly over and once more the desultory conversation picked up—never wise to discuss anything important in a government office, particularly now. The room was drafty, the air chilly. They all still wore their overcoats, were equally weary, a few stoic, most seething, for all, like McIver, had long overdue appointments.
“Insha’Allah,” he muttered but that didn’t help him.
With any luck Gen’s already at Al Shargaz, he thought. I’m damned glad she’s safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: “I’m the one who can talk to Andy. You can’t put anything into writing.”
“That’s true,” he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, “Maybe Andy can make a plan that we could carry out—might carry out. Hope to God we don’t have to. Too bloody dangerous. Too many lads and too many planes spread out. Too bloody dangerous. Gen, you forget we’re not at war though we’re in the middle of one.”
“Yes, Duncan, but we’ve nothing to lose.”
“We’ve people to lose, as well as birds.”
“We’re only going to s
ee if it’s feasible, aren’t we, Duncan?”
Old Gen’s certainly the best go-between we could have—if we really needed one. She’s right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: “Andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes—and spares—that’re presently under Iranian registry and technically owned by an Iranian company called IHC…”
Christ! Isn’t that a conspiracy to defraud!
Leaving is not the answer. We’ve got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. Somehow I’ve got to get the partners to help—or maybe this minister can give us a hand. If he’ll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. Any government’s got to have help to get their oil up, they’ve got to have choppers and we’ll get our money…
He looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. By name. There never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. Even in the Shah’s time it was never first come, first served. Then it was only influence. Or money.
Talbot of the British embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. “Sorry, old boy, even I can’t get into the PM, but his deputy Antazam’s a good sort, speaks good English—not one of these rev twits. He’ll fix you up.”
McIver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. When he had presented the letter, in English and Farsi, to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.
“Ah, don’t worry, Agha, you’re in plenty of time,” the friendly reception clerk said, to his relief, in good English, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. “This is the right office. Please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. Minister Kia will see you as soon as possible.”
“I don’t want to see him,” he had almost exploded. “My appointment’s with Deputy Prime Minister Antazam!”
“Ah, Deputy Minister Antazam, yes, Agha, but he’s no longer in Prime Minister Bazargan’s government. Insha’Allah,” the young man said pleasantly. “Minister Kia deals with everything to do with, er, foreigners, finances, and airplanes.”
“But I must insist th—” McIver stopped as the name registered and he remembered what Talbot had said about Kia and how remaining IHC partners had implanted this man on the board with an enormous retainer and no guarantees of assistance, “Minister Ali Kia?”
“Yes, Agha. Minister Ali Kia will see you as soon as possible.” The receptionist was a pleasant, well-dressed young man in a suit and white shirt and blue tie, just like in the old days. McIver had had the foresight to enclose a pishkesh of 5,000 rials in the envelope with the introduction, just like in the old days. The money had vanished.
Perhaps things are really getting back to normal, McIver thought, went into the other room, and took a chair in the corner and began to wait. In his pocket was another wad of rials and he wondered if he should refill the envelope with the appropriate amount. Why not, he thought, we’re in Iran, minor officials need minor money, high officials, high money—sorry, pishkesh. Making sure no one observed him, he put some high denomination notes into the envelope, then added a few more for safety. Maybe this bugger can really help us—the partners used to have the court buttoned up, perhaps they’ve done the same to Bazargan.
From time to time harassed bureaucrats hurried importantly through the anteroom into the inner room, papers in their hands, and came out again. Occasionally, one of the men waiting would be politely ushered in. Without exception they were inside for just a few minutes and emerged taut-faced or red-faced, furious, and obviously empty-handed. Those who still waited felt more and more frustrated. Time passed very slowly.
“Agha McIver!” The inner door was open now, a bureaucrat beckoning him.
Ali Kia was seated behind a very large desk with no papers on it. He wore a smile, but his eyes were hard and small and McIver instinctively disliked him.
“Ah, Minister, how kind of you to see me,” McIver said, forcing bonhomie, offering his hand. Ali Kia smiled politely and shook hands limply.
“Please sit down, Mr. McIver. Thank you for coming to see me. You have an introduction I believe?” His English was good, Oxford-accented, where he had gone to university just before World War II on a Shah grant, staying for the duration. He waved a tired hand at the bureaucrat beside the door. The man left.
“Yes, it, er, it was to Deputy Minister Antazam, but I understand it should have been directed to you.” McIver handed him the envelope. Kia took out the introduction, noticed the amount of the notes exactly, tossed the envelope carelessly onto the desk to indicate more should be forthcoming, read the handwritten note with care, then put it down in front of him.
“Mr. Talbot is an honored friend of Iran though a representative of a hostile government,” Kia said, his voice smooth. “What particular help can I give the friend of such an honored person?”
“There’re three things, Minister. But perhaps I may be allowed to say how happy we are at S-G that you’ve considered giving us the benefit of your valuable experience by joining our board.”
“My cousin was most insistent. I doubt I can help, but, as God wants.”
“As God wants.” McIver had been watching him carefully, trying to read him, and could not explain the immediate dislike he took great pains to hide. “First, there’s a rumor that all joint ventures are suspended, pending a decision of the Revolutionary Komiteh.”
“Pending a decision of the government,” Kia corrected him curtly. “So?”
“How will that affect our joint company, IHC?”
“I doubt if it will affect it at all, Mr. McIver. Iran needs helicopter service for oil production. Guerney Aviation has fled. It would seem the future looks better than ever for our company.”
McIver said carefully, “But we haven’t been paid for work done in Iran for many months. We’ve been carrying all lease payments for the aircraft from Aberdeen and we’re heavily overcommitted here in aircraft for the amount of work we have on the books.”
“Tomorrow the banks…the Central Bank is due to open. By order of the PM—and the Ayatollah, of course. A proportion of the money owed will, I’m sure, be forthcoming.”
“Would you conjecture how much we can expect, Minister?” McIver’s hope quickened.
“More than enough to…to keep our operation going. I’ve already arranged for you to take out crews once their replacements are here.” Ali Kia took a thin file from a drawer and gave him a paper. It was an order directed to Immigration at Tehran, Abadan, and Shiraz airports to allow out accredited IHC pilots and engineering crews, one for one, against incoming crew. The order was badly typed but legible, in Farsi and English, and signed on behalf of the komiteh responsible for IranOil and dated yesterday. McIver had never heard of him.
“Thank you. May I also have your approval for the 125 to make at least three trips a week for the next few weeks—of course only until your international airports are back to normal—to bring in crews, spares, and equipment, replacement parts, and so on, and,” he added matter-of-factly, “to take out redundancies.”
“It might be possible to approve that,” Kia said.
McIver handed him the set of papers. “I took the liberty of putting it into writing—to save you the bother, Minister—with copies addressed to Air Traffic Control at Kish, Kowiss, Shiraz, Abadan, and Tehran.”
Kia read the top copy carefully. It was in Farsi and English, simple, direct, and with the correct formality. His fingers trembled. To sign them would far exceed his authority but now that the deputy prime minister was in disgrace, as well as his own superior—both supposedly dismissed by this still mysterious Revolu
tionary Komiteh—and with mounting chaos in the government, he knew he had to take the risk. The absolute need for him, his family, and his friends to have ready access to a private airplane, particularly a jet, made the risk worthwhile.
I can always say my superior told me to sign it, he thought, keeping his nervousness away from his face and eyes. The 125 is a gift from God—just in case lies are spread about me. Damn Jared Bakravan! My friendship with that bazaari dog almost embroiled me in his treason against the state; I’ve never lent money in my life, nor engaged in plots with foreigners, nor supported the Shah.
To keep McIver off balance he tossed the papers beside the introduction almost angrily. “It might be possible for this to be approved. There would be a landing fee of $500 per landing. Was that everything, Mr. McIver?” he asked, knowing it was not. Devious British dog! Do you think you can fool me?
“Just one thing, Excellency.” McIver handed him the last paper. “We’ve three aircraft that’re in desperate need of servicing and repair. I need the exit permit signed so I can send them to Al Shargaz.” He held his breath.
“No need to send valuable airplanes out, Mr. McIver; repair them here.”
“Oh, I would if I could, Excellency, but there’s no way I can do that. We don’t have the spares or the engineers—and every day that one of our choppers’re not working costs the partners a fortune. A fortune,” he repeated.
“Of course you can repair them here, Mr. McIver, just bring the spares and the engineers from Al Shargaz.”
“Apart from the cost of the aircraft there’re the crews to support and pay for. It’s all very expensive; perhaps I should mention that’s the Iranian partners’ cost—that’s part of their agreement…to supply all the necessary exit permits.” McIver continued to wheedle. “We need to get every available piece of equipment ready to service all the new Guerney contracts if the Ay—if, er, the government’s decree to get oil production back to normal is to be obeyed. Without equipment…” He left the word hanging and again held his breath, praying he’d chosen the right bait.