Whirlwind

  The base checked out fine. “Let’s stroll, Tom,” Starke said. “When’re you going back to Tehran?”

  “How about tonight?”

  “Bad, huh?”

  “Worse. I know Sharazad was on the Women’s March even though I told her not to, then there’s all the rest.”

  Last night Lochart had told him about her father, and all about the loss of HBC. Starke had been appalled, still was, and once more blessed his luck that he had not known when he had been taken by Hussain and his Green Bands for questioning.

  “Mac’ll have got hold of Sharazad by now, Tom. He’ll make sure she’s okay.” When Lochart had arrived, they had got on to McIver on the HF, reception good for a change, and had asked him to see that she was safe. In a few minutes they would again have their one daily allowable radio link with Tehran HQ—“You’re restricted but only until we’re back to normal when you can call all you want—any day now,” Major Changiz, the base commander, had said. And though they were monitored by the main tower across at the air force base, the link kept their sanity and gave an appearance of normality.

  Starke said, “After Zagros Three’s cleaned out Sunday and you’re all here, why not take the 206, Monday, first thing? I’ll fix it with Mac.”

  “Thanks, that’d be dandy.” Now that his own base was closed down, Lochart was nominally under Starke’s command.

  “Have you thought of getting the hell out, taking the 212 instead of Scot? Once he’s out of the Zagros he should be okay. Or even better, both of you going? I’ll talk to Mac.”

  “Thanks but no, Sharazad can’t leave her family just now.”

  They walked on awhile. Night was coming fast, cold but crisp, the air smelling heavily of gasoline from the huge refinery nearby that was still almost totally shut down and mostly dark, except for the tall stacks burning off oil vapor. On the base, lights were already on in most of their bungalows, hangars, and cookhouse—they had their own backup generators in case base power went out. Major Changiz had told Starke there was no chance the base generator system would be interfered with now: “The revolution is completely over, Captain, the Imam is in charge.”

  “And the leftists?”

  “The Imam has ordered them eliminated, unless they conform to our Islamic state,” Major Changiz had said, his voice hard and ominous. “Leftists, Kurds, Baha’is, aliens—any enemy. The Imam knows what to do.”

  Imam. It was the same at Starke’s questioning in front of Hussain’s komiteh. Almost as though he were semidivine, Starke had thought. Hussain had been the chief judge and prosecutor and the room, part of the mosque, crowded with hostile men of all ages, all Green Bands, five judges—no bystanders. “What do you know of the escape of the enemies of Islam from Isfahan by helicopter?”

  “Nothing.”

  At once one of the other four judges, all young men, rough and hardly literate, said, “He’s guilty of crimes against God and crimes against Iran as an exploiter for American Satanists. Guilty.”

  “No,” Hussain said. “This is a court of law, Koranic law. He is here to answer questions, not yet for crimes, not yet. He is not accused of any crime. Captain, tell us everything you have heard about the Isfahan crime.”

  The air in the room had been fetid. Starke saw not a friendly face, yet all knew who he was, all knew about the battle against the fedayeen at Bandar Delam. His fear was a dull ache, knowing he was on his own now, at their mercy.

  He took a breath and chose his words carefully. “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful,” he said, starting as all the suras of the Koran begin, and an astonished stir went through the room. “I know nothing myself, I have witnessed nothing to do with it or been part of it. I was in Bandar Delam at the time. To my knowledge none of my people have had anything to do with it. I only know what Zataki of Abadan told me when he returned from Isfahan. Exactly he said: ‘We heard that Tuesday some Shah supporters, all officers, fled south in a helicopter piloted by an American. God curse all Satanists.’ That’s all he said. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re a Satanist,” one of the other judges interrupted triumphantly, “you’re American. You’re guilty.”

  “I am a person of the Book and I’ve already proved I’m no Satanist. If it wasn’t for me many here would be dead.”

  “If we’d died at the base we’d be in Paradise now,” a Green Band at the back of the room said angrily. “We were doing the Work of God. It was nothing to do with you, Infidel.”

  Shouts of agreement. Suddenly Starke let out a bellow of rage. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he shouted, “I’m a person of the Book, and the Prophet gave us special privileges and protections!” He was shaking with rage now, his fear vanished, hating this kangaroo court and their blindness and stupidity and ignorance and bigotry. “The Koran says: ‘Oh, People of the Book, overstep not the bounds of truth in your religion; neither follow the desires of those who have already gone astray and caused many others to stray from the evenness of the path,’ I haven’t,” he ended harshly, bunching his fists, “and may God curse him who says otherwise.”

  Astonished, they all stared at him, even Hussain.

  One of the judges broke the silence. “You…you quote the Koran? You read Arabic as well as speak Farsi?”

  “No. No, I don’t but th—”

  “Then you had a teacher, a mullah?”

  “No. No, I rea—”

  “Then you’re a sorcerer!” another shouted. “How can you know the Koran if you had no teacher nor read Arabic, the holy language of the Koran?”

  “I read it in English, my own language.”

  Even greater astonishment and disbelief until Hussain spoke. “What he says is true. The Koran is translated into many foreign languages.”

  More astonishment, A young man peered at him myopically through cracked, thick-lensed glasses, his face pitted. “If it is translated into other languages, Excellency, then why isn’t it in Farsi for us to read—if we could read?”

  Hussain said, “The language of the Holy Koran is Arabic. To know the Holy Koran properly the Believer must read Arabic. Mullahs of all countries learn Arabic for this reason. The Prophet, whose Name be praised, was Arab. God spoke to him in that language for others to write down. To know the Holy Book truly it must be read as it was written.” Hussain turned his black eyes on Starke. “A translation is always less than the original. Isn’t it?”

  Starke saw the curious expression. “Yes,” he said, his intuition telling him to agree. “Yes, yes, it is. I would like to be able to read the original.”

  Another silence. The young man with glasses said, “If you know the Koran so well that you can quote from it to us like a mullah, why aren’t you Muslim, why aren’t you a Believer?”

  A rustle went through the room. Starke hesitated, almost in panic, not knowing how to answer but sure that the wrong answer would hang Mm. The silence grew, then he heard himself say, “Because God has not yet taken away the skin over my ears nor, not yet, opened my spirit,” then added involuntarily, “I do not resist and I wait. I wait patiently.”

  The mood in the room changed. Now the silence was kind. Compassionate. Hussain said softly, “Go to the Imam and your waiting will be ended. The Imam would open your spirit to the glory of God. The Imam would open your spirit. I know, I’ve sat at the Imam’s feet. I’ve heard the Imam preaching the Word, giving the Law, spreading the Calm of God.” A sigh went through the room and now all concentrated on the mullah, watched his eyes and the light therein, heard the newness to his voice and the growing ecstasy therein—even Starke who felt chilled and at the same time elated. “Hasn’t the Imam come to open the spirit of the world? Hasn’t the Imam appeared among us to cleanse Islam of Evil and to spread Islam throughout the world, to carry the message of God…as has been promised? The Imam is.”

  The word hung in the room. They all understood. So did Starke. Mahdi! he thought, hiding his shock. Hussain’s implying Khomeini’s in reality the Mahdi, the legendary
twelfth Imam who vanished centuries ago and Shi’as believe is just hidden from human sight—the Immortal One, promised by God to reappear some day to rule over a perfected world.

  He saw them all staring at the mullah. Many nodding, tears running down the faces of others, all rapt and satisfied and not a disbeliever among them. Good God, he thought, dumbfounded, if Iranians give Khomeini that mantle there’ll be no end to his power, there’ll be twenty, thirty million men, women, and kids desperate to do his bidding, who’ll rush happily to death at his merest whim—and why not? Mahdi would guarantee them a place in Heaven, guarantee it!

  Someone said, “God is Great,” others echoed it and they talked, one with another, Hussain leading them, Starke forgotten. At length they noticed him and they let him go, saying, “See the Imam, see and believe…”

  Walking back to camp his feet had been strangely light, and he remembered now how the air had never tasted better, never had he been so full of the joy of life. Perhaps that’s because I was so close to death, he thought. I was a dead man and somehow I was given back life. Why? And Tom, why did he escape Isfahan, Dez Dam, even HBC herself? Is there a reason? Or was it just luck?

  And now in the dusk he watched Lochart, gravely concerned for him. Terrible about HBC, terrible about Sharazad’s father, terrible that Tom and Sharazad are in a cauldron of no escape. Soon they’ll both have to choose: exile together, probably never to return here—or to part, probably forever.

  “Tom, there’s something special. Very secret, just between us. Johnny Hogg brought a letter from Andy Gavallan.” They were safely away from the base, strolling along the boundary road, skirting the eight-strand barbed-wire fence, and no fear of anyone overhearing. Even so he kept his voice down. “Basically Andy’s mighty downbeat on our future here and says he’s considering evacuating to cut his losses.”

  “No need for that,” Lochart said quickly, a sudden bite in his voice. “Things’ll get back to normal—they have to. Andy’s got to sweat it out—we’re sweating it out, so can he.”

  “He’s sweating it out plenty, Tom. It’s simple economics, you know that as well as any. We’re not being paid for work done months ago, we’ve not enough work now for the birds and pilots here that he’s paying out of Aberdeen, Iran’s in a shambles, and we’re getting a hard time all over.”

  “You mean because Zagros Three’s been closed down there’ll be a huge write-off on the books? Not my goddamn fault th—”

  “Slow down, Tom. Andy’s heard on the grapevine all foreign airplane companies, joint ventures or what the hell ever, particularly choppers, are going to be nationalized mighty damned soon.”

  Lochart was filled with a sudden hope. Wouldn’t this give me a perfect excuse to stay? If they steal—nationalize—our birds they’ll still need trained pilots, I can speak Farsi, I could train Iranians which’s got to be their end plan and—and what about HBC? Back to HBC, he thought helplessly, always back to HBC. “How does he know, Duke?”

  “Andy said it was an ‘impeccable’ source. What he’s asking us—you, Scrag, Rudi, and me—is if he and Mac can come up with a workable plan, would we and however many pilots it takes fly all our birds into the Wild Blue across the Gulf?”

  Lochart gaped at him. “Jesus, you mean just take off, no clearance no nothing?”

  “Sure—but keep your voice down.”

  “He’s crazy! How could we coordinate Lengeh, Bandar Delam, Kowiss, and Tehran—everyone’d have to go at the same time and the distances won’t add up.”

  “Somehow they’re gonna have to, Tom. Andy said it’s that or close up.”

  “I don’t believe it! The company’s operating all over the world.”

  “He says if we lose Iran we’re through.”

  “Easy for him,” Lochart said bitterly. “It’s just money. Easy to twist our arm when you’re nice and safe and all you risk’s money. He’s saying if he just pulls personnel and leaves everything else, S-G’s going belly-up?”

  “Yes. That’s what he’s saying.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Starke shrugged. Their ears caught the faint banshee wail and they turned and looked past their base to the far side of their part of the field. In the falling light they could just see Freddy Ayre with his bagpipes where, by common consent, he was allowed to practice. “Goddamn,” Starke said sourly, “that noise drives me crazy.”

  Lochart ignored him. “Surely you’re not going along with a goddamn hijack, because that’s what it’ll be! No way would I go along with that.” He saw Starke shrug. “What do the others say?”

  “They don’t know yet and won’t be asked yet. As I said this’s between us at the moment.” Starke glanced at his watch. “Almost time to call Mac.” He saw a tremor go through Lochart. The lament of the bagpipes drifted on the wind. “How anyone can claim that’s music, goddamned if I know,” he said. “Andy’s idea’s worth considering, Tom. As an end plan.”

  Lochart did not answer him, feeling bad, the twilight bad, everything bad. Even the air smelled bad, polluted by the nearby refinery, and he wished he was back in Zagros, up near the stars where the air and the earth were not polluted, all of him desperate to be in Tehran where it was even more polluted—but she was there.

  “Count me out,” he said.

  “Think about it, Tom.”

  “I have, I’m out, it’s crazy, the whole idea. Soon as you think it out you’ll see it’s a mad dog scheme.”

  “Sure, old buddy.” Starke wondered when his Mend would realize that he, Lochart, of all of them, was counted in—one way or another.

  AT THE HOTEL INTERNATIONAL, AL SHARGAZ: 6:42 P.M. “Could you do it, Scrag?” Gavallan said, sunset near.

  “It’d be easy for me to sneak my five birds and men out of Lengeh, Andy,” Scragger said. “It’d have to be the right sort of day and we’d have to slide under Kish radar but we could do it—if the lads wanted to be part of the caper. But with all our spares too? No way, not possible.”

  “Would you do it, if it was possible?” Gavallan asked. He had arrived on today’s flight from London, all his business news from Aberdeen rotten—Imperial Air putting on the pressure, undercutting him in the North Sea, the oil companies squeezing him and Linbar calling a special board meeting to investigate S-G’s “possible” mismanagement. “Would you, Scrag?”

  “Just me on my tod and everyone else safe and out? Like a shot.”

  “Would your lads do it?”

  Scragger thought for a moment and sipped his beer. They were sitting at a table on one of the immaculate terraces surrounding the swimming pool of this, the newest of the hotels in the tiny sheikdom, other guests scattered around but none near, the air balmy and in the seventies with just enough breeze to tremble the palm fronds and promise a perfect evening. “Ed Vossi would.” He grinned. “He’s got enough Aussie larceny and Yankee get-up-and-go. Don’t think Willi Neuchtreiter would. It’d be tough for him to break so many regs when it’s not his tail and he’s not threatened. Wot does Duke Starke say? And Tom Lochart and Rudi?”

  “I don’t know yet. I sent a letter to Duke via Johnny Hogg Wednesday.”

  “That’s kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. Johnny Hogg’s a safe courier, but it’s a big problem—to have safe communications. Tom Lochart’ll soon be in Kowiss—you heard about Zagros?”

  “Too right! They’re all bonkers up in the mountains. What about old Rudi?”

  “Don’t know how to get to him safely yet. Maybe Mac’ll have an idea. I’m on the 125 in the morning to Tehran and we’re to talk at the airport. Then I’ll come right back and I’m booked on the night flight to London.”

  “You’re pushing it a bit, aren’t you, old son?”

  “I’ve a few problems, Scrag.” Gavallan stared into his glass, absently swirling the whisky around the ice cubes. Other guests were going past. Three were girls, bikinied, golden skins, long black hair, towels casually around their shoulders. Scragger noticed them, s
ighed, then turned his attention back to Gavallan.

  “Andy, I may have to take Kasigi back to Iran-Toda in a day or two—old Georges’s been touching his toes since Kasigi agreed to pay him two dollars over spot. Kasigi thinks it’ll go to twenty dollars a barrel by Christmas.”

  Gavallan’s worry increased. “If it does it’ll send a shock wave through every industrialized nation—inflation’s going to soar again. I suppose if anyone’d know it’d be them.” Earlier, the moment Scragger had mentioned Kasigi and Toda, he had reacted instantly, as Struan’s supplied crews and leased many of the ships Toda built and were old associates. “Years ago I knew this Kasigi’s boss, man called Hiro Toda. Did he ever mention it?”

  “No, no, he never did. You knew him where? In Japan?”

  “No, Hong Kong. Toda was doing business with Struan’s—the company I used to work for—in those days it was Toda Shipping, shipbuilders mostly, not the huge conglomerate they are today.” Gavallan’s face hardened. “My family were Shanghai China traders from way back. Our company got more or less wiped out in the First World War, then we joined up with Struan’s. My old man was at Nanking in ’31 when the Japs raped it, and he got caught in Shanghai just after Pearl Harbor and never made it out of POW camp.” He watched the reflections of his glass, his gloom increasing. “We lost a lot of good chums in Shanghai and Hong Kong. I can never forgive them for what they did in China, never will, but then, we have to move on, don’t we? Have to bury the hatchet someday though you’d best keep your eye on the tooth marks.”

  “It’s the same for me.” Scragger shrugged. “Kasigi seems okay.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Kuwait. He’s back tomorrow and I’m to take him to Lengeh for consultations in the morning.”

  “If you go to Iran-Toda, you think you might be able to get over to see Rudi? Maybe sound him out?”

  “Too right. That’s a good idea, Andy.”