Aaron ben Aaron kept the disbelief off his face with difficulty, astounded that Wesson could still be so naive. After all the years you’ve been in Iran and the Gulf, he thought, how can you still misunderstand the explosive forces ripping Iran apart? If he had been a different man he would have cursed Wesson for the stupidity he represented, the hundreds of alarm signals disregarded, the hills of secret intelligence reports gathered with so much blood and cast aside unread, their years of pleading with politicians and generals and Intelligence—American and Iranian—warning of the gathering conflagration.
All to no avail. For years and years. The Will of God, he thought. God does not want it to be easy for us. Easy? In all history it’s never once been easy for us. Never never never.
He saw Wesson watching him. “What?”
“You wait and see. Khomeini’s an old man, he won’t last the year. He’s old and time’s with us—you wait and see.”
“I will.” Aaron put aside his inclination to argue violently. “Meanwhile, the problem in hand: S-G could be a front for enemy cells. When you think about it, chopper pilots specializing in oil support’d be valuable assets for all kinds of sabotage if the going get worse.”
“Sure. But Gavallan wants out of Iran. You heard him.”
“Maybe he knew we were listening, or it’s a ploy he’s pulling.”
“Come on, Aaron. I think he’s kosher, and the rest of it’s coincidence.” Wesson sighed. “Okay, I’ll put a tab on him, and he won’t shit without you knowing, but hell, old buddy, you guys see enemies under the bed, on the ceiling, and under the carpet.”
“Why not? There’re plenty around—known, unknown, active, or passive.” Aaron was methodically watching around him, checking on newcomers, expecting enemies, aware of the multitude of enemy agents in Al Shargaz and the Gulf. And we know about enemies, here, outside in the old city and in the new city, up the road to Oman and down the road to Dubai and Baghdad and Damascus, to Moscow and Paris and London, across the sea to New York, south to both the Capes and north to the Arctic Circle, wherever there’re people who’re not Jews. Only a Jew not automatically suspect and even then, these days, you’ve got to be careful.
There’re many among the Chosen who don’t want Zion, don’t want to go to war or pay for war, don’t want to understand Israel hangs in the balance with the Shah, our only ally in the Middle East and sole OPEC supplier of oil for our tanks and planes cast aside, don’t want to know our backs are to the Wailing Wall and we’ve to fight and die to protect our God-given land of Israel we repossessed with God’s help at such cost!
He looked up at Wesson, liking him, forgiving him his faults, admiring him as a professional but sorry for him: he wasn’t a Jew and therefore suspect. “I’m glad I was born a Jew, Glenn. It makes life so much easier.”
“How?”
“You know where you stand.”
AT DISCO TEX, HOTEL SHARGAZ: 11:52 P.M. Americans, British, and French dominated the room—some Japanese and other Asians. Europeans in the majority, many, many more men than women, their ages ranging between twenty-five and forty-five—the Gulf expat work force had to be young, strong, preferably unmarried, to survive the hard, celibate life. A few drunks, some noisy. Ugly and not so ugly, overweight and not so overweight, most of them lean, frustrated, and volcanic. A few Shargazi and others of the Gulf, but only the rich, the Westernized, the sophisticated, and men. Most of these sat on the upper level drinking soft drinks and ogling, and the few who danced on the small floor below danced with European women: secretaries, embassy personnel, airline staff, nurses, or other hotel staff—partners at a premium. No Shargazi or Arabian women were here.
Paula danced with Sandor Petrofi, Genny with Scragger, and Johnny Hogg was cheek to cheek with the girl who had been deep in conversation on the terrace, swaying at half tempo. “How long’re you staying, Alexandra?” he murmured.
“Next week, only until next week. Then I must join my husband in Rio.”
“Oh, but you’re so young to be married! You’re all alone till then?”
“Yes, alone, Johnny. It’s sad, no?”
He did not reply, just held her a little tighter and blessed his luck that he had picked up the book she had dropped in the lobby. The strobe lights dazzled him for a moment, then he noticed Gavallan on the upper level, standing at the rail, grave and lost in thought, and again felt sorry for him. Earlier he had reluctantly arranged tomorrow’s night flight to London for him, trying to persuade him to rest over a day. “I know how jet lag plays hell with you, sir.”
“No problem, Johnny, thanks. Our takeoff for Tehran’s still at 10:00 A.M.?”
“Yes, sir. Our clearance’s still priority—and the charter onward to Tabriz.”
“Let’s hope that goes smoothly, just there and straight back.”
John Hogg felt the girl’s loins against him. “Will you have dinner tomorrow? I should be back sixish.”
“Perhaps—but not before nine.”
“Perfect.”
Gavallan was looking down on the dancers, hardly seeing them, then turned and went down the stairs and outside onto the ground-floor terrace. The night was lovely, moon huge, no clouds. Around were acres of delicately floodlit, beautifully kept gardens within the encircling walls, some of the sprinklers on.
The Shargaz was the biggest hotel in the sheikdom, on one side the sea, the other the desert, its tower eighteen stories, with five restaurants, three bars, cocktail lounge, coffee shop, the disco, two swimming pools, saunas, steam rooms, tennis courts, health center, shopping mall with a dozen boutiques and antiques, an Aaron carpet shop, hairdressing salons, video library, bakery, electronics, telex office, typing pool, with, like all the modern European hotels, all rooms and suites air-conditioned, bathrooms and bidets en suite, twenty-four-hour room service—mostly smiling Pakistanis—same-day cleaners, instant pressing, a color TV in every room, in-house movies, stock market channel, and satellite distant dialing to every capital in the world.
True, Gavallan thought, but still a ghetto. And though the rulers of Al Shargaz and Dubai and Sharjah are liberal and tolerant so expats can drink in the hotels, can even buy liquor, though God help you if you resell any to a Muslim, our women can drive and shop and walk about, that’s no guarantee it’ll last. A few hundred yards away, Shargazi are living as they’ve lived for centuries, a few miles away over the border liquor’s forbidden, a woman can’t drive or be on the streets alone and has to cover her hair and arms and shoulders and wear loose pants, and over there in the real desert, people exist on a stratum of life that’s pitiless.
A few years ago he had taken a Range Rover and a guide and, together with McIver and Genny and his new wife Maureen, had gone out into the desert to spend the night in one of the oases on the edge of Rub’ al-Khali, the Empty Quarter. It had been a perfect spring day. Within minutes of their passing the airport, the road became a track that quickly petered out and they were grinding over the stony expanse under the bowl of sky. Picnic lunch, then on again, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, detouring in the wilderness where it never rained and nothing grew. Nothing. On again. When they stopped and turned the engine off, the silence came at them like a physical presence, the sun bore down, and space enveloped them.
That night was blue-black, stars enormous, tents fine and carpets soft, and even greater silence, greater space, so much space inconceivable. “I hate it, Andy,” Maureen had whispered. “It frightens me to death.”
“Me too. Don’t know why but it does.” Around the palm trees of the oasis, the desert went to every horizon, taunting and unearthly. “The immensity seems to suck the life out of you. Imagine what it’s like in summer!”
She trembled. “It makes me feel less than a grain of sand. It’s crushing me—somehow it’s taken my balance away. Och, ay, laddie, once is enough for me. It’s me for Scotland—London at a pinch—and never again.”
And she had never come back. Like Scrag’s Nell, he thought. Don’t blame them. It’s
tough enough in the Gulf for men, but for women… He glanced around. Genny was coming out of the French windows, fanning herself, looking much younger than in Tehran. “Hello, Andy. You’re the wise one, it’s so stuffy in there, and the smoke, ugh!”
“Never was much of a dancer.”
“The only time I get to dance is when Duncan’s not with me. He’s such a stick-in-the-mud.” She hesitated. “On tomorrow’s flight, do you think I co—”
“No,” he said kindly. “Not yet. In a week or so—let the dust settle.”
She nodded, not hiding her disappointment. “What did Scrag say?”
“Yes—if the others are in and it’s feasible. We had a good talk and we’re having breakfast.” Gavallan put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry about Mac, I’ll make sure he’s all right.”
“I’ve another bottle of whisky for him, you don’t mind, do you?”
“I’ll put it in my briefcase—we’re on notice by IATC not to have any booze as aircraft stores—no problem, I’ll hand carry it.”
“Then perhaps you’d better not, not this time.” She found his gravity unsettling, so unusual in him. Poor Andy, anyone can see he’s beside himself with worry. “Andy, can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course, Genny.”
“Use this colonel and Roberts, no, Armstrong, the VIPs you’ve got to ferry to Tabriz. Why not ask them to route you back through Kowiss, say you need to pick up some engines for repair, eh? Then you can talk to Duke directly.”
“Very good idea—go to the top of the class.”
She reached up and gave him a sisterly kiss. “You’re not bad yourself. Well, it’s me back to the fray—haven’t been so popular since the war.” She laughed and so did he. “Night, Andy.”
Gavallan went back to his hotel that was just down the road. He did not notice the men tailing him, nor that his room had been searched, his papers read, nor that now the room was bugged and the phone tapped.
SATURDAY
February 24
AT TEHRAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:58 A.M. The cabin door of the 125 closed behind Robert Armstrong and Colonel Hashemi Fazir. From the cockpit, John Hogg gave Gavallan and McIver, who stood on the tarmac beside his car, a thumbs-up and taxied away, outward bound for Tabriz. Gavallan had just arrived from Al Shargaz and this was the first moment he and McIver had been alone.
“What’s up, Mac?” he said, the chill wind tugging at their winter clothes and billowing the snow around them.
“Trouble, Andy.”
“I know that. Tell it to me quickly.”
McIver leaned closer. “I’ve just heard we’ve barely a week, before we’re pounded pending nationalization.”
“What?” Gavallan was suddenly numb. “Talbot told you?”
“No, Armstrong, a few minutes ago when the colonel was in the loo and we were alone.” McIver’s face twisted. “The bastard told me with his smooth, put-on politeness, ‘I wouldn’t bet on more than ten days if I were you—a week’d be safe—and don’t forget, Mr. McIver, a closed mouth catches no flies.’”
“My God, does he know we are planning something?” A gust speckled them with powdered snow.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know, Andy.”
“What about HBC? Did he mention her?”
“No. When I asked about the papers, all he said was, ‘They’re safe.’”
“Did he say when we’re to meet today?”
McIver shook his head. “‘If I’m back in time I’ll be in touch.’ Bastard.” He jerked his car door open.
In turmoil Gavallan brushed off the excess snow and slid into the warmth. The windows were fogged up. McIver switched the defrost and fan to maximum, heat already at maximum, then pushed the music cassette home, jacked the sound up, turned it down again, cursing.
“What else’s up, Mac?”
“Just about everything,” McIver blurted out. “Erikki’s been kidnapped by Soviets or the KGB and he’s somewhere up near the Turkish border with his 212, doing Christ knows what—Nogger thinks he’s being forced to help them clean out secret U.S. radar sites. Nogger, Azadeh, two of our mechanics and a British captain barely escaped from Tabriz with their lives, they got back yesterday and they’re at my place at the moment—at least they were when I left this morning. My God, Andy, you should have seen the state they were in when they arrived. The captain was the same one who saved Charlie at Doshan Tappeh and whom Charlie dropped off at Bandar-e Pahlavi…”
“He what?”
“It was a secret op. He’s a captain in the Gurkhas…name’s Ross, John Ross, he and Azadeh were both pretty incoherent, Nogger too was pretty excited, and, at least they’re safe now but…” McIver’s voice became brittle. “Sorry to tell you we’ve lost a mechanic at Zagros, Effer Jordon, he was shot an—”
“Jesus Christ! Old Effer dead?”
“Yes…yes, I’m afraid so and your son was nicked…not badly,” McIver added hastily as Gavallan blanched. “Scot’s all right, he’s okay an—”
“How badly?”
“Bullet through the fleshy part of the right shoulder. No bones touched, just a flesh wound—Jean-Luc said they’ve penicillin, a medic, the wound’s clean. Scot won’t be able to ferry the 212 out tomorrow to Al Shargaz so I asked Jean-Luc to do it and take Scot with him, then come back to Tehran on the next 125 flight and we’ll get him back to Kowiss.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. I got a relayed message from Starke this morning who’d just picked it up from Jean-Luc. It seems that terrorists are operating in the Zagros, I suppose the same bunch that attacked Bellissima and Rosa, they must’ve been hiding in ambush in the forests around our base. Effer Jordon and Scot were loading spares into the 212 just after dawn this morning and got sprayed. Poor old Effer got most of the bullets and Scot just one…” Again McIver added hurriedly, seeing Gavallan’s face, “Jean-Luc assured me Scot’s all right, Andy, honest to God!”
“I wasn’t thinking just about Scot,” Gavallan said heavily. “Effer’s been with us damn nearly since we started—hasn’t he got three kids?”
“Yes, yes, he has. Terrible.” McIver let in the clutch and eased the car through the snow back toward their office. “They’re all still at school, I think.”
“I’ll do something about them soon as I get back. Go on about Zagros.”
“Nothing much more, Tom Lochart wasn’t there—he had to stay overnight at Kowiss Friday. Jean-Luc said they didn’t see any of the attackers, no one did, the shots just came out of the forest—the base’s in chaos anyway what with our birds working overtime, bringing men from all the outlying rigs and ferrying them in batches to Shiraz, everyone pitching in to clear out before the deadline tomorrow at sunset.”
“Will they make it?”
“More or less. We’ll get out all our oilers and our chaps, most of our valuable spares and all choppers to Kowiss. The rig support equipment’ll have to be left but that’s not our responsibility. God knows what’ll happen to the base and rigs without servicing.”
“It’ll all go back to wilderness.”
“I agree, bloody stupid waste! Bloody stupid! I asked Colonel Fazir if there was anything he could do. The bastard just smiled his thin rotten smile and said it was hard enough to find out what the hell was going on at the office next door in Tehran, let alone so far south. I asked him what about the komiteh at the airport—could they help? He said no, that komitehs have almost no liaison with anyone else, even in Tehran. To quote him: ‘Up in the Zagros among the half-civilized nomads and tribesmen, unless you’ve guns, you’re Iranian, preferably an ayatollah, you’d best do what they say.’” McIver coughed and blew his nose irritably. “The bastard wasn’t laughing at us, Andy. Even so, he wasn’t unhappy either.”
Gavallan was in dismay, so many questions to ask and to be answered, everything in jeopardy, here and at home. A week to doomsday? Thank God that Scot…poor old Effer… Christ Almighty, Scot shot! Gloomily h
e looked out of the windshield and saw they were nearing the freight area. “Stop the car for a minute, Mac, better to talk in private, eh?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m not thinking too clearly.”
“You’re all right? I mean your health?”
“Oh, that’s fine, if I get rid of this cough… It’s just that…it’s just that I’m afraid.” McIver said it flat but the admission spiked through Gavallan. “I’m out of control, I’ve already lost one man, there’s HBC still hanging over us, old Erikki’s in danger, we’re all in danger, S-G and everything we’ve worked for.” He fiddled with the wheel. “Gen’s fine?”
“Yes, yes, she is,” Gavallan said patiently, concerned for him. This was the second time he had answered that question. McIver had asked him the moment he had come down the steps of the 125. “Genny’s fine, Mac,” he said, repeating what he had said earlier, “I’ve mail from her, she’s talked to both Hamish and Sarah, both families’re fine and young Angus has his first tooth. Everyone’s well at home, all in good shape and I’ve a bottle of Loch Vay in my briefcase from her. She tried to talk her way past Johnny Hogg onto the 125—to stow away in the loo—even after I’d said no, so sorry.” For the first time he saw a glimmer of a smile on McIver.
“Gen’s ornery, no doubt about it. Glad she’s there and not here, very glad, curious though how you miss ’em.” McIver stared ahead. “Thanks, Andy.”
“Nothing.” Gavallan thought a moment. “Why get Jean-Luc to take the 212? Why not Tom Lochart? Wouldn’t it be better to have him out?”
“Of course, but he won’t leave Iran without Sharazad…there’s another problem.” The music on the tape went out and he turned it over and started it again. “I can’t track her down. Tom was worried about her, asked me to go to her family’s home near the bazaar which I did. Couldn’t get an answer, didn’t seem to be anyone there, Tom’s sure she was on the Women’s Protest March.”