"green bands can obey orders and die but they do not inhabit those mountains, they do not have kurdish stamina nor their lust for earthly freedom enroute to paradise."
"with your permission i will pass on your advice, highness."
hakim said sharply, "will it be given any more credence than my father's or my grandfather's whose advice was the same?"
"i would hope so, highness. i would hope..." his words were drowned as the 212 fired up, coughed, held for a moment, then died again. out of the window they saw erikki unclip one of the engine covers and stare at the complexity inside with a flashlight. hashemi turned back to the khan who sat on a chair, stiffly upright. the silence became complicated, three men's minds racing, each as strong as the other, each bent on violence of some kind.
hakim khan said carefully, "he cannot be arrested in my house or my domain. even though he knows nothing of the telex, he knows he cannot stay
in tabriz, even iran, nor may my sister go with him, even leave iran for two years. he knows he must leave at once. his machine cannot fly. i hope he avoids arrest."
"my hands are tied, highness." hashemi's voice was apologetic and patently sincere. "it is my duty to obey the law of the land." absently he noticed a piece of fluff on his sleeve and brushed it away. armstrong got the signal at once. brushing a left sleeve meant, "i need to talk to this man privately, he won't talk in front of you. make an excuse and wait for me outside." hashemi repeated with the perfect amount of sadness, "it's our duty to obey the law."
"i'm certain, quite certain, he was not part of any conspiracy, knows nothing about the flight of the others, and i would like him left alone to leave in peace."
"i would be glad to inform savama of your wishes."
"i would be glad if you would do what i suggest."
armstrong said, "highness, if you'll excuse me, the matter of the captain is not my affair, nor would i wish to rock any ship of state."
"yes, you may go, superintendent. when do i have your report on new security possibilities?"
"it will be in your hands when the colonel returns."
"peace be with you."
"and with you, highness." armstrong walked out, then strolled along the corridors to the steps. hashemi will roast the poor sod, he thought.
the evening was pleasant, nice nip in the air, a reddish tinge to the west. red sky at night, shepherd's delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. "evening, captain. between you, me, and the gate post, if your bus was working i'd suggest a quick trip to a border."
erikki's eyes narrowed. "why?"
armstrong took out a cigarette. "climate's not very healthy around here, is it?" he cupped his hands around his lighter and flicked it.
"if you light a cigarette with all this gasoline around here, your climate and mine'll be not very healthy permanently." erikki pressed the switch. the engine began winding up perfectly for twenty seconds, and again spluttered into silence. erikki cursed.
armstrong nodded politely and went back to the car. the driver opened the door for him. he settled back, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply, not sure if erikki had got the message. hope so. can't give away the phony telex, or about whirlwind, that'd put me against the nearest wall for treachery to hashemi and the khan for sticking my nose where it's clearly not invited i was warned. fair enough. it is internal politics.
christ! i'm checker with all this. i need a holiday. a long holiday. where? i could go back to hong kong for a week or two, look up my old chums, the few who're left, or perhaps go up into the pays d'enhaut, the high country,
skiing. haven't been skiing for years and i could use some good swiss cooking, roesti and wurst and good coffee with thick cream and lots of wine. lots! that's what i'll do. first tehran, then hashemi concluded, and off into the wild blue. perhaps i'll meet someone nice...
but the likes of us don't come in from the cold, nor change. what the hell am i going to do for future money now that my iranian pension's up the spout and my hong kong police pension's worth less and less every day? "hello, hashemi, how'd it go?"
"fine, robert. driver, go back to hq." the driver accelerated through the main gate and sped down the road toward the city. "erikki'll sneak off in the early hours, just before dawn. we follow him until it pleases us and then we take him, outside tabriz."
"with hakim's blessing?"
"private blessing, public outrage. thanks." hashemi accepted the cigarette, clearly pleased with himself. "by that time, the poor fellow will probably be no more."
armstrong wondered what deal had been struck. "at hakim's suggestion?"
"of course."
"interesting." that's not hakim's idea. what's hashemi up to now? armstrong asked himself.
"yes, interesting. after we've burned the mujhadins tonight and made sure that maniac finn is netted, one way or another, we'll go back to tehran."
"perfect."
tehran at the bakravan house: 8:06 p.m. sharazad put the grenade and pistol into the shoulder bag and hid it under some clothes in the drawer of her bureau. the clothes she would wear under her chador later, ski jacket and heavy sweater and ski pants, were already chosen. now she wore a pale green silk dress from paris that enhanced her figure and long legs perfectly. her makeup too was perfect. a last check of the room and then she went downstairs to join the reception for daranoush farazan, her husbandto-be.
"ah, sharazad!" meshang met her at the door. he was perspiring and covered his nervousness with pretended good humor, not knowing what to expect from her. when she had come back from the doctor's earlier, he had begun to harangue her and use dire threats, but, astonishingly, she had just dropped her eyes and said docilely, "there is no need to say any more, meshang. god has decided, please excuse me, i will go and change." and now she was here, still docile.
and so she should, he thought. "his excellency farazan has been dying to
greet you." he took her arson and led her through the twenty or so people in the room, mostly cronies of his and their wives, zarah and some of her friends, none of sharazad's. she smiled at those she knew and then turned all her concentration to daranoush farazan.
"greetings, excellency," she said politely and held out her hand. this was the first time she had ever been so close. he was shorter than she. she looked down on the few strands of dyed hair over his coarse pate, coarse skin, and even coarser hands, his bad breath infringing her space, his small black eyes glittering. "peace be with you," she said.
"greetings, sharazad, and peace be with you, but please, please don't call me excellency. how... how beautiful you are."
"thank you," she said and watched herself take back her hand and smile and stand beside him and run to fetch him a soft drink, skirts flying, and bring it back as beautifully as it was possible to do, smiling at his droll pleasantries, greeting other guests, pretending to be oblivious of their stares and private laughter, never overdoing the performance, her mind centered on the riot at the university that had already begun, and upon the protest march that had been forbidden by khomeini but would take place.
across the room zarah was watching sharazad, astonished with the change but thanking god that she had accepted her lot and was going to obey which would make all their lives easier. what else could she do? nothing! and nothing for me to do but accept that meshang has a fourteen-year-old whore who already has her fangs out, boasting that soon she'll become his second wife.
"zarah!"
"oh! yes, meshang, my dear."
"the evening's perfect, perfect." meshang mopped his brow and accepted a soft drink from the tray that also contained glasses of champagne for those who cared for it. "i'm delighted that sharazad got her senses back, for of course it's a perfect match for her."
"perfect," zarah said agreeably. i suppose we should be thankful he arrived alone and did not bring one of his fancy boys it's true, he really does smell of the ordure he sells. "you've arranged everything perfectly, darling meshang."
"yes. yes, it is. it's working out just as i planned."
near jaleh: to reach the small grass airstrip, once the home of an impoverished aero club now disused, lochart had skirted the city and kept low to come under any radar. all the way in from d'arcy 1908 he had tuned his radio to tehran international but the airwaves were silent, the airport closed down for holy day, no flights permitted. he had been careful to arrive at
sunset. when he cut the engine and heard the muezzins he was pleased. so far so good.
the hangar door was rusty. with some difficulty he managed to open it and wheeled the 206 inside. then he reshut the door and began the long walk. he wore his flight clothes and, if he was stopped, he planned to say that he was an airline pilot whose car had broken down and was going to spend the night with friends.
as he reached tehran's outskirts, the roads became more and more crowded, people going home or coming from the mosques, no color or laughter among them, only a brooding apprehension.
there was not much traffic except army vehicles crammed with green bands. no troops or uniformed police. traffic wardens were young green bands. the city was coming back into order. never a woman in western dress, all chadors.
a few curses followed him, not many. a few greetings his pilot's uniform gave him standing. deeper into the city he found a good place to wait for a taxi near a street market. while he waited he bought a bottled soft drink, took a wedge of warm fresh bread and munched it. the night wind picked up a little but the brazier was cheerful and inviting.
"greetings. your papers, please."
the green bands were youths, polite, some with the beginnings of beards. lochart showed them his id that was stamped and current and they handed it back to him after some discussion. "where are you going, may we ask?"
deliberately in atrocious farsi he said, "visit friends, near bazaar. car break down. insha'allah." he heard them talking among themselves, saying that pilots were safe, that this one was canadian isn't that part of the great satan? no, i don't think so. "peace be with you," they said and wandered off.
he went to the corner and watched the traffic, the smell of the city strong gasoline, spices, rotting fruit, urine, body odor, and death. his sharp eyes saw a taxi with only two men in the back and one in the front at an intersection now blocked by a truck making a turn. without hesitation he ducked through the cars, shouldered another man out of the way, jerked the back door open, and crammed himself inside, apologizing profusely in good farsi, and begged the occupants to allow him to accompany them. after some cursing, some haggling, the driver discovered the bazaar was directly on the route that he had arranged with the others, all individual travelers who had also fought their way in. "with the help of god, yours will be the second stop, excellency."
i've made it, he told himself exultantly, then allowed the other thought to surface: hope the others made it too. duke and scrag, rudi, all of them, freddy and good old mac.
bahrain international airport: 8:50 p.m. jean-luc stood at the helipad and trained his binoculars on the two 212s that were over the end of the apron now, navigation lights winking. they had been cleared for a straight-in and approached fast. beside him was mathias, also using binoculars. nearby was an ambulance, a doctor, and the immigration officer, yusuf. the sky was clear and star-filled, the night good with a warm fine wind.
the lead 212 turned slightly and now jean-luc could read the registration letters. g-huvx. british. thank god, they had time at jellet, he thought, recognized pettikin in the cockpit, then turned his glasses back to the other 212 and saw ayre and kyle, the mechanic.
touchdown for pettikin. mathias and jean-luc converged, mathias for pettikin and jean-luc for the cabin door. he swung it open. "hello, genny, how is he?"
"he can't seem to breathe." her face was white.
jean-luc caught a glimpse of mciver stretched out on the floor, a life jacket under his head. twenty minutes before, pettikin had reported to bahrain tower that one of his crew, mciver, seemed to be having a heart attack, urgently requested a doctor and ambulance meet them. the tower had cooperated instantly.
the doctor hurried past him into the cabin and knelt beside mciver. one look was sufficient. he used the hyperdermic he had prepared. "this will settle him quickly and we'll have him in the hospital in a few minutes." in arabic he called to the paramedics and they came on the run. he helped genny down into the light, jean-luc now with them. "i'm dr. lanoire, please tell me what happened."
"is it a heart attack?" she asked.
"yes, yes, it is. not a bad one," the doctor said, wanting to gentle her. he was half-french, half-bahrain, very good, and they had been fortunate to get him at such short notice. behind them the paramedics had mciver on a stretcher and were easing him gently out of the helicopter.
