Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “But wait a second, why don’t you stay and eat with us an—”

  “Oh but I can’t, much as I’d like to, Father’s having a party tonight and I have to attend. This is just a little gift and I’ve left Hassan to serve and to clean up and oh I do hope you have a lovely time! Hassan! Dewa!” she called out, then hugged Genny and hugged McIver and ran down to the door where her two servants were now waiting. One held her fur coat for her. She put it on, then wrapped the dark shroud of her chador around her, blew Genny another kiss, and, with the other servant, hurried away. Hassan, a tall man of thirty, wearing a white tunic and black trousers and a big smile, relocked the door. “Shall I serve dinner, madam?” he asked Genny in Farsi.

  “Yes, please, in ten minutes,” she replied happily. “But first the master will have a whisky.” At once Hassan went to the sideboard and poured the drink and brought the water, bowed, and left them.

  “By God, Gen, it’s just like the old days,” McIver said with a beam.

  “Yes. Silly, isn’t it, that that’s only a few months ago?” Up to then they had had a delightful live-in couple, the wife an exemplary cook of European and Iranian food who made up for the lighthearted malingering of her husband whom McIver had dubbed Ali Baba. Both had suddenly vanished, as had almost all expat servants. No explanation, no notice. “Wonder if they’re all right, Duncan?”

  “Sure to be. Ali Baba was a grafter and had to have enough stashed away to keep them for a month of Sundays. Did Paula get off?”

  “No, she’s staying the night again—Nogger isn’t. They went to dinner with some of her Alitalia crew.” Her eyebrows arched. “Our Nogger’s sure she’s ripe for nogging, but I hope he’s wrong. I like Paula.” They could hear Hassan in the kitchen. “That’s the sweetest sound in the world.”

  McIver grinned back at her and raised his glass. “Thank God for Sharazad and no washing up!”

  “That’s the best part.” Genny sighed. “Such a nice girl, so thoughtful. Tom’s so lucky. Sharazad says he’s due tomorrow.”

  “Hope so, he’ll have mail for us.”

  “Did you get hold of Andy?”

  “No, no, not yet.” McIver decided not to mention the tank. “Do you think you could borrow Hassan or one of her other servants for a couple of days a week? It’d help you tremendously.”

  “I wouldn’t ask—you know how it is.”

  “I suppose you’re right, bloody annoying.” Now it was almost impossible for any expats to find help, whatever you were prepared to pay. Up to a few months ago it had been easy to get fine, caring servants and then, with a few words of Farsi and their help, running a happy home, shopping was usually a breeze.

  “That was one of the best things about Iran,” she said. “Made such a difference—took all the agony out of living in such an alien country.”

  “You still think of it as alien—after all this time?”

  “More than ever. All the kindness, politeness, of the few Iranians we’d meet, I’ve always felt it was only on the surface—that their real feelings are the ones out in the open now—I don’t mean everyone, of course, not our friends: Annoush, for instance, now she’s one of the nicest, kindest people in the world.” Annoush was the wife of General Valik, the senior of the Iranian partners. “Most of the wives felt that, Duncan,” she added, lost in her musing. “Perhaps that’s why expats flock together, all the tennis parties and skiing parties, boating, weekends on the Caspian—and servants to carry the picnic baskets and clean up. I think we had the life of Riley, but not anymore.”

  “It’ll come back—hope to God it does, for them as well as us. Walking home I suddenly realized what I missed most. It was all the laughter. No one seems to laugh anymore, I mean on the streets, even the kids.” McIver was drinking his whisky sparingly.

  “Yes, I miss the laughter very much. I miss the Shah too. Sorry he had to go—everything was well ordered, as far as we were concerned, up to such a short time ago. Poor man, what a rotten deal we’ve given him now, him and that lovely wife of his—after all the friendship he gave our side. I feel quite ashamed—he certainly did his best for his people.”

  “Unfortunately, Genny, for most of them it seems it wasn’t good enough!”

  “I know. Sad. Life is very sad sometimes. Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. Hungry?”

  “I’ll say”

  Candles made the dining room warm and friendly and took the chill off the apartment. Curtains were drawn against the night. At once Hassan brought the steaming bowls of various horisht—literally meaning soup but more like a thick stew of lamb or chicken and vegetables, raisins and spices of all kinds—and polo, the delicious Iranian rice that is parboiled, then baked in a buttered dish until the crust is firm and golden brown, a favorite of both of them. “Bless Sharazad, she’s a sight for sore eyes.”

  Genny smiled back at him. “Yes, she is, so’s Paula.”

  “You’re not so bad either, Gen.”

  “Get on with you, but for that you can have a nightcap. As Jean-Luc would say, Bon appétit!” They ate hungrily, the food exquisite, reminding both of them of meals they had had in the houses of their friends.

  “Gen, I ran into young Christian Tollonen at lunch, you remember Erikki’s friend from the Finnish embassy? He told me Azadeh’s passport was all ready. That’s good, but the thing that shook me was he said, in passing, about eight out of every ten of his Iranian friends or acquaintances are no longer in Iran and if it kept up in the new exodus, pretty soon there’d only be mullahs and their flocks left. Then I started counting and came up with about the same proportion—those in what we’d call the middle and upper class.”

  “I don’t blame them leaving. I’d do the same.” Then she added involuntarily, “Don’t think Sharazad will.”

  McIver had heard an undercurrent and he studied her. “Oh?”

  Genny toyed with a little piece of the golden crust and changed her mind about not telling him. “For the love of God don’t say anything to Tom who’d have a fit—and I don’t know how much is fact and how much a young girl’s idealistic make-believe—but she happily whispered she’d spent most of the day at Doshan Tappeh where, she says, there’s been a real insurrection, guns, grenades, the lot…”

  “Christ!”

  “…militantly on the side of what she called ‘our Glorious Freedom Fighters’ who turn out to be mutinying air force servicemen, some officers, Green Bands supported by thousands of civilians—against police, loyalist troops, and the Immortals…”

  AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 7:50 P.M. With the going down of the sun, more armed revolutionaries had arrived and now there were guards on all hangars and approaches to the airport. Rudi Lutz had been told by Zataki that no S-G personnel could leave the field without permission and they were to continue as usual and one or more of his men would accompany every flight. “Nothing will happen providing you all obey orders,” Zataki had said. “This is a temporary situation during the change from the Shah’s illegal government to the new government of the people.” But his nervousness and that of all his ill-disciplined rabble belied his attempt at confidence.

  Starke had heard mutterings among them and told Rudi they expected troops loyal to the Shah to arrive any moment and the counterattack to begin. By the time he, Rudi, and the other American pilot, Jon Tyrer, had managed to get to the radio in Rudi’s trailer, most of the news was over. The little they heard of it was all bad.

  “…and the Saudi, Kuwait, and Iraqi governments fear that the political turmoil in Iran will destabilize the entire Persian Gulf, with the Sultan of Oman reported as saying the problem is more than just a contagion, it’s another convenient umbrella for Soviet Russia to use its string of client states to create nothing less than a colonial empire in the Gulf with the end goal of possessing the Strait of Hormuz…”

  “In Iran it is reported that there was heavy fighting during the night between mutinying, pro-Khomeini air cadets at the Tehran air base of Doshan Tappeh—supported by thou
sands of armed civilians—against police, loyalist troops, and units of the Immortals, the Shah’s elite Imperial Guard. Joining the insurgents later were over five thousand leftists of the Saihkal Marxist Group, some of whom broke into the base’s armory and carried away its weapons…

  “Jesus!” Starke said.

  “…Meanwhile Ayatollah Khomeini again demanded total resignation of the whole government and called on the people to support his choice of prime minister, Mehdi Bazargan, exhorting all soldiers, airmen, and navy personnel to support him. Prime Minister Bakhtiar discounted rumors of an imminent military coup, but confirmed a big buildup of Soviet forces on the border…

  “Gold went to an all-time high of $254 per ounce and the dollar slumped sharply against all currencies. That is the end of the news from London.”

  Rudi switched the set off. They were in the sitting room of his trailer. In one of the cabinets was a spare HF that, like the radio, he had built in himself. On the sideboard was a telephone that was hooked up to the base system. The telephone was not working.

  “If Khomeini wins at Doshan Tappeh, then the armed forces will have to choose,” Starke said with finality. “Coup, civil war, or concede.”

  “They won’t concede, that’d be suicide, why the hell should they?” Tyrer said. He was a loose-limbed American from New Jersey. “And don’t forget the air force elite, the ones we’ve met, for crissake. The mutiny’s just a bunch of local meathead discontents. The real kicker’s about the Marxists joining in, five thousand of them! Jesus! If they’re out in the open now with guns! We’re goddamn crazy to be here right now, huh?”

  Starke said, “Except we’re here by choice; the company says no one loses seniority if they want out. We’ve got it in writing. You want out?”

  “No, no, not yet,” Tyrer said irritably, “But what we gonna do?”

  “Stay out of the way of Zataki for one thing,” Rudi said. “That bastard’s psycho.”

  “Sure,” Tyrer said, “but we’ve gotta make a plan.”

  There was an abrupt knock and the door opened. It was Mohammed Yemeni, their IranOil base manager—a good looking, clean-shaven man in his forties who had been in their area for a year. With him were two guards. “Agha Kyabi is on the HF. He wants to speak to you at once,” he said with an untoward imperiousness. Kyabi was IranOil’s senior area manager and most important official in southern Iran.

  At once Rudi switched on the HF which interlinked them with Kyabi’s HQ near Ahwaz, north of Bandar Delam, To his astonishment the set did not activate. He jiggled the switch a few times, then Yemeni said with an open sneer, “Colonel Zataki ordered the current cut off and the set disconnected. You will use the main office set. At once.”

  None of them liked the tone of voice. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Rudi said.

  Yemeni scowled and said to the guards in coarse Farsi, “Hurry the dog of a foreigner!”

  Starke snapped in Farsi, “This is our ruler’s tent. There are very particular laws in the Holy Koran about defending the leader of your tribe in his tent against armed men.” The two guards stopped, nonplussed. Yemeni gaped at Starke, not expecting Farsi, then backed a pace as Starke got up to his full height and continued: “The Prophet, whose Name be praised, laid down rules of manners amongst friends, and also amongst enemies, and also that dogs are vermin. We are People of the Book and not vermin.”

  Yemeni flushed, turned on his heel, and left. Starke wiped the sweat from his hands on his trousers. “Rudi, let’s see what’s with Kyabi.”

  They followed Yemeni across the tarmac, the guards with them. The night was clean and the air tasted good to Starke after the closeness of the little office.

  “What was all that about?” Rudi asked.

  Starke explained, his mind elsewhere, wishing he was back at Kowiss. He had hated leaving Manuela but thought she was safer there than in Tehran. “Honey,” he had said, just before he had left, “I’ll get you out the soonest.”

  “I’m safe here, darlin’, safe as Texas. I’ve got lots of time, the kids are safe in Lubbock—I didn’t leave England till I knew they were home—and you know Granddaddy Starke won’t let them come to harm.”

  “Sure. The kids’ll be fine, but I want you out of Iran as soon as possible.” He heard Rudi saying, “Who’re ‘People of the Book’?”

  “Christians and Jews,” he replied, wondering how he could get the 125 into Kowiss. “Mohammed considered our Bible and the Torah as Holy Books too—a lot of what’s in them’s also in the Koran. Many scholars, our scholars, think he just copied them, though Muslim legend says that Mohammed couldn’t read or write. He recited the Koran, all of it, can you imagine that?” he said, still awed by the accomplishment. “Others wrote it all down—years after he was dead. In Arabic it’s fantastically beautiful, his poetry, so they say.”

  Ahead now was the office trailer, guards outside smoking, and Starke felt good within himself and pleased that he had dealt satisfactorily with Yemeni and all day with the mullah Hussain—fifteen landings, all perfect, waiting at the rigs while the mullah harangued the workers for Khomeini with never a soldier or policeman or SAVAK in sight, expecting them any second and always at the next setdown. Yemeni’s chicken shit compared to Hussain, he thought.

  Zataki and both mullahs were waiting in the office trailer. Jahan, the radio op, was on the HF. Zataki sat behind Rudi’s desk. The office had been very neat. Now it was a mess, with files open and papers spilled everywhere, dirty cups, cigarette stubs in the cups and on the floor, half-eaten food on the desk—rice and goat meat. And the air stank of cigarette smoke.

  “Mein Gott!” Rudi said, enraged. “It’s a verrückte pigsty and y—”

  “SHUT UP!” Zataki exploded. “This is a war situation, we need to search,” then added, more quietly, “You…you can send one of your men to clean up. You will not tell Kyabi about us. You will act normally and take my instructions, you will watch me. Do you understand, Captain?”

  Rudi nodded, his face set. Zataki motioned to the radio op who said into the mike, “Excellency Kyabi, here is Captain Lutz.”

  Rudi took the mike. “Yes, Boss?” he said, using their nickname for him. Both he and Starke had known Yusuf Kyabi for a number of years. Kyabi had been trained at Texas A&M, then by ExTex before taking over the southern sector, and they were on good terms with him.

  “Evening, Rudi,” the voice said in American English. “We’ve a break in one of our pipelines, somewhere north of you. It’s a bad one—it’s only just shown up in our pumping stations. God knows how many barrels have been pumped out already, or how much is left in the pipe. I’m not calling for a CASEVAC but want a helicopter at dawn to find it. Can you pick me up early?” Zataki nodded in agreement so Rudi said, “Okay, Boss. We’ll be there as soon after dawn as possible. Would you want a 206 or 212?”

  “A 206, there’ll be me and my chief engineer. Come yourself, will you? It may be sabotage—may be a break. You had any problems at Bandar Delam?” Rudi and Starke were very conscious of the guns in the room. “No, no more than usual. See you tomorrow,” Rudi said, wanting to cut him off because Kyabi was usually very outspoken about revolutionaries. He did not approve of insurrection or Khomeini’s fanaticism, and hated the interference with their oil complex.

  “Hold on a moment, Rudi. We heard there’re more riots in Abadan, and we could hear shooting in Ahwaz. Did you know that an American oilman and one of our own people were ambushed and killed near Ahwaz, yesterday?”

  “Yes, Tommy Stanson. Lousy.”

  “Very. God curse all murderers! Tudeh, mujhadin, fedayeen, or whom the hell ever!”

  “Sorry, Boss, got to go, see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Good, we can talk tomorrow. Insha’Allah, Rudi. Insha’Allah!”

  The transmission went dead. Rudi breathed a sigh of relief. He did not think that Kyabi had said anything that could harm him. Unless these men were secretly Tudeh—or one of the other extremists—and not Khomeini supporters as they cla
imed. “All our extremists use mullahs as a cover, or try to use them,” Kyabi had told him. “Sadly most mullahs are impoverished, dull-witted peasants, and easy prey for trained insurgents. God curse Khomeini…”

  Rudi felt the sweat on his back.

  “One of my men will go with you, and this time you will not remove his magazine,” Zataki said.

  Rudi’s jaw came out and tension in the room soared. “I will not fly armed men. It is against all company rules, air rules, and particularly Iranian CAA orders. Disobeying ICAA rules invalidates our licenses,” he said, loathing them.

  “Perhaps I will shoot one of your men unless you obey.” Furiously Zataki slammed a cup off his desk and it skittered across the room.

  Starke came forward, as angry. Zataki’s gun covered him. “Are the followers of Ayatollah Khomeini murderers? Is this the law of Islam?”

  For a moment Starke thought Zataki was going to pull the trigger, then the mullah Hussain got up. “I will go in the airplane.” Then to Rudi, “You swear you will play no tricks and return here without tricks?”

  After a pause Rudi said shakily, “Yes.”

  “You are Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swear by God you will not cheat us.”

  Again Rudi paused. “All right. I swear by God I won’t cheat you.”

  “How can you trust him?” Zataki asked.

  “I don’t,” Hussain said simply. “But if he cheats God, God will punish him. And his companions. If we don’t return or if he brings back trouble…” He shrugged.

  ABERDEEN—GAVALLAN’S MANSION: 7:23 P.M. They were in the TV room watching on a big screen a replay of today’s rescheduled Scotland versus France rugby match—Gavallan, his wife Maureen, John Hogg who normally flew the company 125 jet, and some other pilots. The score was 17-11 in France’s favor deep in the second half. All the men groaned as a Scot fumbled, a French forward recovered and gained forty yards. “Ten pounds that Scotland still wins!” Gavallan said.