McIver’s defenses crumbled. They had all heard horrendous stories of wives and children being tortured in front of the arrested man to force his compliance with whatever they wanted, or just for devilment. “All right,” he said helplessly, feeling rotten, knowing he was trapped. “I’ll try, but don’t expect to get a clearance, and you shouldn’t go south to Abadan. Your best bet would be Turkey. Perhaps we could chopper you to Tabriz, then you could buy your way over the border in a truck. You must have friends there. And you can’t make the pickup Galeg Morghi—there’s no way you could sneak aboard with Annoush and the children or even get into that military field without being stopped. You’d…you’d have to be picked up outside of Tehran. Somewhere off the roads and out of sight of radar.”
“All right, but it has to be Abadan.”
“Why? You lessen your chances by half.”
“Has to be. My family…my father and mother got there by road. Of course you’re right about Galeg Morghi. We could be picked up outside Tehran at…” Valik thought for a moment, then rushed on: “at the junction of the pipeline south and the river Zehsan…it’s away from the road and safe. We’ll be there in the morning at eleven o’clock. God will thank you, Mac. If…if you apply for a clearance for spares, I… I will arrange that it’s approved. Please, I beg you.”
“But what about refueling? When you land for refueling, the landing officer’s bound to spot you and you’ll be arrested in seconds.”
“Request refueling at the air force base at Isfahan. I… I will arrange Isfahan.” Valik wiped the sweat off his face.
“And if anything goes wrong?”
“Insha’Allah! You’ll apply for clearance for spares—no names on the clearance or I’m dead or worse and so are Annoush, Jalal, and Setarem. Please?”
McIver knew it was madness. “I’ll apply for clearance: spares only for Bandar Delam. I should know by midnight if it’s approved—I’ll send someone to wait for it and bring it to me at the apartment. Phones are out so you’ll have to come to me for confirmation. That’ll give me time to think this out and decide yes or no.”
“But y—”
“Midnight.”
“Yes, very well, I shall be there.”
“What about the other partners?”
“They—they know nothing of this. Emir Paknouri or one of the others will act for me.”
“What about weekly monies?”
“They will provide it.” Again Valik wiped his forehead. “The Blessings of God on you.” He put on his overcoat and walked for the door. The briefcase stayed on the desk.
“Take that with you.”
Valik turned back. “Ah, you want me to pay in Kuwait? Or Switzerland? In what currency?”
“There’s no payment. You can authorize a charter. Maybe we can get you to Bandar Delam—then you’re on your own.”
Valik stared at him with disbelief. “But…but even so, you’ll need expense money to pay for the, er, pilot or whatever.”
“No, but you can give me an advance of 5 million rials against the money the partnership owes which we desperately need.” McIver scrawled out a receipt and handed it to him. “If you’re not here, the Emir or the others may not be so generous.”
“The banks will open next week, we’re sure of it. Oh, yes, quite sure.”
“Well, let’s hope so and we can be paid what’s owing.” He saw Valik’s expression, saw him count out the money, knowing that Valik thought him mad not to have accepted the pishkesh, knowing also that inevitably the man would try to bribe the pilot, whoever the pilot was, to take them the last stretch if the chopper ever got out of Tehran airspace—and that would be a disaster.
And now, in his office, staring blankly out of the window at the night, not hearing the gunfire or seeing the occasional flare light the darkened city, he thought, My God, SAVAK? I have to try to help him, have to. Those poor bloody kids and poor woman. I have to! And when Valik offers the pilot a bribe, even though I’ll warn the pilot in advance, will he resist? If Valik offered twelve million now, at Abadan it would be doubled. Tom could use that money, Nogger Lane, so could I, anyone. Just for a short trip across the Gulf—short but one way and no return. Where the hell did Valik get all that cash anyway? Of course from a bank.
For weeks there had been rumors that for a fee certain well-connected people could get monies out of Tehran even though the banks—formally—were closed. Or for an even larger fee get monies transferred to a numbered account in Switzerland, and that now Swiss banks were groaning under the weight of money fleeing the country. Billions. A few million in the right palm and anything’s possible. Isn’t that the same over the whole of Asia? Be honest, why just Asia? Isn’t it true over the whole world?
“Tom,” he said wearily, “try military air traffic control and see if the 212’s cleared, will you?” As far as Lochart was concerned, this was just a routine delivery—McIver had told him only that he had seen Valik today and that the general had given him some cash, but nothing else. He still had to decide the pilot he would send, wishing he could do it himself and so put no one else at risk. God cursed medical! God cursed rules!
Lochart went to the HF. At that moment there was a scuffle in the outer office, and the door swung open. Standing there was a youth with an automatic rifle over his shoulder and a green band on his arm. Half a dozen other youths were with him. The Iranian staff waited, paralyzed. The young man stared at McIver and Lochart then consulted a list.
“Salaam, Agha. Capta’n McIver?” he asked Lochart, his English hesitant and heavily accented.
“Salaam, Agha. No, I am Captain McIver,” McIver said uneasily, his first thought, Are these more of the same group who murdered poor Kyabi? His second thought, Gen should have left with the others, I should have insisted, his third about the stacks of rials in his open attaché case on the floor beside the hatstand.
“Ah, good,” the young man said politely. There were dark rings under his eyes, his face strong, and though McIver judged him to be twenty-five at the most, he had an old man’s look about him. “Danger here. For you here. Now. Please to go. We are komiteh for this block. Please you to go. Now.”
“All right. Certainly, er, thank you.” Twice before, McIver had thought it prudent to evacuate the offices because of riots and mobs in the streets around them even though, astonishingly, considering their vast numbers, the mobs had been very disciplined with little damage to property or to Europeans—except for cars parked on the streets. This was the first time anyone had come here to warn him personally. Obediently McIver and Lochart put on their overcoats, McIver closed his attaché case, and, with the others, began to leave. He switched off the lights.
“How lights when no one else?” the leader asked.
“We’ve our own generator. On the roof.”
The youth smiled strangely, his teeth very white. “Foreigners have generators and warm, Iranians not.”
McIver was going to answer but thought better of it.
“You got message? Message about leaving? Message today?”
“Yes,” McIver said. One message in the office, one at the apartment that Genny had found in their letter box. They just said, “On December 1 you were warned to leave: Why are you still here if not as an enemy? You have little time left, [signed] The university supporters for Islamic Republic in Iran.”
“You, er, you are representatives of the university?”
“We are your komiteh. Please to leave now. Enemies better not come back ever. No?”
McIver and Lochart walked out. The revolutionaries followed them down the stairs. For weeks the elevator had not worked.
The street was still clear, no mobs, or fires, and all gunfire distant.
“Not come back. Three days.”
McIver stared at them. “That’s not possible. I’ve got many th—”
“Danger.” The young man and the others, equally young, waited silently and watched. Not all were armed with guns. Two had clubs. Two were holding hands. �
��Not come back. Very bad. Three days, komiteh says. Understand?”
“Yes, but one of us has to refuel the generator or the telex will stop and then we’ll be out of touch an—”
“Telex unimportant. Not come back. Three days.” The youth patiently motioned them to leave. “Danger here. Not forget, please. Good night.”
McIver and Lochart got into their cars that were locked in the garage below the building, very conscious of the envious stares. McIver was driving his ’65 four-seat Rover coupe that he called Lulu and kept in mint condition. Lochart had borrowed Scot Gavallan’s car, a small battered old Citroën that was deliberately low key though the engine was souped up, the brakes perfect, and if need be, she was very fast. They drove off, and around the second corner stopped alongside one another.
“Those buggers really meant it,” McIver said angrily, “Three days? I can’t stay out of the office three days!”
“Yes. What now?” Lochart glanced into his rearview mirror. The young men had rounded the far corner and stood watching them. “We better get going. I’ll meet you at your apartment,” he said hurriedly.
“Yes, but in the morning, Tom, nothing we can do now.”
“But I was going to go back to Zagros—I should have left today.”
“I know. Stay tomorrow, go the next day. Nogger can do the charter, if the clearance comes through, which I doubt. Come around ten.”
McIver saw the youths begin to walk toward them. “Around ten, Tom,” he said hurriedly, let in the clutch, and drove off cursing.
The youths saw them go and their leader, Ibrahim, was glad, for he did not want to clash with foreigners or to kill them—or to bring them to trial. Only SAVAK. And guilty police. And enemies of Iran, inside Iran, who wanted to bring back the Shah. And all traitorous Marxist totalitarians who opposed democracy and freedom of worship and the freedom of education and universities.
“Oh, how I’d like that car,” one of them said, almost sick with envy. “It was a sixty-eight, wasn’t it, Ibrahim?”
“A sixty-five,” Ibrahim answered. “One day you’ll have one, Ali, and the gasoline to put in it. One day you’ll be the most famous writer and poet in all Iran.”
“Disgusting of that foreigner to flaunt so much wealth when there’s so much poverty in Iran,” another said.
“Soon they’ll all be gone. Forever.”
“Do you think those two will come back tomorrow, Ibrahim?”
“I hope not,” he said with a tired laugh, “If they do I don’t know what we’ll do, I think we scared them enough. Even so, we should visit this block at least twice a day.”
A young man holding a club put his arm around him affectionately. “I’m glad we voted you leader. You were our perfect choice.”
They all agreed. Ibrahim Kyabi was very proud, and proud to be part of the revolution that would end all of Iran’s troubles. And proud too of his father who was an oil engineer and important official in IranOil who had patiently worked over the years for democracy in Iran, opposing the Shah, who now would surely be a powerful voice in the new and glorious Iran. “Come along, friends,” he said contentedly, “We’ve several more buildings to investigate.”
AT SIRI ISLAND: 7:42 P.M. A little over seven hundred miles southwest from Tehran, the loading of the 50,000-ton Japanese tanker, the Rikomaru, was almost complete. A good moon lit up the Gulf, the night was balmy with many stars above and Scragger had agreed to join de Plessey and go aboard for dinner with Yoshi Kasigi. Now the three of them were on the bridge with the captain, the deck floodlit, watching the Japanese deckhands and the chief engineer near the big intake pipe that led overboard to the complex of valves on the permanently anchored, floating oil-loading barge that was alongside and also floodlit.
They were about two hundred yards off the low-lying Siri island, the tanker anchored securely with her two bow chains fixed to buoys ahead and two anchors aft from the stern. Oil was pumped from the shore storage tanks through a pipe laid on the seabed up to the barge, thence aboard through their own pipe system into their tanks. Loading and unloading were dangerous operations because volatile, highly explosive gases built up in the tanks in the space over the crude—emptied tanks being even more dangerous until they were washed out. In the most modern tankers, for increased safety, nitrogen—an inert gas—was pumped into the space built up in the tanks, to be expelled at leisure. The Rikomaru was not so equipped.
They heard the chief engineer shout down to the men on the barge, “Close the valve,” then turn to the bridge and give a thumbs-up that the captain acknowledged and said to Kasigi in Japanese, “Permission to sail as soon as we can?” He was a thin, taut-faced man in starched white shirt and shorts, with white socks and shoes, epaulets, and a naval style, peaked cap.
“Yes, Captain Moriyama, How long will that be?”
“Two hours at the most—to clean up and to cat the moorings.” This meant sending out their motorboat to unshackle their bow anchor chains that were bolted to the permanent buoys, then reattach them to the ship’s anchors.
“Good.” To de Plessey and Scragger, Kasigi said in English, “We’re full now and ready to leave. About two hours and we’ll be on our way.”
“Excellent,” de Plessey said, equally relieved. “Now we relax.”
The whole operation had gone very well. Security had been tightened throughout the island and throughout the ship. Everything that could be checked was checked. Only three essential Iranians had been allowed aboard. Each had been searched and were being carefully monitored by a Japanese crewman. There had been no signs of any hostiles among any of the other Iranians ashore. Every likely place had been searched that could hide explosives or arms. “Perhaps that poor young man off Siri One was mistaken, Scrag, mon ami.”
“Perhaps,” Scragger replied. “Even so, cobber, I think young Abdollah Turik was murdered—no one gets face and eye mutilation like that from falling off a rig in a calm sea. Poor young bugger.”
“But the sharks, Captain Scragger,” Kasigi said, equally disquieted, “the sharks could have caused those wounds.”
“Yes, they could. But I’ll bet my life it was because of wot he told me.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“I’ll bet we’ll never know the truth,” Scragger said sadly. “Wot was your word, Mr. Kasigi? Karma. That poor young bugger’s karma was short and not sweet.”
The others nodded. In silence they watched the ship being detached from the barge’s umbilical cord.
To see better, Scragger went to the side of the bridge. Under more floodlights oilmen were laboriously unscrewing the twelve-inch pipe from the barge’s complex of valves. Six men were there. Two Japanese crew, three Iranians, and a French engineer.
Ahead of him was the expanse and length of the flat deck. In the middle of the deck was his 206. He had landed there at de Plessey’s suggestion and with Kasigi’s permission. “Beaut,” Scragger had told the Frenchman; “I’ll fly you back to Siri, or Lengeh, just as you want.”
“Yoshi Kasigi suggests we both stay overnight, Scrag, and return in the morning. It’ll make a change for you. We can leave at dawn and return to Lengeh. Come aboard. I’d appreciate it.”
So he had landed on the tanker at sunset, not sure why he had accepted the invitation but he had made a pact with Kasigi and felt he should honor it. Too, he felt sickeningly responsible for young Abdollah Turik. The sight of the youth’s corpse had rocked him badly and made him want to be at Siri until the tanker left. So he had arrived and had tried to be a good guest, halfheartedly agreeing with de Plessey that perhaps, after all, the youth’s death was just a coincidence and that their security precautions would stop any sabotage attempt.
Since the loading had begun the day before, they had all been edgy. Tonight more so. The BBC news had again been very bad with reports of greatly increased confrontations in Tehran, Meshed, and Qom. Added to this was McIver’s report that Ayre had carefully relayed from Kowiss in French—news of the continuing in
vestiture of Tehran’s International Airport, of the possible coup and about Kyabi. Kyabi’s murder had also shocked de Plessey. And all of this, along with the floods of rumors and counterrumors among the Iranians had made the evening somber. Rumors of imminent U.S. military intervention, of imminent Soviet intervention, of assassination attempts on Khomeini, on Bazargan his chosen prime minister, on Bakhtiar the legal prime minister, on the U.S. ambassador, rumors that the military coup d’état would happen in Tehran tonight, that Khomeini was arrested already, that all the armed services had capitulated and Khomeini was already de facto ruler of Iran and that General Nassiri, chief of SAVAK, had been captured, tried and shot.
“All the rumors can’t be true,” Kasigi had said for all of them. “There’s nothing we can do except wait.”
He had been a fine host. All the food was Japanese. Even the beer. Scragger had tried to hide his distaste for the hors d’oeuvre of sushi but he greatly enjoyed the barbecued chicken in a salty sweet sauce, the rice, and the deep-fried prawns and vegetables in batter. “Another beer, Captain Scragger?” Kasigi had offered.
“No, thanks. One’s all I allow myself though I’ll admit it’s good. Maybe not as good as Foster’s but close.”
De Plessey had smiled, “You don’t know what a compliment that is, Mr. Kasigi. For an Australian to say a beer’s ‘close to Foster’s’ is praise indeed.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I know, Mr. de Plessey. Down Under I prefer Foster’s.”
“You spend a lot of time there?” Scragger had asked him.
“Oh, yes. Australia’s one of Japan’s main sources of all kinds of raw materials. My company has bulk cargo freighters for coal, iron ore, wheat, rice, soya bean,” Kasigi had said. “We import huge amounts of your rice though much of that goes into the manufacture of our national drink, sake. Have you tried sake, Captain?”
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