Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Hai!” His helper smiled and motioned to the small truck nearby, then pointed at the main, four-story office building two-hundred-odd yards away where the executive offices were.

  Scragger shook his head. “I’ll walk,” he said and waggled his two fingers to parody walking so the young man half bowed and got into the truck and drove off. He stood there for a moment, watching and being watched by the guard. Now that the truck had left and the tanks were closed, he could smell the sea and the rotting debris of the nearby shore. It was near low tide—there was only one tide a day in the Gulf, as in the Red Sea, because it was shallow and landlocked but for the narrow Strait of Hormuz.

  He liked the sea smell. He had grown up in Sydney, always within sight of the sea. After the war he had settled there again. At least, he reminded himself, I was there between jobs and the Missus and the kids stayed there and still stay there, more or less. His son and two daughters were married now with children of their own. Whenever he was on home leave, perhaps once a year, he saw them. They had a friendly, distant relationship.

  In the early years his wife and children had come to the Gulf to settle. Within a month they had gone home to Sydney. “We’ll be at Bondi, Scrag,” she had said. “No more foreign places for us, lad.” During one of his two-year stints in Kuwait she had met another man. When Scragger had returned the next time, she said, “I think we’ll divorce, lad. It’s best for the kids—and thee and me,” and so they did. Her new husband lived a few years, then died. Scragger and she drifted back into their pattern of friendliness—not that we ever left off, he thought. She’s a good sort and the kids’re happy and I’m flying. He still sent her money monthly. She always said she didn’t need it. “Then put it into savings against a rainy day, Nell,” he always told her. So far, touch wood, they’ve not had rainy days, she and the kids and their kids.

  The nearest wood was the butt of the rifle the revolutionary had in his lap. The man was staring at him malevolently from the shade. Shitty bastard, you’re not going to spoil my day. He beamed at him, then turned his back, stretched, and looked around.

  This’s a great site for a refinery, he told himself, close enough to Abadan, to the main pipelines joining the north and south oil fields—great idea to try to save all that gas being burned off, billions of tons of it all over the world. Criminal waste, when you think of it.

  The refinery was on a promontory, with its own dredged wharfing setup that stretched out into the Gulf for four hundred yards, that Kasigi had told him would eventually be able to handle two supertankers at the same time of whatever size could be built. Around the helipads were acres of complex cracking plants and buildings, all seemingly interconnected with miles of steel and plastic pipes of all sizes, mazes of them, with huge cocks and valves, pumping stations, and everywhere cranes and earthmovers and vast piles of all manner of construction materials, mountains of concrete and sand, reinforcing steel mesh scattered around—along with neat dumps the size of football fields, of crates and containers protected with plastic tarpaulins—and half-finished roads, foundations, wharves, and excavations. But almost nothing moving, neither men nor machines.

  When they had landed, a welcoming committee of twenty or thirty Japanese had been at the helipad, hastily assembled, along with a hundred-odd Iranian strikers and armed Islamic Guards, some wearing IPLO armbands, the first Scragger had ever seen. After much shouting and threatening and examining their papers and the inbound Kish radar clearance, the spokesman had said the two of them could stay but no one could leave or the chopper take off without the komiteh’s permission.

  En route to the office building, Chief Engineer Watanabe, who could speak English, had explained that the strike komiteh had been, for all intents and purposes, in possession for almost two months. In that time almost no progress had been made and all work had ceased. “They won’t even allow us to maintain our equipment.” He was a hard-faced, tough, grizzle-haired man in his sixties with very strong working hands. He lit another cigarette from his half-smoked one.

  “And your radio?”

  “Six days ago they locked the radio room, forbidding its use, and took away the key. Phones of course have been out for weeks and the telex for a week or more. We’ve still about a thousand Japanese personnel here—dependents of course were never permitted—food supplies are very short, we’ve had no mail for six weeks. We can’t move out, we can’t work. We’re almost prisoners and can do nothing without very great troubles indeed. However, at least we are alive to protect what we have done and wait patiently to be allowed to continue. We are very indeed honored to see you, Kasigi-san, and you, Captain.”

  Scragger had left them to their business, feeling the tension between the two men, however much they tried to hide it. In the evening he had eaten lightly, as always, allowed himself one ice-cold Japanese beer, “Bugger me, it’s not as good as Foster’s,” then had done his eleven minutes of Canadian Air Force exercises and had gone to bed.

  Just before midnight while he was still reading, there had been a soft knock. Kasigi had come in excitedly, apologizing for disturbing him but he felt Scragger should know at once that they had just heard a broadcast from a Khomeini spokesman in Tehran saying that all the armed services had declared for him, Prime Minister Bakhtiar had resigned, that now Iran was totally free of the Shah’s yoke, that by Khomeini’s personal order, all fighting should cease, all strikes should stop, oil production should commence again, all bazaars and shops should open, all men should hand in their weapons and return to work, and above everything, all should give thanks to God for granting them victory.

  Kasigi had beamed. “Now we can start again. Thank all gods, eh? Now things will be normal again.”

  When Kasigi had left, Scragger had lain there, the light on, his mind racing over the possibilities of what would happen now. Stone the crows, he had thought, how fast everything’s been. I’d’ve bet heavy odds the Shah’d never be shoved out, heavier odds that Khomeini’d never be allowed back, and then my bundle on a military coup.

  He had turned off the light. “Just goes to show, Scrag, old chap. You know eff all.”

  In the morning he had awakened early, accepted Japanese green tea in place of the breakfast tea he usually drank—Indian, very strong, and always with condensed milk—and gone to check, clean, and refuel, and now, everything tidy, he was very hungry. He nodded briefly to the guard who paid no attention to him and strolled off toward the four-story office building.

  Kasigi was standing at one of the windows on the top floor where the executive offices were. He was in the boardroom, a spacious corner office with a huge table and seats for twenty and had been watching the 206 and Scragger absently, his mind in turmoil, hard put to contain his rage. Since early this morning he had been going through cost projections, reports, accounts receivable, work projections, and so on, and they all added up to the same result: at least another billion dollars and another year of time to start production. This was only the second time he had visited the refinery which was not in his sphere of responsibility though he was a director and member of the Chairman’s Executive Committee that was their conglomerate’s highest echelon of decision-making.

  Behind him Chief Engineer Watanabe sat alone at the vast table, outwardly patient, chain-smoking as always. He had been in charge for the last two years, deputy chief since the project began in ’71—a man of great experience. The previous chief engineer had died here, on-site, of a heart attack.

  No wonder, Kasigi thought angrily. Two years ago—perhaps four—it must have been quite clear to him our absolute maximum budget of $3.5 billion would be inadequate, that overruns were already vast and delivery dates totally unrealistic.

  “Why didn’t Chief Engineer Kasusaka inform us? Why didn’t he make a special report?”

  “He did, Kasigi-san,” Watanabe said politely, “but by direction of the Head Agreements of the joint venture here, all reports have to go through our court-appointed partners. It’s an Iranian pattern
—it’s always supposed to be a joint venture, fifty-fifty, with shared responsibilities, but gradually the Iranians manage to maneuver meetings and contracts and clauses, usually using the court or Shah as an excuse, till they have de facto control and then…”

  He shrugged. “You’ve no idea how clever they are—worse than a Chinese merchant, much worse. They agree to buy the whole animal but renege and take only the steak and leave you with the rest of the carcass on your hands.” He put out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another. “There was a meeting of the whole board of partners with Gyokotomo-sama—Yoshi Gyokotomo himself, chairman of the Syndicate—here in this office, just before Chief Engineer Kasusaka-san died. I was present. Kasusaka-san cautioned everyone that Iranian bureaucratic delays and harassments—squeeze is the correct word—would put back production dates and cause a vast increase in cost overruns. I was present, I heard him with my own ears, but he was overridden by the Iranian partners who told the chairman everything would be rearranged, that Kasusaka-san didn’t understand Iran or the way they did things in Iran.” Watanabe studied the end of his cigarette. “Kasusaka-san even said the same in private to Gyokotomo-sama, begging him to beware, and gave him a written detailed report.”

  Kasigi’s face closed. “Were you present at this meeting?”

  “No—but he told me what he had said, that Gyokotomo-sama accepted the report and said that he himself would take it up to the highest level, in Tehran and at home in Japan. But nothing happened, Kasigi-san. Nothing.”

  “Where is the copy of the report?”

  “There isn’t one. The next day, before he left for Tehran, Gyokotomo ordered them destroyed.” Again the older man shrugged. “Chief Engineer Kasusaka’s job, and mine, was and is to get the refinery built, whatever the problems, and not to interfere with the working of the Syndicate.” Watanabe lit a fresh cigarette from the half-smoked cigarette, inhaled deeply, stubbed the other out delicately, wanting to smash it and the ashtray and the desk and the building and the plant to smithereens—along with this interloper Kasigi who dared to question him, who knew nothing, had never worked in Iran, and had his position in the company because he was kinsman to the Todas. “Unlike Chief Engineer Kasusaka” he added oh so gently, “over the years I have kept copies of my monthly reports.”

  “So ka?” Kasigi said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Yes,” Watanabe said. And copies of these copies in a very safe place, he thought grimly in his most secret heart, taking a thick file from his briefcase and putting it on the desk, just in case you’ll try to make me responsible for the failures. “You may read them if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” With an effort Kasigi resisted the temptation to grab the file at once.

  Watanabe rubbed his face tiredly. He had been up most of the night preparing for this meeting. “Once we’re back to normal, work will progress quickly. We are 80 percent complete. I’m confident we can complete with the right planning—it’s all in my reports, including the matter of the Kasusaka meeting with the partners, and then with Gyokotomo-sama.”

  “What do you suggest as an overall solution to Iran-Toda?”

  “There isn’t one until we’re back to normal.”

  “We are now. You heard the broadcast.”

  “I heard it, Kasigi-san, but normal for me means when the Bazargan government’s in full control.”

  “That will happen within days. Your solution?”

  “The solution is simple: get fresh partners who cooperate, arrange the financing we need, and within a year, less than a year, we’ll be producing.”

  “Can the partners be changed?”

  Watanabe’s voice became as thin as his lips. “The old ones were all court-appointed, or approved, therefore Shah men, therefore suspect and enemies. We haven’t seen one since Khomeini returned, or heard from one. We’ve heard rumors they’ve all fled but…” Watanabe shrugged his great shoulders. “I’ve no way of checking with no telex, no phones, no transport. I doubt if the new ‘partners’ will be different in attitude.”

  Kasigi nodded and glanced back out the window, seeing nothing. Easy to blame Iranians and dead men and secret meetings and destroyed reports. Never had Chairman Yoshi Gyokotomo mentioned any meeting with Kasusaka or any written report. Why should Gyokotomo bury such a vital report? Ridiculous because he and his company are equally at risk as ours. Why? If Watanabe’s telling the truth and his own reports could prove it, why?

  Then, for an instant that Watanabe noticed, Kasigi’s face fell to pieces as the answer came to him: because the immense overrun and management failure of the Iran-Toda complex, added to the disastrous slump in world shipping, will break Toda Shipping Industries, will break Hiro Toda personally and lay us open to a takeover! Takeover by whom? Of course by Yoshi Gyokotomo. Of course by that jumped-up peasant family who has hated us who are highborn, samurai-descended from ancient tim—

  Then again Kasigi felt as though his brain was going to explode:

  Of course by Yoshi Gyokotomo but aided and abetted of course by our arch rivals, Mitsuwari Industries! Oh, Gyokotomo’ll lose a fortune but they can sustain their portion of the loss while they grease the correct palms suggesting that they will jointly absorb Toda’s losses, dismember it, and with the benevolence of MITI put it under proper management. With the Todas will go their kinsmen: the Kasigis and the Kayamas. I might as well be dead.

  Oh ko!

  And now I am the one who has to bring back the terrible news. Watanabe’s reports will prove nothing, for of course Gyokotomo will deny everything, damning me for trying to accuse him and will shout from the rooftops that the Watanabe reports prove conclusively Hiro Toda’s mismanagement for years. So I’m in trouble either way. Perhaps it was Hiro Toda’s plan to put me in the middle of this mess! Perhaps he wants to replace me with one of his brothers or neph—

  At that moment there was a knock and the door burst open. Watanabe’s distraught young assistant came in hurriedly, apologizing profusely for disturbing them. “Oh, so sorry, Watanabe-san, oh, yes, so sorr—”

  “What is it?” Watanabe said, bringing him up short.

  “A komiteh is arriving in strength, Watanabe-san. Kasigi-sama! Look!” The white-faced young man pointed at the other windows that fronted the building.

  Kasigi was there first. In front of the main door was a truck filled with revolutionaries, other trucks and cars following. Men jumped out of them, began to collect in haphazard groups.

  Scragger was approaching and they saw him stop, then go on again toward the main door, but he was waved away as a big Mercedes drove up. Out of its back came a heavyset man in black robes and a black turban with a white beard, accompanied by another much younger man, mustached, dressed in light clothes with an open-neck shirt. Both wore glasses. Watanabe sucked in his breath.

  “Who are they?” Kasigi asked.

  “I don’t know, but an ayatollah means trouble. Mullahs wear white turbans, ayatollahs wear black.” Surrounded by half a dozen guards the two men strode into the building. “Bring them up here, Takeo, ceremoniously.” The young man rushed off at once. “We’ve only had one visit by an ayatollah, last year, just after the Abadan fire. He called a meeting of all our Iranian staff, harangued them for three minutes, then in the name of Khomeini ordered them to strike.” His face settled into a mask. “That was the beginning of our trouble here—we expatriates have carried on as best we could ever since.”

  “What now?” Kasigi asked.

  Watanabe shrugged, strode over to a bureau, and lifted up a framed photo of Khomeini that Kasigi had not noticed and hung it on the wall. “Just for politeness,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Shall we sit down? They expect formality from us—please take the head of the table.”

  “No, Watanabe-san. Please, you are in charge. I am only a visitor.”

  “As you wish.” Watanabe took his usual seat, and faced the door.

  Kasigi broke the silence. “What was that about the Abadan fire?”

>   “Ah, sorry,” Watanabe said apologetically, actually disgusted that Kasigi did not know about that most important event. “It was last August, during their holy month of Ramadan when no Believer may take food or drink from sunup to sunset and tempers are normally thin. At that time there was only a small amount of national protest against the Shah, mostly in Tehran and Qom, but nothing serious then and the clashes easily contained by police and SAVAK. On August fifteenth arsonists set fire to a movie house, the Rex Cinema in Abadan. Ali the doors ‘happened’ to be locked or jammed, firemen and police ‘happened’ to be slow arriving, and in the panic almost five hundred died, mostly women and children.”

  “How terrible!”

  “Yes. The whole nation was outraged. Instantly SAVAK was blamed, and therefore the Shah, the Shah blamed leftists and swore the police and SAVAK had nothing to do with it. Of course he set up an inquiry which went on for weeks. Unfortunately it left the question of responsibility unresolved.” Watanabe was listening for the sound of footsteps. “That was the spark that united the warring opposing factions under Khomeini and tore the Pahlavis from their throne.”

  After a pause Kasigi said, “Who do you think set fire to the cinema?”

  “Who wanted to destroy the Pahlavis? So easy to cry SAVAK!” Watanabe heard the elevator stop. “What’re five hundred women and children to a fanatic—of any persuasion?”

  The door was opened by the assistant Takeo. The ayatollah and the civilian strode in importantly, six armed men crowding after them. Watanabe and Kasigi got up politely and bowed.

  “Welcome,” Watanabe said in Japanese though he could speak very good Farsi. “I am Naga Watanabe, in charge here, this is Mr. Kasigi from our head office in Japan. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing please?”

  Takeo, who could speak perfect Farsi, began to interpret but the civilian, who had already sat down, cut him short. “Vous parlez français?” he said rudely to Watanabe.

  “Iye”—No—Watanabe said in Japanese.

  “Bien sûr, m’sieur,” Kasigi said hesitantly, his French mediocre. “Je parle un peu, mais je parle anglais mieux, et M’sieur Watanabe aussi.” I speak a little French but I speak English better and Mr. Watanabe also.