“Very well,” the man said curtly, his English Parisian-accented. “Then we will speak English. I am Muzadeh, deputy minister for the Abadan area for Prime Minister Bazargan an—”
“But Bazargan doesn’t make the law, the Imam does,” the ayatollah interrupted him sharply. “The Imam appointed Bazargan temporary prime minister until, with the Help of God, our Islamic state is formed.” He was in his late sixties, a round-faced man, his eyebrows as white as his beard, his black robe meticulous. “Under the Imam’s leadership,” he added pointedly.
“Yes, of course,” Muzadeh said, then went on as though there had been no interruption, “and I inform you officially that the Iran-Toda is now under our direct control. There will be a meeting in three days to organize controls and future operations. All previous Shah-inspired, therefore illegal, contracts are voided. I will appoint a new controlling board, myself as chairman, workers representatives, one Japanese worker and yourself. You w—”
“And myself, and a mullah from Bandar Delam,” the ayatollah said, glaring at him.
Muzadeh angrily switched to Farsi, “We can discuss the makeup of the committee later.” There was an edge to his voice. “The important thing is to have the workers represented.”
“The important thing is to do the Work of God.”
“In this the work of the People and the Work of God is the same.”
“Not if the ‘work of the People’ is a covert name for the work of Satan!”
All six of the Iranian guards shifted uneasily. Unconsciously they had regrouped into four and two. In the silence their eyes went from man to man seated at the table. One of the men quietly eased off a safety catch.
“You were saying?” Watanabe said quickly and almost added, Banzai, with relief, as he saw everyone turn their attention back to him. “You wish to form a new committee?”
“Yes.” With an effort Muzadeh tore his gaze off the ayatollah and continued, “You will have all books ready for our perusal and you will be held responsible for any—any problems whatsoever, past or future or crimes against Iran, past or future.”
“We’ve been joint partners with the government of Iran since the beg—”
“With the Shah, not with the Iranian people,” Muzadeh cut in. Behind him the guards, youths, some teenagers, some hardly bearded, began muttering.
“True, Mr. Muzadeh,” Watanabe said, unafraid. He had been through the same sort of confrontation many times in the past few months. “But we are Japanese. Iran-Toda is being built by Japanese technicians with maximum help from Iranian trainees and workers, it’s paid for totally by Japanese money.”
“That has noth—”
“Yes, we know,” the ayatollah said loudly but agreeably, overriding the other, “we know that and you’re welcome in Iran. We know Japanese are not vile Americans or insidious British, and though you’re not Muslim, unhappily for yourselves, your eyes not yet open to Allah, we welcome you. But now, now with the Help of God we have possessed our country back, now we must make…make new arrangements for future operations. Our people will stay on here, asking questions. Please cooperate with them—you have nothing to fear. Remember, we want the plant finished and operating as much as you. My name is Ishmael Ahwazi, and I am ayatollah of this area.” He got up with an abruptness that made some of the men jump. “We will return on the fourth day from now!”
Muzadeh said in Farsi hotly, “There are other orders for these foreign—”
But the ayatollah had already left. Contemptuously Muzadeh got up and stalked out, his men following.
When they were quite alone Kasigi allowed himself to take a handkerchief out and mop his brow. Young Takeo was shock-still. Watanabe searched his pockets for his cigarettes but the pack was empty. He crushed the box. Takeo came to life and hurried to a drawer and found a fresh pack, opened it, and offered it.
“Thank you, Takeo.” Watanabe sat and accepted a light. “You can go now.” He looked at Kasigi. “So,” he said, “now it begins again.”
“Yes,” Kasigi said, the implications of a new komiteh committed to successful completion possessing him. “That’s the best news we could have. That will be very welcome in Japan.” In fact, he thought with growing excitement, this news will take the curse off Watanabe’s reports and perhaps somehow we—Hiro Toda and I—together we can neutralize Gyokotomo. And if, even better, Hiro retired in place of his brother that would be perfect!
“What?” he asked, seeing Watanabe looking at him.
“I didn’t mean work begins again, Kasigi-san,” the chief engineer said sharply. “The new komiteh won’t be any better than the other—in fact it will be worse. With the partners the inevitable pishkesh opened doors and you knew where you were. But with these fanatics, these amateurs?” Irritably Watanabe ran his hand through his hair. All gods and spirits give me the strength not to curse this fool for his continual stupidity! he thought. Be wise, calm yourself, he’s only an ape, not as well born as you who are a direct descendant of the lords of the north.
“The ayatollah lied, then?” Kasigi’s happiness vanished.
“No. That poor fool believed what he said but nothing will happen. Police and SAVAK, whatever new name it will have, still control Abadan and this area—the locals are mostly Arab, Sunnis, not Shi’ite Iranians. I meant the killing begins again.” Watanabe explained the clash the two men had had in Farsi. “Now it’s going to be much worse with every faction maneuvering for power.”
“These barbarians won’t obey Khomeini? Won’t disarm?”
“I’m saying the leftists like Muzadeh will carry on the war, aided and abetted by the Soviets who are desperate to possess Iran, have always wanted Iran, will always want Iran—not for the oil but for the Strait of Hormuz. For with their foot on the strait they possess the Western world—and Japan. As far as I’m concerned the West, America and the rest of the world, can rot, but we must go to war if the strait is prohibited to our ships.”
“I agree. Of course I agree.” Kasigi was equally irritable. “We all know that. Of course it means war—while we depend on oil.”
“Yes.” Watanabe smiled grimly. “Ten years, no more.”
“Yes.” Both men were aware of the enormous national effort in research projects, overt and covert, to develop the alternate source of energy that would make the Japanese self-sufficient—the National Project. The source: the sun and the sea. “Ten years, yes, for ten years only.” Kasigi was confident. “If we have ten years of peace and free access to the U.S. market—then we’ll have our alternate and then we’ll own the world. But meanwhile,” he added, his anger returning, “for the next ten years we have to kowtow to barbarians and bandits of every kind!”
“Didn’t Khrushchev say the Soviets didn’t have to do anything about Iran because ‘Iran’s a rotten apple that’ll drop into our hands.’” Watanabe was enraged. “I guarantee those dungeaters are shaking the tree with all their might.”
“We beat them once,” Kasigi said darkly, remembering the Japanese-Russian naval war of 1904 that his grandfather had served in. “We can do it again. That man—Muzadeh? Perhaps he’s just a progressive and antimullah—they’re not all fanatical Khomeinites.”
“I agree, Kasigi-san. But some’re equally fanatic for their god Lenin-Marx and equally stupid. But I’d bet long odds Muzadeh is one of those so-called intellectuals, an ex-French university student whose tuition was paid for by Shah grants, who was adopted, trained, and fawned on by left-wing teachers in France. I spent two years in the Sorbonne, doing a postgraduate degree. I know these intellectuals, these cretins and some of the teachers—they tried to induct me. Once wh—”
A short sharp burst of gunfire outside stopped him. For a moment both men were still, then they rushed for the window. Four stories down the ayatollah and Muzadeh were on the front steps. Below them in the forecourt one man was threatening them with an automatic rifle, standing alone in the middle of a semicircle of other armed men, the rest were scattered nearer to the trucks,
some of them shouting and all hostile. Scragger was on the outskirts and as they watched they saw him ease into a better defensive position. The ayatollah raised his arms and exhorted them all. Watanabe could not hear what the man was saying. Carefully he opened a window and peered down.
“He’s saying, ‘In the Name of God give up your weapons, the Imam has ordered it—you’ve all heard his broadcast and message—I say again, obey him and give up your weapons!’”
There was more angry shouting and countershouting, men shaking their fists at one another. In the confusion they saw Scragger slip away and vanish behind a building. Watanabe leaned farther out, straining to hear better. “The man covering them with the gun… I can’t see if he’s wearing a green armband or not…ah, he isn’t so he must be fedayeen or Tudeh…”
Now in the forecourt there was a great silence. Imperceptibly men began easing for a better position, all weapons armed, everyone eyeing his neighbor, all nerves jagged. The man covering the two of them raised his gun and bellowed at the ayatollah, “Order your men to put down their guns!”
Muzadeh stepped forward, not wanting a confrontation here, knowing he was outnumbered. “Stop it, Hassan! You will st—”
“We didn’t fight and our brothers didn’t die to give our guns and power to mullahs!”
“The government has power! The government!” Muzadeh raised his voice even more. “Everyone will keep their guns now but hand them into my office as I represent the new government and th—”
“You don’t,” the ayatollah shouted. “First, in the Name of God, all non-Islamic Guards will put their guns on the ground and go in peace. Second, the government is subject to the Revolutionary Komiteh under the direct guidance of the Imam, and this man Muzadeh is not yet confirmed so has no authority at all! Obey or you will be disarmed!”
“I am the government here!”
“You are not!”
“Allah-u Akbarrr!” someone shouted and pulled his trigger and Hassan, the youth in the center of them all, took the burst in his back and pirouetted in his death dance. At once other guns went off and men dived for cover or turned on their neighbor. The battle was short and vicious. Many died, but the men of Muzadeh were heavily outnumbered. The Green Bands were ruthless. Some of them had seized Muzadeh and now had him on his knees in the dirt, begging for mercy.
On the steps was the ayatollah. A spray of bullets had caught him in the chest and stomach and now he lay in a man’s arms, blood marring his robes. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth into his beard. “God is Great… God is Great…” he muttered, then let out a dribbling groan as pain took him.
“Master,” the man holding him said, tears running down his cheeks, “tell God we tried to protect you, tell the Prophet.”
“God…is… Great…” he murmured.
“What about this Muzadeh?” someone else asked. “What shall we do with him?”
“Do God’s work. Kill him…kill him as you must kill all enemies of Islam. There is no other God but God…”
The order was obeyed instantly. Cruelly. The ayatollah died smiling, the Name of God on his lips. Others wept openly—envying him Paradise.
AT KOWISS AIR FORCE BASE: 2:32 P.M. Manuela Starke was in the bungalow kitchen making chili. Country music filled the small room from a battery cassette player on the windowsill. On the butane stove was a big stewpot filled with stock and some of the makings, and as it came to a boil she turned the gas to simmer and glanced at her wristwatch to gauge the time. Just right, she thought. We’ll eat around 7:00 P.M. and candles will make the table pretty.
There were onions and other things to chop and the goat meat to grind, so she continued happily, absently humming or doing a little dance step in time with the music. The kitchen was small and difficult to work in, unlike the huge, high-beamed kitchen in the lovely, old, sprawling Spanish hacienda in Lubbock that her family had had for almost a century, where she and her brother and sister had grown up. But she did not mind being cramped or cooking without the proper utensils. She was glad for something to do to take her mind off the question of when she would see her husband again.
It was Saturday that Conroe had left to go to Bandar Delam with the mullah, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Today’s Tuesday, that’s only three days and today’s not even over yet. Last night he was on the HF. “Hi, honey, everything’s fine here—no need to worry. Sorry, got to go—airtime’s restricted for the moment, love you and see you soon,” his voice so grand and confident but, even so, she was achingly sure she had heard a nervousness that had filled her mind and permeated her dreams. You’re just imagining it. He’ll be back soon—leave dreams to the night and work on your daydream that all is very fine. Concentrate on cooking!
She had brought the packets of chili powder with her from London, with extra spices and paprika and cayenne pepper and ginger, fresh garlic and dried chili peppers and dried beans and little else but some night things and toilet paper in the one tote bag that she had been allowed to carry aboard the 747. Chili makings because Starke adored Mexican food and particularly chili, and they both agreed that apart from curry, it was the only way to make goat meat palatable. No need to bring clothes or anything else with her because she still had some in their apartment in Tehran. The only other gift she had brought was a small bottle of Marmite that she knew Genny and Duncan McIver loved on the hot buttered toast made from the bread Genny would bake—when she could get the flour and the yeast.
Today Manuela had baked bread. The three loaves were in their baking dishes, cooling on the counter under muslin to keep the few flies off. Damn all flies, she thought. Flies destroy the summer, even in Lubbock… Ah Lubbock, wonder how the kids are.
Billyjoe and Conroe Junior and Sarita. Seven and five and three. Ah, my beauties, she thought happily. I’m so glad I sent you home to my daddy and our ten thousand acres to roam on, Granddaddy Starke nearby: “But wear your snake boots, y’hear now!” in that lovely rough so tender drawl of his.
“Texas forever,” she said out loud and laughed at herself, her nimble fingers busy chopping and grinding and spooning, tasting the brew from time to time, adding a little more salt or garlic. Out of the window she saw Freddy Ayre crossing the little square to go up to their radio tower. With him was Pavoud, their chief clerk. He’s a nice man, she thought. We’re lucky to have loyal staff. Beyond them she could see the main runway and most of the base, snow-covered, the afternoon sky overcast, hiding the mountaintops. A few of their pilots and mechanics were absently kicking a football, Marc Dubois—who had flown the mullah back from Bandar Delam—among them.
Nothing else was going on here, just servicing aircraft, checking spares, painting—no flying since Sunday and the attack on the base. And the mutiny. Sunday evening three mutineers, one airmen and two sergeants from the tank regiment, had been court-martialed and, at dawn, shot. All day yesterday and today the base had been quiet. Once, yesterday, they had seen two fighters rush into the sky but no other flights which was strange as this was a training base and usually very busy. Nothing seemed to move. Just a few trucks, no tanks or parades—or visitors this side. In the night some firing and shouting that had soon died down again.
Critically she peered at herself in the mirror that hung on a hook over the sink that was filled with dirty pans and dishes and measuring spoons and cups. She moved her face this way and that and studied her figure, what she could see of it. “You’re fine now, honey,” she said to her reflection, “but you better haul ass and go ajogging and quit with the bread and the chili and wine and tostadas, burritos, tacos, and refried beans and Ma’s pancakes dripping with homegrown honey, fried eggs, crisp bacon, and pan fries…”
The brew began to spit, distracting her. She turned the flame down a fraction, tasted the thickening reddish stew, still fiery from not enough cooking. “Man alive,” she said with relish, “that’s going to make Conroe happier’n a pig in wallah…” Her face changed. It would, she thought, if he was here. Never mind, the bo
ys will like it just fine.
She began the washing up, but she could not divert her thoughts from Bandar Delam. She felt the tears welling. “Oh, shit! Get hold of yourself!”
“CASEVAC!” The faint shout outside startled her and she looked out of the window. The football had stopped. All the men were staring at Ayre who was running down the outside stairs of the tower, calling to them. She saw them crowd around him, then scatter. Ayre headed for her bungalow. Hastily she took off her apron, tidying her hair, brushed away her tears, and met him at the doorway.
“What is it, Freddy?”
He beamed. “Just thought I’d tell you their tower just got me on the blower and told me to ready a 212 for an immediate CASEVAC to Isfahan—they’ve got approval from IranOil.”
“Isn’t that kinda far?”
“Oh, no. It’s just two hundred miles, a couple of hours—there’s plenty of light. Marc’ll overnight there and come back tomorrow.” Again Ayre smiled. “Good to have something to do. Curiously, they asked for Marc to do it.”
“Why him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s French and they’re the ones who helped Khomeini. Well, got to go. Your chili smells great. Marc’s peed off he’s missing it.” He walked off, heading for the office, tall and handsome.
She stood at the doorway. Mechanics were wheeling out a 212 from the hangar and Marc Dubois, zipping up his winter flight overalls, waved gaily as he hurried over to watch the flight check. Then she saw the procession of four cars approaching along the boundary road. So did Freddy Ayre. He frowned and went into the office. “Have you got the clearance ready, Mr. Pavoud?”
“Yes, Excellency.” Pavoud handed it to him.
Ayre did not notice the tension in the man, nor that his hands were shaking. “Thanks. You’d better come too in case it’s all in Farsi.”
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