Ali was glad to be flying, glad that he had not killed Lochart who had stood there in front of him, saying nothing, not begging for his life or saying prayers, just standing there with his hands up, waiting. I’m sure he’s safe under the pilings, thanks be to God…
He took a quick glance at the map, refreshing his memory. But he did not really need to, he had spent many good years here, flying the passes. Soon he would come down out of the mountains into the marsh plains of the Tigris and Euphrates, staying at ground level, skirting Dezful, then Ahwaz and Khorramshahr, then stab across the Shatt-al-Arab Estuary and the border, into Kuwait and freedom.
Ahead was the ridge with the dominating peak that he had been expecting and he swung upward out of the valley to swoop down into the next, the joy of flying possessing him. Then “HBC, climb to a thousand feet and reduce speed!” filled his headphones and brain. He had been airborne barely six minutes.
The order had been in Farsi and it was repeated in English and then in Farsi and again in English, and all the while he kept her low, desperately trying to get his head working.
“Chopper HBC, you’re illegal, climb out of the valley and reduce speed.”
Ali Abbasi peered upward, searching the sky, but he saw no airplane. The valley floor was tearing past. Ahead was another rim and then there’d be a succession of rims and valleys that led down to the plains. Westward the Iraqi border was forty-odd miles away—twenty minutes.
“Chopper HBC, for the last time, you’re illegal, climb out of the valley and reduce speed!”
His brain shouted, You’ve three choices: obey and die, try to escape, or put down and wait the night and try at first light—if you survive their rockets or bullets.
Ahead of him to the left he saw trees and the land falling away, the sides of the valley steepening into a ravine, so he cast himself into it, committing them to escape. Now his mind was working well. He pulled off his headset, put himself into the hands of God, and felt the better for it. He slowed as he came nearer the end of the ravine, skirted some trees and ducked into another small valley, reduced speed even more, following the streambed cautiously. More trees and outcrops and he sneaked around them.
Stay low and slow and save gas and ease your way south, he thought with growing confidence. Go nearer the border when you can take your time. They’ll never catch you if you use your wits. It’ll be dark soon—you can lose them in the dark and you know enough about instrument flying to get to Kuwait. But how did they spot us? It was almost as though they were waiting. Could they have had us on radar going into Dez Dam—Watch itttttt!
The trees were heavier here and he slewed around a scattering of them on the mountainside, went closer to the rocks, and climbed for the ridge and the next valley. Over it safely and down into the protection of the rocks, eyes searching ahead and above and always for a good spot to put down if an engine failed. He was concentrating and confident and doing his job well. All the instruments were in the safety range. Minutes passed and though he searched the sky diligently he saw nothing. At the head of the next valley he put the chopper into a 360 and carefully scanned the sky. Nothing overhead.
Safe! Lost him! Insha’Allah! He took a deep breath and, very satisfied, turned southward again. Over the next ridge. And the next and there ahead were the plains. The two fighters were waiting. They were F14s.
AT TEHRAN AIRPORT—S-G’S OFFICE: 5:48 P.M. “…you are not permitted to land!” came over the HF, heavily mixed with static—Gavallan, McIver, and Robert Armstrong grouped around it, listening intently, the vista through the windows dull and brooding, night near.
The breezy voice of John Hogg from the incoming 125 came back again: “Tehran Control, this is Echo Tango Lima Lima, as per yesterday, we have clearance from Kish to land an—”
“ETLL, you are not permitted to land!” The traffic controller’s voice was raw and frightened and McIver cursed under his breath. “I say again: negative, all civilian air traffic is grounded and all incoming flights canceled until further orders of the Imam…” Behind his voice they could hear other voices chattering in Farsi, a number of mikes open on this frequency. “Return to your point of departure!”
“I say again, we have clearance to land from Kish radar who passed us to Isfahan air traffic controller who confirmed our clearance. Long live Ayatollah Khomeini and the victory of Islam—I am forty miles south of checkpoint Varamin, expecting runway 29 left. Please confirm your ILS is functioning. Do you have other traffic in your system?”
For a moment Farsi voices dominated the tower, then, “Negative traffic, ETLL, negative ILS but you are not per—” The American English stopped abruptly and an angry, heavily accented voice took over: “Not landings! Komiteh give orders Tehran! Kish not Tehran—Isfahan not Tehran—we give orders Tehran. If landings you arrested.”
John Hogg’s happy voice replied at once. “EchoTangoLimaLima. Understand you don’t want us to land, Tehran Tower, and wish to reject our clearances which I believe is an error according to air traffic regulations—Standby One please.” Then at once on their private S-G frequency, mixed with static, came his terse voice, “HQ advise!”
Immediately McIver switched channels and said into the mike, “Three sixty, Standby One,” meaning circle and wait for a reply. He glanced up at Gavallan who was grim-faced. Robert Armstrong was whistling tonelessly. “We better wave him off—if he lands they could throw the book at him and impound her,” McIver said.
“With official clearances?” Gavallan said. “You told the tower we’ve the British ambassador’s letter approved by Bazargan’s office—”
“But not by Bazargan himself, sir,” Robert Armstrong said, “and even then for all practical purposes those buggers in the tower are the law in the tower for the moment. I’d suggest th—” He stopped and pointed, his face even grimmer. “Look there!” Two trucks and a radio control car, with its tall aerial waving, were racing along the boundary road. As they watched, the trucks drove directly onto runway 29 left, parked in the middle of it. Armed Green Bands jumped out taking up defensive positions. The control car continued to head their way.
“Shit!” McIver muttered.
“Mac, do you think they’ll be monitoring our frequency?”
“Safer to assume so, Andy.”
Gavallan took the mike. “Abort. B repeat B.”
“EchoTangoLimaLima!” Then, on the tower frequency, kind and friendly; “Tehran Tower: we agree your request to cancel our clearance and formally apply for clearance to land at tomorrow noon to deliver urgent repeat urgent spares required by IranOil, outgoing crew for overdue leave, with immediate turnaround.”
McIver grunted. “Johnny always was fast on his feet.” Then to Armstrong, “We’ll put y—”
“Standby One, EchoTangoLimaLima,” from the tower overrode him.
“We’ll put you on her passenger list when we can, Mr. Armstrong. Sorry, no joy today What about your papers?”
Armstrong took his eyes off the approaching car. “I, er, I’d prefer to be a specialist consultant for S-G, going on leave, if you don’t mind. Unpaid, of course.” He stared back at Gavallan. “What’s ‘B repeat B’?”
“Try again tomorrow, same time.”
“And if they grant ETLL’s request?”
“Then it’s tomorrow—you’ll be a specialist consultant.”
“Thanks. Let’s hope it’s tomorrow.” Armstrong looked at the approaching car, and added quickly, “Will you be in about ten tonight, Mr. Gavallan? Perhaps I could drop by—just to chat, nothing important.”
“Certainly. I’ll expect you. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes. If I’m not there by ten-fifteen I’ve been delayed and can’t come—you know how it is—and I’ll check in the morning.” Armstrong began to leave. “Thanks.”
“All right. Where did we meet?”
“Hong Kong.” Robert Armstrong nodded politely and walked out, tall and gaunt. They saw him go through the office and take the door that le
d to the hangar and the back door to the S-G parking lot where he had left his nondescript car—McIver’s car was parked in front.
“Almost as though he’s been here before,” McIver said thoughtfully.
“Hong Kong? Don’t remember him at all. Do you?”
“No.” McIver frowned. “I’ll ask Gen, she has a good memory for names.”
“I’m not sure I like or trust Robert bloody Armstrong, whatever Talbot says.”
At noon they had gone to see Talbot to find out the who and the why of Armstrong. All George Talbot would say was, “Oh, he’s rather decent really, and we’d, er, we’d appreciate your giving him a lift, and er, not asking too many questions. You’ll stay for lunch, of course? We’ve still some rather good Dover sole, fresh frozen, plenty of caviar or smoked salmon if you wish, a couple of La Doucette ’76 on ice—or bangers and mash with the house claret which I’d highly recommend if you prefer. Chocolate pudding or sherry trifle, and we’ve still half of a fairly decent Stilton. The whole world may be on fire, but at least we can watch it burn like gentlemen. How about a pink gin before lunch?”
Lunch had been very good. Talbot had said that Bakhtiar’s leaving the field for Bazargan and Khomeini might avert most trouble. “Now that there’s no chance of a coup, things should get back to normal, eventually.”
“When do you think’s ‘eventually’?”
“When ‘they,’ whoever ‘they’ are, run out of ammunition. But, my dear old boy, whatever I think really doesn’t matter. It’s what Khomeini thinks that matters, and only God knows what Khomeini thinks.”
Gavallan remembered the shrill cackle of laughter that Talbot had let out at his own joke and smiled.
“What?” McIver asked.
“I was just remembering Talbot at lunch.”
The car was still a hundred yards away. “Talbot’s hiding a mountain of secrets. What do you think Armstrong wants to ‘chat’ about?”
“Probably to divert us some more—after all, Mac, we did go to the embassy to enquire about him. Curious! Usually I don’t forget… Hong Kong? Seem to associate him with the races at Happy Valley. It’ll come back to me. I’ll say one thing for him, he’s punctual. I told him five o’clock and he was here—even though he seemed to come out of the woodwork.” Gavallan’s eyes twinkled under his heavy eyebrows, then went back to the incoming car that was drawing up outside. “Sure as God made Scotland he didn’t want to meet our friendly komiteh. I wonder why?”
The komiteh consisted of two armed youths, a mullah—not the same as yesterday—and Sabolir, the perspiring senior Immigration official, still very nervous.
“Good evening, Excellencies,” McIver said, his nostrils rebelling against their invading smell of stale sweat. “Would you care for tea?”
“No, no, thank you,” Sabolir said. He was still very much on his guard, though he tried to hide it under a mask of arrogance. He sat down in the best chair. “We have new regulations for you.”
“Oh?” McIver had had dealings with him over a couple of years, and had provided an occasional case of whisky, fill-ups of gasoline, and, from time to time, free air travel—and accommodation—for him and his family on several summer vacations to Caspian resorts: “We booked rooms for some of our executives and they can’t use the space, dear Mr. Sabolir. It’s a pity to waste the space, isn’t it?” Once he had arranged a week’s trip for two to Dubai. The girl had been young and very beautiful, and at Sabolir’s blunt suggestion was put on the S-G books as an Iranian expert. “What can we do for you?”
To their surprise Sabolir took out Gavallan’s passport and the previous clearance paper and put them on the desk: “Here are your passport and papers, er, approved,” he said, his voice automatically oily with officialdom. “The Imam has ordered normal operations to begin at once. The, er, the Islamic State of Iran is back to normal and the airport will reopen in, er, three days, for normal, preagreed traffic. You are to come back to normal now.”
“We begin training the Iranian Air Force again?” McIver asked, hard put to keep the glee out of his voice, for this was a very big contract and very profitable.
Sabolir hesitated. “Yes, I presume y—”
“No,” the mullah said firmly in good English. “No—not until the Imam or the Revolutionary Komiteh agrees. I will see that you have a firm answer. I do not think this part of your operation will begin yet. Meanwhile your normal business—spares to your bases and their contract flights to assist IranOil resume oil production, or Iran-Timber and so on—provided the flights are approved in advance, may begin the day after tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Gavallan said, and McIver echoed him.
“Replacement flight crews and oil rig crews, in and out—if approved in advance and provided their papers are in order,” the mullah continued, “will resume the day after tomorrow. Oil production is to be a priority. An Islamic Guard will accompany every internal flight.”
“If requested in advance, and the man is on time for the flight. But not armed,” McIver said politely, preparing for the inevitable clash.
“Armed Islamic Guards will be carried for your protection to prevent hijacking by enemies of the state!” the mullah said sharply.
“We will be very pleased to cooperate, Excellency,” Gavallan interrupted calmly, “very pleased indeed, but I’m sure you won’t wish to endanger life or jeopardize the Islamic state. I formally ask you to ask the Imam to agree to no guns whatever—clearly you have immediate access to his presence. Meanwhile all our aircraft are grounded until I have clearance, or clearance from my government.”
“You will not ground flights and you will become normal!” The mullah was very angry.
“Perhaps a compromise pending the Imam’s agreement: your guards have their guns but the captain holds the ammunition during the flight. Agreed?”
The mullah hesitated.
Gavallan hardened. “The Imam ordered ALL weapons handed in, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Very well, I agree.”
“Thank you. Mac, prepare the paper for His Excellency to sign and that takes care of it for all our lads. Now, we’ll need new flight papers, Excellency, the only ones we’ve got are the old, er, useless ones from the previous regime. Will you give us the necessary authority? You yourself, Excellency? Clearly you are a man of importance and you know what’s going on.” He watched as the mullah seemed to grow in stature with the flattery. The man was in his thirties, his beard was greasy and his clothes threadbare. From his accent Gavallan had pegged him an ex-British student, one of the thousands of Iranians that the Shah had sent abroad on grants for Western education. “You will of course give us new papers at once, to make us legal with the new era?”
“We, er, we will sign new documents for each of our aircraft, yes.” The mullah took some papers from his battered briefcase and put on a pair of old glasses, the lenses thick and one of them cracked. The paper he sought was at the bottom. “You have in your trust thirteen Iranian 212s, seven 206s, and four Alouettes in various places, all Iranian registry and owned by Iran Helicopter Company—that’s correct?”
Gavallan shook his head. “Not exactly. At the moment they’re still actually owned by S-G Helicopters of Aberdeen. Iran Helicopter Company, our joint venture with our Iranian partners, doesn’t own the aircraft until they’re paid for.”
The mullah frowned, then brought the paper closer to his eyes. “But the contract giving ownership to Iran Helicopter, which is an Iranian company, is signed, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s subject to payments which are…are in arrears.”
“The Imam has said all debts will be paid so they will be paid.”
“Of course, but meanwhile ownership passes on actual payment,” Gavallan continued carefully, while hoping against hope the tower would grant Johnny Hogg’s clever request for a landing tomorrow. I wonder if this mealymouthed bugger could order a clearance? he asked himself. If Khomeini’s ordered everything back to normal, it’ll go back to normal and
I can safely return to London. With any luck I could close the ExTex contract that covers the new X63s’ lease payments by the weekend. “For months we’ve been making payments on behalf of IHC on all these aircraft, with interest, banking charges and so on out of our own funds and w—”
“Islam forbids usury and the paying of interest,” the mullah said with a total finality that rocked Gavallan and McIver. “Banks may not charge interest. None. It is usury.”
Gavallan glanced at McIver, then uneasily turned his full attention to the mullah. “If banks cannot charge interest, how will business operate internally and externally?”
“According to Islamic law. Only Islamic law. The Koran forbids usury.” The mullah added distastefully, “What foreign banks do is evil—it’s because of them Iran had many troubles. Banks are evil institutions and will not be tolerated. As to Iran Helicopter Company, the Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh has ordered all joint ventures suspended, pending review.” The mullah waved the papers. “All these aircraft are Iranian, Iranian registry, Iranian!” Again he peered at the paper. “Here in Tehran you have three 212s, four 206s, and one 47G4 here at the airport, haven’t you?”
“They’re spread around,” McIver told him carefully, “here, Doshan Tappeh and Galeg Morghi.”
“But they’re all here, in Tehran?”
McIver had been gauging him while Gavallan had been talking, also trying to read upside down what the papers contained. The one in the mullah’s hand listed all their airplanes with their registration numbers and was a copy of the manifest that was kept permanently in the tower, that S-G was obliged to keep permanently up to date. His stomach twisted nastily when he glimpsed EP-HBC ringed in red—Lochart’s 212—also EP-HFC, Pettikin’s 206.
“We’ve one 212 on loan to Bandar Delam,” he said, deciding to play it safe, inwardly cursing Valik and hoping that Tom Lochart was either at Bandar Delam or safely on the way home. “The rest’re here.”
“On loan—that would be EP—EP-HBC?” the mullah said, very pleased with himself. “Now, wh—” The traffic controller’s voice interrupted him: “EchoTangoLimaLima, request refused. Call Mahan on 118.3—good day.”
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