“Robert,” Hashemi called out, “look ahead and to the right.”
The four men concentrated. Again the light repeated the SOS. “No mistaking it, sir,” Hogg said. “I could signal them back.” He pointed to the heavy-duty signal flash that was for emergency use to give a Green or a Red light in case their radios failed.
Hashemi called back into the cabin. “What do you think, Robert?”
“It’s SOS all right!”
The 125 was hurrying down the runway toward the signal. They waited, then saw three tiny figures come out from the trees, two men and a woman in chador. And they saw their guns.
“It’s a trap,” Hashemi said at once, “don’t go any closer, turn around!”
“I can’t,” Hogg said, “haven’t got enough runway.” He eased the throttles a little more open. The jet was taxiing very fast, paralleling their landing tracks. They could see the figures waving their guns.
Armstrong called out, “Let’s get to hell out of here!”
“Soon as I can, sir. Colonel, perhaps you’d better get back to your seat, this might be kind of bumpy,” Hogg said, his voice nerveless, then dismissed them both from his mind. “Gordon, keep your eye on those buggers out there and on the terminal.”
“Sure. No sweat.”
The captain turned momentarily to check the other end of the runway, judged they were not quite far enough yet, but eased back on the throttle and touched the brakes. The skid began so he loosed them, keeping the jet as straight as he could, the wind shifting. The figures near the trees were larger now.
“They look a ropy lot, tribesmen, I’d say. Two automatic carbines.” Gordon Jones squinted at the terminal. “Rolls’s gone but a car heading our way along the ramp.”
Pulling off the throttles now. Still too fast to turn.
“Christ, I think… I think one of the tribesmen fired a gun,” Jones said, his voice picking up.
“Here we go,” Hogg said into the intercom mike, braked, felt her slide, held it, then began his right turn onto the width of the runway, their momentum skidding them and the wind still hostile.
In the cabin Armstrong and Hashemi were hanging on grimly, peering out of the windows. They could see one of the figures running toward them, brandishing his gun. Armstrong muttered, “We’re bloody sitting ducks.” He felt the jet sliding in the turn, no traction, and he cursed.
In the cockpit Hogg was whistling tonelessly. The jet surged over their landing tracks, still skidding, the far side of the runway banked by solid, heavy dunes. He did not dare to gun her yet and waited, mouth dry, willing her to come around faster and into the wind. But she didn’t, just continued to slide, wheels useless, brakes dangerous, engines growling, the subsurface ice.
Inexorably the snow dunes came closer and closer. He could see the jagged ice edges that would tear their thin skin asunder. Nothing to do but wait. Then a gust took her tail section and buffeted it around and now, though she was still sliding, she faced into the wind. Delicately he gunned both engines, felt the slide slowing, and at once began inching the throttles forward until he had some forward speed, more open and faster, and more control and now complete control and he shoved the throttles hard against the gate. The 125 surged ahead, his wheels left the surface, he touched the undercart retract, and they were soaring.
“You may smoke if you wish,” he said laconically into the intercom, totally pleased with himself.
On the airfield, not far from the trees, Ross had stopped running and waving, his chest hurting him. “Bloody bastard,” he shouted at the airplane. “Haven’t you any bloody eyes?”
Bitterly disappointed, he started walking back to the others who had obediently waited on the edge of the forest. Over all of them was a deep gloom. So near, he thought. Through his binoculars he had seen the Khan arrive, then go aboard, then, later, Armstrong come down the steps with the Khan, helping him. “Oh, let me look, Johnny.” Azadeh had said anxiously and refocused the lenses to suit her eyes. “Oh, dear, Father looks sick—I hope he’s all right,” she had said. “The doctor’s always telling him to diet and take his life easier.”
“He’s doing just fine, Azadeh,” he had said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. But she had heard it and flushed and she said, “Oh so sorry, I didn’t mean… I know he’s…”
“I meant nothing,” he had said and refocused on Armstrong, ecstatic that it was Armstrong, devising a plan how to get aboard. So easy. An S-G airplane—easy to see the decal—and Armstrong. We’re safe! But now we’re not safe, we’re in a mess, he told himself even more bitterly, trudging back in the snow, feeling filthy and wanting a bath and helpless with rage. They’ve got to have seen the SOS. Were their heads in their arses? Why the hell didn’t th—
He heard Gueng’s keening danger signal and he whirled. A car was a few hundred yards away, heading their way. He ran back and pointed into the forest. “That way!”
Earlier he had made a plan. First the airport, then, if that didn’t work, they would head for Erikki’s base. The base was about four miles away, southeast of Tabriz. Covered by the trees, he paused and looked back. The car stopped at the end of the runway and men got out, started after them, but found the going too heavy through the drifts. They climbed back into the car and headed away. “They won’t catch us now,” Ross said. He led the way deeper into the forest, of necessity keeping to the crude path.
On the edge of this clump of forest were frozen fields that in the summer would be abundant with crops, most of them belonging to a few landowners, in spite of the Shah’s land reforms. Beyond the fields were the outlying slums of Tabriz. They could see the minarets of the Blue Mosque and smoke from many fires, pulled away by the wind. “Can we skirt the city, Azadeh?”
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s…it’s quite a long way.”
They heard her underlying concern. So far she had moved quickly and without complaint. But she was still a hazard. They wore their tribesmen’s clothes over their uniforms. Their scrubby boots would pass. So would their weapons. And her chador. He looked at her, still not used to the ugliness that it made of her. She felt his glance and tried to smile. She understood. Both about the chador and about being a burden.
“Let’s go through the town,” she said. “We can stay in the side streets. I have some…some money and we can buy food. Johnny, you could pretend to be Caucasian from, say, from Astara, I could pretend to be your wife. Gueng, you speak Gurkhali or a foreign tongue and be rough and arrogant like the Turkomans from the north—you’d pass for one of them—they were descended from the Mongols, many Iranians are. Or perhaps I could buy some green scarves and make you Green Bands… That’s the best I can do.”
“That’s good, Azadeh. Perhaps we’d better not stay bunched up. Gueng, you tail us.”
Azadeh said, “In the streets Iranian wives follow their husbands. I… I will stay a pace behind you, Johnny.”
“It’s a good plan, memsahib,” Gueng said. “Very good. You guide us.”
Her smile thanked him. Soon they were in the markets and the streets and alleys of the slums. Once a man shoved into Gueng carelessly. Without hesitation Gueng slammed his fist into the man’s throat, sending him sprawling into the joub senseless, cursing him loudly in a dialect of Ghurkali. There was a moment’s silence in the crowd, then noise picked up again and those nearby kept their eyes down and passed onward, a few surreptitiously making a sign against the evil eye that all those who came from the north, the descendants of the hordes who knew not the One God, were known to possess.
Azadeh bought food from street vendors, fresh bread from the kilns, charcoaled lamb kebab and bean and vegetable horisht, heavy with rice. They sat on rough benches and gorged, then went on again. No one paid any attention to them. Occasionally someone would ask him to buy something but Azadeh would intervene and protect him well, coarsening her voice and talking the local Turkish dialect. When the muezzins called for afternoon prayer, she stopped, afraid. Around them, men and women searche
d for a piece of carpet or material or newspaper or cardboard or box to kneel on and began to pray. Ross hesitated, then following her pleading look, pretended to pray also and the moment passed. In the whole street only four or five remained standing, Gueng among them, leaning against a wall. No one bothered those who stood. Tabrizi came from many races, many religions.
They continued onward, making their way southeast and now were in the outlying suburbs, shantytowns filled with refuse and mangy, half-starved dogs, the joub the only sewer. Soon the hovels would end, the fields and orchards would begin, then the forest and the main Tehran road that curled upward to the pass that would lead them to Tabriz One. What he would do when they got there, Ross did not know, but Azadeh had said that she knew of several caves nearby where they could hide until a helicopter landed.
They went through the last of the slums, out onto the crude, snow-banked track. The snow of the surface was stained from mule and donkey droppings, pitted and treacherous, and they joined others who trudged along, some leading burdened donkeys, others bent over under the weight of their loads, others relieving themselves, men and women and children—a handful of snow with the left hand, then on again—a polyglot of people, tribesmen, nomads, townspeople—only their poverty in common, and their pride.
Azadeh was feeling very tired, the strain of crossing the city heavy on her. She had been afraid she would make a mistake, afraid they would be spotted, frantic with worry over Erikki and worried how they would get to the base and what then? Insha’Allah, she told herself, over and over. God will look after you and after him and after Johnny.
When they came near the junction of the track and the Tehran road they saw Green Bands and armed men standing beside a makeshift roadblock, peering into vehicles and watching the people filing past. There was no way to avoid them.
“Azadeh, you go first,” Ross whispered. “Wait for us up the road—if we get stopped, don’t interfere, just go on—head for the base. We’ll split up, safer.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry.” She nodded, her fear making her face more pale, and walked off. She was carrying his rucksack. Coming out of the town she had insisted: “Look at all the other women, Johnny. If I don’t carry something, I’ll stand out terribly.”
The two men waited, then went to the side of the track and urinated into the snowbank. People plodded by. Some noticed them. A few cursed them as Infidels. One or two wondered about them—unknowingly, they were relieving themselves toward Mecca, an act no Muslim would ever do.
“Once she’s through, you next, Gueng. I’ll follow in ten minutes.”
“Better you next,” Gueng whispered back. “I’m a Turkoman.”
“All right, but if I’m stopped—do not interfere. Sneak by in the fracas and get her to safety. Don’t fail me!”
The little man grinned, his teeth very white. “Don’t you fail, sahib. You have much yet to do before you’re a Lord of the Mountain.” Gueng looked past him toward the roadblock, a hundred yards away. He saw that Azadeh was in line now. One of the Green Bands said something to her, but she kept her eyes averted, replied, and the man waved her through. “Don’t wait for me on the road, sahib. I may cross the fields. Don’t worry about me—I’ll track you.” He pushed through the pedestrians and joined the stream going back toward the town. After a hundred yards or so, he sat on an upturned crate and unlaced his boot as though it was hurting him. His socks were in shreds but that did not matter. The soles of his feet were like iron. Taking his time, he relaced his boots, enjoying being a Turkoman.
At the roadblock Ross joined the line of those leaving Tabriz. He noticed police standing around with the Green Bands, watching the people. The people were irritable, hating any authority as always and any infringement of their right to go where and how and when they pleased. Many were openly angry and a few almost came to blows. “You,” a Green Band said to him, “where are your papers?”
Angrily Ross spat on the ground. “Papers? My house is burned, my wife burned, and my child burned by leftist dogs. I have nothing left but this gun and some ammunition. God’s will—but why don’t you go and burn Satanists and do the Work of God instead of stopping honest men?”
“We’re honest!” the man said angrily, “We’re doing the Work of God. Where do you come from?”
“Astara. Astara on the coast.” He let the anger come out. “Astara. And you?”
The next man in line and the one behind him began cursing and telling the Green Band to hurry up and not cause them to wait around in the cold. A policeman was edging over toward them, so Ross decided to chance it and he shoved past with another curse, the man behind followed, and the next, and now they were out in the open. The Green Band sullenly shouted an obscenity after them, then went back to watching others file through.
It took Ross a little while to breathe easier. He tried not to hurry and his eyes searched ahead. No sign of Azadeh. Cars and tracks were passing now, grinding up the incline or coming down too fast, people scattering from time to time with the inevitable stream of curses. The man who had been behind him at the roadblock came up alongside, pedestrians thinning out now, turning off into the side paths that led to hovels beside the road or to villages within the forest. He was a middle-aged man with a lined, very strong face, poorly dressed, his rifle well serviced. “That Green Band son of a dog,” he said with a thick accent. “You’re right, Agha, they should be doing God’s work, the Imam’s work, not Abdollah Khan’s.”
Ross was instantly on guard. “Who?”
“I come from Astara and from your accent I know you don’t come from Astara, Agha. Astaris never piss toward Mecca or with their backs to Mecca—we’re all good Muslims in Astara. From your description you must be the saboteur the Khan’s put a price on.” The man’s voice was easy, curiously friendly, the old Enfield rifle over his shoulder.
Ross said nothing, just grunted, not changing his pace.
“Yes, the Khan’s put a good price on your head. Many horses, a herd of sheep, ten or more camels. A Shah’s ransom to ordinary folk. The ransom’s better for alive than dead—more horses and sheep and camels then, enough to live forever. But where’s the woman Azadeh, his daughter, the daughter that you kidnapped, you and another man?”
Ross gaped at him and the man chuckled. “You must be very tired to give yourself away so easily.” Abruptly the face hardened, his hand went into the pocket of his old jacket, pulled out a revolver and shoved it into Ross’s side. “Walk ahead of me a pace, don’t run or do anything or I shall just shoot you in the spine. Now where’s the woman—there’s a reward for her too.”
At that moment a truck coming down from the pass careened around the bend ahead, lurched to the wrong side of the road, and charged them, hooting loudly. People scattered. Ross’s reflexes were faster and he sidestepped, shoved his shoulder into the man’s side and sent him reeling into the truck’s path. Its front wheels went over the man and the back wheels. The truck skidded to a stop a hundred feet below.
“God protect us, did you see that?” someone said. “He lurched into the truck.”
Ross dragged the body out of the road. The revolver had vanished into the snow.
“Ah, is the sacrifice of God your father, Agha?” an old woman said.
“No…no,” Ross said with difficulty, everything so fast, in panic. “I…he’s a stranger. I’ve never seen him before.”
“By the Prophet, how careless walkers are! Have they no eyes? Is he dead?” the truck driver called out, coming back up the hill. He was a rough, bearded, swarthy man. “God witness that he moved into my path as all could see! You,” he said to Ross, “you were beside him, you must have seen it.”
“Yes…yes, it is as you say. I was behind him.”
“As God wants.” The trucker went off happily, everything correct and finished. “His Excellency saw it. Insha’Allah!”
Ross pushed away through the few who had bothered to stop and walked up the hill, not fast, not slow, trying to get himself together, not daring
to look back. Around the bend in the road, he quickened his pace, wondering if it was right to react so quickly—almost without thought. But the man would have sold her and sold them. Put him away, karma is karma. Another bend and still no Azadeh. His anxiety increased.
Here the road was twisting, the grade steep. He passed a few hovels half hidden in the forest edge. Mangy dogs were scavenging. The few that came near him he cursed away, rabies usually rampant among them. Another bend, sweat pouring off him, and there she was squatting beside the road, resting like any of a dozen other old crones. She saw him at the same moment, shook her head cautioning him, got up, and started off up the road again. He fell into place twenty yards behind her. Then there was firing below them. With everyone else, they stopped and looked back. They could see nothing. The roadblock was far behind, around many comers, half a mile or more away. In a moment the firing ceased. No one said anything, just began climbing more hurriedly.
The road was not good. They walked on for a mile or so, stepping aside for traffic. Occasionally a bus groaned past but always overloaded and none would stop. These days you could wait a day or two even at a correct stop before there was space. Trucks sometimes would stop. For payment.
Later one chugged past him and as it came alongside Azadeh, it slowed to her pace. “Why walk when those who are tired can ride with the help of Cyrus the trucker—and God,” the driver called out, leering at her, nudging his companion, a dark-bearded man of his own age. They had been watching her for some time, watching the sway of her hips that not even a chador could hide. “Why should a flower of God walk when she could be warm in a truck or on a man’s carpet?”
She looked up at him and gave him a gutter curse and called back to Ross, “Husband, this leprous son of a dog dared to insult me and made lewd remarks against the laws of God…” Ross was already alongside her, and the driver found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. “Excellency… I was asking if…if you and she would…would like to ride,” the driver said in panic. “There’s room in the back…if his Excellency would honor my vehicle…”
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