Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  He raised himself onto an elbow and looked down at her, blessing fate that had allowed him to save her from the insane zealot at the Women’s March, the same fate that would soon guide him to Kowiss to revenge his father’s murder. “I was quoting the Rubáiyát,” he said, smiling at her.

  “I don’t believe a word of it! I think you made it up.” She returned his smile, then shielded her eyes from the glow of his love by looking again at the embers.

  After the first Protest March, now six days ago, long into that evening they had talked together, discussing the revolution and finding common cause in the murder of her father and his father, both of them children of loneliness now, their mothers not understanding, only weeping and Insha’Allah and never the need for revenge. Their lives turned upside down like their country, Ibrahim no longer a Believer—only in the strength and purpose of the People—her belief shaken, questioning for the first time, wondering how God could permit such evil and all the other evils that had come to pass, the corruption of the land and its spirit. “I agree, Ibrahim, you’re right. We haven’t rid ourselves of one despot to acquire another! You’re right, the despotism of the mullahs daily becomes more clear,” she had said. “But why does Khomeini oppose the rights that the Shah gave to us, reasonable rights?”

  “They’re your inalienable rights as a human being, not the Shah’s to give, or anyone’s—like your body’s your own, not a ‘field to be plowed.’”

  “But why is the Imam opposed?”

  “He’s not an Imam, Sharazad, just an ayatollah, a man and a fanatic. It’s because he’s doing what priests have always done throughout history: he’s using his version of religion to drug the people into senselessness, to keep them dependent, uneducated, to secure mullahs in power. Doesn’t he want only mullahs responsible for education? Doesn’t he claim mullahs alone understand ‘the law,’ study ‘the law,’ have the knowledge of ‘the law’? As if they alone have all knowledge!”

  “I never thought of it like that, I accepted so much, so very much. But you’re right, Ibrahim, you make everything so clear to me. You’re right, mullahs believe only what’s in the Koran—as if what was correct for the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him, should apply today! I refuse to be a chattel without the vote and the right to choose…”

  Finding so many common grounds of thought, he a modern, university trained, she wanting to be modern but unsure of her way. Sharing secrets and longings, understanding each other instantly, using the same nuances, belonging to the same heritage—he so very much like Karim in speech and looks they could be brothers.

  That night she had slept blissfully and the next morning slipped out early to meet him again, drinking coffee in a little café, she chadored for safety and secrecy, laughing so much together, for no reason or every reason, serious sometimes. Both aware of the currents, no need to speak them. Then the second Protest March, bigger than the first, better and with little opposition.

  “When do you have to be back, Sharazad?”

  “I, I told Mother I would be late, that I’d visit a friend on the other side of the city.”

  “I’ll take you there now, quickly, and you can leave quickly and then, if you like we could talk some more, or even better I’ve a friend who has an apartment and some wonderful records…”

  That was five days ago. Sometimes his friend, another Tudeh student leader, would be here, sometimes other students, young men and women, not all of them Communist—new ideas, free exchange, heady ideas of life and love and living free. Occasionally they were alone. Heavenly days, marching and talking and laughing and listening to records and peace-filled nights at home near the bazaar.

  Yesterday victory. Khomeini had relented, publicly, saying that women were not forced to wear chador, provided they covered their hair and dressed modestly. Last night celebrating, dancing with joy in the apartment, all of them young, embracing and then going home again. But last night her sleep had been all about him and her together. Erotic. Lying there half asleep this morning, afraid yet so excited.

  The cassette ended. It was one of the Carpenters, slow, romantic. He turned it and now the other side was even better. Dare I? she asked herself dreamily, feeling his eyes on her. Through a crack in the curtains she could see that the sky was darkening. “It’s almost time to go,” she said, not moving, a throb in her voice.

  “Jari can wait,” he said tenderly. Jari, her maid, was party to their secret visits. “Better no one knows,” he had said on the second day. “Even her.”

  “She has to know, Ibrahim, or I can never get out alone, never see you. I’ve nothing to hide but I am married and it’s…” No need to articulate “dangerous.” Every moment they were alone screamed danger.

  So he had shrugged and petitioned fate to protect her, as he did now. “Jari can wait.”

  “Yes, yes, she can, but first we’ve got to do some errands and my dear brother Meshang won’t—tonight I have to have dinner with him and Zarah,”

  Ibrahim was startled. “What’s he want? He doesn’t suspect you?”

  “Oh, no, it’s just family, just that.” Languorously she looked at him. “What about your business in Kowiss? Will you wait another day or will you go tomorrow?”

  “It’s not urgent,” he said carelessly. He had delayed and delayed even though his Tudeh controller had said that every extra day he stayed in Tehran was dangerous: “Have you forgotten what happened to Comrade Yazernov? We hear Inner Intelligence was involved! They must have spotted you going into the building with him, or coming out of it.”

  “I’ve shaved off my beard, I’ve not gone home, and I’m avoiding the university. By the way, comrade, it’s better we don’t meet for a day or two—I think I’m being followed.” He smiled to himself, remembering the alacrity with which the other man, an old-time Tudeh supporter, had vanished around the street corner.

  “Why the smile, my darling?”

  “Nothing. I love you, Sharazad,” he said simply and cupped her breast as he kissed her.

  She kissed him back but not completely. His passion grew, and hers, though she tried to hold back, his hands caressing her, fire in their wake.

  “I love you, Sharazad…love me.”

  She did not wish to pull away from the heat, or his hands, or the pressure of his limbs, or the thunder of her heart. But she did. “Not now, my darling,” she murmured and gained a breathing space and then, when the thunder lessened, she looked up at him, searching his eyes. She saw disappointment but no anger. “I’m… I’m not ready, not for love, not now…”

  “Love happens. I’ve loved you from the first moment. You’re safe, Sharazad, your love will be safe with me.”

  “I know, oh, yes, I know that. I…” She frowned, not understanding herself, only that now was wrong. “I have to be sure of what I’m doing. Now I’m not.”

  He debated with himself, then leaned down and kissed her, not forcing the kiss on her—quite confident that soon they would be lovers. Tomorrow. Or the next day. “You’re wise as always,” he said. “Tomorrow we will have the apartment to ourselves. I promise. Let’s meet as usual, coffee at the usual place.” He got up, and helped her up. She held on to him and thanked him and kissed him and he unlocked the front door. Silently she wrapped the chador around her, blew him another kiss, and left, perfume in her wake. Then that too vanished.

  With the door relocked he went back and put on his shoes, the ache still present. Thoughtfully he picked up his M16 that stood in the corner of the room, checked the action and the magazine. Away from her spell he had no illusions about the danger or the realities of his life—and early death. His excitement quickened.

  Death, he thought. Martyrdom. Giving my life for a just cause, freely embracing death, welcoming it. Oh, I will, I will. I can’t lead an army like the Lord of the Martyrs, but I can revolt against Satanists calling themselves mullahs and extract revenge on the mullah Hussain of Kowiss for murdering my father in the name of false gods, and for desecrating the Revoluti
on of the People!

  He felt his ecstasy growing. Like the other. Stronger than the other.

  I love her with all my soul but I should go tomorrow. I don’t need a team with me, alone it would be safer. I can easily catch a bus. I should go tomorrow. I should but I can’t, I can’t, not yet. After we’ve made love…

  AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 6:17 P.M. Almost eight hundred miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was standing at the heliport watching the 212 coming in to land. The evening was balmy, the sun on the horizon. Now he could see Jean-Luc at the controls with one of the other pilots beside him, not Scot as he had first thought and expected. His anxiety increased. He waved and then, as the skids touched, impatiently went forward to the cabin door. It swung open. He saw Scot unbuckling one-handed, his other arm in a sling, his face stretched and pale but in one piece. “Oh, my son,” he said, heart pounding with relief, wanting to rush forward and hug him but standing back and waiting until Scot had walked down the steps and was there on the tarmac beside him.

  “Oh, laddie, I was so worried…”

  “Not to worry, Dad. I’m fine, just fine.” Scot held his good arm tightly around his father’s shoulders, the reassuring contact so necessary to both of them, oblivious of the others. “Christ, I’m so happy to see you. I thought you were due in London today.”

  “I was. I’m on the red-eye in an hour.” Now I am, Gavallan was thinking, now that you’re here and safe. “I’ll be there first thing.” He brushed a tear away, pretending it was dust, and pointed at a car nearby. Genny was at the wheel. “Don’t want to fuss you but Genny’ll take you to the hospital right away, just X ray, Scot, it’s all arranged. No fuss, promise—you’ve a room booked next door to mine at the hotel. All right?”

  “All right, Dad. I, er, I… I could use an aspirin. I admit I feel lousy—the ride was bumpy to hell. I, er, I…you’re on the red-eye? When’re you back?”

  “Soon as I can. In a day or so. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”

  Scot hesitated, his face twisting. “Could you…perhaps…perhaps you could come with me—I can fill you in about Zagros, would you have time?”

  “Of course. It was bad?”

  “No and yes. We all got out—except Jordon—but he was shot because of me, Dad, he was…” Tears filled Scot’s eyes though his voice stayed controlled and firm. “Can’t do anything about it…can’t.” He wiped the tears away and mumbled a curse and hung on with his good hand. “Can’t do anything…don’t, don’t know how to…”

  “Not your fault, Scot,” Gavallan said, torn by his son’s despair, frightened for him. “Come along, we’ll…let’s get you started.” He called out to Jean-Luc, “I’m taking Scot off for X ray, be back right away.”

  TEHRAN—AT McIVER’S APARTMENT: 6:35 P.M. In candlelight, Charlie Pettikin and Paula were sitting at the dining table, clinking wine-filled glasses with Sayada Bertolin, a large bottle of Chianti open, plates with two big salamis, one partially eaten, a huge slice of dolce latte cheese as yet untouched, and two fresh French baguettes that Sayada had brought from the French Club, one mostly gone: “There may be a war on,” she had said with forced gaiety when she had arrived uninvited, half an hour ago, “but whatever happens, the French must have proper bread.”

  “Vive la France, and viva l’Italia,” Pettikin had said, reluctantly inviting her in, not wanting to share Paula with anyone. Since Paula had terminated any interest in Nogger Lane, he had rushed into the breech, hoping against hope. “Paula came in on this afternoon’s Alitalia flight, smuggled in all the swag at the risk of her life and—and doesn’t she look superisssssima?”

  Paula laughed. “It’s the dolce latte, Sayada; Charlie told me it was his favorite.”

  “Isn’t it the best cheese on earth? Isn’t everything Italian the best on earth?”

  Paula brought out the corkscrew and handed it to him, her green-flecked eyes sending more shivers down his spine. “For you, caro!”

  “Magnifico! Are all young ladies of Alitalia as thoughtful, brave, beautiful, efficient, tender, sweet-smelling, loving, and, er, cinematic?”

  “Of course.”

  “Join the feast, Sayada,” he had said. When she came closer into the light he saw her properly, noticing the strangeness to her. “You all right?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s, it’s nothing.” Sayada was glad for the candlelight to hide behind. “I, er, thanks I won’t stay, I… I just miss Jean-Luc, wanted to find out when he’s back, I thought you could use the baguettes.”

  “Delighted you arrived—we haven’t had a decent loaf for weeks, thanks, but stay anyway. Mac’s gone to Doshan Tappeh to pick up Tom. Tom’ll know about Jean-Luc—they should be back any moment.”

  “How’s Zagros?”

  “We’ve had to close it down.” As he busied himself getting glasses and setting up the table, Paula helping and doing most of it, he told them why, and about the terrorist attack on Rig Bellissima, Gianni’s being killed, then later, Jordon, and Scot Gavallan being wounded. “Bloody business, but there you are.”

  “Terrible,” Paula said. “That explains why we’re routed back through Shiraz with instructions to keep fifty seats open. Must be for our nationals from the Zagros.”

  “What rotten luck,” Sayada said, wondering if she should pass that information on. To them—and him. The Voice had called yesterday, early, asking what time she had left Teymour on Saturday. “About five, perhaps five-fifteen, why?”

  “The cursed building caught fire just after dark—somewhere on the third floor, trapping the two above. The whole building’s gutted, many people killed, and there’s no sign of Teymour or the others. Of course the fire department was too late…”

  No problem to find real tears and to let her agony pour out. Later in the day the Voice had called again: “Did you give Teymour the papers?”

  “Yes…yes, yes, I did.”

  There had been a muffled curse. “Be at the French Club tomorrow afternoon. I will leave instructions in your box.” But there was no message so she had wheedled the loaves from the kitchen and had come here—nowhere else to go and still very frightened.

  “So sad,” Paula was saying.

  “Yes, but enough of that,” Pettikin said, cursing himself for telling them—none of their problem, he thought. “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry.”

  “For tomorrow we die?” Sayada said.

  “No.” Pettikin raised his glass, beamed at Paula. “For tomorrow we live. Health!” He touched glasses with her, then Sayada, and he thought what a smashing pair they make but Paula’s far and away the most…

  Sayada was thinking: Charlie’s in love with this siren harpy who’ll consume him at her whim and spew out the remains with hardly a belch, but why do they—my new masters, whoever they are—why do they want to know about Jean-Luc and Tom and want me to be Armstrong’s mistress and how do they know about my son, God curse them.

  Paula was thinking: I hate this shit-roll of a city where everyone’s so gloomy and doom-ridden and downbeat like this poor woman who’s obviously got the usual man trouble, when there’s Rome and sunshine and Italy and the sweet life to become drunk with, wine and laughter and love to be enjoyed, children to bear with a husband to cherish but only so long as the devil behaves—why are all men rotten and why do I like this man Charlie who is too old and yet not, too poor and yet not, too masculine and yet…

  “Alora,” she said, the wine making her lips more juicy, “Charlie, amore, we must meet in Rome. Tehran is so…so depression, scusa, depressing.”

  “Not when you’re around,” he said.

  Sayada saw them smiling at each other, and envied them. “I think I’ll come back later,” she said, getting up. Before Pettikin could say anything, a key turned in the lock and McIver came in.

  “Oh, hello,” he said, trying to throw off his weariness. “Hi, Paula, hi, Sayada—this is a pleasant surprise.” Then he noticed the table. “What’s this, Christmas?” He took off his heavy coat and gloves.
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  “Paula brought it—and Sayada the bread. Where’s Tom?” Pettikin asked, immediately sensing something was wrong.

  “I dropped him off at Bakravan’s, near the bazaar.”

  “How is she?” Sayada asked. “I haven’t seen her since…since the day of the march, the first march.”

  “Don’t know, lassie, I just dropped him off and came on.” McIver accepted a glass of wine, returned Pettikin’s look levelly. “Traffic was rotten. Took me an hour to get here. Health! Paula, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You staying tonight?”

  “If that’s all right? I’m off early in the morning, no need for transport, caro, one of the crew dropped me off and will pick me up. Genny said I could use the spare room—she thought it might need a spring clean but it looks fine.” Paula got up and both men, unknowingly, were instantly magnetized by the sensuousness of her movements. Sayada cursed her, envying her, wondering what it was, certainly not the uniform that was quite severe though beautifully tailored, knowing that she herself was far more beautiful, far better dressed—but not in the same race. Cow!

  Paula reached into her handbag and found the two letters and gave them to McIver. “One from Genny and one from Andy.”

  “Thanks, thanks very much,” McIver said.

  “I was just going, Mac,” Sayada said. “Just wanted to ask when Jean-Luc’ll be back.”

  “Probably on Wednesday—he’s ferrying a 212 to Al Shargaz. He should be there today and back Wednesday.” McIver glanced at the letters. “No need to go, Sayada…excuse me a second.”

  He sat down in the easy chair by the electric fire that was at half power, switched on a nearby lamp. The light took away much of the romance of the room. Gavallan’s letter read: “Hi, Mac, this in a hurry, courtesy of the fairest of them all! I’m waiting for Scot. Then red-eyeing it to London tonight, if he’s all right, but I’ll be back in two days, three at the most. Finessed Duke out of Kowiss down to Rudi in case Scrag’s delayed—he should be back Tuesday. Kowiss is very dicey—I had a big run-in with Hotshot—so’s Zagros. Have just talked to Masson from here and that’s fact. So I’m pushing the button for planning. It’s pushed. See you Wednesday. Give Paula a hug for me and Genny says don’t you bloody dare!”