Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “I’ll manage.”

  “How, please tell me—and Sharazad, of course, she has the right, the legal right to know. How?”

  Sharazad muttered, “I’ve jewelry, Tommy, I can sell that.”

  Cruelly Meshang left the words hanging in the air over the table, delighted that Lochart was at bay, humiliated, stripped naked. Filthy Infidel! If it wasn’t for the Locharts in our world, the rapacious foreigners, exploiters of Iran, we’d be free of Khomeini and his mullahs, my father would still be alive, Sharazad married properly. “Well?”

  “What do you suggest?” Lochart said, no way out of the trap.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Meanwhile you’ve no house, very substantial bills, and soon you’ll be jobless—I doubt if your company will be allowed to operate here very much longer; quite correctly foreign companies are persona non grata.” Meshang was delighted that he had remembered the Latin phrase, “no longer needed, wanted, or necessary.”

  “If that happens I’ll resign and apply to fly choppers for Iranian companies. They’ll need pilots immediately. I can speak Farsi, I’m an expert pilot and trainer. Khomeini…the Imam wants oil production brought back to normal immediately, so of course they’ll need trained pilots.”

  Meshang laughed to himself. Yesterday Minister Ali Kia had come to the bazaar, correctly humble and anxious to please, bringing an exquisite pishkesh—wasn’t his annual “consulting fee” due for renewal soon?—and had told him of his plans to acquire all partnership airplanes and freeze all bank accounts. “We’ll have no problem to get all the mercenaries we need to fly our helicopters, Excellency Meshang,” Kia had said. “They’ll flock to us at half their normal salaries.”

  Yes, they will, but not you, temporary husband of my sister, not even for a tenth salary. “I suggest you be more practical.” Meshang examined his beautifully manicured nails that this afternoon had fondled the fourteen-year-old Ali Kia had given him: “the first of many, Excellency!” Lovely white Circassian skin, the temporary marriage for this afternoon that he had gladly extended for the week so easily arranged. “The present rulers of Iran are xenophobic, particularly about Americans.”

  “I’m Canadian.”

  “I doubt if that matters. It’s logical to presume you won’t be permitted to stay.” He looked sharply at Sharazad, “Or to return.”

  “Surmise,” Lochart said through his teeth, seeing the look on her face.

  “Captain, my late father’s charity can no longer be supported—times are hard. I want to know how you intend to support my sister and her forthcoming child, where you intend to live and how.”

  Abruptly Lochart got up, startling everyone else. “You’ve made your point, clearly, Excellency Meshang. I’ll answer you tomorrow.”

  “I want an answer now.”

  Lochart’s face closed. “First I’ll talk to my wife and then I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Come on, Sharazad.” He stalked out. In tears she stumbled after him and closed the door.

  Meshang smiled sardonically, picked up another sweet, and began to eat it. Zarah exhaled, enraged. “What in the Name of G—”

  He reached over and smashed her openhanded around the face. “Shut up!” he shouted. It was not the first time he had hit her but never before with such violence. “Shut up or I’ll divorce you! I’ll divorce you, you hear? I’m going to take another wife anyway—someone young, not dry and an old nagging hag like you. Don’t you understand Sharazad’s in danger, we’re all in danger because of that man? Go beg God’s forgiveness for your foul manners! Get out!” She fled. He hurled a cup after her.

  IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS: 9:14 P.M. Azadeh drove the small, badly dented car fast along the street that was lined with fine houses and apartment buildings—most of them dark, a few vandalized—headlights carelessly on bright, dazzling the oncoming traffic, her horn blaring. She braked, skidded as she cut dangerously across the traffic, narrowly avoiding an accident, and headed into the garage of one of the buildings with a screech of rubber.

  The garage was dark. In the side pocket was a flashlight. She turned it on, got out, and locked the car. Her coat was well cut and warm, skirt and boots and fur mits and hat, her hair flowing. On the other side of the garage was a staircase and a switch for the lights. When she tried it, the nearest bulb sparked and died. She went up the stairs heavily. Four apartments on each landing. The apartment that her father had lent her and Erikki was on the third landing, facing the street. Today was Monday. She had been here since Saturday. “It’s not risky, Mac,” she had said when she announced she was going and he had tried to persuade her to remain in his apartment, “but if my father wants me back in Tabriz, staying here with you won’t help me at all. In the apartment I’ve a phone, I’m only half a mile away and can walk it easily, I’ve clothes there and a servant. I’ll check every day and come into the office and wait, that’s all I can do.”

  She had not said that she preferred to be away from him and Charlie Pettikin. I like them both dearly, she thought, but they’re rather old and pedantic and nothing like Erikki. Or Johnny. Ah, Johnny, what to do about you, dare I see you again?

  The third landing was dark but she had the flashlight and found her key, put it in the lock, felt eyes on her, and whirled in fright. The swarthy, unshaven lout had his pants open and he waved his stiff penis at her. “I’ve been waiting for you, princess of all whores, and God curse me if it’s not ready for you front or back or sideways…” He came forward mouthing obscenities and she backed against the door in momentary terror, grabbed the key, turned it, and flung the door open.

  The Doberman guard dog was there. The man froze. An ominous growl, then the dog charged. In panic the man screamed and tried to beat the dog off, then took to his heels down the steps, the dog growling and snarling and ripping at his legs and back, tearing his clothes, and Azadeh shouted after him, “Now show it to me!”

  “Oh, Highness, I didn’t hear you knock, what’s going on?” the old man-servant called out, rushing from the kitchen area.

  Angrily she wiped the perspiration off her face and told him. “God curse you, Ali, I’ve told you twenty times to meet me downstairs with the dog. I’m on time. I’m always on time. Have you no brains?”

  The old man apologized but a rough voice behind her cut him short. “Go and get the dog!” She looked around. Her stomach twisted.

  “Good evening, Highness.” It was Ahmed Dursak, tall, bearded, chilling, standing in the doorway of the living room. Insha’Allah, she thought. The waiting is over and now it begins again. “Good evening, Ahmed.”

  “Highness, please excuse me, I didn’t realize about people in Tehran or I would have waited downstairs myself. Ali, get the dog!”

  Afraid and still mumbling apologies, the servant scuttled down the stairs. Ahmed closed the door and watched Azadeh use the heel fork to take off her boots, slip her small feet into curved Turkish slippers. She went past him into the comfortable, Western-style living room and sat down, her heart thumping. A fire flickered in the grate. Priceless carpets, others used as wall hangings. Beside her was a small table. On the table was the kookri that Ross had left her. “You have news of my father and my husband?”

  “His Highness the Khan is ill, very ill an—”

  “What illness?” Azadeh asked, at once genuinely concerned.

  “A heart attack.”

  “God protect him—when did this happen?”

  “On Thursday last.” He read her thought. “That was the day you and…and the saboteur were in the village of Abu Mard, Wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. The last few days have been very confused,” she said icily. “How is my father?”

  “The attack on Thursday was mild, thanks be to God. Just before midnight Saturday he had another. Much worse.” He watched her.

  “How much worse? Please don’t play with me! Tell me everything at once!”

  “Ah, so sorry, Highness, I did not mean to toy with you
.” He kept his voice polite and his eyes off her legs, admiring her fire and pride and wanting to toy with her very much. “The doctor called it a stroke and now the left side of His Highness is partially paralyzed; he can still talk—with some difficulty—but his mind is as strong as ever. The doctor said he would recover much quicker in Tehran but the journey is not possible yet.”

  “He will recover?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Highness. As God wants. To me he seems very sick. The doctor, I don’t think much of him, all he said was His Highness’s chances would be better if he was here in Tehran.”

  “Then bring him here as soon as possible.”

  “I will, Highness, never fear. Meanwhile I have a message for you. The Khan, your father, says, ‘I wish to see you. At once. I do not know how long I will live but certain arrangements must be made and confirmed. Your brother is with me now and—’”

  “God protect him,” Azadeh burst out. “Is my father reconciled with Hakim?”

  “His Highness has made him his heir. But pl—”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, wonderful, God be praised! But h—”

  “Please be patient and let me finish his message: ‘Your brother Hakim is with me now and I have made him my heir, subject to certain conditions, from you and from him.’” Ahmed hesitated and Azadeh wanted to rush into the gap, her happiness brimming and her caution brimming. Her pride stopped her.

  “‘It is therefore necessary that you return with Ahmed at once.’ That is the end of the message, Highness.”

  The front door opened. Ali relocked it and unleashed the dog. At once the dog loped into the living room and put his head in Azadeh’s lap. “Well done, Reza,” she said petting him, welcoming the moment to collect her wits. “Sit. Go on, sit! Sit!” Happily the dog obeyed, then lay at her feet, watching the door and watching Ahmed who stood near the other sofa. Absently her hand played with the hilt of the kookri, its touch giving her reassurance. Obliquely Ahmed was conscious of it and its implications. “Before God you have told me the truth?”

  “Yes, Highness. Before God.”

  “Then we will go at once.” She got up. “You came by car?”

  “Yes, Highness. I brought the limousine and chauffeur. But there’s a little more news—good and bad. A ransom note came to His Highness. His Excellency your husband is in the hands of bandits, tribesmen…” She tried to maintain her composure, her knees suddenly weak. “…somewhere near the Soviet border. Both him and his helicopter. It seems that these…these bandits claim to be Kurds but the Khan doubts it. They surprised the Soviet Cimtarga and his men and killed them all, capturing His Excellency and the helicopter, early Thursday they claimed. Then they flew to Rezaiyeh where he was seen and appeared unharmed before flying off again.”

  “Praise be to God,” was all her pride allowed herself. “Is my husband ransomed?”

  “The ransom note arrived late on Saturday, through intermediaries. As soon as His Highness regained consciousness yesterday he gave me the message for you and sent me here to fetch you.”

  She heard the “fetch” and knew its seriousness but Ahmed made nothing of it openly and reached into his pocket. “His Highness Hakim gave me this for you.” He handed her the sealed envelope. She ripped it open, startling the dog. The note was in Hakim’s handwriting: “My darling, His Highness has made me his heir and reinstated both of us, subject to conditions, wonderful conditions, easy to agree. Hurry back, he’s very ill, and he will not deal with the ransom until he sees you. Salaam.”

  Swamped with happiness she hurried out, packed a bag in almost no time, scribbled a note for McIver, telling Ali to deliver it tomorrow. As an afterthought she picked up the kookri and walked out, cradling it. Ahmed said nothing, just followed her.

  TUESDAY

  February 27

  BANDAR DELAM: 8:15 A.M. Kasigi was hurrying after the grim-faced police officer through the drab crowded corridors of the hospital—the radio mechanic, Minoru, a few paces behind him. Sick and wounded men and women and children were on stretchers or chairs or standing or simply lying on the floor, waiting for someone to help them, the very sick mixed with the lightly sick, a few relieving themselves, a few eating and drinking provisions brought by their visiting relatives who abounded—and all who could, complained loudly. Harassed nurses and doctors went in and out of rooms, all medical women dressed in chador except a few British, Queen Alexandra nurses whose severe headdress was almost the equivalent and acceptable.

  Eventually the policeman found the door he sought and pushed his way into the crowded ward. Beds lined both sides with another row in the middle, all occupied by men patients—their visiting families chattering or complaining, children playing, and over in one corner, an old woman cooking on a portable stove.

  Scragger had one wrist and one ankle handcuffed to an old iron bedstead. He was lying on a straw mattress in his clothes and shoes, a bandage around his head, unshaven and dirty. When he saw Kasigi and Minoru behind the policeman his eyes lit up. “Hello, mates,” he said, his voice raw.

  “How are you, Captain?” Kasigi said, appalled by the handcuffs.

  “If I could get free I’d be fine.”

  Irritably the policeman interrupted loudly in Farsi for the benefit of the watchers, “This is the man you wanted to see?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Minoru said for Kasigi.

  “So now you’ve seen him. You can report to your government or whomever you wish that clearly he’s been given treatment. He will be tried by the traffic komiteh.” Pompously he turned to go.

  “But the captain pilot wasn’t the driver,” Kasigi said patiently in English, Minoru translating for him, having said it for most of the night and since dawn this morning to various policemen of various ranks, always getting varying degrees of the same answer: “If the foreigner wasn’t in Iran the accident would never have happened, of course he’s responsible.”

  “It doesn’t matter he wasn’t the driver, he’s still responsible!” the policeman said angrily, his voice echoing off the walls. “How many times must you be told? He was in charge of the car. He ordered it. If he hadn’t ordered it the accident would never have happened, people were killed and injured, of course he’s responsible!”

  “But, I repeat, my assistant here was an eyewitness and will give evidence that the accident was caused by the other car.”

  “Lies in front of the komiteh will be dealt with seriously,” the man said darkly, one of those who had been in the police car.

  “Not lies, Agha. There are other witnesses,” Kasigi said, not that he had any, his voice sharpening. “I insist this man be released. He’s an employee of my government which has invested billions of dollars in our Iran-Toda petro-chemical plant, to the benefit of Iran and particularly all people in Bandar Delam. Unless he is released at once, at once, I will order all Japanese out and cease all work!” His biliousness increased, for he did not have the authority, nor would he issue such orders. “Everything will stop!”

  “By the Prophet, we’re no longer subject to foreign blackmail,” the man blustered and turned away. “You’ll have to discuss this with the komiteh!”

  “Unless he’s released at once, all work ceases and there’ll be no more jobs. None!” As Minoru translated, Kasigi noticed a difference in the silence and the mood of those around. And even in the police officer himself, nastily aware that all eyes were on him and sensing the sudden hostility. One youth nearby wearing a green band on his grimy pajamas said thickly, “You want to jeopardize our jobs, eh? Who’re you? How do we know you’re not a Shah man? Have you been cleared by the komiteh?”

  “Of course I have! By the One God I’ve been for the Imam for years!” the man replied angrily but a wave of fear went through him. “I helped the revolution, everyone knows. You,” he pointed at Kasigi, silently cursing him for causing all this trouble, “you follow me!” He pushed a way through the onlookers.

  “I’ll be back, Captain Scragger, don’t worry.” Kasigi and Mi
noru rushed off in pursuit.

  The police officer led the way down a flight of stairs and along a corridor and down other stairs, all of them crowded. Kasigi’s nervousness increased as they descended deeper into the hospital. Now the man opened the door with a notice in Farsi on it.

  Kasigi broke out in a cold sweat. They were in the morgue. Marble slabs with bodies covered with grimy sheets. Many of them. Odor of chemicals and dried blood and offal and excrement. “Here!” the police officer said and tore back a sheet. Beneath it was the headless corpse of a woman. Her head was obscenely near the trunk, eyes open. “Your car caused her death, what about her and her family?” Kasigi heard the “your” and a freezing current went through him. “And here!” He ripped away another sheet. A badly mashed woman, unrecognizable. “Well?”

  “We’re…we’re deeply sorry of course…of course we’re deeply sorry that anyone was hurt, deeply sorry, but that is karma, Insha’Allah, not our fault or the fault of the pilot upstairs.” Kasigi was hard put to hold his nausea down. “Deeply sorry.”

  Minoru translated, the police officer leaning insolently against the slab. Then he replied and the young Japanese’s eyes widened: “He says, he says the bail, the fine to release Mr. Scragger immediately is 1 million rials. At once. What the komiteh decides is nothing to do with him.”

  One million rials was about $12,000. “That’s not possible, but we could certainly pay 100,000 rials within the hour.”

  “A million,” the man shouted. He grabbed the woman’s head by the hair and held it up to Kasigi who had to force himself to stand erect. “What about her children who are now condemned forever to be motherless? Don’t they deserve compensation? Eh?”