“No, you go on out. I’ll be there right smartly. ’Bye.”
“’Bye.” Pettikin frowned, then, having a dialing tone, he dialed their office at the airport. To his astonishment the connection went through.
“Iran Helicopters, hello?”
He recognized the voice of their freight manager. “Morning, Adwani, this’s Captain Pettikin. Has the 125 come in yet?”
“Ah, Captain, yes it’s in the pattern and should be landing any minute.”
“Is Captain Lane there?”
“Yes, just a moment please…”
Pettikin waited, wondering about Kia.
“Hello, Charlie, Nogger here—you’ve friends in high places?”
“No, the phone just started working. Can you talk privately?”
“No. Not possible. What’s cooking?”
“I’m still at the flat. Mac’s been delayed—he’s got to go and see Ali Kia. I’m on my way to the airport now and he’ll come directly from Kia’s office. Are you ready to load?”
“Yes, Charlie, we’re sending the engines for repairs and reconditioning as Captain McIver ordered. Everything as ordered.”
“Good, are the two mecs there?”
“Yes. Both those spares are also ready for shipping.”
“Good. No problem that you can see?”
“Not yet, old chum.”
“See you.” Pettikin hung up. He packed the needlepoint and looked around the apartment a last time, now curiously saddened. Good times and bad times but the best when Paula was staying. Out of the window he noticed distant smoke over Jaleh and now as the muezzins’ voices died away, the usual sporadic gunfire. “The hell with all of them,” he muttered. He got up and went out with his luggage and locked the door carefully. As he drove out of the garage he saw Ali Baba duck back into a doorway across the road. With him were two other men he had never seen before. What the hell’s that bugger up to? he thought uneasily.
AT THE MINISTRY OF TRANSPORT: 1:07 P.M. The huge room was freezing in spite of a log fire, and Minister Ali Kia wore a heavy, expensive Astrakhan overcoat with a hat to match, and he was angry. “I repeat, I need transport to Kowiss tomorrow and I require you to accompany me.”
“Can’t tomorrow, sorry,” McIver said, keeping his nervousness off his face with difficulty. “I’d be glad to join you next week. Say Monday an—”
“I’m astonished that after all the ‘cooperation’ I’ve given you it’s necessary even to argue! Tomorrow, Captain, or…or I shall cancel all clearances for our 125—in fact, I’ll hold it on the ground today, impound it today pending investigations!”
McIver was standing in front of the vast desk, Kia sitting behind it in a big carved chair that dwarfed him. “Could you make it today, Excellency? We’ve an Alouette to ferry to Kowiss. Captain Lochart’s leav—”
“Tomorrow. Not today.” Kia flushed even more. “As ranking board director you are ordered: you will come with me, we will leave at ten o’clock. Do you understand?”
McIver nodded bleakly, trying to figure a way out of the trap. Then pieces of a tentative plan fell into place. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Where’s the helicopter?”
“Doshan Tappeh. We’ll need a clearance. Unfortunately there’s a Major Delami there, along with a mullah, and both’re rather difficult, so I don’t see how we can do it.”
Kia’s face darkened even more. “The PM’s given new orders about mullahs and interference with the legal government and the Imam agrees wholeheartedly. They both better behave. I will see you at ten tomorrow an—”
At that moment there was a large explosion outside. They rushed to the window but could see only a cloud of smoke billowing into the cold sky from around the bend in the road. “Sounded like another car bomb,” McIver said queasily. Over the last few days there had been a number of assassination attempts and car bomb attacks by left-wing extremists, mostly on high-ranking ayatollahs in the government.
“Filthy terrorists, may God burn their fathers, and them!” Kia was clearly frightened, which pleased McIver.
“The price of fame, Minister,” he said, his voice heavy with concern. “Those in high places, important people like you, are obvious targets.”
“Yes…yes…we know, we know. Filthy terrorists…”
McIver smiled all the way back to his car. So Kia wants to go to Kowiss. I’ll see he bloody gets to Kowiss and Whirlwind continues as planned.
Around the corner, the main road ahead was partially blocked with debris, a car still on fire, others smoldering, and a hole in the roadbed where the parked car bomb had exploded, blowing out the front of a restaurant and the shuttered foreign bank beside it, glass from them and other shop windows scattered everywhere. Many injured, dead or dying. Agony and panic and the stink of burning rubber.
Traffic was jammed both ways. There was nothing to do but wait. After half an hour an ambulance arrived, some Green Bands, and a mullah began directing traffic. In time McIver was waved forward, cursed forward. Easing past the wreckage, all traffic enraged and blaring, he did not notice the headless body of Talbot half buried under the restaurant debris, nor recognize Ross dressed in civvies, lying unconscious nearby, half against the wall, his coat ripped, blood seeping from his nose and ears.
AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT FOYER—ACROSS THE GULF: 2:05 P.M. Scot Gavallan was among the crowd waiting outside the Custom and Immigration area, his right arm in a sling. From the loudspeaker came air traffic announcements in Arabic and English, and the big arrival and departure board clattered, fixing schedules and boarding gates, the whole terminal thriving. He saw his father come through the green door, his face lit up, and he went forward to intercept him. “Hi, Dad!”
“Oh, Scot, laddie!” Gavallan said happily and hugged him back but carefully, because of his shoulder. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Dad, really. I told you, I’m fine now.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Since Gavallan had left on Monday he had spoken to his son by phone many times. But talking on the phone’s not the same, he thought. “I—I was so worried…”
Gavallan had not wanted to leave at all but the English doctor at the hospital had assured him Scot was all right, and there were urgent business problems in England and the postponed board meeting to deal with. “The X rays show no bone damage, Mr. Gavallan. The bullet’s gone through part of the muscle, the wound nasty but repairable.” To Scot the doctor had said: “It’ll ache a lot and you won’t be flying for two months or more. As to the tears…no need to worry either. It’s just a fairly normal reaction to a gunshot wound. The flight from Zagros didn’t help—you escaped in a coffin, you say? That’s enough to give you the heebie-jeebies, let alone being shot. It would me. We’ll keep you overnight.”
“Is that necessary, Doctor? I’m… I’m feeling much better…” Scot had got up, his knees had given way on him, and he would have fallen if Gavallan had not been ready to catch him.
“First we have to fix you up. A good sleep and he’ll be as right as rain, Mr. Gavallan, promise you.” The doctor gave Scot a sedative and Gavallan had stayed with him, reassuring him about Jordon’s death. “If anyone’s responsible, it’s me, Scot. If I’d ordered an evacuation before the Shah left, Jordon’d still be alive.”
“No, that’s not right, Dad…the bullets were meant for me…”
Gavallan had waited until he was asleep. By this time he had missed his connection but just caught the midnight flight and was in London in good time.
“What the hell’s going to happen in Iran?” Linbar had asked without preamble.
“What about the others?” Gavallan had said tightly. Only one other director was in the room, Paul Choy, nicknamed “Profitable,” who had flown in from Hong Kong. Gavallan respected him greatly for his business acumen—the only cloud between them Choy’s close involvement at David MacStruan’s accidental death and Linbar’s subsequent succession. “We should wait for them, don’t you think?”
“No o
ne else is coming,” Linbar rapped. “I canceled them and don’t need them. I’m taipan and can do whatever I like. Wh—”
“Not with S-G Helicopters, you can’t.” Tightly Gavallan looked across at Choy. “I propose we postpone.”
“Sure we can,” Profitable Choy said easily, “but hell, Andy, I came in special and the three of us can constitute a quorum, if we want to vote it.”
“I vote it,” Linbar said. “What the hell’re you afraid of?”
“Nothing. Bu—”
“Good. Then we’ve a quorum. Now what about Iran?”
Gavallan held on to his temper. “Friday’s D day, weather permitting. Whirlwind’s set up as best we can.”
“I’m sure of that, Andy.” Profitable Choy’s smile was friendly. “Linbar says you plan only to try to get 212s out?” He was a good-looking, immensely wealthy man in his late thirties, a director of Struan’s and many of its subsidiary boards for a number of years, who had major interests outside of Struan’s, in shipping, pharmaceutical manufacturing in Hong Kong and Japan, and in the Chinese Stock Exchange. “What about our 206s and Alouettes?”
“We have to leave them—can’t possibly fly them out. No way.” A silence followed his explanation.
Paul Choy said, “What’s the final Whirlwind plan?”
“Friday at 7:00 A.M., weather permitting, I radio the code that Whirlwind’s a go. All flights get airborne. We’ll have four 212s positioned at Bandar Delam under Rudi, they’ll head for Bahrain, refuel, then on to Al Shargaz; our two 212s at Kowiss have to refuel on the coast then head for Kuwait for more fuel, then to Jellet—that’s a small island off Saudi where we’ve cached fuel—then on to Bahrain and Al Shargaz. The three at Lengeh under Scragger shouldn’t have any problem, they just head for Al Shargaz direct. Erikki gets out through Turkey. As soon as they arrive we start stripping them for loading into the 747s I’ve already chartered and get out as fast as possible.”
“What odds’re you giving on not losing a man or a chopper?” Profitable Choy asked, his eyes suddenly hard. He was a famous gambler and racehorse owner and a steward of Hong Kong’s Jockey Club. Rumor had it he was also a member of Macao’s gambling syndicate.
“I’m not a betting man. But the chances are good—otherwise I wouldn’t even contemplate it. McIver’s already managed to get three 212s out, that’s a saving of better than $3 million. If we get all our 212s out and most of the spares S-G’ll be in good shape.”
“Rotten shape,” Linbar said curtly.
“Better shape than Struan’s will be this year.”
Linbar flushed, “You should have been prepared for this catastrophe, you and bloody McIver. Any fool could see the Shah was on his last legs.”
“Enough of this, Linbar,” Gavallan snapped. “I didn’t come back to quarrel, just to report, so let’s finish and I can get my plane back. What else, Profitable?”
“Andy, even if you get ’em out what about Imperial undercutting you in the North Sea, taking twenty-odd contracts from you—then there’s your commitment for the six X63s?”
“A bloody stupid and ill-timed decision,” Linbar said.
Gavallan dragged his eyes off Linbar and concentrated. Choy had the right to ask and he had nothing to hide. “So long as I’ve my 212s I can get back to normal; there’s a huge amount of work for them. I’ll start dealing with Imperial next week—I know I’ll get some of the contracts back. The rest of the world’s frantic for oil, so ExTex will come around with the new Saudi, Nigerian, and Malaysian contracts, and when they get our report on the X63 they’ll double their business with us—and so will all the other majors. We’ll be able to give them better than ever service, more safety in all weather conditions, at less cost per mile per passenger. The market’s great, soon China’ll open up an—”
“Pipe dream,” Linbar said. “You and bloody Dunross have your heads in the clouds.”
“China’ll never be any good for us,” Profitable Choy said, his eyes curious. “I agree with Linbar.”
“I don’t.” Gavallan noticed something odd about Choy but his rage took him onward. “We’ll wait on that one. China has to have oil somewhere, in abundance. To finalize, I’m in good shape, great shape, last year profits were up fifty percent and this year we’re the same if not better. Next week I’ll b—”
Linbar interrupted. “Next week you’ll be out of business.”
“This weekend will tell it one way or another.” Gavallan’s chin came out, “I propose we reconvene on Monday next. That’ll give me time to get back.”
“Paul and I return to Hong Kong on Sunday. We’ll reconvene there.”
“That’s not possible for me an—”
“Then we will have to get on without you.” Linbar’s temper broke. “If Whirlwind fails you’re finished, S-G Helicopters will be liquidated, a new company, North Sea Helicopters, already formed by the way, will acquire the assets, and I doubt if we’ll pay half a cent on the dollar.”
Gavallan flushed. “That’s bloody robbery!”
“Just the price of failure! By God if S-G goes down you’re finished and none too soon for me, and if you can’t afford to buy your own plane ticket to board meetings you won’t be missed.”
Gavallan was beside himself with suppressed rage, but he held on. Then at a sudden thought, he looked across at Profitable Choy. “If Whirlwind’s a success, will you help me finance a Struan buy-out?”
Before Choy could answer Linbar bellowed, “Our controlling interest’s not for sale.”
“Maybe it should be, Linbar,” Profitable Choy said thoughtfully. “That way maybe you ease out of the hole you’re in. Why not unload an irritant—you two guys hack all the time and for what? Why not call it a day, huh?”
Linbar said tightly, “Would you finance the buy-out?”
“Maybe. Yeah, maybe, but only if you agreed, Linbar, only then. This’s a family matter.”
“I’ll never agree, Profitable.” Linbar’s face twisted and he glared at Gavallan. “I want to see you rot—you and bloody Dunross!”
Gavallan got up. “I’ll see you at the next meeting of the Inner Office. We’ll see what they say.”
“They’ll do what I tell them to do. I’m taipan. By the way, I’m making Profitable a member.”
“You can’t, it’s against Dirk’s rules.” Dirk Struan, founder of the company, had set down that members of the Inner Office could only be family, however loosely connected, and Christian. “You swore by God to uphold them.”
“The hell with Dirk’s rules,” Linbar slammed back at him; “you’re not party to all of them or to Dirk’s legacy, only a taipan is, by God, and what I swore to uphold’s my own business. You think you’re so goddamned clever, you’re not! Profitable’s become Episcopalian, last year he was divorced, and soon he’s going to marry into the family, one of my nieces, with my blessing—he’ll be more family than you!” He laughed uproariously.
Gavallan did not. Nor did Profitable Choy. They watched each other, the die cast now. “I didn’t know you were divorced,” Gavallan said. “I should congratulate you on…on your new life and appointment.”
“Yeah, thanks,” was all his enemy said.
In the Al Shargaz airport, Scot bent down to pick up his father’s suitcase, other passengers bustling past, but Gavallan said, “Thanks, Scot, I can manage.” He picked it up. “I could use a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Hate flying at night.”
“Genny’s got the car outside.” Scot had noticed his father’s tiredness from the first moment. “You had a rough time back home?”
“No, no, not at all. So glad you’re okay. What’s new here?”
“Everything’s terrific, Dad, going according to plan. Like clockwork.”
IN TEHRAN’S NORTHERN SUBURBS: 2:35 P.M. Jean-Luc, debonair as always in his tailored flying gear and custom-made boots, got out of the taxi. As promised, he took out the hundred-dollar bill and carefully tore it in half. “Voilà!”
The driver examined h
is half of the note closely. “Only one hour, Agha? In God’s name, Agha, no more?”
“One hour and a half, as we agreed, then straight back to the airport. I’ll have some luggage.”
“Insha’Allah.” The driver looked around nervously. “I can’t wait here—too many eyes. One hour and half hour. I around corner, there!” He pointed ahead, then drove off.
Jean-Luc went up the stairs and unlocked the door of Apartment 4a that overlooked the tree-lined road and faced south. This was his pad, though his wife, Marie-Christene, had found it and arranged it for him and stayed here on her rare visits. One bedroom with a big low double bed, well-equipped kitchen, living room with a deep sofa, good hi-fi and record player: “To beguile your lady friends, chéri, so long as you don’t import one into France!”
“Me, chérie? Me, I’m a lover not an importer!”
He smiled to himself, glad to be home and only a little irritated that he had to leave so much—the hi-fi was the best, the records wonderful, the sofa seductive, the bed oh so resilient, the wine so painstakingly smuggled in, and then there were his kitchen utensils. “Espèce de con,” he said out loud and went into the bedroom and tried the phone. It wasn’t working.
He took a suitcase out of the neat wall bureau and started packing, quickly and efficiently, for he had given it much thought. First his favorite knives and omelette pan, then six bottles of the very best wines, the remaining forty-odd bottles would stay for the new tenant, a temporary tenant in case he ever came back, who was renting the whole place from him from tomorrow—with payment in good French francs, monthly in advance into Switzerland, with another good cash deposit for breakages, also in advance.
The deal had been simmering since before he went on Christmas leave. While everyone else wore blinkers, he chortled, I was ahead of the game. But then of course I have an extreme advantage over the others. I’m French.
Happily he continued packing. The new owner was also French, an elderly friend in the embassy who for weeks had desperately needed an immediate, well-equipped garçonnière for his teenage Georgian-Circassian mistress who was swearing to leave him unless he delivered: “Jean-Luc, my dearest friend, let me rent it for a year, six months, three—I tell you emphatically, soon the only Europeans resident here will be diplomats. Tell no one else, but I have it on the highest authority from our inside contact with Khomeini in Neauphle-le-Château! Frankly we know everything that’s going on—aren’t many of his closest associates French speaking and French university trained? Please, I beg you, I simply have to satisfy the light of my life.”
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