Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “No, no, thank you. You’re all right?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said and forced a smile. “He says I’m fine.”

  “May I present Colonel Hashemi Fazir and Mr. Armstrong, Superintendent Armstrong—Her Highness, my sister, Azadeh.”

  They greeted her and she greeted them back. “Superintendent Armstrong?” she said in English with a little frown. “I don’t remember ‘Superintendent’ but we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, Highness, once at the French Club, last year. I was with Mr. Talbot of the British embassy and a friend of your husband’s from the Finnish embassy, Christian Tollonen—I believe it was your husband’s birthday party.”

  “You’ve a good memory, Superintendent.”

  Hakim Khan smiled strangely. “That’s a characteristic of MI6, Azadeh.”

  “Just of ex-policemen, Highness,” Armstrong said easily. “I’m just a consultant to Inner Intelligence.” Then to Azadeh: “Colonel Fazir and I were both so relieved that neither you nor the Khan was hurt.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her ears and head still aching badly and her back giving her problems. The doctor had said, “We’ll have to wait for a few days, Highness, although we will X-ray you both as soon as possible. Best you go to Tehran, both of you, they have better equipment. With an explosion like that…you never know, Highness, best to go, I wouldn’t like to be responsible…”

  Azadeh sighed. “Please excuse me for interrup—” She stopped abruptly, listening, head slightly tilted. They listened too. Just the wind picking up and a distant car.

  “Not yet,” Hakim said kindly.

  She tried to smile and murmured, “As God wants,” then went away.

  Hashemi broke the small silence. “We should leave you too, Highness,” he said deferentially, in Farsi again; “it was kind of you to see us today. Perhaps we could come back tomorrow?” He saw the young Khan take his eyes off the door and look at him under his dark eyebrows, the handsome face in repose, fingers toying with the jeweled ornamental dagger at his belt. He must be made of ice, he thought, politely waiting to be dismissed.

  But instead Hakim Khan dismissed all his guards, except one he stationed at the door, well out of listening range, and beckoned the two men closer, “Now we will speak English. What is it you really want to ask me?” he said softly.

  Hashemi sighed, sure that Hakim Khan already knew, and more than sure now that here he had a worthy adversary, or ally. “Help on two matters, Highness: your influence in Azerbaijan could immeasurably help us to put down hostile elements in rebellion against the state.”

  “What’s second?”

  He had heard the touch of impatience and it amused him. “Second is somewhat delicate. It concerns a Soviet called Petr Oleg Mzytryk, an acquaintance of your father, who for some years, from time to time, visited here—as Abdollah Khan visited his dacha in Tbilisi. While Mzytryk posed as a friend of Abdollah Khan and Azerbaijan, in reality he’s a very senior KGB officer and very hostile.”

  “Ninety-eight out of every hundred Soviets who come to Iran are KGB, therefore enemy, and the other two GRU, therefore enemy As Khan, my father would have to deal with all manner of enemies”—again a fleeting sardonic smile that Hashemi noted—“all manner of friends and all those in between. So?”

  “We would very much like to interview him.” Hashemi waited for some reaction but there was none and his admiration for the young man increased. “Before Abdollah Khan died he had agreed to help us. Through him we heard the man intended secretly to come over the border last Saturday and again on Tuesday, but both times he did not appear.”

  “How was he entering?”

  Hashemi told him, not sure how much Hakim Khan knew, feeling his way with greater caution. “We believe the man may contact you—if so, would you please let us know? Privately.”

  Hakim Khan decided it was time to put this Tehrani enemy and his British dog lackey in place. Son of a burnt father, am I so naive I don’t know what’s going on? “In return for what?” he said bluntly.

  Hashemi was equally blunt. “What do you want?”

  “First: all senior SAVAK and police officers in Azerbaijan put on suspension at once, pending review—by me—and all future appointments to be subject to my prior approval.”

  Hashemi flushed. Not even Abdollah Khan had ever had this. “What’s second?” he asked dryly.

  Hakim Khan laughed. “Good, very good, Agha. Second will wait until tomorrow or the next day, so will third and perhaps fourth. But about your first point, at 10:00 A.M. tomorrow bring me specific requests how I could help stop all fighting in Azerbaijan—and how you, personally, if you had the power, how you would…” He thought a moment, then added, “How you would make us safe against enemies from without, and safe from enemies from within.” He turned his attention to Armstrong.

  Armstrong had been hoping the exchange would go on forever, ecstatic that he was having the opportunity to witness this new Khan at firsthand going against a hardened adversary like Hashemi. Great balls of fire, if this little bugger can operate so confidently like this on day two of becoming Khan after being almost blown to kingdom come a couple of hours ago, Her Majesty’s Government better put him high on the S danger list, “Slowly, slowly catchee monkee!” Now he saw the eyes fix on him. With an effort he kept his face bland, groaning inwardly: Now it’s your turn!

  “You’re an expert in what certain areas that would concern me?”

  “Well, Your Highness, I, er, I was in Special Branch and understand a little about intelligence and, er, counterintelligence. Of course good information, private information’s essential to someone in your position. If you wanted, perhaps I could, in conjunction with Colonel Fazir, suggest ways to improve this for you.”

  “A good thought, Mr. Armstrong. Please give me your views in writing—as soon as possible.”

  “I’d be glad to.” Armstrong decided to gamble. “Mzytryk could provide you rapidly with a lot of the answers you need, most of the important answers you need on the ‘within and without’ you mentioned, particularly if the Colonel could, er, chat with him in private.” The words hung in the air. Beside him, he saw Hashemi shift his feet nervously. I’ll bet my life you know more than you’re letting on, Hakim, me lad, and bet my balls you didn’t spend all those years just a bloody “feather”! Christ, I need a cigarette!

  The eyes were boring into him and he would have loved to light up and say airily, For Christ’s sake, stop all this sodding about and shit or get off the pot… Then his mind pictured this Khan of all the Gorgons squatting on a lavatory seat, everything hanging out, and he had to cough to stop his sudden laugh. “Sorry,” he said, trying to sound meek.

  Hakim Khan frowned. “How would I have access to the information?” he said, and both men knew that he was hooked.

  “However you want, Highness,” Hashemi said, “however you want.”

  Another small silence. “I’ll consider what y—” Hakim Khan stopped, listening. Now they all heard the approaching putt-putt-putt of rotors and the sound of the jets. Both men started for the tall windows. “Wait,” Hakim said. “One of you please give me a hand.”

  Astonished, they helped him stand, “Thank you,” he said painfully. “That’s better. It’s my back. In the explosion I must have twisted it.” Hashemi took some of his weight and between them he hobbled to the tall windows that overlooked the forecourt.

  The 212 was coming in slowly, drifting down to her landing. As she got closer they recognized Erikki and Ahmed in the front seats but Ahmed was slumped down, clearly hurt. A few bullet holes in the airframe, a great chunk of plastic out of a side window. She settled into a perfect landing. At once the engines began to die. Now they saw the blood staining Erikki’s white collar and sleeve.

  “Christ…” Armstrong muttered.

  “Colonel,” Hakim Khan said urgently to Hashemi, “see if you can stop the doctor from leaving.” Instantly Hashemi rushed off.

  From where they were the
y could see the front steps. The huge door opened and Azadeh hobbled out and stood there a moment, a statue, others gathering beside her now, guards and servants and some of the family. Erikki opened his side door and got out awkwardly. Tiredly he went toward her. But his walk was firm and tall and then she was in his arms.

  IN KOWISS TOWN: 12:10 P.M. Ibrahim Kyabi waited impatiently in ambush for the mullah Hussain to come out of the mosque into the crowded square. He sat slumped against the fountain opposite the huge door, his arms cradling the canvas bag that camouflaged his cocked M16. His eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness, his whole body aching from his 350-odd-mile journey from Tehran.

  Idly he noticed a tall European among the crowds. The man was following a Green Band, and wore dark clothes, parka, and peaked cap. He watched the two of them bypass the mosque and disappear into the alley beside it. Nearby was the maw of the bazaar. Its darkness and warmth and safety tempted him to leave the cold.

  “Insha’Allah,” he muttered automatically, then dully reminded himself to stop using that expression, pulled the old overcoat closer around him, and settled more comfortably against the fountain that, when winter’s ice had gone, would once more trickle for passersby to drink or ritually to wash their hands and faces before going to prayers.

  “What’s this mullah Hussain like?” he had asked the street vendor who was ladling him a portion of the steaming bean horisht out of the cauldron that hung over the charcoal. It was morning then and he had just arrived after interminable delays, fifteen hours overdue. “What’s he like?”

  The man was old and toothless and he shrugged. “A mullah.”

  Another customer nearby swore at him. “May you be sacrificed! Don’t listen to him, stranger, the mullah Hussain is a true leader of the people, a man of God, who owns nothing but a gun and ammunition to kill the enemies of God.” Other customers echoed this unshaven youth and told about the taking of the air base. “Our mullah’s a true follower of the Imam, he’ll lead us into Paradise, by God.”

  Ibrahim had almost cried out in rage. Hussain and all mullahs deserve death for feeding these poor peasants such nonsense. Paradise? Fine raiments and wine and forty perpetual virgins on silk couches?

  I won’t think of loving, I won’t think of Sharazad, not yet.

  His hands caressed the hidden strength of the gun. This took away some of his fatigue and hunger, but none of his utter loneliness.

  Sharazad. Now part of a dream. Better this way, much better: he had been waiting for her at the coffee shop when Jari had accosted him and muttered, “In the Name of God, the husband has returned. That which never began is finished forever,” then had vanished into the crowds. At once he had left and fetched his gun and walked all the way to the bus station. Now he was waiting, soon to be martyred taking vengeance in the name of the Masses against blind tyranny. So soon now. Soon into blackness or into light, oblivion or understanding, alone or with others: prophets, imams, devils, who?

  In ecstasy he closed his eyes. Soon I’ll know what happens when we die and where we go. Do we, at long last, find the answer to the great riddle: Was Mohammed the last Prophet of God, or madman? Is the Koran true? Is there God?

  In the alley beside the mosque, the Green Band leading Starke stopped and motioned toward a hovel. Starke stepped across the befouled joub and knocked. The door opened. “Peace be upon you, Excellency Hussain!” he said in Farsi, tense and on guard. “You sent for me?”

  “Salaam, Captain. Yes, yes, I did,” the mullah Hussain replied in English and motioned him to enter.

  Starke had to stoop to go inside the one-room hut. Two babes were sleeping fitfully on their straw pallet on the dirt floor. A young boy stared back at him, hands clasped around an old rifle, and he recognized him as the same child at the fight between Hussain’s men and Zataki’s men. A well-serviced AK47 leaned against a wall. Over by the sink a nervous old woman in a black, stained chador sat on a rickety chair.

  “These are my sons and this is my wife,” Hussain said.

  “Salaam.” Starke hid his astonishment that she should be so old. Then he looked closer and saw the age was not in years.

  “I sent for you for three reasons: First for you to see how a mullah lives. Poverty is one of a mullah’s prime duties.”

  “And learning, leadership, and lawgiving. That apart, Agha, I know you’re a hundred percent sincere in your beliefs,” and trapped by them, Starke wanted to add, loathing this room with the terrible, never-ending poverty it represented, its stench and the helplessness that he knew need not be but would exist for all the days of the lives here—and in countless other homes of all religions, all the world over. But not with my family, thank God! Thank God I was born Texan, thank God ten billion trillion times that I know better and my kids won’t, won’t, by God, won’t have to live in the dirt like these poor little critters. With an effort he stopped himself from brushing their flies away, wanting to curse Hussain for enduring that which need not be endured.

  “You said three reasons, Agha?”

  “The second is: Why are all but a few men scheduled to leave today?”

  “They’re long overdue leave, Agha. Work’s slow at the base, this’s a perfect time.” Starke’s anxiety increased. This morning, before he had been summoned here, there had already been three telexes and two calls on the HF from their HQ in Tehran, the last from Siamaki, now the ranking board member, demanding to know where Pettikin, Nogger Lane, and the others were. He had sluffed him off, saying that McIver would call him back the instant he arrived with Minister Kia, very conscious of Wazari’s curiosity.

  Yesterday had been the first he had heard of Ali Kia’s visit. Charlie Pettikin, during his brief stopover outward bound for Al Shargaz, had told him what had happened to McIver and their fears about him. “Jesus…” was all he could mutter.

  But yesterday had not been all bad. John Hogg had brought Gavallan’s provisional schedule for Whirlwind with codes and times and coordinates of refueling alternates set up on the other side of the Gulf, “Andy said to tell you they’ve all been passed on to Scrag at Lengeh and Rudi at Bandar Delam and take into account the problems of all three bases,” Hogg had told him. “Two 747 freighters are booked for Al Shargaz, dawn Friday. That’ll give us plenty of time, Andy says. I’ll bring another update when I come for the lads, Duke. The final button’s not to be pressed until 7:00 A.M. Friday or same time Saturday or Sunday. Then it’s no go.”

  None of Esvandiary’s spies had been around so Starke had managed to squeeze another crate of very valuable 212 avionics aboard the 125. And there was more good luck: All their personnel exit permits were still valid, enough forty-gallon drums of fuel had been cached safely on the shore, and Tom Lochart had come in from Zagros on time, now a committed Whirlwind pilot. “Why the change, Tom? Thought you were dead set against it,” he had said, perturbed by Lochart’s manner. But his Mend had just shrugged and he had left it at that.

  Still, the thought of their 212s making a rash for it worried him very much. They had no real plan, just several possibilities. With an effort he concentrated, the room becoming increasingly claustrophobic. “They’re overdue leave,” he said again.

  “When will their replacements be arriving?”

  “Saturday, that’s when they’re scheduled.”

  “Esvandiary says you’ve been sending out many spares.”

  “Spares need replacement and checking from time to time, Agha.”

  Hussain studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. “What caused the accident that nearly killed Esvandiary?”

  “The load shifted. It’s a tricky operation.”

  Another small silence. “Who is this man Kia, Ali Kia?”

  Starke was not expecting any of these questions, wondering if he was being tested again, and how much the mullah knew. “I was told he was a minister for Prime Minister Bazargan on a tour of inspection.” Then added, “Also that he was, or is, a consultant to our joint partnership, IHC, maybe even a director, but I don’t know ab
out that.”

  “When is he arriving?”

  “I’m not sure. Our director, Captain McIver, was ordered to escort him.”

  “Ordered?”

  “Ordered, so I understand.”

  “Why should a minister be a consultant to a private company?”

  “I imagine you’d have to ask him, Agha.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Hussain’s face hardened. “The Imam has sworn that corruption will cease. We’ll go to the base together.” He picked up the AK47 and slung it over his shoulder. “Salaam,” he said to his family.

  Starke and the Green Band followed Hussain along the alley to a side door of the mosque. There the mullah kicked off his shoes, picked them up and went inside. Starke and the Green Band did the same, except that Starke also took off his peaked hat. Along a passageway and through another door and then they were in the mosque itself, a single room under the dome, covered with carpets and no ornaments. Just decorative tiles, here and there, with exquisite inlaid Sanskrit quotations from the Koran. A lectern with an open Koran, nearby a modern cassette player and loudspeakers, wires carelessly strung, all electric lights bare and dim. From the loudspeakers came the muted singsong of a man reading from the Koran.

  Men were praying, others gossiping, some sleeping. Those who saw Hussain smiled at him and he smiled back, leading the way to a columned alcove. There he stopped and put down his shoes and gun, waved the Green Band away. “Captain, have you thought any more about what we discussed at the questioning?”

  “In what way, Agha?” Starke’s apprehension soared, his stomach queasy.

  “About Islam, about the Imam, God’s peace upon him, about going to see him?”

  “It’s not possible for me to see him, even if I wanted to.”