Thoughtfully Qeshemi closed and rebolted the door.
In summertime the small patio with its high walls and trellised vines and small fountain was cool and inviting. Now it was drab. He crossed it and opened the door opposite that led into the main living room and rebolted it. The sound of a child coughing somewhere upstairs. A wood fire took off some of the chill but the whole house was drafty, none of the doors or windows fitting properly. “Who was it?” his wife called down from upstairs.
“Nothing, nothing important. A foreigner from the air base. The old one. He wanted their passports.”
“At this time of night? God protect us! Every time there’s a knock on the door I expect more trouble—rotten Green Bands or vile leftists!” Qeshemi nodded absently, but said nothing, warming his hands by the fire, hardly listening to her rattle on: “Why should he come here? Foreigners are so ill-mannered. What would he want passports for at this time of night? Did you give them to him?”
“They’re locked in our safe. Normally I bring the key with me as always, but it’s lost.” The child coughed again. “How’s little Sousan?”
“She still has a fever. Bring me some hot water, that’ll help. Put a little honey in it.” He set the kettle on the fire, sighed, hearing her grumbling: “Passports at this time of night! Why couldn’t they wait till Saturday? So ill-mannered and thoughtless. You said the key’s lost?”
“Yes. Probably that goathead excuse for a policeman, Lafti, has it and forgot to put it back again. As God wants.”
“Mohammed, what would the foreigner want with passports at this time of night?”
“I don’t know. Curious, very curious.”
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRFIELD: 7:49 P.M. Rudi Lutz stood on the veranda of his trailer under the eaves, watching the heavy rain. “Scheiss,” he muttered. Behind him his door was open and the shaft of light sparkled the heavy raindrops. Soft Mozart came from his tape deck. The door of the next trailer, the office trailer, opened, and he saw Pop Kelly come out holding an umbrella over his head and slop through the puddles toward him. Neither noticed the Iranian in the shadows. Somewhere on the base a tomcat was spitting and yowling. “Hi, Pop. Come on in. You get it?”
“Yes, no problem.” Kelly shook the rain off. Inside the trailer it was warm and comfortable, neat and tidy. The cover was off the built-in, reconnected HF that was on Standby, muted static mixing with the music. A coffeepot percolated on the stove.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks—I’ll help myself.” Kelly handed him the paper and went over to the kitchen area. The paper had hastily jotted columns of figures on it, temperatures, wind directions, and strengths for every few thousand feet, barometric pressures and tomorrow’s forecast. “Abadan Tower said it was up to date. They claimed it included all today’s incoming BA data. Doesn’t look too bad, eh?”
“If it’s accurate.” The forecast predicted lessening precipitation around midnight and reduced wind strength. Rudi turned up the music, and Kelly sat down beside him. Rudi dropped his voice. “It could be all right for us, but a bitch for Kowiss. We’ll still have to refuel in flight to make Bahrain.”
Kelly sipped his coffee with enjoyment, hot, strong, with a spoon of condensed milk. “What’d you do if you were Andy?”
“With the three bases to worry about I’d…” A slight noise outside. Rudi got up and glanced out of the window. Nothing. Then again the sound of the tomcat, closer. “Damn cats, they give me the creeps.”
“I rather like cats.” Kelly smiled. “We’ve three at home: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Two’re Siamese, the other’s a tabby; Betty says the boys’re driving her mad to get ‘John’ to round it off.”
“How is she?” Today’s BA flight into Abadan had brought Sandor Petrofi for the fourth 212, along with mail from Gavallan, routed since the troubles through HQ at Aberdeen, their first for many weeks.
“Fine, super in fact—three weeks to go. The old girl’s usually on time. I’ll be glad to be home when she pops.” Kelly beamed. “The doc says he thinks it’s going to be a girl at long last.”
“Congratulations! That’s wonderful.” Everyone knew that the Kellys had been hoping against hope. “Seven boys and one girl, that’s a lot of mouths to feed.” Rudi thought how hard he found it to keep up with the bills and school fees with only three children and no mortgage on the house—the house left to his wife by her father, God bless the old bastard. “Lots of mouths, don’t know how you do it.”
“Oh, we manage, glory be to God.” Kelly looked down at the forecast, frowned. “You know, if I was Andy I’d press the tit and not postpone.”
“If it was up to me I’d cancel and forget the whole crazy idea.” Rudi kept his voice down and leaned closer. “I know it’ll be rough for Andy, maybe the company’ll close, maybe. But we can all get new jobs, even better paying ones, we’ve families to think of and I hate all this going against the book. How in the hell can we sneak out? Not possible. If we—” Car headlights splashed the window, the approaching sound of the high-powered engine growing then stopping outside.
Rudi was the first at the window. He saw Zataki get out of the car with some Green Bands, then Numir, their base manager, came from the office trailer with an umbrella to join him. “Scheiss,” Rudi muttered again, turned the music down, quickly checked the trailer for incriminating evidence, and put the forecast into his pocket. “Salaam, Colonel,” he said, opening the door. “You were looking for me?”
“Salaam, Captain, yes, yes, I was.” Zataki came into the room, a U.S. army submachine gun over his shoulder. “Good evening,” he said. “How many helicopters are here now, Captain?”
Numir began, “Four 212s an—”
“I asked the captain,” Zataki flared, “not you. If I want information from you I’ll ask! Captain?”
“Four 212s, two 206s, Colonel.”
To their shock, particularly Numir’s, Zataki said, “Good. I want two 212s to report to Iran-Toda tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. to work under instructions of Agha Watanabe, the chief there. From tomorrow, you’ll report daily. Have you met him?”
“Er, yes, I, er, once they had a CASEVAC and we helped them out.” Rudi tried to collect himself. “Er, will…will they be working on, er, Holy Day, Colonel?”
“Yes. So will you.”
Numir said, “But the Ayatollah sa—”
“He’s not the law. Shut up.” Zataki looked at Rudi. “Be there at 8:00 A.M.” Rudi nodded. “Er, yes. Can I, er, can I offer you coffee, Colonel?”
“Thank you.” Zataki propped his submachine gun against the wall and sat at the built-in table, eyes on Pop Kelly. “Didn’t I see you at Kowiss?”
“Yes, yes, you did,” the tall man said. “That’s, er, that’s my normal base. I, er, I brought down a 212. I’m Ignatius Kelly.” Weakly he sank back into his chair opposite him, as blown as Rudi, wilting under the searching gaze. “A night for fishes, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The, er, the rain.”
“Ah, yes,” Zataki said. He was glad to be speaking English, improving his, convinced that Iranians who could speak the international language and were educated were going to be sought after, mullahs or no mullahs. Since taking the pills Dr. Nutt had given him, he felt much better, the blinding headaches lessening. “Will the rain prevent flying tomorrow?”
“No, not—”
“It depends,” Rudi called out quickly from the kitchen, “if the front worsens or improves.” He brought the tray with two cups of sugar and condensed milk, still trying to cope with this new disaster. “Please help yourself, Colonel. About Iran-Toda,” he said carefully, “all our choppers are on lease, are contracted to IranOil and Agha Numir here’s in charge.” Numir nodded, started to say something, but thought better of it. “We’ve contracts with IranOil.”
The silence thickened. They all watched Zataki. Leisurely he put three heaped teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, stirred, and sipped it. “It’s very good, Captain. Yes, very good, and yes, I know about I
ranOil, but I have decided Iran-Toda takes preference over IranOil for the time being and tomorrow you will supply two 212s at 8:00 A.M. to Iran-Toda.”
Rudi glanced at his base manager who avoided his eyes. “But…well, presuming this is all right with IranOil th—”
“It is all right,” Zataki said to Numir. “Isn’t it, Agha?”
“Yes, yes, Agha,” meekly, Numir nodded. “I, I will of course inform Area Headquarters of your…your eminent instructions.”
“Good. Then everything is arranged. Good.”
It’s not arranged, Rudi wanted to shout out in dismay. “May I ask how, er, how we’ll be paid for the, er, new contract?” he asked, feeling stupid.
Zataki shouldered his gun and got up. “Iran-Toda will make arrangements. Thank you, Captain, I will be back after first prayer tomorrow. You will fly one helicopter and I will accompany you.”
“Smashing idea, Colonel,” Pop Kelly burst out suddenly, beaming, and Rudi could have killed him. “No need to come before 8:00 A.M., that’d be better for us—that’s plenty of time to get there by, say, 8:15. Smashing idea to service Iran-Toda, smashing. We’ve always wanted that contract, can’t thank you enough, Colonel! Fantastic! In fact, Rudi, we should take all four birds, put the lads into the picture at once, save time, at once, yes, sir, I’ll set them up for you!” He rushed off.
Rudi stared after him, almost cross-eyed with fury.
NEAR AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 8:01 P.M. The night was beautiful and balmy, heavy with the smell of flowers, and Gavallan and Pettikin were sitting on the terrace of the Oasis Hotel, on the edge of the airfield on the edge of the desert. They were having a predinner beer, Gavallan smoking a thin cigar and staring into the distance where the sky, purple-black and star-studded, met the darker land. The smoke drifted upward. Pettikin shifted in his lounging chair. “Wish to God there was something more I could do.”
“Wish to God old Mac was here, I’d break his bloody neck,” Gavallan said and Pettikin laughed. A few guests were already in the dining room behind them. The Oasis was old and dilapidated, Empire baroque, the home of the British Resident when British power was the only power in the Gulf and, until ’71, kept down piracy and maintained the peace. Music as ancient as the three-piece combo wafted out of the tall doors—piano, violin, and double bass, two elderly ladies and a white-haired gentleman on the piano.
“My God, isn’t that Chu Chin Chow?”
“You’ve got me, Andy.” Pettikin glanced back at them, saw Jean-Luc among the diners, chatting with Nogger Lane, Rodrigues, and some of the other mechanics. He sipped his beer, noticed Gavallan’s glass was empty. “Like another?”
“No thanks.” Gavallan let his eyes drift with the smoke. “I think I’ll go over to the Met office, then look in on ours.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Thanks, Charlie, but why don’t you stay in case there’s a phone call?”
“Sure, just as you like.”
“Don’t wait for me to eat, I’ll join you for coffee. I’ll drop by the hospital to see Duke on my way back.” Gavallan got up, walked through the dining room, greeting those of his men who were there, and went into the lobby that also had seen better days.
“Mr. Gavallan, excuse me, Effendi, but there’s a phone call for you.” The receptionist indicated the phone booth to one side. It had red plush inside, no air-conditioning and no privacy. “Hello? Gavallan here,” he said.
“Hello, boss, Liz Chen…just to report we’ve had a call about the two consignments from Luxembourg and they’ll arrive late.” “Consignment from Luxembourg” was code for the two 747 freighters he had chartered. “They can’t arrive Friday—they’ll only guarantee Sunday 4:00 P.M.”
Gavallan was dismayed. He had been warned by the charterers that they had a very tight schedule between charters and there might be a twenty-four-hour delay. He had had great difficulty arranging the airplanes. Obviously none of the regular airlines that serviced the Gulf or Iran could be approached and he had had to be vague about the reason for the charters and their cargo. “Get back to them at once and try and bring the date forward. It’d be safer if they’d arrive Saturday, much safer. What’s next?”
“Imperial Air have offered to take over our position on our new X63s.”
“Tell them to drop dead. Next?”
“ExTex have revised their offer on the new Saudi, Singapore, Nigerian contracts ten percent downward.”
“Accept the offer by telex. Fix a lunch for me with the brass in New York on Tuesday. Next?”
“I’ve a checklist of part numbers you wanted.”
“Good. Hang on.” Gavallan took out the secretarial notebook he always carried and found the page he sought. It listed the present Iranian registration call signs of their ten remaining 212s, all beginning with “EP” standing for Iran, then “H” for helicopter, and the final two letters. “Ready. Off you go.”
“AB, RV, KI…”
As she read out the letters he wrote them alongside the other column. For security he did not put the full new registration, “G” denoting Great Britain, “H” for helicopter, just jotted the two new letters. He reread the list and they tallied with those already supplied. “Thanks, they’re spot on. I’ll call you last thing tonight, Liz. Give Maureen a call and tell her all’s well.”
“All right, boss. Sir Ian called half an hour ago to wish you luck.”
“Oh, great!” Gavallan had tried unsuccessfully to reach him all the time he was in Aberdeen and London. “Where is he? Did he leave a number?”
“Yes. He’s in Tokyo: 73 73 84. He said he’d be there for a while and if you missed him he’d call tomorrow. He also said he’ll be back in a couple of weeks and would like to see you.”
“Even better. Did he say what about?”
“Oil for the lamps of China,” his secretary said cryptically.
Gavallan’s interest picked up. “Wonderful. Fix a date at his earliest convenience. I’ll call you later, Liz. Got to rush.”
“All right. Just to remind you it’s Scot’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Godalmighty, I forgot, thanks, Liz. Talk to you later.” He hung up, pleased to hear from Ian Dunross, blessing the Al Shargazi phone system and distance dialing. He dialed. Tokyo was five hours ahead. Just after 1 A.M.
“Hai?” The Japanese woman’s voice said sleepily.
“Good evening. Sorry to call so late but I had a message to call Sir Ian Dunross. Andrew Gavallan.”
“Ah, yes. Ian is not here for the moment, he will not be back until the morrow, so sorry. Perhaps at ten o’clock. Please, can I have your number, Mr. Gavallan?”
Gavallan gave it to her, disappointed. “Is there another number I can reach him at, please?”
“Ah, so sorry, no.”
“Please ask him to call me, call anytime.” He thanked her again and hung up thoughtfully.
Outside was his rented car and he got in and drove to the main airport entrance. Overhead a 707 was coming around for final, landing lights on, tail and wing lights winking.
“Evening, Mr. Gavallan,” Sibbles, the Met officer said. He was British, a small, thin, dehydrated man, ten years in the Gulf. “Here you are.” He handed him the long photocopy of the forecast. “Weather’s going to be changeable here for the next few days.” He handed him three other pages. “Lengeh, Kowiss, and Bandar Delam.”
“And the bottom line is?”
“They’re all about the same, give or take ten or fifteen knots, a few hundred feet of ceiling—sorry, just can’t get used to metrics—a hundred meters or so of ceiling. Weather’s gradually improving. In the next few days the wind should come back to our standard, friendly northwesterly. From midnight we’re forecasting light rain and lots of low clouds and mist over most of the Gulf, wind southeasterly about twenty knots overall with thunderstorms, occasional small turbulences,” he looked up and smiled, “and whirlwinds.”
Gavallan’s stomach heaved, even though the word was said matter-of-factly and S
ibbles was not party to the secret. At least, I don’t think he is, he thought. That’s the second curious coincidence today. The other was the American lunching at a nearby table with a Shargazi whose name he had not caught: “Good luck for tomorrow,” the man had said with a pleasant smile, full of bonhomie, as he was leaving.
“Sorry?”
“Glenn Wesson, Wesson Oil Marketing, you’re Andrew Gavallan, right? We heard you and your guys were organizing a…‘a camel race’ tomorrow out at the Dez-al oasis, right?”
“Not us, Mr. Wesson. We don’t go in much for camels.”
“That a fact? You should try it, yes, sir, lotta fun. Good luck anyway.”
Could have been a coincidence. Camel races were a diversion here for expats, a hilarious one, and the Dez-al a favorite place for the Islamic weekend. “Thanks, Mr. Sibbles, see you tomorrow.” He pocketed the forecasts and went down the stairs into the terminal lobby, heading for their office which was off to one side. Neither a positive yes nor a positive no, he was thinking, Saturday safer than tomorrow. You pays your money and you takes your chances. I can’t put it off much longer. “How’re you going to decide?” his wife, Maureen, had asked, seeing him off at dawn the day before yesterday, Aberdeen almost socked in and pouring.
“Don’t know, lassie. Mac’s got a good nose, he’ll help.”
And now no Mac! Mac gone bonkers, Mac flying without a medical, Mac conveniently stuck at Kowiss and no way out but Whirlwind; Erikki still God knows where, and poor old Duke fit to be tied that he’s off the roster but bloody lucky he came here. Doc Nutt had been right. X rays showed several bone splinters had punctured his left lung with another half a dozen threatening an artery. He glanced at the lobby clock: 8:27 P.M. Should be out of the anesthetic by now.
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