“I’ve told you about him, too, Agha. I’ve told you about them both for almost a couple of hours. I’m tired and there’s nothing more to tell.” McIver got up from his chair and stretched and sat down again. No use trying to leave. He had done that once and the Green Band had silently motioned him back. “Unless you have something specific I can’t think of anything to add.”
He had not been surprised at the mullah probing about Kia and had repeated over and over how a few weeks ago Kia had suddenly been made a director out of nowhere, about his own limited dealings with him in the last few weeks, though not about the checks on banks in Switzerland that had greased the way for the 125 and got three 212s out of the cauldron. Damned if I’m going to do a Wazari on Kia, he had told himself.
Kia’s understandable, but why Duke Starke? Where Duke went to school, what he eats, how long he’s been married, one wife or more, how long with the company, is he Catholic or Protestant—anything and everything and then tell it all again. Insatiable. And always the same quiet, evasive answer to his question, Why?
“Because he interests me, Captain.”
McIver looked out of the window. A speckle of rain. Clouds low. Distant thunder. There’d be updrafts and a few real whirlwinds in the thunderclouds eastward—great cover for the dash across the Gulf. What’s happening with Scrag and Rudi and their lads? rushed back into the forefront of his mind. With an effort he pushed that away for later—and his weariness, and worry—and what the hell he was going to do when this interrogation finished. If it finished. Beware! Concentrate! You’ll make a mistake if you’re not a hundred percent, then you’ll all be lost.
He knew his reserves were badly depleted. Last night he had slept badly and that had not helped. Nor had Lochart’s enormous sadness over Sharazad. Difficult for Tom to face the truth, impossible to say it to him: Wasn’t it bound to fall apart, Tom, old friend? She’s Muslim, she’s rich, you’ll never be, her heritage’s bound in steel, yours in gossamer, her family’s her lifeblood, yours isn’t, she can stay, you can’t, and the final sword hanging over you, HBC. So sad, he thought. Did it ever have a chance? With the Shah, maybe. With the inflexibility of the new?
What would I do if I were Tom? With an effort he stopped his mind wandering. He could feel the mullah’s eyes boring into him. They had hardly wavered once since Changiz had brought him here and had gone away.
Ah, yes, Colonel bloody Changiz. In the car coming over here and during the waiting he too had been probing. But his probing was just to establish exactly when and how often their 125 was scheduled for Kowiss, how many Green Bands were stationed on their side of the base, when they arrived, how many stayed on the base, and did they surround and guard the 125 all the time she was on the ground. The questioning had been casual, nothing asked that could not be more than just interest, but McIver was certain the real reason was to erect an escape route—if necessary. The final cement, the barter: “Even in a revolution mistakes happen, Captain. Friends are needed in high places more than ever, sad but true.” You scratch my back or I’ll claw yours.
The mullah got up. “I will take you back now.”
“Oh. Very well, thank you.” McIver guardedly studied Hussain. The brown-black eyes under the heavy eyebrows gave nothing away, skin stretched over his high cheekbones, a strange, handsome face masking a spirit of enormous resolution. For good or for bad? McIver asked himself.
IN THEIR RADIO TOWER: 9:58 A.M. Wazari was hunched down near the door to the roof, still waiting. When McIver and Lochart had left him in the office he had been torn between fleeing and staying, then Changiz and the airmen had arrived, almost simultaneously Pavoud with other staff, so he had sneaked up here unseen and ever since had been in hiding. Just before 8:00 A.M. Kia had driven up in a taxi.
From his vantage point up here he had seen Kia go into a paroxysm of rage because McIver was not waiting beside the 206, ready for takeoff. The green-banded airmen relayed what Changiz had ordered. Kia had protested loudly. More apologetic shrugs and Kia, stormed into the building, loudly proclaiming he would phone Changiz and radio Tehran at once, but Lochart had intercepted Kia at the bottom of the stairs and told him the phones were out, the set malfunctioning, and no radio repairer available until tomorrow. “Sorry, Minister, there’s nothing we can do about it—unless you want to go over to HQ yourself,” Wazari had heard Lochart say. “I’m sure Captain McIver won’t be long, the mullah Hussain sent for him.” At once most of the bombast had gone out of Kia and that had pleased him but did not allay his grinding anxiety and he had stayed there in the wind and the cold, forlorn, lost, and in misery.
His temporary safety did nothing to cast off his anxieties or fears or suspicions, about Kia today and up before the komiteh again tomorrow—“You’re needed for further questioning”—and why were those bastards Lochart and McIver so nervous, huh? Why did they lie to that sonofabitch turncoat Changiz about a crew change at Rig Abu Sal? No goddamn crew change needed there, not unless it was ordered in the eight. Why’re we down to three pilots and two mecs with a load of work starting Monday—why so many spares shipped out? Oh, God, get me to hell outta here.
It was so cold and blustery he came back inside the tower but left the door ajar for a quick retreat. Cautiously he looked out of the windows and through cracks in the boards. If he was careful he could see most of the base without being seen. Ayre, Lochart, and the mechanics were over by the 212s. The main gate was well guarded by regular Green Bands. No activity over at the base that he could see. A chill went through him. Rumors of another purge by the komiteh, that now he was high on their list because of his evidence against Esvandiary and Minister Kia: “By the Prophet, I heard they want to see you tomorrow. You took your life in your hands speaking out like that, don’t you know the first rule of survival here for four thousand years has been to keep your tongue silent and your eyes closed on the doings of those above or, very soon, you’ll have neither left in your head? Of course those above are corrupt, has it ever been different?”
Wazari moaned, helpless in the maelstrom and near breaking. Ever since Zataki had beaten him so badly, nose smashed—can’t seem to breathe anymore—four teeth knocked out, and an almost perpetual headache, his spirit had left him and so had his courage. He had never been beaten before. So Hotshot and Kia were both guilty, so what, so what? What business was it of yours? And now your stupidity will consume you too.
Tears spilled down the bruises. “For crissake, for crissake, help, help me…” Then “malfunction” jumped into his head and he seized on it. What malfunction? The set was working fine yesterday.
He brushed the tears away. Making no sound, he slid over to the desk and quietly switched on the radio, keeping the volume to an absolute minimum. All seemed fine. Dials checked out. Lots of static from an electrical storm but no traffic. Unusual that there should be no traffic on the company frequency, someone somewhere should be sending. Not daring to turn the volume up, he reached into a drawer for a pair of headphones and plugged them in, bypassing the loudspeaker. Now he could have the signal as loud as he pleased. Curious. Still nothing. Carefully he switched out of the company channel to others. Nothing. Over to the VHF. Nothing, anywhere. Back to HF. He could not even pick up a routine, recorded weather report that still came out of Tehran.
He was a good radio operator and well trained and it took him no time to zero in on the fault. A look through the crack in the roof door confirmed the wire hanging free. Sonofabitch, he thought. Why the hell didn’t I notice it when I was out there?
Carefully he switched off and crawled out again and when he was at the foot of the mast and saw that the wire had been sheared off but the rust at the end had been newly cleaned off, anger possessed him. Then excitement. Those bastards, he thought. Those hypocritical bastards, McIver and Lochart. They musta been listening and transmitting when I arrived. What the hell’re they up to?
The connection was quickly repaired. HF on and instantly Farsi filled his ears on the company frequen
cy: HQ at Tehran talking to Bandar Delam, then calling Al Shargaz and Lengeh and him at Kowiss, something about four choppers not going where they were supposed to go. Iran-Toda? Not one of our bases.
“Kowiss, this Bandar Delam, do you read?”
He recognized Jahan’s voice from Bandar Delam. Automatically his finger went to the transmit switch, then stopped. No need to call back yet, he thought. The company airwaves were full now, Numir and Jahan from Bandar Delam and Gelani at Tehran, and Siamaki ranting and raving. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered after a few minutes, everything falling into place.
IN THE HELICOPTERS OFF SIRI: 10:05 A.M. Siri Island itself was a mile ahead, but before Scragger and his team could turn southeast for the international boundary, there were three more rigs to bypass. Like a bleeding minefield, Scragger thought. So far safe and no more shocks. All needles in the Green and the engines sounding sweet. His mechanic Benson, beside him, was staring at the waves rushing past just below them. Static in their earphones. From time to time, overflying international flights would report their positions to Kish radar, a checkpoint in their area, to be answered at once.
Into the intercom Benson said, “Kish’re spot on, Scrag.”
“We’re under their radar. No sweat.”
“I’m sweating. Are you?”
Scragger nodded. Kish was abeam of them, fifteen-odd miles to his right. He looked left and right. Vossi and Willi were alongside and he gave them a thumbs-up and they returned it—Vossi enthusiastically.
“Another twenty minutes and we’re over the border,” Scragger said. “Soon as we are, we’ll go up to seven hundred.”
“Good. Weather’s improving, Scrag,” Benson said. The cloud cover above had thinned appreciably, visibility about the same. In plenty of time they both saw the outward-bound, heavily laden tanker ahead. With Willi, Scragger banked astern of her with plenty to spare but Vossi exuberantly pulled up high over her, then leisurely came down into station alongside him.
At once in their headphones: “This is Kish Control, low-flying helicopter on a course 225, report height and destination!”
Scragger weaved from side to side to attract Willi and Vossi and pointed southwest and waved them off, commanding them to stay low and to leave him. He saw their reluctance, but he jabbed his finger southeast, waved a farewell, and pulled up in a climb, leaving them on the surface of the sea. “Hold on to your balls, Benson,” he said, a weight in his stomach, then began transmitting, moving his boom mike back and forth from his mouth, simulating a bad signal: “Kish, this is chopper HVX out of Lengeh, inbound Siri Nine with spares, course 225. Thought I saw a capsized dhow but it was negative.” Siri Nine was the farthest rig they normally serviced, just this side of the Iran-Emirate boundary, still under construction and not yet equipped with their own VHF. “Climbing back to seven hundred.”
“Chopper HVX, you’re two by five, your transmission intermittent. Maintain course and report seven hundred feet. Confirm you were informed of mandatory new regulations for start engines request at Lengeh.” The operator’s American-accented voice was five by five, crisp and professional.
“Sorry, Kish, this is the first day I’ve been back on duty.” Scragger saw Willi and Vossi vanish into the haze. “Do I need to request engine start from Siri Nine after I’ve landed? I’ll be there at least an hour.” Scragger wiped a bead of sweat off. Kish would be within their rights to order him to land at Kish first to give him a roasting for breaking regulations.
“Affirmative. Standby One.”
In the intercom, Benson said uneasily, “Now what, Scrag?”
“They’ll be having a little conference.”
“What’re we going to do?”
Scragger beamed. “Depends on what they do.” He clicked the sender: “Kish, HVX at seven hundred.”
“Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Standby One.”
“HVX.” More silence. Scragger was sifting alternates, enjoying the danger. “This’s better than flying a milk run, now isn’t it, me son?”
“To be honest, it isn’t. If I could get hold of Vossi, I’d strangle him.”
Scragger shrugged. “It’s done. We could’ve been in and out of radar ever since we left. Maybe Qeshemi reported us.” He began whistling tonelessly. They were well past Siri Island now with rig Siri Nine five kilometers ahead. “Kish, this’s HVX,” Scragger said, still working the mike. “Leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine.”
“Negative HVX, maintain seven hundred and hold. Your transmission is intermittent and two by five.”
“HVX—Kish, please say again, your transmission is garbled. I say again, am leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine,” Scragger repeated slowly, continuing to simulate bad transmission. Again he beamed at Benson. “Trick I learned in the RAF, me son.”
“HVX, Kish. I say again maintain seven hundred and hold.”
“Kish, it’s bumpy and the haze’s thickening. Going through six hundred. I will report on landing and call requesting engine start. Thanks and g’day!” he added with a prayer.
“HVX, your transmission is intermittent. Abort landing at Siri Nine. Turn 310 degrees, maintain seven hundred, and report direct to Kish.”
Benson went white. Scragger belched. “Say again, Kish, you’re one by five.”
“I say again, abort landing at Siri Nine, turn to 310 degrees, and report direct Kish.” The operator’s voice was unhurried.
“Roger, Kish, understand we’re to land Siri Nine and report Kish next. Going through four hundred for low-level approach, thank you and g’day.”
“Kish, this is JAL Flight 664 from Delhi,” broke in. “Overhead at thirty-eight thousand inbound Kuwait on 300. Do you read?”
“JAL 664, Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Call Kuwait on 118.8, good day.”
Scragger peered through the haze. He could see the half-constructed rig, a work barge moored to one of its legs. Instrument needles all in the Green and—hey, wait a moment, temperature’s up, oil pressure’s down on number one engine. Benson had seen it too. He tapped the dial, bent closer. The oil pressure needle went up slightly then fell back again, temperature a few degrees above normal—no time to worry about that now, get ready! The deck crew had heard and seen them and stopped working, clearing away from the well-marked helipad. When he was fifty feet off the rig, Scragger said: “Kish, HVX landing now. G’day.”
“HVX. Report direct Kish next. Request engine start. I repeat, report direct Kish next,” all said clearly. “Do you read?”
But Scragger did not acknowledge, or land. At a few feet he just pulled into a hover, waved to the deck crew who recognized him and assumed it was just a practice of a familiarization-training run for a new pilot, a constant habit of Scragger’s. A last wave, then he got forward motion, dropped neatly over the side, and hugging the sea, turned southwest at full throttle.
AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 10:21 A.M. The mullah Hussain was driving, and he stopped the car outside the office building. McIver got out. “Thank you,” he said, not knowing what to expect now, for Hussain had been silent since they had left the office. Lochart, Ayre, and the others were over by the helicopters. Kia stalked out of the office, stopped on seeing the mullah, then came down the steps. “Good morning, Excellency Hussain, greetings, how pleasant to see you.” He used a ministerial voice for an honored guest, but not an equal, then to McIver in English, curtly, “We should leave at once.”
“Er, yes, Agha. Just give me a couple of minutes to get organized.” Glad I’m not Kia, he told himself as he walked off, his stomach churning, and turned to Lochart. “Hello, Tom.”
“You all right, Mac?”
“Yes.” He added quietly, “We’ll have to play this cautiously for the next few minutes. Don’t know what the mullah’s up to. Have to wait and see what he does about Kia, don’t know whether Kia’s in the creek or not. Soon as we know we can move.” He dropped his voice even more. “I can’t avoid taking Kia—unless Hussain grabs him. I plan to take him part
of the way, just over the hills out of VHF range, pretend an emergency, and land. When Kia’s out of the cockpit and cooling his heels, I’ll take off and skirt this area and meet you at the rendezvous.”
“Don’t like that idea, Mac. Better let me do it. You don’t know the place and those sand dunes are look-alikes for miles. I’d better take him.”
“I’ve thought about that, but then I’d be flying one of the mecs without a license. I’d rather put Kia at risk than them. Besides, you might be tempted to keep on going back to Tehran. All the way. Eh?”
“Better that I drop him off and meet you at the rendezvous. Safer.”
McIver shook his head, feeling rotten about putting his friend into a corner. “You’d go on, wouldn’t you?”
After a strange pause, Lochart said, “While I was waiting for you, if I could’ve gotten airborne I’d’ve put him aboard and gone.” He smiled a twisted smile. “The airmen said no way, to wait. Better watch them, Mac, some of them speak English. What happened to you?”
“Hussain just questioned me about Kia—and Duke.”
Lochart stared at him. “Duke? What about?”
“Everything about him. When I asked Hussain why, all he’d say was: ‘Just because he interests me.’” McIver saw a tremor go through Lochart.
“Mac, I think it’s best if I take Kia. You might miss the rendezvous—you can go in tandem with Freddy. I’ll get off first and wait for you.”
“Sorry, Tom, can’t risk that—you’ll keep on going. If I were you I’d do the same and the hell with the risk. But I can’t let you go back. To go back now’d be a disaster. It’d be a disaster for you—I’m sure of that, Tom—as well as for the rest of us. That’s the truth.”
“Hell with the truth,” Lochart said bitterly. “All right, but by God, the moment we touch down at Kuwait, I’m on the month’s leave I’m owed, or resigned from S-G, whichever you want—from the very second.”
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