Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Insha’Allah,” he said and belched. Either way I’ll be prepared, with the Help of God. Either way, whoever wins, they’ll still need us bazaaris, they always have and always will—we can be as modern as any foreigners, and smarter, some of us can be, certainly me. Son of a dog Paknouri, may he and his fathers be in hell for endangering us!

  The Caspian! Her uncle Madri’s a good idea, the perfect idea. I would have thought of it myself in a moment. Zarah may be used up and her zinaat as dry as summer’s dust, but she’s a good mother and her council—if you forget her foul humor—is always wise. “Another rumor’s that our glorious ex-Prime Minister Bakhtiar is still in hiding in Tehran, under the protection and roof of his old friend and colleague, Prime Minister Bazargan.”

  Zarah gasped. “If the Green Bands catch him there…”

  “Bazargan’s useless. Pity. No one obeys him anymore, or even listens to him. The Revolutionary Komiteh would execute both of them if they’re caught.”

  Sharazad was trembling. “Jari said there was a rumor in the market this morning that Excellency Bazargan has resigned already.”

  “That’s not true,” Meshang said shortly, passing on another rumor as though it were private knowledge. “My friend close to Bazargan told me he offered Khomeini his resignation but the Imam refused it, telling him to stay where he was.” He held out his plate for Zarah to give him some more. “That’s enough horisht, a little more rice.”

  She gave him the crisped part and he began to eat again, almost replete. The most interesting rumor today, whispered in enormous secrecy from ear to ear, was that the Imam was near death, either from natural causes or poisoned by Communist Tudeh agitators or mujhadin or CIA and, even worse, that Soviet legions were waiting just over the border ready to march into Azerbaijan again, and on to Tehran the moment he was dead.

  Nothing but death and disaster’re ahead if that’s true, he thought. No, that won’t happen, can’t happen. The Americans will never let the Soviets conquer us, they can’t allow them to take control of Hormuz—even Carter will see that! No. Let’s just hope the first part’s true—that the Imam is going to Paradise quickly. “As God wants,” he said piously, waved the servants away, and when they were alone he turned his full attention onto his sister. “Sharazad, your divorce is all arranged, but for the formalities.”

  “Oh,” she said, at once on guard, hating her brother for disturbing her calm, sending her brain into overdrive: I don’t want to divorce, Meshang could easily have given us money from all the Swiss accounts and not been so nasty to my Tommy and then we could have gone—don’t be silly, you couldn’t leave without papers and exile yourself and Tommy left you, it was his decision. Yes, but Tommy said it would be for a month, didn’t he, that he’d wait for a month? In a month so many things can happen.

  “Your divorce presents no problem. Nor your remarriage.”

  She gaped at him, speechless.

  “Yes, I’ve agreed to a dowry, much more than I expected for…” He was going to say for a twice-divorced woman carrying an Infidel’s child, but she was his sister and it was a great match, so he did not. “The marriage will be next week and he’s admired you for years. Excellency Farazan.”

  For a moment both women could hardly believe their ears. Sharazad felt a sudden flush, disoriented even more. Keyvan Farazan was from a rich bazaari family, twenty-eight, handsome, recently back from Cambridge University, and they had been friends all of her life. “But… I thought Keyvan’s going to be ma—”

  “Not Keyvan,” Meshang said, irritated by her stupidity. “Everyone knows Keyvan’s about to be betrothed. Daranoush! Excellency Daranoush Farazan.”

  Sharazad was transfixed. Zarah gasped and tried to cover her lapse. Daranoush was the father, recently widowed of his second wife who had died in childbirth like his first, a very wealthy man who owned the monopoly for the collection of waste in the whole bazaar area. “It’s…it’s not possible,” she muttered.

  “Oh, yes it is,” Meshang said, almost glowing with pleasure, totally misreading her. “I never believed it myself when he broached the idea after hearing about your divorce. With his riches and connections, together we become the most powerful conglomerate in the bazaar, togeth—”

  Sharazad burst out, “But he’s loathsome and small and old, old and bald and ugly and he likes boys, and everyone knows he’s a ped—”

  “And everyone knows you’re twice divorced, used, you’re with child by a foreigner,” Meshang exploded, “that you go on marches and disobey, your head’s filled with Western nonsense and you’re stupid!” He knocked over some of the plates in his fury. “Don’t you understand what I’ve done for you? He’s one of the richest men in the bazaar, I persuaded him to accept you—you’re redeemed and now you—”

  “But, Meshang, ha—”

  “Don’t you understand, you ungrateful bitch,” he bellowed, “he’s even agreed to adopt your child! By all the Names of God, what more do you want?”

  Meshang was almost purple, quivering with rage, his fist bunched, shaking it in Sharazad’s face, Zarah staring at her and then him, aghast at his fury as he ranted on.

  Sharazad heard nothing, saw nothing, except what Meshang had decreed for her: the rest of her life joined to that little man, the butt of a thousand bazaari jokes, who stank perpetually of urine, fertilizing her once a year to bear and live and bear again until she died in childbirth or because of it—like his other two wives. Nine children from the first, seven from the second. She was doomed. Nothing she could do. Princess Night Soil until she died.

  Nothing.

  Nothing except I could die now, not by suicide, for then I’m forbidden Paradise and condemned to hell. Not suicide. Never. Never suicide but death doing God’s work, death with God’s name on my lips.

  What?

  KOWISS BASE: 1:47 P.M. Colonel Changiz, the mullah Hussain, and some Green Bands jumped out of their car. The Green Bands spread out over the base searching while the colonel and Hussain hurried into the office building.

  In the office the two remaining clerks were in shock at the suddenness of the colonel’s arrival. “Yes…yes, Excellency?”

  “Where is everyone?” Changiz shouted. “Eh?”

  “God knows we don’t know anything, Excellency Colonel, except Excellency Captain Ayre is gone with spares to Rig Abu Sal and Excellency Captain McIver with Excellency Minister Kia to Tehran and Excellency Captain Lochart went to search for the incoming 212s an—”

  “What incoming 212s?”

  “The four 212s Excellency Captain McIver ordered here from Bandar Delam with pilots and other personnel and we’re getting…we’re getting ready to…to receive them.” The clerk, whose name was Ishmael, wilted under the penetrating stare of the mullah. “As God knows, the captain went alone, to look alone for them as they’ve no HF and an airborne VHF could perhaps reach them.”

  Changiz was greatly relieved. He said to Hussain, “If the 212s are all coming here, there’s been a panic for no reason.” He mopped his brow. “When are they due?”

  “I would imagine soon, Excellency,” Ishmael said.

  “How many foreigners are on the base now?”

  “I… I don’t know, Excellency, we’ve…we’ve been diligently busy trying to make up a manifest an—”

  A Green Band ran into the office. “We can’t find any foreigners, Excellency,” he said to Hussain. “One of the cooks said the last two mechanics went with the big helicopters this morning. Iranian laborers said they heard replacement crews were due on Sunday or Monday.”

  “Saturday, Excellencies, tomorrow we were told, Excellencies,” Ishmael interjected. “But with the incoming four 212s, they’ve mechanics on board as well as pilots and personnel, Excellency McIver said. Do you need mechanics?”

  The Green Band was saying, “Some of the rooms—it looks as if the Infidels packed hurriedly, but there are three helicopters still in the hangars.”

  Changiz turned on Ishmael. “What’re those?�
�

  “One…no two 206s and a French one, an Alouette.”

  “Where’s Chief Clerk Pavoud?”

  “He was sick, Excellency Colonel, he left sick just after noon prayers, and went home. Isn’t that so, Ali?” he said to the other clerk.

  “Yes, yes, he was sick and he left saying he would be back tomorrow…” the words trailed off.

  “Captain McIver ordered the 212s here from Bandar Delam?”

  “Yes, yes, Excellency, that’s what he told Excellency Pavoud, I heard him tell him that exactly, with the pilots and other personnel, wasn’t that so, Ali?”

  “Yes, before God, that’s what happened, Excellency Colonel.”

  “All right, that’s enough.” To Hussain the colonel said, “We’ll radio Lochart.” To the clerk he said, “Is Sergeant Wazari in the tower?”

  “No, Excellency Colonel, he went back to the base just before Excellency Captain Lochart took off to search for the four 212s that should arr—”

  “Enough!” Colonel Changiz thought a moment, then said rudely to the Green Band, “You! Get my corporal on the double to the tower.”

  The youthful Green Band flushed at the tone and glanced at Hussain who said coldly, “The colonel means, please find Corporal Borgali and bring him to the tower quickly.”

  Changiz started blustering, “I meant no impoliteness of cour—”

  “Of course.” Hussain stalked down the corridor toward the staircase that led to the tower. Very much chastened, Changiz followed.

  Half an hour before, a telex had arrived at the air base from Tehran ATC asking for an immediate check on all IHC foreign personnel and helicopters at Kowiss: “…four 212s have been reported missing from IHC base at Bandar Delam by IHC Managing Director Siamaki, who believes they might have been illegally flown out of Iran to one of the Gulf states.”

  At once Changiz had been summoned by the duty Green Band who had already taken the telex to Hussain and the komiteh. The komiteh was in session on the base, painstakingly continuing investigations into Islamic reliability of all officers and men, and into crimes committed against God in the name of the Shah. Changiz felt nauseated. The komiteh was pitiless. No one who had been pro-Shah had yet escaped. And though he was commandant, appointed by the komiteh with Hussain’s approval, confirmation from the all-powerful Revolutionary Komiteh had not yet arrived. Until that happened, Changiz knew he was on trial. And hadn’t he taken an oath of allegiance to the Shah personally, like every man in the forces?

  In the tower he saw Hussain staring at the equipment. “Can you work the radios, Colonel?” the mullah asked, his robes old but clean, turban white and freshly washed, but old too.

  “No, Excellency, that’s why I sent for Borgali.” Corporal Borgali came up the stairs two at a time and stood to attention. “VHF and HF,” the colonel ordered.

  “Yessir.” Borgali switched on. Nothing. A quick check and he found the mutilated crystal and that the VHF circuit breaker was missing. “Sorry, sir, this equipment’s nonfunctioning.”

  “You mean sabotaged,” Hussain said softly and looked at Changiz.

  Changiz was numb. God burn all foreigners, he was thinking in despair. If it’s deliberate sabotage…then this is proof they’ve fled and taken our choppers with them. That dog McIver must have known they were going to do it this morning when I was asking about the 125.

  Prickles of ice needles went through him. No 125 now, no private escape route, no chance of taking Lochart or one of the other pilots hostage on a trumped-up charge, then secretly bartering the man’s “escape from jail” for a seat for himself—if necessary. His entrails heaved. What if the komiteh finds out my wife and family are already in Baghdad, not as supposed at Abadan where my poor mother is “dying”? The nightmare devils were always jeering, shouting the truth; “What mother? Your mother’s been dead for seven or eight years! You’ve planned to flee, you’re guilty of crimes against God and the Imam and the revolution…”

  “Colonel,” Hussain said in the same chilling voice, “if the radios are sabotaged does it not follow that Captain Lochart is not searching for the other helicopters, he’s not searching but has fled like the other one, and that McIver lied about ordering the other 212s here?”

  “Yes…yes, Excellency, yes it does an—”

  “And then it also follows that they have fled illegally and taken two helicopters from here illegally, apart from the four from Bandar Delam?”

  “Yes…yes, that would be true too.”

  “As God wants, but you are responsible.”

  “But, Excellency, surely you must realize that it’s not possible to have foreseen a secret, illegal operation like…” He saw the eyes and read them and his words faded away.

  “So you’ve been duped?”

  “Foreigners are sons of dogs who lie and cheat all the time…” Changiz stopped as a thought filled his mind. He grabbed the phone, cursed finding it inoperative. In a different voice he said quickly, “Excellency, a 212 can’t fly across the Gulf without refueling, it’s not possible, and McIver’s got to refuel too to get to Tehran with Kia—he’ll have to refuel too so we can catch them.” To Borgali he said, “On the double, go back to our tower and find out where the 206 cleared for Tehran with McIver and Minister Kia is scheduled to refuel. Tell the duty officer to alert the base and arrest the pilot, detain the helicopter, and send Minister Kia on to Tehran…by road.” He looked at Hussain. “You agree, Excellency?” Hussain nodded. “Good. Off you go!”

  The corporal rushed down the stairs.

  It was cold in the tower, the wind blustering. A small rain squall pelted the windows for a moment then passed by. Hussain did not notice it, his eyes on Changiz.

  “We’ll catch that dog, Excellency. Minister Kia will thank us.”

  Hussain did not smile. He had already arranged a reception komiteh for Kia at Tehran Airport, and if Kia could not explain all manner of curiosities in his behavior, soon the government would be less one corrupt minister. “Perhaps Kia is part of the plot and he’s fleeing Iran with McIver, have you thought of that, Colonel?”

  The colonel gaped. “Minister Kia? Do you think so?”

  “Do you?”

  “By God, it’s…it’s certainly possible, if you think so,” Changiz replied cautiously, trying as never before to be alert. “I’ve never met the man in my life. You’d know better than me, Excellency, about Kia, you questioned him in front of the komiteh.” And exonerated him, he thought with malicious delight. “When we catch McIver we can use him as a hostage to bring back the rest, we’ll catch him, Excellency…”

  Hussain saw the fear on the colonel’s face and he wondered what the man was guilty of, was the colonel also part of the escape plan that had been obvious to him since he had questioned Starke yesterday and McIver this morning?

  “And if it was obvious,” he had imagined a religious superior asking, “why did you keep it secret and why didn’t you prevent it?”

  “Because of Starke, Eminence. Because I truly believe that somehow that man, though Infidel, is an Instrument of God and God-protected. Three times he prevented forces of evil giving me the blessed peace of Paradise. Because of him my eyes have been opened to the truth of God’s wish that I must no longer seek martyrdom but must remain on an earthly path to become a relentless scourge for God and the Imam, against enemies of Islam and his enemies.”

  “But the others? Why allow them to escape?”

  “Islam needs neither foreigners nor their helicopters. Should Iran need helicopters, in Isfahan there are a thousand others.”

  Hussain was completely sure he was right, as right as this pro-Shah, American-supporting turncoat colonel was wrong. “So, Colonel, what about the two 212s, will you catch them too? How?”

  Changiz went to the wall map quite sure that though both of them had been duped he was commandant and responsible if the mullah wanted to make him responsible. But don’t forget this is the mullah who made a deal with Colonel Peshadi the night of the fi
rst attack on the base, this is the same one who befriended the American Starke and the odious maniac Zataki from Abadan. And am I not a supporter of the Imam and the revolution? Didn’t I correctly give over the base to the soldiers of God?

  Insha’Allah. Concentrate on the foreigners. If you can catch them, even one of them, you’ll be safe from this mullah and his Green Band thugs.

  Several standard flight paths were drawn on the map from Kowiss to various oil sites and to rigs out into the Gulf. “That dog clerk said spares to Abu Sal,” he muttered. “Now if I were them, where would I refuel?” His finger stabbed the rigs. “One of these, Excellency,” he said excitedly. “That’s where they’d refuel.”

  “The rigs carry spare fuel?”

  “Oh, yes, in case of an emergency.”

  “And how are you going to catch them?”

  “Fighters.”

  ONSHORE AT THE RENDEZVOUS: 2:07 A.M. The two 212s were parked on the desolate, undulating beach in light rain. Dejectedly Freddy Ayre and Lochart sat in the open door of one of the cabins, their two mechanics and Wazari in the other, all of them tired from handling the big, cumbersome forty-gallon drams of fuel and taking turns pumping the gasoline into the tanks. Never had two 212s been refueled faster, nor full spares heaved aboard into each and secured faster, in case of an emergency. Freddy Ayre had arrived here about eleven-thirty, Lochart just after twelve, half an hour to refuel, and they had been waiting ever since.

  “We’ll give him another half an hour,” Lochart said.

  “Christ, you’re acting as though we’ve all the time in the world.”

  “It’s stupid for us both to wait, safer for you to go separately—how many times do I have to say it? Take everyone and I’ll wait.”

  “When Mac arrives we can all g—”

  “Goddamnit, take the mechanics and Wazari and I’ll wait. That’s what Mac’d say if he was here and you were waiting for me. For crissake, stop trying to play hero and push off.”

  “No. Sorry, but I’m waiting until he arrives or we both leave.”