Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Erikki had heard the finality and he knew beyond any doubt, now, that if he left her he would lose her forever.

  IN THE BATHHOUSE: 7:15 P.M. Azadeh lowered herself into the hot water up to her neck. The bath was beautifully tiled and fifteen yards square and many tiered, shallow at one end with lounging platforms, the hot water piped from the furnace room adjoining. The room was warm and large, a happy place with kind mirrors. Her hair was tied up in a towel and she rested against one of the tilted backrests, her legs stretched out, the water easing her. “Oh, that’s so good, Mina,” she murmured.

  Mina was a strong, good-looking woman, one of Azadeh’s three maidservants. She stood over her in the water, wearing just a loincloth, gently massaging her neck and shoulders. The bathhouse was empty but for Azadeh and the maidservant—Hakim had sent the rest of the family to other houses in Tabriz: “to prepare for a fitting Mourning Day for Abdollah Khan,” had been the excuse, but all were aware that the forty days of waiting was to give him time to inspect the palace at his leisure and reapportion suites as it pleased him. Only the old Khanan was undisturbed, and Aysha and her two infants.

  Without disturbing Azadeh’s tranquillity, Mina eased her into shallower water and onto another platform where Azadeh lay full length, her head propped comfortably on a pillow, so that she could work her chest and loins and thighs and legs, preparing for the real oil massage that would come later when the water’s heat had become deep-seated.

  “Oh, that’s so good,” Azadeh said again. She was thinking how much nicer this was than their own sauna—that raw strong heat and then the frightful plunge into the snow, the aftershock tingling and life-giving but not as good as this, the sensuality of the perfumed water and quiet and leisure and no aftershocks and oh that is so good…but why is the bathhouse a village square and now it’s so cold and there’s the butcher and the false mullah’s shouting, “First his right hand…stone the harlottttt!” She screamed soundlessly and leaped away.

  “Oh, did I hurt you, Highness, I’m so sorry!”

  “No, no, it wasn’t you, Mina, it was nothing, nothing, please go on.” Again the soothing fingers. Her heart slowed. I hope soon I’ll able to sleep without…without the village. Last night with Erikki it was already a little better, in his arms it was better, just being near him. Perhaps tonight it will be better still. I wonder how Johnny is. He should be on his way home now, home to Nepal on leave. Now that Erikki’s back I’m safe again, just so long as I’m with him, near him. By myself I’m not…not safe, even with Hakim. I don’t feel safe anymore. I just don’t feel safe anymore.

  The door opened and Aysha came in. Her face was lined with grief, her eyes filled with fear, the black chador making her appear even more emaciated. “Hello, Aysha dear, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. The world is strange and I’ve no… I’m centerless.”

  “Come into the bath,” Azadeh said, sorry for her, she looked so thin and old and frail and defenseless. Difficult to believe she’s my father’s widow with a son and daughter, and only seventeen. “Get in, it’s so good.”

  “No, no, thank you I… I just wanted to talk to you.” Aysha looked at Mina then dropped her eyes and waited. Two days ago she would have just sent for Azadeh who would have come at once and bowed and knelt and waited for orders, as now she knelt as petitioner. As God wills, she thought; except for my terror for the future of my children I would shout with happiness—no more of the foul stench and sleep-shattering snores, no more of the crushing weight and moans and rage and biting and desperation to achieve that which he could but rarely. “It’s your fault, your fault your fault…” How could it be my fault? How many times did I beg him to show me what to do to help, and I tried and tried and tried and yet it was only so rarely and then at once the weight was gone, the snoring would begin, and I was left awake to lie in the sweat and in the stink. Oh, how many times I wanted to die.

  “Mina, leave us alone until I call you,” Azadeh said. She was obeyed instantly. “What’s the matter, Aysha dear?”

  The girl trembled, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid for my son, and I came to beg you to protect him.”

  Azadeh said gently, “You’ve nothing to fear from Hakim Khan and me, nothing. We’ve sworn by God to cherish you, your son and daughter, you heard us, we did it in front of…of your husband, our father, and then again, after his death. You’ve nothing to fear. Nothing.”

  “I’ve everything to fear,” the girl stammered. “I’m not safe anymore, nor is my son. Please, Azadeh, couldn’t…couldn’t Hakim Khan… I’d sign any paper giving up any rights for him, any paper, I only want to live in peace and for him to grow up and live in peace.”

  “Your life is with us, Aysha. Soon you will see how happy we’ll all be together,” Azadeh said. The girl’s right to be afraid, she thought. Hakim will never surrender the Khanate out of his line if he has sons of his own—he must marry now, I must help find him a fine wife. “Don’t worry, Aysha.”

  “Worry? You’re safe now, Azadeh, you who just a few days ago lived in terror. Now I’m not safe and I’m in terror.”

  Azadeh watched her. There was nothing she could do for her. Aysha’s life was settled. She was the widow of a Khan. She would stay in the palace, watched and guarded, living as best she could. Hakim would not dare to let her remarry, could not possibly allow her to give up a son’s rights granted by the public will of the dying husband. “Don’t worry,” she said.

  “Here.” Aysha pulled a bulky manila envelope from under her chador. “This is yours.”

  “What is it?” Azadeh’s hands were wet and she didn’t want to touch it.

  The girl opened the envelope and showed her the contents. Azadeh’s eyes widened. Her passport, ID, and other papers, Erikki’s also, all the things that had been stolen from them by the mujhadin at the roadblock. This was a pishkesh indeed. “Where did you get them?”

  The girl was sure there was no one listening, but still lowered her voice. “The leftist mullah, the same mullah of the village, he gave them to His Highness, the Khan, to Abdollah Khan two weeks ago, when you were in Tehran…the same mullah as at the village.”

  Incredulously Azadeh watched her. “How did he get them?”

  Nervously the girl shrugged her thin shoulders. “The mullah knew all about the roadblock and what happened there. He came here to try to take possession of the…of your husband. His Highness…” She hesitated, then continued in her halting whispers. “His Highness told him no, not until he approved it, sent him away, and kept the papers.”

  “Do you have other papers, Aysha? Private papers?”

  “Not of yours or your husband’s.” Again the girl trembled. “His Highness hated you all so much. He wanted your husband destroyed, then he was going to give you to the Soviet, and your brother was to be…neutered. There’s so much I know that could help you and him, and so much I don’t understand. Ahmed…beware of him, Azadeh.”

  “Yes,” Azadeh said slowly. “Did father send the mullah to the village?”

  “I don’t know. I think he did. I heard him ask the Soviet to dispose of Mahmud, ah, yes, that was that false mullah’s name. Perhaps His Highness sent him there to torment you and the saboteur, and also sent him to his own death—but God intervened. I heard the Soviet agree to send men after this Mahmud.”

  Azadeh said casually, “How did you hear that?”

  Aysha nervously gathered the chador closer around her and knelt on the edge of the bath. “The palace is a honeycomb of listening holes and spy holes, Azadeh. He… His Highness trusted no one, spied on everyone, even me. I think we should be friends, allies, you and I, we’re defenseless, even you, perhaps you more than any of us and unless we help each other we’re all lost. I can help you, protect you.” Beads of sweat were on her forehead. “I only ask you to protect my son, please. I can protect you.”

  “Of course we should be friends,” Azadeh said, not believing that she was under any threat, but intrigued to know the secrets
of the palace. “You will show me these secret places and share your knowledge?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I will.” The girl’s face lit up. “I’ll show you everything and the two years will pass so quickly. Oh, yes, we’ll be friends.”

  “What two years?”

  “While your husband is away, Azadeh.”

  Azadeh jerked upright, filled with alarm. “He’s going away?”

  Aysha stared at her. “Of course. What else can he do?”

  IN THE EUROPEAN ROOM: Hashemi was handing Robert Armstrong the scrawled message from Mzytryk that Hakim had just given him. Armstrong glanced at it: “Sorry, Hashemi, I can’t read Turkish.”

  “Ah, sorry, I forgot.” Hashemi read it out in English. Both men saw Armstrong’s disappointment. “Next time, Robert, we’ll get him. Insha’Allah.”

  Not to worry, Armstrong thought. It was a long shot anyway. I’ll get Mzytryk another time. I’ll get him, and I’ll get you, old friend Hashemi, rotten of you to murder Talbot. Why did you do that? Revenge because he knew many of your secrets? He’d done you no harm, on the contrary he put lots of bones of your way and smoothed lots of errors for you. Rotten! You didn’t give him a chance, why should you have one? Soon as my passage out’s arranged, you’ve had it. No reason to delay anymore now that Mzytryk knows I’m on to him and he’s jeering from safety. Perhaps the Brass’ll send Special Branch or a Special Air Services team into Tbilisi now we know where he is—someone’ll get the bastard. Even if I don’t…

  He was distracted by Hakim Khan saying, “Colonel, what’s this about Yazernov and Jaleh Cemetery?” and Hashemi answered smoothly, “It’s an invitation, Highness. Yazernov’s an intermediary Mzytryk uses from time to time, acceptable to both sides, when something of importance to both sides has to be discussed.” Armstrong almost laughed, for Hashemi knew as well as he that it was a promise of a personal vendetta and of course an immediate Section 16/a. Clever of Mzytryk to use the name Yazernov and not Rakoczy.

  ‘“As soon as convenient’ to meet Yazernov!” Hashemi said. “I think, Highness, we’d better return to Tehran tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Hakim said. Coming back in the car from the hospital with Azadeh, he had decided the only way to deal with Mzytryk’s message and these two men was head-on. “When will you come back to Tabriz?”

  “If it pleases you, next week. Then we could discuss how to tempt Mzytryk here. With your help there’s much to do in Azerbaijan. We’ve just had a report that the Kurds are in open rebellion nearer to Rezaiyeh, now heavily provisioned with money and guns by the Iraqis—may God consume them. Khomeini has ordered the army to put them down, once and for all time.”

  “The Kurds?” Hakim smiled. “Even he, God keep him safe, even he won’t do that—not once and for all.”

  “This time he might, Highness. He has fanatics to send against fanatics.”

  “Green Bands can obey orders and die but they do not inhabit those mountains, they do not have Kurdish stamina nor their lust for earthly freedom en route to Paradise.”

  “With your permission I will pass on your advice, Highness.”

  Hakim said sharply, “Will it be given any more credence than my father’s—or my grandfather’s—whose advice was the same?”

  “I would hope so, Highness. I would hope…” His words were drowned as the 212 fired up, coughed, held for a moment, then died again. Out of the window they saw Erikki unclip one of the engine covers and stare at the complexity inside with a flashlight. Hashemi turned back to the Khan who sat on a chair, stiffly upright. The silence became complicated, three men’s minds racing, each as strong as the other, each bent on violence of some kind.

  Hakim Khan said carefully, “He cannot be arrested in my house or my domain. Even though he knows nothing of the telex, he knows he cannot stay in Tabriz, even Iran, nor may my sister go with him, even leave Iran for two years. He knows he must leave at once. His machine cannot fly. I hope he avoids arrest.”

  “My hands are tied, Highness.” Hashemi’s voice was apologetic and patently sincere. “It is my duty to obey the law of the land.” Absently he noticed a piece of fluff on his sleeve and brushed it away. Armstrong got the signal at once. Brushing a left sleeve meant, “I need to talk to this man privately, he won’t talk in front of you. Make an excuse and wait for me outside.” Hashemi repeated with the perfect amount of sadness, “It’s our duty to obey the law.”

  “I’m certain, quite certain, he was not part of any conspiracy, knows nothing about the flight of the others, and I would like him left alone to leave in peace.”

  “I would be glad to inform SAVAMA of your wishes.”

  “I would be glad if you would do what I suggest.”

  Armstrong said, “Highness, if you’ll excuse me, the matter of the captain is not my affair, nor would I wish to rock any ship of state.”

  “Yes, you may go, Superintendent. When do I have your report on new security possibilities?”

  “It will be in your hands when the colonel returns.”

  “Peace be with you.”

  “And with you, Highness.” Armstrong walked out, then strolled along the corridors to the steps. Hashemi will roast the poor sod, he thought.

  The evening was pleasant, nice nip in the air, a reddish tinge to the west. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. “Evening, Captain. Between you, me, and the gatepost, if your bus was working I’d suggest a quick trip to a border.”

  Erikki’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Armstrong took out a cigarette. “Climate’s not very healthy around here, is it?” He cupped his hands around his lighter and flicked it.

  “If you light a cigarette with all this gasoline around here, your climate and mine’ll be not very healthy permanently.” Erikki pressed the switch. The engine began winding up perfectly for twenty seconds, and again spluttered into silence. Erikki cursed.

  Armstrong nodded politely and went back to the car. The driver opened the door for him. He settled back, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply, not sure if Erikki had got the message. Hope so. Can’t give away the phony telex, or about Whirlwind, that’d put me against the nearest wall for treachery to Hashemi and the Khan for sticking my nose where it’s clearly not invited—I was warned. Fair enough. It is internal politics.

  Christ! I’m chocker with all this. I need a holiday. A long holiday. Where? I could go back to Hong Kong for a week or two, look up my old chums, the few who’re left, or perhaps go up into the Pays d’Enhaut, the High Country, skiing. Haven’t been skiing for years and I could use some good Swiss cooking, roesti and wurst and good coffee with thick cream and lots of wine. Lots! That’s what I’ll do. First Tehran, then Hashemi concluded, and off into the Wild Blue. Perhaps I’ll meet someone nice…

  But the likes of us don’t come in from the cold, nor change. What the hell am I going to do for future money now that my Iranian pension’s up the spout and my Hong Kong police pension’s worth less and less every day? “Hello, Hashemi, how’d it go?”

  “Fine, Robert. Driver, go back to HQ.” The driver accelerated through the main gate and sped down the road toward the city, “Erikki’ll sneak off in the early hours, just before dawn. We follow him until it pleases us and then we take him, outside Tabriz.”

  “With Hakim’s blessing?”

  “Private blessing, public outrage. Thanks.” Hashemi accepted the cigarette, clearly pleased with himself. “By that time, the poor fellow will probably be no more.”

  Armstrong wondered what deal had been struck. “At Hakim’s suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Interesting.” That’s not Hakim’s idea. What’s Hashemi up to now? Armstrong asked himself.

  “Yes, interesting. After we’ve burned the mujhadins tonight and made sure that maniac Finn is netted, one way or another, we’ll go back to Tehran.”

  “Perfect.”

  TEHRAN—AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 8:06 P.M. Sharazad put the grenade and pis
tol into the shoulder bag and hid it under some clothes in the drawer of her bureau. The clothes she would wear under her chador later, ski jacket and heavy sweater and ski pants, were already chosen. Now she wore a pale green silk dress from Paris that enhanced her figure and long legs perfectly. Her makeup too was perfect. A last check of the room and then she went downstairs to join the reception for Daranoush Farazan, her husband-to-be.

  “Ah, Sharazad!” Meshang met her at the door. He was perspiring and covered his nervousness with pretended good humor, not knowing what to expect from her. When she had come back from the doctor’s earlier, he had begun to harangue her and use dire threats, but, astonishingly, she had just dropped her eyes and said docilely, “There is no need to say any more, Meshang. God has decided, please excuse me, I will go and change.” And now she was here, still docile.

  And so she should, he thought. “His Excellency Farazan has been dying to greet you.” He took her arm and led her through the twenty or so people in the room, mostly cronies of his and their wives, Zarah and some of her friends, none of Sharazad’s. She smiled at those she knew and then turned all her concentration to Daranoush Farazan.

  “Greetings, Excellency,” she said politely and held out her hand. This was the first time she had ever been so close. He was shorter than she. She looked down on the few strands of dyed hair over his coarse pate, coarse skin, and even coarser hands, his bad breath infringing her space, his small black eyes glittering. “Peace be with you,” she said.

  “Greetings, Sharazad, and peace be with you, but please, please don’t call me Excellency. How…how beautiful you are.”

  “Thank you,” she said and watched herself take back her hand and smile and stand beside him and run to fetch him a soft drink, skirts flying, and bring it back as beautifully as it was possible to do, smiling at his droll pleasantries, greeting other guests, pretending to be oblivious of their stares and private laughter, never overdoing the performance, her mind centered on the riot at the university that had already begun, and upon the Protest March that had been forbidden by Khomeini but would take place.