Dubois’s bonhomie had left him. “Golf, Hotel Kilo Victor Charlie, got it. Andy, le bon Dieu was with us because Oceanrider’s Liberian registry and her skipper’s British. One of the first things I asked for was a pot of paint, paint…understand?”
“Got it, bloody marvelous. Go on!”
“As he was inbound Iraq I thought it best to keep quiet and stay with her until I talked with you and this is the first mo—” Through the half-opened door Dubois saw the Iraqi manager approaching. Much more loudly now and in a slightly different voice, he said, “This assignment with Oceanrider’s perfect, Mr. Gavallan, and I’m glad to tell you the captain’s very content.”
“Okay, Marc, I’ll ask the questions. When is she due to finish loading and what’s her next port of call?”
“Probably tomorrow.” He nodded politely to the Iraqi who sat behind his desk. “We should be in Amsterdam as scheduled.” Both men were having difficulty hearing.
“Do you think you could stay with her all the way? Of course we’d pay freighting charges.”
“I don’t see why not. I think you’ll find this experiment will become a permanent assignment. The captain found the convenience of being able to lie offshore and yet get into port for a quick visit worthwhile but frankly the owners made an error ordering a 212. A 206’d be much better. I think they’ll want a rebate.” He heard Gavallan’s laugh and it made him happy too. “I better get off the phone, just wanted to report in. Fowler sends his best and if possible I’ll give you a call on the ship to shore as we pass by,”
“With any luck we won’t be here. The birds’ll be freighted off tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll monitor Oceanrider all the way home. Once you’re through Hormuz and clear of Gulf waters, ask the captain to radio or telex contact us in Aberdeen. All right? I’m assigning everyone to the North Sea until we’re sorted out. Oh, you’re sure to be out of money, just sign for everything and I’ll reimburse the captain. What’s his name?”
“Tavistock, Brian Tavistock.”
“Got it. Marc, you don’t know how happy I am.”
“Me to. À bientôt.” Dubois replaced the phone and thanked the manager.
“A pleasure, Captain,” the man said thoughtfully. “Are all big tankers going to have their own chopper support?”
“I don’t know, m’sieur. It would be wise for some. No?”
The manager smiled faintly, a tall middle-aged man, his accent and training American. “There’s an Iranian patrol boat standing off in their waters watching Oceanrider. Curious, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Fortunately they stay in their waters, we stay in ours. Iranians think they own the Arabian Gulf, along with us, the Shatt, and the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates back to their source—a thousand and almost two thousand miles.”
“The Euphrates is that long?” Dubois asked, his caution increasing.
“Yes. It’s born in Turkey. Have you been to Iraq before?”
“No, m’sieur. Unfortunately. Perhaps on my next trip?”
“Baghdad’s great, ancient, modern—so’s the rest of Iraq, well worth a visit. We’ve got nine billion metric tons of proven oil reserves and twice that waiting to be discovered. We’re much more valuable than Iran. France should support us, not Israel.”
“Me, m’sieur, I’m just a pilot,” Dubois said. “No politics for me.”
“For us that’s not possible. Politics is life—we’ve discovered that the hard way. Even in the Garden of Eden…did you know people have been living around here for sixty thousand years? The Garden of Eden was barely a hundred miles away; just upstream the Shatt where the Tigris and Euphrates join. Our people discovered fire, invented the wheel, mathematics, writing, wine, gardening, farming…the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were here, Scheherazade spun her tales to the Calif Harun al-Rashid, whose only equal was your Charlemagne, and here were the mightiest of the ancient civilizations, Babylonia and Assyria. Even the Flood began here. We’ve survived Sumerians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Turks, British, and Persians,” he almost spat the word out. “We’ll continue to survive them.”
Dubois nodded warily. Captain Tavistock had warned him: “We’re in Iraq waters, the platform’s Iraqi territory, young fellow. The moment you leave my gangplank, you’re on your own, I’ve no jurisdiction, understand?”
“I only want to make a phone call. I have to.”
“What about using my ship to shore when we pass by Al Shargaz on the way back?”
“There won’t be any problem,” Dubois had told him, perfectly confident. “Why should there be? I’m French.” When he had made the forced landing on the deck, he had had to tell the captain about Whirlwind and the reasons for it. The old man had just grunted. “I know nothing about that, young fellow. You haven’t told me. First you’d better paint out your Iran numbers and put G in front of whatever you like instead—I’ll get my ship’s painter to help. As far as I’m concerned if anyone asks me you’re a one-shot experiment the owners foisted on me—you came aboard in Cape Town and I don’t like you a bit and we hardly ever talk. All right?” The captain had smiled. “Happy to have you aboard—I was in PT boats during the war, operating all over the Channel—my wife’s from the Île d’Ouessant, near Brest—we used to sneak in there from time to time for wine and brandy just like my pirate ancestors used to do. Scratch an Englishman, find a pirate. Welcome aboard.”
Dubois waited now and watched the Iraqi manager. “Perhaps I could use the phone tomorrow again, before we leave?”
“Of course. Don’t forget us. Everything began here—it will end here. Salaam!” The manager smiled strangely and put out his hand. “Good landings.”
“Thanks, see you soon.”
Dubois went out and down the stairs and out onto the deck, anxious to be back aboard the Oceanrider. A few hundred yards north he saw the Iranian patrol boat, a small frigate, wallowing in the swell. “Espèce de con,” he muttered and set off, his mind buzzing.
It took Dubois almost fifteen minutes to walk back to his ship. He saw Fowler waiting for him and told him the good news. “Effing good about the lads, effing bloody good, but all the way to Amsterdam in this old bucket?” Grumpily Fowler began to curse, but Dubois just walked to the bow and leaned on the gunwale.
Everyone safe! Never thought we’d all make it, never, he thought joyously. What a fantastic piece of luck! Andy and Rudi’ll think it was planning but it wasn’t. It was luck. Or God. God timed the Oceanrider perfectly to within a couple of minutes. Shit, that was another close one but over, so no need to remember it. Now what? So long as we don’t run into bad weather and I get seasick, or this old bucket sinks, it’ll be grand to have two to three weeks with nothing to do, just to think and wait and sleep and play a little bridge and sleep and think and plan. Then Aberdeen and the North Sea and laughing with Jean-
Luc, Tom Lochart and Duke, and the other guys, then off to…off to where? It’s time I got married. Shit, I don’t want to get married yet. I’m only thirty and I’ve avoided it so far. It’d just be my bad luck to meet this Parisienne witch in angel’s clothing who’ll use her wiles to make me so smitten that she’ll destroy my defenses and ruin my resolve! Life’s too good, far too good, and dredging too much fun!
He turned and looked west. The sun, hazed by the vast pollution, was setting toward the land horizon that was dull and flat and boring. Wish I was at Al Shargaz with the guys.
AL SHARGAZ—INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL: 6:01 P.M. Starke sat on the second-floor veranda, also watching the lowering sun, but here it was beautiful over a calm sea below a cloudless sky, the great bar of reflected light making him squint even though he was using dark glasses. He wore pajama bottoms and his chest was strapped up and healing well and though he was still weak, he was trying to think and plan. So much to think about—if we get our birds out, or if we don’t.
In the room behind him he could hear Manuela chattering away in a patois of Spanish and Texan to her father and mother in faraway Lubbock. He had already t
alked to them—and talked to his own folks and the children, Billyjoe, Little Conroe, and Sarita: “Gee, Daddy, when ya coming home? I got me a new horse and school’s great and today’s hotter’n a bowl of Chiquita’s double chili peppers!”
Starke half smiled but could not pull himself out of his ocean of apprehension. Such a long way from there to here, everything alien, even in Britain. Next Aberdeen and the North Sea? I don’t mind just a month or two but that’s not for me, or the kids, or Manuela. It’s clear the kids want Texas, want home, so does Manuela now. Too much’s happened to frighten her, too much too quick too soon. And she’s right but hell, I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do. Have to keep flying, that’s all I’m trained for, want to keep flying. Where? Not the North Sea or Nigeria which’re Andy’s key areas now. Maybe one of his small ops in South America, Indonesia, Malaya or Borneo? I’d like to stay with him if I could but what about the kids and school and Manuela?
Maybe forget overseas and go Stateside? No. Too long abroad, too long here.
His eyes were reaching beyond the old city into the far distance of the desert. He was remembering the times he had gone out past the threshold of the desert by night, sometimes with Manuela, sometimes alone, going there just to listen. To listen to what? To the silence, to the night, or to the stars calling one to another? To nothing? “You listen to God,” the mullah Hussain had said. “How can an Infidel do that? You listen to God.”
“Those are your words, mullah, not mine.”
Strange man, saving my life, me saving his, almost dead because of him then saved again, then all of us at Kowiss freed—hell, he knew we were leaving Kowiss for good, I’m sure of it. Why did he let us go, us the Great Satan? And why did he keep on telling me to go and see Khomeini? Imam’s not right, not right at all.
What is it about all this that’s got to me?
It’s the out there, the something of the desert that exists for me. Utter peace. The absolute. It’s just for me—not for the kids or Manuela or my folks or anyone else—just me… I can’t explain it to anyone, Manuela most of all, anymore’n I could explain what happened in the mosque at Kowiss, or at the questioning.
I’d better get the hell out or I’m lost. The simplicity of Islam seems to make everything so simple and clear and better and yet…
I’m Conroe Starke, Texan, chopper pilot with a great wife and great kids and that should be enough, by God, shouldn’t it?
Troubled, he looked back at the old city, its minarets and walls already reddening from the setting sun. Beyond the city was the desert and beyond that Mecca. He knew that was the way to Mecca because he had seen hospital staff, doctors and nurses and others, kneeling at prayers in that direction. Manuela came out onto the veranda again, distracting his thought pattern, sat down beside him, and brought him partially back to reality.
“They send their love and ask when we’re coming home. It’d be good to visit, don’t you think, Conroe?” She saw him nod, absently, not with her, then looked where he was looking, seeing nothing special. Just the sun going down. Goddamn! She hid her concern. He was mending perfectly, but he wasn’t the same. “Not to worry, Manuela,” Doc Nutt had said, “it’s probably the shock of being hit with a bullet, the first time’s always a bit traumatic. It’s that, and Dubois, Tom, Erikki, and all the waiting and worrying and the not knowing—we’re all poised, you, me, everyone, but we still don’t quite know for what—it’s got to all of us in different ways.”
Her worry was sinking her. To hide it she leaned on the railing, looking at the sea and the boats. “While you were sleeping, I found Doc Nutt. He says you can leave in a few days, tomorrow if it was real important, but you’ve got to take it easy for a month or two. At breakfast, Nogger told me the rumor is we’ll all get at least a month’s vacation, with pay, isn’t that great? With that and the sick leave we got lots of time to go home, huh?”
“Sure. Good idea.”
She hesitated, then turned and looked at him. “What’s troubling you, Conroe?”
“I’m not sure, honey. I feel fine. Not my chest. I don’t know.”
“Doc Nutt said it’s bound to be real strange for a bitty, darlin’, and Andy said there’s a good chance there’ll be no inspection and the freighters are definite for noon tomorrow, nothing we can do, nothing more you can do…” The phone in the room rang and she went to answer it, still talking, “…nothing any of us can do more’n we’re doing. If we can get out, us and our choppers, I know Andy’ll get Kasigi’s choppers and the crews then… Hello? Oh, hi, darlin’…”
Starke heard the sudden gasp and silence, his heart tweaked, then her explosion of excitement and she was calling out to him, “It’s Andy, Conroe, it’s Andy, he’s got a call from Marc Dubois and he’s in Iraq on some ship, he and Fowler, they force-landed with no sweat on some tanker an’ they’re in Iraq and safe… Oh, Andy, that’s great! What? Oh, sure, he’s fine and I’ll…but what about Kasigi?… Wait a mo—… Yes, but… Sure.” She replaced the phone and hurried back. “Nothing from Kasigi yet. Andy said he was in a rush and he’d call back. Oh, Conroe…” Now she was on her knees beside him, her arms around his neck, hugging him but very carefully, her happiness spilling tears. “I’ve been so worried about Marc ’nd old Fowler, I was so afraid they were lost.”
“Me too…me too.” He could feel her heart pounding and his was too and some of the weight on his spirit lifted—his good arm holding her tightly. “Goddamn,” he muttered, also hardly able to talk. “Come on, Kasigi…come on, Kasigi…”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:18 P.M. Gavallan was at the office window watching Newbury’s official car with the small Union Jack fluttering swing through the gate. The car hurried along the perimeter road toward the front of his building—uniformed chauffeur, two figures in the back. He half nodded to himself. From the tap on the hand basin he splashed a little cold water into his face and dried it.
The door opened. Scot came in, beside him Charlie Pettikin. Both were pale. “Not to worry,” Gavallan said, “come on in.” He strolled back to the window, trying to appear calm and stood there, drying his hands. The sun was near the horizon. “No need to wait here, we’ll go to meet them.” Firmly he led the way out into the corridor. “Great about Marc and Fowler, isn’t it?”
“Wonderful,” Scot said, his voice flat in spite of his resolve. “Ten birds out of ten, Dad. Can’t do better than that. Ten out of ten.”
Along the corridor and out into the foyer. “How’s Paula, Charlie?”
“Oh, she…she’s fine, Andy.” Pettikin was astounded by Gavallan’s sang-froid and not a little envious. “She…she took off for Tehran an hour ago, doesn’t think she’ll be back until Monday, though maybe tomorrow,” God curse Whirlwind, he thought in misery, it’s ruined everything. I know a faint heart never won a fair lady, but what the hell can I do? If they grab our choppers, S-G’s down the sink, there’s no job, I’ve almost no savings. I’m so much older than she is and…sod everything! In a sick, stupid way I’m glad—now I can’t screw up her life and anyway she’d be crazy to say yes. “Paula’s fine, Andy.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
The foyer was crowded. Across it and out of the cool air-conditioning to the sunset’s warmth and onto the entrance steps. Gavallan stopped astonished. Every one of the S-G contingent was there: Scragger, Vossi, Willi, Rudi, Pop Kelly, Sandor, Freddy Ayre, and all the others and all the mechanics. All were motionless, watching the approaching car. It swung up to them.
Newbury got out. “Hello, Andrew,” he said, but now they were all transfixed, for Kasigi stood beside him, not the Iranian, and Kasigi was beaming, Newbury saying in a perplexed voice, “Really don’t quite understand what’s happening but the ambassador, the Iranian ambassador, canceled at the last minute, so did the Sheik, and Mr. Kasigi called for me to go to the Japanese reception so there’ll be no inspection tonight…”
Gavallan let out a cheer and then they were all pummeling Kasigi, thanking him, talking, laughin
g, stumbling over each other and Kasigi said, “…and there won’t be an inspection tomorrow even if we have to kidnap him…” and more laughter and cheers and Scragger was dancing a hornpipe, “Hooray for Kasigi…”
Gavallan fought his way through to Kasigi and gave him a bear hug, and shouted over the bedlam, “Thanks, thanks, by God. You’ll have some of your birds in three days, the rest at the weekend…” then added incoherently, “Christ Almighty, give me a second, Christ Almighty I’ve got to tell Mac, Duke, and the others…celebration’s on me…”
Kasigi watched him hurry away. Then he smiled to himself.
AT THE HOSPITAL: 6:32 P.M. Shakily Starke put down the phone, glowing with happiness, and came back onto the veranda. “Goddamn, Manuela, goddamn, we made it, no inspection! Whirlwind made it; Andy doesn’t know how Kasigi did it but he did it and… Goddamn!” He put his arm around her and leaned against the balustrade, “Whirlwind made it, now we’re safe, now we’ll get out and now we can plan. Goddamn! Kasigi, the son of a bitch, he did it! Allah-u Akbar,” he added triumphantly without thinking.
The sun touched the horizon. From the city a muezzin began, just one, the voice peerless, beckoning. And the sound filled his ears and his being and he listened, all else forgotten, his relief and joy mingled with the words and the beckoning and the Infinite—and he went away from her. Helplessly she waited, alone. There in the going down of the sun she waited, afraid for him, sad for him, sensing the future was in balance. She waited as only a woman can.
The beckoning ceased. Now it was very quiet, very still. His eyes saw the old city in all its ancient splendor, the desert beyond, infinity beyond the horizon. And now he saw it for what it was. Sound of a jet taking off and seabirds calling. Then the puttputt of a chopper somewhere and he decided.
“Thou,” he said to her in Farsi, “thou, I love thee.”
“Thou, I love thee forever,” she murmured, near tears. Then she heard him sigh and knew they were together again.
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