James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  fools! he thought contemptuously.

  and as for you, seladi, my stupid and rapacious uncle who bartered safe refueling at isfahan which you failed to provide in return for a safe passage out for yourself and eleven of your friends, you're worse. you're a traitor. if i hadn't had an informant of long standing in the general staff hq i would never have heard of the generals' great betrayal in time to escape and we'd've been caught like flies in a honey pot in tehran. loyalists may still prevail, the battle's not lost yet, but meanwhile my family and i will watch events from england, st. moritz, or new york.

  he let himself go into the exciting, wonderful power of the jets that were carrying them to safety, to a house in london, a country house in surrey, another in california, and to swiss and bahamian bank accounts. ah, yes, he told himself happily, and that reminds me about our blocked s-g joint account in the bahamas, another $4 million to enrich us and easy now to pry from gavallan's grubby paws. more than enough to keep me and my family safe whatever happens here until we can return. khomeini won't live forever even if he wins god curse him! soon we'll be able to return home, soon iran will be normal again, meanwhile we have everything we need.

  his ears heard seladi still muttering about lochart and almost being left behind. "calm yourself, excellency," he said, and took his arm, gentling him, and thought, you and your running dogs still have a value, a temporary value. perhaps as hostages, perhaps as bait who knows? none are family except you and you betrayed us. "calm yourself, my revered uncle, with the help of god the pilot will get what he deserves."

  yes. lochart should not have panicked. he should have waited for my order. disgusting to panic.

  valik closed his eyes and slept, very satisfied with himself.

  c~hi ta.b rl z. ~ d iraq ~ qazv~n *tehran baghdad: ~ i r a n ~ ~ ~'z dam ado isfa~ ~

  at the iran-toda refinery, bandar delam: 12:04 p.m. scragger was whistling tonelessly, hand-pumping fuel into his main tanks from big barrels that were lined up in a small japanese semi beside the freshly washed 206, sparkling in the sun. nearby was a young green band who squatted in the shade, leaning on his mid, half asleep.

  the noonday sun was warm and the light breeze made the day pleasant and took away the constant humidity, here on the coast. scragger was dressed lightly, white shirt with captain's epaulets, summer-weight black trousers and shoes, the inevitable dark glasses and peaked cap.

  now the tanks were brimming. "that's it, me son," he said to the japanese assigned to assist him.

  "hal, anjin-san" yes, mr. pilot the man said. like all employees at the refinery he wore white, spotless overalls and gloves, with iran-toda industries emblazoned on the back, then the same thing in farsi politely above, with equivalent in japanese characters beneath it.

  "hal, it is," scragger said, using one of the words that he had picked up from kasigi enroute from lengeh yesterday. he pointed. "next our long- range

  tanks, and then we'll fill the spares." for the journey that de plessey had grandly authorized sunday night to celebrate their victory over the saboteurs scragger had taken out the backseat and lashed in place two 40-gallon drums, "just in case, mr. kasigi. i've connected them to the main tanks. we can use a hand pump and can even refuel in the air, if we have to if you do the pumping. now we won't have to land for fuel. you can never tell with weather in the gulf, there's always sudden storms or squalls, fog, winds can play tricks. our best bet's to stay a little out to sea."

  "and jaws?"

  scragger had laughed with him. "the old hammerhead of kharg? with any luck we might see him if we get that far and don't get diverted."

  "still no callback from kish radar?"

  "no, but it doesn't matter. they've cleared us to bandar delam. you're sure you can refuel me at your plant?"

  "yes, we've storage tanks, captain. helipads, hangar, and repair shop. those were the first things we built we had a contract with guerney."

  "yes, yes, i knew about that, but they've quit, haven't they?"

  "yes, they did, a week or so ago. perhaps your company would take over the contract? perhaps you could be put in charge there's work for three 212s and perhaps two 206s constantly, while we're building."

  scragger had chuckled. "that'd make old andy and gav happy as a cat in a barrel of fish sticks and dirty dunc fart dust!"

  "please?"

  scragger tried to explain the joke about mciver. but when he was through kasigi had not laughed, just said, oh, now i understand.

  they're a rum lot, scragger thought.

  when he finished refueling he did another ground check engine, rotors, airframe though he did not expect to leave today. de plessey had asked him to wait for kasigi, to fly him where he needed to go, and to bring him back to lengeh on thursday. the 206 checked out perfectly. satisfied he glanced at his watch, then he pointed at his stomach and rubbed it. "grub time, had?"

  "hal!" his helper smiled and motioned to the small truck nearby, then pointed at the main, four-story office building two-hundred-odd yards away where the executive offices were.

  scragger shook his head. "i'll walk," he said and waggled his two fingers to parody walking so the young man half bowed and got into the truck and drove off. he stood there for a moment, watching and being watched by the guard. now that the truck had left and the tanks were closed, he could smell the sea and the rotting debris of the nearby shore. it was near low tide there was only one tide a day in the gulf, as in the red sea, because it was shallow and landlocked but for the narrow strait of hormuz.

  he liked the sea smell. he had grown up in sydney, always within sight of the sea. after the war he had settled there again. at least, he reminded himself, i was there between jobs and the missus and the kids stayed there and still stay there, more or less. his son and two daughters were married now with children of their own. whenever he was on home leave, perhaps once a year, he saw them. they had a friendly, distant relationship.

  in the early years his wife and children had come to the gulf to settle. within a month they had gone home to sydney. "we'll be at bondi, scrag," she had said. "no more foreign places for us, lad." during one of his two-year stints in kuwait she had met another man. when scragger had returned the next time, she said, "i think we'll divorce, lad. it's best for the kids and thee and me," and so they did. her new husband lived a few years, then died. scragger and she drifted back into their pattern of friendliness not that we ever left off, he thought. she's a good sort and the kids're happy and i'm flying. he still sent her money monthly. she always said she didn't need it. "then put it into savings against a rainy day, nell," he always told her. so far, touch wood, they've not had rainy days, she and the kids and their kids.

  the nearest wood was the butt of the rifle the revolutionary had in his lap. the man was staring at him malevolently from the shade. shitty bastard, you're not going to spoil my day. he beamed at him, then turned his back, stretched, and looked aroma.

  this's a great site for a refinery, he told himself, close enough to abadan, to the main pipelines joining the north and south oil fields great idea to try to save all that gas being burned off, billions of tons of it all over the world. criminal waste, when you think of it.

  the refinery was on a promontory, with its own dredged wharfing setup that stretched out into the gulf for four hundred yards, that kasigi had told him would eventually be able to handle two super tankers at the same time of whatever size could be built. around the helipads were acres of complex cracking plants and buildings, all seemingly interconnected with miles of steel and plastic pipes of all sizes, mazes of them, with huge cocks and valves, pumping stations, and everywhere cranes and earth movers and vast piles of all manner of construction materials, mountains of concrete and sand, reinforcing steel mesh scattered around along with neat dumps the size of football fields, of crates and containers protected with plastic tarpaulins and half-finished roads, foundations, wharves, and excavations. but almost nothing moving, neither men nor machines.

  when the
y had landed, a welcoming committee of twenty or thirty japanese had been at the helipad, hastily assembled, along with a hundred-odd iranian strikers and armed islamic guards, some wearing iplo armbands, the first scragger had ever seen. after much shouting and threatening and examining

  their papers and the inbound kish radar clearance, the spokesman had said the two of them could stay but no one could leave or the chopper take off without the komiteh's permission.

  enroute to the office building, chief engineer watanabe, who could speak english, had explained that the strike komiteh had been, for all intents and purposes, in possession for almost two months. in that time almost no progress had been made and all work had ceased. "they won't even allow us to maintain our equipment." he was a hard- faced, tough, grizzle-haired man in his sixties with very strong working hands. he lit another cigarette from his halfsmoked one.

  "and your radio?"

  "six days ago they locked the radio room, forbidding its use, and took away the key. phones of course have been out for weeks and the telex for a week or more. we've still about a thousand japanese personnel here dependents of course were never permitted food supplies are very short, we've had no mail for six weeks. we can't move out, we can't work. we're almost prisoners and can do nothing without very great troubles indeed. however, at least we are alive to protect what we have done and wait patiently to be allowed to continue. we are very indeed honored to see you, kasigi-san, and you, captain."

  scragger had left them to their business, feeling the tension between the two men, however much they tried to hide it. in the evening he had eaten lightly, as always, allowed himself one ice-cold japanese beer, "bugger me, it's not as good as foster's," then had done his eleven minutes of canadian air force exercises and had gone to bed.

  just before midnight while he was still reading, there had been a soft knock. kasigi had come in excitedly, apologising for disturbing him but he felt scragger should know at once that they had just heard a broadcast from a khomeini spokesman in tehran saying that all the armed services had declared for him, prime minister bakhtiar had resigned, that now iran was totally free of the shah's yoke, that by khomeini's personal order, all fighting should cease, all strikes should stop, oil production should commence again, all bazaars and shops should open, all men should hand in their weapons and return to work, and above everything, all should give thanks to god for granting them victory.

  kasigi had beamed. "now we can start again. thank all gods, eh? now things will be normal again."

  when kasigi had left, scragger had lain there, the light on, his mind racing over the possibilities of what would happen now. stone the crows, he had thought, how fast everything's been. i'd've bet heavy odds the shah'd never be shoved out, heavier odds that khomeini'd never be allowed back, and then my bundle on a military coup.

  he had turned off the light. "just goes to show, scrag, old chap. you know eff all."

  in the morning he had awakened early, accepted japanese green tea in place of the breakfast tea he usually drank indian, very strong, and always with condensed milk and gone to check, clean, and refuel, and now, everything tidy, he was very hungry. he nodded briefly to the guard who paid no attention to him and strolled off toward the four- story office building.

  kasigi was standing at one of the windows on the top floor where the executive of rices were. he was in the boardroom, a spacious corner of rice with a huge table and seats for twenty and had been watching the 206 and scragger absently, his mind in turmoil. hard put to contain his rage. since early this morning he had been going through cost projections, reports, accounts receivable, work projections, and so on, and they all added up to the same result: at least another billion dollars and another year of time to start production. this was only the second time he had visited the refinery which was not in his sphere of responsibility though he was a director and member of the chairman's executive committee that was their conglomerate's highest echelon of decision-making.

  behind him chief engineer watanabe sat alone at the vast table, outwardly patient, chain-smoking as always. he had been in charge for the last two years, deputy chief since the project began in '71 a man of great experience. the previous chief engineer had died here, on-site, of a heart attack.

  no wonder, kasigi thought angrily. two years ago perhaps four it must have been quite clear to him our absolute maximum budget of $3.5 billion would be inadequate, that overruns were already vast and delivery dates totally unrealistic.

  "why didn't chief engineer kasusaka inform us? why didn't he make a special report?"

  "he did, kasigi-san," watanabe said politely, "but by direction of the head agreements of the joint venture here, all reports have to go through our courtappointed partners. it's an iranian pattern it's always supposed to be a joint venture, fifty-fifty, with shared responsibilities, but gradually the iranians manage to maneuver meetings and contracts and clauses, usually using the court or shah as an excuse, till they have de facto control and then..."

  he shrugged. "you've no idea how clever they are worse than a chinese merchant, much worse. they agree to buy the whole animal but renege and take only the steak and leave you with the rest of the carcass on your hands." he put out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another. "there was a meeting of the whole board of partners with gyokotomo-sama yoshi gyokotomo himself, chairman of the syndicate here in this office, just before chief engineer

  kasusaka-san died. i was present. kasusaka-san cautioned everyone that iranian bureaucratic delays and harassments squeeze is the correct word would put back production dates and cause a vast increase in cost overruns. i was present, i heard him with my own ears, but he was overridden by the iranian partners who told the chairman everything would be rearranged, that kasusaka-san didn't understand iran or the way they did things in iran." watanabe studied the end of his cigarette. "kasusaka-san even said the same in private to gyokotomosama, begging him to beware, and gave him a written detailed report."

  kasigi's face closed. "were you present at this meeting?"

  "no but he told me what he had said, that gyokotomo-sama accepted the report and said that he himself would take it up to the highest level, in tehran and at home in japan. but nothing happened, kasigi-san. nothing."

  "where is the copy of the report?"

  "there isn't one. the next day, before he left for tehran, gyokotomo ordered them destroyed." again the older man shrugged. "chief engineer kasusaka's job, and mine, was and is to get the refinery built, whatever the problems, and not to interfere with the working of the syndicate." watanabe lit a fresh cigarette from the half-smoked cigarette, inhaled deeply, stubbed the other out delicately, wanting to smash it and the ashtray and the desk and the building and the plant to smithereens along with this interloper kasigi who dared to question him, who knew nothing, had never worked in iran, and had his position in the company because he was kinsman to the todas. "unlike chief engineer kasusaka" he added oh so gently, "over the years i have kept copies of my monthly reports."

  "so ha?" kasigi said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  "yes," watanabe said. and copies of these copies in a very safe place, he thought grimly in his most secret heart, taking a thick file from his briefcase and putting it on the desk, just in case you'll try to make me responsible for the failures. "you may read them if you wish."

  "thank you." with an effort kasigi resisted the temptation to grab the file at once.

  watanabe rubbed his face tiredly. he had been up most of the night preparing for this meeting. "once we're back to normal, work will progress quickly. we are 80 percent complete. i'm confident we can complete with the right planning it's all in my reports, including the matter of the kasusaka meeting with the partners, and then with gyokotomo-sama."

  "what do you suggest as an overall solution to iran-toda?"

  "there isn't one until we're back to normal."

  "we are now. you heard the broadcast."

  "i heard it, kasigi-san, but normal for me means
when the bazargan government's in full control."

  "that will happen within days. your solution?"

  "the solution is simple: get fresh partners who cooperate, arrange the financing we need, and within a year, less than a year, we'll be producing."

  "can the partners be changed?"

  watanabe's voice became as thin as his lips. "the old ones were all courtappointed, or approved, therefore shah men, therefore suspect and enemies. we haven't seen one since khomeini returned, or heard from one. we've heard rumors they've all fled but..." watanabe shrugged his great shoulders. "i've no way of checking with no telex, no phones, no transport. i doubt if the new 'partners' will be different in attitude."

  kasigi nodded and glanced back out the window, seeing nothing. easy to blame iranians and dead men and secret meetings and destroyed reports. never had chairman yoshi gyokotomo mentioned any meeting with kasusaka or any written report. why should gyokotomo bury such a vital report? ridiculous because he and his company are equally at risk as ours. why? if watanabe's telling the truth and his own reports could prove it, why?