mciver and gavallan did not betray their relief at their victory. nor did sabolir.
sabolir was content that the mullah was entrapped. as god wants! now if
i'm falsely accused, now i have an ally, he told himself. this fool, this son of a dog false mullah, hasn't he accepted a bribe clearly not pishkesh two in fact, some new glasses and wasteful, unauthorised air travel? hasn't he deliberately allowed himself to become the dupe of these glib and ever-devious english who still think they can seduce us with trinkets and steal our heritage for a few rials? listen to the fool, giving the foreigners what they want!
he glanced at mclver. pointedly. and caught his eye. then once more looked back at the floor. now you arrogant western son of a dog, he thought, what valuable favor should you do for me in return for my assistance?
at the french club: 7:10 p.m. gavallan accepted the glass of red wine from the uniformed french waiter, mclver, the white.
both touched glasses and drank gratefully, tired after their journey from the airport. they were sitting in the lounge with other guests, mostly europeans, men and women, overlooking the snow-covered gardens and tennis courts, the chairs comfortable and modern, the bar extensive many other rooms for banquets, dancing, dining, cards, sauna in other parts of this fine building that was in the best part of tehran. the french club was the only expat club still functioning the american services club, with its huge complex of entertainment facilities, sports field, and baseball pitch, as well as the british, parsamerican, german clubs, and most others had been closed, their bars and stocks of liquor smashed.
"my god, that's good," mclver said, the ice-cold, cleansing wine taking away the dross. "don't tell gen we stopped by."
"no need to, mac. she'll know."
mclver nodded. "you're right, never mind. i managed to book here tonight for dinner costs an arm and a leg but worth it. used to be standing room only at this time of night..." he looked around at a burst of laughter from some frenchmen in a far corner. "for a moment it sounded like jean-luc, seems years since we had his pre-christmas party here wonder if we'll ever have another."
"sure you will," gavallan said to encourage him, concerned that the fire seemed to be out of his old friend. "don't let that mullah get to you."
"he gave me the creeps so did armstrong come to think of it. and talbot. but you're right, andy, i shouldn't let it get me down. we're in better shape than we were two days ago..." more laughter distracted him and he began thinking of all the great times he had had here with genny and pettikin and lochart won't think about him now and all the other pilots and their many friends, british, american, iranian. all gone, most gone. it used to be: "gee, let's go over to the french club, the tennis finals are this afternoon..." or:
"valik's cocktail party's on from 8:00 pm. at the iranian officers club..." or: "there's a polo match, baseball match, swimming party, skiing party..." or: "sorry, can't this weekend we're going to the ambassador's do on the caspian..." or: "i'd love to, genny can't, she's shopping for carpets in isfahan..."
"it used to be we had so much to do here, andy, the social life was the best ever, no doubt about that," he said. "now it's hard just trying to keep in touch with our ops."
gavallan nodded. "mac," he said kindly, "straight answer to a straight question: do you want to quit iran and let someone else take over?"
mclver stared at him blankly. "good god, whatever gave you that idea? no, absolutely no! you mean you think because i was a bit down that... good god, no," he said, but his mind was suddenly jerked into asking the same question, unthinkable a few days ago: are you losing it, your will, your grip, your need to continue is it time to quit? i don't know, he thought, achingly chilled by the truth, but his face smiled. "everything's fine, andy. nothing we can't deal with."
"good. sorry, i hope you didn't mind me asking. i think i was encouraged by the mullah except when he was talking about 'our iranian aircraft.'"
"the truth is that valik and the partners've been acting like our aircraft were theirs ever since we signed that contract."
"thank god it's a british contract, enforceable under british law." gavallan glanced over mciver's shoulder and his eyes widened slightly. the girl coming into the room was in her late twenties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and stunning. mciver followed his glance, brightened, and got up. "hello, sayada," he said, beckoning her. "may i introduce andrew gavallan? andy, this's sayada bertolin, a friend of jean-luc. would you like to join us?"
"thanks, mac, but no, sorry i can't, i'm just about to play squash with a friend. you're looking well. pleased to meet you, mr. gavallan." she put out her hand and gavallan shook it. "sorry, got to dash, give my love to genny."
they sat down again. "same again, waiter, please," gavallan said. "mae, between you and me, that bird's made me feel positively weak!"
mciver laughed. "usually it's the reverse! she's certainly very popular, works in the kuwaiti embassy, she's lebanese and jean-luc's smitten."
"my word, i don't blame him..." gavallan's smile faded. robert armstrong was coming through the far doorway with a tall, strong- faced iranian in his fifties. he saw gavallan, nodded briefly, then continued with his conversation and led the way out and up the stairs where there were other lounges and rooms. "wonder what the devil that man's g " gavallan stopped as recollection flooded his mind. "robert armstrong, chief superintendent cid kowloon, that's who he is... or was!"
"cid? you're sure?"
"yes, cid or special branch... wait a minute... he, yes, that's right, he was a friend of lan's come to think of it, that's where i met him, at the great house on the peak, not at the races, though i might have seen him there too with fan. if i remember rightly it was the night quillan gornt came as a very unwelcome guest... can't remember exactly, but i think it was ian and penelope's anniversary party, just before i left hong kong... my god, that's almost sixteen years ago, no wonder i didn't remember him."
"i had the feeling he remembered you the instant we met at the airport yesterday."
"so did i." they finished their drinks and left, both of them curiously unsettled.
tehran university: 7:32 p.m. the rally of over a thousand leftist students in the forecourt quadrangle was noisy and dangerous, too many factions, too many zealots, and too many of them armed. it was cold and damp, not yet dark, though already there were a few lights and torches in the twilight.
rakoczy was at the back of the crowd, melded into it, haphazardly dressed like the others, looking like them though now his cover had been changed and he was no longer smith or fedor rakoczy, the russian muslim, the islamicmarxist sympathiser, but here in tehran had reverted to dimitri yazernov, soviet representative on the tudeh central committee a post he had had from time to time over the past few years. he stood in a corner of the quadrangle with five of the tudeh student leaders, out of the sharpening wind, his assault rifle over his shoulder, armed and ready, and he was waiting for the first gun to go off. "any moment now," he said softly.
"dimitri, who do i take out first?'' one of the leaders asked nervously.
"the mujhadin that motherless bastard, the one over there," he said patiently, pointing at the black-bearded man, much older than the others. "take your time, farmad, and follow my lead. he's professional and plo."
the others stared at him astonished. "why him if he's plo?" farmad asked. he was squat, almost misshapen, with a large head and small intelligent eyes. "the plo have been our great friends over the years, giving us training and support and arms."
"because now the plo will support khomeini," he explained patiently. "hasn't khomeini invited arafat here next week? hasn't he given the plo the israeli mission headquarters as its permanent headquarters? the plo can supply all the technicians that bazargan and khomeini need to replace the israelis and the americans especially in the oil fields. you don't want khomeini strong, do you?"
"no, but the plo have been v "
"iran isn't palestine. palestinians should stay in palestine. you won the rev
olution. why give strangers your victory?"
"but the plo have been our allies," farmad persisted, and rakoczy was glad that he had found the flaw before some measure of power was passed over to this man.
"allies who have become enemies have no value. remember the aim."
"i agree with comrade dimitri," another said, an edge to his voice, his eyes cold and very hard. "we don't want plo giving orders here. if you don't want to take him out, farmad, i will. all of them and all the green band dogs too!"
"the plo're not to be trusted," rakoczy said, continuing the same lesson, planting the same seeds. "look how they vacillate and change positions even on their home ground, one moment saying they're marxist, the next muslim, the next flirting with the archtraitor sadat then attacking him. we have documents to prove it," he added, the disinformation fitting in perfectly, "and documents that prove they plan to assassinate king hussein, and take over jordan and make a separate peace with israel and america. they've had secret meetings with the cia and israel already. they're not truly anti-israel..."
ah, israel, he was thinking as he let his mouth continue the well- thoughtout lesson, how important you are to mother russia, set there so nicely in the cauldron, a perpetual irritant guaranteed to enrage all muslims forever, particularly the oh so oil rich sheikdoms, guaranteed to set all muslims against all christians, our prime enemy your american, british, and french allies meanwhile to curb their power and keep them and the west off-balance while we consume vital prizes iran this year, afghanistan also, nicaragua next year, then panama and others, always to the same plan: possession of the strait of hormuz, panama, constantinople, and the treasure chest of south africa. ah, israel, you're a trump card for us to play in the world monopoly game. but never to discard or sell! we'll not forsake you! oh, we'll let you lose many battles but never the war, we'll allow you to starve but not to die, we'll permit your banking compatriots to finance us and therefore their own destruction, we'll suffer you to bleed america to death, we'll strengthen our enemies but not too much and assist you to be raped. but don't worry, we'll never let you disappear. oh, no! never. you're far too valuable.
"plos are arrogant and full of themselves," a tall student said darkly, "and never polite and never conscious of iran's importance in the world and know nothing of our ancient history."
"true! they're peasants and they've parasited themselves throughout the middle east and our gulf, taking the best jobs."
"yes," another agreed. "they're worse than the jews..."
rakoczy laughed to himself. he enjoyed his job very much, enjoyed working
with university students always a fertile field enjoyed being a teacher. but that's what i am, he thought contentedly, a professor of terrorism, of power and the seizing of power. perhaps i'm more like a farmer: i plant the seed, nurture it, guard it, and harvest it, working all hours and all seasons as a farmer must. some years are good and some bad but every year a little further forward, a little more experienced, a little wiser about the land, ever more patient spring summer autumn winter always the same farm, iran, always with the same aim: at best for iran to become russian soil, at worst a russian satellite to protect the sacred motherland of russia. with our foot on the strait of hormuz...
ah, he thought, an unearthly, consuming religious glow pervading him, if i could give iran to mother russia my life will not have been lived in vain.
the west deserves to lose, particularly the americans. they're such fools, so egocentric, but most of all so stupid. it's inconceivable this carter doesn't see the value of hormuz in general and iran in particular and what a catastrophe to the west their loss will be. but there it is; for all practical purposes he's given us iran.
rakoczy remembered the shock wave of disbelief that had soared to the very top when their innermost contacts in washington had whispered that carter was going to forsake the shah. ah, what an ally carter has been to us. if i believed in god i'd pray: god is great, god is great, protect our best ally, president peanut, and let him win a second term! with him in for a second term we'll own america and so rule the world! god is great, god is...
abruptly he felt chilled. he had been pretending to be muslim for so long that sometimes his cover overcame his real self, and he began to question and have doubts.
am i still igor mzytryk, captain kgb, married to my darling delaurah, my oh so beautiful armenian, who's waiting in tbilisi for me to come home? is she at home, she who oh so secretly believes in god the god of the christians that is the same as the god of the muslims and of the jews?
god. god who has a thousand names. is there a god?
there is no god, he told himself like a litany, and put that thought back into its compartment and concentrated on the riot to be.
around them tension was growing nicely among the massed students, angry cries raging back and forth: "we didn't spill our blood for mullahs to take all the power! unite, brothers and sisters! unite under the tudeh banners..."
"down with the tudeh! unite for the holy islamic-marxist cause, we mujhadin spilled our blood and we are the martyrs of imam ali, lord of the martyrs, and lenin..."
"down with the mullahs and khomeini, archtraitor to iran..."
vast cheers greeted this shout and others took it up, then gradually, again
the dominating voice was: "unite, brothers and sisters, unite to the real leaders of the revolution, the tudeh, unite to protect th "
rakoczy watched the crowd critically. it was still in pieces, formless, not yet a mob that could be directed and used as a weapon. some bystanders, islamics, watched and listened with varying degrees of contempt or rage. the few moderates shook their heads and walked away, leaving the stage to the vast majority who were deeply committed and anti-khomeini.
around them the buildings were tall, and brick, the university built by reza shah in the thirties. five years ago rakoczy had spent a few terms here pretending to be an azerbaijani though the tudeh knew him as dimitri yazernov and that he had been sent continuing a pattern to organize university cells. since its beginning the university was always a place of dissension, anti-shah, although mohammed shah, more than any monarch in persia's history, had lavishly supported education. the tehran students had been the vanguard of the rebellion, long before khomeini had become the coalescing core.
without khomeini, we'd never've succeeded, he thought. khomeini was the flame around which we could all cluster and unite to tip the shah off the throne and the u.s. out. he's not senile or a bigot as many say but a ruthless leader with a dangerously clear plan, a dangerously great charisma, and dangerously huge power among the shi'ites so now it's time he joined the god that never was.
rakoczy laughed suddenly.
"what is it?" farmad asked.
"i was just thinking what khomeini and all the mullahs will say when they discover there's no god and never was a god there's no heaven, no hell, no houris, and it's all a myth."
the others laughed too. one didn't. ibrahim kyabi. there was no laughter left in him, just the wish for revenge. when he had gone home yesterday afternoon he had discovered his house in turmoil, his mother prostrate in tears, his brothers and sisters in anguish. the news had just arrived that his engineer father had been murdered by islamic guards outside his iranoil hq at ahwaz and that his body had been left to the vultures.
"for what?" he had screamed.
"for for crimes against islam," his uncle, dewar kyabi, who had brought home the terrible news, said through his own tears. "that's what they told us his murderers. they were from abadan, fanatics, illiterates mostly, and they told us that he was an american quisling, that for years he had cooperated with the enemies of islam, allowing and helping them to steal our oil, th "
"lies, all lies," ibrahim had shouted at him. "father was anti-shah, a patriot a believer! who were those dogs? who? i will burn them and their fathers. what were their names ?"
"it was the will of god, ibrahim, that they did it. insha'allah! oh, my poor brother! the will of go
d..."
"there is no god!"
the others had stared at him, shocked. this was the first time ibrahim had articulated a thought that had been building for many years, nurtured by student friends returning from overseas, friends at the university, fed by some of the teachers who had never said this openly, merely encouraging them to question anything and everything.
"insha'allah is for fools," he had said, "a curse of superstition for fools to hide under!"
"you mustn't say that, my son!" his mother had cried out, frightened. "go to the mosque, beg god's forgiveness that your father is dead is the will of god, nothing more. go to the mosque."
"i will," he had said, but in his heart he knew his life had changed no god could have allowed this to happen. "who were those men, uncle? describe them."
"they were just ordinary, ibrahim, as i already told you, younger than you, most of them there was no leader or mullah with them, though there was one in the foreigners' helicopter that came from bandar delam. but my poor brother died cursing khomeini; if only he hadn't come back by the foreigners' helicopters, if only... but then, insha'allah, they were waiting for him anyway."
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 48