sayada laughed and pettikin envied him. still, he thought, his heart picking up a beat, paula's alitalia flight's due back any day... what wouldn't i give to have her eyes light up for me like sayada's do for m'sieur seduction himself.
better go easy, charlie pettikin. you could make a damn fool of yourself. she's twenty-nine, you're fifty-six, and you've only chatted her up a couple of times. yes. but she excites me more than i've been excited in years and now i can understand tom lochart going overboard for sharazad.
the warning buzzer went on the high frequency transmitter-receiver on the sideboard. he got up and turned up the volume. "hq tehran, go ahead!"
"this is captain ayre in kowiss for captain mciver. urgent." the voice was mixed with static and low.
"this is captain pettikin, captain mciver's not here at the moment. you're two by five." this was a measure, one to five, of the signal strength. "can i help?"
"standby one."
jean-luc grunted. "what's with freddy and you? captain ayre and captain pettikin?"
"it's just a code," pettikin said absently staring at the set, and sayada's attention increased. "it just sort of developed and means someone's there or
listening in who shouldn't. a hostile. replying with the same formality means you got the message."
"that's very clever," sayada said. "do you have lots of codes, charlie?"
"no, but i'm beginning to wish we had. it's a bugger not knowing what's going on really no face-to-face contact, no mail, phones and the telex ropy with so many trigger-happy putters muscling us all. why don't they turn in their guns and let's all live happily ever after?"
the hf was humming nicely. outside the windows, the day was overcast and dull, the clouds promising more snow, the late afternoon light making all the city roofs drab and even the mountains beyond. they waited impatiently.
"this is captain ayre at kowiss..." again the voice was eroded by static and they had to concentrate to hear clearly. "... first i relay a message received from zagros three a few minutes ago from captain gavallan." jean-luc stiffened. "the message said exactly: 'pan pan pan"' the international aviation distress signal just below mayday "'i've just been told by the local komiteh we are no longer persona grata in zagros and to evacuate the area with all expatriates from all our rigs within forty- eight hours, or else. request immediate advice on procedure.' end of message. did you copy?"
"yes," pettikin said hastily, jotting some notes.
"that's all he said, except he sounded checker."
"i'll inform captain mciver and call you back as soon as possible." jeanluc leaned forward and pettikin let him take the mike.
"this's jean-luc, freddy, please call scot and tell him i'll be back as planned tomorrow before noon. good to talk to you, thanks, here's charlie again." he handed the mike back, all of his bonhomie vanished.
"will do, captain sessonne. nice to talk to you. next: the 125 picked up our outgoings along with mrs. starke, including captain jon tyrer who'd been wounded in an aborted leftist counterattack at bandar delam..."
"what attack?" jean-luc muttered.
"first i've heard of it." pettikin was just as concerned.
"... and, according to plan, will bring back replacement crews in a few days. next: captain starke." they all heard the hesitation and underlying anxiety and the curious stilted delivery as though this information was being read: "captain starke has been taken into kowiss for questioning by a komiteh..." both men gasped. "... to ascertain facts about a mass helicopter escape of pro-shah air force officers from isfahan on the thirteenth, last tuesday, believed to have been piloted by a european. next: air operations continue to improve under close supervision of the new management. mr. esvandiary is now our iranoil area manager and wants us to take over all guerney contracts. to do this would require three more 21 2s and one 206. please advise. we need
spares for hbn, hkj, and hgx and money for overdue wages. that's all for now."
pettikin kept scribbling, his brain hardly working. "i'veer, i've noted everything and will inform captain mciver as soon as he returns. you said, er, you said 'an attack on bandar delam." please give the details."
the airwaves were silent but for static. they waited. then again ayre's voice, not stilted now: "i've no information other than there was an antiayatollah khomeini attack that captains starke and lutz helped put down. afterward captain starke brought the wounded here for treatment. of our personnel only tyrer was creased. that is all."
pettikin felt a bead of sweat on his face and he wiped it off. "what... what happened to tyrer?"
silence. then: "a slight head wound. dr. nutt said he'd be okay."
jean-luc said, "charlie, ask him what was that about isfahan."
as though in dreamtime, pettikin saw his fingers click on the sender switch. "what was that about isfahan?"
they waited in the silence. then: "i have no information other than what i gave you."
"someone's telling him what to say," jean-luc muttered.
pettikin pressed the sending button, changed his mind. so many questions to ask that ayre clearly could not answer. "thank you, captain," he said, glad that his voice sounded firmer. "please ask hotshot to put his request for the extra choppers in writing, with suggested contract time and payment schedule. put it on our 125 when they bring replacements. keep... keep us informed about captain starke. mcivertll get back to you as soon as possible."
"wilco. out."
now only static. pettikin fiddled with the switches. the two men looked at each other, oblivious of sayada who sat quietly on the sofa, missing nothing. "'close supervision'? that sounds bad, jean-luc."
"yes. probably means they have to fly with armed green bands." jean- luc swore, all his thinking on zagros and how young scot gavallan would cope without his leadership. "merde! when i left this morning everything was five by five with shiraz atc as helpful as a swiss hotelier off-season. merde!"
pettikin was suddenly reminded of rakoczy and how close he had come to disaster. for a second he considered telling jean-luc, then decided against it. old news! "maybe we should contact shiraz atc for help?"
"mae might have an idea. mon dieu, doesn't sound too good either for duke these komitehs're breeding like lice. bazargan and khomeini better deal with them quickly before the two of them're bitten to death." jean-luc got up, very concerned, and stretched, then saw sayada curled up on the sofa, her untouched cup of tea on the small table beside her, smiling at him.
at once his bonhomie returned. there's nothing more i can do for young scot at the moment, or for duke, but there is for sayada. "sorry, che'rie," he said with a beam. "you see, without me there are always problems at zagros. charlie, we'll leave now i've got to check the apartment but we'll return before dinner. say 8:00 p.m.; by then mac should be back, eh?"
"yes. won't you have a drink? sorry, we've no wine. whisky?" he offered it halflheartedly as this was their last three quarters of a bottle.
"no thanks, mon vieux." jean-luc got into his coat, noticed in the mirror that he was looking as dashing as ever, and thought of the cases of wine and the tins of cheese he had had the wisdom to tell his wife to stock in their apartment. ``a bientdt, i'll bring you some wine."
"charlie," sayada said, watching both of them carefully as she had done since the hf came to life, "what did scotty mean about the helicopter escape?"
pettikin shrugged. "all sorts of rumors about all sorts of escapes, by land, sea, and air. always 'europeans' supposed to be involved," he said, hoping he sounded convincing. "we're blamed for everything."
and why not, you are responsible, sayada bertolin thought without malice. politically, she was delighted to see them both sweating. personally, she wasn't. she liked both of them and most of the pilots, particularly jean-luc who pleased her immensely and amused her constantly. i'm lucky to be palestinian, she told herself, and coptic christian of ancient lineage. that gives me strengths they don't have, an awareness of a heritage back to biblical times, an und
erstanding of life they could never reach, along with the capacity to dissociate politics from friendship and the bedchamber as long as it is necessary and prudent. haven't we had thirty centuries of survival training? hasn't gaza been settled for three thousand years?
"there's a rumor bakhtiar's slipped out of the country and fled to paris."
"i don't believe that, charlie," sayada said. "but there's another that i do," she added, noticing he had not answered her question about the isfahan helicopter. "it seems your general valik and his family fled to join the other ihc partners in london. between them they're supposed to have salted away millions of dollars."
"partners?" jean-luc said contemptuously. "robbers, all of them, whether here or london, every year worse than before."
"they're not all bad," pettikin said.
jean-luc said, "those cretins steal the sweat of our brow, sayada. i'm astounded old man gavallan lets them get away with it."
"come off it, jean-luc," pettikin said. "he fights them every inch of the way."
"every inch of our way, old friend. we do the flying, he doesn't. as for valik..." jean-luc shrugged with gallic extravagance. "if i was an iranian
of wealth, i would have gone months ago with all i could collect. it's been clear for months that the shah was out of control. now it's the french revolution and the terror all over again but without our style, sense, civilized heritage, or manners." he shook his head disgustedly. "what a waste! when you think of all the centuries of teaching and wealth we french've put in trying to help these people crawl out of the dark ages and what have they learned? not even how to make a decent loaf of bread!"
sayada laughed and, on tiptoe, kissed him. "ah, jean-luc, i love you and your confidence. now, mon views, we should go, you've lots to accomplish!"
after they had left, pettikin went to the window and stared out at the rooftops. there was the inevitable sporadic gunfire and some smoke near laleh. not a big fire but enough. a stiff breeze scattered the smoke. clouds reached down the mountains. the cold from the windows was strong, ice and snow on the sills. in the street below were many green bands. walking or in trucks. then from minarets everywhere muezzins began calling to afternoon prayer. their calls seemed to surround him.
suddenly he was filled with dread.
at the ministry of aviation: 5:04 p.m. duncan mciver was sitting wearily on a wooden chair in a corner of the crowded antechamber of the deputy minister. he was cold and hungry and very irritable. his watch told him he had been waiting almost three hours.
scattered around the room were a dozen other men, iranians, some french, american, british, and one kuwaiti wearing a galabia a long- flowing arabian robe and headband. a few moments ago the europeans had politely stopped chatting as, in response to the muezzins' calls that still came through the tall windows, the muslims had knelt, faced mecca, and prayed the afternoon prayer. it was short and quickly over and once more the desultory conversation picked up never wise to discuss anything important in a government office, particularly now. the room was crafty, the air chilly. they all still wore their overcoats, were equally weary, a few stoic, most seething, for all, like mciver, had long overdue appointments.
"insha'allah," he muttered but that didn't help him.
with any luck gens already at al shargaz, he thought. i'm damned glad she's safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: "i'm the one who can talk to andy. you can't put anything into writing."
"that's true," he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, "maybe andy can make a plan that we could carry out might carry out. hope to god we don't have to. too bloody dangerous. too many lads and too
many planes spread out. too bloody dangerous. gen, you forget we're not at war though we're in the middle of one."
"yes, duncan, but we've nothing to lose."
"we've people to lose, as well as birds."
"we're only going to see if it's feasible, aren't we, duncan?"
old gen's certainly the best go-between we could have if we really needed one. she's right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: "andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes and spares thattre presently under iranian registry and technically owned by an iranian company called ihc..."
christ! isn't that a conspiracy to defraud!
leaving is not the answer. we've got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. somehow i've got to get the partners to help or maybe this minister can give us a hand. if he'll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. any government's got to have help to get their oil up, they've got to have choppers and we'll get our money...
he looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. by name. there never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. even in the shah's time it was never first come, first served. then it was only influence. or money.
talbot of the british embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. "sorry, old boy, even i can't get into the pm, but his deputy antazam's a good sort, speaks good english not one of these rev twits. he'll fix you up."
mciver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. when he had presented the letter, in english and farsi, to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.
"ah, don't worry, agha, you're in plenty of time," the friendly reception clerk said, to his relief, in good english, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. "this is the right office. please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. minister kia will see you as soon as possible."
"i don't want to see him," he had almost exploded. "my appointment's with deputy prime minister antazam!"
"ah, deputy minister antazam, yes, agha, but he's no longer in prime minister bazargan's government. insha'allah," the young man said pleasantly. "minister kia deals with everything to do wither, foreigners, finances, and airplanes."
"but i must insist th " mciver stopped as the name registered and he
remembered what talbot had said about kia and how remaining ihc partners had implanted this man on the board with an enormous retainer and no guarantees of assistance. "minister ali kia?"
"yes, agha. minister ali kia will see you as soon as possible." the receptionist was a pleasant, well-dressed young man in a suit and white shirt and blue tie, just like in the old days. mclver had had the foresight to enclose a pishkesh of 5,000 rials in the envelope with the introduction, just like in the old days. the money had vanished.
perhaps things are really getting back to normal, mclver thought, went into the other room, and took a chair in the corner and began to wait. in his pocket was another wad of rials and he wondered if he should refill the envelope with the appropriate amount. why not, he thought, we're in iran, minor officials need minor money, high officials, high money sorry, pishkesh. making sure no one observed him, he put some high denomination notes into the envelope, then added a few more for safety. maybe this bugger can really help us the partners used to have the court buttoned up, perhaps they've done the same to bazargan.
from time to time harassed bureaucrats hurried importantly through the anteroom into the inner room, papers in their hands, and came out again. occasionally, one of the men waiting would be politely ushered in. without exception they were inside for just a few minutes and emerged taut-faced or red-faced, furious, and obviously empty-handed. those who still waited felt more and more frustrated. time passed very slowly.
"agha mclver!" the inner door was open now, a bureaucrat beckoning him.
ali kia was seated behind a very large desk with no papers on
it. he wore a smile, but his eyes were hard and small and mclver instinctively disliked him.
"ah, minister, how kind of you to see me," mclver said, forcing bonhomie, offering his hand. ali kia smiled politely and shook hands limply.
"please sit down, mr. mciver. thank you for coming to see me. you have an introduction i believe?" his english was good, oxford- accented, where he had gone to university just before world war 11 on a shah grant, staying for the duration. he waved a tired hand at the bureaucrat beside the door. the man left.
"yes, it, er, it was to deputy minister antazam, but i understand it should have been directed to you." mclver handed him the envelope. kia took out the introduction, noticed the amount of the notes exactly, tossed the envelope carelessly onto the desk to indicate more should be forthcoming, read the handwritten note with care, then put it down in front of him.
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 66