"mr. talbot is an honored friend of iran though a representative of a hostile
government," kia said, his voice smooth. "what particular help can i give the friend of such an honored person?"
"there're three things, minister. but perhaps i may be allowed to say how happy we are at s-g that you've considered giving us the benefit of your valuable experience by joining our board."
"my cousin was most insistent. i doubt i can help, but, as god wants."
"as god wants." mciver had been watching him carefully, trying to read him, and could not explain the immediate dislike he took great pains to hide. "first, there's a rumor that all joint ventures are suspended, pending a decision of the revolutionary komiteh."
"pending a decision of the government," kia corrected him curtly. "so?"
"how will that affect our joint company, ihc?"
"i doubt if it will affect it at all, mr. mciver. iran needs helicopter service for oil production. guerney aviation has fled. it would seem the future looks better than ever for our company."
mciver said carefully, "but we haven't been paid for work done in iran for many months. we've been carrying all lease payments for the aircraft from aberdeen and we're heavily over committed here in aircraft for the amount of work we have on the books."
"tomorrow the banks... the central bank is due to open. by order of the pm and the ayatollah, of course. a proportion of the money owed will, i'm sure, be forthcoming."
"would you conjecture how much we can expect, minister?" mciver's hope quickened.
"more than enough to... to keep our operation going. i've already arranged for you to take out crews once their replacements are here." ali kia took a thin file from a drawer and gave him a paper. it was an order directed'to immigration at tehran, abadan, and shiraz airports to allow out accredited ihc pilots and engineering crews, one for one, against incoming crew. the order was badly typed but legible, in farsi and english, and signed on behalf of the komiteh responsible for iranoil and dated yesterday. mciver had never heard of him.
"thank you. may i also have your approval for the 125 to make at least three trips a week for the next few weeks of course only until your international airports are back to normal to bring in crews, spares, and equipment, replacement parts, and so on, and," he added matter-of- factly, "to take out redundancies."
"it might be possible to approve that," kia said.
mciver handed him the set of papers. "i took the liberty of putting it into writing to save you the bother, minister with copies addressed to air traffic control at kish, kowiss, shiraz, abadan, and tehran."
kia read the top copy carefully. it was in farsi and english, simple, direct, and with the correct formality. his fingers trembled. to sign them would far exceed his authority but now that the deputy prime minister was in disgrace, as well as his own superior both supposedly dismissed by this still mysterious revolutionary komiteh and with mounting chaos in the government, he knew he had to take the risk. the absolute need for him, his family, and his friends to have ready access to a private airplane, particularly a jet, made the risk worthwhile.
i can always say my superior told me to sign it, he thought, keeping his nervousness away from his face and eyes. the 125 is a gift from god just in case lies are spread about me. damn fared bakravan! my friendship with that bazaar) dog almost embroiled me in his treason against the state; i've never lent money in my life, nor engaged in plots with foreigners, nor supported the shah.
to keep mciver off balance he tossed the papers beside the introduction almost angrily. "it might be possible for this to be approved. there would be a landing fee of $500 per landing. was that everything, mr. mciver?" he asked, knowing it was not. devious british dog! do you think you can fool me?
"just one thing, excellency." mciver handed him the last paper. "we've three aircraft that're in desperate need of servicing and repair. i need the exit permit signed so i can send them to al shargaz." he held his breath.
"no need to send valuable airplanes out, mr. mciver; repair them here."
"oh, i would if i could, excellency, but there's no way i can do that. we don't have the spares or the engineers and every day that one of our choppers're not working costs the partners a fortune. a fortune," he repeated.
"of course you can repair them here, mr. mciver, just bring the spares and the engineers from al shargaz."
"apart from the cost of the aircraft there're the crews to support and pay for. it's all very expensive; perhaps i should mention that's the iranian partners' cost that's part of their agreement... to supply all the necessary exit permits." mciver continued to wheedle. "we need to get every available piece of equipment ready to service all the new guerney contracts if the ay if, er, the government's decree to get oil production back to normal is to be obeyed. without equipment..." he left the word hanging and again held his breath, praying he'd chosen the right bait.
kia frowned. anything that cost the iranian partnership money came partially out of his own pocket now. "how soon could they be repaired and brought back?"
"if i can get them out within a couple of days, two weeks, maybe more, maybe less."
again kia hesitated. the guerney contracts, added to existing ihc contracts,
helicopters, equipment, fixtures, and fittings were worth millions of which he now had a sixth share for no investment, he chortled deep inside. particularly if everything was provided, without cost, by these foreigners! exit permits for three helicopters? he glanced at his watch. it was cartier and bejeweled a pishkesh from a banker who, two weeks ago, had needed a private half an hour access to a working telex. in a few minutes he had an appointment with the chairman of air traffic control and could easily embroil him in this de
..
clslon.
"very well," he said, delighted to be so powerful, an official on the rise, to be able to assist the implementation of government oil policy, and save the partnership money at the same time. "very well, but the exit permits will only be valid for two weeks, the license will" he thought a moment "will be $5,000 per aircraft in cash prior to exit, and they must be back in two weeks."
"i, i can't get that money in cash in time. i could give you a note, or checks payable on a swiss bank for $2,000 per aircraft."
they haggled for a moment and settled on $3,100. "thank you, agha mciver," ali kia said politely. "please leave downcast lest you encourage those rascals waiting outside."
when mciver was once more in his car he took out the papers and stared at the signatures and official stamps. "it's almost too good to be true," he muttered out loud. the i25's legal now, kia says the suspension won't apply to us, we've exit permits for three 212s that're needed in nigeria $9,310 against their value of 3 million's more than fair! i never thought i'd get away with it! "mciver," he said happily, "you deserve a scotch! a very large scotch!"
in the northern suburbs: 6:50 p.m. tom lochart got out of the battered old cab and gave the man a $20 note. his raincoat and flight uniform were crumpled and he was very tired and unshaven and dirty and felt soiled, but his happiness at being outside his own apartment building and near sharazad at long last took away all of it. a few flakes of snow were falling but he hardly noticed them as he hurried inside and up the staircase no need to try the elevator, it had not worked for months.
the car that he had borrowed from one of the pilots at bandar delam had run out of gas yesterday, halfway to tehran, the gas gauge defective. he had left it at a garage and fought onto the next bus and then another and, after breakdowns and delays and diversions, had reached the main terminal in tehran two hours ago. nowhere to wash, no running water, the toilets just the usual festering, clogged, flyblown holes in the ground.
no cabs at the cab rank or on the streets. no buses running anywhere near his home. too far to walk. then a cab appeared and he stopped it even though
it was almost full, following custom, he pulled open a door and forced his way in, beseeching the other passengers to allow him
to share their transport. a reasonable compromise was reached. they would be honored if he would stay and he would be honored to pay for all of them, and be last, and to pay the driver in cash. american cash. it was his last bill.
he got out his keys and turned the lock but the door was bolted from the inside, so he pressed the bell, waiting impatiently for the maid to open the door; sharazad would never have opened it herself. his fingers drummed a happy beat, his heart filled with love for her. his excitement grew as he heard the maid's footsteps approach, the bolts being pulled back, the door inched open. a strange chadored face stared at him. "what do you want, agha?" her voice was as coarse as her farsi.
his excitement vanished and left a sickening hole. "who're you?" he said, as rudely. the woman started to close the door, but he put his foot out and shoved it open. "what're you doing in my house? i'm excellency lochart and this is my house! where's her highness, my wife? eh?"
the woman glowered at him, then padded away across his hallway toward his living room door and opened it. lochart saw strangers there, men and women and guns leaning against his wall. "what the hell's going on?" he muttered in english and strode into his living room. two men and four women stared up at him from his carpets, cross-legged or leaning against his cushions, in the middle of a meal in front of his fireplace, a fire burning merrily, eating off his plates that were spread carelessly, their shoes off, their feet dirty. one man older than the other, in his late thirties, had his hand on an automatic that was stuck in his belt.
blinding rage soared through lochart, the presence of these aliens a rape and a sacrilege. "whotre you? where's my wife? by god, you get out of'm " he stopped. the gun was pointing at him.
"who're you, agha?"
with a supreme effort lochart dominated his fury, his chest hurting him. "i'm i'm this is is my house i'm the owner."
"ah, the owner! you're the owner?" the man called teymour interrupted with a short laugh. "the foreigner, the husband of the bakravan woman? yo " the automatic cocked as lochart readied a lunge at him. "don't! i can shoot quickly and very accurately. search him," he told the other man who was on his feet instantly. expertly this man ran his hands over him, pulled the flight bag out of his hands, and looked through it.
"no guns. flight manuals, compass you're the pilot lochart?"
"yes," lochart said, his heart pumping.
"sit down over there! now!"
lochart sat in the chair, far away from the fire. the man put the gun on the
carpet beside him and took out a paper. "give it to him." the other man did as he was told. the paper was in farsi. they all watched him carefully. it took lochart a little time to decipher the writing: "confiscation order. for crimes against the islamic state, all property of jared bakravan is confiscated except his family house and his shop in the bazaar." it was signed on behalf of a komiteh by a name he could not read and dated two days ago.
"this's this's ridiculous," lochart began helplessly. "his his excellency bakravan was a huge supporter of the ayatollah khomeini. huge. there must be some mistake!"
"there isn't. he was jailed, found guilty of usury, and shot."
lochart gaped at him. "there... there's got to be a mistake!"
"there's none, agha. none," teymour said, his voice not unkind, watching lochart carefully, seeing the danger in him. "we know you're canadian, a pilot, that you've been away, that you're married to one of the traitor's daughters and not responsible for his crimes, or hers if she's committed any." his hand went to the gun, seeing lochart flush. "i said 'if,' agha, control your anger." he waited and did not pick up the dull, well-kept luger, though completely ready. "we're not untrained rabble, we're freedom fighters, professionals, and we've been given these quarters to guard for vips who arrive later. we know you're not a hostile, so be calm. of course this must be a shock to you we understand, of course we understand, but we have the right to take what is ours."
"right? what right do y "
"right of conquest, agha has it ever been different? you british should know that more than any." his voice stayed level. the women watched with cold, hard eyes. "calm yourself. none of your possessions have been touched. yet." he waved his hand. "see for yourself."
"where is my wife?"
"i don't know, agha. there was no one here when we arrived. we arrived this morning."
lochart was nearly demented with worry. if her father's been found guilty, will the family suffer? everyone? wait a minute! everything confiscated "... except his family house," wasn't that what the paper said? she's got to be there... christ, that's miles away and i've no car...
he was trying to get his mind working. "you said, you said nothing's been touched 'yet.' you mean it will be touched soon?"
"a wise man protects his own possessions. it would be wise to take your possessions to a safe place. everything of bakravan stays here, but your possessions?" he shrugged. "of course you may take them, we're not thieves."
"and my wife's possessions'?"
"hers too. of course. personal things. i told you we aren't thieves."
"how how long do i have?"
"until 5:00 p. m. tomorrow. "
"that's not enough time. perhaps the day after?"
"until 5:00 rm. tomorrow. would you like some food?"
"no, no, thank you."
"then good-bye, agha, but first please give me your keys."
lochart flushed in spite of his resolve. he took them out and the other man who was nearby accepted them. "you said vlps. what vlps?"
"vlps, agha. this place belonged to an enemy of the state; now it is the property of the state for whomever it chooses. sorry, but of course you understand."
lochart looked at him, then at the other man and back again. his weariness weighed him down. and his helplessness. "1, er, before i leave i want to change and and shave. okay?"
after a pause teymour said, "yes. hassan, go with him."
lochart walked out, hating him and them and everything that was happening, the man hassan following him. along the corridor and into his own room. nothing had been touched though all the cupboards were open, and the drawers, and there was a smell of tobacco smoke but no sign of a hasty departure or of violence. the bed had been used. get yourself together and make a plan. i can't. all right, then shave and shower and change and go to mac, he's not far away, and you can walk there and he'll help you, he'll lend you money and a car and you'll find her at her family house and don't think of jared, just don't.
near the university: 8:10 p.m. rakoczy moved the oil lamp nearer to the bundle of papers, diaries, files, and documents he had stolen from the upstairs safe in the u.s. embassy, continuing to sort them out. he was alone in a small tenement room one of a warren of similar rooms, mostly for students, that had been rented for him by farmad, the student tudeh leader who had been killed the night of the riot. the room was dingy, without heat, just a bed and rickety table and chair and one tiny window. the panes were cracked and half covered with cardboard.
he laughed out loud. so much achieved and at so little cost. such good planning. our covering riot perfectly staged outside the embassy gates then sudden firing from the opposite rooftops, creating panic, quickly breaking down the gates and rushing the compound our only opposition marines armed with shotguns and even then ordered not to fire just enough time before khomeini supporters could arrive to subdue the riot, kill us, or capture us. covered by the pandemonium, rushing around the back of the building, smashing the side
door, then up the back stairs alone while my cadre outside created more diversions, firing into the air, shouting, careful not to kill anyone but lots of noise and screaming. one landing and then the next, then running along the corridor shouting at the americans, two frightened old women and a young man, "get on the floor, lie down, or you'll all be killed!"
frantically they obeyed and all the others i don't blame them, the attack so sudden and they unprepared, unarmed, and carefully panicked. into the bedroom. empty but for a p
aralyzediranian servant, arms over his head, half under the bed. blowing the safe quickly, everything into the carryall, then out again and down the stairs three at a time, then away into the milling crowds, ibrahim kyabi and the others covering me, retreating perfectly, every objective achieved.
source's got to be impressed, he thought again, my promotion to major's got to be assured, and father'll be so proud of me. "by god and the prophet of god," he said involuntarily as another surge of ecstasy swept him not noticing what he had said. "i've never felt so fullfilled."
happily he went back to his work. so far the safe had revealed no treasures, but lots of documents about cia involvement in iran, some private ambassador rubber stamps, one cipher book that could be special, private accounts, some jewelry of little value, a few ancient coins. never mind, he thought. there's lots to go through yet, diaries and personal papers.
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 67