"can i have copies?" armstrong asked.
"why not?" hashemi's eyes were red-rimmed and the stubble of his heavy beard showed darkly even though he had shaved only a few hours ago. "what was so important about brodnin and those other names, grey, lulan broad something, ted ever something, and percy smedley or smidley tailler?"
armstrong got up to ease the pain in his shoulders, also to give himself a little time to think. "brodnin was a soviet businessman, kgb, but a double agent for us. there was never a suspicion he was duping us. julan broad something has
got to meanjulian broadhurst. we've neverhad anything on him, nevera whisper, nothing. he's a leading light of the fabian society, a highly respected member of the labour party, in or out of the cabinet at his whim, adviser and confidant of prime ministers." he added disgustedly, "patriot."
"so now you have him. traitor. so put him on a table for a few hours, milk him dry, then drown him in the thames. grey?"
"lord grey, firebrand of the left, ex-trades unionist, rabid leader of the antichina anti-hong kong lobby, politely anti-communist, sent up to the lords a few years ago to create more trouble. we.did an investigation on him a few years ago but he came up clean as a whistle nothing except his politics." my god, armstrong was thinking, if they're both spies and traitors and we could prove it that would rip labour apart, let alone the explosion percy'd cause the tories. but how to prove it and stay alive? "we've had nothing on him ever."
"so now you have him too. traitor. clean him out and shoot him. ted ever something?"
"everly golden boy of the tuc being groomed for high of lice. impeccable centrist politics. never a smell of pink let alone communist."
"now you have him. rack him. smedley or smidley tailler?"
robert armstrong offered his cigarettes. percy smedley-taylor: landed gentry, rich, trinity college an apolitical deviate who manages to keep his aberrations out of the press when he's caught well-known ballet critic, publisher of erudite magazines, with impeccable, untouchable connections into the highest and most delicate sources of english power. christ almighty, if he's a soviet spy... it's impossible! don't be bloody silly, you've done too many years, know too many secrets to be surprised about anyone. "doesn't mean beans, but i'll check him out, hashemi," he said, not wanting to share the knowledge until he had thought through what he should do.
the cassette clicked off as the rewind finished. hashemi took it out, put it with the others in the lower drawer and locked the drawer carefully. "then deal with them in our fashion: send an emissary to them, robert, to them and their lousy high-blown friends. they'll soon give you plenty of pishkesh to compensate for your loss of pension." hashemi laughed mirthlessly, inserting a new cassette. "but don't go yourself or you'll end up in a back alley with a knife in your back or poison in your beer these high-blown bastards are all the same. " he was very tired but his elation at all the marvelous knowledge rakoczy had given them pushed away the need for sleep. "we've already got enough from him to dynamite the tudeh, control the kurds, stop the insurrection in azerbaijan, make tehran safe, kowiss safe and cement khomeini into power," he said to himself.
"is that what you want? what about abrim pahmudi?"
hashemi's face darkened. "allah let me deal with him properly! rakoczy's given me a golden key perhaps even to him." he looked at armstrong. "gold
for you too' eh? this suslev petr oleg who murdered the great roger crosse? eh?"
"yes. you too. now you know who's your top enemy."
"what's mzytryk, this suslev, to you?"
"i had a run-in with him years ago in hong kong." armstrong sipped some cold coffee, baiting the hook. "he could provide you and me with more gold than his son. he could peg abrim pahmudi, and if him, christ only knows who else perhaps the revolutionary komiteh? i'd give a lot to debrief suslev. how can we do that?"
hashemi tore his concentration off pahmudi and put it back on the personal danger he himself and his family were in. "in return you will arrange me a british passport, safe passage out, and a substantial pension if i need it?"
armstrong put out his hand. "done," he said. the two men shook hands, neither believing the gesture had any value other than as a politeness, both knowing they would deliver if they could, but only so long as it was then to their own advantage.
"if we get him, robert, i control the briefing and i ask what i want first."
"of course, you're the boss." armstrong's eyes veiled his excitement. "could you get him?"
"perhaps i could persuade abdollah khan to arrange a meeting this side of the border. rakoczy's given us enough on him to make even him squirm though i'd have to be careful... he's one of our best agents too!"
"barter the knowledge of the section 16/a i bet he doesn't know they've betrayed him."
hashemi nodded. "if we get petr oleg over the border, no need to bring him here. we could clean him out in our place in tabriz."
"i didn't know you had a place there."
"lots of things you don't know about iran, robert." hashemi stubbed out his cigarette. how much time have i got? he asked himself nervously, totally unused to feeling like the hunted and not the hunter. "on second thought, give me the passport tomorrow."
"how soon could you 'persuade' abdollah khan?"
"we'd still have to be careful that bastard's all-powerful in azerbaijan." they both glanced at rakoczy as he stirred momentarily, moaned, then went back into nightmare again. "have to be very careful."
"when?"
"tomorrow. soon as we've finished with rakoczy we'll visit abdollah. you provide the plane or chopper. you're very friendly with ihc, aren't you?"
armstrong smiled. "you know everything, don't you?"
"only about tehran things, islamic things, iranian things." hashemi wondered what mclver and the other oil support foreigners would do if they knew
that deputy minister ali kia, newly appointed to the atc board, had, some days ago, recommended immediate nationalisation of all foreign oil-based companies, all iran-registered airplanes, airplane companies, and the expulsion of all foreign pilots and personnel. "how are you going to service the oil fields, excellency minister?" he had asked when he had been told.
"we don't need foreigners. our own pilots will service our own fields haven't we hundreds of pilots who need to prove their loyalty? i presume you have secret files on all foreign pilots, executives and so on. the, er, the komiteh requires them."
"i don't think we have anything, excellency. those files were savakinstigated," hashemi had said smoothly. "i presume you know those terrible people have an extensive file on your excellency?"
"what file? me? savak? you must be mistaken."
"perhaps. i've never read it, excellency, but i was told of its existence. i was told it goes back over twenty years. probably it contains nothing but lies..."
he had left a badly shaken deputy kia with the promise that he would try to obtain the file secretly and give it to him and had laughed all the way back to inner intelligence hq. the file on ali kia his file really did go back twenty years and contained unshakable proof of all sorts of smelly business deals, usury, pro-shah voting and informing, together with highly ingenious photographed sexual practices that would send conservative fundamentalists into a frenzy.
"what's the joke?" armstrong asked.
"life, robert. a couple of weeks ago i had at my disposal a whole air force if need be, now i must ask you to arrange the charter. you arrange the charter, i'll arrange the clearance." he smiled. "you'll give me the british passport, very bloody valid, as talbot might say, prior to takeoff. agreed?"
"agreed." armstrong stifled a yawn. "while we're waiting, can i hear the last cassette?"
hashemi reached for his key, stopped at the knock on the door. tiredly he got up and opened it. his fatigue vanished. four men were outside. one of his own men, white-faced, and three green bands. armed. he knew the oldest of them. "salaam, general," he said politely, his heart grinding. "peace be upon you."
> "salaam, colonel. peace be upon you." general janan was hard-faced with a thin line for a mouth. savak. he looked at armstrong coldly, then took out a paper, offered it to hashemi. "you are to hand over the prisoner yazernov to me at once."
hashemi took the paper, thanking god he had risked everything to capture rakoczy and ram him through to the third level fast. "to colonel hashemi fazir, inner intelligence. immediate. by authority of the revolutionary komiteh: the department of inner intelligence is disbanded and all personnel absorbed into this organization at once under the command of general janan. you are suspended from all duties pending further orders. you will hand over to general janan the prisoner yazernov and all interrogation tapes at once. [signed] abrim pahmudi, director, savama."
"the spy's still on the second level and you'll have to wait. it's dangerous to remove him an "
"he's no longer your responsibility." the general motioned to one of his men who went out, beckoned to others in the corridor, then walked down the steps and into the chamber below, the doctor, white-faced and very nervous, now with them. when the green bands saw the naked man on the table and the instruments and the way he was wired, their eyes glittered. the doctor began to unwire him.
in the interrogation room above, hashemi looked back at the general. "i formally tell you it's dangerous to move him. you're responsible."
"insha'allah. just give me the tapes."
hashemi shrugged and unlocked the top drawer and gave him the dozen, almost useless tapes from the first and second level.
"and the others! now!"
"there aren't any."
"open the other drawer!"
again hashemi shrugged, selected a key, and used it carefully. if turned correctly, the key set the magnetiser into operation and wiped the tapes. only he and armstrong knew the secret and about the secret installation of duplicate cassette recorders: "you never know, hashemi, when you might be betrayed or by whom," armstrong had told him years ago when, together, they had installed the devices. "you might want to wipe tapes, then use the secret ones to barter for your freedom. you can never be too careful in this game."
hashemi slid the drawer open, praying that both devices were operating. insha'allah, he thought, and gave over the eight cassettes. "they're empty, i tell you."
"if they are, accept my apologies, if they're not... insha'allah!" the general looked at armstrong, his eyes granite. "better you leave iran quickly. i give you a day and a night for past services."
at the bakravan house, near the bazaar: 8:57 p.m. sharazad was lying on her stomach on the bed, being massaged, and she groaned with pleasure as the old woman caressed oil into her bruises and into her skin. "oh, be careful, jari..."
"yes, yes, my princess," jari crooned, her hands softly strong, easing the pain away. she had been nursemaid and servant to sharazad ever since her
birth, and had given her suck when her own baby, born a week earlier, had died. for two years she suckled sharazad and then, because jari was a quiet and gentle woman, now widowed, she had been given full charge of her. when sharazad married emir paknouri she accompanied her into his house and then, the marriage finished, happily they had returned home. stupid to marry such a flower to one who prefers boys, however much money he has, jari had always thought but never said out loud. never never never. dangerous to go against the head of the house any head of a family even more so with a moneygrubbing miser like fared bakravan, she thought, not sorry he was dead.
when sharazad had married the second time, jari had not gone to stay in the apartment. but that did not matter, for sharazad spent the days here when the infidel was away. all the household called him that and tolerated him because of her happiness that only women understood.
"eeeee, what devils men are," she said and hid her smile, understanding very well. they had all heard the screams last night and the sobbing, and though they all knew a husband was entitled to beat his wife and that god had allowed the infidel's blows to shake their mistress out of her fit, she herself had heard the different cries, just before dawn this morning, the cries of her and him in the garden of god.
never had she been there herself. others had told her about being transported, so had sharazad, but the few times her own husband had lain with her had been for his pleasure and not hers. her share had been pain and six children before she was twenty, four dying in infancy. then him dying to release her from the childbirth death that she knew, for her, would otherwise have been inevitable. as god wants! oh, yes, she told herself so contentedly, god rescued me and made him die and now, surely, he burns in hell, for he was a foul blasphemer who barely prayed once a day. god also gave me sharazad!
she looked down on the beautiful, satin body and long, dark-dark hair. eeeee, she told herself, how blessed to be so young, so moist, so resilient, so ready to do god's work at long last.
"turn over, princess, an "
"no, jari, it hurts so."
"yes, but i must knead your stomach muscles and condition them." jari chuckled. "they must be very strong soon."
at once, sharazad turned and looked up at her, pain forgotten "oh, jari, are you sure?"
"only god is sure, princess. but have you ever been late before? isn't your time overdue and a son long overdue?"
the two women laughed together, then sharazad lay back and gave herself to the hands and to the future and to the happy time she would have when she told him: tommy, i'm honored to tell... no, that's no good. tommy, god has
blessed us... no, that's no good either though it's true. if only he was muslim and iranian it'd be so much easier. oh, god, and prophet of god, make tommy muslim and so save him from hell, make my son strong and let him grow up to have sons and daughters and them sons... oh, how blessed we are by god..
she let herself drift. the night was calm, still a little snow falling and not much gunfire. soon they would have their evening meal and then she would play backgammon with her cousin karim or with zarah, her brother meshang's wife, then to sleep contentedly, the day well spent.
the morning when jari had awakened her the sun was up, and though she had wept a little from the pain, oil and massage soon took most of it away. then the ritual washing and first prayer of the day, kneeling in front of the little shrine in a corner of the bedroom and its sojadeh, the small square of lovely wrought tapestry with its bowl of sacred sand from cabella and, beyond that, the string of prayer beads and her copy of the koran, beautifully decorated. a quick breakfast of tea, fresh bread still hot from the kiln oven, butter and honey and milk, a boiled egg as always rarely a shortage even during the bad troubles then quickly to the bazaar, veiled and chadored, to see meshang, her adored brother.
"oh meshang, my darling, you look so tired. did you hear about our apartment?"
"yes, yes, i did," he said heavily, dark shadows around his eyes. the four days since their father had gone to evin jail had aged him. "sons of dogs, all of them! but they're not our people. i heard they're plo acting on instructions of this revolutionary komiteh." he shuddered. "as god wants."
"as god wants, yes. but my husband said a man called teymour, the leader, this man said we had until afternoon prayer today to take our things away."
"yes, i know. your husband left a message for me before he left this morning for zagros. i've sent ali and hassan and some of the other servants, told them to pretend they were movers and to collect everything they could."
"oh, thank you, meshang, how clever you are." she was greatly relieved. it would have been unthinkable for her to have gone herself. her eyes filled with tears. "i know it's the will of god but i feel so empty without father."
"yes, yes, it's the same for me... insha'allah." there was nothing more he could do. he had done everything correctly, overseeing the washing of the body, binding it with the best muslin, and then the burial. now the first part of mourning was over. on the fortieth day would be another ceremony at the cemetery when once more they would weep and rend their clothes and all would be inconsolable. b
ut then, as now, each would once more take up the weight of living, there was the shahada to say five times a day, the five pillars of islam to obey to ensure you went to heaven and not to hell your only important reason for life. i will certainly go to paradise, he thought with total confidence.
they sat silently in the small room over the shop that such a short time ago
was the private domain of jared bakravan. was it only four days since father was negotiating with ali kia for the new loan that we still somehow have to provide and paknouri burst in and all our troubles began? son of a dog! it's all his fault. he led the green bands here. yes, and he's been a curse for years. if it hadn't been for his weakness, sharazad would have had five or six children by now and we wouldn't be saddled with the infidel who makes us the butt of a thousand bazaar) sneers.
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 76