James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  "i love you, sharazad... love me."

  she did not wish to pull away from the heat, or his hands, or the pressure of his limbs, or the thunder of her heart. but she did. "not now, my darling," she murmured and gained a breathing space and then, when the thunder lessened, she looked up at him, searching his eyes. she saw disappointment but no anger. "i'm... i'm not ready, not for love, not now..."

  "love happens. i've loved you from the first moment. you're safe, sharazad, your love will be safe with me."

  "i know, oh, yes, i know that. i..." she frowned, not understanding herself, only that now was wrong. "i have to be sure of what i'm doing. now i'm not."

  he debated with himself, then leaned down and kissed her, not forcing the kiss on her quite confident that soon they would be lovers. tomorrow. or the next day. "you're wise as always," he said. "tomorrow we will have the apartment to ourselves. i promise. let's meet as usual, coffee at the usual place." he got up, and helped her up. she held on to him and thanked him and kissed him and he unlocked the front door. silently she wrapped the chador around her, blew him another kiss, and left, perfume in her wake. then that too vanished.

  with the door relocked he went back and put on his shoes, the ache still present. thoughtfully he picked up his m16 that stood in the corner of the room, checked the action and the magazine. away from her spell he had no illusions about the danger or the realities of his life and early death. his excitement quickened.

  death, he thought. martyrdom. giving my life for a just cause, freely embracing death, welcoming it. oh, i will, i will. i can't lead an army like the lord of the martyrs, but i can revolt against satanists calling themselves mullahs and extract revenge on the mullah hussain of kowiss for murdering my father in the name of false gods, and for desecrating the revolution of the people!

  he felt his ecstasy growing. like the other. stronger than the other.

  i love her with all my soul but i should go tomorrow. i don't need a team with me, alone it would be safer. i can easily catch a bus. i should go tomorrow. i should but i can't, i can't, not yet. after we've made love...

  * * *

  al shargaz airport: 6:17 p.m. almost eight hundred miles away, southeast across the gulf, gavallan was standing at the heliport watching the 212 coming in to land. the evening was balmy, the sun on the horizon. now he could see jean-luc at the controls with one of the other pilots beside him, not scot as he had first thought and expected. his anxiety increased. he waved and then, as the skids touched, impatiently went forward to the cabin door. it swung open. he saw scot unbuckling one-handed, his other arm in a sling, his face stretched and pale but in one piece. "oh, my son," he said, heart pounding with relief, wanting to rush forward and hug him but standing back and waiting until scot had walked down the steps and was there on the tarmac beside him.

  "oh, laddie, i was so worried..."

  "not to worry, dad. i'm fine, just fine." scot held his good arm tightly around his father's shoulders, the reassuring contact so necessary to both of them, oblivious of the others. "christ, i'm so happy to see you. i thought you were due in london today."

  "i was. i'm on the red-eye in an hour." now i am, gavallan was thinking, now that you're here and safe. "i'll be there first thing." he brushed a tear away, pretending it was dust, and pointed at a car nearby. genny was at the wheel. "don't want to fuss you but genny'll take you to the hospital right away, just x ray, scot, it's all arranged. no fuss, promise you've a room booked next door to mine at the hotel. all right?"

  "all right, dad. i, er, i... i could use an aspirin. i admit i feel lousy the ride was bumpy to hell. i, er, i... you're on the red-eye? when're you back?"

  "soon as i can. in a day or so. i'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

  scot hesitated, his face twisting. "could you... perhaps... perhaps you could come with me i can fill you in about zagros, would you have time?"

  "of course. it was bad?"

  "no and yes. we all got out except jordon but he was shot because of me, dad, he was..." tears filled scot's eyes though his voice stayed controlled and firm. "can't do anything about it... can't." he wiped the tears away and mumbled a curse and hung on with his good hand. "can't do anything... don't, don't know how to..."

  "not your fault, scot," gavallan said, torn by his son's despair, frightened for him. "come along, we'll... iet's get you started." he called out to jeanluc, "i'm taking scot off for x ray, be back right away."

  tehran at mclver's apartment: 6:35 p.m. in candlelight, charlie pettikin and paula were sitting at the dining table, clinking wine-filled glasses with sayada bertolin, a large bottle of chianti open, plates with two big salamis, one partially eaten, a huge slice of dolce latte cheese as yet

  untouched, and two fresh french baguettes that sayada had brought from the french club, one mostly gone: "there may be a war on," she had said with forced gaiety when she had arrived uninvited, half an hour ago, "but whatever happens, the french must have proper bread."

  "dive la france, and viva l'ltalia," pettikin had said, reluctantly inviting her in, not wanting to share paula with anyone. since paula had terminated any interest in nogger lane, he had rushed into the breech, hoping against hope. "paula came in on this afternoon's alitalia flight, smuggled in all the swag at the risk of her life and and doesn't she look superisssssima?"

  paula laughed. "it's the dolce latte,sayada; charlie told me it was his favorite."

  "isn't it the best cheese on earth? isn't everything italian the best on earth?"

  paula brought out the corkscrew and handed it to him, her green- flecked eyes sending more shivers down his spine. "for you, caro!"

  "magnifico! are all young ladies of alitalia as thoughtful, brave, beautiful, efficient, tender, sweet-smelling, loving, and, er, cinematic?"

  "of course."

  "join the feast, sayada," he had said. when she came closer into the light he saw her properly, noticing the strangeness to her. "you all right?"

  "oh, yes, it's, it's nothing." sayada was glad for the candlelight to hide behind. "i, er, thanks i won't stay, i... i just miss lean-luc, wanted to find out when he's back, i thought you could use the baguettes."

  "delighted you arrived we haven't had a decent loaf for weeks, thanks, but stay anyway. mac's gone to doshan tappeh to pick up tom. tom'll know about jean-luc they should be back any moment."

  "how's zagros?"

  "we've had to close it down." as he busied himself getting glasses and setting up the table, paula helping and doing most of it, he told them why, and about the terrorist attack on rig bellissima, gianni's being killed, then later, jordon, and scot gavallan being wounded. "bloody business, but there you are."

  "terrible," paula said. "that explains why we're routed back through shiraz with instructions to keep fifty seats open. must be for our nationals from the zagros."

  "what rotten luck," sayada said, wondering if she should pass that information on. to them and him. the voice had called yesterday, early, asking what time she had left teymour on saturday. "about five, perhaps five-fifteen, why?"

  "the cursed building caught fire just after dark somewhere on the third floor, trapping the two above. the whole building's gutted, many people killed,

  and there's no sign of teymour or the others. of course the fire department was too late..."

  no problem to find real tears and to let her agony pour out. later in the day the voice had called again: "did you give teymour the papers?"

  "yes... yes, yes, i did."

  there had been a muffled curse. "be at the french club tomorrow afternoon. i will leave instructions in your box." but there was no message so she had wheedled the loaves from the kitchen and had come here nowhere else to go and still very frightened.

  "so sad," paula was saying.

  "yes, but enough of that," pettikin said, cursing himself for telling them none of their problem, he thought. "let's eat, drink, and be merry."

  "for tomorrow we die?" sayada said.

  "no." petti
kin raised his glass, beamed at paula. "for tomorrow we live. health!" he touched glasses with her, then sayada, and he thought what a smashing pair they make but paula's far and away the most...

  sayada was thinking: charlie's in love with this siren harpy who'll consume him at her whim and spew out the remains with hardly a belch, but why do they my new masters, whoever they are why do they want to know about kan-luc and tom and want me to be armstrong's mistress and how do they know about my son, god curse them.

  paula was thinking: i hate this shit-roll of a city where everyone's so gloomy and doom-ridden and downbeat like this poor woman who's obviously got the usual man trouble, when there's rome and sunshine and italy and the sweet life to become drunk with, wine and laughter and love to be enjoyed, children to bear with a husband to cherish but only so long as the devil behaves why are all men rotten and why do i like this man charlie who is too old and yet not, too poor and yet not, too masculine and yet...

  "alora," she said, the wine making her lips more juicy, "charlie, amore, we must meet in rome. tehran is so... so depression, scusa, depressing."

  "not when you're around," he said.

  sayada saw them smiling at each other, and envied them. "i think i'll come back later," she said, getting up. before pettikin could say anything, a key turned in the lock and mciver came in.

  "oh, hello," he said, trying to throw off his weariness. "hi, paula, hi, sayada this is a pleasant surprise." then he noticed the table. "what's this, christmas?" he took off his heavy coat and gloves.

  "paula brought it and sayada the bread. where's tom?" pettikin asked, immediately sensing something was wrong.

  "i dropped him off at bakravan's, near the bazaar."

  "how is she?" sayada asked. "i haven't seen her since... since the day of the march, the first march."

  "don't know, lassie, i just dropped him off and came on." mciver accepted a glass of wine, returned pettikin's look levelly. "traffic was rotten. took me an hour to get here. health! paula, you're a sight for sore eyes. you staying tonight?"

  "if that's all right? i'm off early in the morning, no need for transport, caro, one of the crew dropped me off and will pick me up. genny said i could use the spare room she thought it might need a spring clean but it looks fine." paula got up and both men, unknowingly, were instantly magnetized by the sensuousness of her movements. sayada cursed her, envying her, wondering what it was, certainly not the uniform that was quite severe though beautifully tailored, knowing that she herself was far more beautiful, far better dressed but not in the same race. cow!

  paula reached into her handbag and found the two letters and gave them to mciver. "one from genny and one from andy."

  "thanks, thanks very much," mclver said.

  "i was just going, mac," sayada said. "lust wanted to ask when lean- luctll be back."

  "probably on wednesday he's ferrying a 212 to al shargaz. he should be there today and back wednesday." mclver glanced at the letters. "no need to go, sayada... excuse me a second."

  he sat down in the easy chair by the electric fire that was at half power, switched on a nearby lamp. the light took away much of the romance of the room. gavallan's letter read: "hi, mac, this in a hurry, courtesy of the fairest of them all! i'm waiting for scot. then red-eyeing it to london tonight, if he's all right, but i'll be back in two days, three at the most. finessed duke out of kowiss down to rudi in case scrag's delayed he should be back tuesday. kowiss is very dicey i had a big run-in with hotshot so's zagros. have just talked to masson from here and that's fact. so i'm pushing the button for planning. it's pushed. see you wednesday. give paula a hug for me and genny says don't you bloody dare!"

  he stared at the letter, then sat back a moment, half listening to a story paula was telling about their incoming flight to tehran. so the button's pushed. don't delude yourself, andy, i knew you'd push it from the first moment that's why i said, all right, provided i can abort whirlwind if i think it's too risky and my decision's final. i think you must push the button all the way you've no alternative if you want to survive.

  the wine tasted very good. he finished the glass, then opened genny's letter. it was just news about home and the kids, all of them healthy and in place, but he knew her too well not to read the underlying concern: "don't worry,

  duncan, and don't sweat out winds, any winds. and don't think i plan on a rose-covered cottage in england. it's us for the casbah and me for a yashmak and i'm practicing belly dancing so you'd better hurry. luv, gen."

  mciver smiled to himself, got up, and poured himself some wine, calmer now. "here's to women, bless 'em." he touched glasses with pettikin. "smashing wine, paula. andy sends you a hug..." at once she smiled and reached over and touched him and he felt the current rush up his ann. what the hell is it about her? he asked himself, unsettled, and quickly said to sayada, "he'd send one to you too if he knew you were here." a candle on the mantelpiece was "uttering. "i'll get it. any messages?"

  "one from talbot. he's doing all he can to find erikki. duke's delayed at bandar delam by a storm but he should be back at kowiss tomorrow."

  "and azadeh?"

  "she's better today. paula and i walked her home. she's okay, mac. you better have something to eat, there's bugger all for dinner."

  sayada said, "how about dining at the french club? the food's still passable."

  "i'd love to," paula said brightly and pettikin cursed. "what a wonderful idea, sayada! charlie?"

  "wonderful. mac?"

  "sure, if it's my treat and you don't mind an early night." mciver held his glass up to the light, admiring the color of the wine. "charlie, i want you to take the 212 to kowiss bright and early, nogger'll take the alouette you can help duke out for a couple of days. i'll send shoesmith in a 206 to bring you back saturday. all right?"

  "sure," pettikin said, wondering why the change of plan that had been for mciver, nogger, and him to get aboard the wednesday flight, two other pilots to go to kowiss tomorrow. why? must be andy's letter. whirlwind? is mac aborting?

  in the slums of jaleh: 6:50 p.m. the old car stopped in the alleyway. a man got out of the side door and looked around. the alley was deserted, high walls, a joub to one side that long ago was buried under snow and refuse. across from where the car had stopped, dimly seen in the reflection from the headlights, was a broken-down square. the man tapped on the roof. the headlights were doused. the driver got out and went to help the other man who had opened the trunk. together they carried the body, wrapped and bound in a dark blanket, across the square.

  "wait a moment," the driver said in russian. he took out his flashlight and

  switched it on briefly. the circle of light found the opening in the far wall they sought.

  "good," the other said and they went through it, then once more stopped to get their bearings. now they were in a cemetery, old, almost derelict. the light went from gravestone to gravestone some of the writing russian, some in roman letters to find the open grave, newly dug. a shovel stood upright in the mound of earth.

  they went and stood on the lip. the taller man, the driver, said, "ready?"

  "yes." they let the body fall into the hole. the driver shone the light onto it. "straighten him up."

  "he won't give a shit," the other man said and took up the shovel. he was broad-shouldered and strong and he began to fill the grave. the driver lit a cigarette, irritably threw the match into the grave. "maybe you should say a prayer for him."

  the other laughed. "marx-lenin wouldn't approve nor old stalin."

  "that mother fornicator may he rot!"

  "look what he did for mother russia! he made us an empire, the biggest in the world, he screwed the british, outsmarted the americans, built the biggest and best army, navy, air force, and made the kgb all powerful."

  "for damn near every rouble we've got and twenty million lives. russian lives."

  "expendables! scum, fools, the dregs, plenty more where they came from." the man was sweating now and he gave the shovel t
o the other. "what the hell's the matter with you anyway you've been pissed off all day."

  "tired, i'm just tired. sorry."

  "everyone's tired. you need a few days off. apply for al shargaz i had a great three days, didn't want to come back. i've applied for a transfer there we've quite an operation now, growing every day, the israelis have stepped up their ops too so've the cia. what's happened since i was away?"

  "azerbaijan's warming up nicely. there's a rumor old abdollah khan's dying or dead."

  "the section 16/a?"

  "no, heart attack. everything else's normal. you really had a good time?"

  the other laughed. "there's an intourist secretary who's very accommodating." he scratched his scrotum at the thought. "who is this poor sod anyway?"