James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  "certainly, but he cannot have them back until the key reappears."

  "ah, may i dare ask where the key is, excellency?"

  the corporal gendarme waved his hand to the big, old-fashioned safe that dominated this outer office. "look, excellency, you can see for yourself, the key is not on its peg. more than likely the sergeant has it in his safekeeping."

  "how very wise and correct, excellency. probably his excellency the sergeant is at home now?"

  "his excellency will be here in the morning."

  "on holy day? may i offer an opinion that we are fortunate our gendarmerie have such a high sense of duty to work so diligently? i imagine he would not be early."

  "the sergeant is the sergeant but the office opens at seven-thirty in the morning, though of course the police station is open day and night." the gendarme stubbed out his cigarette. "come in the morning."

  "ah, thank you, excellency. would you case for another cigarette while i explain to the captain?"

  "thank you, excellency. it is rare to have a foreign one, thank you." the cigarettes were american and highly appreciated but neither mentioned it.

  "may i offer you a light, excellency?" ali pash lit his own too and told scragger what had been said.

  "ask him if the sergeant's at home now, ali pash."

  "i did, captain. he said his excellency will be here in the morning." ali pash hid his weariness, too polite to tell scragger he had realized in the first few seconds that this man knew nothing, would do nothing, and this whole conversation and visit was a total waste of time. and of course gendarmes would prefer not to be disturbed at night about so insignificant an affair. what does it matter? have they ever lost a passport? of course not! what crew change? "if i may advise you, agha? in the morning."

  scragger sighed. "in the morning" could mean tomorrow or the following day. no point in probing further, he thought irritably. "thank him for me and say i'll be here bright and early in the morning."

  ali pash obeyed. as god wants, the gendarme thought wearily, hungry and worried that another week had gone by and still there was no pay, no pay for months now, and the bazaar) moneylenders were pressing for their loans to be repaid, and my beloved family near starving. "shab be khayr, agha," he said to scragger. "good night."

  "shab be khayr, agha." scragger waited, knowing their departure would be as politely long-winded as the interview.

  outside in the small road that was the main road of the port town, he felt better. curious bystanders, all men, surrounded his battered old station wagon, the winged s-g symbol on the door. "salaam," he said breezily and a few greeted him back. pilots from the base were popular, the base and the oil platforms a main source of very profitable work, their mercy missions in all weather well known, and scragger easily recognisable: "that's the chief of the pilots," one old man whispered knowledgeably to his neighbor, "he's the one who helped young abdollah turik into the hospital at bandar abbas that only the highborn get into normally. he even went to visit his village just outside lengeh, even went to his funeral."

  "turik?"

  "abdollah turik, my sister's son's son! the young man who fell off the oil platform and was eaten by sharks."

  "ah, yes, i remember, the young man some say was murdered by leftists."

  "not so loud, not so loud, you never know who's listening. peace be with you, pilot, greetings, pilot!"

  scragger waved to them cheerily and drove off.

  "but the base is the other way, captain. where do we go?" ali pash asked.

  "to visit the sergeant, of course." scragger whistled through his teeth, disregarding ali pash's obvious disapproval.

  the sergeant's house was on the corner of a dingy, dirt street still puddled from this morning's squall, just another door in the high walls across the joub. it was getting dark now so scragger left the headlights on and got out. no sign of life in the whole street. only a few of the high windows dimly lit.

  sensing ali pash's nervousness he said, "you stay in the car. there's no problem, i've been here before." he used the iron knocker vigorously, feeling eyes everywhere.

  the first time he had been here was a year or so ago when he had brought a huge food hamper, with two butchered sheep, some sacks of rice, and cases of fruit as a gift from the base to celebrate "their" sergeant getting the shah's bronze sepah medal for bravery in action against pirates and smugglers who were endemic in these waters. the last time, a few weeks ago, he had accompanied a worried gendarme who wanted him to report at once the tragedy at siri one, picking abdollah turik out of the shark-infested water. neither time had he been invited into the house but had stayed in the little courtyard beyond the tall wooden door, and both times had been in daylight.

  the door creaked open. scragger was not prepared for the sudden flashlight that momentarily blinded him. the circle of light hesitated, then went to the car and centered on ali pash who almost leaped out of the car, half-bowed, and called out, "greetings, excellency chief officer, peace be upon you. i apologize that the foreigner disturbs your privacy and dares to c "

  "greetings." qeshemi overrode him curtly, clicked the light off, turning his attention back to scragger.

  "salaam, agha qeshemi," scragger said, his eyes adjusting now. he saw the strong-featured man watching him, his uniform coat unbuttoned and the revolver loose in its holster.

  "salaam, cap'tin."

  "sorry to come here, agha, at night," scragger said slowly and carefully, knowing qeshemi's english was as limited as his own farsi was almost nonexistent. "loftan, gozar nameh. loftan" please, need passports. please.

  the gendarme sergeant grunted with surprise then waved a hard tough hand toward the town. "passports in station, cap'tin."

  "yes. but, sorry, there is no key." scragger parodied opening a lock with a key. "no key," he repeated.

  "ah. yes. understand. yes, no key. totmorrow. totmorrow you get."

  "is it possible, tonight? please. now?" scragger felt the scrutiny.

  "why tonight?"

  "er, for a crew change. men to shiraz, crew change."

  "when?"

  scragger knew he had to gamble. "saturday. if i have key, go station and return at once."

  qeshemi shook his head. "to'morrow." then he spoke sharply to ali pash who at once bowed and thanked him profusely, again apologising for disturbing him. "his excellency says you can have them tomorrow. we'd, er, we'd better leave, captain."

  scragger forced a smile. "mamnoon am, agha" thank you, excellency. "mamnoon am, agha qeshemi." he would have asked ali pash to ask the sergeant if he could have the passports as soon as the station opened but he did not wish to agitate the sergeant unnecessarily. "i will come after first prayer. mamnoon am, agha." scragger put out his hand and qeshemi shook it. both men felt the other's strength. then he got into the car and drove off.

  thoughtfully qeshemi closed and reboiled the door.

  in summertime the small patio with its high walls and trellised vines and small fountain was cool and inviting. now it was drab. he crossed it and opened the door opposite that led into the main living room and reboiled it. the sound of a child coughing somewhere upstairs. a wood fire took off some of the chill but the whole house was crafty, none of the doors or windows fitting properly. "who was it?" his wife called down from upstairs.

  "nothing, nothing important. a foreigner from the air base. the old one. he wanted their passports."

  "at this time of night? god protect us! every time there's a knock on the door i expect more trouble rotten green bands or vile leftists!" qeshemi nodded absently, but said nothing, warming his hands by the fire, hardly listening to her rattle on: "why should he come here? foreigners are so illmannered. what would he want passports for at this time of night? did you give them to him?"

  "they're locked in our safe. normally i bring the key with me as always, but it's lost." the child coughed again. "how's little sousan?"

  "she still has a fever. bring me some hot water, that'll help. put a lit
tle honey in it." he set the kettle on the fire, sighed, hearing her grumbling: "passports at this time of night! why couldn't they wait till saturday? so illmannered and thoughtless. you said the key's lost?"

  "yes. probably that goathead excuse for a policeman, lafti, has it and forgot to put it back again. as god wants."

  "mohammed, what would the foreigner want with passports at this time of night?"

  "i don't know. curious, very curious."

  at bandar delam airfield: 7:49 r. m. rudi lutz stood on the veranda of his trailer under the eaves, watching the heavy rain. "scheiss," he muttered. behind him his door was open and the shaft of light sparkled the heavy raindrops. soft mozart came from his tape deck. the door of the next trailer, the office trailer, opened, and he saw pop kelly come out holding an umbrella over his head and slop through the puddles toward him. neither noticed the iranian in the shadows. somewhere on the base a tomcat was spitting and yowling. "hi, pop. come on in. you get it?"

  "yes, no problem." kelly shook the rain off. inside the trailer it was warm and comfortable, neat and tidy. the cover was off the built-in, reconnected hf that was on standby, muted static mixing with the music. a coffeepot percolated on the stove.

  "coffee?"

  "thanks i'll help myself." kelly handed him the paper and went over to the kitchen area. the paper had hastily jotted columns of figures on it, temperatures, wind directions, and strengths for every few thousand feet, barometric pressures and tomorrow's forecast. "abadan tower said it was up to

  date. they claimed it included all today's incoming ba data. doesn't look too bad, eh?"

  "if it's accurate." the forecast predicted lessening precipitation around midnight and reduced wind strength. rudi turned up the music, and kelly sat down beside him. rudi dropped his voice. "it could be all right for us, but a bitch for kowiss. we'll still have to refuel in flight to make bahrain."

  kelly sipped his coffee with enjoyment, hot, strong, with a spoon of condensed milk. "what'd you do if you were andy?"

  "with the three bases to worry about i'd..." a slight noise outside. rudi got up and glanced out of the window. nothing. then again the sound of the tomcat, closer. "damn cats, they give me the creeps."

  "i rather like cats." kelly smiled. "we've three at home: matthew, mark, and luke. two're siamese, the other's a tabby; betty says the boys're driving her mad to get 'john' to round it off."

  "how is she?" today's ba flight into abadan had brought sandor petrofi for the fourth 212, along with mail from gavallan, routed since the troubles through hq at aberdeen, their first for many weeks.

  "fine, super in fact three weeks to go. the old girl's usually on time. i'll be glad to be home when she pops." kelly beamed. "the doc says he thinks it's going to be a girl at long last."

  "congratulations! that's wonderful." everyone knew that the kellys had been hoping against hope. "seven boys and one girl, that's a lot of mouths to feed." rudi thought how hard he found it to keep up with the bills and school fees with only three children and no mortgage on the house the house left to his wife by her father, god bless the old bastard. "lots of mouths, don't know how you do it."

  "oh, we manage, glory be to god." kelly looked down at the forecast, frowned. "you know, if i was andy i'd press the tit and not postpone."

  "if it was up to me i'd cancel and forget the whole crazy idea." rudi kept his voice down and leaned closer. "i know it'll be rough for andy, maybe the company'll close, maybe. but we can all get new jobs, even better paying ones, we've families to think of and i hate all this going against the book. how in the hell can we sneak out? not possible. if we " car headlights splashed the window, the approaching sound of the high-powered engine growing then stopping outside.

  rudi was the first at the window. he saw zataki get out of the car with some green bands, then numir, their base manager, came from the office trailer with an umbrella to join him. "scheiss," rudi muttered again, turned the music down, quickly checked the trailer for incriminating evidence, and put the forecast into his pocket. "salaam, colonel," he said, opening the door. "you were looking for me?"

  "salaam, captain, yes, yes, i was." zataki came into the room, a u.s. army submachine gun over his shoulder. "good evening," he said. "how many helicopters are here now, captain?"

  numir began, "four 212s an "

  "i asked the captain," zataki flared, "not you. if i want information from you i'll ask! captain?"

  "four 212s, two 206s, colonel."

  to their shock, particularly numir's, zataki said, "good. i want two 212s to report to iran-toda tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. to work under instructions of agha watanabe, the chief there. from tomorrow, you'll report daily. have you met him?"

  "er, yes, i, er, once they had a casevac and we helped them out." rudi tried to collect himself. "er, will... will they be working on, er, holy day, colonel?"

  "yes. so will you."

  numir said, "but the ayatollah sa "

  "he's not the law. shut up." zataki looked at rudi. "be there at 8:00 a.m."

  rudi nodded. "er, yes. can i, er, can i offer you coffee, colonel?"

  "thank you." zataki propped his submachine gun against the wall and sat at the built-in table, eyes on pop kelly. "didn't i see you at kowiss?"

  "yes, yes, you did," the tall man said. "that's, er, that's my normal base. i, er, i brought down a 212. i'm ignatius kelly." weakly he sank back into his chair opposite him, as blown as rudi, wilting under the searching gaze. "a night for fishes, isn't it?"

  "what?"

  "the, er, the rain."

  "ah, yes," zataki said. he was glad to be speaking english, improving his, convinced that iranians who could speak the international language and were educated were going to be sought after, mullahs or no mullahs. since taking the pills dr. nutt had given him, he felt much better, the blinding headaches lessening. "will the rain prevent flying tomorrow?"

  "no, not "

  "it depends," rudi called out quickly from the kitchen, "if the front worsens or improves." he brought the tray with two cups of sugar and condensed milk, still trying to cope with this new disaster. "please help yourself, colonel. about iran-toda," he said carefully, "all our choppers are on lease, are contracted to iranoil and agha numir here's in charge." numir nodded, started to say something, but thought better of it. "we've contracts with iranoil."

  the silence thickened. they all watched zataki. leisurely he put three heaped teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, stirred, and sipped it. "it's very good, captain. yes, very good, and yes, i know about iranoil, but i have decided

  iran-toda takes preference over iranoil for the time being and tomorrow you will supply two 212s at 8:00 a.m. to iran-toda."

  rudi glanced at his base manager who avoided his eyes. "but... well, presuming this is all right with iranoil th "

  "it is all right," zataki said to numir. "isn't it, agha?"

  "yes, yes, agha," meekly, numir nodded. "i, i will of course inform area headquarters of your... your eminent instructions."

  "good. then everything is arranged. good."

  it's not arranged, rudi wanted to shout out in dismay. "may i ask how, er, how we'll be paid for the er, new contract?" he asked, feeling stupid.

  zataki shouldered his gun and got up. "iran-toda will make arrangements. thank you, captain, i will be back after first prayer tomorrow. you will fly one helicopter and i will accompany you."

  "smashing idea, colonel," pop kelly burst out suddenly, beaming, and rudi could have killed him. "no need to come before 8:00 a.m., that'd be better for us that's plenty of time to get there by, say, 8:15. smashing idea to service iran-toda, smashing. we've always wanted that contract, can't thank you enough, colonel! fantastic! in fact, rudi, we should take all four birds, put the lads into the picture at once, save time, at once, yes, sir, i'll set them up for you!" he rushed off.

  rudi stared after him, almost cross-eyed with fury.

  near alshargaz airport: 8:01 p.m. the night was beautiful and balmy, heavy with the
smell of flowers, and gavallan and pettikin were sitting on the terrace of the oasis hotel, on the edge of the airfield on the edge of the desert. they were having a predinner beer, gavallan smoking a thin cigar and staring into the distance where the sky, purple-black and star-studded, met the darker land. the smoke drifted upward. pettikin shifted in his lounging chair. "wish to god there was something more i could do."

  "wish to god old mac was here, i'd break his bloody neck," gavallan said and pettikin laughed. a few guests were already in the dining room behind them. the oasis was old and dilapidated, empire baroque, the home of the british resident when british power was the only power in the gulf and, until '71, kept down piracy and maintained the peace. music as ancient as the threepiece combo wafted out of the tall doors piano, violin, and double bass, two elderly ladies and a white-haired gentleman on the piano.