James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  in the square hashemi was now ducked down behind a car, consumed with

  excitement and his sense of power. "more men into the hq building!"

  never before had he been in control of a battle or even part of one. all his previous work had been secret, undercover, just a few men involved on each operation even with his group four assassins all he had ever done was to give orders in safety and wait in safety, far from the action. except the once that he had personally detonated the car bomb that had obliterated his savama enemy, general janan. by god and the prophet, his mind was shouting, this is what i was born for: battle and war!

  "general assault!" he shouted into the walkie-talkie and then stood up and bellowed as loud as he could, "general assault!"

  men charged out of the night. grenades over walls into patios and into windows indiscriminately. explosions and billowing smoke, more firing, rifle and automatic and more explosions and then a giant explosion in the leftist headquarters as an ammunition and gasoline cache detonated, blowing off the top story and most of the facade. the wave of heat tore at hashemi's clothes, knocked armstrong down, and mzytryk who had been watching through binoculars from the safety of an upstairs window on the other side of the square saw them clearly in the floodlight and decided the time was perfect.

  "now!" he said in russian.

  the sharpshooter beside him was already centered on the target through his telescopic sight, the rifle barrel resting on the window ledge. at once he flattened his index finger above the trigger guard, felt mzytryk's finger on the trigger, and began the countdown as ordered: "three... two... one... fire!" mzytryk squeezed the trigger. both men saw the dumdum bullet go into hashemi's lower back, slam him spread- eagled against the car in front, then sprawling into the dirt.

  "good," mzytryk muttered grimly, regretting only that his own eyes and hands were not good enough to deal with his son's murderers by himself.

  "three... two... one..." the gunsight wavered. both of them cursed, for they had seen armstrong whirl around, look in their direction for an instant, then hurl himself through a gap in the cars and disappear behind one of them.

  "he's near the front wheel. he can't escape. be patient fire when you can!" mzytryk hurried out of the room to the stairwell and shouted in turkish to the men waiting below, "go!" then rushed back again. as he came through the doorway, he saw the sharpshooter fire. "got him," the man said with an obscenity. mzytryk trained his binoculars but could not see armstrong. "where is he?"

  "behind the black car he stuck his head around the front wheel for a second and i got him."

  "did you kill him?"

  "no, comrade general. i was very careful, just as you ordered."

  "you're sure?"

  "yes, comrade general, i got him in the shoulder, perhaps the chest."

  the headquarters building burning furiously now, firing from the adjoining tenements sporadic, just pockets of resistance, attackers heavily outnumbering defenders, all of them whipped into a frenzy of brutality. barbarians, mzytryk thought contemptuously, then looked back at the sprawled body of hashemi twitching and jerking and twitching again, half in and half out of the joub. don't die too quickly, matyeryebyets. "can you see him, the englishman?"

  "no, comrade general, but i've both sides covered."

  then mzytryk saw the broken-down ambulance arriving and men with red cross armbands fan out with stretchers to begin picking up the wounded, the battle mostly over now. i'm glad i came tonight, he thought, his rage not yet assuaged. he had decided to direct the retaliation personally the moment haki n khan's message had arrived yesterday. the barely disguised "summons" together with pahmudi's secret report of the manner of his son's death at the hands of hashemi and armstrong had sent him into a paroxysm of rage.

  simple to arrange a helicopter and set down just outside tabriz last night, simple to arrange a counterattack to ambush the two murderers. simple to plan his vengeance that would cement relations with pahmudi by removing his enemy hashemi fazir for him and at the same time save both his mujhadin and tudeh much future trouble. and armstrong, the elusive mi6 agent, another longoverdue elimination curse that fornicator for appearing like a ghost after all these years.

  "comrade general!"

  "yes, i see them." mzytryk watched the red cross men put hashemi on a stretcher and carry him off toward the ambulance. others went behind the car. the crossed lines of the telescopic sight followed them. mzytryk's excitement soared. the sharpshooter waited patiently. when the men reappeared, they were half carrying, half dragging armstrong between them. "i knew i'd hit the bastard," the sharpshooter said.

  at the palace: 11:04 p.m. silently the phosphorescent, red night-flying lights of the massed instrument panel came to life. erikki's finger pressed engine start. the jets caught, coughed, caught, hesitated as he eased the circuit breakers carefully in and out. then he shoved them home. the engines began a true warm-up.

  floodlights at half power were on in the forecourt. azadeh and hakim khan, heavy-coated against the night cold, stood just clear of the turning blades, watching him. at the front gate a hundred yards or so away two guards and hashemi's two police also watched but idly. their cigarettes glowed. the two

  policemen shouldered their kalashnikovs and strolled nearer.

  once more the engines spluttered and hakim khan called out over the noise, "erikki, forget it for tonight!" but erikki did not hear him. hakim moved away from the noise, nearer to the gate, azadeh following him reluctantly. his walk was ponderous and awkward, and he cursed, unused to his crutches.

  "greetings, highness," the policemen said politely.

  "greetings. azadeh," hakim said irritably, "your husband's got no patience, he's losing his senses. what's the matter with him? it's ridiculous to keep trying the engines. what good would it do even if he could start them?"

  "i don't know, highness." azadeh's face was white in the pale light and she was very uneasy. "he's... since the raid he's been very strange, very difficult, difficult to understand he frightens me."

  "i don't wonder! he's enough to frighten the devil."

  "please excuse me, highness," azadeh said apologetically, "but in normal times he's... he's not frightening."

  politely the two policemen turned away, but hakim stopped them. "have you noticed any difference in the pilot?"

  "he's very angry, highness. he's been angry for hours. once i saw him kick the machine but different or not is difficult to say. i've never been near to him before." the corporal was in his forties and wanted no trouble. the other man was younger and even more afraid. their orders were to watch and wait until the pilot left by car, or any car left, not to hinder its leaving but to report to hq at once by their car radio. both of them realized the danger of their position the arm of the gorgon khan had a very long reach. both knew of the servants and guards of the late khan accused by him of treason, still rotting in police dungeons. but both also knew the reach of inner intelligence was more certain.

  "tell him to stop it, azadeh, to stop the engines."

  "he's never before been so... so angry with me, and tonight..." her eyes almost crossed in her rage. "i don't think i can obey him."

  "you will!"

  after a pause she muttered, "when he's even a little angry, i can do nothing with him."

  the policemen saw her paleness and were sorry for her but more sorry for themselves they had heard what had happened on the mountainside. god protect us from he of the knife! what must it be like to marry such a barbarian who everyone knows drank the blood of the tribesmen he slaughtered, worships forest spirits against the law of god, and rolls naked in the snow, forcing her to do the same.

  the engines spluttered and began to die and they saw erikki bellow with

  rage and smash his great fist on the side of the cockpit, denting the aluminum with the force of his blow.

  "highness, with your permission i will go to bed i think i will take a sleeping pill and hope that tomorrow is a better..." her words tra
iled off.

  "yes. a sleeping pill is a good idea. very good. i'm afraid i'll have to take two, my back hurts terribly and now i can't sleep without them." hakim added angrily, "it's his fault! if it wasn't for him i wouldn't be in pain." he turned to his bodyguard. "fetch my guards on the gate, i want to give them instructions. come along, azadeh."

  painfully he walked off, azadeh obediently and sullenly at his side. the engines started shrieking again. irritably hakim khan turned and snapped at the policemen, "if he doesn't stop in five minutes, order him to stop in my name! five minutes, by god!"

  uneasily the two men watched them leave, the bodyguard with the two gate guards hurrying after them up the steps. "if her highness can't deal with him, what can we do?" the older policeman said.

  "with the help of god the engines will continue until the barbarian is satisfied, or he stops them himself."

  the lights in the forecourt went out. after six minutes the engines were still starting and stopping. "we'd better obey." the young policeman was very nervous. "the khan said five. we're late."

  "be prepared to run and don't irritate him unnecessarily. take your safety catch off." nervously they went closer. "pilot!" but the pilot still had his back to them and was half inside the cockpit. son of a dog! closer, now up to the whirling blades. "pilot!" the corporal said loudly.

  "he can't hear you, who can hear anything? you go forward, i'll cover

  you. "

  the corporal nodded, commended his soul to god, and ducked into the wash of air. "pilot!" he had to go very close, and touch him. "pilot!" now the pilot turned, his face grim, said something in barbarian that he did not understand. with a forced smile and forced politeness, he said, "please, excellency pilot, we would consider it an honor if you would stop the engines, his highness the khan has ordered it." he saw the blank look, remembered that he of the knife could not speak any civilized language, so he repeated what he had said, speaking louder and slower and using signs. to his enormous relief, the pilot nodded apologetically, turned some switches, and now the engines were slowing and the blades were slowing.

  praise be to god! well done, how clever you are, the corporal thought, gratified. "thank you, excellency pilot. thank you." very pleased with himself

  he imperiously peered into the cockpit. now he saw the pilot making signs to him, clearly wishing to please him as so he should, by god inviting him to get into the pilot's seat. puffed with pride, he watched the barbarian politely lean into the cockpit and move the controls and point at instruments.

  not able to contain his curiosity the younger policeman came under the blades that were circling slower and slower, up to the cockpit door. he leaned in to see better, fascinated by the banks of switches and dials that glowed in the darkness.

  "by god, corporal, have you ever seen so many dials and switches? you look as though you belong in that seat!"

  "i wish i was a pilot," the corporal said. "i th " he stopped, astonished, as his words were swallowed by a blinding red fog that sucked the breath out of his lungs and made the darkness complete.

  erikki had rammed the younger man's head against the corporal's, stunning both of them. above him the rotors stopped. he looked around. no movement in the darkness, just a few lights on in the palace. no alien eyes or presence that he could sense. quickly he stowed their guns behind the pilot's seat. it took only seconds to carry the two men to the cabin and lay them inside, force their mouths open, put in the sleeping pills that he had stolen from azadeh's cabinet, and gag them. a moment to collect his breath before he went forward and checked that all was ready for instant departure. then he came back to the cabin. the two men had not moved. he leaned against the doorway ready to silence them again if need be. his throat was dry. sweat beaded him. waiting. then he heard dogs and the sound of chain leashes. quietly he readied the sten gun. the wandering patrol of two armed guards and the doberman pinschers passed around the palace but did not come near him. he watched the palace, his arm no longer in the sling.

  in the northern slums: the ramshackle, canvas-colored ambulance trundled through the potholed streets. in the back were two medics and three stretchers and hashemi lay on one, howling, hemorrhaging, most of the front of his loins torn out.

  "in the name of god, give him morphine," armstrong gasped through his own pain. he was slumped on his stretcher, half propped against the swaying side, holding a surgical dressing tightly against the bullet hole in his upper chest, quite oblivious of the blood pumping from the wound in his back that was soaking the crude dressing one of the medics had stuffed through the rent in his trenchcoat. "give him morphine. hurry!" he told them again, cursing them in farsi and english, hating them for their stupidity and rough handling

  still in shock from the suddenness of the bullet and the attack that had come out of nowhere. why why why?

  "what can i do, excellency?' came out of the darkness. "we have none of this morphine. it's god's will." the man switched on a flashlight and almost blinded him, turned it onto hashemi, then to the third stretcher. the youth there was already dead. armstrong saw they had not bothered to close his eyes. another burbling scream came from hashemi.

  "put out the light, ishmael," the other medic said. "you want to get us shot?"

  idly, ishmael obeyed. once more in darkness, he lit a cigarette, coughed, and cleared his throat noisily, pulled the canvas side screen aside for a moment to get his bearings. "only a few more minutes, with the help of god." he leaned down and shook hashemi out of his unconscious peace into waking hell. "only a few more minutes, excellency colonel. don't die yet," he said helpfully. "only a few more minutes and you'll get proper treatment."

  they all lurched as a wheel went into a pothole. pain blazed through armstrong. when he felt the ambulance stop, he almost wept with relief. other men pulled away the canvas tail cover and scrambled in. rough hands grabbed his feet and dragged him down onto the stretcher and bound him with the safety straps. through the hell mist of pain he saw hashemi's stretcher being cartied off into the night, then men lifted him carelessly, the pain was too much, and he fainted.

  the stretcher bearers stepped over the joub and went through the doorway in the high wall, into the sleazy corridor and along it, down a flight of stairs, and into a large cellar that was lit with oil lamps. mzytryk said, "put him there!" he pointed to the second table. hashemi was already on the first one, also strapped to his stretcher. leisurely mzytryk examined armstrong's wounds, then hashemi's, both men still unconscious.

  "good," he said. "wait for me upstairs, ishmael."

  ishmael took off the grimy red cross armband and threw it into a corner with the others. "many of our people were martyred in the building. i doubt if any escaped."

  "then you were wise not to join the meeting."

  ishmael clomped upstairs to rejoin his friends who were noisily congratulating themselves on their success in grabbing the enemy leader and his running dog, the foreigner. all were trusted, hard-core islamic-marxist fighters, not a medic among them.

  mzytryk waited until he was alone, then took a small penknife and probed hashemi deeply. the bellowing scream pleased him. when it subsided he lifted the pail of icy water and dashed it into the colonel's face. the eyes opened and the terror and pain therein pleased him even more. "you wanted to see

  me, colonel? you murdered my son, fedor. i'm general petr oleg mzytryk." he used the knife again. hashemi's face became grotesque as he howled, screaming and babbling incoherently, trying to fight out of his bonds.

  "this's for my son... and this for my son... and this for my son..."

  hashemi's heart was strong, and he lasted minutes, begging for mercy, begging for death, the one god for death and for vengeance. he died badly.

  for a moment mzytryk stood over him, his nostrils rebelling against the stench. but he did not need to force himself to remember what these two had done to his son to drag him down to the third level. pahmudi's report had been explicit. "hashemi fazir, you're repaid, you shitea
ter," he said and spat in his face. then he turned and stopped. armstrong was awake and watching him from the stretcher on the other side of the cellar. cold blue eyes. bloodless face. the lack of fear astonished him. i'll soon change that, he thought, and took out the penknife. then he noticed armstrong's right arm was out of the straps, but before he could do anything armstrong had reached up for the lapel of his trenchcoat and now held the tip and the hidden cyanide capsule it contained near his mouth. "don't move!" armstrong warned.

  mzytryk was too seasoned to consider rushing him, the distance too far. in his side pocket was an automatic but before he could get it out he was sure that armstrong's teeth would crush the capsule and three seconds left was not nearly enough time for vengeance. his only hope was that armstrong's pain would make him faint, or lose concentration. he leaned back against the other table and cursed him.