"you have nothing to fear," he said, his eyes curious. then he reached over and picked up her jewel bag. "for safekeeping," he said thinly and stalked for the door, closed it after him, and went down the passageway.
the cell at the end was small and dirty, more like a cage than a room, with a cot, bars on the tiny window, chains attached to a huge bolt in one wall, a foul-smelling bucket in a corner. the sergeant slammed the door and locked it on erikki. through the bars the major said, "remember, the lady azadeh's... 'comfort' depends on your docility." he went away.
now, alone, erikki started prowling the cage, studying the door, lock, bars, floor, ceiling, walls, chains seeking a way out.
al sharga~at the airport: 5:40 p.m. a thousand miles away, southeast across the gulf, gavallan was in an hq office anxiously waiting near the phone, an hour yet for sunset. already he had a promise of one 212 from a paris company and two 206s from a friend at aerospatiale at reasonable rates. scot was in the other office, monitoring the hf, with pettikin on the other phone there. rudi, willi neuchtreiter, and scragger were at the hotel on
more phones tracking down possible crews, arranging possible logistics in bahrain. no word yet from kasigi.
the phone rang. gavallan grabbed it, hoping against hope for news about dubois and fowler, or that it was kasigi. "hello?"
"andy, it's rudi. we've three pilots from lufttransportgesellschaft and they also promise two mecs. ten percent over scale, one month on, two off. hang on... a call on the other line, i'll call you back, 'bye."
gavallan made a notation on his pad, his anxiety giving him heartburn, and that made him think of mciver. when he had talked to him earlier he had not mentioned any of the deadline problems, not wanting to worry him further, promising that as soon as their choppers were safely out he would be on the next connection to bahrain to see him. "nothing to worry about, mac, can't thank you and genny enough for all you've done..."
through the window he could see the lowering sun. the airport was busy. he saw an alitalia jumbo landing and that reminded him of pettikin and paula; no opportunity yet to ask him what was what. near the far end of the runway in the freight area, his eight 212s looked raped and skeletal without their rotors and rotor columns, mechanics still crating some of them. where the hell's kasigi, for god's sake? he had tried to call him several times at the hotel but he was out and no one knew where he was or when he would return.
the door opened. "dad," scot said, "linbar struan's on our phone."
"tell him to get stuffed... hold it," gavallan said quickly. "just say i'm still out, but you're sure i'll call him the moment i return." he muttered a string of chinese obscenities. scot hurried away. again the phone rang. "gavallan."
"andrew, this is roger newbury, how are you?"
gavallan began to sweat. "hello, roger, what's new?"
"sunset's still the deadline. the iranian insisted on coming by here to pick me up first so i'm standing by we're supposed to go together to meet the sheik at the airport. we'll arrive a few minutes early, then the three of us will go to the freight area to wait for his nibs."
"what about the reception at the japanese ambassador's?"
"we're all supposed to go after the inspection god only knows what'll happen then but... well, ours not to reason. sorry about all this but our hands are tied. see you soon. 'bye."
gavallan thanked him, put down the phone, and wiped his brow.
again the phone. kasigi? he picked it up. "hello?"
"andy? ian ian dunross."
"my god, ian." gavallan's cares dropped away. "i'm so glad to hear from you, tried to reach you a couple of times."
"yes, sorry i wasn't available. how's it going?"
gavallan told him guardedly. and about kasigi. "we've about an hour to sunset. "
"that's one reason i called. damned bad luck about dubois, fowler, and mciver, i'll keep my fingers crossed. lochart sounds as though he cracked, but then when love's involved..." gavallan heard his sigh and did not know how to interpret it. "you remember hiro toda, toda shipping?"
"of course, ian."
"hiro told me about kasigi and their problem at iran-toda. they're in a hell of a bind, so anything, anything you can do to help, please do."
"got it. i've been working on it all day. did toda tell you kasigi's idea about their ambassador?"
"yes. hiro called personally he said they're more than anxious to help but it's an iranian problem, and to be honest, they don't expect very much as the iranians would be quite within their rights." gavallan's face mirrored his dismay. "help them all you can. if iran-toda gets taken over... well, strictlybetween us..." dunross switched to shanghainese for a moment: "the underbelly of a nobly thought of company would be slashed mortally." then in english again. "forget i mentioned it."
though gavallan had forgotten most of his shanghainese he understood and his eyes almost crossed. he had had no idea that struan's was involved kasigi had never even implied it. "kasigi'll get his choppers and crew even if we miss our deadline and are impounded."
"let's hope you're not. next, did you see the papers about the hong kong stock exchange crash?"
"yes."
"it's bigger than they're reporting. someone's pulling some very rough stuff and linbar's back is to the sea. if you get the 212s out and are still in business, you'll still have to cancel the x63s."
gavallan's temperature went up a notch. "but, ian, with those i can bust imperial's hold by giving clients better service and better safety, an "
"i agree, old chum. but if we can't pay for them you can't have them. sorry, but there it is. the stock market's gone mad, worse than usual, it's bleeding over to japan and we cannot afford to have toda crash here either."
"perhaps we'll get lucky. i'm not going to lose my x63s. by the way did you hear linbar's giving profitable a seat in the inner office?"
"yes. an interesting idea." it was said flat and gavallan could read neither positive nor negative. "i heard their side of the meeting in a roundabout way. if today is a success, you're planning to be in london monday?"
"yes. i'll know better by sunset, or tomorrow sunset. if all goes well i'll drop by and see mac in bahrain, then head for london. why?"
"i may want you to cancel london and meet me in hong kong. something
very bloody curious has come up about nobunaga mori, the other witness with profitable choy when david macstruan died. nobunaga was burned to death a couple of days ago at his home at kanazawa, that's in the country just outside tokyo, in rather strange circumstances. in today's mail i got a very curious letter. can't discuss it on the phone but it's plenty bloody interesting."
gavallan held his breath. "then david... it wasn't an accident?"
"have to wait and see on that one, andy, until we meet either tokyo or london, the very soonest. by the way hiro and i had planned to stay at kanazawa the night nobunaga died but couldn't make it at the last moment."
"my god, that was lucky."
"yes. well, got to go. is there anything i can do for you?"
"nothing, unless you can give me an extension till sunday night."
"i'm still working on that, never fear. damned sorry about dubois, fowler, and mciver... that tokyo number will take messages till monday..."
they said good-bye. gavallan stared at the phone. scot came in with more news about possible pilots and planes but he hardly heard his son. was it murder after all? christ! goddamn linbar and his back to the wall and bad investments. somehow or another i've got to have the x63s, got to.
again the phone. the connection was bad and the accent of the caller heavy: "long distance collect call for effendi gavallan."
his heart surged. erikki? "this is effendi gavallan, i will accept the charge. can you speak up, please, i can hardly hear you. who is the call from?"
"one moment please..." as he waited impatiently he looked at the gate near the end of the runway that the sheik and the others would use if kasigi failed and the inspection took place. his br
eath almost stopped as he saw a big limousine with a shargazi flag on its fender approaching, but the car passed by in a cloud of dust and a voice on the other end of the phone he could hardly hear said, "andy, it's me, marc, marc dubois..."
"marc? marc dubois?" he stuttered and almost dropped the phone, cupped his hand over one ear to hear better. "christ almighty! marc? are you all right, where the hell are you, is fowler all right? where the hell are you?" the answer was gibberish. he had to strain to hear. "say again!"
"we're at kor al amaya..." kor al amaya was iraq's huge, half-mile long, deep-sea oil terminal platform at the far end of the gulf, off the mouth of the shatt-al-arab estuary that divided iraq and iran, about five hundred miles northwest. "can you hear me, andy? kor al amaya..."
at the kor al amaya platform: marc dubois also had one hand cupped over his ear and was trying to be guarded and not to shout down the phone. the phone was in the office of the platform manager, plenty of iraqi
and expats in the office outside able to overhear. "this line's not private... vous comprenez?"
"got it, for god's sake, what the hell happened? you were picked up?"
dubois made sure he was not being overheard and said carefully, "no, mon vieux, i was running out of fuel and, voild, the tanker oceanrider appeared out of the merde so i landed on her, perfectly, of course. we're both fine, fowler and me. pas probleme! what about everyone, rudi and sandor and pop?"
"they're all here in al shargaz, everyone, your lot, scrag's, mac, freddy, though mac's in bahrain at the moment. with you safe whirlwind's got ten out of ten erikki and azadeh are safe in tabriz though..." gavallan was going to say tom's risking his life to stay in iran. but there was nothing he or dubois could do so instead he said happily, "how wonderful you're safe, marc. are you serviceable?"
"of course, i, er, i just need fuel and instructions."
"marc, you're british registry now... hang on a sec... it's g-hkvc. dump your old numbers and put the new ones on. there's been hell to pay and our late hosts have splattered the gulf with telexes asking governments to impound us. don't go ashore anywhere."
dubois's bonhomie had left him. "golf, hotel kilo victor charlie, got it. andy, le bon dieu was with us because oceanrider's liberian registry and her skipper's british. one of the first things i asked for was a pot of paint, paint... understand?"
"got it, bloody marvelous. go on!"
"as he was inbound iraq i thought it best to keep quiet and stay with her until i talked with you and this is the first mo " through the half- opened door dubois saw the iraqi manager approaching. much more loudly now and in a slightly different voice, he said, "this assignment with oceanrider's perfect, mr. gavallan, and i'm glad to tell you the captain's very content."
"okay, marc, i'll ask the questions. when is she due to finish loading and what's her next port of call?"
"probably tomorrow." he nodded politely to the iraqi who sat behind his desk. "we should be in amsterdam as scheduled." both men were having difficulty hearing.
"do you think you could stay with her all the way? of course we'd pay freighting charges."
"i don't see why not. i think you'll find this experiment will become a permanent assignment. the captain found the convenience of being able to lie offshore and yet get into port for a quick visit worthwhile but frankly the owners made an error ordering a 212. a 206'd be much better. i think they'll want a rebate." he heard gavallan's laugh and it made him happy too. "i better get
off the phone, just wanted to report in. fowler sends his best and if possible i'll give you a call on the ship to shore as we pass by."
"with any luck we won't be here. the birdstll be freighted off tomorrow. don't worry, i'll monitor oceanrider all the way home. once you're through hormuz and clear of gulf waters, ask the captain to radio or telex contact us in aberdeen. all right? i'm assigning everyone to the north sea until we're sorted out. oh, you're sure to be out of money, just sign for everything and i'll reimburse the captain. what's his name?"
"tavistock, brian tavistock."
"got it. marc, you don't know how happy i am."
"me to. a bientot." dubois replaced the phone and thanked the manager.
"a pleasure, captain," the man said thoughtfully. "are all big tankers going to have their own chopper support?"
"i don't know, m'sieur. it would be wise for some. no?"
the manager smiled faintly, a tall middle-aged man, his accent and training american. "there's an iranian patrol boat standing off in their waters watching oceanrider. curious, huh?"
"yes."
"fortunately they stay in their waters, we stay in ours. iranians think they own the arabian gulf, along with us, the shatt, and the waters of the tigris and euphrates back to their source a thousand and almost two thousand miles."
"the euphrates is that long?" dubois asked, his caution increasing.
"yes. it's born in turkey. have you been to iraq before?"
"no, m'sieur. unfortunately. perhaps on my next trip?"
"baghdad's great, ancient, modern so's the rest of iraq, well worth a visit. we've got nine billion metric tons of proven oil reserves and twice that waiting to be discovered. we're much more valuable than iran. france should support us, not israel."
"me, m'sieur, i'm just a pilot," dubois said. "no politics for me."
"for us that's not possible. politics is life we've discovered that the hard way. even in the garden of eden... did you know people have been living around here for sixty thousand years? the garden of eden was barely a hundred miles away; just upstream the shatt where the tigris and euphrates join. our people discovered fire, invented the wheel, mathematics, writing, wine, gardening, farming... the hanging gardens of babylon were here, scheherazade spun her tales to the calif harun al-rashid, whose only equal was your charlemagne, and here were the mightiest of the ancient civilisations, babylonia and assyria. even the flood began here. we've survived sumerians, greeks, romans, arabs, turks, british, and persians," he almost spat the word out. "we'll continue to survive them."
dubois nodded warily. captain tavistock had warned him: "we're in iraq waters, the platform's iraqi territory, young fellow. the moment you leave my gangplank, you're on your own, i've no jurisdiction, understand?"
"i only want to make a phone call. i have to."
"what about using my ship to shore when we pass by al shargaz on the way back?"
"there won't be any problem," dubois had told him, perfectly confident. "why should there be? i'm french." when he had made the forced landing on the deck, he had had to tell the captain about whirlwind and the reasons for it. the old man had just grunted. "i know nothing about that, young fellow. you haven't told me. first you'd better paint out your iran numbers and put g in front of whatever you like instead i'll get my ship's painter to help. as far as i'm concerned if anyone asks me you're a one-shot experiment the owners foisted on me you came aboard in cape town and i don't like you a bit and we hardly ever talk. all right?" the captain had smiled. "happy to have you aboard i was in pt boats during the war, operating all over the channel my wife's from the he d'ouessant, near brest we used to sneak in there from time to time for wine and brandy just like my pirate ancestors used to do. scratch an englishman, find a pirate. welcome aboard."
dubois waited now and watched the iraqi manager. "perhaps i could use the phone tomorrow again, before we leave?"
"of course. don't forget us. everything began here it will end here. salaam!" the manager smiled strangely and put out his hand. "good landings."
"thanks, see you soon."
dubois went out and down the stairs and out onto the deck, anxious to be back aboard the oceanrider. a few hundred yards north he saw the iranian patrol boat, a small frigate, wallowing in the swell. "especede con," he muttered and set off, his mind buzzing.
it took dubois almost fifteen minutes to walk back to his ship. he saw fowler waiting for him and told him the good news. "offing good about the lads, offing bloody good, but all the wa
y to amsterdam in this old bucket?" grumpily fowler began to curse, but dubois just walked to the bow and leaned on the gunwale.
everyone safe! never thought we'd all make it, never, he thought joyously. what a fantastic piece of luck! andy and rudi'll think it was planning but it wasn't. it was luck. or god. god timed the oceanrider perfectly to within a couple of minutes. shit, that was another close one but over, so no need to remember it. now what? so long as we don't run into bad weather and i get seasick, or this old bucket sinks, it'll be grand to have two to three weeks with nothing to do, just to think and wait and sleep and play a little bridge and sleep and think and plan. then aberdeen and the north sea and laughing with jean
luc, tom lochart and duke, and the other guys, then off to... off to where? it's time i got married. shit, i don't want to get married yet. i'm only thirty and i've avoided it so far. it'd just be my bad luck to meet this parisienne witch in angel's clothing who'll use her wiles to make me so smitten that she'll destroy my defences and ruin my resolve! life's too good, far too good, and dredging too much fun!
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 151