Erikki looked back. Azadeh, still in his arms, was tense. The man stood at the back of the pack, difficult to see, seemingly not very different from the others, wearing a nondescript parka. ‘Yes,’ Erikki told him in Russian, ‘but don’t bring a gun into my house, or a knife.’ He stalked off.
The mullah went closer to Dayati, his eyes stony. ‘What did the foreign devil say, eh?’
‘He was rude, all foreigners are rude, Her High—the woman was rude too.’
The mullah spat in the snow. ‘The Prophet set laws and punishments against such conduct, the People have laws against hereditary wealth and stealing lands, the land belongs to the People. Soon correct laws and punishments will govern us all, at long last, and Iran will be at peace.’ He turned to the others. ‘Naked in the snow! Flaunting herself in the open against all the laws of modesty. Harlot! What are the Gorgons but lackeys of the traitor Shah and his dog Bakhtiar, eh?’ His eyes went back to Dayati. ‘What lies are you telling about the helicopter?’
Trying to hide his fear, Dayati said at once that the fifteen-hundred-hour check was according to foreign regulations imposed upon him and the aircraft and further ordered by the Shah and the government.
‘Illegal government,’ the mullah interrupted.
‘Of course, of course illegal,’ Dayati agreed at once and nervously led them into the hangar and lit the lights—the base had its own small generating system and was self-contained. The engines of the 212 were laid out neatly, piece by piece, in regimented lines. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, Excellency, the foreigners do what they like.’ Then he added quickly, ‘And although we all know Iran-Timber belongs to the People, the Shah took all the money. I’ve no authority over them, foreigner devils or their regulations. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘When will it be airworthy?’ the Russian-speaking man asked in perfect Turkish.
‘The engineers promise two days,’ Dayati said and prayed silently, very afraid, though he tried hard not to show it. It was clear to him now that these men were leftist mujhadin believers in the Soviet-sponsored theory that Islam and Marx were compatible. ‘It’s in the hands of God. Two days; the foreign engineers are waiting for some spares that’re overdue.’
‘What are they?’
Nervously he told him. They were some minor parts and a tail rotor blade.
‘How many hours do you have on the rotor blade?’
Dayati checked the log book, his fingers trembling. ‘1073.’
‘God is with us,’ the man said, then turned to the mullah. ‘We could safely use the old one for fifty hours at least.’
‘But the life of the blade. . . the airworthy certificate’s invalidated,’ Dayati said without thinking. ‘The pilot wouldn’t fly because air regulations requi—’
‘Satan’s regulations.’
‘True,’ the Russian speaker interrupted, ‘some of them. But laws for safety are important to the People, and even more important, God laid down rules in the Koran for camels and horses and how to care for them, and these rules can apply equally to airplanes which also are the gift of God and also carry us to do God’s work. We must, therefore, care for them correctly. Don’t you agree, Mahmud?’
‘Of course,’ the mullah said impatiently and his eyes bore into Dayati who began to tremble. ‘I will return in two days, at dawn. Let the helicopter be ready and the pilot ready to do God’s work for the People. I will visit every camp in the mountains. Are there other women here?’
‘Just. . . just two wives of the labourers and. . . my wife.’
‘Do they wear chador and veil?’
‘Of course,’ Dayati lied instantly. To wear the veil was against the law of Iran. Reza Shah had outlawed the veil in 1936, made the chador a matter of choice and Mohammed Shah had further enfranchised women in ’64.
‘Good. Remind them God and the People watch, even in the foreigner’s vile domain.’ Mahmud turned on his heel and stomped off, the others going with him.
When he was alone, Dayati wiped his brow, thankful that he was one of the Faithful and that now his wife would again wear the chador, would be obedient, and act as his mother with modesty and not wear jeans like Her Highness.
In Erikki’s Cabin: 11:23 P.M. The two men sat at the table opposite each other in the main room of the cabin. When the man had knocked on the door, Erikki had told Azadeh to go into the bedroom but he had left the inner door open so that she could hear. He had given her the rifle that he used for hunting. ‘Use it without fear. If he comes into the bedroom, I am already dead,’ he had said, his pukoh knife sheathed under his belt in the centre of his back. The pukoh knife was a haft knife and the weapon of all Finns. It was considered unlucky—and dangerous—for a man not to carry one. In Finland it was against the law to wear one openly—that might be considered a challenge. But everyone carried one, and always in the mountains. Erikki’s matched his size.
‘So, Captain, I apologise for the intrusion.’ The man was dark-haired, a little under six feet, in his thirties, his face weather-beaten, his eyes dark and Slavic—Mongol blood somewhere in his heritage. ‘My name is Fedor Rakoczy.’
‘Rakoczy was a Hungarian revolutionary,’ Erikki said curtly. ‘And from your accent you’re Georgian. Rakoczy’s not Georgian. What’s your real name—and KGB rank?’
The man laughed. ‘It is true my accent is Georgian and that I am Russian from Georgia, from Tbilisi. My grandfather came from Hungary but he was no relation to the revolutionary who in ancient times became prince of Transylvania. Nor was he Muslim, like my father and me. There, you see, we both know a little of our history, thanks be to God,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’m an engineer on the Iran-Soviet natural gas pipeline, based just over the border at Astara on the Caspian—and pro-Iran, pro-Khomeini, blessings be upon him, anti-Shah and anti-American.’
He was glad that he had been briefed about Erikki Yokkonen. Part of his cover story was true. He certainly came from Georgia, from Tbilisi, but he was not a Muslim, nor was his real name Rakoczy. His real name was Igor Mzytryk and he was a captain in the KGB, a specialist attached to the 116th Airborne Division that was deployed just across the border, north of Tabriz, one of the hundreds of undercover agents who had infiltrated northern Iran for months and now operated almost freely. He was thirty-four, a KGB career officer like his father and he had been in Azerbaijan for six months. His English was good, his Farsi and Turkish fluent, and although he could not fly he knew much about the piston-driven Soviet army close support helicopters of his division. ‘As to my rank,’ he added in his most gentle voice, ‘it is friend. We Russians are good friends of Finns, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, yes that’s true. Russians are, not communists—Soviets. Holy Russia was a friend in the past, yes when we were a Grand Duchy of Russia. Atheist Soviet Russia was friendly after 1917 when we became independent. Soviet Russia is now. Yes, now. But not in ’39. Not in the Winter War. No, not then.’
‘Nor were you in ’41,’ Rakoczy said sharply. ‘In ’41 you went to war against us with the stinking Nazis, you sided with them against us.’
‘True, but only to take back our land, our Karelian, our province you’d stolen from us. We didn’t walk on to Leningrad as we could have done.’ Erikki could feel the knife in the centre of his back and he was very glad of it. ‘Are you armed?’
‘No. You said not to come armed. My gun is outside the door. I have no pukoh knife nor need to use one. By Allah, I’m a friend.’
‘Good. A man has need of friends.’ Erikki watched the man, loathing what he represented: the Soviet Russia that, unprovoked, had invaded Finland in ’39 the moment Stalin had signed the Soviet-German non-aggression pact. Finland’s little army had fought back alone. They had beaten off the Soviet hordes for one hundred days in the Winter War and then they had been overrun. Erikki’s father had been killed defending Karelian, the southern and eastern province, where the Yokkonens ha
d lived for centuries. At once Soviet Russia had annexed the province. At once all Finns left. All of them. Not one would stay under a Soviet flag so the land became barren of Finns. Erikki was just ten months old then and in that exodus thousands died. His mother had died. It was the worst winter in living memory.
And in ’45, Erikki thought, bottling his rage, in ’45 America and England betrayed us and gave our lands to the aggressor. But we’ve not forgotten. Nor have the Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, East Germans, Czechs, Hungarians, Bulgars, Slavs, Rumanians—the list endless. There will be a day of reckoning with the Soviets, oh yes, one day there will surely be a day of reckoning with the Soviets—most of all by Russians who suffer their lash most of all. ‘For a Georgian you know a lot about Finland,’ he said calmly.
‘Finland is important to Russia. The détente between us works, is safe and a lesson to the world that anti-Soviet American Imperialistic propaganda is a myth.’
Erikki smiled. ‘This is not the time for politics, eh? It’s late. What do you want with me?’
‘Friendship.’
‘Ah, that’s easily asked, but as you would know, for a Finn, given with difficulty.’ Erikki reached over to the sideboard for an almost empty vodka bottle and two glasses. ‘Are you Shi’ite?’
‘Yes, but not a good one, God forgive me. I drink vodka sometimes if that’s what you ask.’
Erikki poured two glasses. ‘Health.’ They drank. ‘Now, please come to the point.’
‘Soon Bakhtiar and his American lackeys will be thrown out of Iran. Soon Azerbaijan will be in turmoil, but you will have nothing to fear. You are well thought of here, so is your wife and her family, and we would like your. . . your cooperation in bringing peace to these mountains.’
‘I’m just a helicopter pilot, working for a British company, contracted to Iran-Timber, and I’m without politics. We Finns have no politics, don’t you remember?’
‘We’re friends, yes. Our interests of world peace are the same.’
Erikki’s great right fist slammed down on the table, the sudden violence making the Russian flinch as the bottle skittered away and fell to the floor. ‘I’ve asked you politely twice to come to the point,’ he said in the same calm voice. ‘You have ten seconds.’
‘Very well,’ the man said through his teeth. ‘We require your services to ferry teams into the camps within the next few days. We. . .’
‘What teams?’
‘The mullahs of Tabriz and their followers. We requ—’
‘I take my orders from the company, not mullahs or revolutionaries or men who come with guns in the night. Do you understand?’
‘You will find it is better to understand us, Captain Yokkonen. So will the Gorgons. All of them,’ Rakoczy said pointedly and Erikki felt the blood go into his face. ‘Iran-Timber is already struck and on our side. They will provide you with the necessary orders.’
‘Good. In that case I will wait and see what their orders are.’ Erikki got up to his great height. ‘Good night.’
The Russian got up too and stared at him angrily. ‘You and your wife are much too intelligent not to understand that without the Americans and their fornicating CIA Bakhtiar’s lost. That motherless madman Carter has ordered U.S. marines and helicopters into Turkey, an American war fleet into the Gulf, a task force with a nuclear carrier and support vessels, with marines and nuclear armed aircraft—a war fleet an—’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘You can. By God, of course they’re trying to start a war, for of course we have to react, we have to match war game with war game for of course they’ll use Iran against us. It’s all madness—we don’t want nuclear war. . .’ Rakoczy meant it with all his heart, his mouth running away with him. Only a few hours ago his superior had warned him by code radio that all Soviet forces on the border were on Yellow Alert—one step from Red—because of the approaching carrier fleet, all nuclear missiles on equal alert. Worst of all, vast Chinese troop movements had been reported all along the 5,000 miles of shared border with China. ‘That motherfucker Carter with his motherfucking Friendship Pact with China’s going to blow us all to hell if he gets half a chance.’
‘If it happens it happens,’ Erikki said.
‘Insha’Allah, yes, but why become a running dog for the Americans, or their equally filthy British allies? The People are going to win, we are going to win. Help us and you won’t regret it, Captain. We only need your skills for a few da—’
He stopped suddenly. Running footsteps were approaching. Instantly Erikki’s knife was in his hand and he moved with catlike speed between the front door and the bedroom door as the front door burst open.
‘SAVAK!’ a half-seen man gasped, then took to his heels.
Rakoczy jumped for the doorway, scooped up his machine pistol. ‘We require your help, Captain. Don’t forget!’ He vanished into the night.
Azadeh came out into the living room. With the gun ready, her face white. ‘What was that about a carrier? I didn’t understand him.’
Erikki told her. Her shock was clear. ‘That means war, Erikki.’
‘Yes, if it happens.’ He put on his parka. ‘Stay here.’ He closed the door after him. Now he could see lights from approaching cars that were racing along the rough dirt road that joined the base to the main Tabriz-Tehran road. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out two cars and an army truck. In a moment the lead vehicle stopped and police and soldiers fanned out into the night. The officer in charge saluted. ‘Ah, Captain Yokkonen, good evening. We heard that some revolutionaries were here, or communist Tudeh—firing was reported,’ he said, his English perfect. ‘Her Highness is all right? There’s no problem?’
‘No, not now, thank you, Colonel Mazardi.’ Erikki knew him quite well. The man was a cousin of Azadeh, and chief of police in this area of Tabriz. But SAVAK? That’s something else, he thought uneasily. If he is, he is, and I don’t want to know. ‘Come in.’
Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coming and they told him what had occurred.
‘The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but it was obviously a lie,’ Erikki said. ‘He had to be KGB.’
‘And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?’
‘No.’
The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. ‘So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic Marxist—that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.’ He was tall and very good-looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. ‘Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea-bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar’ll give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini—we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.’ He got up. ‘Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.’
He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, ‘Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.’
She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.’
‘There’s no need to leave, Erikki.’
‘If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.’
‘There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, Tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian
, Erikki.’
He looked at her. ‘I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force and why the KGB think “you and your wife are much too intelligent”, why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they “require” my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while there’s time.’
‘Very well. But not to Tehran, not tonight. Too dangerous. First we must see the Khan, my father.’
Saturday
Chapter 2
Near Tabriz: 6:05 P.M. In the snow-covered mountains not far from the Soviet border, Pettikin’s 206 came over the rise fast, continuing to climb up the pass, skimming the trees, following the road.
‘Tabriz One, HFC from Tehran. Do you read?’ he called again.
Still no answer. Light was closing in, the late afternoon sun hidden by deep cloud cover that was only a few hundred feet above him, grey and heavy with snow. Again he tried to raise the base, very tired now, his face badly bruised and still hurting from the beating he had taken. His gloves and the broken skin over his knuckles made it awkward for him to press the transmit button. ‘Tabriz One. HFC from Tehran. Do you read?’
Again there was no answer but this did not worry him. Communication in the mountains was always bad, he was not expected, and there was no reason for Erikki or the base manager to have arranged a radio watch. As the road climbed, the cloud cover came down but he saw, thankfully, that the crest ahead was still clear, and once over it, the road fell away and there, half a mile farther on, was the base.
This morning it had taken him much longer than expected to drive to the small military air base at Galeg Morghi, not far from Tehran’s international airport, and though he had left the apartment before dawn, he did not arrive there until a bleak sun was well into the polluted, smoke-filled sky. He had had to divert many times. Street battles were still going on with many roads blocked—some deliberately with barricades but more with burned-out wrecks of cars or buses. Many bodies sprawled on the snow-covered sidewalks and roadways, many wounded, and twice, angry police turned him back. But he persevered and took an even more circuitous route. When he arrived, to his surprise the gate to their section of the base where they operated a training school was open and unguarded. Normally air force sentries would be there. He drove in and parked his car in the safety of the S-G hangar but found none of the day skeleton crew of mechanics or ground personnel on duty.
Escape Page 3