Escape

by James Clavell

  ‘Insha’Allah,’ he muttered but that didn’t help him.

  With any luck Gen’s already at Al Shargaz, he thought. I’m damned glad she’s safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: ‘I’m the one who can talk to Andy. You can’t put anything into writing.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, ‘Maybe Andy can make a plan that we could carry out—might carry out. Hope to God we don’t have to. Too bloody dangerous. Too many lads and too many planes spread out. Too bloody dangerous. Gen, you forget we’re not at war though we’re in the middle of one.’

  ‘Yes, Duncan, but we’ve nothing to lose.’

  ‘We’ve people to lose, as well as birds.’

  ‘We’re only going to see if it’s feasible, aren’t we, Duncan?’

  Old Gen’s certainly the best go-between we could have—if we really needed one. She’s right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: ‘Andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes—and spares—that’re presently under Iranian registry and technically owned by an Iranian company called IHC. . .’

  Christ! Isn’t that a conspiracy to defraud!

  Leaving is not the answer. We’ve got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. Somehow I’ve got to get the partners to help—or maybe this minister can give us a hand. If he’ll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. Any government’s got to have help to get their oil up, they’ve got to have choppers and we’ll get our money. . .

  He looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. By name. There never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. Even in the Shah’s time it was never first come, first served. Then it was only influence. Or money.

  Talbot of the British embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. ‘Sorry, old boy, even I can’t get into the PM, but his deputy Antazam’s a good sort, speaks good English—not one of these rev twits.’

  McIver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. When he had presented the letter in English and Farsi to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry, agha, you’re in plenty of time,’ the friendly reception clerk said to his relief in good English, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. ‘This is the right office. Please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. Minister Kia will see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him,’ he had almost exploded. ‘My appointment’s with Deputy Prime Minister Antazam!’

  ‘Ah, Deputy Minister Antazam, yes, agha, but he’s no longer in Prime Minister Bazargan’s government. Insha’Allah,’ the young man said pleasantly. ‘Minister Kia deals with everything to do with, er, foreigners, finances and airplanes.’

  ‘But I must insist th—’ McIver stopped as the name registered and he remembered what Talbot had said and how remaining IHC partners had implanted this man on the board with an enormous retainer and no guarantees of assistance. ‘Agha Minister Ali Kia?’

  ‘Yes, agha. Minister Ali Kia will see you as soon as possible.’ The receptionist was a pleasant, well-dressed young man in a suit and white shirt and blue tie, just like in the old days. McIver had had the foresight to enclose a pishkesh of 5,000 rials in the envelope with the introduction, just like in the old days. The money had vanished.

  Perhaps things are really getting back to normal, McIver thought, went into the other room and took a chair in the corner and began to wait. In his pocket was another wad of rials and he wondered if he should refill the envelope with the appropriate amount. Why not, he thought, we’re in Iran, minor officials need minor money, high officials, high money—sorry, pishkesh. Making sure no one observed him, he put some high denomination notes into the envelope, then added a few more for safety. Maybe this bugger can really help us—the partners used to have the court buttoned up, perhaps they’ve done the same to Bazargan.

  From time to time harassed bureaucrats hurried importantly through the anteroom into the inner room, papers in their hands, and came out again. Occasionally, one of the men waiting would be politely ushered in. Without exception they were inside for just a few minutes and emerged taut-faced or red-faced, furious, and obviously empty-handed. Those who still waited felt more and more frustrated. Time passed very slowly.

  ‘Agha McIver!’ The inner door was open now, a bureaucrat beckoning him.

  Ali Kia was seated behind a very large desk with no papers on it. He wore a smile but his eyes were hard and small and McIver instinctively disliked him.

  ‘Ah, Minister, how kind of you to see me,’ McIver said, forcing bonhomie, offering his hand. Ali Kia smiled politely and shook hands limply.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr McIver. Thank you for coming to see me. You have an introduction I believe?’ His English was good, Oxford-accented, where he had gone to university just before World War Two on a Shah grant, staying for the duration. He waved a tired hand at the bureaucrat beside the door.

  ‘Yes, it, er, it was to Deputy Minister Antazam, but I understand it should have been directed to you.’ McIver handed him the envelope. Kia took out the introduction, noticed the amount of the notes exactly, tossed the envelope carelessly on to the desk to indicate more should be forthcoming, read the handwritten note with care, then put it down in front of him.

  ‘Mr Talbot is an honoured friend of Iran though a representative of a hostile government,’ Kia said, his voice smooth. ‘What particular help can I give the friend of such an honoured person?’

  ‘There’re three things, Minister. But perhaps I may be allowed to say how happy we are at S-G that you’ve considered giving us the benefit of your valuable experience by joining our board.’

  ‘My cousin was most insistent. I doubt I can help, but, as God wants.’

  ‘As God wants.’ McIver had been watching him carefully, trying to read him, and could not explain the immediate dislike he took great pains to hide. ‘First, there’s a rumour that all joint ventures are suspended, pending a decision of the Revolutionary Komiteh.’

  ‘Pending a decision of the government,’ Kia corrected him curtly. ‘So?’

  ‘How will that affect our joint company, IHC?’

  ‘I doubt if it will affect it at all, Mr McIver. Iran needs helicopter service for oil production. Other helicopter companies have fled. It would seem the future looks better than ever for our company.’

  McIver said carefully, ‘But we haven’t been paid for work done for many months. We’ve been carrying all lease payments for the aircraft from Aberdeen and we’re heavily overcommitted here in aircraft for the amount of work we have on the books.’

  ‘Tomorrow the Central Bank is due to open. By order of the PM—and the Ayatollah, of course. A proportion of the money owed will, I’m sure, be forthcoming.’

  ‘Would you conjecture how much we can expect, Minister?’ McIver’s hope quickened.

  ‘More than enough to. . . to keep our operation going. I’ve already arranged for you to take out crews once their replacements are here.’ Ali Kia took a thin file from a drawer and gave him a paper. It was an order directed to Immigration at Tehran, Abadan, and Shiraz airports to allow out accredited IHC pilots and engineering crews, one for one, against incoming crew. The order was badly typed but legible, in Farsi and English, and signed on behalf of the komiteh responsible for IranOil and dated yesterday.

  ‘Thank you. May I also have your approval for the 125 to mak
e at least three trips a week for the next few weeks—of course only until your international airports are back to normal—to bring in crews, spares, and equipment, replacement parts, and so on, and,’ he added matter-of-factly, ‘to take out redundancies.’

  ‘It might be possible to approve that,’ Kia said.

  McIver handed him the set of papers. ‘I took the liberty of putting it into writing—to save you the bother, Minister—with copies addressed to Air Traffic Control at Kish, Kowiss, Shiraz, Abadan, and Tehran.’

  Kia read the top copy carefully. It was in Farsi and English, simple, direct, and with the correct formality. His fingers trembled. To sign them would far exceed his authority but now that the deputy prime minister was in disgrace, as well as his own superior—both supposedly dismissed by this still mysterious Revolutionary Komiteh—and with mounting chaos in the government, he knew he had to take the risk. The absolute need for him, his family, and his friends to have ready access to a private jet, made the risk worthwhile.

  I can always say my superior told me to sign it, he thought, keeping his nervousness away from his face and eyes. The 125 is a gift from God—just in case lies are spread about me. Damn Jared Bakravan! My friendship with that bazaari dog almost embroiled me in his treason against the state; I’ve never lent money in my life, or engaged in plots with foreigners, or supported the Shah.

  To keep McIver off balance he tossed the papers beside the introduction almost angrily. ‘It might be possible for this to be approved. There would be a landing fee of $500 per landing. Was that everything, Mr McIver?’ he asked, knowing it was not. Devious British dog! Do you think you can fool me?

  ‘Just one thing, Excellency.’ McIver handed him the last paper. ‘We’ve three aircraft that’re in desperate need of servicing and repair. I need the exit permit signed so I can send them to Al Shargaz.’ He held his breath.

  ‘No need to send valuable airplanes out, Mr McIver; repair them here.’

  ‘Oh, I would if I could, Excellency, but there’s no way I can do that. We don’t have the spares or the engineers—and every day that one of our choppers’re not working costs the partners a fortune. A fortune,’ he repeated.

  ‘Of course you can repair them here, Mr McIver, just bring the spares and the engineers from Al Shargaz.’

  ‘Apart from the cost of the aircraft there’re the crews to support and pay for. It’s all very expensive; perhaps I should mention that’s the Iranian partners’ cost—that’s part of their agreement. . . to supply all the necessary exit permits.’ McIver continued to wheedle. ‘We need to get every available piece of equipment ready to service all the new Guerney contracts if the Ay—if, er, the government’s decree to get oil production to normal is to be obeyed. Without equipment. . .’ he left the word hanging and again held his breath, praying he’d chosen the right bait.

  Kia frowned. Anything that cost the Iranian partnership money came partially out of his own pocket now. ‘How soon could they be repaired and brought back?’

  ‘If I can get them out in a couple of days, less than two weeks.’

  Again Kia hesitated. The new contracts, added to existing IHC contracts, helicopters, equipment, fixtures and fittings were worth millions of which he now had a sixth share—for no investment, he chortled deep inside. Particularly if everything was provided, without cost, by these foreigners! Exit permits for three helicopters? He glanced at his watch. It was Cartier and bejewelled—a pishkesh from a banker who, two weeks ago, had needed a private half an hour access to a working telex. In a few minutes he had an appointment with the chairman of Air Traffic Control and could easily embroil him in this decision.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, delighted to be so powerful, an official on the rise, to be able to assist the implementation of government oil policy, and save the partnership money at the same time. ‘Very well, but the exit permits will only be valid for two weeks, the licence will be’—he thought a moment—‘will be $5,000 U.S. per aircraft in cash prior to exit, and they must be back in two weeks.’

  ‘I, I can’t get that money in cash in time. I could give you a note, or cheques payable on a Swiss bank—for $2,000 per aircraft.’

  They haggled for a moment and settled on $3,100. ‘Thank you, Agha McIver,’ Ali Kai said politely. ‘Please leave downcast lest you encourage those rascals waiting outside.’

  When McIver was once more in his car he took out the papers and stared at the signatures and official stamps. ‘It’s almost too good to be true,’ he muttered out loud. Maybe pushing the panic button wasn’t necessary. The 125’s legal now, Kia says the suspension won’t apply to us, we’ve exit permits for three 212s that’re needed in Nigeria—$9,000-odd against their value of 3 million’s more than fair! I never thought I’d get away with it! ‘McIver,’ he said happily, ‘you deserve a Scotch! A very large Scotch!’

  Sunday

  Chapter 10

  At the Khan’s Palace, Tabriz: 3.13 A.M. In the darkness of the small room Captain Ross opened the leather cover of his watch and peered at the luminous figures. ‘All set, Gueng?’ he whispered in Gurkhali.

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ Gueng whispered, glad that the waiting was over.

  Carefully and quietly both men got off their pallets that lay on old, smelly carpets on the hard-packed, earthen floor. They were fully dressed and Ross picked his way across to the window and peered out. Their guard was slumped down beside the door, fast asleep, his rifle in his lap. Two hundred yards away beyond the snow-covered orchards and outbuildings was the four-storey palace of the Gorgon Khan. The night was dark and cold with some clouds, a nimbus around the moon that came through brightly from time to time.

  More snow, he thought, then eased the door open. Both men stood there, searching the darkness with all their senses. No lights anywhere. Noiselessly Ross moved over to the guard and shook him but the man did not wake from the drugged sleep that was good for at least two hours. It had been easy to give him the drug in a piece of chocolate, kept for just that purpose in their survival kit—some of the chocolate drugged, some poisoned. Once more he concentrated on the night, waiting patiently for the moon to go behind a cloud. Absently he scratched at the bite of a bedbug. He was armed with his kukri, and one grenade: ‘If we’re stopped, Gueng, we’re only going for a stroll,’ he had told him earlier. ‘Better to leave our weapons here. Why have kukris and one grenade? It’s an old Gurkha custom—an offence against our regiment to be unarmed.’

  ‘I think I would like to take all our weapons now and slip back into the mountains and make our way south, sahib.’

  ‘If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to but it’s a rotten gamble,’ Ross had said. ‘It’s a rotten gamble. We’ll be trapped in the open—those hunters’re still searching and they won’t give up till we’re caught. Don’t forget we only just made it to the safe house. It was only the clothes that saved us.’ After the ambush where Vien Rosemont and Tenzing had been killed, he and Gueng had stripped some of their attackers and put tribesmen’s robes over their uniforms. He had considered dumping their uniforms entirely but thought that unwise. ‘If we’re caught we’re caught and that’s the end of it.’

  Gueng had grinned. ‘Therefore better you become a good Hindu now. Then if we get killed, it’s not an end but a beginning.’

  ‘How do I do that, Gueng? Become a Hindu?’ He smiled wryly, remembering the perplexed look on Gueng’s face and the vast shrug. Then they had tidied the bodies of Vien Rosemont and Tenzing and left them together in the snow according to the custom of the High Lands: ‘This body has no more value to the spirit and, because of the immutability of rebirth, it is bequeathed to the animals and to the birds that are other spirits struggling in their own Karma towards Nirvana—the place of Heavenly Peace.’

  The next morning they had spotted those who followed relentlessly. When they came down out of the hills into the outskirts of Tabriz, their pursuers were barely half a mile behind
. Only their camouflage had saved them, allowing them to be lost in the crowds, many tribesmen as tall as he and with blue eyes, many as well armed. More luck was with them and he had found the back door of the filthy little garage the first time, used Vien Rosemont’s name, and the man there had hidden them. That night Abdollah Khan had come with his guards, very hostile and suspicious. ‘Who told you to ask for me?’

  ‘Vien Rosemont. He also told us about this place.’

  ‘Who is this Rosemont? Where is he now?’

  Ross had told him what had happened at the ambush and noticed something new behind the man’s eyes now, even though he remained hostile.

  ‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Who are you?’

  ‘Before Vien died he asked me to give you a message—he was delirious and his dying bad, but he made me repeat it three times to make sure. He said: “Tell Abdollah Khan that Peter’s after the Gorgon’s head and Peter’s son is worse than Peter. The son plays with curds and whey and so does the father who’ll try to use a Medusa to catch the Gorgon.” ’ He saw the older man’s eyes light up at once but not happily. ‘So it means something to you?’

  ‘Yes. It means you know Vien. So Vien’s dead. As God wants, but that’s a pity. Vien was good, very good, and a great patriot. Who are you? What was your mission? What were you doing in our mountains?’

  Again he hesitated, remembering that Armstrong had told him at his briefing not to trust this man too far. Yet Rosemont whom he had trusted had said in his dying, ‘You can trust that old bastard with your life. I have, half a dozen times, and he’s never failed me. Go to him, he’ll get you out. . .’