Escape

by James Clavell

  Abdollah Khan was smiling, his mouth cruel like his eyes. ‘You can trust me—I think you have to.’

  ‘Yes.’ But not very far at all, he added silently, loathing the word, the word that costs millions their lives, more millions their freedom and every adult on earth peace of mind at some time or another. ‘It was to neutralise Sabalan,’ he said and told him what had happened there.

  ‘God be praised! I will pass word to Wesson and Talbot.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah, doesn’t matter. I’ll get you south. Come with me, it’s not safe here—the hue and cry’s out, with a reward, for “two British saboteurs, two enemies of Islam”. Who are you?’

  ‘Ross. Captain Ross and this is Sergeant Gueng. Who were the men chasing us? Iranians—or Soviets? Or Soviet led?’

  ‘Soviets don’t operate openly in my Azerbaijan—not yet.’ The Khan’s lips twisted into a strange smile. ‘I have a station wagon outside. Get into it quickly and lie down in the back. I’ll hide you and when it’s safe, get you both back to Tehran—but you have to obey my orders. Explicitly.’

  That was two days ago, but then the coming of the Soviet strangers and the arrival of the helicopter had made everything different. He saw the moon go behind a cloud and he tapped Gueng on the shoulder. The small man vanished into the orchard. When the all-clear signal came out of the night, he followed. They leapfrogged each other, moving very well until they were beside the corner of the north wing of the great house. No guards or guard dogs yet though Gueng had seen some Doberman pinschers chained up.

  It was an easy climb up a balustrade to the first-floor balcony. Gueng led. He hurried down half its length, passed the corridor of shuttered windows to the staircase that climbed to the next balcony. At the top he waited, getting his bearings. Ross came alongside. Gueng pointed at the second set of windows and took out his kukri but Ross shook his head and motioned to a side door that he had noticed, deep in shadow. He tried the handle. The door squeaked loudly. Some night birds skeetered out of the orchard, calling to one another. Both men concentrated on where the birds had come from, expecting to see a patrol. None appeared. Another moment to make sure, then Ross led the way inside, adrenalin heightening his tension.

  The corridor was long, many doors on either side, some windows to the south. Outside the second door he stopped, warily tried the handle. This door opened silently and he went in quickly, Gueng following, his kukri out and grenade ready. The room seemed to be an anteroom—carpets, lounging pillows, old-fashioned Victorian furniture and sofas. Two doors led off it. Praying it was the correct choice, Ross opened the door nearest the corner of the building and went in. The curtains were drawn but a crack of moonlight to one side showed them the bed clearly and the man he sought and a woman asleep there under the thick quilt. It was the right man but he had not expected a woman. Gueng eased the door closed. Without hesitation they went to either side of the bed, Ross taking the man and Gueng the woman. Simultaneously they clapped the bunched handkerchiefs over the mouths of the sleepers, holding them down with just enough pressure under their noses to keep them from crying out.

  ‘We’re friends, pilot, don’t cry out,’ Ross whispered, close to Erikki’s ear, not knowing his name or who the woman was, only recognising him as the pilot. He saw the blank fright of the sudden awakening transformed into blinding rage as sleep vanished and the great hands came up to rip him apart. He avoided their grasp, increasing the pressure just under Erikki’s nose, holding him down easily. ‘I’m going to release you, don’t cry out, pilot. We’re friends, we’re British. British soldiers. Just nod if you’re awake and you understand.’ He waited, then felt more than saw the huge man nod, watching his eyes. The eyes shouted danger. ‘Keep her gagged, Gueng, until we’re all set this side,’ he said softly in Gurkhali, then to Erikki, ‘Pilot, don’t be afraid, we’re friends.’

  He released the pressure and leaped out of the way as Erikki lunged at him, then squirmed in the bed to get at Gueng but stopped rigid. Moonlight glinted off the curved kukri held near her throat. Azadeh’s eyes were wide open and she was petrified.

  ‘Don’t! Leave her alone. . .’ Erikki said hoarsely in Russian, seeing only Gueng’s Oriental eyes, thinking it must be one of Cimtarga’s men, still confused and in panic. He was heavy with sleep, his head aching from hours of flying, mostly on instruments in bad conditions. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Speak English. You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m Finnish.’ Erikki peered at Ross, little more than a silhouette in the shaft of moonlight. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Sorry to wake you like this, pilot,’ Ross said hastily, coming a little closer, keeping his voice down, ‘sorry, but I had to talk to you secretly. It’s very important—’

  ‘Tell this bastard to let my wife go! Now!’

  ‘Wife? Oh, yes. . . yes, of course, sorry. She. . . she won’t scream? Please tell her not to scream.’ He watched the huge man turn towards the woman who lay motionless under the heavy quilt, her mouth still covered, the kukri unwavering. He saw him reach out warily and touch her, eyes on the kukri. His voice was gentle and encouraging but he did not speak English or Farsi but another language. In panic Ross thought it was Russian and he was further disoriented, expecting a British S-G pilot, without a bed partner, not a Finn with a Russian wife, and he was petrified he had led Gueng into a trap. The big man’s eyes came back on him and more danger was there.

  ‘Tell him to let my wife go,’ Erikki said in English, finding it hard to concentrate. ‘She won’t scream.’

  ‘What did you say to her? Was it Russian?’

  ‘Yes, it was Russian and I said, “This bastard’s going to release you in a second. Don’t shout out. Don’t shout out, just move behind me. Don’t move quickly, just behind me. Don’t do anything unless I go for the other bastard, then fight for your life.” ’

  ‘You’re Russian?’

  ‘I told you, Finnish, and I tire quickly of men with knives in the night, British, Russian, or even Finnish.’

  ‘You’re a pilot with S-G helicopters?’

  ‘Yes, hurry up and let her go whoever you are or I’ll start something.’

  Ross was not yet over his own panic. ‘Is she Russian?’

  ‘My wife’s Iranian, she speaks Russian and so do I,’ Erikki said icily, moving slightly to get out of the narrow beam of moonlight into shadows. ‘Move into the light, I can’t see you, and for the last time tell this little bastard to release my wife, tell me what you want, and then get out.’

  ‘Sorry about all this. Gueng, let her go now.’

  Gueng did not move. Nor did the curved blade. In Gurkhali he said, ‘Yes, sahib, but first take the knife from under the man’s pillow.’

  In Gurkhali Ross replied, ‘If he goes for it, brother, even touches it, kill her, I’ll get him.’ Then in English he said pleasantly, ‘Pilot, you have a knife under your pillow. Please don’t touch it, sorry, but if you do until this is all okay. . . please be patient. Let her go, Gueng,’ he said, his attention never leaving the man. With the side of his eyes he saw the vague shape of a face, long hair tousled and half covering her, then she moved behind the great shoulders, bunching her long-sleeved, winter nightclothes closer. Ross had his back to the light and he saw little of her, only the hatred in her half-seen eyes, even from the shadows. ‘Sorry to arrive like a thief in the night. Apologies,’ he said to her. She did not answer. He repeated the apology in Farsi. She still did not answer. ‘Please apologise to your wife for me.’

  ‘She speaks English. What the hell do you want?’ Erikki felt a little better now that she was safe, still very aware how close the other man with the curved knife was.

  ‘We’re sort of prisoners of the Khan, pilot, and I came to warn you and to ask your help.’

  ‘Warn me about what?’

  ‘I helped one of your captains a few
days ago—Charles Pettikin.’ He saw the name register at once so he relaxed a little. Quickly he told Erikki about Doshan Tappeh and the SAVAK attack and how they had escaped, describing Pettikin accurately so there could be no mistake.

  ‘Charlie told us about you,’ Erikki said, astonished, no longer afraid, ‘but not that he’d dropped you off near Bandar-e Pahlavi—only that some British paratroopers had saved him from a SAVAK who’d have blown his head off.’

  ‘I asked him to forget my name. I, er, we were on a job.’

  ‘Lucky for Charlie you, we—’ Ross saw the woman whisper in her husband’s ear, distracting him. The man nodded and turned his eyes back again. ‘You can see me, I can’t see you, move into the light—as to Abdollah, if you were his prisoners, you’d be chained up, or in a dungeon, not loose in the palace.’

  ‘I was told the Khan would help us if we had trouble and he said he’d hide us until he could get us back to Tehran. Meanwhile he put us in a hut, out of sight, across the estate. There’s a permanent guard on us.’

  ‘Hide you from what?’

  ‘We were on a, er, classified job, and being hunted an—’

  ‘What classified job? I still can’t see you, move into the light.’

  Ross moved but not enough. ‘We had to blow some secret American radar stuff to prevent it being pinched by Soviets or their supporters. I rec—’

  ‘Sabalan?’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  ‘I’m being forced to fly a Soviet and some leftists to ransack radar sites near the border, then take the stuff down to Astara on the coast. One of them was wrecked on the north face—they got nothing out of that one and so far the rest haven’t produced anything worthwhile—as far as I know. Go on—warn me about what?’

  ‘You’re being forced?’

  ‘My wife’s hostage to the Khan and the Soviets—for my cooperation and good behaviour,’ Erikki said simply.

  ‘Christ!’ Ross’s mind was working overtime. ‘I, er, I recognised the S-G decal when you were circling and came to warn you Soviets were here, they came here early this morning, and they’re planning to kidnap you with the friendly help of the Khan—it seems he’s playing both ends against the middle, double agent.’ He saw Erikki’s astonishment. ‘Our people should know that quickly.’

  ‘Kidnap me to do what?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I sent Gueng on a recce after your chopper arrived—he slipped out of a back window. Tell them, Gueng.’

  ‘It was after they had eaten lunch, sahib, the Khan and the Soviet, and they were beside the Soviet’s car when he was leaving—I was in the undergrowth near and could hear well. They were talking English. The Soviet said, Thanks for the information and the offer. The Khan said, Then we have an agreement? Everything, Patar? The Soviet said, Yes I’ll recommend everything you want. I’ll see the pilot never bothers you again. When he’s finished here he’ll be brought north. . .’ Gueng stopped as the air hissed out of Azadeh’s mouth. ‘Yes, memsahib?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Gueng concentrated, wanting to get it perfect for them: ‘The Soviet said: I’ll see that the pilot never bothers you again. When he’s finished here he’ll be brought north, permanently. Then. . .’ He thought a moment. ‘Ah, yes! Then he said, the mullah won’t trouble you again and in return you’ll catch the British saboteurs for me? Alive, I’d like them alive if possible. The Khan said, Yes, I’ll catch them, Patar, Do y—’

  ‘Petr,’ Azadeh said, her hand on Erikki’s shoulder. ‘His name was Petr Mzytryk.’

  ‘Christ!’ Ross muttered as it fell into place.

  ‘What?’ Erikki said.

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Finish, Gueng.’

  ‘Yes, sahib. The Khan said, I’ll catch them, Patar, alive if I can. What’s my favour if they’re alive? The Soviet laughed. Anything, within reason, and mine? The Khan said, I’ll bring her with me on my next visit. Sahib, that was all. Then the Soviet got into his car and left.’

  Azadeh shuddered.

  ‘What?’ Erikki said.

  ‘He means me,’ she said, her voice small.

  Ross said, ‘I don’t follow.’

  Erikki hesitated, the tightness in his head greater than before. She had told him about being summoned for lunch by her father, and about Petr Mzytryk inviting her to Tbilisi—‘and your husband, of course, if he’s free, I would love to show you our countryside. . .’ and how attentive the Soviet had been. ‘It’s. . . it’s personal. Not important,’ he said. ‘It seems you’ve done me a big favour. How can I help?’ He smiled tiredly and stuck out his hand. ‘My name’s Yokkonen, Erikki Yokkonen and this is my wife, Az—’

  ‘Sahib!’ Gueng hissed warningly.

  Ross jerked to a stop. Now he saw Erikki’s other hand was under the pillow. ‘Don’t move a muscle,’ he said, kukri suddenly out of its scabbard. Erikki recognised the tone and obeyed. Cautiously Ross moved the pillow aside but the hand was not near the knife. He picked the knife up. The blade glinted in the shaft of moonlight. He thought a moment, then handed it back to Erikki, haft first. ‘Sorry, but it’s better to be safe.’ He shook the outstretched hand that had never wavered and felt the enormous strength. He smiled at him and turned slightly, the light now on his face for the first time. ‘My name’s Ross, Captain John Ross, and this’s Gueng. . .’

  Azadeh gasped and jerked upright. They all looked at her and now Ross saw her clearly for the first time. It was Azadeh, his Azadeh of ten years ago, Azadeh Gorden as he had known her then, Azadeh Gorden of the High Country staring up at him, more beautiful than ever, eyes bigger than ever, still heaven sent. ‘My God, Azadeh, I didn’t see your face. . .’

  ‘Nor I yours, Johnny.’

  ‘Azadeh. . . good God,’ Ross stammered. He was beaming and so was she, and then he heard Erikki and looked down and saw him staring up at him, the great knife in his fist, and a shaft of fear rushed through him and through her.

  ‘You’re “Johnny Brighteyes”?’ Erikki said it flat.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m. . . I had the privilege of knowing your wife years ago, many years ago. . . Good Lord, Azadeh, how wonderful to see you!’

  ‘And you. . .’ Her hand had not left Erikki’s shoulder.

  Erikki could feel her hand and it was burning him but he did not move, mesmerised by the man in front of him. She had told him about John Ross and about their summer and the result of the summer, that the man had not known about the almost child, nor had she ever tried to find him to tell him, nor did she want him ever to know. ‘The fault was mine, Erikki, not his,’ she had told him simply. ‘I was in love, I was just a few days seventeen and he nineteen—Johnny Brighteyes I called him; I had never seen a man with such blue eyes before. We were deeply in love but it was only a summer love, not like ours which is for ever, mine is, and yes, I will marry you if Father will allow it, oh yes, please God, but only if you can live happily with knowing that once upon a time, long long ago, I was growing up. You must promise me, swear to me you can be happy as a man and a husband for perhaps one day we will meet him—I will be happy to meet him and will smile at him but my soul will be yours, my body yours, my life yours, and all that I have. . .’

  He had sworn as she had wished, truly and with all his soul, happily brushing aside her concern. He was modern and understanding and Finnish—wasn’t Finland always progressive, hadn’t Finland been the second country on earth after New Zealand to give women the vote? There was no worry in him. None. He was only sad for her that she had not been careful, for she had told him of her father’s anger—an anger he could understand.

  And now here was the man, fine and strong and young, far nearer her size than he, nearer her age than he. Jealousy ripped him apart.

  Ross was trying to collect his wits, her presence possessing him. He pulled his eyes off her and the memory of her and looked back at Erikki. He read his eyes c
learly. ‘A long time ago I knew your wife, in Switzerland at. . . I was at school there for a short time.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Erikki said. ‘Azadeh told me about you. I’m. . . I’m. . . it’s a. . . it’s a sudden meeting for all of us.’ He got out of bed, towering over Ross, the knife still in his hand, all of them aware of the knife. Gueng on the other side of the bed still had his kukri out. ‘So. Again, Captain, again thanks for the warning.’

  ‘You said you’re being forced to fly the Soviets?’

  ‘Azadeh’s hostage, for my good behaviour,’ Erikki said simply.

  Thoughtfully Ross nodded. ‘Not much you can do about that if the Khan’s hostile. Christ, that’s a mess! My thought was that as you were threatened too, you’d want to escape too and that you’d give us a ride in the chopper.’

  ‘If I could I would, yes. . . yes, of course. But I’ve twenty guards on me all the time I’m flying and Azadeh. . . my wife and I are watched very closely when we’re here. There’s another Soviet called Cimtarga who’s like my shadow, and Abdollah Khan’s. . . very careful.’ He had not yet decided what to do about this man Ross. He glanced at Azadeh and saw that her smile was true, her touch on his shoulder true, and that clearly this man meant nothing more than an old friend to her now. But this did not take away his almost blinding urge to run amok. He made himself smile at her. ‘We must be careful, Azadeh.’

  ‘Very.’ She had felt the surge under her hand when he had said ‘Johnny Brighteyes’ and knew that, of the three of them, only she could control this added danger. At the same time, Erikki’s jealousy that he sought so hard to hide excited her, as did the open admiration of her long-lost love. Oh, yes, she thought, Johnny Brighteyes, you are more wonderful than ever, slimmer than ever, stronger than ever—more exciting, with your curved knife and unshaven face and filthy clothes and man smell—how could I not have recognised you? ‘A moment ago when I corrected this man’s “Patar” to “Petr” it meant something to you, Johnny. What?’