Escape

by James Clavell

  At the roadblock Ross joined the line of those leaving Tabriz. He noticed police standing around with the Green Bands, watching the people. The people were irritable, hating any authority as always and any infringement of their right to go where and how and when they pleased. Many were openly angry and a few almost came to blows. ‘You,’ a Green Band said to him, ‘where are your papers?’

  Angrily Ross spat on the ground. ‘Papers? My house is burned, my wife burned, and my child burned by leftist dogs. I have nothing left but this gun and some ammunition. God’s will—but why don’t you go and burn Satanists and do the work of God instead of stopping honest men?’

  ‘We’re honest!’ the man said angrily. ‘We’re doing the Work of God. Where do you come from?’

  ‘Astara. Astara on the coast.’ He let the anger come out. ‘Astara. And you?’

  The next man in line and the one behind him began cursing and telling the Green Band to hurry up and not cause them to wait around in the cold. A policeman was edging over towards them, so Ross decided to chance it and he shoved past with another curse, the man behind followed, and the next and now they were out in the open. The Green Band sullenly shouted an obscenity after them, then went back to watching others file through.

  It took Ross a little while to breathe easier. He tried not to hurry and his eyes searched ahead. No sign of Azadeh. Cars and trucks were passing now, grinding up the incline or coming down too fast, people scattering from time to time with the inevitable stream of curses. The man who had been behind him at the roadblock came up alongside, pedestrians thinning out now, turning off into the side paths that led to hovels beside the road or to villages within the forest. He was a middle-aged man with a lined, very strong face, poorly dressed, his rifle well serviced. ‘That Green Band son of a dog,’ he said with a thick accent. ‘You’re right, agha, they should be doing God’s work, the Imam’s work, not Abdollah Khan’s.’

  Ross was instantly on guard. ‘Who?’

  ‘I come from Astara and from your accent I know you don’t come from Astara, agha. Astaris never piss towards Mecca or with their backs to Mecca—we’re all good Muslims in Astara. From your description you must be the saboteur the Khan’s put a price on.’ The man’s voice was easy, curiously friendly, the old Enfield rifle over his shoulder.

  Ross said nothing, just grunted, not changing his pace.

  ‘Yes, the Khan’s put a good price on your head. Many horses, a herd of sheep, ten or more camels. A Shah’s ransom to ordinary folk. The ransom’s better for alive than dead—more horses and sheep and camels then, enough to live for ever. But where’s the woman Azadeh, his daughter, the daughter that you kidnapped, you and another man?’

  Ross gaped at him and the man chuckled. ‘You must be very tired to give yourself away so easily.’ Abruptly the face hardened, his hand went into the pocket of his old jacket, pulled out a revolver and shoved it into Ross’s side. ‘Walk ahead of me a pace, don’t run or do anything or I shall just shoot you in the spine. Now where’s the woman—there’s a reward for her too.’

  At that moment a truck coming down from the pass careened around the bend ahead, lurched to the wrong side of the road, and charged them, hooting loudly. People scattered. Ross’s reflexes were faster and he sidestepped, shoved his shoulder into the man’s side and sent him reeling into the truck’s path. The truck’s front wheels went over the man and the back wheels. The truck skidded to a stop a hundred feet below.

  ‘God protect us, did you see that?’ someone said. ‘He lurched into the truck.’

  Ross dragged the body out of the road. The revolver had vanished into the snow.

  ‘Ah, is the sacrifice of God your father, agha?’ an old woman said.

  ‘No. . . no,’ Ross said with difficulty, everything so fast, in panic. ‘I. . . he’s a stranger. I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘By the Prophet, how careless walkers are! Have they no eyes? Is he dead?’ the truck driver called out, coming back up the hill. He was a rough, bearded, swarthy man. ‘God witness that he moved into my path as all could see! You,’ he said to Ross, ‘you were beside him, you must have seen it.’

  ‘Yes. . . yes, it is as you say. I was behind him.’

  ‘As God wants.’ The trucker went off happily, everything correct and finished. ‘His Excellency saw it. Insha’Allah!’

  Ross pushed away through the few who had bothered to stop and walked up the hill, not fast, not slow, trying to get himself together, not daring to look back. Around the bend in the road, he quickened his pace, wondering if it was right to react so quickly—almost without thought. But the man would have sold her and sold them. Put him away, karma is karma. Another bend and still no Azadeh. His anxiety increased.

  Here the road was twisting, the grade steep. He passed a few hovels half hidden in the forest verge. Mangy dogs were scavenging. The few that came near him he cursed away, rabies usually rampant among them. Another bend, sweat pouring off him, and there she was squatting beside the road, resting like any of a dozen other old crones. She saw him at the same moment, shook her head cautioning him, got up, and started off up the road again. He fell into place twenty yards behind her. Then there was firing below them. With everyone else, they stopped and looked back. They could see nothing. The roadblock was far behind, around many corners, half a mile or more away. In a moment the firing ceased. No one said anything, just began climbing more hurriedly.

  The road was not good. They walked on for a mile or so, stepping aside for traffic. Occasionally a bus groaned past but always overloaded and none would stop. These days you could wait a day or two even at a correct stop before there was space. Trucks sometimes would stop. For payment.

  Later one chugged past him and as it came alongside Azadeh, it slowed to her pace. ‘Why walk when those who are tired can ride with the help of Cyrus the trucker—and God,’ the driver called out, leering at her, nudging his companion, a dark-bearded man of his own age. They had been watching her for some time, watching the sway of her hips that not even a chador could hide. ‘Why should a flower of God walk when she could be warm in a truck or on a man’s carpet?’

  She looked up at him and gave him a gutter curse and called back to Ross, ‘Husband, this leprous son of a dog dared to insult me and made lewd remarks against the laws of God. . .’ Ross was already alongside her, and the driver found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. ‘Excellency. . . I was asking if. . . if you and she would. . . would like to ride,’ the driver said in panic. ‘There’s room in the back. . . if his Excellency would honour my vehicle. . .’

  The truck was half-filled with scrap iron, but it would be better than walking. ‘On your head, driver, where do you go?’

  ‘To Qazvin, Excellency, Qazvin. Would you honour us?’

  The truck did not stop but it was easy for Ross to help her climb up over the tailgate. Together they ducked down out of the wind. Her legs were shaking and she was chilled and very nervous. He reached out and put his arms around her and held her.

  ‘Oh, Johnny, if you hadn’t been there. . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry.’ He gave her of his warmth. Qazvin, Qazvin? Isn’t that halfway to Tehran? Of course it is! We’ll stick with the truck until Qazvin, he told himself, gathering strength. Then we can get another ride, or find a bus, or steal a car, that’s what we’ll do.

  ‘The turnoff to the base is two or three miles ahead,’ she said, shivering in his arms. ‘To the right.’

  Base? Ah, yes, the base. And Erikki. But more important, what about Gueng? What about Gueng? Get your mind working. What are you going to do?

  ‘What’s the. . . what’s the land like there, open and flat or a ravine or what?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s fairly flat. Our village is soon, Abu Mard. We pass our village, then shortly afterwards, the land flattens into a kind of a wooded plateau where our own road is. Then the main road cli
mbs again up to the pass.’

  Ahead he could see the road curling away, occasionally coming into view as it wound precariously along the mountainside. ‘We’ll get off the other side of the village, before the flat, circle through the forest, and get to the base. That possible?’

  ‘Yes. I know the country very well. I. . . I taught in the village school and used to take the children for. . . for walks. I know the paths.’ Again she trembled.

  ‘Keep down out of the wind. You’ll soon be warm.’

  The old truck was labouring on the incline not much faster than walking but better than walking. He kept his arm around her and in time she stopped trembling. Over their tailgate, he noticed a car overtaking them fast, gears shrieking, followed by a mottled green half truck. The driver of the car kept his hand on the horn. There was nowhere for their truck to pull over, so the car swung over to the wrong side of the road and charged ahead. Hope you bloody kill yourself, he thought, angered by the noise and the incredible stupidity. Idly he had noticed that it had been filled with armed men. So was the following half truck though all these men stood in the back, hanging on to metal stanchions, the tailgate down and banging wildly. As it roared past, he caught a glimpse of a body slumped under their feet. At first he thought it was the old man. But it wasn’t. It was Gueng. No mistaking the remains of the uniform. Or the kukri one of the men had stuck in his belt.

  ‘What is it, Johnny?’

  He found himself beside her, not feeling her or anything, only that he had failed the second of his men. His eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘What is it, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just the wind.’ He brushed the tears away, then knelt and looked ahead. Curling away, the road disappeared and appeared again. So did the car and half truck. He could see the village now. Beyond it the road climbed again, then flattened, just as she had said. The car and half truck went through the village full tilt. In his pocket were his small but very powerful binoculars. Steadying himself against the rocking of the truck, he focused on the car. Once the car came up on to the flat it speeded up, then turned right on to the side road to the base and disappeared. When the half truck reached the intersection it stopped, blocking most of the road outward bound. Half a dozen of the men jumped down, spread out across the road and stood facing Tabriz. Then, the half truck turned right and vanished after the car.

  Their truck slowed as the driver shifted noisily into bottom gear. Just ahead was a short, steeper grade, a path nearby, no pedestrians on this section of road. ‘Where does that go, Azadeh?’

  She got on to her knees and looked where he pointed. ‘Towards Abu Mard, our village,’ she said. ‘It wanders this way and that but that’s where it ends.’

  ‘Get ready to jump out—there’s another roadblock ahead.’

  At the right moment he slipped over the side, helped her down, and they scrambled into hiding. The truck did not stop nor the driver look around. Soon it was well away. Hand in hand, they fled into the trees.

  Chapter 12

  At Tehran Airport: 6:40 P.M. McIver watched Talbot and Andrew Gavallan through his office window. Gavallan was a big, imposing man and had just arrived from Al Shargaz in the 125 for an urgent conference.

  He saw Talbot drive off. Gavallan stalked back into the office that was well staffed today. Not back to normal yet but getting there—radio op, telex op, office manager, stores men and no women. ‘Mac, let’s take a walk.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, seeing the gravity.

  They had had no time to talk privately yet.

  The two men went out on to the freight apron. A JAL jumbo roared into the sky. ‘They say there’re still a thousand Japanese techs kicking their heels at Iran-Toda,’ McIver said absently.

  ‘Their consortium’s taking a hell of a beating. Today’s Financial Times said their override’s already half a billion dollars, no way they can get finished this year and no way to pull out—that and the world shipping glut must be hurting Toda badly.’ Gavallan saw there was no one near. ‘At least our capital investment’s mobile, Mac, most of it.’

  McIver looked up at him, seeing the craggy face, grey bushy eyebrows, brown eyes. ‘That’s the reason for “imperative conference”?’

  ‘One of them,’ Gavallan said. ‘Talbot told me, following the advice of our fellow board member, Ali Kia, they intend nationalising all foreign aircraft companies, particularly ours. That means we lose the lot—unless we do something about it. Genny’s right, you know. We’ve got to do it ourselves.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s possible. Did she tell you that?’

  ‘Of course, but I think we can. Try this on for size: say today’s Day One. All non-essential personnel begin to quit Iran for reassignment or on leave; we get out all the spares we can—either by our 125 or on regular airlines when they start up again—as obsolete, redundant, for repair or as personal baggage. Zagros Three retreats to Kowiss, Tabriz closes “temporarily” and Erikki’s 212 goes to Al Shargaz, then to Nigeria along with Tom Lochart from Zagros, and one 212 from Kowiss. You close HQ in Tehran and relocate at Al Shargaz to run operations and control our three remaining bases of Lengeh, Kowiss and Bandar-e Delam “pending return to normality” from there—we’re all still under our government orders to evacuate all nonessential personnel.’

  ‘Right, but th—‘

  ‘Let me finish, laddie. Say we can do the prep and planning and all that in thirty days. Day Thirty-one’s D-day. At an exact time on D-day—or D plus One or Two depending on weather or Christ knows what—we radio a code word from Al Shargaz. Simultaneously all remaining pilots and choppers take off, head across the Gulf for Al Shargaz. There we remove the rotors, stow the choppers into 747 freighters I’ve chartered from somewhere, they’ll fly to Aberdeen and Bob’s your bloody uncle,’ Gavallan ended with a beam.

  McIver stared at him blankly. ‘You’re crazy! You’re stark raving bonkers, Chinaboy. It’s got so many holes in it. . . you’re bonkers.’

  ‘Name one hole.’

  ‘I can give you fifty, firs—’

  ‘One at a time, laddie, and remember your bloody pressure. How is it by the way—Genny asked me to ask?’

  ‘Fine, and don’t you bloody start. First, the same takeoff time: choppers from the different bases’ll take vastly different times because of the distances they have to go. Kowiss’ll have to refuel—can’t make it in one hop, even across the Gulf.’

  ‘I know that. We make separate subplans for each of the three bases. Each base commander makes his own plan how to get out—we’ll take over on arrival. Scrag can zip across the Gulf easy, so can Rudi from Bandar-e De—’

  ‘He can’t. Neither Rudi from Bandar-e Delam nor Starke from Kowiss can make it in one hop all along the Gulf to Al Shargaz—even if they can get across the Gulf in the first place. They’ll have to go through Kuwait, Saudi and Emirate airspace and God only knows if they’d impound us, jail, or fine us—Al Shargaz too, no reason why they should be any different.’ McIver shook his head. ‘The Sheikdoms can’t do anything without proper Iranian clearances—rightly they’re all scared fartless Khomeini’s revolution’ll spread to them, they’ve all got big Shi’a minorities, they’re no match for Iranian Navy, Army and Air Force if he decides to get mean.’

  ‘One point at a time,’ Gavallan said calmly. ‘You’re right about Rudi and Starke’s planes, Mac. But say they have permission to fly through all those territories?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I telexed all Gulf ATC’s individually for permission and I’ve got telex confirms that S-G choppers in transit can go through.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But one point at a time, laddie. Next, say all our planes were back on British registry—they are British, they are our planes, we’re paying for them, we own them whatever the partners try to pull. On British registry they’re not subject to Iran or anything to do
with them. Right?’

  ‘Once they’re out, yes, but you won’t get Iran Civil Aviation Authority to agree to the transfer, therefore you can’t get them back to British.’

  ‘Say I could get them on to British registry regardless.’

  ‘How in the hell would you do that?’

  ‘Ask. You ask, laddie, you ask the registry lads in London to do it. In fact I did before I left London. “Things are kind of ropey in Iran,” says I. “Totally snafu, old boy, yes,” says they. “I’d like you to put my birds back on British registry, temporarily,” says I, “I may bring them out until the situation normalises—of course, the powers that be in Iran’d approve but I can’t get a bloody piece of paper signed there at the moment, you know how it is.” “Certainly, old boy,” says they, “same with our bloody government—any bloody government. Well, they are your kites, no doubt about that, it’s a tiny bit irregular but I imagine it might be all right. Are you going to the Old Boys’ beer-up?” ’

  McIver had stopped walking and stared at him in wonder. ‘They agreed?’

  ‘Not yet, laddie. Next?’

  ‘I’ve got a hundred “nexts” but!’ Irritably McIver started walking again, too cold to stand still.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But if I give them one at a time, you’ll give me an answer—and a possible solution but they still won’t all add up.’

  ‘I agree with Genny, we have to do it ourselves.’

  ‘Maybe, but it has to be feasible. Another thing: we’ve permission to take three 212s out, maybe we could get out the rest.’

  ‘The three aren’t out yet, Mac. The partners, let alone ICAA, won’t let us out of their grasp. Look at Guerney—all their choppers are impounded. Forty-eight, including all their 212s—maybe 30 million dollars rotting, they can’t even service them.’ They glanced at the runway. An RAF Hercules was landing. Gavallan watched it. ‘Talbot told me by the end of the week all British Army, Navy and Air Force technicians and training personnel’ll be out and at the embassy they’ll be down to three, including him. It seems that in the fracas at the U.S. embassy—someone sneaked in under cover of it, blew open safes, grabbed ciphers. . .’