Escape

by James Clavell

  ‘Sorry, yes, I’m not thinking too clearly.’

  ‘You’re all right? I mean your health?’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine, if I get rid of this cough. . . It’s just that. . . it’s just that I’m afraid.’ McIver said it flat but the admission spiked through Gavallan. ‘I’m out of control, I’ve already lost one man, old Erikki’s in danger, we’re all in danger, S-G and everything we’ve worked for.’ He fiddled with the wheel. ‘Gen’s fine?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she is,’ Gavallan said patiently. This was the second time he had answered that question. McIver had asked him the moment he had come down the steps of the 125. ‘Genny’s fine, Mac,’ he said, repeating what he had said earlier, ‘I’ve mail from her, she’s talked to both Hamish and Sarah, both families’re fine and young Angus has his first tooth. Everyone’s well at home, all in good shape and I’ve a bottle of Loch Vay in my briefcase from her. She tried to talk her way past Johnny Hogg on to the 125—to stowaway in the loo—even after I’d said no, so sorry.’ For the first time he saw a glimmer of a smile on McIver.

  ‘Gen’s bloody-minded, no doubt about it. Glad she’s there and not here, very glad, curious though how you miss ‘em.’ McIver stared ahead. ‘Thanks, Andy.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Gavallan thought a moment. ‘Let’s go into Tehran—do we have time?’ Gavallan glanced at his watch. It read 12:25.

  ‘Oh, yes. We’ve got a load of “redundant” stores to put aboard. We’ll have time if we leave now.’

  ‘Good. I’d like to see Azadeh and Nogger—and this man Ross—and particularly Talbot. We could go past the Bakravan house on the off chance. Eh?’

  ‘Good idea. I’m glad you’re here, Andy, very glad.’ He eased in the clutch, the wheels skidding.

  ‘So’m I, Mac. Actually I’ve never been so down either,’ Gavallan said. Inside he was churning. ‘What about Whirlwind?’ he asked, not able to bottle it up any longer.

  ‘Well, whether it’s seven days or seventy. . .’ McIver swerved to avoid another accident neatly, returned the obscene gesture, and drove on again. ‘Let’s pretend we’re all agreed, and we could push the button if we wanted on D-day, in seven days—no, Talbot said best not to count on more than a week so let’s make it six, six days from today, Friday next—a Friday’d be best anyway, right?’

  ‘Because it’s their Holy Day, yes, my thought too.’

  ‘Then adapting what we’ve come up with—Charlie and me: Phase One: From today on we send out every expat and spare we can, every way we can, by the 125, by truck out to Iraq or Turkey, or as baggage and excess baggage by BA. Somehow I’ll get Bill Shoesmith to increase our seat reservations and get priority of freight space. We’ve already got two of our 212s out “for repair” and the Zagros one’s due off tomorrow. We’ve five birds left here in Tehran, one 212, two 206s and two Alouettes. We send the 212 and the Alouettes to Kowiss ostensibly to service Hotshot’s request for choppers though why he wants them, God only knows—Duke says his birds are not all employed as it is. Anyway, we leave our 206s here as camouflage.’

  ‘Leave them?’

  ‘There’s no way we get all our choppers out, Andy, whatever our lead time. Now, D minus Two, next Wednesday, the last of our headquarter staff—Charlie, Nogger, our remaining pilots and mechanics and me—we get on the 125 Wednesday and flit the coop to Al Shargaz, unless of course we can get some of them out beforehand by BA. Don’t forget we’re supposed to be up to strength, one in for one out. Next we th—’

  ‘What about papers, exit permits?’

  ‘I’ll try to get blanks from Ali Kia—I’ll need some blank Swiss cheques, he understands pishkesh but he’s also a member of the board, very clever, hot and hungry but not anxious to risk his skin. If we can’t, then we’ll just pishkesh our way on to the 125. Our excuse to the partners, Kia or whomever, when they discover we’ve gone is that you’ve called an urgent conference at Al Shargaz—it’s a lame excuse but that’s beside the point. That ends Phase One. If we’re prevented from going then that ends Whirlwind because we’d be used as hostages for the return of all birds and I know you won’t agree to expend us. Phase Two: we set up sh—’

  ‘What about all your household things? And all those of the chaps who have apartments or houses in Tehran?’

  ‘The company’ll have to pay fair compensation—that should be part of Whirlwind’s profit and loss. Agreed?’

  ‘What’ll that add up to, Mac?’

  ‘Not a lot. We’ve no option but to pay compensation.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I agree.’

  ‘Phase Two: We set up shop at Al Shargaz by which time several things have happened. You’ve arranged for the 747 jumbo freighters to arrive at Al Shargaz the afternoon of D minus One. By then, Starke somehow has secretly cached enough 40 gallon drums on the shore to carry them across the Gulf. Someone else’s cached more fuel on some godforsaken island off Saudi or the Emirates for Starke if he needs them, and for Rudi and his lads from Bandar-e Delam who definitely will. Scrag has no fuel problems. Meanwhile, you’ve arranged British registry for all birds we plan to “export”, and you’ve got permission to fly through Kuwait, Saudi and Emirate airspace. I’m in charge of Whirlwind’s actual operation. At dawn on D-day you say to me, go or no-go. If it’s no-go, that’s final. If it’s go, I can abort the go order if I think it’s prudent, then that becomes final too. Agreed?’

  ‘With two provisos, Mac: you consult with me before you abort, as I’ll consult with you before go or no-go, and second, if we can’t make D-day we try again D plus one and D plus two.’

  ‘All right.’ McIver took a deep breath. ‘Phase Three: at dawn on D-day, or D plus One or D plus Two—three days is the maximum I think we could sweat out—we radio a code message which says “Go!” The three bases acknowledge and at once all escaping birds get airborne and head for Al Shargaz. There’s likely to be a four-hour difference between Scrag’s arrivals and the last ones, probably Starke’s—if everything goes well. The moment the birds land anywhere outside Iran we replace the Iranian registry numbers with British ones and that makes us partially legal. The moment they land at Al Shargaz the 747s are loaded, and then take off into the wild blue with everyone aboard.’ McIver exhaled. ‘Simple.’

  Gavallan did not reply at once, sifting the plan, seeing the holes—the vast expanse of dangers. ‘It’s good, Mac.’

  ‘It isn’t, Andy, it isn’t good at all.’

  At McIver’s Apartment: 4:20 P.M. Ross said, ‘I don’t know, Mr Gavallan, I don’t remember much after I left Azadeh on the hill and went into the base, more or less up to the time we got here.’ He was wearing one of Pettikin’s uniform shirts and a black sweater and black trousers and black shoes and was shaved and neat, but his faced showed his utter exhaustion. ‘But before that, everything happened as. . . as I told you.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Gavallan said. ‘But thank God for you, Captain. But for you the others’d be dead. Without you they’d all be lost. Let’s have a drink, it’s so damned cold. We’ve some whisky.’ He motioned to Pettikin. ‘Charlie?’

  Pettikin went to the sideboard. ‘Sure, Andy.’

  ‘I won’t, thanks, Mr McIver,’ Ross said.

  ‘I’m afraid I will and the sun’s not over the yardarm,’ McIver said.

  ‘So will I,’ Gavallan said. The two of them had arrived not long ago, still worried because at Sharazad’s house they had used the iron door knocker again and again but to no avail. Then they had come here. Ross, dozing on the sofa, had almost leaped out of sleep when the front door opened, kukri threateningly in his hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ he had said shakily, sheathing the weapon.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Gavallan had pretended, not over his fright. ‘I’m Andrew Gavallan. Hi, Charlie! Where’s Azadeh?’

  ‘She’s still asleep in the spare bedroom,’ Pettikin answered.

  ‘Sorry to make you jump,’ Gavalla
n had said. ‘What happened, Captain, at Tabriz?’

  So Ross had told them, disjointedly, jumping back and forth until he had finished. Exploding out of heavy sleep had creased him. His head ached, everything ached, but he was glad to be telling what had happened, reconstructing everything, gradually filling in the blank parts, putting the pieces into place. Except Azadeh. No, I can’t put her in place yet.

  This morning when he had come out of a malevolent wake-sleep dream he had been terrified, everything mixed up, jet engines and guns and stones and explosions and cold, and staring at his hands to make sure what was dream and what was real. Then he had seen a man peering at him and had cried out, ‘Where’s Azadeh?’

  ‘She’s still asleep, Captain Ross, she’s in the spare room down the hall,’ Pettikin had told him, calming him. ‘Remember me? Charlie Pettikin—Doshan Tappeh?’

  Searching his memory. Things coming back slowly, hideous things. Big blanks, very big. Doshan Tappeh? What about Doshan Tappeh? Going there to hitch a chopper ride and. . . ‘Ah yes, Captain, how are you? Good to. . . to see you. She’s asleep?’

  ‘Yes, like a baby.’

  ‘Best thing, best thing for her to sleep,’ he had said, his brain still not working easily.

  ‘First a cuppa. Then a bath and shave and I’ll fix you up with some clothes and shaving gear. You’re about my size. You hungry? We’ve eggs and some bread, the bread’s a bit stale.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, no, no I’m not hungry—you’re very kind.’

  ‘I owe you one—no, at least ten. I’m damned pleased to see you. Listen, much as I’d like to know what happened. . . well, McIver’s gone to the airport to pick up our boss, Andy Gavallan. They’ll be back shortly, you’ll have to tell them so I can find out then—so no questions till then, you must be exhausted.’

  ‘Thanks, yes it’s. . . it’s still all a bit. . . I can remember leaving Azadeh on the hill, then almost nothing, just flashes, dreamlike, until I woke a moment ago. How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘You’ve been out for about sixteen hours. We, that’s Nogger and our two mecs, half-carried you both in here and then you both passed out. We put you and Azadeh to bed like babies—Mac and I. We undressed you, washed part of the muck off, carried you to bed—not too gently by the way—but you never woke up, either of you.’

  ‘She’s all right? Azadeh?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I checked her a couple of times but she’s still flat out. What did. . . sorry, no questions! First a shave and bath. ‘Fraid the water’s barely warm but I’ve put the electric heater in the bathroom, it’s not too bad. . .’

  Now Ross was watching Pettikin who was handing the whisky to McIver and to Gavallan. ‘Sure you won’t, Captain?’

  ‘No, no thanks.’ Without noticing it he felt his right wrist and rubbed it. His energy level was ebbing fast. Gavallan saw the man’s tiredness and knew there was not much time. ‘About Erikki. You can’t remember anything else to give us an idea where he might be?’

  ‘Not any more than I’ve told you. Azadeh may be able to help—the Soviet’s name was something like Certaga, the man Erikki was forced to work with up by the border—as I said they were using her as a threat and there was some complication about her father and a trip they were going to make together—sorry, I can’t remember exactly. The other man, the one who was friends with Abdollah Khan was called Mzytryk, Petr Oleg.’ That reminded Ross about Vien Rosemont’s code message for the Khan, but he decided that was none of Gavallan’s business, nor about all the killing, nor about shoving the old man in front of the truck on the hill, nor that one day he would go back to the village and hack off the head of the butcher and the kalandar who, but for the grace of God or the spirits of the High Land, would have stoned her and mutilated him. He would do that after the debriefing when he saw Talbot, or the American colonel, but before that he would ask them who had betrayed the operation at Mecca. Someone had. For a moment the thought of Rosemont and Tenzing and Gueng blinded him. When the mist cleared, he saw the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I have to go to a building near the British embassy. Is that far from here?’

  ‘No, we could take you if you like.’ Gavallan glanced at McIver. ‘Mac, let’s go now. . . perhaps I can catch Talbot. We’ll still have time to come back to see Azadeh, and Nogger if he’s here.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Could that be now? Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll pass out again if I don’t get with it.’

  Gavallan got up and put on his heavy coat.

  Pettikin said to Ross, ‘I’ll lend you a coat and some gloves.’ He saw his eyes stray down the corridor. ‘Would you like me to wake Azadeh?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll. . . I’ll just look in.’

  ‘It’s the second door on the left.’

  They watched him go along the corridor, his walk noiseless and catlike, open the door silently and stand there a moment and close it again. He collected his assault rifle and the two kukris, his and Gueng’s. He thought a moment, then put his on the mantelpiece.

  ‘In case I don’t get back,’ he said, ‘tell her this’s a gift, a gift for Erikki. For Erikki and her.’

  At the Palace of the Khan: 5:19 P.M. The kalandar of Abu Mard was on his knees and petrified. ‘No, no, Highness, I swear it was the mullah Mahmud who told us—’

  ‘He’s not a real mullah, you son of a dog, everyone knows that! By God, you. . . you were going to stone my daughter?’ the Khan shrieked, his face mottled, his breath coming in great pants. ‘You decided? You decided you were going to stone my daughter?’

  ‘It was him, Highness,’ the kalandar whispered, ‘it was the mullah who decided after questioning her and her admitting adultery with the saboteur. . .’

  ‘You son of a dog! You aided and abetted that false mullah. . . Liar! Ahmed told me what happened!’ The Khan propped himself on his bed pillows, a guard behind him, Ahmed and other guards close to the kalandar in front of him, Najoud, his eldest daughter, and Aysha, his young wife, seated to one side trying to hide their terror at his rage and petrified that he would turn on them. Kneeling beside the door still in his travel-stained clothes and filled with dread was Hakim, Azadeh’s brother, who had just arrived, rushed here under guard in response to the Khan’s summons, and who had listened with equal rage to Ahmed relating what had happened at the village.

  ‘You son of a dog,’ the Khan shouted again, his mouth salivating. ‘You let. . . you let the dog of a saboteur escape. . . you let him drag my daughter off with him. . . you harbour the saboteur and then. . . then you dare to judge one of my—MY—family and would stone. . . without seeking my—MY—approval?’

  ‘It was the mullah. . .’ the kalandar cried out, repeating it again and again.

  ‘Shut him up!’

  Ahmed hit him hard on one of his ears, momentarily stunning him. Then dragged him roughly back on to his knees and hissed, ‘Say one more word and I’ll cut your tongue out.’

  The Khan was trying to catch his breath. ‘Aysha, give me. . . give me one of those. . . those pills. . .’ She scurried over, still on her knees, opened the bottle and put a pill into his mouth and wiped it for him. The Khan kept the pill under his tongue as the doctor had told him and in a moment the spasm passed, the thundering in his ears lessened and the room stopped weaving. His bloodshot eyes went back on to the old man who was whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. ‘You son of a dog! So you dare to bite the hand that owns you—you, your butcher and your festering village? Ibrim,’ the Khan said to one of the guards, ‘take him back to Abu Mard and stone him, have the villagers stone him, stone him, then cut off the hands of the butcher.’

  Ibrim and another guard pulled the howling man to his feet, smashed him into silence and opened the door, stopped as Hakim said harshly, ‘Then burn the village!’

  The Khan looked at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, then burn the village,’ he echoed and kept his eyes on H
akim who looked back at him, trying to be brave. The door closed and now the quiet heightened, broken only by Abdollah’s breathing. ‘Najoud, Aysha, leave!’ he said.

  Najoud hesitated, wanting to stay, wanting to hear sentence pronounced on Hakim, gloating that Azadeh had been caught in her adultery and was therefore due punishment whenever she was recaptured. Good, good, good. With Azadeh they both perish, Hakim and the Redhead of the Knife. ‘I will be within instant call, Highness,’ she said.

  ‘You can go back to your quarters. Aysha—you wait at the end of the corridor.’ Both women left. Ahmed closed the door contentedly, everything going as planned. The other two guards waited in silence.

  The Khan shifted painfully, motioning to them. ‘Wait outside. Ahmed, you stay.’ When they had gone and there were just the three of them in the big, cold room he changed his gaze back to Hakim. ‘Burn the village, you said. A good idea. But that doesn’t excuse your treachery, or your sister’s.’

  ‘Nothing excuses treachery against a father, Highness. But neither Azadeh or I have betrayed you or plotted against you.’

  ‘Liar! You heard Ahmed! She admitted fornicating with the saboteur, she admitted it.’

  ‘She admitted “loving” him, Highness, years and years ago. She swore before God she had never committed adultery or betrayed her husband. Never! In front of those dogs and sons of dogs and worse, that mullah of the Left Hand, what should the daughter of a Khan say? Didn’t she try to protect your name in front of that godless mob of shit?’

  ‘Still twisting words, still protecting the whore she became?’

  Hakim’s face went ashen. ‘Azadeh fell in love as Mother fell in love. If she’s a whore, then you whored my mother!’

  Blood surged back into the Khan’s face. ‘How dare you say such a thing!’