Escape

by James Clavell

  ‘But agha. . .’

  ‘Good-bye!’ He made sure Ali Baba had his coat, opened the door, half shoved him out, and closed it again. Nervously he glanced again at his watch. Almost noon and still no McIver and they were supposed to be at the airport by now. He went into the bedroom, reached into the cupboard for the other suitcase, also packed, then came back and put it beside the other one, near the front door.

  Two small cases and a carryall, he thought. Not much to show for all the years in Iran. Never mind, I prefer to travel light and perhaps this time I can get lucky and make more money or start a business on the side and then there’s Paula. How in the hell can I afford to get married again? Married? Are you mad? An affair’s about all you could manage. Yes, but Goddam, I’d like to marry her an—

  The phone rang and he almost jumped out of himself, so unused to its ringing. He picked it up, his heart pounding. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charlie? It’s me, Mac, thank God the bloody thing’s working, tried it on the off chance. I’ve been delayed.’

  ‘You’ve a problem?’

  ‘Don’t know, Charlie, but I’ve got to go and see Ali Kia—bastard’s sent his bloody assistant and a Green Band to fetch me.’

  ‘What the hell does Kia want?’ Outside, all over the city, muezzins began calling the Faithful to noon prayer, distracting him.

  ‘Don’t know. The appointment’s in half an hour. You’d better go on out to the airport and I’ll get there as soon as I can. Get Johnny Hogg to delay.’

  ‘Okay, Mac. What about your gear, is it in the office?’

  ‘I snuck it out early this morning while Ali Baba was snoring and it’s in Lulu’s boot. Charlie, there’s one of Genny’s needlepoints in the kitchen, “Down with cornbeef pie”. Stick it in your suitcase for me, will you? She’d have my guts for garters if I forgot that. If I’ve time I’ll come back and make sure everything’s okay.’

  ‘Do I shut the gas off, or electricity?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. Leave it, okay?’

  ‘All right. You sure you don’t want me to wait?’ he asked, the metallic, loudspeaker voices of muezzins adding to his disquiet. ‘I don’t mind waiting. Might be better, Mac.’

  ‘No, you go on out. I’ll be there right smartly. ‘Bye.’

  ‘’Bye.’ Pettikin frowned, then, having a dialling tone, he dialled their office at the airport. To his astonishment the connection went through.

  ‘Iran Helicopters, hello?’

  He recognised the voice of their freight manager. ‘Morning, Adwani, this’s Captain Pettikin. Has the 125 come in yet?’

  ‘Ah, Captain, yes it’s in the pattern and should be landing any minute.’

  ‘Is Captain Lane there?’

  ‘Yes, just a moment please. . .’

  Pettikin waited, wondering about Kia.

  ‘Hello, Charlie, Nogger here—you’ve friends in high places?’

  ‘No, the phone just started working. Can you talk privately?’

  ‘No. Not possible. What’s cooking?’

  ‘I’m still at the flat. Mac’s been delayed—he’s got to go and see Ali Kia. I’m on my way to the airport now and he’ll come directly from Kia’s office. Are you ready to load?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie, we’re sending the engines for repair and reconditioning as Captain McIver ordered. Everything as ordered.’

  ‘Good, are the two mecs there?’

  ‘Yes. But those spares are also ready for shipping.’

  ‘Good. No problem that you can see?’

  ‘Not yet, old chum.’

  ‘See you.’ Pettikin hung up. He looked around the apartment a last time, now curiously saddened. Good times and bad times but the best when Paula was staying. Out of the window he noticed distant smoke over Jaleh and now as the muezzins’ voices died away, the usual sporadic gunfire. ‘The hell with all of them,’ he muttered. He got up and went out with his luggage and locked the door carefully. As he drove out of the garage he saw Ali Baba duck back into a doorway across the road. With him were two other men he had never seen before. What the hell’s that bugger up to, he thought uneasily.

  At the Ministry of Transport: 1:07 P.M. The huge room was freezing in spite of a log fire, and Minister Ali Kia wore a heavy, expensive Astrakhan overcoat with a hat to match, and he was angry. ‘I repeat, I need transport to Kowiss tomorrow and I require you to accompany me.’

  ‘Can’t tomorrow, sorry,’ McIver said, keeping his nervousness off his face with difficulty. ‘I’d be glad to join you next week. Say Monday an—’

  ‘I’m astonished that after all the “co-operation” I’ve given you it’s necessary even to argue! Tomorrow, Captain, or. . . or I shall cancel all clearances for our 125—in fact, I’ll hold it on the ground today, impound it today pending investigations!’

  McIver was standing in front of the vast desk, Kia sitting behind it in a big carved chair that dwarfed him. ‘Could you make it today, Excellency? We’ve an Alouette to ferry to Kowiss. Captain Lochart’s leav—’

  ‘Tomorrow. Not today.’ Kia flushed even more. ‘As ranking board director you are ordered: you will come with me, we will leave at ten o’clock. Do you understand?’

  McIver nodded bleakly, trying to figure a way out of the trap. The pieces of a tentative plan fell into place. ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Where’s the helicopter?’

  ‘Doshan Tappeh. We’ll need a clearance. Unfortunately there’s a Major Delami there, along with a mullah, and both’re rather difficult, so I don’t see how we can do it.’

  Kia’s face darkened even more. ‘The PM’s given new orders about mullahs and interference with the legal government and the Imam agrees wholeheartedly. They both better behave. I will see you at ten tomorrow an—’

  At that moment there was a large explosion outside. They rushed to the window but could see only a cloud of smoke billowing into the cold sky from around the bend in the road. ‘Sounded like another car bomb,’ McIver said queasily. Over the last few days there had been a number of assassination attempts and car bomb attacks by left-wing extremists, mostly on high-ranking ayatollahs in the government.

  ‘Filthy terrorists, may God burn their fathers, and them!’ Kia was clearly frightened, which pleased McIver.

  ‘The price of fame, Minister,’ he said, his voice heavy with concern. ‘Those in high places, important people like you, are obvious targets.’

  ‘Yes. . . yes. . . we know, we know. Filthy terrorists. . .’

  McIver smiled all the way back to his car. So Kia wants to go to Kowiss. I’ll see he bloody gets to Kowiss and Whirlwind continues as planned.

  Around the corner, the main road ahead was partially blocked with debris, a car still on fire, others smouldering, and a hole in the roadbed where the parked car bomb had exploded, blowing out the front of a restaurant and the shuttered foreign bank beside it, glass from them and other shop windows scattered everywhere. Many injured, dead or dying. Agony and panic and the stink of burning rubber.

  Traffic was jammed both ways. There was nothing to do but wait. After half an hour an ambulance arrived, some Green Bands and a mullah began directing traffic. In time McIver was waved forward, cursed forward. Easing past the wreckage, all traffic enraged and blaring, he did not notice the headless body of Talbot half buried under the restaurant debris, nor recognise Ross dressed in civvies, lying half against the wall, his coat ripped, blood seeping from his nose and ears.

  At Tehran Airport: 6:05 P.M. Johnny Hogg, Pettikin and Nogger stared at McIver blankly. ‘You’re staying—you’re not leaving with us?’ Pettikin stuttered.

  ‘No. I told you,’ McIver said briskly. ‘I’ve got to accompany Kia to Kowiss tomorrow.’ They were beside his car in their car park, away from alien ears, the 125 on the apron, labourers loading the last few crates, the inevitable group of Green Band guards w
atching. And a mullah.

  ‘The mullah’s one we’ve never seen before,’ Nogger said nervously, like all of them trying to hide it.

  ‘Good. Is everyone else ready to board?’

  ‘Yes, Mac, except Jean-Luc.’ Pettikin was very unsettled. ‘Don’t you think you’d better chance leaving Kia?’

  ‘That’d really be crazy, Charlie. Nothing to worry about. You can set up everything at Al Shargaz Airport with Andy. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll get on the 125 tomorrow at Kowiss with the rest of the lads.’

  ‘But for God’s sake they’re all cleared, you’re not,’ Nogger said.

  ‘For God’s sake, Nogger, none of us’re cleared from here, for God’s sake.’ McIver added with a laugh, ‘How the hell will we be sure of our Kowiss lads until they’re airborne and out of Iran airspace? Nothing to worry about. First things first, we’ve got to get this part of the show in the air.’ He glanced at the taxi skidding to a stop. Jean-Luc got out, gave the driver the other half of the note and strolled over carrying a suitcase.

  ‘Alors, mes amis,’ he said with a contented smile. ‘Ça marche?’

  McIver sighed. ‘Jolly sporting of you to advertise you’re going on a holiday, Jean-Luc.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ McIver liked Jean-Luc, for his ability, his cooking, and single-mindedness. When Gavallan had told Jean-Luc about Whirlwind, Jean-Luc had said at once, ‘Me, I will certainly fly out one of the Kowiss 212s—providing I can be on the Wednesday flight to Tehran and go into Tehran for a couple of hours.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Mon Dieu, you Anglais! To say adieu to the Imam perhaps?’

  McIver grinned at the Frenchman. ‘How was Tehran?’

  ‘Magnifique!’ Jean-Luc grinned back, and thought, I haven’t seen Mac so young in years. Who’s the lady? ‘Et toi, mon vieux?’

  ‘Good.’ Behind him, McIver saw Jones, the co-pilot, come down the steps two at a time, heading for them. Now there were no more crates left on the tarmac and their Iranian ground crew were all strolling back to the office. ‘You all set aboard?’

  ‘All set, Captain, except for passengers,’ Jones said, matter of fact. ‘ATC’s getting itchy and says we’re overdue. Quick as you can, all right?’

  ‘You’re still cleared for a stop at Kowiss?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  McIver took a deep breath. ‘All right, here we go, just as we planned, except I’ll take the papers, Johnny.’ Johnny Hogg handed them to him and the three of them, McIver, Hogg and Jones, went ahead, straight to the mullah, hoping to distract him. By prearrangement the two mechanics were already aboard, ostensibly loaders. ‘Good day, agha,’ McIver said, and ostentatiously handed the mullah the manifest, their position blocking a direct view of the steps. Nogger, Pettikin and Jean-Luc went up them nimbly to vanish inside.

  The mullah leafed through the manifest, clearly not accustomed to it. ‘Good. Now inspect,’ he said, his accent thick.

  ‘No need for that, agha, ev—’ McIver stopped. The mullah and the two guards were already going for the steps. ‘Soon as you’re aboard, start engines, Johnny,’ he said softly and followed.

  The cabin was piled with crates, the passengers already seated, seat belts fastened. All eyes studiously avoided the mullah. The mullah stared at them. ‘Who men?’

  McIver said brightly, ‘Crews for replacements, agha.’ His excitement picked up as the engines began to howl. He motioned haphazardly at Jean-Luc. ‘Pilot for Kowiss replacement, agha,’ then more hurriedly, ‘Tower komiteh wants the aircraft to leave now. Hurry, all right?’

  ‘What in crates?’ The mullah looked at the cockpit as Johnny Hogg called out in perfect Farsi, ‘Sorry to interrupt, Excellency, as God wants, but the tower orders us to take off at once. With your permission, please?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Excellency pilot.’ The mullah smiled. ‘Your Farsi is very good, Excellency.’

  ‘Thank you, Excellency, God keep you, and His blessings on the Imam.’

  ‘Thank you, Excellency pilot, God keep you.’ The mullah left.

  On his way out McIver leaned into the cockpit. ‘What was that all about, Johnny? I didn’t know you spoke Farsi.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Hogg told him dryly—and what he had said to the mullah. ‘I just learned that phrase, thought it might come in handy.’

  McIver smiled. ‘Go to the top of the class!’ Then he dropped his voice. ‘When you get to Kowiss get Starke to arrange with Hotshot, however he can, to pull the lads’ ferry forward, early as possible in the morning. I don’t want Kia there when they take off—get ‘em out early, however he can. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’d forgotten that. Very wise.’

  ‘Have a safe flight—see you in Al Shargaz.’ From the tarmac he gave them a beaming thumbs up as they taxied away.

  The second they were airborne Nogger exploded, with a cheer, ‘We did it!’ that everyone echoed, except Jean-Luc who crossed himself superstitiously and Pettikin touched wood. ‘Merde,’ he called out. ‘Save your cheers, Nogger, you may be grounded in Kowiss. Save your cheers for Friday, too much dust to blow across the Gulf between now and then!’

  ‘Right you are, Jean-Luc,’ Pettikin said, sitting in the window seat beside him, watching the airport receding. ‘Mac was in good humour. Haven’t seen him that happy for months and he was pissed off this morning. Curious how people can change.’

  ‘Yes, curious. Me, I would be very pissed off indeed to have such a change of plan.’ Jean-Luc was getting himself comfortable and sat back, his mind on Sayada and their parting that had been significant and sweet sorrow. He glanced at Pettikin and saw the heavy frown. ‘What?’

  ‘I suddenly wondered how Mac’s getting to Kowiss.’

  ‘By chopper, of course. There’re two 206s and an Alouette left.’

  ‘Tom ferried the Alouette to Kowiss today, and there aren’t any pilots left.’

  ‘So he is going by car, of course. Why?’

  ‘You don’t think he’d be crazy enough to fly Kia himself, do you?’

  ‘Are you mad? Of course not, he’s not that cr—’ Jean-Luc’s eyebrows soared. ‘Merde, he’s that crazy.’

  Thursday

  Chapter 19

  In the Village Near the North Border: 5:30 A.M. In the light of false dawn Erikki pulled on his boots. Now on with his flight jacket, the soft, well-worn leather rustling, knife out of the scabbard and into his sleeve. He eased the hut door open. The village was sleeping under its snow coverlet. No guards that he could see. The chopper’s lean-to was also quiet but he knew she would still be too well guarded to try. Various times during the day and night he had experimented. Each time the cabin and cockpit guards had just smiled at him, alert and polite. No way he could fight through the three of them and take off. His only chance by foot and he had been planning it ever since he had had the confrontation with Sheik Bayazid the day before yesterday.

  His senses reached out into the darkness. The stars were hidden by thin clouds. Now! Surefooted he slid out of the door and along the line of huts, making for the trees, and then he was enmeshed in the net that seemed to appear out of the sky and he was fighting for his life.

  Four tribesmen were on the ends of the net used for trapping and for curbing wild goats. Skilfully they wound it around him, tighter and tighter, and though he bellowed with rage and his immense strength ripped some of the ropes asunder, soon he was helplessly thrashing in the snow. For a moment he lay there panting, then again tried to break his bonds, the feeling of impotence making him howl. But the more he fought the ropes, the more they seemed to knot tighter. Finally he stopped fighting and lay back, trying to catch his breath, and looked around. He was surrounded. All the village was awake, dressed and armed. Obviously they had been waiting for him. Never had he seen or felt so much hatred.

  It took five
men to lift him and half carry, half drag him into the meeting hut and throw him roughly on the dirt floor in front of Sheik Bayazid who sat cross-legged on skins in his place of honour near the fire. The hut was large, smoke-blackened and filled with tribesmen.

  ‘So,’ the Sheik said. ‘So you dare to disobey me?’

  Erikki lay still, gathering his strength. What was there to say?

  ‘In the night one of my men came back from the Khan.’ Bayazid was shaking with fury. ‘Yesterday afternoon, on Khan’s orders, my messenger’s throat was cut against all the laws of chivalry! What do you say to that? His throat cut like a dog! Like a dog!’

  ‘I. . . I can’t believe the Khan would do that,’ Erikki said helplessly. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘In all the Names of God, his throat was cut. He’s dead and we’re dishonoured. All of us, me! Disgraced, because of you!’

  ‘The Khan’s a devil. I’m sorry but I’m no—’

  ‘We treated with the Khan honourably, and you honourably, you were spoils of war won from Khan’s enemies and ours, you married to his daughter, and he’s rich with more bags of gold than a goat has hairs. What’s ten million rials to him? A piece of goat’s shit. Worse, he’s taken away our honour. God’s death on him!’

  A murmur went through those who watched and waited, not understanding the English but hearing the jagged barbs of anger.

  Again the hissing venom: ‘Insha’Allah! Now we release you as you want, on foot, and then we will hunt you. We will not kill you with bullets, nor will you see the sunset and your head will be a Khan’s gift.’ The Sheik recalled the punishment in his own tongue and waved his hand. Men surged forward.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Erikki shouted as his fear thrust an idea at him.

  ‘You wish to beg for mercy?’ Bayazid said contemptuously. ‘I thought you were a man—that’s why I didn’t order your throat cut while you sleep.’