Escape

by James Clavell

  Silence in the office. Genny put a reassuring hand on his shoulder that he did not notice. They began the long wait. Later the phone rang and Scot grabbed it. ‘S-G Helicopters? Oh hello, Charlie, hang on. . .’ He passed the phone to his father. ‘From Kuwait. . .’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. All’s well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’m at Kuwait airport, phoning from Patrick’s office at Guerneys’.’ Though the two companies were rivals worldwide, they had very friendly relations. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘Delta Four, nothing else yet. I’ll phone the moment Jean-Luc’s checked in from Bahrain—he’s with Delarne at Gulf Air de France if you want him. Is Genny with you?’

  ‘No, she went back to the hotel but I’m all set the moment Mac and the others arrive. Funny thing, Andy, the BA rep here, a couple of other guys and Patrick have this crazy idea we’re up to something—like pulling all our birds out. Can you imagine?’

  Gavallan sighed. ‘Don’t jump the gun, Charlie, keep to the plan.’ This was to keep quiet until the Kowiss choppers were in the Kuwait system, then to trust Patrick. ‘I’ll phone when I have anything. ‘Bye—oh hang on, I almost forgot. You remember Ross, John Ross?’

  ‘Could I ever forget? Why?’

  ‘I heard he’s in Kuwait International Hospital. The Consul said he was hurt in Tehran and they evacuated him there. Check on him when you’ve squared away, will you?’

  ‘Of course, right away, Andy. What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Don’t know. Call me if you have any news. ‘Bye.’ He replaced the phone. Another deep breath. ‘The word’s out in Kuwait.’

  ‘Christ, if it’s out th—’ Scot was interrupted by the phone ringing. ‘Hello? Just a moment. It’s Mr Newbury from the Consulate, Dad.’

  Gavallan took it. ‘’Morning, Roger, how’re tricks?’

  ‘Oh. Well, I, er, wanted to ask you that. How are things going? Off the record of course.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Gavallan said noncommittally. ‘Will you be in your office all day? I’ll drop by, but I’ll call before I leave here.’

  ‘Yes, please do, I’ll be here until noon. It’s a long weekend you know. Please phone me the moment you, er, hear anything—off the record. The moment. We’re rather concerned and, well, we can discuss it when you arrive. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Hang on a moment. Did you get word about young Ross?’

  ‘Yes, yes I did. Sorry but we understand he was badly hurt. Damn shame but there you are. See you before noon. ‘Bye.’

  Gavallan put the phone down. They all watched him. ‘Apparently. . . it seems young Ross is badly hurt.’

  Nogger muttered, ‘What a bugger! My God, not fair. . .’ He had told them all about Ross, how he had saved their lives, and Azadeh’s.

  ‘Dad, did Newbury tell you what happened?’

  Gavallan shook his head, hardly hearing him. He was thinking about Ross, of an age with Scot, more tough and rugged and indestructible than Scot and now. . . Poor laddie! Maybe he’ll pull through. . . oh God, I hope so! What to do? Continue, that’s all you can do. Azadeh’ll be rocked, poor lassie. Erikki’ll be as rocked as Azadeh, he owes her life to him. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ he said and walked out, heading for their other office where he could phone Newbury in private.

  Nogger was standing at the window, looking out at the day and the airfield, not seeing any of it. He was seeing the wild-eyed, maniac killer at Tabriz One holding the severed head aloft, baying like a wolf to the sky, the angel of sudden death who became the giver of life—to him, to Arberry, to Dibble, and most of all to Azadeh. God, if you are God, save him like he saved us. . .

  ‘Tehran, this is Bandar-e Delam, do you read?’

  ‘Five minutes on the dot,’ Scot muttered. ‘Jahan doesn’t miss a bloody second. Didn’t Siamaki say he’d be in the office from 0900 onwards?’

  ‘Yes, yes he did.’ All their eyes went to the clock. It read 8.54.

  Chapter 21

  At Bahrain Airport: 11:28 A.M. Jean-Luc and Mathias Delarne were standing beside a station wagon near the helipad, watching the incoming 212, shading their eyes against the sun, still unable to recognise the pilot. Mathias was a short, thickset man, with dark wavy hair, half a face, the other half badly burn-scarred when he had bailed out on fire not far from Algiers.

  ‘It’s Dubois,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re wrong, it’s Sandor.’ Jean-Luc waved, motioning him to land crosswind. The moment the skids touched, Mathias rushed under the rotors for the left cockpit door—paying no attention to Sandor who was shouting across at him. He carried a large paintbrush and a can of quick drying airplane paint and he slapped the white paint over the Iran registration letters just below the door’s window. Jean-Luc used the stencil they had prepared and black paint and his brush, then carefully peeled the stencil off. Now she was G-HXXI and legal.

  Meanwhile Mathias had gone to the tail boom and painted out IHC, ducked under the boom to do the same the other side. Sandor just had time to move his arm out of the way of the door as, enthusiastically, Jean-Luc stencilled the second G-HXXI.

  ‘Voilà!’ Jean-Luc gave his material back to Mathias who went to the station wagon to stash it under a tarpaulin, while Jean-Luc wrung Sandor’s hand and told him about Rudi and Kelly and asked about Dubois.

  ‘Don’ know, old buddy,’ Sandor said. ‘I’ve been on empty, warning lights on, for maybe ten goddam minutes and crapping for twenty. What about the others?’

  ‘Rudi and Kelly landed on Abu Sabh beach—Rod Rodrigues’s looking after them—nothing yet on Scrag, Willi, or Vossi, but Mac’s still at Kowiss.’

  ‘Jesusss!’

  ‘Oui, along with Freddy and Tom Lochart, at least they were, ten or fifteen minutes ago.’ Jean-Luc turned to Mathias who came up to them. ‘Are you tuned into the tower?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  ‘Mathias Delarne, Sandor—Johnson, our mec.’

  They greeted each other and shook hands. ‘How was your trip—merde, best you don’t tell me,’ Mathias added, then saw the approaching car. ‘Trouble,’ he warned.

  ‘Stay in the cockpit, Sandor,’ Jean-Luc ordered. ‘Johnson, back in the cabin.’

  The car was marked ‘official’ and it stopped broadside to the 212 twenty yards away. Two Bahraini men got out, a uniformed Immigration captain and an officer from the tower, the latter wearing a long-flowing white dishdash and headcloth with a twisted black coil holding it in place. Mathias went to meet them. ‘’Morning, Sayyid Yusuf, Sayyid Bin Ahmed. This is Captain Sessonne.’

  ‘’Morning,’ both said politely and continued to study the 212. ‘And the pilot?’

  ‘Captain Petrofi. Mr Johnson, a mechanic, is in the cabin.’ Jean-Luc felt sick. The sun was glistening off the new paint but not the old, and the bottom of the ‘I’ had a dribble of black from each corner. He waited for the inevitable remark and then the inevitable question, ‘What was her last point of departure?’ and then his airy, ‘Basra, Iraq’ as the nearest possible. But so simple to check there and no need to check, just walk forward five yards and draw a finger through the new paint to find the permanent letters below. Mathias was equally perturbed. Easy for Jean-Luc, he thought, he doesn’t live here, doesn’t have to work here.

  ‘How long will G-HXXI be staying, Captain?’ the Immigration officer asked. He was a clean-shaven man with sad eyes.

  Jean-Luc and Mathias groaned inwardly at the accent on the letters. ‘She’s due to leave for Al Shargaz at once, Sayyid,’ Mathias said, ‘for Al Shargaz, at once—the very moment she’s refuelled. Also the others who, er, ran out of fuel.’

  Bin Ahmed, the tower officer, sighed. ‘Very bad planning to run out of fuel. I wonder what happened to the legal 30 minutes of reserve.’

  ‘The, er, the headwind I expect, Sayyid.’

  ‘It is strong today, that’s certain.’ Bin Ahmed
looked out into the Gulf, visibility about a mile. ‘One 212 here, two on our beach and the fourth. . . the fourth out there.’ The dark eyes came back on to Jean-Luc. ‘Perhaps he turned back for. . . for his departure point.’

  Jean-Luc gave him his best smile. ‘I don’t know, Sayyid Bin Ahmed,’ he answered carefully.

  Once more the two men looked at the chopper. Now the rotor stopped. The blades trembled a little in the wind. Casually Bin Ahmed took out a telex. ‘We’ve just received this from Tehran, Mathias, about some missing helicopters,’ he said politely. ‘From Iran’s Air Traffic Control. It says, “Urgent Urgent Urgent. To all Gulf States: Please be on the lookout for some of our helicopters that have been exported illegally. Please impound them, arrest those aboard, inform our nearest embassy who will arrange for immediate deportation of the criminals and repatriation of our equipment.” ’ He smiled again and handed it to him. ‘Curious, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ Mathias said. He read it, glazed, then handed it back.

  ‘Captain Sessonne, have you been to Iran?’

  ‘Yes, yes I have.’

  ‘Terrible, all those deaths, all the unrest, all the killings, Muslim killing Muslim. Persia’s always been different, troublesome to others who live in the Gulf. Claiming our Gulf, the Persian Gulf, as though we, this side, did not exist,’ Bin Ahmed said, matter-of-fact. ‘Didn’t the Shah even claim our island was Iranian just because three centuries ago Persians conquered us for a few years, we who have always been independent?’

  ‘Yes, but he, er, he renounced the claim.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes, that is true—and occupied the oil islands of Turns and Abu Musa. Very hegemonistic are Persian rulers, very strange, whoever they are, wherever they come from. Sacrilege to plant mullahs and ayatollahs between man and God. Eh?’

  ‘They, er, they have their way of life,’ Jean-Luc agreed, ‘others have theirs.’

  Bin Ahmed glanced into the back of the station wagon. Jean-Luc saw part of the handle of a paintbrush sticking out from under the tarpaulin. ‘Dangerous times we’re having in the Gulf. Very dangerous. Anti-God Soviets, closer every day from the north, more anti-God Marxists south in Yemen arming every day, all eyes on us and our wealth—and Islam. Only Islam stands between them and world dominance.’

  Mathias wanted to say, What about France and of course America? Instead he said, ‘Islam’ll never fail. Nor will the Gulf States if they’re vigilant.’

  ‘With the help of God, I agree.’ Bin Ahmed nodded and smiled at Jean-Luc. ‘Here on our island we must be very vigilant against all those who wish to cause us trouble. Eh?’

  Jean-Luc nodded. He was finding it hard not to look at the telex in the man’s hand; if Bahrain had one, the same would have gone to every tower this side of the Gulf.

  ‘With the help of God we will succeed.’

  The Immigration officer nodded agreeably. ‘Captain, I would like to see the pilot’s papers, and the mechanic’s. And them. Please.’

  ‘Of course, at once.’ Jean-Luc walked over to Sandor. ‘Tehran’s telexed them to be on the lookout for Iran registereds,’ he whispered hastily and Sandor went pasty. ‘No need for panic, mon vieux, volunteer nothing, you too Johnson, and don’t forget you’re G-HXXI out of Basra.’

  ‘But Jesus,’ Sandor croaked, ‘we’d have to’ve been stamped outta Iraq, and I got Iranian stamps over most every page.’

  The Immigration officer took the American passport. Punctiliously he studied the photograph, compared it to Sandor who weakly took off his sunglasses, then handed it back without leafing through the other pages. ‘Thank you,’ he said and accepted Johnson’s British passport. Again the studious look at the photograph only. Bin Ahmed went a pace nearer the chopper. Johnson had left the cabin door open.

  ‘What’s aboard?’

  ‘Spares,’ Sandor, Johnson and Jean-Luc said together.

  ‘You’ll have to clear customs.’

  Mathias said politely, ‘Of course he is in transit, Sayyid Yusuf, and will take off the moment he’s refuelled. Perhaps it would be possible to allow him to sign the transit form, guaranteeing he lands nothing and carries no arms or drugs or ammunition.’ He hesitated. ‘I would guarantee it too, if it was of value.’

  ‘Your presence is always of value, Sayyid Mathias,’ Yusuf said. ‘I suppose for a British plane in transit, it would be all right, even for the other two on the beach. Eh?’

  The tower man turned his back on the chopper. ‘Why not? We’ll clear them for Al Shargaz as soon as they’re refuelled.’ Again he looked out to sea and his dark eyes showed his concern. ‘And the fourth, when she arrives? What about her—I presume she’s also British registered?’

  ‘Yes, yes she is,’ Jean-Luc heard himself say, giving him the new registration, saluting the two men with Gallic charm as they left, hardly able to grasp the miracle of the reprieve.

  Is it because their eyes were blinded or because they did not wish to see? I don’t know, I don’t know but blessed be the Madonna for looking after us again.

  ‘Jean-Luc, you’d better phone Gavallan about the telex,’ Mathias said.

  At Kuwait Airport: 2:56 P.M. Genny and Charlie Pettikin were sitting in the open-air restaurant on the upper level of the sparkling, newly opened terminal. It was a grand, sunny day, sheltered from the wind. Bright yellow tablecloths and umbrellas, everyone eating and drinking with enjoyment and gusto. Except for them. Genny had hardly touched her salad, Pettikin had picked at his rice and curry.

  ‘Charlie,’ Genny said abruptly, ‘I think I’ll have a vodka martini after all.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Pettikin waved for a waiter and ordered for her. He would have liked to join her but he was expecting to replace or spell either Lochart or Ayre on the next leg down the coast to Jellet Island—at least one refuelling stop, perhaps two, before reaching Al Shargaz—God curse this sodding wind. ‘Won’t be long now, Genny.’

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, how many times do you have to say it, Genny wanted to scream, sick of waiting. Stoically she kept up her pretence of calm. ‘Not long, Charlie. Any moment now.’ Their eyes went seawards. The distant seascape was hazed, visibility poor, but they would know the instant the choppers came into Kuwait radar range. The Imperial Air rep was waiting in the tower.

  How long is long? she asked herself, trying to pierce the heat haze, all her energy pouring out, seeking Duncan, sending prayers and hopes and strengths that he might need. The word that Gavallan had passed on this morning had not helped: ‘What on earth’s he flying Kia for, Andy? What does that mean?’

  ‘Don’t know, Genny. I’m telling you as he said it. Our interpretation is that Freddy was sent to the fuel rendezvous first. Mac took off with Kia—he’s either taking him to the rendezvous or he’ll put him off en route. Tom’s holding the fort for a time to give the others a breathing space, then he’ll head for the RV. We got Mac’s initial call at ten-forty-two. Give him till eleven a.m. for him and Freddy to take off. Give them another hour to get to the RV and refuel, add two hours thirty flight time, they should arrive Kuwait around two-thirty at the earliest. Depending on how long they wait at the RV it could be anytime, from two-thirty onwards. . .’

  She saw the waiter bringing her drink. On the tray was a mobile phone. ‘Phone call for you, Captain Pettikin,’ the waiter said as he put the glass in front of her. Pettikin pulled out the antenna, held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello? Oh, hello, Andy.’ She watched his face, ‘No. . . no, not yet. . . Oh?. . .’ He listened intently for a long time, just an occasional grunt and nod, nothing showing outwardly, and she wondered what Gavallan was saying that she was not supposed to hear. ‘. . . Yes, sure. . . no. . . yes, everything’s covered as far as we can. . . Yes, yes, she is. . . all right, hang on.’ He passed the phone over. ‘He wants to say hello.’

  ‘Hello, Andy, what’s new?’

  ‘Just reporting in, Genny. Not to worry about Mac an
d the others—no telling how long they had to wait at the RV.’

  ‘I’m fine, Andy. Don’t worry about me. What about the others?’

  ‘Rudi, Pop Kelly and Sandor are en route from Bahrain—they refuelled at Abu Dhabi and we’re in contact with them—John Hogg’s our relay station—their ETA here’s in twenty minutes. Johnny Hogg’ll be in your area about now and he’ll be listening too. We’ll keep in touch. Can I speak to Charlie again, please.’

  ‘Of course, but what about Marc Dubois and Fowler?’

  A pause. ‘Nothing yet. We’re hoping they’ve been picked up—Rudi, Sandor and Pop backtracked and searched as long as they could. No wreckage, there’re lots of ships in those waters and platforms. We’re sweating them out.’

  ‘Now tell me what Charlie’s supposed to know but I’m not.’ She scowled into the dead silence on the phone, then heard Gavallan sigh.

  ‘You’re one for the book, Genny. All right. I asked Charlie if any telex had arrived from Iran yet, like the one we got here, in Dubai and Bahrain. I’m trying to pull all the strings I can through Newbury and our Kuwaiti embassy in case of a foul-up, though Newbury says not to expect much, Kuwait being so close to Iran and not wanting to offend Khomeini and petrified he’ll send or allow a few export fundamentalists to stir up the Kuwaiti Shi’as. I’ve no contact with Erikki yet.’

  ‘He and Azadeh are sitting ducks to be arrested and held as hostages.’

  ‘Yes. One step at a time. I told Charlie that I’m trying to get word to Ross’s parents in Nepal and to his regiment. That’s the lot.’ In a more kindly voice, ‘I didn’t want to upset you more than necessary. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Yes, I’m. . . I’m fine. Thanks, Andy.’ She passed the phone back and looked at her glass. Beads of moisture had formed. Some were trickling. Like the tears on my cheeks, she thought and got up. ‘Back in a sec.’

  Sadly Pettikin watched her go. He listened to Gavallan’s final instructions. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Andy I’ll take care of. . . I’ll take care of Ross, and I’ll call the very moment we have them on the screen. Bloody awful about Dubois and Fowler, we’ll just have to think good thoughts and hope. Great about the others. ‘Bye.’