off to intercept the 125 that now was turning off the main runway, an accompanying swarm of trucks of Green Bands and two motorcyclists weaving around dangerously. “Crazy!” Starke muttered.
Zataki laughed, his teeth white. “Enthusiasts, pilot, not crazy.” “As God wants.”
Zataki glanced at him, no longer bantering: “You speak our language, you’ve read the Koran, and you know our ways. It is time you said the Shahada before two witnesses and became Muslim. I would be honored to be a witness.” “I, too,” Esvandiary said at once, also wanting to help save a soul though not for the same reasons: IranOil would need expert pilots to get full production going while replacement Iranians were trained and a Muslim Starke could be one. “I too would be honored to be a witness.”
“Thank you,” Starke told them in Farsi. Over the years the thought had occurred to him. Once, when Iran was calm and all he had to do was fly as many missions as he could and look after his men and laugh with Manuela and the children - was that only half a year ago? - he had said to her, “You know, Manuela, there’s so much in Islam that’s great.”
“Were you thinkin’ of four wives, darlin’?” she had said sweetly and instantly he was on guard.
“C’me on, Manuela, I was being serious. There’s a lot in Islam.” “For men, not for women. Doesn’t the Koran say: ‘And the Faithful’ - all men by the way - ‘will lie on silken couches and there will be the houris whom neither man nor djinn hath touched’ - Conroe, honey, I never could work that out, why should they be perpetual virgins? Does that do somethin’ for a man? And do women get the same deal, youth and as many horny young men as they want?”
“Would you listen, for crissake! I meant that if you lived in the desert, the deep Saudi or Sahara desert - remember the time we were in Kuwait and we went out, just you and me, we went out into the desert, the stars as big as oysters and the quiet so vast, the night so clean and limitless, us insignificant, you remember how touched we were by the Infinite? Remember how I said, I can understand how, if you were a nomad and born into a tent, you could be possessed by Islam?”
“And remember, darlin’, how I said we weren’t born in no goddamn tent.” He smiled, remembering how he had caught her and kissed her under the stars and they had taken each other, their fill of each other, under the stars. Later he had said, “I meant the pure teaching of Mohammed, I meant how with so much space, so terrifying in its vastness, that you need a safe haven and that Islam could be such a haven, maybe the only one, his original teaching, not narrow, twisted interpretations of fanatics.”
“Why, sure, darlin’,” she had said in her most honeyed voice, “but we don’t live in no desert, never will, and you’re Conroe ‘Duke’ Starke, helicopter pilot, and the very moment you start afiguring on those four wives I’m off, me and the kids, and even Texas won’t be big enough to escape the roasting you’ll get from Manuela Rosita Santa de Cuellar Perez, honey sugar baby lamb. …”
He saw Zataki staring at him and inhaled the raw smell of gasoline and snow and winter. “Perhaps I will one day,” he told Zataki and Esvandiary. “Perhaps I will - but in God’s time, not mine.”
“May God hurry the time. You’re wasted as an Infidel.”
But now all of Starke’s concentration was on the 125 that was coming into its parking slot, and on Manuela who must leave today. Difficult for her, goddamn difficult, but she has to go.
This morning, early, McIver in Tehran had told Starke by HF they had permission for the 125 to stop off at Kowiss, provided it was also approved in Kowiss, that she would be bringing spares, and there’d be space for three passengers outbound. At length Major Changiz and Esvandiary had agreed but only after Starke had irritably told them in front of Zataki, “You know our crew changes are long overdue. One of our 212’s waiting for spares, and two of the 206s are ready for their fifteen-hundred-hour checks. If I can’t have fresh crews and spares, I can’t operate, and you’ll be responsible for not obeying Ayatollah Khomeini - not me.”
The car stopped beside the 125, the engines whining down. The door was not yet open and he could see John Hogg peering out of the cockpit window. Trucks and guns ringed her, excitable Green Bands milling around.
Zataki tried to make himself heard, then, exasperated, fired a burst into the air. “Get away from the airplane,” he ordered. “By God and the Prophet only my men will search it! Get away!” Sullenly the other Green Bands moved back a little. “Pilot, tell him to open the door quickly, and get everyone out quickly before I change my agreement!”
Starke gave the thumbs-up to Hogg. In a moment the door was opened by the second pilot. The steps came down. At once Zataki leaped up them and stood at the top, machine gun ready. “Excellency you don’t need that,” Starke told him. “Everybody out, quick as you can, okay?”
There were eight passengers - four of them pilots, three mechanics, and Genny McIver. “My God, Genny! I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Hello, Duke. Duncan thought it best and… well, never mind. Is Manuela going to co - ” She saw her and went over to her. They embraced and Starke noticed the age on Genny.
He followed Zataki into the empty, low-ceilinged aircraft. Extra seats had been lashed in. At the back, near the toilet, were several crates. “Spares and the spare engine you needed,” Johnny Hogg called out from the pilot’s seat, handing him the manifest. “Hello, Duke!”
Zataki took the manifest and jerked a thumb at Hogg. “Out!” “If you don’t mind, I’m responsible for the aircraft, sorry,” Hogg said. “Last tune. Out.”
Starke said, “Get out of your seat a moment, Johnny. He just wants to see if there are any guns. Excellency, it would be safer if the pilot was allowed to stay in place. I will vouch for him.” “Out!”
Reluctantly John Hogg eased himself out of the small cockpit. Zataki made sure nothing was in the side pockets, then waved him back into the seat and studied the cabin. “Those are the spares you need?”
“Yes,” Starke said, and politely made room on the landing where Zataki shouted for some of his men to carry the crates onto the tarmac. The men did this carelessly, banging the sides of the doorway and the steps, making the pilots wince. Then Zataki searched the aircraft carefully, finding nothing that irritated him. Except the wine on ice and the liquor in the cabinet. “No more liquor into Iran. None. Confiscated!” He had the bottles smashed on the tarmac and ordered the crates opened. One jet engine and many other spares. Everything on the manifest. Starke watched from the cabin doorway, trying to make himself inconspicuous.
Zataki said, “Who are these passengers?” The second officer gave him the list of names. It was headed in English and Farsi: “Temporarily redundant pilots and mechanic, all overdue leave and replacement.” He began to scrutinize it, and them.
“Duke,” Johnny Hogg said cautiously from the cockpit, “I’ve some money for you and a letter from McIver. Is it safe?”
“For the moment.”
“Two envelopes in my inside uniform pocket, hanging up. The letter’s private, Mac said.”
Starke found them and stuffed them into his inner parka pocket. “What’s going on in Tehran?” he asked out of the side of his mouth. “The airport’s a madhouse, thousands trying to get on the three or four planes they’ve allowed in so far,” Hogg said rapidly, “with at least six jumbos stacked in a holding pattern aimlessly waiting for permission to land. I, er, I just jumped the queue, peeled in without a real clearance, and said, Oh, so sorry, I thought I was cleared, picked up my lot, and scarpered. Hardly had time to chat with McIver - he was surrounded by trigger-happy revs and an odd mullah or two - but he seems okay. Pettikin, Nogger, and the others seemed okay. I’m based at Al Shargaz for at least a week to shuttle back and forth as I can.” Al Shargaz was not far from Dubai, where S-G had its HQ that side of the Gulf. “We’ve permission from Tehran ATC to bring in spares and crew to match those we intend to take out - looks like they’re going to keep us more or less one for one and up to strength - with flights scheduled Saturdays and Wednesdays.” He stopped for breath. “Mac says for you to find excuses for me to come here from time to time - I’ m to be kind of a courier for him and Andy Gavallan till normality re - ” “Watch it,” Starke said, behind his hand, seeing Zataki glance up at the airplane. He had been watching him inspect the passengers and their documents. Then he saw Zataki beckon him and he went down the stairs. “Yes, Excellency?”
“This man has no exit permit.”
The man was Roberts, one of the fitters, middle-aged, very experienced. Anxiety etched his already-lined face. “I told him I couldn’t get one, Cap’n Starke, we couldn’t get one, the immigration offices’re still all closed. There was no problem at Tehran.”
Starke glanced at the document. It was only four days past expiration. “Perhaps you could let it go this time, Excellency. It’s true that the off - ”
