Last night on radio and television the governor had warned that he had ordered the police to take whatever steps necessary to stop all rioting. “Get down, Gen, out of the way. …”
His words were drowned by police loudspeakers as the superintendent commanded the massed rioters in Cantonese and English to disperse. The mob paid no attention and attacked the barricade. Again the order to stop was disregarded. Then the firing began and those in front panicked and were trampled as others fought to get away. Soon the street was clear except for the dozen or so bodies lying in the dirt. It was the same on Hong Kong Island. The next day the whole Colony was once more at peace; there were no more serious riots, only a few pockets of hard-core Red Guards trying to whip up the crowds who were quickly deported.
Within the week McIver sold his interest in his helicopter business, flew to Aberdeen ahead of Genny, and hurled himself into his new job with gusto. It had taken her a month to pack, settle their apartment, and sell what they didn’t need. By the time she arrived he had found an ideal apartment near the McCloud heliport that she promptly declined: “For goodness’ sake, Duncan, it’s a million miles away from the nearest school. An apartment in Aberdeen? Now that you’re as rich as Dunross, we, my lad, we are renting a house….”
He smiled to himself, thinking about those early days, Genny loving being back in Scotland - she had never really liked Hong Kong, life so difficult there with little money and children to care for - he loving his work, Gavallan a great man to work for and with, but hating the North Sea, all the cold and the wet and the aches that the salt- heavy air brought. But the five-odd years then had been worth it, renewing and increasing his old contacts in the still tiny international helicopter world - most of the pilots ex RAF, -RCAF, -RAAF, -USAF, and all the allied services - against the day they could expand. Always a generous bonus a Christmas, carefully put away for retirement, and always the case of Loch Vay: “Andy, that was the one condition that really go me!” Gavallan always the driving force, living up to his motto for the company, Be Bold. In East Scotland nowadays, Gavallan was known as “the Laird,” from Aberdeen to Inverness and south a far as Dundee, with tentacles reaching to London, New York Houston - wherever there was oil power. Yes, old Chinaboy’s: great and he can also wrap you and most men around his little finger, McIver thought without rancor. Look how you go here….
“Listen, Mac,” Andrew Gallavan had said one day in the late sixties, “I’ve just met a top general in the Iranian General Staff a a shoot. General Beni-Hassan. Great shot, he got twenty brace to my fifteen! Over the weekend I spent a lot of time with him and sold him on close-support helicopters for infantry and tank regiments along with a whole program for training their army and air force - as well as helicopters for their oil business. We, laddie, are in like Flynn.”
“But we’re not equipped to do half of that.”
“Beni-Hassan’s a smashing fellow and the Shah’s a really go-ahead monarch - with great plans for modernization. You know anything about Iran?” “No, Chinaboy,” McIver had said, suspiciously, recognizing the twinkling exuberance. “Why?”
“You’re booked on Friday for Bahrain, you and Genny… now wait a moment, Mac! What do you know about Sheik Aviation?”
“Genny’s happy in Aberdeen, she doesn’t want to move, the kids are finishing school, we’ve just put the down payment on a house, we’re not moving and Genny’ll kill you.”
“Of course,” Gavallan said airily. “Sheik Aviation?”
“It’s a small but good helicopter company that services the Gulf. They’ve three 206s and a few fixed-wing feeder planes, based in Bahrain. Well thought of and they do a lot of work for ARAMCO, ExTex, and I think IranOil. Owned and operated by Jock Forsyth, ex-paras and pilot who formed the company in the fifties with an old chum of mine, Scrag Scragger, an Aussie. Scrag’s the real owner, ex-RAAF, APC and Bar, DFC and Bar, now a chopper fanatic. First they were based in Singapore where I first met Scrag. We, er, we were on a bender and I don’t remember who started it but the others said it was a draw. Then they moved to the Gulf with an ex-ExTex executive who happened to have a great contract to launch them there. Why?” “I’ve just bought them. You take over as managing director on Monday. Scragger and all their pilots and personnel will stay on or not, as you suggest, but I think we’ll need their knowledge - I found them all good fellows - Forsyth’s happy to retire to Devon. Curious, Scragger didn’t mention he knew you, but then I only spent a few moments with him and dealt with Forsyth. From now on we’re S-G Helicopters Ltd. Next Friday I want you to go to Tehran … listen, for Christ’s sake… on Friday to set up an HQ there. I’ve made a date for you to meet Beni-Hassan and sign the papers for the air force deal. He said he’d be glad to introduce us to the right people, all over. Oh, yes, you’ve 10 percent of all profits, 10 percent of the stock in the new Iran subsidiary, you’re managing director of Iran - which includes the rest of the Gulf for the time being …” Of course McIver had gone. He could never resist Andrew Gavallan and he had enjoyed every moment, but he had never found out how Gavallan had persuaded Genny. When he had gone home that night she had his whisky and soda ready and wore a sweet smile. “Hello, dear, did you have a nice day?” “Yes, what’s up?” he asked suspiciously.
“You’re what’s up. Andy says there’s a wonderful new opportunity for us in some place called Tehran in some place called Persia.”
“Iran. It used to be called Persia, Gen, modern word’s Iran. I, er, I th - ” “How exciting! When are we leaving?”
“Er, well, Gen, I thought we’d talk it over and if you like I’ve fixed it so that I could do two months on and one month off back here an - ” “And what do you plan to do for the two months, nights and Sundays?” “I, er, well I’ll be working like the devil and there wo - ” “Sheik Aviation? You and old Scragger east of Suez together drinking and cavorting?”
“Who, me? Come on there’ll be so much to do we won’t ha - ” “No, you won’t, my lad. Huh! Two on and one off? Over Andy’s dead body and I mean dead. We go as a family by God or we don’t go by God!” Even more sweetly, “Don’t you agree, darling heart?”
“Now look here, Gen - ”
Within a month they were once more starting afresh, but it had been exciting and the best time he had ever had, meeting all sorts of interesting people, laughing with Scrag and the others, finding Charlie and Lochart and JeanLuc and Erikki, making the company into the most efficient, the safest flying operation in Iran and the Gulf, molding it the way he alone decided. His baby. His alone.
Sheik Aviation was the first of many acquisitions and amalgamations Gavallan made. “Where the hell do you get all the money, Andy?” he had once asked. “Banks. Where else? We’re a triple-A risk and Scots to boot.” It wasn’t until much later that he discovered, quite by chance, that the S of S-G Helicopters really stood for Struan’s that was also the secret source of all their financing and civilian intelligence, and S-G their subsidiary. “How did you find out, Mac?” Gavallan had asked gruffly.
“An old friend in Sydney, ex-RAF, who’s in mining, wrote to me and said he’d heard Linbar spouting about S-G being part of the Noble House - I didn’t know but it seems Linbar’s running Struan’s in Australia.” “He’s trying to. Mac, between us, Ian wanted Struan’s involvement kept quiet - David wants to continue the pattern so I’d prefer you to keep it to yourself,” Gavallan had said quietly. David was David MacStruan, the then taipan.
“Of course, not even Genny. But it explains a lot and gives me a grand feeling to know the Noble House’s covering us. I often wondered why you left.”
Gavallan had smiled but not answered. “Liz knows about Struan’s, of course, the Inner Office, and that’s all.”
McIver had never told anyone. S-G had thrived and grown as the oil business had grown. So had his profits. So had the value of his stock in the Iran venture. When he retired in six or seven years he would be comfortably well off. “Isn’t it time to quit?” Genny would say every year. “There’s more than enough money, Duncan.”
“It’s not the money,” he would always say….
McIver was staring at the red glow to the southeast over Jaleh that now had deepened and spread. His mind was in turmoil.
Jaleh’s got to make it hit the fan again all over Tehran, he thought. He sipped his whisky. No extra need to be nervous, he thought, the weight of it all bearing down. What the devil was Chinaboy going to say when we were cut off? He’ll get me word if it was important - he’s never failed yet. Terrible about Stanson. That’s the third civilian, all American, to be murdered by “unknown gunmen” in the last few months - two ExTex and one from Guerney. Wonder when they’ll start on us - Iranians hate the British just as much as the Yanks. Where to get more cash? We can’t operate on half a million rials a week. Somehow I’ll have to lean on the partners, but they’re as devious as anyone on earth and past masters at looking after number one. He took the last swallow of his whisky. Without the partners we’re stymied, even after all these years - they’re the ones who know who to talk to, which palm to touch
