Bomb, by God! - our German-built reactors would have made them for us!
So close to doing God’s will, we Shi’as of Iran, with our superior intelligence, our ancient history, our oil, and our command of the strait that must eventually bring all the People of the Left Hand to their knees. So close to gaining Jerusalem and Mecca, control of Mecca - Holy of Holies. So close to being First on Earth, as is our right, but now, now all in jeopardy, and we have to start again, and again outmaneuver the satanic barbarians from the north and all because of one man.
Insha’Allah, he thought, and that took some of his anger away. Even so, if Mzytryk had not been in the room he would have ranted and raved and beaten someone, anyone. But the man was here and had to be dealt with, the problems of Azerbaijan arranged, so he controlled his anger and pondered his next move. His fingers picked up the last of the halvah and popped it into his mouth.
“You’d like to marry Azadeh, Petr?”
“You’d like me, older than you, as a son-in-law?” the man said with a deprecating laugh.
“If it was the Will of God,” he replied with the right amount of sincerity and smiled to himself, for he had seen the sudden light in his friend’s eyes, quickly covered. So, he thought, the first time you see her you want her. Now if I really gave her to you when the monster’s disposed of, what would that do for me? Many things! You’re eligible, you’re powerful, politically it would be wise, very wise, and you’d beat sense into her and deal with her as she should be dealt with, not like the Finn who fawns on her. You’d be an instrument of revenge on her. There are many advantages… Three years ago Petr Oleg Mzytryk had taken over the immense dacha and lands that had belonged to his father - also an old friend of the Gorgons - near Tbilisi where, for generations, the Gorgons also had had very important business connections. Since then Abdollah Khan had got to know him intimately, staying at the dacha on frequent business trips. He had found Petr Oleg like all Russians, secretive, volunteering little. But, unlike most, extremely helpful and friendly - and more powerful than any Soviet he knew, a widower with a married daughter, a son in the navy, grandchildren - and rare habits. He lived alone in the huge dacha except for servants and a strangely beautiful, strangely venomous Russian-Eurasian woman called Vertinskya, in her late thirties, whom he had brought out twice in three years, almost like a unique private treasure. She seemed to be part slave, part prisoner, part drinking companion, part whore, part tormentor, and part wildcat. “Why don’t you kill her and have done with her, Petr?” he had said when a raging violent quarrel had erupted and Mzytryk had physically whipped her out of the room, the woman spitting and cursing and fighting till servants hauled her away.
“Not… not yet,” Mzytryk had said, his hands trembling, “she’s far… far too valuable.”
“Ah, yes … yes, now I understand,” Abdollah Khan had said, equally aroused, having almost the same feeling about Azadeh - the reluctance to cast away such an object until she was truly cowed, truly humbled and crawling - and he remembered how he had envied Mzytryk that Vertinskya was mistress and not daughter so the final act of revenge could be consummated. God curse Azadeh, he thought. Curse her who could be the twin of the mother who gave me so much pleasure, who reminds me constantly of my loss, she and her evil brother, both patterns of the mother in face and manner but not in quality, she who was like a houri from the Garden of God. I thought both of our children loved me and honored me, but no, once Napthala had gone to Paradise their true natures came to pass. I know Azadeh was plotting with her brother to murder me - haven’t I the proof? Oh, God, I wish I could beat her like Petr does his nemesis, but I can’t, I can’t. Every time I raise my hand against her I see my Beloved, God curse Azadeh to hell… “Be calm,” Mzytryk said gently.
“What?”
“You were looking so upset, my friend. Don’t worry, everything will be all right. You will find a way to exorcise her.”
Abdollah Khan nodded heavily. “You know me too well.” That’s true, he thought, ordering tea for himself and vodka for Mzytryk, the only man he had ever felt at ease with.
I wonder who you really are, he thought, watching him. In years gone by, in your father’s time at the dacha when we met, you used to say you were on leave, but you’d never say on leave from what, nor could I ever find out, however much I tried. At first I presumed it was the Soviet army, for once when you were drunk you told me you’d been a tank commander during World War II at Sebastopol, and all the way to Berlin. But then I changed my mind and thought it more likely you and your father were KGB or GRU, for no one in the whole USSR retires to such a dacha with such lands in Georgia, the best part of the empire, without very particular knowledge and influence. You say you’re retired now - retired from what? Experimenting to find out the extent of Mzytryk’s power in the early days, Abdollah Khan had mentioned that a clandestine Communist Tudeh cell in Tabriz was plotting to assassinate him and he would like the cell stamped out. It was only partially true, the real reason being that a son of a man he hated secretly and could not attack openly was part of the group. Within the week all their heads were stuck on spikes near the mosque with a sign, THUS WILL ALL ENEMIES OF GOD PERISH, and he had wept cold tears at the funeral and laughed in privacy. That Petr Mzytryk had the power to eliminate one of their own cells was power indeed - and also, Abdollah knew, a measure of his own importance to them.
He looked at him. “How long will you need the Finn?”
“A few weeks.”
“What if the Green Bands prevent him flying or intercept him?” The Soviet shrugged. “Let’s hope he will have finished the assignment. I doubt if there would be any survivors - either him or Cimtarga - if they’re found this side of the border.”
“Good. Now, back to where we were before we were interrupted: you agree there’ll be no massive support for the Tudeh here, so long as the Americans stay out and Khomeini doesn’t start a program against them?” “Azerbaijan has always been within our frame of interest. We’ve always said it should be an independent state - there’s more than enough wealth, power, minerals, and oil to sustain it and…” Mzytryk smiled, “and enlightened leadership. You could lift the flag, Abdollah. I’m sure you’d get all the support you need to be president - with our immediate recognition.” And then I’d be assassinated the next day while the tanks roll over the borders, the Khan told himself without venom. Oh, no, my fine friend, the Gulf is too much temptation even for you. “It’s a wonderful idea,” he said earnestly, “but I would need time - meanwhile I can count also on the Communist Tudeh being turned on the insurrectionists?”
Petr Mzytryk’s smile remained the same but his eyes changed. “It would be curious for the Tudeh to attack their stepbrothers. Islamic-Marxism is advocated by many Muslim intellectuals - I hear even you support them.” “I agree there should be a balance in Azerbaijan. But who ordered leftists to attack the airfield? Who ordered them to attack and burn our railway station? Who ordered the blowing up of the oil pipeline? Obviously no one sensible. I hear it was the mullah Mahmud of the Hajsta mosque.” He watched Petr carefully. “One of yours.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Ah,” Abdollah Khan said with pretended joviality, disbelieving him. “I’m glad, Petr, because he’s a false mullah, not even a real Islamic-Marxist, a rabble-rouser - he’s the one who invaded Yokkonen’s base. Unfortunately he has as many as five hundred fighters supporting him, equally ill-disciplined. And money from somewhere. And helpers like Fedor Rakoczy. What does Rakoczy mean to you?”
“Not much,” Petr said at once, his smile the same and voice the same, far too clever to avoid the question. “He’s a pipeline engineer from Astara, on the border, one of our Muslim nationals who is believed to have joined the mujhadin as a Freedom Fighter, strictly without permission or approval.” Petr kept his face bland but inside he was swearing obscenely, wanting to shout, My son, my son, have you betrayed us? You were sent to spy, to infiltrate the mujhadin and report back, that’s all! And this time you were sent to try to recruit the Finn, then to go to Tehran and organize university students, not to ally yourself to a mad dog mullah or to attack airfields or kill scum beside a road. Have you gone mad? You stupid fool, what if you’d been wounded and caught? How many times have I told you they - and we - can break anyone in time and empty him or her of their secrets? Stupid to take such risks! The Finn’s temporarily important but not important enough to disobey orders, to risk your future, your brother’s future - and mine!
If the son’s suspect, so is the father. If the father’s suspect, so is the family. How many times have I told you that the KGB works by the Book, destroys those who won’t obey the Book, who think for themselves, take risks, and exceed instructions.
“This Rakoczy’s unimportant,” he said smoothly. Be calm, he ordered himself, beginning the litany: There’s nothing to worry about. You know too many secrets to be touched. So does my son. He’s good, they must be wrong about him. He’s been tested many times, by you and by other experts. You’re safe. You’re strong, you’ve your health, and you could beat and bed that little beauty Azadeh and still rape Vertinskya the same day. “What’s important is that you are the focus of Azerbaijan, my friend,” he said in the same soothing voice. “You will get all
