“Someone’s telling him what to say,” JeanLuc muttered.
Pettikin pressed the sending button, changed his mind. So many questions to ask that Ayre clearly could not answer. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, glad that his voice sounded firmer. “Please ask Hotshot to put his request for the extra choppers in writing, with suggested contract time and payment schedule. Put it on our 125 when they bring replacements. Keep… keep us informed about Captain Starke. McIver‘11 get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Wilco. Out.”
Now only static. Pettikin fiddled with the switches. The two men looked at each other, oblivious of Sayada who sat quietly on the sofa, missing nothing. “‘Close supervision’? That sounds bad, JeanLuc.” “Yes. Probably means they have to fly with armed Green Bands.” JeanLuc swore, all his thinking on Zagros and how young Scot Gavallan would cope without his leadership. “Merde! When I left this morning everything was five by five with Shiraz ATC as helpful as a Swiss hotelier off-season. Merde!” Pettikin was suddenly reminded of Rakoczy and how close he had come to disaster. For a second he considered telling JeanLuc, then decided against it. Old news! “Maybe we should contact Shiraz ATC for help?” “Mac might have an idea. Mon Dieu, doesn’t sound too good either for Duke - these komitehs’re breeding like lice. Bazargan and Khomeini better deal with them quickly before the two of them’re bitten to death.” JeanLuc got up, very concerned, and stretched, then saw Sayada curled up on the sofa, her untouched cup of tea on the small table beside her, smiling at him. At once his bonhomie returned. There’s nothing more I can do for young Scot at the moment, or for Duke, but there is for Sayada. “Sorry, cherie,” he said with a beam. “You see, without me there are always problems at Zagros. Charlie, we’ll leave now - I’ve got to check the apartment but we’ll return before dinner. Say 8:00 P.M.; by then Mac should be back, eh?” “Yes. Won’t you have a drink? Sorry, we’ve no wine. Whisky?” He offered it halfheartedly as this was their last three quarters of a bottle. “No thanks, mon vieux.” JeanLuc got into his coat, noticed in the mirror that he was looking as dashing as ever, and thought of the cases of wine and the tins of cheese he had had the wisdom to tell his wife to stock in their apartment. “A bientot, I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Charlie,” Sayada said, watching both of them carefully as she had done since the HF came to life, “what did Scotty mean about the helicopter escape?”
Pettikin shrugged. “All sorts of rumors about all sorts of escapes, by land, sea, and air. Always ‘Europeans’ supposed to be involved,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “We’re blamed for everything.”
And why not, you are responsible, Sayada Bertolin thought without malice. Politically, she was delighted to see them both sweating. Personally, she wasn’t. She liked both of them and most of the pilots, particularly JeanLuc who pleased her immensely and amused her constantly. I’m lucky to be Palestinian, she told herself, and Coptic Christian - of ancient lineage. That gives me strengths they don’t have, an awareness of a heritage back to biblical times, an understanding of life they could never reach, along with the capacity to dissociate politics from friendship and the bedchamber - as long as it is necessary and prudent. Haven’t we had thirty centuries of survival training? Hasn’t Gaza been settled for three thousand years? “There’s a rumor Bakhtiar’s slipped out of the country and fled to Paris.” “I don’t believe that, Charlie,” Sayada said. “But there’s another that I do,” she added, noticing he had not answered her question about the Isfahan helicopter. “It seems your General Valik and his family fled to join the other IHC partners in London. Between them they’re supposed to have salted away millions of dollars.”
“Partners?” JeanLuc said contemptuously. “Robbers, all of them, whether here or London, every year worse than before.”
“They’re not all bad,” Pettikin said.
JeanLuc said, “Those cretins steal the sweat of our brow, Sayada. I’m astounded Old Man Gavallan lets them get away with it.”
“Come off it, JeanLuc,” Pettikin said. “He fights them every inch of the way.”
“Every inch of our way, old friend. We do the flying, he doesn’t. As for Valik…” JeanLuc shrugged with Gallic extravagance. “If I was an Iranian of wealth, I would have gone months ago with all I could collect. It’s been clear for months that the Shah was out of control. Now it’s the French Revolution and the Terror all over again but without our style, sense, civilized heritage, or manners.” He shook his head disgustedly. “What a waste! When you think of all the centuries of teaching and wealth we French’ve put in trying to help these people crawl out of the Dark Ages and what have they learned? Not even how to make a decent loaf of bread!” Sayada laughed and, on tiptoe, kissed him. “Ah, JeanLuc, I love you and your confidence. Now, mon vieux, we should go, you’ve lots to accomplish!” After they had left, Pettikin went to the window and stared out at the rooftops. There was the inevitable sporadic gunfire and some smoke near Jaleh. Not a big fire but enough. A stiff breeze scattered the smoke. Clouds reached down the mountains. The cold from the windows was strong, ice and snow on the sills. In the street below were many Green Bands. Walking or in trucks. Then from minarets everywhere muezzins began calling to afternoon prayer. Their calls seemed to surround him.
Suddenly he was filled with dread.
AT THE MINISTRY OF AVIATION: 5:04 P.M. Duncan McIver was sitting wearily on a wooden chair in a corner of the crowded antechamber of the deputy minister. He was cold and hungry and very irritable. His watch told him he had been waiting almost three hours.
Scattered around the room were a dozen other men, Iranians, some French, American, British, and one Kuwaiti wearing a galabia - a long-flowing Arabian robe-and headband. A few moments ago the Europeans had politely stopped chatting as, in response to the muezzins’ calls that still came through the tall windows, the Muslims had knelt, faced Mecca, and prayed the afternoon prayer. It was short and quickly over and once more the desultory conversation picked up - never wise to discuss anything important in a government office, particularly now. The room was drafty, the air chilly. They all still wore their overcoats, were equally weary, a few stoic, most seething, for all, like McIver, had long overdue appointments. “Insha’Allah,” he muttered but that didn’t help him.
With any luck Gen’s already at Al Shargaz, he thought. I’m damned glad she’s safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: “I’m the one who can talk to Andy. You can’t put anything into writing.” “That’s true,” he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, “Maybe Andy can make a plan that we could carry out - might carry out. Hope to God we don’t have to. Too bloody dangerous. Too many lads and too many planes spread out. Too bloody dangerous. Gen, you forget we’re not at war though we’re in the middle of one.”
“Yes, Duncan, but we’ve nothing to lose.”
“We’ve people to lose, as well as birds.”
“We’re only going to see if it’s feasible, aren’t we, Duncan?” Old Gen’s certainly the best go-between we could have - if we really needed one. She’s right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: “Andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes - and spares - that’re presently under Iranian registry and technically owned by an Iranian company called IHC…”
Christ! Isn’t that a conspiracy to defraud!
Leaving is not the answer. We’ve got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. Somehow I’ve got to get the partners to help - or maybe this minister can give us a hand. If he’ll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. Any government’s got to have help to get their oil up, they’ve got to have choppers and we’ll get our money…
He looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. By name. There never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. Even in the Shah’s time it was never first come, first served. Then it was only influence. Or money.
Talbot of the British embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. “Sorry, old boy, even I can’t get into the PM, but his deputy Antazam’s a good sort, speaks good English - not one of these rev twits. He’ll fix you up.”
McIver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. When he had presented the letter, in English and Farsi, to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.
“Ah, don’t worry, Agha, you’re in plenty of time,” the friendly reception clerk said, to his relief, in good English, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. “This is the right office. Please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. Minister Kia will see you as soon as possible.”
“I don’t want to see him,” he had almost exploded. “My appointment’s with Deputy Prime Minister
