our hills he would not be dead. It’s his fault he’s dead - no one else’s.”
“True.” Nitchak Khan watched the fire and the men fighting it and by the time Lochart and Pietro had cleared the shed of dynamite, the others had the fire contained.
Lochart leaned against a trailer wall to catch his breath. “Pietro, we’ve only got till Sunday sunset. Then it’s get out or else.”
Pietro’s face closed. He glanced at the Green Band and Nitchak Khan who was near the helicopter. “Five days? That saves me a decision, Tom. We evacuate to Shiraz - via Rig Rosa or direct.” Pietro gestured at the fire with his clenched left fist, his other hand on the bicep. “For the moment Bellissima is ruined. I’ll need Almqvist to plug the wells. Mamma mia, that’s a lot of men to transport. What a waste! I’m glad old Guineppa’s not here to see the foulness of the day. Best I come to see Mimmo.”
“At once, with those who’re hurt. What about Gianni?”
Pietro glanced at the body. “We’ll leave him until last, my poor blood brother,” he said sadly. “He won’t rot.”
AT RIG ROSA: Mimmo Sera was sitting opposite Nitchak Khan and the Green Band in the mess hall, Lochart, Pietro, and the three senior riggers also at the table. For half an hour Mimmo, who spoke good Farsi, had tried to persuade the komiteh Green Band to extend the time, or to allow him to leave skeleton crews while he and Lochart went with him to see the chief of IranOil in Shiraz.
“In the Name of God, enough!” the Green Band said irritably. “But Excellency, without the helicopters we’ll have to shut down the whole field and start evacuating at once. Surely, Excellency, because the Ayatollah, bless him, and your Prime Minister Bazargan want oil production back to normal we should consult IranOil in Sh - ”
“Enough! Kalandar,” the Green Band added to Nitchak Khan, “if these mosquito brains disobey, it’s on your head, you’re finished, Yazdek is finished and all your people! If one foreigner or one flying machine remains on the fifth sunset and you haven’t fired the base, we will! Then we will burn the village, by hand or by air force. You,” the Green Band snarled at Lochart, “start up the airplane. We go back. Now!” He stormed out. They all stared after him dismayed. Lochart felt sad for all those who had found the oil and developed the field and put so much energy, money, talent, gamble, and risk into it. Scandalous, he thought, but we’ve no option. Nothing else to do. We evacuate. I cancel Scot leaving and use all airplanes and do the job. We work like hell for five days and forget Tehran and Sharazad and that today’s the day of the Protest March she’s forbidden. “Kalandar,” he said. “Without your benevolence, and assistance, we must leave.”
Nitchak Khan saw all the eyes turn to him. “I have to choose between the base and my village,” he said gravely. “That is no choice. I will try to find the terrorists and bring them to justice. Meanwhile, best that you take no chances. These hills are full of hiding places.”
With great dignity he got up and walked out, quite sure that now he would not have to burn the base, though, if God wanted, he knew he would do it without a moment’s hesitation, whether it be full or empty. He allowed himself the shadow of a smile. His plan had worked impeccably. All the foreigners had accepted Hassan the Goatherd as a genuine Green Band whose pretended arrogance and temper were marvelous to see; the foreigners had swallowed his fabrication about “terrorists” murdering a shepherd and he had seen their fear; these same “terrorists” had mutilated the oil rig, the most difficult to reach of all eleven and, in the black hours tonight, these same “terrorists” would fire part of the Rig Rosa and then would vanish forever - back into the village life stream from which they came. And by dawn tomorrow, he thought with satisfaction, terror will be widespread, all foreigners will be falling over themselves to leave, their evacuation is assured, and peace will come to Yazdek.
Fools to play games where only we know the rules! But there is still the problem of the young pilot. Was he a witness, or wasn’t he? The elders have advised an “accident” to be safe. Yesterday would have been perfect when the young man was hunting alone. So easy to slip and fall on your gun. Yes. But my wife advised against an “accident.” “Why?”
“Because the schoolhouse was a marvelous thing,” she had said. “Wasn’t it the first we have ever had? Without the pilots it would never have been. But now we know and can easily build another of our own; because the pilots have been good for us, without them we would not know much that we now know, nor would we have such a rich village; because I think that young man told the truth. I commend that you should let him go, don’t forget how that young man made us laugh with his fairy stories about this place called Kong in the land called China, where there are a thousand times a thousand times a thousand times a thousand people, where all their hair is black, all eyes black, and they eat with pieces of wood.”
He remembered how he had laughed with her. How could there be so many people in one land, all the same? “There is still the danger he lied.” “Then test him,” she had said. “There’s still time.” Yes, he thought, there are four days to uncover the truth - five including Holy Day.
Chapter 41
TEHRAN: 5:16 P.M. Now the Women’s March was over.
It had begun that morning with the same air of expectancy that had enveloped Tehran for two days - when incredibly, for the first time in history, women by themselves as a group were about to take to the streets in protest, to show their solidarity against any encroachment of their hard-earned rights by the new rulers, even by the Imam himself.
“The proper dress for a woman is the hijab that requires them to cover their hair and arms and legs and zinaat - their enticing parts.” “I chose to wear the chador as a protest against the Shah, Meshang,” Zarah, his wife, had screeched at him. “I chose it! I did! I’ll never wear a veil or chador or scarf against my will, never never never…” “Coeducation introduced by the Satan Shah a few years ago will cease as in practice it has turned many of our schools into houses of prostitution.” “Lies, all lies! Ridiculous!” Sharazad had told Lochart. “The truth must be shouted from the rooftops. It’s not the Imam saying these things, it’s the zealots surrounding him…”
“The Satan Shah’s heinous Marriage Protection Act is disapproved.” “Surely that’s a mistake, Hussain,” the mullah’s wife had said carefully. “The Imam can’t be saying that. It protects us against rejection by a husband, against polygamy, and grants us the right of divorce, gives us the vote and protects a wife’s property…”
“In our Islamic nation everyone will be governed only by the Koran and the Sharia. Women should not work, they must return to the home, stay in the home, to do their blessed, God-ordained duty to bear and bring up children and look after their Masters.”
“By the Prophet, Erikki, as much as I wish to have your children and be the best wife to you,” Azadeh had said, “I swear I cannot sit idly by and watch my less fortunate sisters be forced back into the Dark Ages without any freedom, or rights. It’s the fanatics, the zealots, not Khomeini, who are trying to do this. I will march wherever I am…”
All over Iran women had prepared sympathy marches - in Qom, Isfahan, Meshed, Abadan, Tabriz, even small towns like Kowiss - but never in the villages. All over Iran there had been arguments and quarrels between most fathers and their daughters, most husbands and their wives, most brothers and their sisters, the same fights, pleadings, cursing, demands, promises, beggings, forbiddings and, God protect us, even rebellions - covert and overt. And all over Iran was the same secret resolve of the women.
“I’m glad my Tommy’s not here, that makes it so much easier,” Sharazad had told her reflection in the mirror this morning, the march due to begin at noon. “I’m glad he’s away because whatever he said, eventually I’d disobey him.” A tremor of excitement, pleasing and at the same time painful. She was checking her makeup in the mirror a last time, just to make sure that the bruise around her left eye was well covered with powder. It hardly showed at all now. She smiled at herself, pleased with what she saw. Her hair was curled and flowing and she wore a warm green sweater and green skirt and nylons and Russian suede boots, and when she went out she had decided to wear a matching fur-lined coat and hat. Isn’t green the color of Islam? she thought happily, all her soreness forgotten.
Behind her the bed was littered with ski clothes and other clothes that she had considered and discarded. After all, women have never protested as a group before so we should certainly look our best. What a pity it’s not spring, then I could wear my light yellow silk dress and yellow hat and… A sudden sadness took her. Her father had given her that dress for her birthday present last year, and the lovely pearl choker necklace. Poor dear Father! she thought, her anger welling. God curse the evil men who murdered him. God cast them into the pit forever! God protect Meshang and all the family and my Tommy and let not zealots take away our freedoms. Now there were tears in her eyes and she brushed them away. Insha’Allah, she thought. Father’s in Paradise where the Faithful belong so there’s no real reason to mourn. No. Only the wish to see justice done to the foul murderers. Murder! Uncle Valik. HBC. Annoush and the children. HBC! How I hate those letters! What’s happened to Karim? She had
