and embassy personnel except for a skeleton staff. Superheated air from the jets tore up snow and washed over them. When Gavallan could make himself heard, he said, “Talbot left a message for you, Mr. Armstrong, and asked if you’d see him as soon as possible.” He saw the glance between the two men and wondered what it meant.
“Did he say where, sir?”
“No, just to see him as soon as possible.” Gavallan was distracted by a big black limo hurrying toward them, the official Khomeini flag on the fender. Two hard-faced men got out and saluted Hashemi deferentially, held the door open for him.
“Until Saturday - thank you again, Mr. Gavallan.” Hashemi got into the back. “How do we contact you, Colonel - in case there’s a change in plan?” “Through Robert. He can get a message to me. Is there anything I can do for you? Here at the airport?”
McIver said quickly, “About refueling - thanks for arranging it - if you could see we get the same rapid service every time I’d appreciate it. And also our clearances serviced.”
“I’ll take care of it. You will have priority for Saturday’s flight. If there’s anything else, please ask Robert. Come on, Robert!” Robert Armstrong said, “Thanks again, Mr. Gavallan, see you Saturday, if not before.”
When Talbot had come by earlier to find out Armstrong’s arrival time back from Tabriz, Gavallan had taken him aside and almost howled with rage over the blackmail. “Bless my soul,” Talbot had said, shocked. “What a ghastly accusation, terribly un-British, Andrew, if I may say so! I understand Robert went to a considerable amount of trouble to try to extricate you, your company, Duncan, and Lochart - good man that, lovely wife, sad about her father - from a disaster that can raise its ugly head at any moment. Couldn’t it?” He smiled sweetly. “I understand Robert asked, only asked for a modest favor, easy to provide, no skin off the old nose, Andrew.” “He’s Special Branch, ex-CID Hong Kong, isn’t he?”
Talbot’s smile had never lost its sweetness. “I wouldn’t know. But he does seem to want to do you a favor. Rather nice of him. Isn’t it?” “Does he have the clearance book?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that sort of thing.”
“Who’s this Colonel Fazir anyway?”
Talbot had lit a cigarette. “Just a friend. Good man to have as a friend.” “I can see that. He arranged refueling and immediate priority clearance as though he was God All bloody Mighty.”
“Oh, he’s not, by no means not. Near it, but not God. God’s English,” Talbot had chuckled. “And a woman. No masculine intelligence could balls up the world so satisfactorily. A word to the wise, old chap: I hear, following the advice of your fellow board member, Ali Kia, they intend nationalizing all foreign aircraft companies, particularly yours, if ever they can get the piece of paper together.”
Gavallan was shocked. “Who’re ‘they’?”
‘“Does it matter?”
After Talbot had driven off, Gavallan had stalked back into the office that was well staffed today. Not back to normal yet but getting there - radio op, telex op, office manager, stores men and some secretaries, no women present today as all had requested permission to go on the Protest March. “Mac, let’s take a walk.”
McIver glanced up from a pile of reports. “Sure,” he said, seeing the gravity.
They had had no time to talk privately yet, impossible in or near the office, the walls all thin and ears wide open everywhere. From the moment Gavallan had arrived hours ago, the two of them had been busy going through the cash ledgers, contracts still in service, contracts held up or canceled, and the current status of each base - all of them reporting, guardedly, minimum work and maximum harassment - the only good piece of news McIver’s permission to export the three 212s and even that was not sure. Yet. The two men went out onto the freight apron. A JAL jumbo roared into the sky. “They say there’re still two to three thousand Japanese techs kicking their heels at Iran-Toda,” McIver said absently.
“Their consortium’s taking a hell of a beating. Today’s Financial Times said their override’s already half a billion dollars, no way they can get finished this year and no way to pull out - that and the world shipping glut must be hurting Toda badly.” Gavallan saw there was no one near. “At least our capital investment’s mobile, Mac, most of it.”
McIver looked up at him, seeing the craggy face, gray bushy eyebrows, brown eyes. “That’s the reason for the ‘imperative conference’?” “One of them.” Gavallan told him what Talbot had said. “‘Nationalized’! That means we lose the lot - unless we do something about it. Genny’s right, you know. We’ve got to do it ourselves.”
“I don’t think it’s possible. Did she tell you that?”
“Of course, but I think we can. Try this on for size: Say today’s Day One. All nonessential personnel begin to quit Iran for reassignment or on leave; we get out all the spares we can - either by our 125 or on regular airlines when they start up again - as obsolete, redundant, for repair or as personal baggage. Zagros Three retreats to Kowiss, Tabriz closes ‘temporarily’ and Erikki’s 212 goes to Al Shargaz, then to Nigeria along with Tom Lochart from Zagros, and one 212 from Kowiss. You close HQ in Tehran and relocate at Al Shargaz to run operations and control our three remaining bases of Lengeh, Kowiss and Bandar Delam ‘pending return to normality’ from there - we’re all still under our government orders to evacuate all nonessential personnel.” “Right, but th - ”
“Let me finish, laddie. Say we can do the prep and planning and all that in thirty days. Day Thirty-one’s D day. At an exact time on D day - or D plus one or two depending on weather or Christ knows what - we radio a code word from Al Shargaz. Simultaneously all remaining pilots and choppers take off, head across the Gulf for Al Shargaz. There we remove the rotors, stow the choppers into 747 freighters I’ve chartered from somewhere, they’ll fly to Aberdeen and Bob’s your bloody uncle,” Gavallan ended with a beam. McIver stared at him blankly. “You’re crazy! You’re stark raving bonkers, Chinaboy. It’s got so many holes in it… you’re bonkers.” “Name one hole.”
“I can give you fifty, firs - ”
“One at a time, laddie, and remember your bloody pressure. How is it by the way - Genny asked me to ask?”
“Fine, and don’t you bloody start. First, the same takeoff time: choppers from the different bases’ll take vastly different times because of the distances they have to go. Kowiss’ll have to refuel - can’t make it in one hop, even across the Gulf.”
“I know that. We make separate subplans for each of the three bases. Each base commander makes his own plan how to get out - we’re responsible for them on arrival. Scrag can zip across the Gulf easily, so can Rudi from Bandar De - ”
“He can’t. Neither Rudi from Bandar Delam nor Starke from Kowiss can make it in one hop all along the Gulf to Al Shargaz - even if they can get across the Gulf in the first place. They’ll have to go through Kuwait, Saudi, and Emirate airspace and God only knows if they’d impound us, jail, or fine us - Al Shargaz too, no reason why they should be any different.” McIver shook his head. “The sheikdoms can’t do anything without proper Iranian clearances - rightly they’re all scared fartless Khomeini’s revolution’ll spread to them, they’ve all got big Shi’a minorities, they’re no match for Iranian armed forces if he decides to get mean.”
“One point at a time,” Gavallan said calmly. “You’re right about Rudi’s and Starke’s planes, Mac. But say they have permission to fly through all those territories?”
“Eh?”
“I telexed all Gulf ATC’s individually for permission and I’ve got telex confirms that S-G choppers in transit can go through.”
“Yes, but - ”
“But one point at a time, laddie. Next, say all our planes were back on British registry - they are British, they are our planes, we’re paying for them, we own them whatever the partners try to pull. On British registry they’re not subject to Iran or anything to do with them. Right?” “Once they’re out, yes, but you won’t get Iran Civil Aviation Authority to agree to the transfer, therefore you can’t get them back to British.” “Say I could get them onto British registry regardless.” “How in the hell would you do that?”
“Ask. You ask, laddie, you ask the registry lads in London to do it. In fact I did before I left London. ‘Things are kind of ropy in Iran,’ says I. ‘Totally snafu, old boy, yes,’ says they. ‘I’d like you to put my birds back on British registry, temporarily,’ says I, ‘I may bring them out until the situation normalizes - of course, the powers that be in Iran’d approve but I can’t get a bloody piece of paper signed there at the moment, you know how it is.’ ‘Certainly, old boy’, says they, ‘same with our bloody government - any bloody government. Well, they are your kites, no doubt about that, it’s a tiny bit irregular but I imagine it might be all right. Are you going to the Old Boys’ beer-up?’”
McIver had stopped walking and stared at him in wonder. “They agreed?” “Not yet, laddie. Next?”
“I’ve got a hundred ‘nexts’ but!” Irritably McIver started walking again, too cold to stand still. “But?”
