Yokkonen, good evening. We heard that some revolutionaries were here, or Communist Tudeh - firing was reported,” he said, his English perfect. “Her Highness is all right? There’s no problem?”
“No, not now, thank you, Colonel Mazardi.” Erikki knew him quite well. The man was a cousin of Azadeh, and chief of police in this area of Tabriz. But SAVAK? That’s something else, he thought uneasily. If he is, he is, and I don’t want to know. “Come in.”
Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coming and they told him what had occurred.
“The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?” he asked. “Yes, but it was obviously a lie,” Erikki said. “He had to be KGB.” “And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?” “No.”
The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. “So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic-Marxist - that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.” He was tall and very good- looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. “Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea- bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar‘11 give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini - we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.” He got up. “Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.”
He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, “Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”
“There’s no need to leave, Erikki.”
“If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.” “There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian, Erikki.” He looked at her. “I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force, and why the KGB think ‘you and your wife are much too intelligent,’ why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they ‘require’ my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while mere’s time.”
SATURDAY February 10 Azadeh was pleased to see her cousin and thanked him for coming and they told him what had occurred.
“The Russian said his name was Rakoczy, Fedor Rakoczy?” he asked. “Yes, but it was obviously a lie,” Erikki said. “He had to be KGB.” “And he never told you why they wanted to visit the camps?” “No.”
The colonel thought a moment, then sighed. “So the mullah Mahmud wishes to go flying, eh? Foolish for a so-called man of God to go flying. Very dangerous, particularly if he’s an Islamic-Marxist - that sacrilege! Flying helicopters, you can easily fall out, so I’m told. Perhaps we should accommodate him.” He was tall and very good- looking, in his forties, his uniform immaculate. “Don’t worry. These rabble-rousers will soon be back in their flea- bitten hovels. Soon Bakhtiar‘11 give the orders for us to contain these dogs. And that rabble-rouser Khomeini - we should muzzle that traitor quickly. The French should have muzzled him the moment he arrived there. Those weak fools. Stupid! But then they’ve always been weak, meddling, and against us. The French’ve always been jealous of Iran.” He got up. “Let me know when your aircraft is airworthy. In any event we’ll be back just before dawn in two days. Let’s hope the mullah and his friends, particularly the Russian, return.”
He left them. Erikki put the kettle on to boil for coffee. Thoughtfully he said, “Azadeh, pack an overnight bag.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“We’re going to take the car and drive to Tehran. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”
“There’s no need to leave, Erikki.”
“If the chopper was airworthy we’d use that but we can’t.” “There’s no need to worry, my darling. Russians have always coveted Azerbaijan, always will, tsarist, Soviet, it makes no difference. They’ve always wanted Iran and we’ve always kept them out and always will. No need to worry about a few fanatics and a lone Russian, Erikki.” He looked at her. “I’m worried about American marines in Turkey, the American task force, and why the KGB think ‘you and your wife are much too intelligent,’ why that one was so nervous, why they know so much about me and about you and why they ‘require’ my services. Go and pack a bag, my darling, while mere’s time.”
SATURDAY - February 10
Chapter 4
AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 3:32 A.M. Led by the mullah, Hussain Kowissi, the shouting mob was pressing against the barred, floodlit main gate and the nearby barbed-wire fence that surrounded the huge base, the night dark, very cold, with snow everywhere. There were three to four thousand of them, youths mostly, a few armed, some young women in chadors well to the front, adding their cries to the tumult: “God is Great God is Great…” Inside the gate, facing the mob, platoons of nervous soldiers were spread out on guard, their rifles ready, other platoons in reserve, all officers with revolvers. Two Centurion tanks, battle ready, waited in the center of the roadway, engines growling, the camp commander and a group of officers nearby. Behind them were trucks filled with more soldiers, headlights trained on the gate and the fence - soldiers outnumbered twenty or thirty to one. Behind the trucks were the hangars, base buildings, barracks, and the officers’ mess, knots of milling, anxious service men everywhere, all hastily dressed, for the mob had arrived barely half an hour ago demanding possession of the base in the name of Ayatollah Khomeini. Again the voice of the camp commander came over the loudspeakers. “You will disperse at once!” His voice was harsh and threatening, but the mob’s chant overpowered him, “Allah-u Akbarrr…”
The night was overcast, obscuring even the southern foothills of the snowcapped Zagros Mountains that towered behind the base. The base was S-G’s main HQ in southern Iran as well as home for two Iranian Air Force squadrons of F4s and, since martial law, a detachment of Centurions and the soldiers. Outside the fence, eastward, the giant oil refinery sprawled over hundreds of acres, the tall stacks belching smoke, many sending jets of flame into the night as the excess gas was burned off. Though the whole plant was struck and shut down, parts were floodlit: a skeleton staff of Europeans and Iranians were permitted by the strike komiteh to try to keep the refinery and its feeder pipelines and storage tanks safe.
“God is Great…” Hussain shouted again, and at once the mob took up the cry and again the cry went into the heads and hearts of the soldiers. One of those in the front rank was Ali Bewedan, a conscript like all the others, young like all the others, not so long ago a villager like all the others and those outside the fence. Yes, he thought, his head hurting, heart pounding, I’m on the side of God and ready to be martyred for the Faith and for the Prophet, whose Name be praised! Oh, God, let me be a martyr and go straight to Paradise as promised to the Faithful. Let me spill my blood for Islam and Khomeini but not for protecting the evil servants of the Shah! The living words of Khomeini kept pounding in his ears, words from the cassette their mullah had played in the mosque two days ago: “… Soldiers: join with your brothers and sisters doing God’s work, flee your barracks with your arms, disobey the illegal orders of the generals, tear down the illegal government! Do God’s work, God is Great…”
His heart picked up tempo as he heard the voice again, the rich, deep peasant voice of the leader of leaders, that made everything clear. “God is Great, God is Great…”
The young soldier did not realize that now he was shouting with the mob, his eyes fixed on his mullah who was outside the gate, on God’s side, outside, clawing at the gate, leading what he knew were his brothers and sisters, trying to break it down. His brother soldiers nearby shifted, even more nervously, staring at him, not daring to say anything, the baying going into their heads and hearts equally. Many of those inside the fence wished to open the gate. Most would have done so if it were not for their officers and sergeants and the inevitable punishments, even death, that all knew was the reward for mutiny. “On God’s side, outside …”
The young man’s brain seemed to explode with the words and he did not hear the sergeant shouting at him, nor see him, but only the gate that was closed against the Faithful. He flung down his rifle and ran for the gate, fifty yards away. For an instant there was a vast silence, all eyes within and without riveted on him, transfixed.
Colonel Mohammed Peshadi, the camp commander, stood near his lead tank, a lithe man with graying hair, his uniform immaculate. He watched the youth screaming, “Allahhhh-u Akk-barrr…” the only voice now. When the youth was five yards from the fence, the colonel motioned to the senior sergeant beside him. “Kill him,” he said quietly.
The sergeant’s ears were filled with the battle cry of the youth who now was tearing at the bolts. In one fluid
