minutes they would again have their one daily allowable radio link with Tehran HQ - “You’re restricted but only until we’re back to normal when you can call all you want - any day now,” Major Changiz, the base commander, had said. And though they were monitored by the main tower across at the air force base, the link kept their sanity and gave an appearance of normality. Starke said, “After Zagros Three’s cleaned out Sunday and you’re all here, why not take the 206, Monday, first thing? I’ll fix it with Mac.” 736 “Thanks, that’d be dandy.” Now that his own base was closed down, Lochart was nominally under Starke’s command.
“Have you thought of getting the hell out, taking the 212 instead of Scot? Once he’s out of the Zagros he should be okay. Or even better, both of you going? I’ll talk to Mac.”
“Thanks but no, Sharazad can’t leave her family just now.” They walked on awhile. Night was coming fast, cold but crisp, the air smelling heavily of gasoline from the huge refinery nearby that was still almost totally shut down and mostly dark, except for the tall stacks burning off oil vapor. On the base, lights were already on in most of their bungalows, hangars, and cookhouse - they had their own backup generators in case base power went out. Major Changiz had told Starke there was no chance the base generator system would be interfered with now: “The revolution is completely over, Captain, the Imam is in charge.” “And the leftists?”
“The Imam has ordered them eliminated, unless they conform to our Islamic state,” Major Changiz had said, his voice hard and ominous. “Leftists, Kurds, Baha’is, aliens - any enemy. The Imam knows what to do.” Imam. It was the same at Starke’s questioning in front of Hussain’s komiteh. Almost as though he were semidivine, Starke had thought. Hussain had been the chief judge and prosecutor and the room, part of the mosque, crowded with hostile men of all ages, all Green Bands, five judges - no bystanders. “What do you know of the escape of the enemies of Islam from Isfahan by helicopter?” “Nothing,”
At once one of the other four judges, all young men, rough and hardly literate, said, “He’s guilty of crimes against God and crimes against Iran as an exploiter for American Satanists.
Guilty.”
“No,” Hussain said. “This is a court of law, Koranic law. He is here to answer questions, not yet for crimes, not yet. He is not accused of any crime. Captain, tell us everything you have heard about the Isfahan crime.” The air in the room had been fetid. Starke saw not a friendly face, yet all knew who he was, all knew about the battle against the fedayeen at Bandar Delam. His fear was a dull ache, knowing he was on his own now, at their mercy.
He took a breath and chose his words carefully. “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful,” he said, starting as all the suras of the Koran begin, and an astonished stir went through
737 the room. “I know nothing myself, I have witnessed nothing to do with it or been part of it. I was in Bandar Delam at the time. To my knowledge none of my people have had anything to do with it. I only know what Zataki of Abadan told me when he returned from Isfahan. Exactly he said: ‘We heard that Tuesday some Shah supporters, all officers, fled south in a helicopter piloted by an American. God curse all Satanists.’ That’s all he said. That’s all I know.”
“You’re a Satanist,” one of the other judges interrupted triumphantly, “you’re American. You’re guilty.”
“I am a person of the Book and I’ve already proved I’m no Satanist. If it wasn’t for me many here would be dead.”
“If we’d died at the base we’d be in Paradise now,” a Green Band at the back of the room said angrily. “We were doing the Work of God. It was nothing to do with you, Infidel.”
Shouts of agreement. Suddenly Starke let out a bellow of rage. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he shouted, “I’m a person of the Book, and the Prophet gave us special privileges and protections!” He was shaking with rage now, his fear vanished, hating this kangaroo court and their blindness and stupidity and ignorance and bigotry. “The Koran says: ‘Oh, People of the Book, overstep not the bounds of truth in your religion; neither follow the desires of those who have already gone astray and caused many others to stray from the evenness of the path.’ I haven’t,” he ended harshly, bunching his fists, “and may God curse him who says otherwise.”
Astonished, they all stared at him, even Hussain.
One of the judges broke the silence. “You… you quote the Koran? You read Arabic as well as speak Farsi?”
“No. No, I don’t but th - ”
“Then you had a teacher, a mullah?”
“No. No, I rea - ”
“Then you’re a sorcerer!” another shouted. “How can you know the Koran if you had no teacher nor read Arabic, the holy language of the Koran?” “I read it in English, my own language.”
Even greater astonishment and disbelief until Hussain spoke. “What he says is true. The Koran is translated into many foreign languages.” More astonishment. A young man peered at him myopically through cracked, thick- lensed glasses, his face pitted. “If it is translated into other languages, Excellency, then why isn’t it in Farsi for us to read - if we could read?”
Hussain said, “The language of the Holy Koran is Arabic. To know the Holy Koran properly the Believer must read Arabic. Mullahs of all countries learn Arabic for this reason. The Prophet, whose Name be praised, was Arab. God spoke to him in that language for others to write down. To know the Holy Book truly it must be read as it was written.” Hussain turned his black eyes on Starke. “A translation is always less than the original. Isn’t it?”
Starke saw the curious expression. “Yes,” he said, his intuition telling him to agree. “Yes, yes, it is. I would like to be able to read the original.” Another silence. The young man with glasses said, “If you know the Koran so well that you can quote from it to us like a mullah, why aren’t you Muslim, why aren’t you a Believer?”
A rustle went through the room. Starke hesitated, almost La panic, not knowing how to answer but sure that the wrong answer would hang him. The silence grew, then he heard himself say, “Because God has not yet taken away the skin over my ears nor, not yet, opened my spirit,” then added involuntarily, “I do not resist and I wait. I wait patiently.” The mood in the room changed. Now the silence was kind. Compassionate. Hussain said softly, “Go to the Imam and your waiting will be ended. The Imam would open your spirit to the glory of God. The Imam would open your spirit. I know, I’ve sat at the Imam’s feet. I’ve heard the Imam preaching the Word, giving the Law, spreading the Calm of God.” A sigh went through the room and now all concentrated on the mullah, watched his eyes and the light therein, heard the newness to his voice and the growing ecstasy therein - even Starke who felt chilled and at the same time elated. “Hasn’t the Imam come to open the spirit of the world? Hasn’t the Imam appeared among us to cleanse Islam of Evil and to spread Islam throughout the world, to carry the message of God… as has been promised? The Imam is.” The word hung in the room. They all understood. So did Starke. Mahdi! he thought, hiding his shock. Hussain’s implying Khomeini’s in reality the Mahdi, the legendary twelfth Imam who vanished centuries ago and Shi’as believe is just hidden from human sight - the Immortal One, promised by God to reappear some day to rule over a perfected world.
He saw them all staring at the mullah. Many nodding, tears running down the faces of others, all rapt and satisfied and not a disbeliever among them. Good God, he thought, dumbfounded, if Iranians give Khomeini that mantle there’ll be no end to his power, there’ll be twenty, thirty million men, women, and kids desperate to do his bidding, who’ll rush happily to death at his merest whim - and why not? Mahdi would guarantee them a place in Heaven, guarantee it! Someone said, “God is Great,” others echoed it and they talked, one with another, Hussain leading them, Starke forgotten. At length they noticed him and they let him go, saying, “See the Imam, see and believe…” Walking back to camp his feet had been strangely light, and he remembered now how the air had never tasted better, never had he been so full of the joy of life. Perhaps that’s because I was so close to death, he thought. I was a dead man and somehow I was given back life. Why? And Tom, why did he escape Isfahan, Dez Dam, even HBC herself? Is there a reason? Or was it just luck?
And now in the dusk he watched Lochart, gravely concerned for him. Terrible about HBC, terrible about Sharazad’s father, terrible that Tom and Sharazad are in a cauldron of no escape. Soon they’ll both have to choose: exile together, probably never to return here - or to part, probably forever. “Tom, there’s something special. Very secret, just between us. Johnny Hogg brought a letter from Andy Gavallan.” They were safely away from the base, strolling along the boundary road, skirting the eight-strand barbed-wire fence, and no fear of anyone overhearing. Even so He kept his voice down. “Basically Andy’s mighty downbeat on our future here and says he’s considering evacuating to cut his losses.”
“No need for that,” Lochart said quickly, a sudden bite in his voice. “Things‘11 get back to normal - they have to. Andy’s got to sweat it out - we’re sweating it out, so can he.”
“He’s sweating it out plenty, Tom. It’s simple economics, you know that as well as any. We’re not being paid
