pulling.”
“Come on, Aaron. I think he’s kosher, and the rest of it’s coincidence.” Wesson sighed. “Okay, I’ll put a tab on him, and he won’t shit without you knowing, but hell, old buddy, you guys see enemies under the bed, on the ceiling, and under the carpet.” “Why not? There’re plenty around - known, unknown, active, or passive.” Aaron was methodically watching around him, checking on newcomers, expecting enemies, aware of the multitude of enemy agents in Al Shargaz and the Gulf. And we know about enemies, here, outside in the old city and in the new city, up the road to Oman and down the road to Dubai and Baghdad and Damascus, to Moscow and Paris and London, across the sea to New York, south to both the Capes and north to the Arctic Circle, wherever there’re people who’re not Jews. Only a Jew not automatically suspect and even then, these days, you’ve got to be careful.
There’re many among the Chosen who don’t want Zion, don’t want to go to war or pay for war, don’t want to understand Israel hangs in the balance with the Shah, our only ally in the Middle East and sole OPEC supplier of oil for our tanks and planes cast aside, don’t want to know our backs are to the Wailing Wall and we’ve to fight and die to protect our God-given land of Israel we repossessed with God’s help at such cost!
He looked up at Wesson, liking him, forgiving him his faults, admiring him as a professional but sorry for him: he wasn’t a Jew and therefore suspect. “I’m glad I was bom a Jew, Glenn. It makes life so much easier.” “How?”
“You know where you stand.”
AT DISCO TEX, HOTEL SHARGAZ: 11:52 P.M. Americans, British, and French dominated the room - some Japanese and other Asians. Europeans in the majority, many, many more men than women, their ages ranging between twenty-five and forty-five - the Gulf expat work force had to be young, strong, preferably unmarried, to survive the hard, celibate life. A few drunks, some noisy. Ugly and not so ugly, overweight and not so overweight, most of them lean, frustrated, and volcanic. A few Shargazi and others of the Gulf, but only the rich, the Westernized, the sophisticated, and men. Most of these sat on the upper level drinking soft drinks and ogling, and the few who danced on the small floor below danced with European women: secretaries, embassy personnel, airline staff, nurses, or other hotel staff - partners at a premium. No Shargazi or Arabian women were here.
Paula danced with Sandor Petrofi, Genny with Scragger, and Johnny Hogg was cheek to cheek with the girl who had been deep in conversation on the terrace, swaying at half tempo. “How long’re you staying, Alexandra?” he murmured.
“Next week, only until next week. Then I must join my husband in Rio.” “Oh, but you’re so young to be married! You’re all alone till then?”
“Yes, alone, Johnny. It’s sad, no?”
He did not reply, just held her a little tighter and blessed his luck that he had picked up the book she had dropped in the lobby. The strobe lights dazzled him for a moment, then he noticed Gavallan on the upper level, standing at the rail, grave and lost in thought, and again felt sorry for him. Earlier he had reluctantly arranged tomorrow’s night flight to London for him, trying to persuade him to rest over a day. “I know how jet lag plays hell with you, sir.”
“No problem, Johnny, thanks. Our takeoff for Tehran’s still at 10:00 A.M.?”
“Yes, sir. Our clearance’s still priority - and the charter onward to Tabriz.”
“Let’s hope that goes smoothly, just there and straight back.” John Hogg felt the girl’s loins against him. “Will you have dinner tomorrow? I should be back sixish.”
“Perhaps - but not before nine.”
“Perfect.”
Gavallan was looking down on the dancers, hardly seeing them, then turned and went down the stairs and outside onto the ground-floor terrace. The night was lovely, moon huge, no clouds. Around were acres of delicately floodlit, beautifully kept gardens within the encircling walls, some of the sprinklers on.
The Shargaz was the biggest hotel in the sheikdom, on one side the sea, the other the desert, its tower eighteen stories, with five restaurants, three bars, cocktail lounge, coffee shop, the disco, two swimming pools, saunas, steam rooms, tennis courts, health center, shopping mall with a dozen boutiques and antiques, an Aaron carpet shop, hairdressing salons, video library, bakery, electronics, telex office, typing pool, with, like all the modem European hotels, all rooms and suites air-conditioned, bathrooms and bidets en suite, twenty-four-hour room service - mostly smiling Pakistanis - same-day cleaners, instant pressing, a color TV in every room, in-house movies, stock market channel, and satellite distant dialing to every capital in the world.
True, Gavallan thought, but still a ghetto. And though the rulers of Al Shargaz and Dubai and Sharjah are liberal and tolerant so expats can drink in the hotels, can even buy liquor, though God help you if you resell any to a Muslim, our women can drive and shop and walk about, that’s no guarantee it’ll last. A few hundred yards away, Shargazi are living as they’ve lived for centuries, a few miles away over the border liquor’s forbidden, a woman can’t drive or be on the streets alone and has to cover her hair and arms and shoulders and wear loose pants, and over there in the real desert, people exist on a stratum of life that’s pitiless.
A few years ago he had taken a Range Rover and a guide and, together with McIver and Genny and his new wife Maureen, had gone out into the desert to spend the night in one of the oases on the edge of Rub’ al-Khali, the Empty Quarter. It had been a perfect spring day. Within minutes of their passing the airport, the road became a track that quickly petered out and they were grinding over the stony expanse under the bowl of sky. Picnic lunch, then on again, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, detouring in the wilderness where it never rained and nothing grew. Nothing. On again. When they stopped and turned the engine off, the silence came at them like a physical presence, the sun bore down, and space enveloped them.
That night was blue-black, stars enormous, tents fine and carpets soft, and even greater silence, greater space, so much space inconceivable. “I hate it, Andy,” Maureen had whispered. “It frightens me to death.” “Me too. Don’t know why but it does.” Around the palm trees of the oasis, the desert went to every horizon, taunting and unearthly. “The immensity seems to suck the life out of you. Imagine what it’s like in summer!” She trembled. “It makes me feel less than a grain of sand. It’s crushing me - somehow it’s taken my balance away. Och, ay, laddie, once is enough for me. It’s me for Scotland - London at a pinch - and never again.” And she had never come back. Like Scrag’s Nell, he thought. Don’t blame them. It’s tough enough in the Gulf for men, but for women… He glanced around. Genny was coming out of the French windows, fanning herself, looking much younger than in Tehran. “Hello, Andy. You’re the wise one, it’s so stuffy in there, and the smoke, ugh!”
“Never was much of a dancer.”
“The only time I get to dance is when Duncan’s not with me. He’s such a stickin-the-mud.” She hesitated. “On tomorrow’s flight, do you think I co - ”
“No,” he said kindly. “Not yet. In a week or so - let the dust settle.” She nodded, not hiding her disappointment. “What did Scrag say?” “Yes - if the others are in and it’s feasible. We had a good talk and we’re having breakfast.” Gavallan put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry about Mac, I’ll make sure he’s all right.”
“I’ve another bottle of whisky for him, you don’t mind, do you?” “I’ll put it in my briefcase - we’re on notice by IATC not to have any booze as aircraft stores - no problem, I’ll hand carry it.”
“Then perhaps you’d better not, not this time.” She found his gravity unsettling, so unusual in him. Poor Andy, anyone can see he’s beside himself with worry. “Andy, can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course, Genny.”
“Use this colonel and Roberts, no, Armstrong, the VIPs you’ve got to ferry to Tabriz. Why not ask them to route you back through Kowiss, say you need to pick up some engines for repair, eh? Then you can talk to Duke directly.” “Very good idea - go to the top of the class.”
She reached up and gave him a sisterly kiss. “You’re not bad yourself. Well, it’s me back to the fray - haven’t been so popular since the war.” She laughed and so did he. “Night, Andy.”
Gavallan went back to his hotel that was just down the road. He did not notice the men tailing him, nor that his room had been searched, his papers read, nor that now the room was bugged and the phone tapped.
Saturday - February 24
Chapter 46
AT TEHRAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:58 A.M. The cabin door of the 125 closed behind Robert Armstrong and Colonel Hashemi Fazir. From the cockpit, John Hogg gave Gavallan and McIver, who stood on the tarmac beside his car, a thumbs-up and taxied away, outward bound for Tabriz. Gavallan had just arrived from Al Shargaz and this was the first moment he and McIver had been alone.
