hell - where the Khan will soon join him, as Talbot’s due to in a couple of days, and you, my old friend, at my leisure. Should I tell you Pahmudi has ordered Talbot punished for his crimes against Iran? Should I tell you I’m happy to oblige? For years I’ve wanted Talbot removed but’ve never dared to go against him alone. Now Pahmudi is to blame, may God burn him, and another irritant will be out of my way. Ah, yes, and Pahmudi himself this coming week - but you, Robert, you’re the chosen assassin for that, probably to perish. Pahmudi’s not worth one of my real assassins.
He chortled to himself, trudging down the hill, not feeling the cold, not worried about Mzytryk’s nonappearance. I’ve more important worries, he was thinking. At all costs I’ve got to protect my Group Four assassins - my guarantee for an earthly paradise with power over even Khomeini himself. “Pahmudi’s the only one who could have ordered Rakoczy’s release,” he said. “Soon I’ll find out why and where he is. He’s either in the Soviet embassy, a Soviet safe house, or in a SA-VAMA interrogation dungeon.” “Or safely out of the country by now.”
“Then he’s safely dead - the KGB don’t tolerate traitors.” Hashemi smiled sardonically. “What’s your bet?”
For a moment Armstrong did not answer, thrown by the question mat was unusual for Hashemi who disapproved of gambling, as he did. Now. The last time he had bet was in Hong Kong in ‘63 with bribe money mat had been put into his desk drawer when he was a superintendent, CID. Forty thousand Hong Kong dollars - about seven thousand U.S. men. Against all his principles, he had taken the heung yau, the Fragrant Grease as it was called there, out of the drawer and, at the races that afternoon, had bet it all on the nose of a horse called Pilot Fish, all in one insane attempt to recoup his gambling losses - horses and the stock market.
This was the first bribe money he had ever taken in eighteen years in the force though it was always readily available in abundance. That afternoon he had won heavily and had replaced the money before the police sergeant giver had noticed it had been touched - with more than enough left over for his debts. Even so he had been disgusted with himself and appalled at his stupidity. He had never bet again, nor touched heung yau again though the opportunity was always there. “You’re a bloody fool, Robert,” some of his peers would say, “no harm in a little dolly money for retirement.” Retirement? What retirement? Christ, twenty years a copper in Hong Kong on the straight and narrow, eleven years here, equally so, helping these bloodthirsty twits, and it’s all up the bloody spout. Thank God I’ve only me to worry about, no wife now or kids or close relations, just me. Still, if I get bloody Suslev who’ll lead me to one of our high-up murdering bloody traitors, it’ll all have been worth it.
“Like you, I’m not a betting men, Hashemi, but if I was…” He stopped and offered his packet of cigarettes and they lit up gratefully. The smoke mixed with the cold air and showed clear in the falling light. “If I was, I’d say it was odds-on that Rakoczy was your Pahmudi’s pishkesh to some Soviet VIP, just to play it safe.”
Hashemi laughed. “You’re becoming more Iranian every day. I’ll have to be more careful.” They were almost to the car now and his assistant got out to open the rear door for him. “We’ll go straight to the Khan, Robert.” “What about the Chevy?”
“We’ll leave others to tail it, I want to get to the Khan first.” The colonel’s face darkened. “Just to make sure that traitor’s more on our side than theirs.”
Chapter 48
AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 6:35 P.M. Starke stared at Gavallan in total shock. “Whirlwind in six days?”
“‘Fraid so, Duke.” Gavallan unzipped his parka and put his hat on the hall stand. “Wanted to tell you myself - sorry, but there it is.” The two men were in Starke’s bungalow, and he had stationed Freddy Ayre outside to make sure they were not overheard. “I heard this morning all our birds are going to be grounded, pending nationalization. We’ve six safe days to plan and execute Whirlwind - if we do it. That makes it next Friday. On Saturday we’re on borrowed time.”
“Jesus.” Absently Starke unzipped his flight jacket and clomped over to the sideboard, his flying boots leaving a little trail of snow and water droplets on the carpet. At the back of the bottom drawer was his last bottle of beer. He nipped the top off, poured half into a glass and gave it to Gavallan. “Health,” he said, drinking from the bottle, and sat on the sofa. “Health.”
“Who’s in, Andy?”
“Scrag. Don’t know yet about the rest of his lads but I’ll know tomorrow. Mac’s come up with a schedule and an overall three-phase plan that’s full of holes but possible. Let’s say it’s possible. What about you and your lads?” “What’s Mac’s plan?”
Gavallan told him.
“You’re right, Andy. It’s full of holes.”
“If you were to do a bunk, how’d you plan it from here - you’ve got the longest distances and the most difficulty.”
Starke went over to the flight map on the wall and pointed at a line that went from Kowiss to a cross a few miles out in the Gulf, indicating a rig. “This rig’s called Flotsam, one of our regulars,” he said, and Gavallan noticed how tight his voice had become. “It takes us about twenty minutes to reach the coast and another ten to get to the rig. I’d cache fuel on the shore near that bearing. I think it could be done without causing too much suspicion; it’s just sand dunes and no huts within miles and a lot of us used to picnic there. An ‘emergency’ landing to safety- check flotation gear before going out to sea shouldn’t get radar too itchy though they get worse every day. We’d have to cache two forty-gallon drums per chopper to get us across the Gulf and we’d have to refuel in flight by hand.” It was almost dusk. Windows looked out on the runway and beyond it to the air force base. The 125, with priority clearance onward to Al Shargaz, was parked on the apron, waiting for the fuel truck to arrive. Officious, nervous Green Bands surrounded her. Refueling was not really necessary but Gavallan had told John Hogg to request it anyway to give him more time with Starke. The other two passengers, Arberry and Dibble, being sent on leave after their escape from Tabriz - and crammed between a full load of crates of spares hastily packed and marked in English and Farsi: FOR IMMEDIATE REPAIR AND RETURN TO TEHRAN - were not allowed to land, even to stretch their legs. Nor the pilots, except to ground-check and to supervise the fueling when the truck arrived.
“You’d head for Kuwait?” Gavallan asked, breaking the silence. “Sure. Kuwait’d be our best bet, Andy. We’d have to refuel in Kuwait, then work our way down the coast to Al Shargaz. If it was up to me I guess I’d park more fuel against an emergency.” Starke pinpointed a tiny speck of an island off Saudi. “Here’d be good - best to stay offshore Saudi, no telling what they’d do.” Queasily he stared at all the distances. “The island’s called Jellet, the Toad, which’s what it looks like. No huts, no nothing, but great fishing. Manuela and I went out there once or twice when I was stationed at Bahrain. I’d park fuel there.”
He took off his flight cap and wiped the droplets off his forehead then put his cap back on again, his face more etched and tired than usual, all flights more harassed than usual, canceled then reordered, and canceled again, Esvandiary more foul than usual, everyone edgy and irritable, no mail or contact with home for weeks, most of his people, including himself, overdue leave and replacement. Then there’s the added problems of the incoming Zagros Three personnel and airplanes and what to do with old Effer Jordon’s body when it arrives tomorrow. That had been Starke’s first question when he had met Gavallan at the 125 steps. “I’ve got that in hand, Duke,” Gavallan had said heavily, the wind ten knots and chill. “I’ve got ATC’s permission for the 125 to come back tomorrow afternoon to pick up the coffin. I’ll ship it back to England on the first available flight. Terrible. I’ll see his wife as soon as I get back and do what I can.” “Lousy luck - thank God young Scot’s okay, huh?” “Yes, but lousy that anyone got hurt, lousy.” What if it was Scot’s corpse and Scot’s coffin? Gavallan was thinking again, the question never ending. What if it had been Scot, could you still compartmentalize the murder so easily? No, of course not. All you can do is bless your joss this time and do the best you can - just do the best you can. “Curiously, Tehran ATC and the airport komiteh were as shocked as we were, and very helpful. Let’s go and chat - I’ve not much time. Here’s mail for some of the lads and one from Manuela. She’s fine, Duke. She said not to worry. Kids’re fine and want to stay in Texas. Your folks’re fine too - she asked me to tell you first thing when I caught up with you…”
Then Gavallan had delivered the bombshell of six days and now Starke’s mind was in a fog. “With Zagros’s birds here, I’ll have three 212s, one Alouette, and three 206s plus a load of spares. Nine pilots, including Tom Lochart and JeanLuc, and twelve mechanics. That’s way too many for a caper like Whirlwind, Andy.”
“I know.” Gavallan looked out the window. The fueling truck was lumbering alongside the 125 and he saw Johnny Hogg come down the steps. “How long will she take to refuel?”
“If Johnny doesn’t hurry them up, three quarters of an hour, easy.”
“Not much time to make a plan,” Gavallan said. He looked back at the map. “But then there’d never be
