dining table, clinking wine-filled glasses with Sayada Bertolin, a large bottle of Chianti open, plates with two big salamis, one partially eaten, a huge slice of dolce latte cheese as yet untouched, and two fresh French baguettes that Sayada had brought from the French Club, one mostly gone: “There may be a war on,” she had said with forced gaiety when she had arrived uninvited, half an hour ago, “but whatever happens, the French must have proper bread.”
“Vive la France, and viva l’Italia,” Pettikin had said, reluctantly inviting her in, not wanting to share Paula with anyone. Since Paula had terminated any interest in Nogger Lane, he had rushed into the breech, hoping against hope. “Paula came in on this afternoon’s Alitalia flight, smuggled in all the swag at the risk of her life and - and doesn’t she look superisssssirna?”
Paula laughed. “It’s the dolce latte, Sayada; Charlie told me it was his favorite.”
“Isn’t it the best cheese on earth? Isn’t everything Italian the best on earth?”
Paula brought out the corkscrew and handed it to him, her green-flecked eyes sending more shivers down his spine. “For you, caro!”
“Magnifico! Are all young ladies of Alitalia as thoughtful, brave, beautiful, efficient, tender, sweet-smelling, loving, and, er, cinematic?” “Of course.”
“Join the feast, Sayada,” he had said. When she came closer into the light he saw her properly, noticing the strangeness to her. “You all right?” “Oh, yes, it’s, it’s nothing.” Sayada was glad for the candlelight to hide behind. “I, er, thanks I won’t stay, I… I just miss JeanLuc, wanted to find out when he’s back, I thought you could use the baguettes.”
“Delighted you arrived - we haven’t had a decent loaf for weeks, thanks, but stay anyway. Mac’s gone to Doshan Tappeh to pick up Tom. Tom‘11 know about JeanLuc - they should be back any moment.” “How’s Zagros?” “We’ve had to close it down.” As he busied himself getting glasses and setting up the table, Paula helping and doing most of it, he told them why, and about the terrorist attack on Rig Bellissima, Gianni’s being killed, then later, Jordon, and Scot Gavallan being wounded. “Bloody business, but there you are.”
“Terrible,” Paula said. “That explains why we’re routed back through Shiraz with instructions to keep fifty seats open. Must be for our nationals from the Zagros.”
“What rotten luck,” Sayada said, wondering if she should pass that information on. To them - and him. The Voice had called yesterday, early, asking what time she had left Teymour on Saturday. “About five, perhaps five- fifteen, why?”
“The cursed building caught fire just after dark - somewhere on the third floor, trapping the two above. The whole building’s gutted, many people killed, and there’s no sign of Teymour or the others. Of course the fire department was too late…”
No problem to find real tears and to let her agony pour out. Later in the day the Voice had called again: “Did you give Teymour the papers?” “Yes … yes, yes, I did.”
There had been a muffled curse. “Be at the French Club tomorrow afternoon. I will leave instructions in your box.” But there was no message so she had wheedled the loaves from the kitchen and had come here - nowhere else to go and still very frightened.
“So sad,” Paula was saying.
“Yes, but enough of that,” Pettikin said, cursing himself for telling them - none of their problem, he thought. “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry.” “For tomorrow we die?” Sayada said.
“No.” Pettikin raised his glass, beamed at Paula. “For tomorrow we live. Health!” He touched glasses with her, then Sayada, and he thought what a smashing pair they make but Paula’s far and away the most… Sayada was thinking: Charlie’s in love with this siren harpy who’ll consume him at her whim and spew out the remains with hardly a belch, but why do they - my new masters, whoever they are - why do they want to know about JeanLuc and Tom and want me to be Armstrong’s mistress and how do they know about my son, God curse them.
Paula was thinking: I hate this shit-roll of a city where everyone’s so gloomy and doom-ridden and downbeat like this poor woman who’s obviously got the usual man trouble, when there’s Rome and sunshine and Italy and the sweet life to become drunk with, wine and laughter and love to be enjoyed, children to bear with a husband to cherish but only so long as the devil behaves - why are all men rotten and why do I like this man Charlie who is too old and yet not, too poor and yet not, too masculine and yet… “Alora,” she said, the wine making her lips more juicy, “Charlie, amore, we must meet in Rome. Tehran is so… so depression, scusa, depressing.” “Not when you’re around,” he said.
Sayada saw them smiling at each other, and envied them. “I think I’ll come back later,” she said, getting up. Before Pettikin could say anything, a key turned in the lock and McIver came in. “Oh, hello,” he said, trying to throw off his weariness. “Hi, Paula, hi, Sayada - this is a pleasant surprise.” Then he noticed the table. “What’s this, Christmas?” He took off his heavy coat and gloves.
“Paula brought it - and Sayada the bread. Where’s Tom?” Pettikin asked, immediately sensing something was wrong. “I dropped him off at Bakravan’s, near the bazaar.” “How is she?” Sayada asked. “I haven’t seen her since… since the day of the march, the first march.”
“Don’t know, lassie, I just dropped him off and came on.” McIver accepted a glass of wine, returned Pettikin’s look levelly. “Traffic was rotten. Took me an hour to get here. Health! Paula, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You staying tonight?”
“If that’s all right? I’m off early in the morning, no need for transport, caro, one of the crew dropped me off and will pick me up. Genny said I could use the spare room - she thought it might need a spring clean but it looks fine.” Paula got up and both men, unknowingly, were instantly magnetized by the sensuousness of her movements. Sayada cursed her, envying her, wondering what it was, certainly not the uniform that was quite severe though beautifully tailored, knowing that she herself was far more beautiful, far better dressed - but not in the same race. Cow!
Paula reached into her handbag and found the two letters and gave them to McIver. “One from Genny and one from Andy.” “Thanks, thanks very much,” McIver said. “I was just going, Mac,” Sayada said. “Just wanted to ask when JeanLuc’ll be back.”
“Probably on Wednesday - he’s ferrying a 212 to Al Shargaz. He should be there today and back Wednesday.” McIver glanced at the letters. “No need to go, Sayada… excuse me a second.”
He sat down in the easy chair by the electric fire that was at half power, switched on a nearby lamp. The light took away much of the romance of the room. Gavallan’s letter read: “Hi, Mac, this in a hurry, courtesy of the fairest of them all! I’m waiting for Scot. Then redeyeing it to London tonight, if he’s all right, but I’ll be back in two days, three at the most. Finessed Duke out of Kowiss down to Rudi in case Scrag’s delayed - he should be back Tuesday. Kowiss is very dicey - I had a big run-in with Hotshot - so’s Zagros. Have just talked to Masson from here and that’s fact. So I’m pushing the button for planning. It’s pushed. See you Wednesday. Give Paula a hug for me and Genny says don’t you bloody dare!”
He stared at the letter, then sat back a moment, half listening to a story Paula was telling about their incoming flight to Tehran. So the button’s pushed. Don’t delude yourself, Andy, I knew you’d push it from the first moment - that’s why I said, All right, provided I can abort Whirlwind if I think it’s too risky and my decision’s final. I think you must push the button all the way - you’ve no alternative if you want to survive. The wine tasted very good. He finished the glass, then opened Genny’s letter. It was just news about home and the kids, all of them healthy and in place, but he knew her too well not to read the underlying concern: “Don’t worry, Duncan, and don’t sweat out winds, any winds. And don’t think I plan on a rose-covered cottage in England. It’s us for the Casbah and me for a yashmak and I’m practicing belly dancing so you’d better hurry. Luv, Gen.” McIver smiled to himself, got up, and poured himself some wine, calmer now. “Here’s to women, bless ‘em.” He touched glasses with Pettikin. “Smashing wine, Paula. Andy sends you a hug…” At once she smiled and reached over and touched him and he felt the current rush up his arm. What the hell is it about her? he asked himself, unsettled, and quickly said to Sayada, “He’d send one to you too if he knew you were here.” A candle on the mantelpiece was guttering. “I’ll get it. Any messages?”
“One from Talbot. He’s doing all he can to find Erikki. Duke’s delayed at Bandar Delam by a storm but he should be back at Kowiss tomorrow.” “And Azadeh?”
“She’s better today. Paula and I walked her home. She’s okay, Mac. You better have something to eat, there’s bugger all for dinner.” Sayada said, “How about dining at the French Club? The food’s still passable.”
“I’d love to,” Paula said brightly and Pettikin cursed. “What a wonderful idea, Sayada! Charlie?”
“Wonderful. Mac?”
