unless you’re married to her or else - homosexuality as you understand it is unknown. So a man prefers sodomy, so what? That doesn’t interfere with his masculinity here. Give yourself a new experience - life is short, Robert. Meanwhile, she’ll be here to use if you wish. Don’t insult me by paying her.”
“She” had been Caucasian, Christian, attractive, and he had partaken of her without need or passion, for politeness, and had thanked her and let her sleep in the bed and stay the next day, to clean and cook and entertain him and then, before he awoke this morning, she had vanished. Now Armstrong looked up into the western sky. It was much darker than before, the light going fast. They waited another half an hour. “The pilot won’t be able to see to land now, Robert. Let’s leave.” “The Chevy hasn’t moved yet.” Armstrong took out his automatic and checked the action. “I’ll leave when the Chevy leaves. Okay?”
The thickset Iranian stared at him, his face hard. “There’ll be a car below, parked facing Tabriz. It’ll take you to our safe house. Wait for me there-I’m going back to Tehran now; there are some important things that cannot wait, more important than this son of a dog - I think he knows we’re on to him.”
“When will you be back here?”
“Tomorrow - there’s still the problem of the Khan.” He stomped off into the darkness, cursing.
Armstrong watched him go, glad to be alone. Hashemi was becoming more and more difficult, more dangerous than usual, ready to explode, nerves too taut, too taut for a head of Inner Intelligence with so much power and a private band of trained assassins in secret. Robert, it’s time to begin a bailout. I can’t, I can’t, not yet. Come on, Mzytryk, mere’s plenty of moonlight to land with, for God’s sake.
Just after ten o’clock the Chevy’s lights came on. The two men wound up the windows and drove away into the night. Carefully Armstrong lit a cigarette, his gloved hand cupping the tiny flame against the wind. The smoke pleased him greatly. When he had finished he threw the stub into the snow and stubbed it out. Then he too left.
NEAR THE IRAN-SOVIET BORDER: 11:05 P.M. Erikki was pretending to sleep in the small, crude hut, his chin stubbled. A wick, floating in oil in an old chipped clay cup, was guttering and cast strange shadows. Embers in the rough stone fireplace glowed in the drafts. His eyes opened and he looked around. No one else was in the hut. Noiselessly he slid from under the blankets and animal skins. He was fully dressed. He put on his boots, made sure his knife was under his belt and went to the door, opened it softly. For a moment he stood there, listening, head slightly on one side. Layers of high clouds misted the moon and the wind moved the lightest of the pine branches. The village was quiet under its coverlet of snow. No guards that he could see. No movement near the lean-to where the 212 was parked. Moving as a hunter would move, he skirted the huts and headed for the lean-to.
The 212 was bedded down, skins and blankets where they were most needed, all the doors closed. Through a side window of the cabin he could see two tribesmen rolled up in blankets sprawled full length on the seats, snoring. Rifles beside them. He eased forward slightly. The guard in the cockpit was cradling his gun, wide awake. He had not yet seen Erikki. Quiet footsteps approaching, the smell of goat and sheep and stale tobacco preceding them. “What is it, pilot?” the young Sheik Bayazid asked softly. “I don’t know.”
Now the guard heard them and he peered out of the cockpit window, greeted his leader, and asked what was the matter. Bayazid replied, “Nothing,” waved him back on guard and searched the night thoughtfully. In the few days the stranger had been in the village he had come to like him and respect him, as a man and as a hunter. Today he had taken him into the forest, to test him, and then as a further test and for his own pleasure he had given him a rifle. Erikki’s first shot killed a distant, difficult mountain goat as cleanly as he could have done. Giving the rifle was exciting, wondering what the stranger would do, if he would, foolishly, try to turn it on him or even more foolishly take off into the trees when they could hunt nun with great enjoyment. But the Redhead of the Knife had just hunted and kept his thoughts to himself, through they could all sense the violence simmering. “You felt something - danger?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Erikki looked out at the night and all around. No sounds other than the wind, a few night animals hunting, nothing untoward. Even so he was unsettled. “Still no news?”
“No, nothing more.” This afternoon one of the two messengers had returned. “The Khan is very sick, near death,” the man had said. “But he promises an answer soon.”
Bayazid had reported all this faithfully to Erikki. “Pilot, be patient,” he said, not wanting trouble.
“What’s the Khan sick with?”
“Sick - the messenger said they’d been told he was sick, very sick. Sick!” “If he dies, what then?”
“His heir will pay - or not pay. Insha’Allah.” The Sheik eased the weight of his assault rifle on his shoulder. “Come into the lee, it’s cold.” From the edge of the hut now they could see down intoNow Armstrong looked up into the western sky. It was much darker than before, the light going fast. They waited another half an hour. “The pilot won’t be able to see to land now, Robert. Let’s leave.” “The Chevy hasn’t moved yet.” Armstrong took out his automatic and checked the action. “I’ll leave when the Chevy leaves. Okay?”
The thickset Iranian stared at him, his face hard. “There’ll be a car below, parked facing Tabriz. It’ll take you to our safe house. Wait for me there - I’m going back to Tehran now; there are some important things that cannot wait, more important than this son of a dog - I think he knows we’re on to him.”
“When will you be back here?”
“Tomorrow - there’s still the problem of the Khan.” He stomped off into the darkness, cursing.
Armstrong watched him go, glad to be alone. Hashemi was becoming more and more difficult, more dangerous than usual, ready to explode, nerves too taut, too taut for a head of Inner Intelligence with so much power and a private band of trained assassins in secret. Robert, it’s time to begin a bailout. I can’t, I can’t, not yet. Come on, Mzytryk, mere’s plenty of moonlight to land with, for God’s sake.
Just after ten o’clock the Chevy’s lights came on. The two men wound up the windows and drove away into the night. Carefully Armstrong lit a cigarette, his gloved hand cupping the tiny flame against the wind. The smoke pleased him greatly. When he had finished he threw the stub into the snow and stubbed it out. Then he too left.
NEAR THE IRAN-SOVIET BORDER: 11:05 P.M. Erikki was pretending to sleep in the small, crude hut, his chin stubbled. A wick, floating in oil in an old chipped clay cup, was guttering and cast strange shadows. Embers in the rough stone fireplace glowed in the drafts. His eyes opened and he looked around. No one else was in the hut. Noiselessly he slid from under the blankets and animal skins. He was fully dressed. He put on his boots, made sure his knife was under his belt and went to the door, opened it softly. For a moment he stood there, listening, head slightly on one side. Layers of high clouds misted the moon and the wind moved the lightest of the pine branches. The village was quiet under its coverlet of snow. No guards that he could see. No movement near the lean-to where the 212 was parked. Moving as a hunter would move, he skirted the huts and headed for the lean-to.
The 212 was bedded down, skins and blankets where they were most needed, all the doors closed. Through a side window of the cabin he could see two tribesmen rolled up in blankets sprawled full length on the seats, snoring. Rifles beside them. He eased forward slightly. The guard in the cockpit was cradling his gun, wide awake. He had not yet seen Erikki. Quiet footsteps approaching, the smell of goat and sheep and stale tobacco preceding them. “What is it, pilot?” the young Sheik Bayazid asked softly. “I don’t know.”
Now the guard heard them and he peered out of the cockpit window, greeted his leader, and asked what was the matter. Bayazid replied, “Nothing,” waved him back on guard and searched the night thoughtfully. In the few days the stranger had been in the village he had come to like him and respect him, as a man and as a hunter. Today he had taken him into the forest, to test him, and then as a further test and for his own pleasure he had given him a rifle. Erikki’s first shot killed a distant, difficult mountain goat as cleanly as he could have done. Giving the rifle was exciting, wondering what the stranger would do, if he would, foolishly, try to turn it on him or even more foolishly take off into the trees when they could hunt nun with great enjoyment. But the Redhead of the Knife had just hunted and kept his thoughts to himself, through they could all sense the violence simmering. “You felt something - danger?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Erikki looked out at the night and all around. No sounds other than the wind, a few night animals hunting, nothing untoward. Even so he was unsettled. “Still no news?”
“No, nothing more.” This afternoon one of the two messengers had returned. “The Khan is very sick, near death,” the man had said. “But he promises an answer soon.”
Bayazid had reported all this faithfully to Erikki. “Pilot, be patient,” he said, not wanting trouble.
“What’s the Khan sick with?”
“Sick - the messenger said they’d been told he was sick, very sick. Sick!” “If he dies, what then?”
“His heir will pay - or not pay. Insha’Allah.” The Sheik eased the weight of his assault rifle on his shoulder.
