“Pipe dream,” Linbar said. “You and bloody Dunross have your heads in the clouds.”
“China‘11 never be any good for us,” Profitable Choy said, his eyes curious. “I agree with Linbar.”
“I don’t.” Gavallan noticed something odd about Choy but his rage took him onward. “We’ll wait on that one. China has to have oil somewhere, in abundance. To finalize, I’m in good shape, great shape, last year profits were up fifty percent and this year we’re the same if not better. Next week I’ll b - ”
Linbar interrupted. “Next week you’ll be out of business.” “This weekend will tell it one way or another.” Gavallan’s chin came out. “I propose we reconvene on Monday next. That’ll give me time to get back.” “Paul and I return to Hong Kong on Sunday. We’ll reconvene there.” “That’s not possible for me an - ”
“Then we will have to get on without you.” Linbar’s temper broke. “If Whirlwind fails you’re finished, S-G Helicopters will be liquidated, a new company, North Sea Helicopters, already formed by the way, will acquire the assets, and I doubt if we’ll pay half a cent on the dollar.” Gavallan flushed. “That’s bloody robbery!”
“Just the price of failure! By God if S-G goes down you’re finished and none too soon for me, and if you can’t afford to buy your own plane ticket to board meetings you won’t be missed.”
Gavallan was beside himself with suppressed rage, but he held on. Then at a sudden thought, he looked across at Profitable Choy. “If Whirlwind’s a success, will you help me finance a Struan buy-out?”
Before Choy could answer Linbar bellowed, “Our controlling interest’s not for sale.”
“Maybe it should be, Linbar,” Profitable Choy said thoughtfully. “That way maybe you ease out of the hole you’re in. Why not unload an irritant - you two guys hack all the time and for what? Why not call it a day, huh?” Linbar said tightly, “Would you finance the buy-out?”
“Maybe. Yeah, maybe, but only if you agreed, Linbar, only then. This’s a family matter.”
“I’ll never agree, Profitable.” Linbar’s face twisted and he glared at Gavallan. “I want to see you rot - you and bloody Dunross!” Gavallan got up. “I’ll see you at the next meeting of the Inner Office. We’ll see what they say.”
“They’ll do what I tell them to do. I’m taipan. By the way, I’m making Profitable a member.”
“You can’t, it’s against Dirk’s rules.” Dirk Struan, founder of the company, had set down that members of the Inner Office could only be family, however loosely connected, and Christian. “You swore by God to uphold them.” “The hell with Dirk’s rules,” Linbar slammed back at him; “you’re not party to all of them or to Dirk’s legacy, only a taipan is, by God, and what I swore to uphold’s my own business. You think you’re so goddamned clever, you’re not! Profitable’s become Episcopalian, last year he was divorced, and soon he’s going to marry into the family, one of my nieces, with my blessing - he’ll be more family than you!” He laughed uproariously. Gavallan did not. Nor did Profitable Choy. They watched each other, the die cast now. “I didn’t know you were divorced,” Gavallan said. “I should congratulate you on… on your new life and appointment.” “Yeah, thanks,” was all his enemy said.
In the Al Shargaz airport, Scot bent down to pick up his father’s suitcase, other passengers bustling past, but Gavallan said, “Thanks, Scot, I can manage.” He picked it up. “I could use a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Hate flying at night.”
“Genny’s got the car outside.” Scot had noticed his father’s tiredness from the first moment. “You had a rough time back home?”
“No, no, not at all. So glad you’re okay. What’s new here?” “Everything’s terrific, Dad, going according to plan. Like clockwork.”
IN TEHRAN’S NORTHERN SUBURBS: 2:35 P.M. JeanLuc, debonair as always in his tailored flying gear and custom-made boots, got out of the taxi. As promised, he took out the hundred-dollar bill and carefully tore it in half. “Voilr!”
The driver examined his half of the note closely. “Only one hour, Agha? In God’s name, Agha, no more?”
“One hour and a half, as we agreed, then straight back to the airport. I’ll have some luggage.”
“Insha’Allah.” The driver looked around nervously. “I can’t wait here - too many eyes. One hour and half hour. I around corner, there!” He pointed ahead, then drove off.
JeanLuc went up the stairs and unlocked the door of Apartment 4a that overlooked the tree-lined road and faced south. This was his pad, though his wife, Marie-Christene, had found it and arranged it for him and stayed here on her rare visits. One bedroom with a big low double bed, well-equipped kitchen, living room with a deep sofa, good hi-fi and record player: “To beguile your lady friends, cheri, so long as you don’t import one into France!”
“Me, cherie? Me, I’m a lover not an importer!”
He smiled to himself, glad to be home and only a little irritated that he had to leave so much - the hi-fi was the best, the records wonderful, the sofa seductive, the bed oh so resilient, the wine so painstakingly smuggled in, and then there were his kitchen utensils. “Espcce de con,” he said out loud and went into the bedroom and tried the phone. It wasn’t working. He took a suitcase out of the neat wall bureau and started packing, quickly and efficiently, for he had given it much thought. First his favorite knives and omelette pan, then six bottles of the very best wines, the remaining forty-odd bottles would stay for the new tenant, a temporary tenant in case he ever came back, who was renting the whole place from him from tomorrow - with payment in good French francs, monthly in advance into Switzerland, with another good cash deposit for breakages, also in advance. The deal had been simmering since before he went on Christmas leave. While everyone else wore blinkers, he chortled, I was ahead of the game. But then of course I have an extreme advantage over the others. I’m French. Happily he continued packing. The new owner was also French, an elderly friend in the embassy who for weeks had desperately needed an immediate, well-equipped garconnicre for his teenage Georgian-Circassian mistress who was swearing to leave him unless he delivered: “JeanLuc, my dearest friend, let me rent it for a year, six months, three - I tell you emphatically, soon the only Europeans resident here will be diplomats. Tell no one else, but I have it on the highest authority from our inside contact with Khomeini in Neauphle-le-Chateau! Frankly we know everything that’s going on - aren’t many of his closest associates French speaking and French university trained? Please, I beg you, I simply have to satisfy the light of my life.” My poor old friend, JeanLuc thought sadly. Thank God I’ll never have to kowtow to any woman - how lucky Marie-Christene is that she’s married to me who can wisely guard her fortune!
The last items he packed were his flight instruments and half a dozen pairs of sunglasses. All his clothes he had put away in one locked cupboard. Of course I shall be reimbursed by the company and buy new ones. Who needs old clothes?
Now he was finished, everything neat and tidy. He looked at the clock. It had taken him only twenty-two minutes. Perfect. The La Doucette in the freezer was cool, the freezer still working in spite of the electricity cuts. He opened the bottle and tried it. Perfect. Three minutes later the door knocker sounded. Perfect.
“Sayada, cherie, how beautiful you are,” he said warmly and kissed her, but he was thinking, you don’t look good at all, tired and weary. “How are you, cherie?”
“I’ve had a chill, nothing to worry about,” she said. This morning she had seen her worry lines and the dark rings in her mirror and knew JeanLuc would notice. “Nothing serious and I’m over it now. And you, cheri?” “Today fine, tomorrow?” He shrugged, helped her off with her coat, lifted her easily into his arms and sank into the embrace of the sofa. She was very beautiful and he was saddened to leave her. And Iran. Like Algiers, he thought.
“What’re you thinking about, JeanLuc?”
“‘63, being shoved out of Algiers. Just like Iran in a way, we’re being forced out the same.” He felt her stir in his arms. “What is it?” “The world’s so awful sometimes.” Sayada had told him nothing about her real life. “So unfair,” she said sickened, remembering the ‘67 war in Gaza and the death of her parents, then fleeing - her story much like his - remembering more the catastrophe of Teymour’s murder and them. Nausea swept into her as she pictured little Yassar and what they would do to her son if she misbehaved. If only I could find out who they are…
JeanLuc was pouring the wine that he had put on the table in front of them. “Bad to be serious, cherie. We’ve not much time. Sante!”
The wine tasted cool and delicate and of spring. “How much time? Aren’t you staying?”
“I must leave in an hour.”
“For Zagros?”
“No, cherie, for the airport, then Kowiss.”
“When will you be back?”
“I won’t,” he said and felt her stiffen. But he held her firmly and, in a moment, she relaxed again, and he continued - never a reason not to trust her implicitly. “Between us, Kowiss is temporary, very. We’re pulling out of
