“These are my sons and this is my wife,” Hussain said.
“Salaam.” Starke hid his astonishment that she should be so old. Then he looked closer and saw the age was not in years.
“I sent for you for three reasons: First for you to see how a mullah fives. Poverty is one of a mullah’s prime duties.”
“And learning, leadership, and lawgiving. That apart, Agha, I know you’re a hundred percent sincere in your beliefs,” and trapped by them, Starke wanted to add, loathing this room with the terrible, never-ending poverty it represented, its stench and the helplessness that he knew need not be but would exist for all the days of the lives here - and in countless other homes of all religions, all the world over. But not with my family, thank God! Thank God I was born Texan, thank God ten billion trillion times that I know better and my kids won’t, won’t, by God, won’t have to live in the dirt like these poor little critters. With an effort he stopped himself from brushing their flies away, wanting to curse Hussain for enduring that which need not be endured.
“You said three reasons, Agha?”
“The second is: Why are all but a few men scheduled to leave today?” “They’re long overdue leave, Agha. Work’s slow at the base, this’s a perfect time.” Starke’s anxiety increased. This morning, before he had been summoned here, there had already been three telexes and two calls on the HF from their HQ in Tehran, the last from Siamaki, now the ranking board member, demanding to know where Pettikin, Nogger Lane, and the others were. He had sluffed him off, saying that McIver would call him back the instant he arrived with Minister Kia, very conscious of Wazari’s curiosity. Yesterday had been the first he had heard of Ali Kia’s visit. Charlie Pettikin, during his brief stopover outward bound for Al Shargaz, had told him what had happened to McIver and their fears about him. “Jesus …” was all he could mutter.
But yesterday had not been all bad. John Hogg had brought Gavallan’s provisional schedule for Whirlwind with codes and times and coordinates of refueling alternates set up on the other side of the Gulf. “Andy said to tell you they’ve all been passed on to Scrag at Lengeh and Rudi at Bandar Delam and take into account the problems of all three bases,” Hogg had told him. “Two 747 freighters are booked for Al Shargaz, dawn Friday. That’ll give us plenty of time, Andy says. I’ll bring another update when I come for the lads, Duke. The final button’s not to be pressed until 7:00 A.M. Friday or same time Saturday or Sunday. Then it’s no go.”
None of Esvandiary’s spies had been around so Starke had managed to squeeze another crate of very valuable 212 avionics aboard the 125. And there was more good luck: All their personnel exit permits were still valid, enough forty-gallon drums of fuel had been cached safely on the shore, and Tom Lochart had come in from Zagros on time, now a committed Whirlwind pilot. “Why the change, Tom? Thought you were dead set against it,” he had said, perturbed by Lochart’s manner. But his friend had just shrugged and he had left it at that.
Still, the thought of their 212s making a rush for it worried him very much. They had no real plan, just several possibilities. With an effort he concentrated, the room becoming increasingly claustrophobic. “They’re overdue leave,” he said again.
“When will their replacements be arriving?”
“Saturday, that’s when they’re scheduled.”
“Esvandiary says you’ve been sending out many spares.”
“Spares need replacement and checking from time to time, Agha.” Hussain studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. “What caused the accident that nearly killed Esvandiary?”
“The load shifted. It’s a tricky operation.”
Another small silence. “Who is this man Kia, Ali Kia?”
Starke was not expecting any of these questions, wondering if he was being tested again, and how much the mullah knew. “I was told he was a minister for Prime Minister Bazargan on a tour of inspection.” Then added, “Also that he was, or is, a consultant to our joint partnership, IHC, maybe even a director, but I don’t know about that.”
“When is he arriving?”
“I’m not sure. Our director, Captain McIver, was ordered to escort him.” “Ordered?”
“Ordered, so I understand.”
“Why should a minister be a consultant to a private company?” “I imagine you’d have to ask him, Agha.”
“Yes, I agree,” Hussain’s face hardened. “The Imam has sworn that corruption will cease. We’ll go to the base together.” He picked up the AK47 and slung it over his shoulder. “Salaam,” he said to his family.
Starke and the Green Band followed Hussain along the alley to a side door of the mosque. There the mullah kicked off his shoes, picked them up and went inside. Starke and the Green Band did the same, except that Starke also took off his peaked hat. Along a passageway and through another door and then they were in the mosque itself, a single room under the dome, covered with carpets and no ornaments. Just decorative tiles, here and there, with exquisite inlaid Sanskrit quotations from the Koran. A lectern with an open Koran, nearby a modem cassette player and loudspeakers, wires carelessly strung, all electric lights bare and dim. From the loudspeakers came the muted singsong of a man reading from the Koran.
Men were praying, others gossiping, some sleeping. Those who saw Hussain smiled at him and he smiled back, leading the way to a columned alcove. There he stopped and put down his shoes and gun, waved the Green Band away. “Captain, have you thought any more about what we discussed at the questioning?”
“In what way, Agha?” Starke’s apprehension soared, his stomach queasy. “About Islam, about the Imam, God’s peace upon him, about going to see him?” “It’s not possible for me to see him, even if I wanted to.” “Perhaps I could arrange it. If you saw the Imam, watched him talk, listened to him, you would find God’s peace you seek. And the truth.” Starke was touched by the mullah’s obvious sincerity. “If I had the chance I’d sure… I’d sure take it up, if I could. You said three things, Agha?” “This was the third. Islam. Become Muslim. There is not a moment to lose. Submit to God, accept that there is only One God and that Mohammed is His Prophet, accept it and have life everlasting in Paradise.” The eyes were dark and penetrating. Starke had experienced them before and found them almost hypnotic. “I… I told you already, Agha, perhaps I will, in… in God’s time.” He pulled his eyes away and felt the dominating force lessen. “If we’re going back, we’d better go now. I don’t want to miss seeing my guys off.”
It was almost as though he had not spoken. “Isn’t the Imam the Most Holy of men, the most stalwart, the most relentless against oppression? The Imam is, Captain. Open your eyes and spirit to him.”
Starke heard the underlying emphasis through the fervor and once more the seeming sacrilege disquieted him. “I wait, patiently.” He looked back at the eyes that seemed to be looking through him, through the walls, into infinity. “If we’re going, we’d better go,” he said as gently as he could. Hussain sighed. The light went out of his eyes. He shouldered his gun and led the way out. At the main door he stepped into his shoes, waited for Starke to do the same. Four more Green Bands joined them. “We’re going to the base,” Hussain told them.
“I parked my car just outside the square,” Starke said, enormously relieved to be in the open again and out of the man’s spell. “It’s a station wagon, we can go in that if you like.”
“Good. Where is it?”
Starke pointed and walked off, weaving through the stalls. He was almost a head taller than most of the crowd and now his mind was buzzing with thought and counterthought, sifting what the mullah had said, trying to plan what to do about Whirlwind.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, swamped by the danger. I hope Rudi aborts, then I will, whatever Scrag does. Automatically his eyes were scanning as they would in a cockpit, and he noticed a commotion ahead by the fountain. Because of his great height he was the first to see the youth with the gun, the crowds scattering. He stopped, frozen with disbelief, Hussain coming alongside. But there was no mistake, the shrieking, berserk youth was charging through the people directly at him. “Assassin,” he gasped, the men and women in front fleeing in terror, running, tripping, falling out of the man’s path, and now the way was clear. Blankly he saw the man skid to a stop and point the gun directly at him.
“Look out!” But before he could dive for the ground and the cover of a stall, the impact of the first bullet spun him, slammed him back against one of the Green Bands. More bullets, someone nearby screamed, then another gun opened up, deafening him.
It was Hussain. His reflexes had been very good. At once he had realized the assassin attack was against him and the moment of respite that Starke had given him was enough. With one smooth movement he had swung his gun off his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger, his mind shouting, “There is no other God but…” His fire was coldly accurate and holed Ibrahim Kyabi, thrusting the life out of him, tearing the gun from the dead hands and
