LENGEH: 6:50 P.M. The sunset was malevolent, clouds covering most of the sky, heavy and black-tinged. “It’ll be closed in by morning, Scrag,” the American pilot Ed Vossi said, his dark curly hair tugged by the wind that blew from the Hormuz up the Gulf toward Abadan. “Goddamn wind!” “We’ll be all right, sport. But Rudi, Duke, and the others? If she holds or worsens they’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Goddamn wind! Why choose today to change direction? Almost as though the gods’re laughing at us.” The two men were standing on the promontory overlooking the Gulf beneath then-flagpole, the waters gray and, out in the strait, white-topped. Behind them was their base and the airfield, still wet from this morning’s passing rain squall. Below and to the right was then-beach and the raft they swam from. Since the day of the shark no one had ventured there, staying close in the shallows in case another lay in wait for them. Vossi muttered, “I’ll be goddamn glad when this’s all over.” Scragger nodded absently, his thoughts reaching into the weather patterns, trying to read what would happen in the next twelve hours, always difficult in this season when the usually placid Gulf could erupt with sudden and monstrous violence. For 363 or 364 days a year the prevailing wind was from the northwest. Now it wasn’t.
The base was quiet. Only Vossi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and two mechanics were left. All the other pilots and mechanics and their British office manager had gone two days ago, Tuesday, while he was en route back from Bandar Delam with Kasigi.
Willi had got them all out to Al Shargaz by sea: “We had no trouble, Scrag, by God Harry,” Willi had told him delightedly when he landed. “Your plan worked. Sending ‘em by boat was clever, better than by chopper, and cheaper. The komiteh just shrugged and took over one of the trailers.” “They’re sleeping on base now?”
“Some of them, Scrag. Three or four. I’ve made sure we feed them plenty of rice and horisht. They’re not a bad group. Masoud’s trying to keep in their good books too.” Masoud was their IranOil manager.
“Why did you stay, Willi? I know how you feel about this caper, I told you to be on the boat, no need for you.”
“Sure there is, Scrag, by God Harry, but you’ll need a proper pilot along with you - you might get lost.”
Good old Willi, Scragger thought. Glad he stayed. And sorry. Since getting back from Bandar Delam on Tuesday, Scragger had found himself greatly unsettled, nothing that he could isolate, just a feeling that elements over which he had no control were waiting to pounce. The pain in his lower stomach had lessened, but from time to time there was still a flick of blood in his urine. Not forewarning Kasigi about the Whirlwind pullout had added to his unease. Hell, he thought, I couldn’t have risked that, spilling Whirlwind. I did the best I could, telling Kasigi to go to Gavallan. Yesterday, Wednesday, Vossi had taken Kasigi across the Gulf. Scragger had given Vossi a private letter to Gavallan explaining what had happened in Bandar Delam and his dilemma about Kasigi, leaving it to Gavallan to decide what to do. Also in the letter he had given details of his meeting with Georges de Plessey who was gravely concerned that troubles would again spill over into the Siri complex: “Damage to pumping and piping at Siri’s worse than first thought and I don’t think she’ll be pumping this month. Kasigi’s fit to be tied as he’s got three tankers due at Siri for uplifts in the next three weeks according to the deal he worked out with Georges. It’s a carve-up, Andy. Nothing we can do. There’s little chance of avoiding sabotage if terrorists really decide to have at them. Of course I haven’t told Georges about anything. Do what you can for Kasigi and see you soonest, Scrag.” On this morning’s routine call from Al Shargaz, Gavallan had said only he had received his report and was dealing with it. Otherwise he was noncommittal.
Scragger had not mentioned McIver, nor had Gavallan. He beamed. Bet my life Dirty Dunc flew the 206! Never would’ve bet old By the Book Mclver’d’ve done it! Even so, bet my life he was like a pig in shit at the chance and no bloody wonder. I’d’ve done the same …
“Scrag!”
He glanced around. One look at Willi Neuchtreiter’s face was enough. “Wot’s up?”
“I just found out Masoud’s given all our passports to the gendarmes - every last one!”
Vossi and Scragger gaped at him. Vossi said, “What the hell he do that for?” Scragger was more vulgar.
“It was Tuesday, Scrag, when the others left on the boat. Of course a gendarme was there to see them off, count them aboard, and that’s when he asked Masoud for our passports. So Masoud gave them to him. If it’d been me I’d’ve done the same.”
“Wot the hell did he want them for?”
Willi said patiently, “To re-sign our residence permits in Khomeini’s name, Scrag, he wanted us to be legal - you’ve asked them enough times, haven’t you?” Scragger cursed for a full minute and never used the same word twice. “For crissake, Scrag, we gotta get ‘em back,” Vossi said shakily, “we gotta get ‘em back, or Whirlwind’s blown.”
“I know that, sport.” Blankly Scragger was sifting possibilities. Willi said, “Maybe we could get new ones in Al Shargaz or Dubai - say we’d lost ‘em.”
“For crissake, Willi,” Vossi exploded. “For crissake, they’d put us in the slammer so fast we wouldn’t know which way was up! Remember Masterson?” One of their mechanics, a couple of years ago, had forgotten to renew his Al Shargaz permit and had tried to bluff his way through Immigration. Even though the visa was only four days out of date and his passport otherwise valid, Immigration had at once marched him into jail where he languished very uncomfortably for six weeks, then to be let out but banished forever: “Dammit,” the resident British official had said, “you’re bloody lucky to get off so lightly. You knew the law. We’ve pointed it out until we’re blue in the face… .”
“Goddamned if I’ll leave without mine,” Vossi said. “I can’t. Mine’s loaded with goddamn visas for all the Gulf states, Nigeria, the UK and hell and gone - it’d take me months to get new ones, months, if ever… and what about Al Shargaz, huh? That’s one mighty fine place but without a goddamn passport and their valid visa, into the slammer!”
“Too right, Ed. Bloody hell and tomorrow’s Holy Day when everything’s shut tighter’n a gnat’s arse. Willi, you remember who the gendarme was? Was he one of the regulars - or a Green Band?”
After a moment Willi said, “He wasn’t a Green Band, Scrag, he was a regular. The old one, the one with gray hair.”
“Qeshemi? The sergeant?”
“Yes, Scrag. Yes, it was him.”
Scragger cursed again. “If old Qeshemi says we’ve got to wait till Saturday, or Saturday week, that’s it.” In this area, gendarmes still operated as they had always done, as part of the military, without Green Band harassment, except that now they had taken off their Shah badges and wore armbands with Khomeini’s name scrawled on them.
“Don’t wait supper for me.” Scragger stomped off into the twilight.
AT THE LENGEH POLICE STATION: 7:32 P.M. The corporal gendarme yawned and shook his head politely, speaking Farsi to the base radio operator, Ali Pash, whom Scragger had brought with him to interpret. Scragger waited patiently, too used to Iranian ways to interrupt them. They had already been at it for half an hour.
“Oh, you wanted to ask about the foreigners’ passports? The passports are in the safe, where they should be,” the gendarme was saying. “Passports are valuable and we have them locked up.”
“Perfectly correct, Excellency, but the Captain of the Foreigners would like to have them back, please. He says he needs them for a crew change.” “Of course he may have them back. Are they not his property? Have not he and his men flown many mercy missions over the years for our people? Certainly, Excellency, as soon as the safe is opened.” “Please may it be opened now? The foreigner would appreciate your kindness very much.” Ali Pash was equally polite and leisurely, waiting for the gendarme to volunteer the information he sought. He was a good-looking Tehrani in his late twenties who had been trained at the U.S. Radio School at Isfahan and had been with IHC at Lengeh for three years. “It would certainly be a kindness.”
“Certainly, but he cannot have them back until the key reappears.” “Ah, may I dare ask where the key is, Excellency?”
The corporal gendarme waved his hand to the big, old-fashioned safe that dominated this outer office. “Look, Excellency, you can see for yourself, the key is not on its peg. More than likely the sergeant has it in his safekeeping.”
“How very wise and correct, Excellency. Probably His Excellency the sergeant is at home now?”
“His Excellency will be here in the morning.”
“On Holy Day? May I offer an opinion that we are fortunate our gendarmerie have such a high sense of duty to work so diligently? I imagine he would not be early.”
