“The sergeant is the sergeant but the office opens at seven-thirty in the morning, though of course the police station is open day and night.” The gendarme stubbed out his cigarette. “Come in the morning.” “Ah, thank you, Excellency. Would you care for another cigarette while I explain to the captain?”
“Thank you, Excellency. It is rare to have a foreign one, thank you.” The cigarettes were American and highly appreciated but neither mentioned it. “May I offer you a light, Excellency?” Ali Pash lit his own too and told Scragger what had been said.
“Ask him if the sergeant’s at home now, Ali Pash.”
“I did, Captain. He said His Excellency will be here in the morning.” Ali Pash hid his weariness, too polite to tell Scragger he had realized in the first few seconds that this man knew nothing, would do nothing, and this whole conversation and visit was a total waste of time. And of course gendarmes would prefer not to be disturbed at night about so insignificant an affair. What does it matter? Have they ever lost a passport? Of course not! What crew change? “If I may advise you, Agha? In the morning.” Scragger sighed. “In the morning” could mean tomorrow or the following day. No point in probing further, he thought irritably. “Thank him for me and say I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”
Ali Pash obeyed. As God wants, the gendarme thought wearily, hungry and worried that another week had gone by and still there was no pay, no pay for months now, and the bazaari moneylenders were pressing for their loans to be repaid, and my beloved family near starving. “Shab be khayr, Agha,” he said to Scragger. “Good night.”
“Shab be khayr, Agha.” Scragger waited, knowing their departure would be as politely long-winded as the interview.
Outside in the small road that was the main road of the port town, he felt better. Curious bystanders, all men, surrounded his battered old station wagon, the winged S-G symbol on the door. “Salaam,” he said breezily and a few greeted him back. Pilots from the base were popular, the base and the oil platforms a main source of very profitable work, their mercy missions in all weather well known, and Scragger easily recognizable: “That’s the chief of the pilots,” one old man whispered knowledgeably to his neighbor, “he’s the one who helped young Abdollah Turik into the hospital at Bandar Abbas that only the highborn get into normally. He even went to visit his village just outside Lengeh, even went to his funeral.”
“Turik?”
“Abdollah Turik, my sister’s son’s son! The young man who fell off the oil platform and was eaten by sharks.”
“Ah, yes, I remember, the young man some say was murdered by leftists.” “Not so loud, not so loud, you never know who’s listening. Peace be with you, pilot, greetings, pilot!”
Scragger waved to them cheerily and drove off.
“But the base is the other way, Captain. Where do we go?” Ali Pash asked. “To visit the sergeant, of course.” Scragger whistled through his teeth, disregarding Ali Pash’s obvious disapproval.
The sergeant’s house was on the corner of a dingy, dirt street still puddled from this morning’s squall, just another door in the high walls across the joub. It was getting dark now so Scragger left the headlights on and got out. No sign of life in the whole street. Only a few of the high windows dimly lit.
Sensing Ali Pash’s nervousness he said, “You stay in the car. There’s no problem, I’ve been here before.” He used the iron knocker vigorously, feeling eyes everywhere.
The first time he had been here was a year or so ago when he had brought a huge food hamper, with two butchered sheep, some sacks of rice, and cases of fruit as a gift from the base to celebrate “their” sergeant getting the Shah’s Bronze Sepah Medal for bravery in action against pirates and smugglers who were endemic in these waters. The last time, a few weeks ago, he had accompanied a worried gendarme who wanted him to report at once the tragedy at Siri One, picking Abdollah Turik out of the shark-infested water. Neither time had he been invited into the house but had stayed in the little courtyard beyond the tall wooden door, and both times had been in daylight. The door creaked open. Scragger was not prepared for the sudden flashlight that momentarily blinded him. The circle of light hesitated, then went to the car and centered on Ali Pash who almost leaped out of the car, half-bowed, and called out, “Greetings, Excellency Chief Officer, peace be upon you. I apologize that the foreigner disturbs your privacy and dares to c - ” “Greetings.” Qeshemi overrode him curtly, clicked the light off, turning his attention back to Scragger.
“Salaam, Agha Qeshemi,” Scragger said, his eyes adjusting now. He saw the strong-featured man watching him, his uniform coat unbuttoned and the revolver loose in its holster.
“Salaam, Cap’tin.”
“Sorry to come here, Agha, at night,” Scragger said slowly and carefully, knowing Qeshemi’s English was as limited as his own Farsi was almost nonexistent. “Loftan, gozar nameh. Loftan” - Please, need passports. Please. The gendarme sergeant grunted with surprise then waved a hard tough hand toward the town. “Passports in stat’ion, Cap’tin.”
“Yes. But, sorry, there is no key.” Scragger parodied opening a lock with a key. “No key,” he repeated.
“Ah. Yes. Understand. Yes, no key. To’morrow. To’morrow you get.” “Is it possible, tonight? Please. Now?” Scragger felt the scrutiny. “Why tonight?”
“Er, for a crew change. Men to Shiraz, crew change.”
“When?”
Scragger knew he had to gamble. “Saturday. If I have key, go station and return at once.”
Qeshemi shook his head. “To’morrow.” Then he spoke sharply to Ali Pash who at once bowed and thanked him profusely, again apologizing for disturbing him. “His Excellency says you can have them tomorrow. We’d, er, we’d better leave, Captain.”
Scragger forced a smile. “Mamnoon am, Agha” - Thank you, Excellency. “Mamnoon am, Agha Qeshemi.” He would have asked Ali Pash to ask the sergeant if he could have the passports as soon as the station opened but he did not wish to agitate the sergeant unnecessarily. “I will come after first prayer. Mamnoon am, Agha.” Scragger put out his hand and Qeshemi shook it. Both men felt the other’s strength. Then he got into the car and drove off. Thoughtfully Qeshemi closed and rebelled the door.
In summertime the small patio with its high walls and trellised vines and small fountain was cool and inviting. Now it was drab. He crossed it and opened the door opposite that led into the main living’ room and rebelled it. The sound of a child coughing somewhere upstairs. A wood fire took off some of the chill but the whole house was drafty, none of the doors or windows fitting properly. “Who was it?” his wife called down from upstairs. “Nothing, nothing important. A foreigner from the air base. The old one. He wanted their passports.”
“At this time of night? God protect us! Every lime there’s a knock on the door I expect more trouble - rotten Green Bands or vile leftists!” Qeshemi nodded absently, but said nothing, warming his hands by the fire, hardly listening to her rattle on: “Why should he come here? Foreigners are so ill-mannered. What would he want passports for at this time of night? Did you give them to him?”
“They’re locked in our safe. Normally I bring the key with me as always, bul it’s lost.” The child coughed again. “How’s little Sousan?” “She still has a fever. Bring me some hot water, that’ll help. Put a little honey in it.” He set the kettle on the fire, sighed, hearing her grumbling: “Passports at this time of night! Why couldn’t they wait till Saturday? So ill-mannered and thoughtless. You said the key’s lost?”
“Yes. Probably that goathead excuse for a policeman, Lafti, has it and forgot to put it back again. As God wants.”
“Mohammed, what would the foreigner want with passports al this lime of night?”
“I don’t know. Curious, very curious.”
Chapter 58
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRFIELD: 7:49 P.M. Rudi Lutz stood on the veranda of his trailer under the eaves, watching the heavy rain. “Scheiss,” he muttered. Behind him his door was open and the shaft of light sparkled the heavy raindrops. Soft Mozart came from his tape deck. The door of the next trailer, the office trailer, opened, and he saw Pop Kelly come out holding an umbrella over his head and slop through the puddles toward him. Neither noticed the Iranian in the shadows. Somewhere on the base a tomcat was spitting and yowling. “Hi, Pop. Come on in. You get it?”
“Yes, no problem.” Kelly shook the rain off. Inside the trailer it was warm and comfortable, neat and tidy. The cover was off the built-in, reconnected HF that was on Standby, muted static mixing with the music. A coffeepot percolated on the stove.
