them at once and try and bring the date forward. It’d be safer if they’d arrive Saturday, much safer. What’s next?” “Imperial Air have offered to take over our position on our new X63s.” “Tell them to drop dead. Next?”
“ExTex have revised their offer on the new Saudi, Singapore, Nigerian contracts ten percent downward.”
“Accept the offer by telex. Fix a lunch for me with the brass in New York on Tuesday. Next?”
“I’ve a checklist of part numbers you wanted.” “Good. Hang on.” Gavallan took out the secretarial notebook he always carried and found the page he sought. It listed the present Iranian registration call signs of their ten remaining 212s, all beginning with “EP” standing for Iran, then “H” for helicopter, and the final two letters. “Ready. Off you go.” “AB,RV, KI…” As she read out the letters he wrote them alongside the other column. For security he did not put the full new registration, “G” denoting Great Britain, “H” for helicopter, just jotted the two new letters. He reread the list and they tallied with those already supplied. “Thanks, they’re spot on. I’ll call you last thing tonight, Liz. Give Maureen a call and tell her all’s well.”
“All right, boss. Sir Ian called half an hour ago to wish you luck.” “Oh, great!” Gavallan had tried unsuccessfully to reach him all the time he was in Aberdeen and London. “Where is he? Did he leave a number?” “Yes. He’s in Tokyo: 73 73 84. He said he’d be there for a while and if you missed him he’d call tomorrow. He also said he’ll be back in a couple of weeks and would like to see you.” “Even better. Did he say what about?” “Oil for the lamps of China,” his secretary said cryptically. Gavallan’s interest picked up. “Wonderful. Fix a date at his earliest convenience. I’ll call you later, Liz. Got to rush.”
“All right. Just to remind you it’s Scot’s birthday tomorrow.” “Godalmighty, I forgot, thanks, Liz. Talk to you later.” He hung up, pleased to hear from Ian Dunross, blessing the Al Shargazi phone system and distance dialing. He dialed. Tokyo was five hours ahead. Just after 1 A.M.
“Hai?” The Japanese woman’s voice said sleepily. “Good evening. Sorry to call so late but I had a message to call Sir Ian Dunross. Andrew Gavallan.” “Ah, yes. Ian is not here for the moment, he will not be back until the morrow, so sorry. Perhaps at ten o’clock. Please, can I have your number, Mr. Gavallan?”
Gavallan gave it to her, disappointed. “Is there another number I can reach him at, please?” “Ah, so sorry, no.”
“Please ask him to call me, call anytime.” He thanked her again and hung up thoughtfully.
Outside was his rented car and he got in and drove to the main airport entrance. Overhead a 707 was coming around for final, landing lights on, tail and wing lights winking.
“Evening, Mr. Gavallan,” Sibbles, the Met officer said. He was British, a small, thin, dehydrated man, ten years in the Gulf. “Here you are.” He handed him the long photocopy of the forecast. “Weather’s going to be changeable here for the next few days.” He handed him three other pages. “Lengeh, Kowiss, and Bandar Delam.”
“And the bottom line is?”
“They’re all about the same, give or take ten or fifteen knots, a few hundred feet of ceiling - sorry, just can’t get used to metrics - a hundred meters or so of ceiling. Weather’s gradually improving. In the next few days the wind should come back to our standard, friendly northwesterly. From midnight we’re forecasting light rain and lots of low clouds and mist over most of the Gulf, wind southeasterly about twenty knots overall with thunderstorms, occasional small turbulences,” he looked up and smiled, “and whirlwinds.”
Gavallan’s stomach heaved, even though the word was said matter-of-factly and Sibbles was not party to the secret. At least, I don’t think he is, he thought. That’s the second curious coincidence today. The other was the American lunching at a nearby table with a Shargazi whose name he had not caught: “Good luck for tomorrow,” the man had said with a pleasant smile, full of bonhomie, as he was leaving.
“Sorry?”
“Glenn Wesson, Wesson Oil Marketing, you’re Andrew Gavallan, right? We heard you and your guys were organizing a… ‘a camel race’ tomorrow out at the Dez-al oasis, right?”
“Not us, Mr. Wesson. We don’t go in much for camels.”
“That a fact? You should try it, yes, sir, lotta fun. Good luck anyway.” Could have been a coincidence. Camel races were a diversion here for expats, a hilarious one, and the Dez-al a favorite place for the Islamic weekend. “Thanks, Mr. Sibbles, see you tomorrow.” He pocketed the forecasts and went down the stairs into the terminal lobby, heading for their office which was off to one side. Neither a positive yes nor a positive no, he was thinking, Saturday safer than tomorrow. You pays your money and you takes your chances. I can’t put it off much longer. “How’re you going to decide?” his wife, Maureen, had asked, seeing him off at dawn the day before yesterday, Aberdeen almost socked in and pouring.
“Don’t know, lassie. Mac’s got a good nose, he’ll help.”
And now no Mac! Mac gone bonkers, Mac flying without a medical, Mac conveniently stuck at Kowiss and no way out but Whirlwind; Erikki still God knows where, and poor old Duke fit to be tied that he’s off the roster but bloody lucky he came here. Doc Nutt had been right. X rays showed several bone splinters had punctured his left lung with another half a dozen threatening an artery. He glanced at the lobby clock: 8:27 P.M. Should be out of the anesthetic by now.
Got to decide soon. In conjunction with Charlie Pettikin I’ve got to decide soon. He went through the NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS door, down the corridor, double-glazed windows the length of it. On the apron the 707 was being guided into its disembarking slot by a FOLLOW ME car, the sign in English and Farsi. Several Fokkerwolf forty-passenger prop feeders were parked neatly, a Pan Am jumbo that was part of the evacuation milk run to Tehran, and half a dozen private jets, their 125 among them. Wish it was Saturday, he thought. No, perhaps I don’t.
On the door of their office suite was S-G HELICOPTERS, SHEIK AVIATION. “Hello, Scot.”
“Hello, Dad.” Scot grinned. He was alone, duty officer, and he sat in front of the HF that was on standby, a book in his lap, his right arm in a sling. “Nothing new except a message to call Roger Newbury at home. Shall I get him?”
“In a moment, thanks.” Gavallan handed him the Met reports. Scot scanned them rapidly. The phone rang. Without stopping reading, he picked it up. “S-G?” He listened a moment. “Who? Oh, yes. No, he’s not here, sorry. Yes, I’ll tell him. ‘Bye.” He replaced the phone, sighed. “Johnny Hogg’s new bird, Alexandra - ‘the Hot Tamale’ Manuela calls her because she’s certain he’s going to get his pecker burned.” Gavallan laughed. Scot looked up from the reports. “Neither one thing or the other. Could be very good, lots of cover. But if the wind picks up could be rotten, Saturday better than Friday.” His blue eyes watched his father who stared out of the window at the apron traffic, passengers disembarking from the jet.
“I agree.” Gavallan said, noncommittally. “There’s someth - ” He stopped as the HF came to life: “Al Shargaz, this is Tehran Head Office, do you read?” “This is Al Shargaz, Head Office, you’re four by five, go ahead,” Scot said. “Director Siamaki wants to talk to Mr. Gavallan immediately.” Gavallan shook his head. “I’m not here,” he whispered.
“Can I take a message, Head Office?” Scot said into the mike. “It’s a little late but I’ll get it to him as soon as possible.”
Waiting. Static. Then the arrogant voice Gavallan detested. “This is Managing Director Siamaki. Tell Gavallan to call me back tonight. I’ll be here until ten-thirty tonight or anytime after 9:00 A.M. tomorrow. Without fail. Understand?”
“Five by five, Head Office,” Scot said sweetly. “Over and out!” “Bloody twit,” Gavallan muttered. Then more sharply, “What the devil’s he doing in the office at this time of night?”
“Snooping, has to be, and if he plans to ‘work’ on Holy Day … that’s pretty suspicious, isn’t it?”
“Mac said he would clean the safe out of important stuff and throw his key and the spare into the joub. Bet those buggers have duplicates,” Gavallan said testily. “I’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the pleasure of talking with him. Scot, is there any way we can jam him listening to our calls?” “No, not if we use our company frequencies which’s all we’ve got.” His father nodded. “When Johnny comes in, remind him I may want him airborne tomorrow at a moment’s notice.” It was part of the Whirlwind plan to use the 125 as a high-altitude VHF receiver/transmitter to cover those choppers only equipped with VHF. “From seven o’clock onward.”
“Then it’s a go for tomorrow.”
“Not yet.” Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. “Good evening, Mr. Newbury, please, Mr. Gavallan returning his call.” Roger Newbury was one of the officials at the British consulate who had been very helpful, easing permits for them. “Hello, Roger, you wanted me? Sorry, you’re not at dinner, are you?”
“No, glad you called. Couple of things: first, bit of bad news, we’ve just heard George Talbot’s been
