killed.”
“Good God, what happened?”
“‘Fraid it’s all rather rotten. He was in a restaurant where there were some rather high-level ayatollahs. A terrorist car bomb blew the place to bits and him with it, yesterday lunchtime.”
“How bloody awful!”
“Yes. There was a Captain Ross with him, he was hurt too. I believe you knew him?”
“Yes, yes, I’d met him. He helped the wife of one of our pilots get out of a mess at Tabriz. A nice young man. How badly was he hurt?” “We don’t know, it’s all a bit sketchy, but our embassy in Tehran got him to the Kuwait International Hospital yesterday; I’ll get a proper report tomorrow and will let you know. Now, you asked if we could find out the whereabouts of your Captain Erikki Yokkonen.” A pause and the rustle of papers and Gavallan held on to his hope. “We had a telex this evening from Tabriz, just before I left the office: ‘Please be advised in answer to your query about Captain Erikki Yokkonen, he is believed to have escaped from his kidnappers and is now believed to be with his wife at the palace of Hakim Khan. A further report will be forthcoming tomorrow as soon as this can be checked.’”
“You mean Abdollah Khan, Roger.” Excitedly Gavallan covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Scot, “Erikki’s safe!”
“Fantastic,” Scot said, wondering what the bad news had been. “The telex definitely says Hakim Khan,” Newbury was saying. “Never mind, thank God he’s safe.” And thank God another major hurdle against Whirlwind is removed. “Could you get a message to him for me?” “I could try. Come in tomorrow. Can’t guarantee it’ll reach him, the situation in Azerbaijan is quite fluid. We could certainly try.” “I can’t thank you enough, Roger. Very thoughtful of you to let me know. Terribly sorry about Talbot and young Ross. If there’s anything I can do to help Ross, please let me know.”
“Yes, yes, I will. By the way, the word’s out.” It was said flat. “Sorry?”
“Let’s say, ‘Turbulences,’” Newbury said delicately.
For a moment Gavallan was silent, then he recovered. “Oh?” “Oh. It seems a certain Mr. Kasigi wanted you to service Iran-Toda from yesterday and you told him you wouldn’t be able to give him an answer for thirty days. So, er, we added two to two and with all the rumors got a bull’s-eye, the word’s out.”
Gavallan was trying to get cool. “Not being able to service Iran-Toda’s a business decision, Roger, nothing more. Operating anywhere in Iran’s bloody now, you know that. I couldn’t handle Kasigi’s extra business.” “Really?” Newbury’s voice was withering. Then, sharply, “Well, if what we hear is true we’d strongly, very strongly advise against it.” Gavallan said stubbornly, “You surely don’t advise me to support Iran-Toda when all Iran’s falling apart, do you?”
Another pause. A sigh. Then, “Well, mustn’t keep you, Andy. Perhaps we could have lunch. On Saturday.”
“Yes, thank you. I’d, I’d like that.” Gavallan hung up.
“What was the bad?” Scot asked.
Gavallan told him about Talbot and Ross and then about “turbulences.” “That’s too close to Whirlwind to be funny.”
“What’s this about Kasigi?”
“He wanted two 212s from Bandar Delam at once to service Iran-Toda - I had to stall.” Their meeting had been brief and blunt: “Sorry, Mr. Kasigi, it’s not possible to service you this week, or the next. I couldn’t, er, consider it for thirty days.”
“My chairman would greatly appreciate it. I understand you know him?” “Yes, I did, and if I could help I certainly would. Sorry, it’s just not possible.”
“But… then can you suggest an alternative? I must get helicopter support.” “What about a Japanese company?”
“There isn’t one. Is there… is there someone else to hold me over?” “Not to my knowledge. Guerney’ll never go back but they might know of someone.” He had given him their phone number and the distraught Japanese had rushed off.
He looked at his son. “Damned shame but nothing I could do to help him.” Scot said, “If the word’s out…” He eased the sling more comfortably. “If the word’s out then it’s out. All the more reason to press the titty.” “Or to cancel. Think I’ll drop by and see Duke. Track me down if anyone calls. Nogger’s taking over from you?”
“Yes. Midnight. JeanLuc’s still booked on the dawn flight to Bahrain, Pettikin to Kuwait. I’ve confirmed their seats.” Scot watched him. Gavallan did not answer the unsaid question. “Leave it like that for the moment.” He saw his son smile and nod and his heart was suddenly overflowing with love and concern and pride and fear for him, intermixed with his own hopes for a future that depended on his being able to extract all of them from the Iranian morass. He was surprised to hear himself say, “Would you consider giving up flying, laddie?”
“Eh?”
Gavallan smiled at his son’s astonishment. But now that he had said it, he decided to continue. “It’s part of a long-term plan. For you and the family. In fact I’ve two - just between ourselves. Of course both depend on whether we stay in business or not. The first is you give up flying and go out to Hong Kong for a couple of years to learn that end of Struan’s, back to Aberdeen for perhaps another year, then back to Hong Kong again where you’d base. The second’s that you go for a conversion course on the X63s, spend six months or so in the States, perhaps a year learning that end of the business, then to the North Sea for a season. Then out to Hong Kong.” “Always back to Hong Kong?”
“Yes. China will open up sometime for oil exploration and Ian and I want Struan’s to be ready with a complete operation, support choppers, rigs, the whole kit and caboodle.” He smiled strangely. “Oil for the lamps of China” was code for Ian Dunross’s secret plan, most of which Linbar Struan was not party to. “Air Struan‘11 be the new company and its area of responsibility and operation’d be China, the China Seas, and the whole China basin. Our end plan is that you’d head it.”
“Not much potential there,” Scot said with pretended diffidence. “Do you think Air Struan would have a future?” Then he let his smile out. “Again this is all just between us - Linbar’s not been given all the facts yet.”
Scot frowned. “Will he approve me going out there, joining Struan’s and doing this?”
“He hates me, Scot, not you. He hasn’t opposed you seeing his niece, has he?”
“Not yet. No, he hasn’t, not yet.”
“The timing’s right and we have to have a future plan - for the family. You’re the right age, I think you could do it.” Gavallan’s eyes picked up light. “You’re half-Dunross, you’re a direct descendant of Dirk Struan, and so you’ve responsibilities above and beyond yourself. You and your sister inherited your mother’s shares, you’d qualify for the Inner Office if you’re good enough. That burk Linbar’ll have to retire one day - even he can’t destroy the Noble House totally. What do you say to my plan?” “I’d like to think it over, Dad.”
What’s there to think over, laddie, he thought. “Night, Scot, I may drop back later.” He gave him a careful pat on his good shoulder and walked out. Scot won’t fail me, he told himself proudly.
In the spacious Customs and Immigration hall, passengers were trickling in from Immigration, others waiting for their baggage. The arrival board announced that the Gulf Air Flight 52 from Muscat, Oman’s capital, had arrived on time and was due to leave in fifteen minutes for Abu Dhabi, Bahrain, and Kuwait. The newstand was still open so he wandered over to see what papers were in. He was reaching for the London Times when he saw the headline, PRIME MINISTER CALLAGHAN CITES LABOUR’S SUCCESSES, and changed his mind. What do I need that for? he thought. Then he saw Genny McIver. She was sitting alone, near the boarding gate with a small suitcase beside her. “Hello, Genny, what are you doing here?”
She smiled sweetly. “I’m going to Kuwait.”
He smiled sweetly back. “What the hell for?”
“Because I need a holiday.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The button’s not even pushed yet and anyway, there’s nothing you can do there, nothing. You’d be in the way. You’re much better off waiting here. Genny, for God’s sake be reasonable.”
The set smile had not even flickered. “Are you finished?” “Yes.”
“I am reasonable, I’m the most reasonable person you know. Duncan McIver isn’t. He’s the most misguided, misbegotten twit I’ve ever come across in all my born days and to Kuwait I am going.” It was all said with an Olympian calm.
Wisely he changed tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going instead of sneaking off like this? I’d’ve
