“Thank you, Concorde, good day… oh, call Baghdad 119.9, good day!” he said beaming and when the time was correct Sinclair pointedly picked up the telex and frowned.
“Iranian choppers?” He gave the youth the spare glasses. “Do you see any Iranian choppers here?”
After examining the three incoming strangers very carefully, the youth shook his head. “No, Sayyid, those are British, the only others here we know are Shargazi.”
“Quite right.” Sinclair was frowning. He had noticed that Scragger was still slumped on the ground, Lane and some of the others standing around him. Not like Scragger, he thought. “Mohammed, send a medic and ambulance over to those British choppers on the double.” Then he picked up the phone, dialed. “Mr. Gavallan, your birds are down safe and sound. When you have a moment could you drop by the tower?” He said it in the peculiarly casual, understated English way that only another Englishman would detect at once meant “urgently.”
IN THE S-G OFFICE: Gavallan said into the phone, “I’ll be there right away, Mr. Sinclair. Thanks.”
Scot saw his face. “More trouble, Dad?”
“I don’t know. Call me if anything happens.” At the door, Gavallan stopped. “Damn, I forgot about Newbury. Call him and see if he’s available this afternoon. I’ll go to his house, anywhere - fix whatever you can. If he wants to know what’s going on, just say, ‘Six out of seven so far, one on standby and two to go.’” He hurried away with, “‘Bye, ‘bye, Manuela. Scot, try Charlie again and find out where the devil he is.”
“Okay.” Now they were alone, Scot and Manuela. His shoulder was aching and intruding more and more. He had noticed her depression. “Dubois‘11 turn up, you’ll see,” he said, wanting to sound very confident and mask his own fear they were lost. “And nothing could kill old Fowler.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” she said, her tears near. She had seen her husband stumble and was achingly aware of the extent of his pain. Soon I’m going to have to leave for the hospital and the hell with Farsi. “It’s the waiting.” “Only a few more hours, Manuela, two more birds and five bods. Then we can celebrate,” Scot added, hoping against hope, and thinking: Then the weight’ll be off the Old Man too, he’ll smile again and live a thousand years.
My God, give up flying? I love flying and don’t want a desk job. Hong Kong for part of the year’d be fine but Linbar? I can’t deal with Linbar! The Old Man‘11 have to deal with him - I’d be lost…
The old, nagging question leaped into his mind: What’d I do if the Old Man wasn’t around? A chill went through him. Not if, when, it’s going to happen someday…. It could happen any day. Look at Jordon, Talbot - or Duke or me. A fraction of an inch and you’re dead - or you’re alive. The Will of God? Karma? Joss? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter! All I’m sure of is since I was hit I’m different, my whole life’s different, my certainty that nothing would ever touch me has vanished forever and all that’s left is a God-cursed, icy, stench-ridden certainty of being very mortal. Christ Almighty! Does that always happen? Wonder if Duke feels the same? He looked at Manuela. She was staring at him. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he said and began to dial Newbury.
“I just said, ‘Isn’t it three birds and eight bods? You forgot Erikki and Azadeh - nine if you count Sharazad.”
TEHRAN, AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 1:14 P.M. Sharazad stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, naked, examining the profile of her stomach, seeing if there was an added roundness yet. This morning she had noticed that her nipples seemed more sensitive and her breasts appeared tight. “No need to worry,” Zarah, Meshang’s wife, had laughed. “Soon you’ll be like a balloon and in tears, you’ll be wailing that you’ll never be able to get into your clothes again and oh how ugly you look! Don’t worry, you will - get into your clothes - and you won’t look ugly.”
Sharazad was very happy today, dawdling, and she frowned at herself and peered closer to see if she had any wrinkles, looking at herself this way and that, trying her hair up and down, bunched or to one side, contented and pleased with what she saw. The bruises were fading. Her body was quite dry from her bath and she powdered herself, stepped into her underclothes. Jari bustled in. “Oh, Princess, aren’t you ready yet? His Eminence your brother is expected back for lunch any minute and the whole house is frightened he’ll be in another of his rages, oh, please hurry, we don’t want to excite him now do we?.. .” Automatically she pulled the plug out of the bath, began tidying, all the time fussing and muttering and coaxing Sharazad along. In moments Sharazad was dressed. Stockings - no panty hose on sale for months now, even on the black market - no need for a bra. Warm blue cashmere dress of Paris cut with matching short-sleeved shawl coat. A quick brush and her naturally wavy hair was perfect, the barest touch of lip makeup, a line of kohl around her eyes.
“But, Princess, you know how your brother doesn’t like makeup!” “Oh, but I’m not going out, and Meshang’s not…” Sharazad was going to say “my father” but stopped herself, not wanting to bring back that tragedy from the recesses of her mind. Father’s in Paradise, she told herself firmly. His Day of Mourning, the fortieth day since he died, is still twenty-five days away and until then we must get on with living.
And loving?
She had not asked Jari what had happened at the coffee shop, the day she had sent her there to tell him her husband had returned and that what had never begun was ended. I wonder where he is, if he’ll continue to visit me in my dreams?
There was a commotion downstairs and they knew Meshang had arrived. She checked herself a last time, then went to meet him.
After the night of his clash with Lochart, Meshang had moved back into the house with his family. The house was very big, Sharazad still had her rooms and was delighted that Zarah and her three children noised away the crushing silence and gloom that had previously been pervading it. Her mother was a recluse now, in her own wing, even eating there, served only by her own maid, praying and weeping most of the day. Never coming out, never inviting any of them in: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” was all she would whimper through the locked door.
During the hours that Meshang was in the house, Sharazad, Zarah, and others in the family were careful to cajole and flatter him. “Don’t worry,” Zarah had told her. “He’ll be to heel soon enough. He thinks I’ve forgotten he insulted me and hit me and dares to flaunt the young whore that that vile son of a dog Kia tempted him with! Oh, don’t worry, darling Sharazad, I’ll have my revenge - it was unforgivable bad manners to treat you and … your husband like that. Soon we’ll be able to travel again… Paris, London, even New York… I doubt if he’ll have the time to go with us and then, ah, and then we’ll kick up our heels, wear see-throughs, and have fifty suitors each!”
“I don’t know about New York - putting oneself in so much danger of Satan,” Sharazad had said. But in her secret heart she trembled with excitement at the thought. I’ll go to New York with my son, she promised herself. Tommy will be there. Soon we’ll be normal again, the power of the mullahs over Khomeini will be broken, may God open his eyes, their control of the Green Bands eliminated, the Revolutionary Komiteh disbanded, we’ll have a true, fairly elected democratic Islamic government with Prime Minister Bazargan its leader under God, women’s rights will never be touched again, the Tudeh no longer outlawed but working for all and there will be peace in the land - just as he said would happen.
I’m glad I am who I am, Sharazad thought. “Hello, darling Meshang, how nice you look today but so tired, oh, you mustn’t work so hard for all of us. Here, let me pour you some more cool lemon and water, just the way you like it.”
“Thank you.” Meshang was lounging on the carpets, propped against cushions, his shoes off, already eating. A small brazier was ready to barbecue the kebabs, and twenty or thirty dishes of horisht and rice and vegetables and sweetmeats and fruit were within easy reach. Zarah was nearby and she beckoned Sharazad to sit on the carpet beside her.
“How do you feel today?”
“Wonderful, not the least bit sick.”
Meshang’s face became sour. “Zarah was sick all the time, and moping, not like a normal woman. Let’s hope you’re normal, but you’re so thin… Insha’Allah.”
Both women put on a smile, hiding their loathing, understanding each other. “Poor Zarah,” Sharazad said. “How was your morning, Meshang? It must be terribly difficult for you with so much to do, so many of us to look after.” “It’s difficult because I’m surrounded by fools, dear Sister. If I had efficient staff, trained as I am, it would all be so easy.” And so much easier if you had not beguiled my father, twisted him, failed your first husband, and disgraced us with your choice of the second. So much anguish you’ve caused me, dear Sister, you with your consumptive-looking face and body and stupidity - me who has worked all hours to rescue you from yourself. Praise be to God my efforts have borne such fruits! “It must be terribly hard for you, Meshang, I wouldn’t know where to start,” Zarah was saying and she was thinking, Simple to run the business providing you know where the keys are,
