“There” was not a cell but a room with a few chairs and a table and bars on the windows, many flies and no way out. But it was warm and relatively clean. “Could we have some food and drink and use the telephone, please?” Azadeh asked. “We can pay, Sergeant Effendi.”
“I will order some for you from the hotel here. The food is good and not expensive.”
“My husband asks, can he use the telephone, please?”
“Certainly - in due course.”
That had been this morning, and now it was late afternoon. In the intervening time the food had arrived, rice and mutton stew and peasant bread and Turkish coffee. She had paid with rials and was not overcharged. The sergeant had allowed them to use the foul-smelling hole in the ground squatter, and water from a tank and an old basin to wash in. There were no medical supplies, just iodine. Erikki had cleaned his wounds as best he could, gritting his teeth at the sudden pain, still weak and exhausted. Then, with Azadeh close beside him, he had propped himself on a chair, his feet on another, and had drifted off. From time to time the door would open and one or other of the policemen would come in, then go out again. “Matyeryebyets,” Erikki muttered. “Where can we run to?”
She had gentled him and stayed close and kept a steel gate on her own fear. I must carry him, she thought over and over. She was feeling better now with her hair combed and flowing, her face clean, her cashmere sweater tidy. Through the door she could hear muttered conversation, occasionally a telephone ringing, cars and trucks going past on the road from and to the border, flies droning. Her tiredness took her and she slept fitfully, her dreams bad: noise of engines and firing and Hakim mounted like a Cossack charging them, both she and Erikki buried up to their necks in the earth, hooves just missing them, then somehow free, rushing from the border that was acres of massed barbed wire, the false mullah Mahmud and the butcher suddenly between them and safety and th - The door opened. Both of them awoke, startled. A major in immaculate uniform stood there, glowering, flanked by the sergeant and another policeman. He was a tall, hard-faced man. “Your papers please,” he said to Azadeh. “I, I gave them to the sergeant, Major Effendi.” “You gave him a Finnish passport. Your Iranian papers.” The major held out his hand. She was too slow. At once the sergeant went forward and grabbed her shoulder purse and spilled the contents onto the table. Simultaneously, the other policeman stalked over to Erikki, his hand on the revolver in his open holster, waved him into a corner against the wall. The major flicked some dirt off a chair and sat down, accepted her Iranian ID from the sergeant, read it carefully, then looked at the contents on the table. He opened the jewel bag. His eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”
“They’re mine. Inherited from my parents.” Azadeh was frightened, not knowing what he knew or how much, and she had seen the way his eyes covered her. So had Erikki. “May my husband please use the telephone? He wish - ” “In due course! You have been told that many times. In due course is in due course.” The major zipped up the bag and put it on the table in front of him. His eyes strayed to her breasts. “Your husband doesn’t speak Turkish?” “No, no, he doesn’t, Major Effendi.”
The officer turned on Erikki and said in good English, “There’s a warrant out for your arrest from Tabriz. For attempted murder and kidnapping.” Azadeh blanched and Erikki held on to his panic as best he could. “Kidnapping whom, sir?”
A flash of irritability washed over the major. “Don’t try to play with me. This lady. Azadeh, sister to the Hakim, the Gorgon Khan.” “She’s my wife. How can a hus - ”
“I know she’s your wife and you’d better tell me the truth, by God. The warrant says you took her against her will and flew off in an Iranian helicopter.” Azadeh started to answer but the major snapped, “I asked him, not you. Well?”
“It was without her consent and the chopper is British not Iranian.” The major stared at him, then turned on Azadeh. “Well?”
“It… it was without my consent…” The words trailed off. “But what?” Azadeh felt sick. Her head ached and she was in despair. Turkish police were known for their inflexibility, their great personal power and toughness. “Please, Major Effendi, perhaps we may talk in private, explain in private?” “We’re private now, madam,” the major said curtly, then seeing her anguish and appreciating her beauty, added, “English is more private than Turkish. Well?”
So, haltingly, choosing her words carefully, she told him about her oath to Abdollah Khan and about Hakim and the dilemma, unable to leave, unable to stay and how Erikki, of his own volition and wisdom, had cut through the Gordian knot. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Yes, it was without my consent but in a way it was with the consent of my brother who helped Er - ” “If it was with Hakim Khan’s consent then why has he put a huge reward on this man’s head, alive or dead,” the major said, disbelieving her, “and had the warrant issued in his name, demanding immediate extradition if necessary?”
She was so shocked she almost fainted. Without thinking Erikki moved toward her, but the revolver went into his stomach. “I was only going to help her,” he gasped.
“Then stay where you are!” In Turkish the officer said, “Don’t kill him.” In English he said, “Well, Lady Azadeh? Why?”
She could not answer. Her mouth moved but made no sound. Erikki said for her, “What else could a Khan do, Major? A Khan’s honor, his face is involved. Publicly he would have to do that, wouldn’t he, whatever he approved in private?”
“Perhaps, but certainly not so quickly, no, not so quickly, not alerting fighters and helicopters - why should he do that if he wanted you to escape? It’s a miracle you weren’t forced down, didn’t fall down with all those bullet holes. It sounds like a pack of lies - perhaps she’s so frightened of you she’ll say anything. Now, your so-called escape from the palace: exactly what happened?”
Helplessly Erikki told him. Nothing more to do, he thought. Tell him the truth and hope. Most of his concentration was on Azadeh, seeing the blank horror pervading her, yet of course Hakim would react the way he had - of course dead or alive - wasn’t the blood of his father strong in his veins? “And the guns?” Once more Erikki told it exactly, about being forced to fly the KGB, about Sheik Bayazid and his kidnap and ransom and the attack on the palace, having to fly them off and then their breaking their oaths and so having to kill them somehow.
“How many men?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Half a dozen, perhaps more.”
“You enjoy killing, eh?”
“No, Major, I hate it, but please believe us, we’ve been caught up in a web not of our seeking, all we want to do is be let go, please let me call my embassy… they can vouch for us… we’re a threat to no one.” The major just looked at him. “I don’t agree, your story’s too farfetched. You’re wanted for kidnapping and attempted murder. Please go with the sergeant,” he said and repeated it in Turkish. Erikki did not move, his fists bunched, and he was near exploding. At once the sergeant’s gun was out, both police converged on him dangerously, and the major said harshly, “It’s a very serious offense to disobey police in this country. Go with the sergeant. Go with him.”
Azadeh tried to say something, couldn’t. Erikki thrust off the sergeant’s hand, contained his own impotent panic-rage, and tried a smile to encourage her. “It’s all right,” he muttered and followed the sergeant. Azadeh’s panic and terror had almost overwhelmed her. Now her fingers and knees were trembling, but she wanted so much to sit tall and be tall, knowing she was defenseless and the major was sitting there opposite her, watching her, the room empty but for the two of them. Insha’Allah, she thought and looked at him, hating him.
“You have nothing to fear,” he said, his eyes curious. Then he reached over and picked up her jewel bag. “For safekeeping,” he said thinly and stalked for the door, closed it after him, and went down the passageway. The cell at the end was small and dirty, more like a cage than a room, with a cot, bars on the tiny window, chains attached to a huge bolt in one wall, a foul-smelling bucket in a corner. The sergeant slammed the door and locked it on Erikki. Through the bars the major said, “Remember, the Lady Azadeh’s… ‘comfort’ depends on your docility.” He went away. Now, alone, Erikki started prowling the cage, studying the door, lock, bars, floor, ceiling, walls, chains - seeking a way out.
* AL SHARGAZ - AT THE AIRPORT: 5:40 P.M. A thousand miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was in an HQ office anxiously waiting near the phone, an hour yet for sunset. Already he had a promise of one 212 from a Paris company and two 206s from a friend at Aerospatiale at reasonable rates. Scot was in the other office, monitoring the HF, with Pettikin on the other phone there. Rudi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and Scragger were at the hotel on more phones tracking down possible crews, arranging possible logistics in Bahrain. No word yet from Kasigi.
The phone rang. Gavallan grabbed it, hoping against hope for news about Dubois and Fowler, or that it was Kasigi. “Hello?”
