“Andy, it’s Rudi. We’ve three pilots from Lufttransportgesellschaft and they also promise two mecs. Ten percent over scale, one month on, two off. Hang on… a call on the other line, I’ll call you back, ‘bye.” Gavallan made a notation on his pad, his anxiety giving him heartburn, and that made him think of McIver. When he had talked to him earlier he had not mentioned any of the deadline problems, not wanting to worry him further, promising that as soon as their choppers were safely out he would be on the next connection to Bahrain to see him. “Nothing to worry about, Mac, can’t thank you and Genny enough for all you’ve done…”
Through the window he could see the lowering sun. The airport was busy. He saw an Alitalia jumbo landing and that reminded him of Pettikin and Paula; no opportunity yet to ask him what was what. Near the far end of the runway in the freight area, his eight 212s looked raped and skeletal without their rotors and rotor columns, mechanics still crating some of them. Where the hell’s Kasigi, for God’s sake? He had tried to call him several times at the hotel but he was out and no one knew where he was or when he would return. The door opened. “Dad,” Scot said, “Linbar Struan’s on our phone.” “Tell him to get stuffed… hold it,” Gavallan said quickly. “Just say I’m still out, but you’re sure I’ll call him the moment I return.” He muttered a string of Chinese obscenities. Scot hurried away. Again the phone rang. “Gavallan.”
“Andrew, this is Roger Newbury, how are you?” Gavallan began to sweat. “Hello, Roger, what’s new?” “Sunset’s still the deadline. The Iranian insisted on coming by here to pick me up first so I’m standing by - we’re supposed to go together to meet the Sheik at the airport. We’ll arrive a few minutes early, then the three of us will go to the freight area to wait for His Nibs.”
“What about the reception at the Japanese ambassador’s?”
“We’re all supposed to go after the inspection - God only knows what’ll happen then but… well, ours not to reason. Sorry about all this but our hands are tied. See you soon. ‘Bye.”
Gavallan thanked him, pat down the phone, and wiped his brow. Again the phone. Kasigi? He picked it up. “Hello?”
“Andy? Ian - Ian Dunross.”
“My God, Ian.” Gavallan’s cares dropped away. “I’m so glad to hear from you, tried to reach you a couple of times.”
“Yes, sorry I wasn’t available. How’s it going?”
Gavallan told him guardedly. And about Kasigi. “We’ve about an hour to sunset.”
“That’s one reason I called. Damned bad luck about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Lochart sounds as though he cracked, but then when love’s involved….” Gavallan heard his sigh and did not know how to interpret it. “You remember Hiro Toda, Toda Shipping?” “Of course, Ian.”
“Hiro told me about Kasigi and their problem at Iran-Toda. They’re in a hell of a bind, so anything, anything you can do to help, please do.” “Got it. I’ve been working on it all day. Did Toda tell you Kasigi’s idea about their ambassador?”
“Yes. Hiro called personally - he said they’re more than anxious to help but it’s an Iranian problem, and to be honest, they don’t expect very much as the Iranians would be quite within their rights.” Gavallan’s face mirrored his dismay. “Help them all you can. If Iran-Toda gets taken over… well, strictly between us…” Dunross switched to Shanghainese for a moment: “The underbelly of a nobly thought of company would be slashed mortally.” Then in English again. “Forget I mentioned it.”
Though Gavallan had forgotten most of his Shanghainese he understood and his eyes almost crossed. He had had no idea that Struan’s was involved - Kasigi had never even implied it. “Kasigi‘11 get his choppers and crew even if we miss our deadline and are impounded.”
“Let’s hope you’re not. Next, did you see the papers about the Hong Kong stock exchange crash?”
“Yes.”
“It’s bigger than they’re reporting. Someone’s pulling some very rough stuff and Linbar’s back is to the sea. If you get the 212s out and are still in business, you’ll still have to cancel the X63s.”
Gavallan’s temperature went up a notch. “But, Ian, with those I can bust Imperial’s hold by giving clients better service and better safety, an - ” “I agree, old chum. But if we can’t pay for them you can’t have them. Sorry, but there it is. The stock market’s gone mad, worse than usual, it’s bleeding over to Japan and we cannot afford to have Toda crash here either.” “Perhaps we’ll get lucky. I’m not going to lose my X63s. By the way did you hear Linbar’s giving Profitable a seat in the Inner Office?” “Yes. An interesting idea.” It was said flat and Gavallan could read neither positive nor negative. “I heard their side of the meeting in a roundabout way. If today is a success, you’re planning to be in London Monday?” “Yes. I’ll know better by sunset, or tomorrow sunset. If all goes well I’ll drop by and see Mac in Bahrain, then head for London. Why?” “I may want you to cancel London and meet me in Hong Kong. Something very bloody curious has come up - about Nobunaga Mori, the other witness with Profitable Choy when David MacStruan died. Nobunaga was burned to death a couple of days ago at his home at Kanazawa, that’s in the country just outside Tokyo, in rather strange circumstances. In today’s mail I got a very curious letter. Can’t discuss it on the phone but it’s plenty bloody interesting.”
Gavallan held his breath. “Then David… it wasn’t an accident?” “Have to wait and see on that one, Andy, until we meet - either Tokyo or London, the very soonest. By the way Hiro and I had planned to stay at Kanazawa the night Nobunaga died but couldn’t make it at the last moment.” “My God, that was lucky.”
“Yes. Well, got to go. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Nothing, unless you can give me an extension till Sunday night.” “I’m still working on that, never fear. Damned sorry about Dubois, Fowler, and McIver… that Tokyo number will take messages till Monday…” They said good-bye. Gavallan stared at the phone. Scot came in with more news about possible pilots and planes but he hardly heard his son. Was it murder after all? Christ! Goddamn Linbar and his back to the wall and bad investments. Somehow or another I’ve got to have the X63s, got to. Again the phone. The connection was bad and the accent of the caller heavy: “Long distance collect call for Effendi Gavallan.”
His heart surged. Erikki? “This is Effendi Gavallan, I will accept the charge. Can you speak up, please, I can hardly hear you. Who is the call from?”
“One moment please…” As he waited impatiently he looked at the gate near the end of the runway that the Sheik and the others would use if Kasigi failed and the inspection took place. His breath almost stopped as he saw a big limousine with a Shargazi flag on its fender approaching, but the car passed by in a cloud of dust and a voice on the other end of the phone he could hardly hear said, “Andy, it’s me, Marc, Marc Dubois…” “Marc? Marc Dubois?” he stuttered and almost dropped the phone, cupped his hand over one ear to hear better. “Christ Almighty! Marc? Are you all right, where the hell are you, is Fowler all right? Where the hell are you?” The answer was gibberish. He had to strain to hear. “Say again!” “We’re at Kor al Amaya…” Kor al Amaya was Iraq’s huge, half mile long, deep-sea oil terminal platform at the far end of the Gulf, off the mouth of the Shatt-al-Arab Estuary that divided Iraq and Iran, about five hundred miles northwest. “Can you hear me, Andy? Kor al Amaya…”
AT THE KOR AL AMAYA PLATFORM: Marc Dubois also had one hand cupped over his ear and was trying to be guarded and not to shout down the phone. The phone was in the office of the platform manager, plenty of Iraqi and expats in the office outside able to overhear. “This line’s not private… vous com-prenez?”
“Got it, for God’s sake, what the hell happened? You were picked up?”
Dubois made sure he was not being overheard and said carefully, “No, mon vieux, I was running out of fuel and, voilr, the tanker Oceanrider appeared out of the merde so I landed on her, perfectly, of course. We’re both fine, Fowler and me. Pas probleme! What about everyone, Rudi and Sandor and Pop?” They’re all here in Al Shargaz, everyone, your lot, Scrag’s, Mac, Freddy, though Mac’s in Bahrain at the moment. With you safe Whirlwind’s got ten out of ten - Erikki and Azadeh are safe in Tabriz though…” Gavallan was going to say Tom’s risking his life to stay in Iran. But there was nothing he or Dubois could do so instead he said happily, “How wonderful you’re safe, Marc. Are you serviceable?”
“Of course, I, er, I just need fuel and instructions.”
“Marc, you’re British registry now… hang on a sec… it’s G-HKVC. Dump your old numbers and put the new ones on. There’s been hell to pay and our late hosts have splattered the Gulf with telexes asking governments to impound us. Don’t go ashore anywhere.”
Dubois’s bonhomie had left him. “Golf, Hotel Kilo Victor Charlie, got it. Andy, le bon Dieu was with us because Oceanrider’s Liberian registry and her skipper’s British. One of the first things I asked for was a pot of paint, paint… understand?”
“Got it, bloody marvelous. Go on!”
“As he was inbound Iraq I thought it best to keep quiet and stay with her until I talked with you and this is
