“They’re still on strike, old boy. Along with everyone else - banks’re still closed. Never mind, we’ll be normal in a week or so.”
“Merde,” JeanLuc said. “The French papers say Iran is une catastrophe with Khomeini and his mullahs on one side, the armed forces ready to stage a coup any day, the Communists winding everyone up, the government of Bakhtiar powerless, and civil war inevitable.”
“What do they know in France, old boy?” Scot Gavallan had said airily as they loaded their gear. “The Fr - ”
“The French know, mon vieux. All the papers say Khomeini‘11 never cooperate with Bakhtiar because he’s a Shah appointee and anyone connected with the Shah is finished. Finished. That old fire-eater’s said fifty times he won’t work with anyone Shah-appointed.”
Lochart said, “I saw Andy three days ago in Aberdeen, JeanLuc, and he was bullish as hell that Iran‘11 come back to normal soon, now that Khomeini’s back and the Shah gone.”
Scot beamed. “There, you see. If anyone should know it’s the Old Man. How is he, Tom?”
Lochart grinned back at him. “In great shape, his usual ball of fire.” Andy was Andrew Gavallan, Scot’s father, chairman and managing director of S-G. “Andy said Bakhtiar has the army, navy, and air force, the police, and SAVAK, so Khomeini’s got to make a deal somehow. It’s that or civil war.” “Jesus,” Rodrigues said, “what the hell we doing back here anyway?” “It’s the money.”
“Bullmerde!”
They had all laughed, JeanLuc the natural pessimist, then Scot said, “What the hell does it matter, JeanLuc? No one’s ever bothered us here, have they? All through the troubles here no one’s really ever bothered us. All our contracts are with IranOil which’s the government - Bakhtiar, Khomeini or General Whoever. Doesn’t matter whoever’s in power, they’ve got to get back to normal soon - any government’ll need oil dollars desperately, so they’ve got to have choppers, they’ve got to have us. For God’s sake, they’re not fools!”
“No, but Khomeini’s fanatic and doesn’t care about anything except Islam - and oil’s not Islam.”
“What about Saudi? The Emirates, OPEC, for God’s sake? They’re Islamic and they know the price of a barrel. The hell with that, listen!” Scot beamed. “Guerney Aviation have pulled out of all the Zagros Mountains and are cutting all their Iranian ops to zero. To zero!”
This caught the attention of all of them. Guerney Aviation was the huge American helicopter company and their major rival. With Guerney gone, work would be doubled and all expat S-G personnel in Iran were on a bonus system that was tied to Iranian profits.
“You sure, Scot?”
“Sure, Tom. They had a helluva row with IranOil about it. The upshot was that IranOil said, If you want to leave, leave, but all the choppers are on license to us so they stay - and all spares! So Guerney told them to shove it, closed their base at Gash, and put all the choppers in mothballs and left.”
“I don’t believe it,” JeanLuc said. “Guerney must have fifty choppers on contract; even they can’t afford to write off that lot.”
“Even so, we’ve already flown three missions last week which were all Guerney exclusives.”
JeanLuc broke through the cheers. “Why did Guerney pull out, Scot?” “Our Fearless Leader in Tehran thinks they haven’t the bottle, can’t stand the pressure, or don’t want to. Let’s face it, most of Khomeini’s vitriol’s against America and American companies. McIver thinks they’re cutting their losses and that’s great for us.”
“Madonna, if they can’t take out their planes and spares, they’re in dead trouble.”
“Ours not to reason why, old boy, ours just to do and fly. So long as we sit tight we’ll get all their contracts and more than double our pay this year alone.”
“Tu en paries mon cul, ma tete est malade!”
They had all laughed. Even Jordon knew what that meant: speak to my backside, my head is sick. “Not to worry, old chap,” Scot said. Confidently, Lochart nodded to himself, the cold on the mountainside not hurting him yet. Andy and Scot’re right, everything’s going to be normal soon, has to be, he thought. The newspapers in England were equally confident the Iranian situation’d normalize itself quickly now. Provided the Soviets didn’t make an overt move. And they had been warned. It was hands off, Americans and Soviets, so now Iranians can settle their affairs in their own way. It’s right that whoever’s in power needs stability urgently, and revenue - and that means oil. Yes. Everything’s going to be all right. She believes it and if she believed everything would be wonderful once the Shah was overthrown and Khomeini back, why shouldn’t I?
Ah, Sharazad, how I’ve missed you.
It had been impossible to phone her from England. Phones in Iran had never been particularly good, given the massive overload of too-fast industrialization. But in the past eight months since the troubles began, the almost constant telecommunication strikes had made internal and external communication worse and worse and now it was almost nonexistent. When Lochart was at Aberdeen HQ for his biannual medical he had managed to send her a telex after eight hours of trying. He had sent it care of Duncan McIver in Tehran where she was now. You can’t say much in a telex except see you soon, miss you, love.
Not long now, my darling, and th - “Tom?”
“Oh, hi, JeanLuc? What?”
“It’s going to snow soon.”
“Yes.”
JeanLuc was thin-faced, with a big Gallic nose and brown eyes, spare like all the pilots who had serious medicals every six months with no excuses for overweight. “Who fired at us, Tom?”
Lochart shrugged. “I saw no one. Did you?”
“No. I hope it was just one crazy.” JeanLuc’s eyes bored into nun. “For a moment I thought I was back in Algiers, these mountains are not so different, back in the air force fighting the fel-lagha and the FLN, may God curse them forever.” He ground the cigarette stub out with his heel. “I’ve been in one civil war and hated it. At least then I had bombs and guns. I don’t want to be a civilian caught in another with nothing to rely on except how fast I can run.”
“It was just a lone crazy.”
“I think we’re going to have to deal with a lot of crazies, Tom. Ever since I left France I’ve had a bad feeling. It’s worse since I got back. We’ve been to war, you and I, most of the others haven’t. We’ve a nose, you and I, and we’re hi for bad trouble.”
“No, you’re just tired.”
“Yes, that’s true. Andy was really bullish?”
“Very. He sends his best and said to keep it up!”
JeanLuc laughed and stifled a yawn. “Madonna, I’m starving. What’s Scot planned for our homecoming?”
“He’s got a WELCOME HOME sign up over the hangar.”
“For dinner, mon vieux. Dinner.”
“Scot said he and some villagers went hunting so he’s got a haunch of venison and a couple of hares ready for your tender mercies - and the barbecue’ll be all set to go.”
JeanLuc’s eyes lit up. “Good. Listen, I’ve brought Brie, garlic, a whole kilo, smoked ham, anchovies, onions, also a few kilos of pasta, cans of tomato puree, and my wife gave me a new amatriciana recipe from Gianni of St. Jean that is merely incredible. And the wine.”
Lochart felt his juices quicken. JeanLuc’s hobby was cooking and he was inspired when he wanted to be. “I brought cans of everything I could think of from Fortnums and some whisky. Hey, I’ve missed your cooking.” And your company, he thought. When they had met at Dubai they had shaken hands and he had asked, “How was leave?”
“I was in France,” JeanLuc had said grandly.
Lochart had envied him his simplicity. England had not been good, the weather, food, leave, the kids, her, Christmas - much as he had tried. Never mind. I’m back and soon I’ll be in Tehran. “You’ll cook tonight, JeanLuc?” “Of course. How can I live without proper food?”
Lochart laughed. “Like the rest of the world.” They watched Rodrigues still working hard. The sound of the jets was muted, the rotors whipping him. Lochart gave a thumbs-up to Scot Gavallan waiting patiently in the cockpit. Scot returned the signal, then pointed at the sky. Lochart nodded, shrugged, then put his attention back on Rodrigues, knowing there was nothing he could do to help but wait stoically.
“When do you go to Tehran?” JeanLuc asked.
