“Salaam, Agha. No, I am Captain McIver,” McIver said uneasily, his first thought, Are these more of the same group who murdered poor Kyabi? His second thought, Gen should have left with the others, I should have insisted, his third about the stacks of rials in his open attache case on the floor beside the hatstand.
“Ah, good,” the young man said politely. There were dark rings under his eyes, his face strong, and though McIver judged him to be twenty-five at the most, he had an old man’s look about him. “Danger here. For you here. Now. Please to go. We are komiteh for this block. Please you to go. Now.” “All right. Certainly, er, thank you.” Twice before, McIver had thought it prudent to evacuate the offices because of riots and mobs in the streets around them even though, astonishingly, considering their vast numbers, the mobs had been very disciplined with little damage tg property or to Europeans - except for cars parked on the streets. This was the first time anyone had come here to warn him personally. Obediently McIver and Lochart put on their overcoats, McIver closed his attache case, and, with the others, began to leave. He switched off the lights.
“How lights when no one else?” the leader asked.
“We’ve our own generator. On the roof.”
The youth smiled strangely, his teeth very white. “Foreigners have generators and warm, Iranians not.”
McIver was going to answer but thought better of it.
“You got message? Message about leaving? Message today?”
“Yes,” McIver said. One message in the office, one at the apartment that Genny had found in their letter box. They just said, “On December 1 you were warned to leave: Why are you still here if not as an enemy? You have little time left, [signed] The university supporters for Islamic Republic in Iran.” “You, er, you are representatives of the university?”
“We are your komiteh. Please to leave now. Enemies better not come back ever. No?”
McIver and Lochart walked out. The revolutionaries followed them down the stairs. For weeks the elevator had not worked.
The street was still clear, no mobs, or fires, and all gunfire distant. “Not come back. Three days.”
McIver stared at them. “That’s not possible. I’ve got many th - ” “Danger.” The young man and the others, equally young, waited silently and watched. Not all were armed with guns. Two had clubs. Two were holding hands. “Not come back. Very bad. Three days, komiteh says. Understand?” “Yes, but one of us has to refuel the generator or the telex will stop and then we’ll be out of touch an - ”
“Telex unimportant. Not come back. Three days.” The youth patiently motioned them to leave. “Danger here. Not forget, please. Good night.” McIver and Lochart got into their cars that were locked in the garage below the building, very conscious of the envious stares. McIver was driving his ‘65 four-seat Rover coupe that he called Lulu and kept in mint condition. Lochart had borrowed Scot Gavallan’s car, a small battered old Citroen that was deliberately low key though the engine was souped up, the brakes perfect, and if need be, she was very fast. They drove off, and around the second comer stopped alongside one another.
“Those buggers really meant it,” McIver said angrily. “Three days? I can’t stay out of the office three days!”
“Yes. What now?” Lochart glanced into his rearview mirror. The young men had rounded the far corner and stood watching them. “We better get going. I’ll meet you at your apartment,” he said hurriedly.
“Yes, but in the morning, Tom, nothing we can do now.”
“But I was going to go back to Zagros - I should have left today.” “I know. Stay tomorrow, go the next day. Nogger can do the charter, if the clearance conies through, which I doubt. Come around ten.” McIver saw the youths begin to walk toward them. “Around ten, Tom,” he said hurriedly, let in the clutch, and drove off cursing.
The youths saw them go and their leader, Ibrahim, was glad, for he did not want to clash with foreigners or to kill them - or to bring them to trial. Only SAVAK. And guilty police. And enemies of Iran, inside Iran, who wanted to bring back the Shah. And all traitorous Marxist totalitarians who opposed democracy and freedom of worship and the freedom of education and universities.
“Oh, how I’d like that car,” one of them said, almost sick with envy. “It was a sixty-eight, wasn’t it, Ibrahim?”
“A sixty-five,” Ibrahim answered. “One day you’ll have one, Ali, and the gasoline to put in it. One day you’ll be the most famous writer and poet in all Iran.”
“Disgusting of that foreigner to flaunt so much wealth when there’s so much poverty in Iran,” another said.
“Soon they’ll all be gone. Forever.”
“Do you think those two will come back tomorrow, Ibrahim?” “I hope not,” he said with a tired laugh, “If they do I don’t know what we’ll do. I think we scared them enough. Even so, we should visit this block at least twice a day.”
A young man holding a club put his arm around him affectionately. “I’m glad we voted you leader. You were our perfect choice.”
They all agreed. Ibrahim Kyabi was very proud, and proud to be part of the revolution that would end all of Iran’s troubles. And proud too of his father who was an oil engineer and important official in IranOil who had patiently worked over the years for democracy in Iran, opposing the Shah, who now would surely be a powerful voice in the new and glorious Iran. “Come along, friends,” he said contentedly. “We’ve several more buildings to investigate.”
Chapter 12
AT SIRI ISLAND: 7:42 P.M. A little over seven hundred miles southwest from Tehran, the loading of the 50,000-ton Japanese tanker, the Rikomaru, was almost complete. A good moon lit up the Gulf, the night was balmy with many stars above and Scragger had agreed to join de Plessey and go aboard for dinner with Yoshi Kasigi. Now the three of them were on the bridge with the captain, the deck floodlit, watching the Japanese deckhands and the chief engineer near the big intake pipe that led overboard to the complex of valves on the permanently anchored, floating oil-loading barge that was alongside and also floodlit.
They were about two hundred yards off the lowlying Siri island, the tanker anchored securely with her two bow chains fixed to buoys ahead and two anchors aft from the stern. Oil was pumped from the shore storage tanks through a pipe laid on the seabed up to the barge, thence aboard through their own pipe system into their tanks. Loading and unloading were dangerous operations because volatile, highly explosive gases built up in the tanks in the space over the crude - emptied tanks being even more dangerous until they were washed out. In the most modern tankers, for increased safety, nitrogen - an inert gas - was pumped into the space built up in the tanks, to be expelled at leisure. The Rikomaru was not so equipped. They heard the chief engineer shout down to the men on the barge, “Close the valve,” then turn to the bridge and give a thumbs-up that the captain acknowledged and said to Kasigi in Japanese, “Permission to sail as soon as we can?” He was a thin, taut-faced man in starched white shirt and shorts, with white socks and shoes, epaulets, and a naval style, peaked cap. “Yes, Captain Moriyama. How long will that be?”
“Two hours at the most - to clean up and to cat the moorings.” This meant sending out their motorboat to unshackle their bow anchor chains that were bolted to the permanent buoys, then reattach them to the ship’s anchors. “Good.” To de Plessey and Scragger, Kasigi said in English, “We’re full now and ready to leave. About two hours and we’ll be on our way.” “Excellent,” de Plessey said, equally relieved. “Now we relax.” The whole operation had gone very well. Security had been tightened throughout the island and throughout the ship. Everything that could be checked was checked. Only three essential Iranians had been allowed aboard. Each had been searched and were being carefully monitored by a Japanese crewman. There had been no signs of any hostiles among any of the other Iranians ashore. Every likely place had been searched that could hide explosives or arms. “Perhaps that poor young man off Siri One was mistaken, Scrag, mon ami.”
“Perhaps,” Scragger replied. “Even so, cobber, I think young Abdollah Turik was murdered - no one gets face and eye mutilation like that from falling off a rig in a calm sea. Poor young bugger.”
“But the sharks, Captain Scragger,” Kasigi said, equally disquieted, “the sharks could have caused those wounds.”
“Yes, they could. But I’ll bet my life it was because of wot he told me.” “I hope you’re wrong.”
“I’ll bet we’ll never know the truth,” Scragger said sadly. “Wot was your word, Mr. Kasigi? Karma. That poor young bugger’s karma was short and not sweet.”
The others nodded. In silence they watched the ship being detached from the barge’s umbilical cord.
