ultimate seat of power, the Court, that his Iranian partners had assured him would be equally powerful enough, even though the Shah had been deposed. “Andy,” General Java-dab, the senior partner, stationed in London, had told him yesterday, “there’s nothing to worry about. One of our partners is related to Bakhtiar and, just in case, we’ve the highest level of contracts with Khomeini’s inner circle. Of course, the new era will be more expensive than before….” Gavallan smiled. Never mind the added expense and that each year the partners become a little more greedy, there’s still more than enough left over to keep Iran as our flagship - just so long as she gets back to normal quickly. Ian’s gamble paid off a thousandfold for the Noble House - pity he resigned when he did, but then he’d carried Struan’s for ten years. That’d be enough for any man - even me. Linbar’s right that I want that slot. If I don’t get it, by God, Scot will. Meanwhile, onward and upward, the X63s’ll put us way out ahead of Imperial and Guerney and make us one of the biggest helicopter-leasing companies in the world. “In a couple of years, Liz, we’ll be the biggest,” he said with total confidence. “The X63’s a smash! Mac’ll be fractured when I tell him.”
“Yes,” she said and put down the phone. “Sorry, Andy, the circuits are still busy. They’ll let us know the very moment. Did you tell the taipan the rest of the good news?”
“It wasn’t exactly a perfect moment, never mind.” They laughed together. “I’ll reserve that for the board meeting.” An old ship’s clock on a bureau began to chime six o’clock. Gavallan reached over and switched on the multiband radio that was on the filing cabinet behind him. Sound of Big Ben tolling the hour….
TEHRAN - MCIVER’S APARTMENT: Last of the chimes dying away, radio reception minimal, heavy with static. “This is the BBC World Service, the time is 1700 Greenwich Mean Time…” 5:00 P.M. London time was 8:30 P.M. local Iranian time.
The two men automatically checked their watches. The woman just sipped her vodka martini. The three of them were huddled around the big shortwave battery radio, the broadcast signal faint and heterodyning badly. Outside the apartment the night was dark. There was a distant burst of gunfire. They took no notice. She sipped again, waiting. Inside the apartment it was cold, the central heating cut off weeks ago. Their only source of warmth now was a small electric fire that, like the dimmed electric lights, was down to half power.
“… at 1930 GMT there will be a special report on Iran ‘From Our Own Correspondent’…”
“Good,” she muttered and they all nodded. She was fifty-one, young for her age, attractive, blue-eyed and fair-haired, trim, and she wore dark-rimmed glasses. Genevere McIver, Genny for short.
“… but first a summary of the world news: in Britain nineteen thousand workers again struck the Birmingham plant of British Leyland, the country’s largest automobile manufacturer, for higher pay: union negotiators representing public-service workers reached an agreement for pay increases of 16 percent though Prime Minister Callaghan’s Labour Government wants to maintain 8.8 percent: Queen Elizabeth will fly to Kuwait on Monday to begin a three-week visit of the Persian Gulf states: in Washington, Pres - ” The transmission faded completely. The taller man cursed. “Be patient, Charlie,” she said gently. “It’ll come back.” “Yes, Genny, you’re right,” Charlie Pettikin answered. Another burst of machine-gun fire in the distance.
“A bit dicey sending the queen to Kuwait now, isn’t it?” Genny said. Kuwait was an immensely wealthy oil sheikdom just across the Gulf, flanking Saudi Arabia and Iraq. “Pretty stupid at a time like this, isn’t it?” “Bloody stupid. Bloody government’s got its head all the way up,” Duncan McIver, her husband, said. “All the bloody way to Aberdeen.” She laughed. “That’s a pretty long way, Duncan.”
“Not far enough for me, Gen!” McIver was a heavyset man of fifty-eight, built like a boxer, with grizzled gray hair. “Callaghan’s a bloody twit and th - ” He stopped, hearing faint rumbles of a heavy vehicle going past in the street below. The apartment was on the top floor, the fifth, of the modern residential building in the northern suburbs of Tehran. Another vehicle passed.
“Sounds like more tanks,” she said.
“They are tanks, Genny,” Charlie Pettikin said. He was fifty-six, ex-RAF, originally from South Africa, his hair dark and gray-flecked, senior pilot, Iran, and chief of S-G’s Iranian Army and Air Force helicopter training program.
“Perhaps we’re in for another bad one,” she said.
For weeks now every day had been bad. First it was martial law in September when public gatherings had been banned and a 9:00 P.M. to 5:00 A.M. curfew imposed by the Shah had only further inflamed the people. Particularly in the capital Tehran, the oil port of Abadan, and the religious cities of Qom and Meshed. There had been much killing. Then the violence had escalated, the Shah vacillating, then abruptly canceling martial law in the last days of December and appointing Bakhtiar, a moderate, prime minister, making concessions, and then, incredibly, on January 16 leaving Iran for “a holiday.” Then Bakhtiar forming his government and Khomeini - still in exile in France - decrying it and anyone who supported it. Riots increasing, the death toll increasing. Bakhtiar trying to negotiate with Khomeini, who refused to see him or talk to him, the people restive, the army restive, then closing all airports against Khomeini, then opening them to him. Then, equally incredibly, eight days ago on February 1, Khomeini returning. Since then the days have been very bad, she thought.
That dawn she, her husband, and Pettikin had been at Tehran’s International Airport. It was a Thursday, very cold but crisp with patches of snow here and there, the wind light. To the north the Elburz Mountains were white- capped, the rising sun blooding the snow. The three of them had been beside the 212 that was standing on the airport apron, well away from the tarmac in front of the terminal. Another 212 was on the other side of the airfield, also ready for instant takeoff - both ordered here by Khomeini’s supporters. This side of the terminal was deserted, except for twenty or so nervous airport officials, most of whom carried submachine guns, waiting near a big black Mercedes and a radio car that was tuned to the tower. It was quiet here - in violent contrast to the inside of the terminal and outside the perimeter fence. Inside the terminal building was a welcoming committee of about a thousand specially invited politicians, ayatollahs, mullahs, newsmen, and hundreds of uniformed police and special Islamic Guards with green armbands - nicknamed Green Bands - the mullahs’ illegal revolutionary private army. Everyone else had been kept away from the airport, all access roads blocked, guarded, and barricaded. But just the other side of these barricades were tens of thousands of anxious people of all ages. Most women wore the chador, the long, shroudlike robe that covered them from head to foot. Beyond these people, lining the ten-mile route, all the way to Behesht-Zahra Cemetery where the Ayatollah was to make his first speech, were five thousand armed police, and around them, crammed together on balconies, in windows, on walls, and in the streets was the biggest gathering of people Iran had ever known, a sea of people-most of Tehran’s population. Nearly five million lived in and around the city. All anxious, all nervous, all afraid that there would be a last-moment delay or that perhaps the airport would be closed once more against him or that perhaps the air force would shoot him down - with or without orders. Prime Minister Shahpur Bakhtiar, his cabinet, and the generals of all the armed services were not at the airport. By choice. Nor were there any of their officers or soldiers. These men waited in their barracks or airfields or ships - all equally anxious and impatient to move.
“I wish you’d stayed at home, Gen,” McIver had said uneasily. “I wish we’d all stayed at home,” Pettikin said, equally ill at ease. A week before, McIver had been approached by one of Khomeini’s supporters to supply the helicopter to take Khomeini from the airport to Behesht-Zahra. “Sorry, that’s not possible, I haven’t the authority to do that,” he had said, aghast. Within an hour the man was back with Green Bands, McIver’s office and the outer offices jammed with them, young, tough, angry-looking men, two with Soviet AK47 automatic rifles over their shoulders, one with a U.S. M16.
“You will supply the helicopter as I have said,” the man told him arrogantly. “In case crowd control becomes too difficult. Of course all Tehran will be there to greet the Ayatollah, the Blessings of God be upon him.”
“Much as I would like to do that, I can’t,” McIver had told him carefully, trying to buy time. He was in an untenable position. Khomeini was being allowed to return, but that was all; if the Bakhtiar government knew that S-G was supplying their archenemy with a chopper for a triumphal entry into their capital, they would be very irritated indeed. And even if the government agreed, if anything went wrong, if the Ayatollah was hurt, S-G would be blamed and their lives not worm a bent farthing. “All our aircraft are leased and I don’t have the necessary authority to g-” “I give you the necessary authority on behalf of the Ayatollah,” the man had said angrily, his voice rising. “The Ayatollah is the only authority in Iran.”
“Then it should be easy for you to get an Iranian Army or Air Force helicopter t - ”
“Quiet! You have had the honor to be asked. You will do as you are told. In the Name of Allah, the komiteh has decided you will supply a 212 with your best pilots to take the Ayatollah to where we say, when we say, as we say.” This was the first time McIver had been confronted by one of the komitehs - small groups of young fundamentalists - that had appeared, seemingly miraculously, the moment the Shah had left Iran, in every village, hamlet, town, and city to seize power, attacking police stations, leading mobs into the streets, taking control
