readying another charge.
“Stop!” he ordered, “or this time I will kill you all. STOP!” He put a warning burst into the snow. “Get back in the plane - both of you!” Now totally alert, Erikki watched him suspiciously. “Go on - you’re free. Go!” Desperately afraid, Azadeh scrambled into the backseat. Erikki retreated slowly, his body shielding her. Rakoczy kept the gun unwavering. He saw the Finn sit on the backseat, the door still open, his feet propped against skid. At once the engines picked up speed. The chopper eased a foot off the ground, slowly swung around to face him, the back door closing. His heart pounded even more. Now, he thought, do you all die or do we live to fight another day? The moment seemed to him to last forever. The chopper backed away, foot by foot, still so tempting a target. His finger tightened slightly. But he did not squeeze the further fraction. A few more yards then she twisted, hurried away through the snow-fields, and went into the sky.
Good, he thought, tiredness almost overcoming him. It would have been better to have been able to keep the woman as a hostage, but never mind. We can grab old Abdollah Khan’s daughter tomorrow, or the day after. She can wait and so can Yokkonen. Meanwhile there’s a country to possess, generals and mullahs and aytatollahs to kill… and other enemies.
Chapter 19
AT TEHRAN AIRPORT: 5:05 P.M. McIver was driving carefully along the road that followed the barbed-wire security fence, heading for the gate that led to the freight area. The road was snow banked, slippery, and unplowed. It was just below freezing, the sky heavy and dull, night not more than an hour away. Again he looked at his watch. Not much time, he thought, still seething over the closure of his office last night by the komiteh. Early this morning he had tried to sneak back into the building, but it was still guarded and all of his entreaties to be allowed to check the telex had proved fruitless.
“Damned people!” Genny had said when he had stomped back into their apartment. “There must be something we can do. What about George Talbot? Could he help?”
“I doubt it, but it’s worth a try - if Valik was…” McIver stopped. “Tom would have refueled by now and be almost there - wherever there is.” “Let’s hope,” she said with a silent prayer, “hope for the best. Did you see any shops open?”
“None, Gen. It’s canned soup for lunch and a bottle of beer.” “Sorry, we’re out of beer.”
He had tried to call Kowiss and the other bases on his HF but could get no answer from them. Neither could he tune into the BBC or AFN. He had listened briefly to the inevitable anti-American tirade from Radio Free Iran in Tbilisi and had turned it off in disgust. The phone was dead. He had tried to read, but he could not, his mind beset with worries about Lochart, Pettikin, Starke, and all the others, hating being cut off from his office and telex and, for the moment, out of control. Never happened before, never. Damn the Shah for leaving and letting everything fall apart. Used to be wonderful. Any problem and out to the airport, get on a shuttle to Isfahan, Tabriz, Abadan, Hormuz, Al Shargaz, or wherever, then chopper the rest of the way, wherever you felt like it. Sometimes Genny coming along for the ride - picnic lunches and ice-cold beer.
“Sod everything!”
Just after lunch the HF had crackled into life. It was Freddy Ayre at Kowiss relaying a message that the 125 jet would be at Tehran Airport around 5:00 P.M. today, coming from Al Shargaz, a tiny independent sheikdom eight hundred miles south of Tehran on the other side of the Gulf where S-G had an office.
“Did he say he had clearance, Freddy?” McIver had asked excitedly. “I don’t know. All our HQ in Al Shargaz said: ‘ETA Tehran 1700, tell McIver - can’t raise him,’ repeated several times.”
“How’re things with you?”
“Five by five,” Ayre had said. “Starke’s still at Bandar Delam and we’ve had no contact with them other than a snafu half an hour ago.” “Rudi sent that?” McIver had tried to keep his voice level. “Yes.”
“Keep in touch with them and with us. What happened to your radio op this morning? I tried calling for a couple of hours but no joy.” There had been a long pause. “He’s been detained.”
“What the hell for?”
“I don’t know, Mac - Captain McIver. As soon as I know I’ll report it. Also, as soon as I can I’ll get Marc Dubois back to Bandar Delam, but, well, it’s a bit off here. We’ve all been confined to base, there’s… there’s a charming and friendly armed guard here in the tower, all flights are grounded except for CASEVACs and even then we’ve been ordered to take guards along - and no flights’re authorized out of our area.”
“What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. Our revered base commander, Colonel Peshadi, assured me it was temporary, just for today, perhaps tomorrow. By the way, at 1516 hours we had a brief call from Captain Scragger in Charlie Echo Zulu Zulu en route with a special charter for Bandar Delam.”
“What the hell’s he going there for?”
“I don’t know, sir. Old Scr - Captain Scragger said it’s been requested by de Plessey at Siri. I, er, I don’t think I’ve much more time. Our friendly guard’s getting nervous but if you can get the 125 here Peshadi said he’d clear her to land. I’ll try to send Manuela off but don’t expect much, she’s as nervous as a rabbit in a kennel full of beagles without real news of Starke.”
“I can imagine. Tell her I’m sending Gen. I’ll sign off now, God knows how long it’ll take me to get to the airport.” He had turned his attention to Genny. “Gen, pack a b - ”
“What do you want to take with you, Duncan?” she had asked sweetly. “I’m not going, you are!”
“Don’t be silly, dear. If you’re going to meet the 125 you’d better hurry, but do be careful and don’t forget the photos! Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that while you were trying to get into your office, Sharazad sent one of her servants over asking us to dinner.”
“Gen, you are leaving with the 125 and that’s that!”
The argument had lasted no time at all. He had left and had used back roads, most of the main intersections clogged with milling crowds. Every time he was stopped he would hold up the Khomeini photograph with LONG LIVE THE AYATOLLAH in Farsi on the bottom and he would be waved through. He saw no troops, gendarmes, or police so he did not need the photo of the Shah with LONG LIVE GLORIOUS IRAN on the bottom. It still took two and a half hours for a journey that would normally take an hour, his anxiety about being late growing minute by minute.
But the 125 wasn’t on either of the parallel runways, or the freight area apron, or near the terminal building across the field. Again he glanced at his watch: 5:17 P.M. Another hour of light. She’s cutting it fine, he told himself, if she arrives at all. God knows, they may have already turned her back.
Near the terminal building several civilian jets were still grounded. One of them, a Royal Iranian Air 747, was a twisted wreck, gutted by fire. The others seemed all right - he was too far away to see all their markings but among them would be the still-grounded Alitalia flight. Paula Giancani was still staying with them, Nogger Lane very much in attendance. She’s a nice girl that one, he thought absently.
Ahead now was the gate of the freight area and depot. The depot had been closed since last Wednesday - automatically on Thursday and Friday (the Muslim Holy Day) being the Iranian weekend - and there had been no way he or any of his staff could have got there Saturday or Sunday. The gate was open and unguarded. He swung through it into the forecourt. In front of him was the customs freight shed and barriers, signs everywhere in English and Farsi: NO ADMITTANCE, INBOUND, OUTBOUND, KEEP OUT, and company signs of the various international carriers and helicopter companies that had permanent offices here. Normally it was almost impossible to drive into the forecourt. There was work around the clock for half a thousand men, handling the enormous quantity of goods, military and civilian, that poured into Iran in exchange for part of the $90 million daily oil revenue. But now the area was deserted. Hundreds of crates and cartons of all sizes were scattered in the snow - many broken open and looted, most sodden. A few abandoned cars and trucks, some derelict, and one truck burned out. Bullet holes in the sheds. The customs gate that barred the way to the apron was closed, held only by a bolt. The sign, in English and Farsi, read: NO ENTRY WITHOUT CUSTOMS APPROVAL. He waited, then honked and waited again. No one answered him so he got out, opened the gate wide, and got back into his car. A few yards the other side he stopped, rebelled the gate, then drove down the tarmac to the S-G stores and office shed and allied hangars and repair shop with space for four 212s and five 206s now containing three 206s, and one 212. To his relief the main doors were still closed and locked. He had been afraid the stores and hangar might have been broken into and looted or wrecked. This was their main depot for repairs and spares in Iran. Over $2 million worth of spares and specialized tools were on the inventory, along with their own refueling pumps and underground tanks containing a highly secret cache of 50,000 gallons of helicopter fuel that McIver had “lost” when the troubles began in
