than a gnat’s arse. I got our rep to call the ambassador’s home but he was out to lunch - all day. Eventually I went to Al Shargaz Air Traffic Control and chatted them up. They suggested we wait but I talked them into clearing us out and having a stab and here we are. First what’s the state of our ops?”
McIver related what he knew.
Much of Gavallan’s good humor vanished. “So Charlie’s vanished, Tom Lochart’s risking his neck and our whole Iranian venture - stupidly or bravely depending on your point of view - Duke Starke’s up the creek in Bandar Delam with Rudi, Kowiss is in a state of siege, and we’ve been tossed out of our offices.”
“Yes.” McIver added gruffly. “I authorized Tom’s flight.” “I’d’ve done the same, probably, if I’d been on the spot, though it doesn’t excuse the danger to him, to us, or poor bloody Valik and his family. But I agree, SAVAK’s too smelly for anyone’s taste.” Gavallan was distinctly rattled though he showed none of it on his face. “Ian was right again.” “Ian? Dunross? You saw him? How is the old bugger?”
“He called from Shanghai.” Gavallan told him what he had said. “What’s the latest on the political situation here?”
“You should know more than we do - we only get real news through the BBC or VOA. There’re still no newspapers and only rumors,” McIver said, but he was remembering the good times he had had with Dunross in Hong Kong. He had taught him to fly a small chopper the year before joining Gavallan in Aberdeen, and though they had not socialized very much, McIver had enjoyed his company greatly. “Bakhtiar’s still top man with the forces behind him, but Bazargan and Khomeini’re gnawing at his heels … Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you, Boss Kyabi’s been murdered.”
“Christ Almighty, that’s terrible! But why?”
“We don’t know the why or how or by whom. Freddy Ayre told us obliqu - ” “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” came over the loudspeaker, a thread of urgency under Hogg’s placid voice. “There’re three cars stuffed with men and guns heading our way, coming from the terminal area.”
Both men peered out of the small round windows. They could see the cars now. Gavallan picked up his binoculars and trained them. “Five or six men in each car. There’s a mullah in the front of the first car. Khomeini’s people!” He slung the binoculars around his neck and was out of his seat quickly. “Johnny!”
Hogg was already at the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Plan B!” At once Hogg gave the thumbs-up to his copilot who immediately started to open the throttles as Gavallan struggled into a parka and picked up a light travel bag on the run. “Come on, Mac!” He led the way down the steps two at a time, McIver just behind him. The moment they were clear, the steps pulled back, the door slammed closed, the engines picked up, and the 125 taxied away, gathering speed. “Put your back to the cars, Mac - don’t watch them, watch her leave!”
It had all happened so rapidly McIver hardly had time to zip his parka. One of the cars peeled off to intercept but by now the 125 was careening down the runway. In seconds it took off and was away. Now they faced the oncoming cars. “Now what, Andy?”
“That depends on the welcoming committee.” “What the hell was Plan B?” Gavallan laughed. “Better than Plan C, laddie. That was a shit or bust. Plan B: I get out, Johnny takes off at once, and tells no one he had to leave in a hurry, tomorrow he comes back to pick me up at the same time; if there’s no contact, visually or by radio, then Johnny skips a day and comes an hour earlier - and so on for four days. Then he sits on his tail in Al Shargaz and waits for further instructions.”
“Plan A?”
“That’s if we could have safely stayed overnight - them on guard in the plane, me with you.”
The cars skidded to a stop, the mullah and Green Bands surrounding them, guns trained on them, everyone shouting. Suddenly Gavallan bellowed, “Allah-u Akbar,” and everyone stopped, startled. With a flourish he lifted his hat to the mullah who was also armed, took out an official-looking document - written in Farsi - that was heavily sealed with red wax at the bottom. He handed it to him. “It’s permission to land in Tehran from the ‘new’ ambassador in London,” he told McIver airily as men crowded around the mullah peering at the paper. “I stopped off in London to collect it. It says I’m a VIP - on official business and I can arrive and leave without harm.” “How the devil did you manage that?” McIver asked, admiringly. “Influence, laddie. Influence and a large heung yau.” He carefully added the Cantonese equivalent of pishkesh.
“You will come with us,” a bearded youth near the mullah said, his accent American. “You are under arrest!”
“For what, my dear sir?”
“Illegal landings without permiss - ”
Gavallan stabbed at the paper. “Here is an official permission from your very own ambassador in London! Up the revolution! Long live Ayatollah Khomeini!”
The youth hesitated, then translated for the mullah. There was an angry exchange and mutterings among them. “You will together come with us!” “We will follow in our car! Come on, Mac,” Gavallan said firmly and got into the passenger seat. McIver turned on the ignition. For a moment the men were nonplussed, then the man who could speak English and another got into the back. Both carried an AK47.
“Go to terminal! You under arrest.”
In the terminal, near the Immigration barrier, were more hostile men and a very nervous Immigration official. At once McIver showed his airport pass, work permit, explained who he and Gavallan were and how they worked under license for IranOil and tried to talk them past but he was imperiously waved into silence. Meticulously and ponderously the official examined the paper and Gavallan’s passport - all the while the youths crowding them, the smell of bodies heavy. Then he opened Gavallan’s bag and searched it roughly but it contained just shaving gear, a spare shirt, underclothes, and night clothes. And a fifth of whisky. At once the bottle was confiscated by one of the young men, opened, and poured on the floor.
“Dew neh loh moh,” Gavallan said sweetly in Cantonese, and McIver nearly choked. “Up the revolution.”
The mullah questioned the official, and they could see the sweat and the fear in him. At length the youth who could speak English said, “The authorities will keep paper and passport and you explain more later.” “I will keep my passport,” Gavallan said easily.
“The authorities keep. Enemies will suffer. Those who break the laws - illegal landings and comings here - will suffer Islamic punishments. His Excellency wants to know who on the airplane with you?”
“Just my crew of two. They’re on the manifest attached to the Permission to Land. Now, my passport, please, and that document.”
“The authorities keep. Where you stay?”
McIver gave his address.
The man translated. Again there was a heated discussion. “I am to tell you: now your airplanes may not fly or landings without permissions first. All Iran airplanes - all airplanes now in Iran belong to the state an - ” “Airplanes belong to their legal owners. Legal owners,” McIver said. “Yes,” the man said with a sneer, “our Islamic state is owners. You not like laws, leave. Leave Iran. We not ask you here.”
“Ah, but you’re wrong. We, in S-G Helicopters, were invited here. We work for your government and have served IranOil for years.”
The man spat on the floor. “IranOil Shah company. Islamic state owns oil not foreigners. You soon arrested with all others for great crime: stealing Iran oil!”
“Rubbish! We’ve stolen nothing!” McIver said. “We’ve helped Iran into the twentieth century! We’ve b - ”
“Leave Iran if you want,” the spokesman said again, paying no attention to him. “Now all orders come from Imam Khomeini, Allah protect him! He says no landings or takeoffs without permission. Each time, one Khomeini guard goes with each airplane. Understand?”
“We understand what you say,” Gavallan replied politely. “May I ask that we have this in writing, as the Bakhtiar government may not agree.” The man translated this and there was a roar of laughter. “Bakhtiar is gone,” the man said through his own laughter. “That dog of a Shah man is in hiding. Hiding, you understand? The Imam is the government! Him alone.” “Yes, of course,” Gavallan said, not believing him. “We can go, then?” “Go. Tomorrow report the authorities.”
“Where - and what authorities?”
“Tehran authorities.” The man translated for the others and again everyone laughed. The mullah pocketed the passport and paper and strode off importantly. Guards went with him, taking along the sweating Immigration
