officer. Most of the others wandered off, seemingly aimlessly. A few stayed watching them, lounging against the wall, smoking - their U.S. Army rifles slung carelessly. It was very cold in the terminal. And very empty. “He’s quite right you know,” a voice said. Gavallan and McIver looked around. It was George Talbot of the British embassy, a short dry man of fifty-five, wearing a heavy raincoat and a Russian-style fur hat. He stood in the doorway of a customs office. Beside him was a tall, broad-shouldered man of sixty with hard, pale blue eyes, his mustache gray as his hair and clipped, and dressed casually, scarf, soft hat, and an old raincoat. Both were smoking.
“Oh, hello, George, nice to see you.” Gavallan went over to him, offering his hand. He had known him over the years, both in Iran and Malaya - Talbot’s previous posting - where S-G also had an extensive oil support operation. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes.” Talbot stubbed out his cigarette, coughed absently. “Hello, Duncan! Well, this is a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it?” “Yes. Yes, it is.” Gavallan glanced at the other man.
“Ah, may I introduce Mr. Armstrong?”
Gavallan shook hands. “Hello,” he said, wondering where he’d seen him before and who he was - the hardness to the eyes and strong face. Fifty pounds to a bent button he’s CIA if he’s American, he thought. “You’re embassy too?” he asked casually to find out.
The man smiled and shook his head. “No, sir.”
Gavallan had turned his ears and did not detect a pure English or American accent. Might be either, or Canadian, he thought, difficult to tell on two words.
“You’re here on official business, George?” McIver asked. “Yes and no.” Talbot strolled over to the door that led back to the airport apron where McIver’s car was parked, guiding them away from prying ears. “Actually the moment we heard your incoming jet on the air, we, er, we hurried out here hoping you could take out some er, some dispatches for Her Majesty’s Government. The ambassador would have been most grateful, but, well, we were here just in time to see your plane take off. Pity!” “I’d be glad to help in any way,” Gavallan said as quietly. “Perhaps tomorrow?” He saw the sudden glance between die two men and wondered even more what was amiss.
“Is that possible, Mr. Gavallan?” Armstrong asked.
“It’s possible.” Gavallan pegged him to be English, though not all English. Talbot smiled, coughed without noticing it. “You’ll leave with or without Iranian permission, an official permit - or a passport?”
“I, er, do have a copy of the paper. And another passport - I applied for a spare, officially, against this eventuality.”
Talbot sighed. “Irregular but wise. Yes. Oh, by the way, I would very much like a copy of your Official Permission to Land.”
“Perhaps that’s not such a good idea - officially. You never know what larceny some people are up to these days.”
Talbot laughed. Then he said, “If you, er, do leave tomorrow we would appreciate it if you’d kindly take Mr. Armstrong - I presume Al Shargaz will be your first port of call.”
Gavallan hesitated. “This is a formal request?”
Talbot smiled. “Formally informal.”
“With or without Iranian permission, permit, or passport?” Talbot chuckled. “You’re perfectly correct to ask. I guarantee that Mr. Armstrong’s papers will be perfectly in order.” He added pointedly to finish the conversation, “As you so correctly pointed out there’s no accounting for the larceny some people will get up to these days.” Gavallan nodded. “Very well, Mr. Armstrong. I’ll be with Captain McIver. It’ll be up to you to stay in touch. The earliest ETD’d be about 5:00 P.M. but I won’t wait around for you. All right?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Again Gavallan had been listening carefully but still could not decide. “George, when we started talking, you said of that arrogant little bastard, ‘He’s quite right, you know.’ Right about what? That now I’ve to find or report to some nebulous authorities in Tehran?”
“No. That Bakhtiar’s resigned and in hiding.”
Both men gaped at him. “God Almighty, are you sure?”
“Bakhtiar formally resigned a couple of hours ago and has, somewhat wisely, vanished.” Talbot’s voice was soft and calm, cigarette smoke punctuating his words. “Actually the situation’s suddenly rather dicey, hence our, er, anxiety to, er, well, never mind that. Last night the chief of staff, General Ghara-Baghi, supported by the generals, ordered all troops back into their barracks, declaring the armed forces were now ‘neutral,’ thus leaving their legal prime minister defenseless and the state to Khomeini.” “‘Neutral?’” Gavallan echoed with disbelief. “That’s not possible - not possible - they’d be committing suicide.”
“I agree. But it is true.”
“Christ!”
“Of course, only some of the units will obey, others will fight,” Talbot said. “Certainly the police and SAVAK aren’t affected; they won’t give up though now their battle will be lost eventually. Insha’Allah, old boy. Meanwhile blood will fill the jolly gutters, rest assured.” McIver broke the silence. “But… if Bakhtiar… doesn’t that mean it’s over? It’s over,” he said with growing excitement. “The civil war’s over and thank God for that. The generals have stopped the real bloodbath - the total bloodbath. Now we can all get back to normal. The trouble’s over.” “Oh, no, my dear chap,” Talbot said even more calmly. “The trouble’s just begun.”
Chapter 20
AT RIG BELLISSIMA: 6:35 P.M. The sunset was glorious, red-tinged clouds low on the horizon, clean clear sky, the evening star brilliant, a three-quarter moon. But it was very cold here at twelve thousand five hundred feet, and already dark in the east and JeanLuc had difficulty in picking out the incoming 212.
“Here she comes, Gianni,” JeanLuc shouted at the driller. This would complete Scot Gavallan’s third round- trip. Everyone - riggers cooks, laborers, three cats and four dogs and a canary belonging to Gianni Salubrio - had already been safely transported to Rig Rosa, with the exception of Mario Guineppa who had insisted on waiting till last, in spite of JeanLuc’s pleadings, and Gianni, Pietro, and two others who were still shutting down the rig.
JeanLuc kept a wary eye on the overhang that worked from time to time, sending shivers down his spine. When the chopper had come back the first time, everyone had held their breath at the noise even though Pietro had assured them all that was just an old wives’ tale - only dynamite would start an avalanche, or an Act of God. And then as if to prove him wrong the overhang shifted again, only a little but enough to nauseate those still left on the rig.
Pietro pulled the last switch and the turbines of the diesel generators began to slow. He wiped his face tiredly and left an oil smear. His back ached and his hands hurt in the cold but the well was sealed and as safe as he could make it. Out over the abyss he saw the chopper beginning her careful approach. “Let’s leave,” he said to the others in Italian. “There’s nothing more that we can do here - nothing more to do except blow that shit roll above to hell!”
The others irritably crossed themselves and trudged off toward the helipad and left him. He looked up at the crest. “You look as though you’re alive,” he muttered, “a shit-roll monster waiting to get me and my beautiful wells. But you won’t, you motherless whore!”
He went to the little dynamite storeroom and picked up the two exploders that he had made - six sticks of dynamite in each, wrapped around a thirty-second fuse. Carefully he put them in a small carrying bag, with a lighter and matches as a backup. “Mother of God,” he prayed simply, “make these fornicators work.”
“Pietro! Hey, Pietro!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming, there’s plenty of time!” Outside he saw the white, pinched face of Gianni. “What’s up?”
“It’s Guineppa - better take a look!”
Mario Guineppa lay on his back, his breath rattling in his throat, eyelids flickering. JeanLuc was beside the bed, his hand on the man’s pulse. “It’s rapid… then I can’t feel it at all,” he said uneasily. “Mario had a serious medical four weeks ago, his annual - cardiogram, everything. Very serious. He was perfect!” Pietro spat on the floor. “Doctors!”
“He was a fool to insist on waiting,” Gianni said.
“He’s the boss, he does what he likes. Let’s put him on the stretcher and get going.” Pietro was grave. “There’s nothing we can do for him here. The hell with the dynamite, we’ll do it later or tomorrow.”
Carefully they lifted him, wrapped him warmly, and carried him out of the trailer, through the snow, toward
