Excitedly, JeanLuc climbed back into the cabin and began to pummel Pietro, congratulating him. Blankly everyone stared at him and when they understood what he was shouting over the screech of the engines, they forgot their fears and peered out of the windows. And when they saw how perfectly the explosion had cleaned away the danger, they let out a cheer. Gianni embraced Pietro emotionally, swearing eternal friendship, blessing him for saving him, for saving their lives and saving their jobs.
“Niente, caro,” Pietro said expansively. “Am I not a man of Aosta?” JeanLuc stood over the stretcher and gently shook Mario Guineppa. “Mario! Pietro did it - he did it perfectly. Bellissima’s safe…” Guineppa did not answer. He was already dead.
Tuesday - February,13
Chapter 21
ON THE NORTH FACE OF MOUNT SABALAN: 10:00 A.M. The night was bitterly cold under a cloudless sky, stars abundant, the moon strong and Captain Ross and his two Gurkhas were working their way cautiously under a crest following the guide and the CIA man. The soldiers wore cowled, white snow coveralls over their battle dress, and gloves and thermal underwear, but still the cold tormented them. They were about eight thousand feet, downwind of their target half a mile away the other side of the ridge. Above them the vast cone shape of the extinct volcano soared over sixteen thousand. “Meshgi, we’ll stop and rest,” the CIA man said in Turkish to the guide. Both were dressed in rough tribesmen’s clothes.
“If you wish it, Agha, then let it be so.” The guide led the way off the path, through the snow, to a small cave that none of them had noticed. He was old and gnarled like an ancient olive tree, hairy and thin, his clothes ragged, and still the strongest of them after almost two days’ climbing. “Good,” the CIA man said. Then to Ross, “Let’s hole up here till we’re ready.”
Ross unslung his carbine, sat, and rested his pack gratefully, his calves and thighs and back aching. “I’m all one big bloody ache,” he said disgustedly, “and I’m supposed to be fit.”
“You’re fit, sahib,” the Gurkha sergeant called Tenzing said with a beam. “On our next leave we go up Everest, eh?”
“Not on your Nelly,” Ross said in English and the three soldiers laughed together.
Then the CIA man said thoughtfully, “Must be something to stand on top of that mother.”
Ross saw him look out at the night and the thousands of feet of mountain below. When they had first met at the rendezvous near Bandar-e Pahlavi two days ago, if he hadn’t been told otherwise he would have thought him part Mongol or Nepalese or Tibetan, for the CIA man was dark-haired with a yellowish skin and Asian eyes and dressed like a nomad.
“Your CIA contact’s Rosemont, Vien Rosemont, he’s half Vietnamese-half American,” the CIA colonel had said at his briefing. “He’s twenty-six, been here a year, speaks Farsi and Turkish, he’s second-generation CIA, and you can trust him with your life.”
“It seems I’m going to have to, sir, one way or another, don’t you think?” “Huh? Oh, sure, yes. Yes, I guess so. You meet him just south of Bandar-e Pahlavi at those coordinates and he’ll have the boat. You’ll hug the coast until you’re just south of the Soviet border, then backpack in.” “He’s the guide?”
“No. He, er, he just knows about Mecca - that’s our code name for the radar post. Getting the guide’s his problem - but he’ll deliver. If he’s not at the rendezvous, wait through Saturday night. If he’s not there by dawn, he’s blown and you abort. Okay?”
“Yes. What about the rumors of insurrection in Azerbaijan?” “Far as we know there’s some fighting in Tabriz and the western part - nothing around Ardabil. Rosemont should know more. We, er, we know the Soviets are massed and ready to move in if the Azerbaijanis throw Bakhtiar supporters out. Depends on their leaders. One of them’s Abdollah Khan. If you run into trouble go see him. He’s one of ours - loyal.” “All right. And this pilot, Charles Pettikin. Say he won’t take us?” “Make him. One way or another. There’s approval way up to the top for this op, both from your guys and ours, but we can’t put anything into writing. Right, Bob?”
The other man at the briefing, a Robert Armstrong whom he had also never met before, had nodded agreement. “Yes.”
“And the Iranians? They’ve approved it?”
“It’s a matter of, er, of national security - yours and ours. Theirs too but they’re … they’re busy. Bakhtiar’s, well, he’s - he may not last.” “Then it’s true - the U.S. are jerking the rug?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Captain.”
“One last question: why aren’t you sending your fellows?” Robert Armstrong had answered for the colonel. “They’re all busy - we can’t get any more here quickly - not with your elite training.” We’re certainly well trained, Ross thought, easing his shoulders cut raw by his backpack straps - to climb, to jump, to ski, to snorkel, to kill silently or noisily, to move like the wind against terrorist or public enemy, and to blow everything sky-high if need be, above or under water. But I’m bloody lucky, I’ve everything I want: health, university, Sandhurst, paratroopers, Special Air Services, and even my beloved Gurkhas. He beamed at both of them and said a Gurkhali obscenity in a vulgar dialect that sent them into silent fits of laughter. Then he saw Vien Rosemont and the guide looking at him. “Your pardon, Excellencies,” he said in Farsi. “I was just telling my brothers to behave themselves.”
Meshgi said nothing, just turned his attention back to the night. Rosemont had pulled off his boots and was massaging the chill out of his feet. “The guys I’ve seen, British officers, they’re not friends with their soldiers, not like you.”
“Perhaps I’m luckier than others.” With the sides of his eyes Ross was watching the guide who had got up and was now standing at the mouth of the cave, listening. The old man had become increasingly edgy in the last few hours. How far do I trust him? he thought, then glanced at Gueng who was nearest. Instantly the little man got the message, nodded back imperceptibly.
“The captain is one of us, sir,” Tenzing was saying to Rosemont proudly. “Like his father and grandfather before him - and they were both Sheng’khan.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Gurkhali title,” Ross said, hiding his pride. “It means Lord of the Mountain. Doesn’t mean much outside the Regiment.”
“Three generations in the same outfit. That’s usual?”
Of course it’s not usual, Ross wanted to say, disliking personal questions, though liking Vien Rosemont personally. The boat had been on time, the voyage up the coast safe and quick, them hidden under sacking. Easily ashore at dusk and on their way to the next rendezvous where the guide had been waiting, fast into the foothills, and into the mountains, Rosemont never complaining but pressing forward hard, with little conversation and none of the barrage of questions he had expected.
Rosemont waited patiently, noticing Ross was distracted. Then he saw the guide move out of the cave, hesitate, then come back and squat against the cave mouth, rifle cradled on his lap.
“What is it, Meshgi?” Rosemont asked.
“Nothing, Agha. There are flocks in the valley, goats and sheep.” “Good.” Rosemont leaned back comfortably. Lucky to find the cave, he thought, it’s a good place to hole up in. He glanced back at Ross, saw him looking at him. After a pause he added, “It’s great to be part of a team.” “What’s the plan from now on?” Ross asked.
“When we get to the entrance of the cave, I’ll lead. You and your guys stay back until I make sure, okay?”
“Just as you like, but take Sergeant Tenzing with you. He can protect your tail - I’ll cover you both with Gueng.”
After a pause, Rosemont nodded. “Sure, sounds good. Okay, Sergeant?” “Yes, sahib. Please tell me what you want simply. My English is not good.” “It’s just fine,” Rosemont said, covering his nervousness. He knew Ross was weighing him like he was weighing them - too much at stake. “You just blow Mecca to hell,” his director had told him. “We’ve a specialist team to help you; we don’t know how good they are but they’re the goddamn best we can get. Leader’s a captain, John Ross, here’s his photo and he’ll have a couple of Gurkhas with him, don’t know if they speak English but they come recommended. He’s a career officer. Listen, as you’ve never worked close with Limeys before, a word of warning. Don’t get personal or friendly or use first names too fast - they’re as sensitive as a cat with a feather up its ass about personal questions, so take it easy, okay?” “Sure.”
“Far as we know you’ll find Mecca empty. Our other posts nearer Turkey are still operating. We figure to stay as long as we can - by that time the brass’ll make a deal with the new jokers, Bakhtiar or Khomeini. But Mecca - goddamn those bastards who’ve put us at so much risk.”
