wherever they could. Most times a mullah led them. But not always. In the Abadan oil fields the komitehs were said to be left-wing fedayeen - literally “those who are prepared to sacrifice themselves.”
“You will obey!” The man shook a revolver in his face.
“I’m certainly honored by your confidence,” McIver had said, the men crowding him, the heavy smell of sweat and unwashed clothes surrounding him. “I will ask the government for perm - ”
“The Bakhtiar government is illegal and not acceptable to the People,” the man had bellowed. At once the others took up the shout and the mood became ugly. One man unslung his automatic rifle. “You will agree or the komiteh will take further action.”
McIver had telexed Andrew Gavallan in Aberdeen, who gave immediate approval provided S-G’s Iranian partners approved. The partners could not be found. In desperation McIver contacted the British embassy for advice: “Well, old boy, you can certainly ask the government, formally or informally, but you’ll never get an answer. We’re not even certain they’ll really allow Khomeini to land, or that the air force won’t take matters into their own hands. After all the bloody fellow’s an out-and-out revolutionary, openly calling for insurrection against the legal government that everyone else recognizes - Her Majesty’s Government to boot. Either way, if you’re silly enough to ask, the government will certainly remember you embarrassed them and you’re damned either way.”
Eventually McIver had worked out an acceptable compromise with the komiteh. “After all,” he had pointed out with enormous relief, “it would look very strange if a British aircraft ferried your revered leader into town. Surely it would be better if he was in an Iranian Air Force plane, flown by an Iranian. I’ll certainly have one of ours standing by, two in fact, in case of accidents. With our best pilots. Just call us on the radio, call for a CASEVAC and we’ll respond at once….”
And now he was here, waiting, praying that there was no CASEVAC to which they would have to respond.
The Air France 747 jumbo jet appeared out of the pink haze. For twenty minutes she circled, waiting for clearance to land.
McIver was listening to the tower on the 212’s radio. “Still some problem about security,” he told the other two. “Wait a minute… she’s cleared!” “Here we go,” Pettikin muttered.
They watched her come on to final. The 747 was gleaming white, the French colors sparkling. She inched her way earthward on a perfect approach, then, at the last moment, the pilot put on full power, aborting the landing. “What the hell’s he playing at?” Genny said, her heart fluttering. “Pilot says he wanted to take a closer look,” McIver told her. “I think I would too - just to make sure.” He looked at Pettikin who would fly any CASEVAC call from the komiteh. “I hope to Christ the air force don’t do anything crazy.”
“Look!” Genny said.
The jet came on to final and touched down, smoke belched from the tires, her massive engines roaring into reverse thrust to slow her. At once a Mercedes rushed to intercept her, and as the news spread to those in the terminal, thence to the barricades, thence to the streets, the multitudes went berserk with joy. The chant began: “Allah-u Akbar… Agha uhmad,” God is Great… the Master has returned….
It seemed to take forever for the steps to arrive and the doors to open and the stern-faced, black-turbaned, heavily bearded old man to come down the steps, helped by one of the French stewards. He walked through the hastily assembled honor guard of a few mullahs and the Iran Air France crew, to be surrounded by his top aides and the nervous officials and quickly bundled into the car which headed for the terminal. There he was greeted by bedlam as the cheering, screaming, frenzied guests fought with one another to get near him, to touch him, newspapermen from all the world fighting each other for the best position with their barrage of flash cameras, TV cameras - everyone shouting, Green Bands and police trying to protect him from the crush. Genny could just see him for a moment, a graven statue among the frenzy, then he was swallowed up.
Genny sipped her martini, remembering, her eyes fixed on the radio, trying to will the broadcast to continue, to blot out the memory of that day and Khomeini’s speech at Behesht-Zahra Cemetery, chosen because so many of those massacred on Bloody Friday - martyrs he called them - were buried there. To blot out the TV pictures they had all seen later of the raging sea of bodies surrounding the motorcade as it inched along - all ideas of security gone - tens of thousands of men, women, and young people shouting, struggling, shoving to get closer to him, scrambling all over the Chevy van that he was in, trying to reach him, to touch him, the Ayatollah sitting in the front seat in seeming serenity, occasionally raising his hands at the adulation. People clambering on the hood and on the roof, weeping and shouting, calling to him, fighting to keep others off - impossible for the driver to see, he at times braking hard to shake people off, at others simply accelerating blindly. To blot out the memory of a youth in a rough brown suit who had scrambled onto the hood but could not get a proper grip and slowly rolled off and under the wheels.
Dozens like the youth. Eventually Green Bands had fought their way around and onto the van and called down the helicopter and she remembered the way the helicopter carelessly plummeted down onto the mob that scattered from the blades, bodies everywhere, injured everywhere, then the Ayatollah walking in the center of his pack of Islamic Guards to be helped into the copter, stern-faced, impassive, then the helicopter taking off into the skies to the never-ending torrent of “Allah-uuuuu Akbar… Agha uhmad…” “I need another drink,” she said and got up to hide a shiver. “Can I fix yours, Duncan?”
“Thanks, Gen.”
She went toward the kitchen for some ice. “Charlie?”
“I’m fine, Genny, I’ll get it.”
She stopped as the radio came back strongly: “… China reports that there have been serious border clashes with Vietnam and denounces these attacks as further evidence of Soviet hegemony: In Fran - ” Again the signal vanished, leaving only static.
After a moment Pettikin said, “I had a drink at the club on the way here. There’s a rumor amongst the journalists that Bakhtiar’s readying a showdown. Another was that there’s heavy fighting in Meshed after a mob strung up the chief of police and half a dozen of his men.”
“Terrible,” she said, coming back from the kitchen. “Who’s controlling the mobs, Charlie, really controlling them? Is it the Communists?” Pettikin shrugged. “No one seems to know for certain but the Communist Tudeh’ve got to be stirring it up, outlawed or not. And all the leftists, particularly the mujhadin-al-khalq, who believe in a sort of marriage between the religions of Islam and Marx, Soviet sponsored. The Shah, the U.S., and most Western governments know it’s them, aided and heavily abetted by the Soviets north of the border, so of course all the Iranian press agree. So do our Iranian partners, though they’re scared out of their pants, not knowing which way to jump, trying to support the Shah and Khomeini equally. I wish to God they’d all settle down. Iran’s a great place and I don’t plan to move.”
“What about the press?”
“The foreign press’re mixed. Some of the Americans agree with the Shah as to who is to blame. Others say it’s pure Khomeini, purely religious, and led by him and the mullahs. Then there’re those who blame the left-wing fedayeen, or the hard-core fundamentalist Muslim Brotherhood - there was even one sport, I think he was French, who claimed Yasir Arafat and the PLO’re…” He stopped. The radio came in for a second then went back to emitting static. “It must be sunspots.”
“Enough to make you want to spit blood,” McIver said. Like Pettikin, he was ex-RAF. He had been the first pilot to join S-G, and now as director of Iran operations, he was also managing director of IHC - Iran Helicopter Company - the fifty-fifty joint venture with the obligatory Iranian partners that S-G leased their helicopters to, the company that got their contracts, made their deals, held the money - without whom there would be no Iranian operations. He leaned forward to adjust the tuning, changed his mind. “It’ll come back, Duncan,” Genny said confidently. “I agree Callaghan’s a twit.”
He smiled at her. They had been married thirty years. “You’re not bad, Gen. Not bad at all.”
“For that you can have another whisky.”
“Thanks, but this time put some in with the wat - ”
“ - partment of Energy spokesman says that the new 14 percent OPEC hike will cost the U.S. $51 billion for imported oil next year. Also in Washington, President Carter announced, because of the deteriorating situation in Iran, a carrier force has been ordered to proceed from the Philip - ” The announcer’s voice was drowned by another station, then both faded. In silence they waited, very tense. The two men glanced at each other, trying to hide their shock. Genny walked over to the whisky bottle that was on the sideboard. Also on the sideboard, taking up most of the space, was the HF radio, McIver’s communicator with their helicopter bases all over Iran - conditions
