agree. Of course I agree.” Kasigi was equally irritable. “We all know that. Of course it means war - while we depend on oil.”
“Yes.” Watanabe smiled grimly. “Ten years, no more.”
“Yes.” Both men were aware of the enormous national effort in research projects, overt and covert, to develop the alternate source of energy that would make the Japanese self-sufficient - the National Project. The source: the sun and the sea. “Ten years, yes, for ten years only.” Kasigi was confident. “If we have ten years of peace and free access to the U.S. market - then we’ll have our alternate and then we’ll own the world. But meanwhile,” he added, his anger returning, “for the next ten years we have to kowtow to barbarians and bandits of every kind!”
“Didn’t Khrushchev say the Soviets didn’t have to do anything about Iran because ‘Iran’s a rotten apple that’ll drop into our hands.’” Watanabe was enraged. “I guarantee those dungeaters are shaking the tree with all their might.”
“We beat them once,” Kasigi said darkly, remembering the Japanese-Russian naval war of 1904 that his grandfather had served in. “We can do it again. That man - Muzadeh? Perhaps he’s just a progressive and antimullah - they’re not all fanatical Khomeinites.”
“I agree, Kasigi-san. But some’re equally fanatic for their god Lenin-Marx and equally stupid. But I’d bet long odds Muzadeh is one of those so-called intellectuals, an ex-French university student whose tuition was paid for by Shah grants, who was adopted, trained, and fawned on by left-wing teachers in France. I spent two years in the Sorbonne, doing a postgraduate degree. I know these intellectuals, these cretins and some of the teachers - they tried to induct me. Once wh - ”
A short sharp burst of gunfire outside stopped him. For a moment both men were still, then they rushed for the window. Four stories down the ayatollah and Muzadeh were on the front steps. Below them in the forecourt one man was threatening them with an automatic rifle, standing alone in the middle of a semicircle of other armed men, the rest were scattered nearer to the trucks, some of them shouting and all hostile. Scragger was on the outskirts and as they watched they saw him ease into a better defensive position. The ayatollah raised his arms and exhorted them all. Watanabe could not hear what the man was saying. Carefully he opened a window and peered down.
“He’s saying, ‘In the Name of God give up your weapons, the Imam has ordered it - you’ve all heard his broadcast and message - I say again, obey him and give up your weapons!’”
There was more angry shouting and countershouting, men shaking their fists at one another. In the confusion they saw Scragger slip away and vanish behind a building. Watanabe leaned farther out, straining to hear better. “The man covering them with the gun… I can’t see if he’s wearing a green armband or not… ah, he isn’t so he must be fedayeen or Tudeh …” Now in the forecourt there was a great silence. Imperceptibly men began easing for a better position, all weapons armed, everyone eyeing his neighbor, all nerves jagged. The man covering the two of them raised his gun and bellowed at the ayatollah, “Order your men to put down their guns!” Muzadeh stepped forward, not wanting a confrontation here, knowing he was outnumbered. “Stop it, Hassan! You will st - ”
“We didn’t fight and our brothers didn’t die to give our guns and power to mullahs!”
“The government has power! The government!” Muzadeh raised his voice even more. “Everyone will keep their guns now but hand them into my office as I represent the new government and th - ”
“You don’t,” the ayatollah shouted. “First, in the Name of God, all non-Islamic Guards will put their guns on the ground and go in peace. Second, the government is subject to the Revolutionary Komiteh under the direct guidance of the Imam, and this man Muzadeh is not yet confirmed so has no authority at all! Obey or you will be disarmed!”
“I am the government here!” “You are not!”
“Allah-u Akbarrr!” someone shouted and pulled his trigger and Hassan, the youth in the center of them all, took the burst in his back and pirouetted in his death dance. At once other guns went off and men dived for cover or turned on their neighbor. The battle was short and vicious. Many died, but the men of Muzadeh were heavily outnumbered. The Green Bands were ruthless. Some of them had seized Muzadeh and now had him on his knees in the dirt, begging for mercy.
On the steps was the ayatollah. A spray of bullets had caught him in the chest and stomach and now he lay in a man’s arms, blood marring his robes. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth into his beard. “God is Great… God is Great…” he muttered, then let out a dribbling groan as pain took him. “Master,” the man holding him said, tears running down his cheeks, “tell God we tried to protect you, tell the Prophet.”
“God… is… Great…” he murmured.
“What about this Muzadeh?” someone else asked. “What shall we do with him?” “Do God’s work. Kill him… kill him as you must kill all enemies of Islam. There is no other God but God…”
The order was obeyed instantly. Cruelly. The ayatollah died smiling, the Name of God on his lips. Others wept openly - envying him Paradise.
Chapter 24
AT KOWISS AIR FORCE BASE: 2:32 P.M. Manuela Starke was in the bungalow kitchen making chili. Country music filled the small room from a battery cassette player on the windowsill. On the butane stove was a big stewpot filled with stock and some of the makings, and as it came to a boil she turned the gas to simmer and glanced at her wristwatch to gauge the time. Just right, she thought. We’ll eat around 7:00 P.M. and candles will make the table pretty.
There were onions and other things to chop and the goat meat to grind, so she continued happily, absently humming or doing a little dance step in time with the music. The kitchen was small and difficult to work in, unlike the huge, high-beamed kitchen in the lovely, old, sprawling Spanish hacienda in Lubbock that her family had had for almost a century, where she and her brother and sister had grown up. But she did not mind being cramped or cooking without the proper utensils. She was glad for something to do to take her mind off the question of when she would see her husband again. It was Saturday that Conroe had left to go to Bandar Delam with the mullah, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Today’s Tuesday, that’s only three days and today’s not even over yet. Last night he was on the HF. “Hi, honey, everything’s fine here - no need to worry. Sorry, got to go - airtime’s restricted for the moment, love you and see you soon,” his voice so grand and confident but, even so, she was achingly sure she had heard a nervousness that had filled her mind and permeated her dreams. You’re just imagining it. He’ll be back soon - leave dreams to the night and work on your daydream that all is very fine. Concentrate on cooking!
She had brought the packets of chili powder with her from London, with extra spices and paprika and cayenne pepper and ginger, fresh garlic and dried chili peppers and dried beans and little else but some night things and toilet paper in the one tote bag that she had been allowed to carry aboard the 747. Chili makings because Starke adored Mexican food and particularly chili, and they both agreed that apart from curry, it was the only way to make goat meat palatable. No need to bring clothes or anything else with her because she still had some in their apartment in Tehran. The only other gift she had brought was a small bottle of Marmite that she knew Genny and Duncan McIver loved on the hot buttered toast made from the bread Genny would bake - when she could get the flour and the yeast.
Today Manuela had baked bread. The three loaves were in their baking dishes, cooling on the counter under muslin to keep the few flies off. Damn all flies, she thought. Flies destroy the summer, even in Lubbock… Ah Lubbock, wonder how the kids are.
Billyjoe and Conroe Junior and Santa. Seven and five and three. Ah, my beauties, she thought happily. I’m so glad I sent you home to my daddy and our ten thousand acres to roam on, Granddaddy Starke nearby: “But wear your snake boots, y’hear now!” in that lovely rough so tender drawl of his. “Texas forever,” she said out loud and laughed at herself, her nimble fingers busy chopping and grinding and spooning, tasting the brew from time to time, adding a little more salt or garlic. Out of the window she saw Freddy Ayre crossing the little square to go up to their radio tower. With him was Pavoud, their chief clerk. He’s a nice man, she thought. We’re lucky to have loyal staff. Beyond them she could see the main runway and most of the base, snow-covered, the afternoon sky overcast, hiding the mountaintops. A few of their pilots and mechanics were absently kicking a football, Marc Dubois - who had flown the mullah back from Bandar Delam - among them. Nothing else was going on here, just servicing aircraft, checking spares, painting - no flying since Sunday and the attack on the base. And the mutiny. Sunday evening three mutineers, one airman and two sergeants from the tank regiment, had been court-martialed and, at dawn, shot. All day yesterday and today the base had been quiet. Once, yesterday, they had seen two fighters rush
