bloody Armstrong, whatever Talbot says.”
At noon they had gone to see Talbot to find out the who and the why of Armstrong. All George Talbot would say was, “Oh, he’s rather decent really, and we’d, er, we’d appreciate your giving him a lift, and er, not asking too many questions. You’ll stay for lunch, of course? We’ve still some rather good Dover sole, fresh frozen, plenty of caviar or smoked salmon if you wish, a couple of La Doucette ‘76 on ice - or bangers and mash with the house claret which I’d highly recommend if you prefer. Chocolate pudding or sherry trifle, and we’ve still half of a fairly decent Stilton. The whole world may be on fire, but at least we can watch it burn like gentlemen. How about a pink gin before lunch?”
Lunch had been very good. Talbot had said that Bakhtiar’s leaving the field for Bazargan and Khomeini might avert most trouble. “Now that there’s no chance of a coup, things should get back to normal, eventually.” “When do you think’s ‘eventually’?”
“When ‘they,’ whoever ‘they’ are, run out of ammunition. But, my dear old boy, whatever I think really doesn’t matter. It’s what Khomeini thinks that matters, and only God knows what Khomeini thinks.”
Gavallan remembered the shrill cackle of laughter that Talbot had let out at his own joke and smiled.
“What?” McIver asked.
“I was just remembering Talbot at lunch.”
The car was still a hundred yards away. “Talbot’s hiding a mountain of secrets. What do you think Armstrong wants to ‘chat’ about?” “Probably to divert us some more - after all, Mac, we did go to the embassy to enquire about him. Curious! Usually I don’t forget… Hong Kong? Seem to associate him with the races at Happy Valley. It’ll come back to me. I’ll say one thing for him, he’s punctual. I told him five o’clock and he was here - even though he seemed to come out of the woodwork.” Gavallan’s eyes twinkled under his heavy eyebrows, then went back to the incoming car that was drawing up outside. “Sure as God made Scotland he didn’t want to meet our friendly komiteh. I wonder why?”
The komiteh consisted of two armed youths, a mullah - not the same as yesterday - and Sabolir, the perspiring senior Immigration official, still very nervous.
“Good evening, Excellencies,” McIver said, his nostrils rebelling against their invading smell of stale sweat. “Would you care for tea?” “No, no, thank you,” Sabolir said. He was still very much on his guard, though he tried to hide it under a mask of arrogance. He sat down in the best chair. “We have new regulations for you.”
“Oh?” McIver had had dealings with him over a couple of years, and had provided an occasional case of whisky, fill-ups of gasoline, and, from time to time, free air travel - and accommodation - for him and his family on several summer vacations to Caspian resorts: “We booked rooms for some of our executives and they can’t use the space, dear Mr. Sabolir. It’s a pity to waste 378 the space, isn’t it?” Once he had arranged a week’s trip for two to Dubai. The girl had been young and very beautiful, and at Sabolir’s blunt suggestion was put on the S-G books as an Iranian expert. “What can we do for you?”
To their surprise Sabolir took out Gavallan’s passport and the previous clearance paper and put them on the desk: “Here are your passport and papers, er, approved,” he said, his voice automatically oily with officialdom. “The Imam has ordered normal operations to begin at once. The, er, the Islamic State of Iran is back to normal and the airport will reopen in, er, three days, for normal, preagreed traffic. You are to come back to normal now.” “We begin training the Iranian Air Force again?” McIver asked, hard put to keep the glee out of his voice, for this was a very big contract and very profitable.
Sabolir hesitated. “Yes, I presume y - ” “No,” the mullah said firmly in good English. “No - not until the Imam or the Revolutionary Komiteh agrees. I will see that you have a firm answer. I do not think this part of your operation will begin yet. Meanwhile your normal business - spares to your bases and their contract flights to assist IranOil resume oil production, or Iran-Timber and so on - provided the flights are approved in advance, may begin the day after tomorrow.” “Excellent,” Gavallan said, and McIver echoed him. “Replacement flight crews and oil rig crews, in and out - if approved in advance and provided their papers are in order,” the mullah continued, “will resume the day after tomorrow. Oil production is to be a priority. An Islamic Guard will accompany every internal flight.”
“If requested in advance, and the man is on time for the flight. But not armed,” McIver said politely, preparing for the inevitable clash. “Armed Islamic Guards will be carried for your protection to prevent hijacking by enemies of the state!” the mullah said sharply. “We will be very pleased to cooperate, Excellency,” Gavallan interrupted calmly, “very pleased indeed, but I’m sure you won’t wish to endanger life or jeopardize the Islamic state. I formally ask you to ask the Imam to agree to no guns whatever - clearly you have immediate access to his presence. Meanwhile all our aircraft are grounded until I have clearance, or clearance from my government.”
“You will not ground flights and you will become normal!” The mullah was very angry.
“Perhaps a compromise pending the Imam’s agreement: your guards have their guns but the captain holds the ammunition during the flight. Agreed?” The mullah hesitated.
Gavallan hardened. “The Imam ordered ALL weapons handed in, didn’t he?” “Yes. Very well, I agree.”
“Thank you. Mac, prepare the paper for His Excellency to sign and that takes care of it for all our lads. Now, we’ll need new flight papers, Excellency, the only ones we’ve got are the old, er, useless ones from the previous regime. Will you give us the necessary authority? You yourself, Excellency? Clearly you are a man of importance and you know what’s going on.” He watched as the mullah seemed to grow in stature with the flattery. The man was in his thirties, his beard was greasy and his clothes threadbare. From his accent Gavallan had pegged him an ex- British student, one of the thousands of Iranians that the Shah had sent abroad on grants for Western education. “You will of course give us new papers at once, to make us legal with the new era?”
“We, er, we will sign new documents for each of our aircraft, yes.” The mullah took some papers from his battered briefcase and put on a pair of old glasses, the lenses thick and one of them cracked. The paper he sought was at the bottom. “You have in your trust thirteen Iranian 212s, seven 206s, and four Alouettes in various places, all Iranian registry and owned by Iran Helicopter Company - that’s correct?”
Gavallan shook his head. “Not exactly. At the moment they’re still actually owned by S-G Helicopters of Aberdeen. Iran Helicopter Company, our joint venture with our Iranian partners, doesn’t own the aircraft until they’re paid for.”
The mullah frowned, then brought the paper closer to his eyes. “But the contract giving ownership to Iran Helicopter, which is an Iranian company, is signed, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s subject to payments which are… are in arrears.” “The Imam has said all debts will be paid so they will be paid.” “Of course, but meanwhile ownership passes on actual payment,” Gavallan continued carefully, while hoping against hope the tower would grant Johnny Hogg’s clever request for a landing tomorrow. I wonder if this mealymouthed bugger could order a clearance? he asked himself. If Khomeini’s ordered everything back to normal, it’ll go back to normal and I can safely return to London. With any luck I could close the ExTex contract that covers the new X63s’ lease payments by the weekend. “For months we’ve been making payments on behalf of IHC on all these aircraft, with interest, banking charges and so on out of our own funds and w - ”
“Islam forbids usury and the paying of interest,” the mullah said with a total finality that rocked Gavallan and McIver. “Banks may not charge interest. None. It is usury.”
Gavallan glanced at McIver, then uneasily turned his full attention to the mullah. “If banks cannot charge interest, how will business operate internally and externally?”
“According to Islamic law. Only Islamic law. The Koran forbids usury.” The mullah added distastefully, “What foreign banks do is evil - it’s because of them Iran had many troubles. Banks are evil institutions and will not be tolerated. As to Iran Helicopter Company, the Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh has ordered all joint ventures suspended, pending review.” The mullah waved the papers. “All these aircraft are Iranian, Iranian registry, Iranian!” Again he peered at the paper. “Here in Tehran you have three 212s, four 206s, and one 47G4 here at the airport, haven’t you?”
“They’re spread around,” McIver told him carefully, “here, Doshan Tappeh and Galeg Morghi.”
“But they’re all here, in Tehran?”
McIver had been gauging him while Gavallan had been talking, also trying to read upside down what the papers contained. The one in the mullah’s hand listed all their airplanes with their registration numbers and was a copy of the manifest that was kept permanently in the tower, that S-G was obliged to keep permanently up to date. His stomach twisted nastily when he glimpsed EP-HBC ringed in red - Lochart’s 212 - also EP-HFC, Pettikin’s 206. “We’ve one 212 on loan to Bandar Delam,” he said, deciding to play it safe, inwardly cursing Valik and hoping that Tom Lochart was either at Bandar Delam or safely on the way home. “The rest’re here.”
