“On loan - that would be EP - EP-HBC?” the mullah said, very pleased with himself. “Now, wh - ” The traffic controller’s voice interrupted him: “EchoTangoLimaLima, request refused. Call Isfahan on 118.3 - good day.” “Quite right - good.” The mullah nodded, satisfied.
Gavallan and McIver cursed inwardly even more, and Sabolir, who had been silently watching and listening to the byplay, understanding very clearly how the two men were trying to manipulate the mullah, chortled to himself, carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes, staring at the floor for safety. Once, a moment ago, when the mullah’s attention was elsewhere, he had deftly caught McIver’s eye and half smiled at him, encouragingly, pretending friendship, petrified McIver would misconstrue all those previous favors which were only repayment for his smoothing the way of inbound spares and outbound crews. On the radio this morning, a spokesman for the “Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh” had urged all loyal citizens to denounce anyone who had committed crimes “against Islam.” During today three of his colleagues had been arrested which had sent a shudder of horror through the whole airport. Islamic Guards gave no specific reasons, just dragged the men away and put them into Evin Jail - the loathed SAVAK prison - where, it was rumored, half a hundred “enemies of Islam” had been shot today after summary trials. One of those arrested was one of his own men who had accepted the 10,000 rials and the three 5-gallon cans of gasoline from McIver’s storeroom yesterday - the man had kept one, and the other two he himself had correctly taken home last night as was his due. Oh, God, let them not search my house.
Over the HF was Johnny Hogg, his voice still breezy: “EchoTangoLimaLima, thank you. Up the revolution and good day.” Then on their own channel, tersely: “HQ confirm.”
McIver reached over and switched to their channel. “Standby One!” he ordered, deeply conscious of the mullah. “Do you thi - ”
“Ah. You talk direct with the aircraft - a private channel?” “Company channel, Excellency. It’s normal practice.”
“Normal. Yes. So EP-HBC is at Bandar Delam?” the mullah said and read from the paper: ” ‘Delivering spares.’ Is that right?”
“Yes,” McIver said, praying.
“When is this aircraft due to return?”
McIver could feel the weight of the mullah’s attention on him. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to raise Bandar Delam. As soon as I can, I’ll tell you. Now, Excellency, about clearances for our various flights, do you th - ”
“EP-HFC. EP-HFC is in Tabriz?”
“She’s at the small Forsha airstrip,” McIver said, not feeling very good at all, praying that the madness at the Qazvin roadblock had gone unreported and would be forgotten. Again he wondered where Erikki was - he was supposed to have met them at the apartment at three o’clock to come out to the airport but had never appeared.
“Forsha airstrip?”
He saw the mullah staring at him and concentrated with an effort. “EP-HFC went to Tabriz on Saturday to deliver spares and pick up a crew change. She returned last night. She’ll be on the new manifest tomorrow.” The mullah was suddenly grim. “But any incoming or outgoing aircraft must be instantly reported. We have no record of any inward clearance yesterday.” “Captain Pettikin couldn’t raise Tehran ATC yesterday. The military were in charge, I believe. He tried calling all the way inbound.” McIver added quickly, “If we’re to resume operations, who will authorize our IranOil flights? Mr. Darius as usual?”
“Er, yes, I would think so. But why wasn’t its arrival reported today?” Gavallan said with a forced brightness, “I’m very impressed with your efficiency, Excellency. It’s a pity the military air traffic controllers on duty yesterday don’t share it. I can see the new Islamic republic will far surpass any Western operation. It will be a pleasure to serve our new employers. Up the new! May we know your name?”
“I, I’m Mohammed Tehrani,” the man said, diverted again.
“Then Excellency Tehrani, may I ask that you give us the benefit of your authority? If my Echo Tango Lima Lima could have your permission to land tomorrow, we could immeasurably improve our efficiency to parallel your own. I can then make sure our company gives the Ayatollah Khomeini and his personal assistants - like yourself - the service he and they have a right to expect. The spares ETLL will carry will put back two more 212s into operation and I can return to London to increase our support for the Great Revolution. Of course, you agree?”
“It’s not possible. The komiteh w - ”
“I’m sure the komiteh would take your advice. Oh, I noticed you’ve had the misfortune to break your glasses. Terrible. I can hardly see without mine. Perhaps I could have the 125 bring a new pair for your tomorrow from Al Shargaz?”
The mullah was unsettled. His eyes were very bad. The wish for new glasses, good glasses, almost overpowered him. Oh, it would be an unbelievable treasure, a gift from God. Surely God has put this thought into the foreigner’s head. “I don’t think… I don’t know. The komiteh couldn’t do what you ask so quickly.”
“I know it’s difficult, but if you’d intercede for us with your komiteh, surely they’d listen. It would help us immeasurably and we’d be in your debt,” Gavallan added, using the time-honored phrase that in any language meant, what do you want in exchange? He saw McIver switch to the tower frequency, offer the mike. “You press the button to talk, Excellency, if you would honor us with your assistance….”
The mullah Tehrani hesitated, not knowing what to do. As he looked at the mike, McIver glanced at Sabolir, pointedly.
Sabolir understood at once, his reflexes perfect. “Of course whatever you decide, Excellency Tehrani, your komiteh will agree,” he said, his voice unctuous. “But tomorrow, tomorrow I understand you are ordered to visit the other airfields, to make sure where and how many civilian helicopters are in your area which is all Tehran? Yes?”
“Those are orders, yes,” the mullah agreed. “I and some members of my komiteh have to visit the other airfields tomorrow.”
Sabolir sighed heavily, pretending disappointment, and McIver had difficulty not laughing so overplayed was the performance. “Unfortunately it would not be possible for you to visit them all by car or foot and still be back to supervise, personally, the arrival and immediate turnaround of this single aircraft that has, through no fault of its own, been turned away because of arrogant traffic controllers in Kish and Isfahan who dared not to consult you first.”
“True, true,” the mullah agreed. “They were at fault!”
“Would 7:00 A.M. suit you, Excellency Tehrani?” McIver said at once. “We’d be glad to help our airport komiteh. I’ll give you my best pilot and you’ll be back in plenty of time to, er, to supervise the turnaround. How many men would come with you?”
“Six …” the mullah said absently, overwhelmed with the idea of being able to complete his orders - God’s work - so conveniently and luxuriously, like a veritable ayatollah. “This… this could be done?”
“Of course!” McIver said. “At 7:00 A.M. here. Captain, er, Chief Captain Nathaniel Lane will have a 212 ready. Seven including yourself, and up to seven wives. You of course would fly in the cockpit with the pilot. Consider it arranged.”
The mullah had only flown twice in his life - to England and university and home again, packed into a special, student-charter Iran Air flight. He beamed and reached for the mike: “At 7:00 A.M.”
McIver and Gavallan did not betray their relief at their victory. Nor did Sabolir.
Sabolir was content that the mullah was entrapped. As God wants! Now if I’m falsely accused, now I have an ally, he told himself. This fool, this son of a dog false mullah, hasn’t he accepted a bribe - clearly not pishkesh - two in fact, some new glasses and wasteful, unauthorized air travel? Hasn’t he deliberately allowed himself to become the dupe of these glib and ever-devious English who still think they can seduce us with trinkets and steal our heritage for a few rials? Listen to the fool, giving the foreigners what they want!
He glanced at McIver. Pointedly. And caught his eye. Then once more looked back at the floor. Now you arrogant Western son of a dog, he thought, what valuable favor should you do for me in return for my assistance?
AT THE FRENCH CLUB: 7:10 P.M. Gavallan accepted the glass of red wine from the uniformed French waiter, McIver, the white.
Both touched glasses and drank gratefully, tired after their journey from the airport. They were sitting in the lounge with other guests, mostly Europeans, men and women, overlooking the snow-covered gardens and tennis
