courts, the chairs comfortable and modern, the bar extensive - many other rooms for banquets, dancing, dining, cards, sauna in other parts of this fine building that was in the best part of Tehran. The French Club was the only expat club still functioning - the American Services Club, with its huge complex of entertainment facilities, sports field, and baseball pitch, as well as the British, Pars-American, German clubs, and most others had been closed, their bars and stocks of liquor smashed.
“My God, that’s good,” McIver said, the ice-cold, cleansing wine taking away the dross. “Don’t tell Gen we stopped by.”
“No need to, Mac. She’ll know.”
McIver nodded. “You’re right, never mind. I managed to book here tonight for dinner - costs an arm and a leg but worth it. Used to be standing room only at this time of night…” He looked around at a burst of laughter from some Frenchmen in a far corner. “For a moment it sounded like JeanLuc, seems years since we had his pre- Christmas party here - wonder if we’ll ever have another.”
“Sure you will,” Gavallan said to encourage him, concerned that the fire seemed to be out of his old friend. “Don’t let that mullah get to you.” “He gave me the creeps - so did Armstrong come to think of it. And Talbot. But you’re right, Andy, I shouldn’t let it get me down. We’re in better shape than we were two days ago…” More laughter distracted him and he began thinking of all the great times he had had here with Genny and Pettikin and Lochart - won’t think about him now - and all the other pilots and their many friends, British, American, Iranian. All gone, most gone. It used to be: “Gen, let’s go over to the French Club, the tennis finals are this afternoon…” Or: “Valik’s cocktail party’s on from 8:00 P.M. at the Iranian Officers Club…” Or: “There’s a polo match, baseball match, swimming party, skiing party…” Or: “Sorry, can’t this weekend we’re going to the ambassador’s do on the Caspian…” Or: “I’d love to, Genny can’t, she’s shopping for carpets in Isfahan…” “It used to be we had so much to do here, Andy, the social life was the best ever, no doubt about that,” he said. “Now it’s hard just trying to keep in touch with our ops.”
Gavallan nodded. “Mac,” he said kindly, “straight answer to a straight question: Do you want to quit Iran and let someone else take over?” McIver stared at him blankly. “Good God, whatever gave you that idea? No, absolutely no! You mean you think because I was a bit down that… Good God, no,” he said, but his mind was suddenly jerked into asking the same question, unthinkable a few days ago: are you losing it, your will, your grip, your need to continue - is it time to quit? I don’t know, he thought, achingly chilled by the truth, but his face smiled. “Everything’s fine, Andy. Nothing we can’t deal with.”
“Good. Sorry, I hope you didn’t mind me asking. I think I was encouraged by the mullah - except when he was talking about ‘our Iranian aircraft.’” “The truth is that Valik and the partners’ve been acting like our aircraft were theirs ever since we signed that contract.”
“Thank God it’s a British contract, enforceable under British law.” Gavallan glanced over McIver’s shoulder and his eyes widened slightly. The girl coming into the room was in her late twenties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and stunning. McIver followed his glance, brightened, and got up. “Hello, Sayada,” he said, beckoning her. “May I introduce Andrew Gavallan? Andy, this’s Sayada Bertolin, a friend of JeanLuc. Would you like to join us?” “Thanks, Mac, but no, sorry I can’t, I’m just about to play squash with a friend. You’re looking well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gavallan.” She put out her hand and Gavallan shook it. “Sorry, got to dash, give my love to Genny.” They sat down again. “Same again, waiter, please,” Gavallan said. “Mac, between you and me, that bird’s made me feel positively weak!” McIver laughed. “Usually it’s the reverse! She’s certainly very popular, works in the Kuwaiti embassy, she’s Lebanese and JeanLuc’s smitten.” “My word, I don’t blame him…” Gavallan’s smile faded. Robert Armstrong was coming through the far doorway with a tall, strong-faced Iranian in his fifties. He saw Gavallan, nodded briefly, then continued with his conversation and led the way out and up the stairs where there were other lounges and rooms. “Wonder what the devil that man’s g - ” Gavallan stopped as recollection flooded his mind. “Robert Armstrong, chief superintendent CID Kowloon, that’s who he is… or was!”
“CID? You’re sure?”
“Yes, CID or Special Branch… wait a minute… he, yes, that’s right, he was a friend of Ian’s come to think of it, that’s where I met him, at the Great House on the Peak, not at the races, though I might have seen him there too with Ian. If I remember rightly it was the night Quillan Gornt came as a very unwelcome guest… can’t remember exactly, but I think it was Ian and Penelope’s anniversary party, just before I left Hong Kong … my God, that’s almost sixteen years ago, no wonder I didn’t remember him.”
“I had the feeling he remembered you the instant we met at the airport yesterday.”
“So did I.” They finished their drinks and left, both of them curiously unsettled.
TEHRAN UNIVERSITY: 7:32 P.M. The rally of over a thousand leftist students in the forecourt quadrangle was noisy and dangerous, too many factions, too many zealots, and too many of them armed. It was cold and damp, not yet dark, though already there were a few lights and torches in the twilight. Rakoczy was at the back of the crowd, melded into it, haphazardly dressed like the others, looking like them though now his cover had been changed and he was no longer Smith or Fedor Rakoczy, the Russian Muslim, the Islamic-Marxist sympathizer, but here in Tehran had reverted to Dimitri Yazernov, Soviet representative on the Tudeh Central Committee - a post he had had from time to time over the past few years. He stood in a corner of the quadrangle with five of the Tudeh student leaders, out of the sharpening wind, his assault rifle over his shoulder, armed and ready, and he was waiting for the first gun to go off. “Any moment now,” he said softly.
“Dimitri, who do I take out first?” one of the leaders asked nervously. “The mujhadin - that motherless bastard, the one over there,” he said patiently, pointing at the black-bearded man, much older than the others. “Take your time, Farmad, and follow my lead. He’s professional and PLO.” The others stared at him astonished. “Why him if he’s PLO?” Farmad asked. He was squat, almost misshapen, with a large head and small intelligent eyes. “The PLO have been our great friends over the years, giving us training and support and arms.”
“Because now the PLO will support Khomeini,” he explained patiently. “Hasn’t Khomeini invited Arafat here next week? Hasn’t he given the PLO the Israeli mission headquarters as its permanent headquarters? The PLO can supply all the technicians that Bazargan and Khomeini need to replace the Israelis and the Americans - especially in the oil fields. You don’t want Khomeini strong, do you?”
“No, but the PLO have been v - ”
“Iran isn’t Palestine. Palestinians should stay in Palestine. You won the revolution. Why give strangers your victory?”
“But the PLO have been our allies,” Farmad persisted, and Rakoczy was glad that he had found the flaw before some measure of power was passed over to this man.
“Allies who have become enemies have no value. Remember the aim.” “I agree with Comrade Dimitri,” another said, an edge to his voice, his eyes cold and very hard. “We don’t want PLO giving orders here. If you don’t want to take him out, Farmad, I will. All of them and all the Green Band dogs too!”
“The PLO’re not to be trusted,” Rakoczy said, continuing the same lesson, planting the same seeds. “Look how they vacillate and change positions even on their home ground, one moment saying they’re Marxist, the next Muslim, the next flirting with the archtraitor Sadat then attacking him. We have documents to prove it,” he added, the disinformation fitting in perfectly, “and documents that prove they plan to assassinate King Hussein, and take over Jordan and make a separate peace with Israel and America. They’ve had secret meetings with the CIA and Israel already. They’re not truly anti-Israel…”
Ah, Israel, he was thinking as he let his mouth continue the well-thought- out lesson, how important you are to Mother Russia, set there so nicely in the cauldron, a perpetual irritant guaranteed to enrage all Muslims forever, particularly the oh so oil rich sheikdoms, guaranteed to set all Muslims against all Christians, our prime enemy - your American, British, and French allies - meanwhile to curb their power and keep them and the West off-balance while we consume vital prizes - Iran this year, Afghanistan also, Nicaragua next year, then Panama and others, always to the same plan: possession of the Strait of Hormuz, Panama, Constantinople, and the treasure chest of South Africa. Ah, Israel, you’re a trump card for us to play in the world Monopoly game. But never to discard or sell! We’ll not forsake you! Oh, we’ll let you lose many battles but never the war, we’ll allow you to starve but not to die, we’ll permit your banking compatriots to finance us and therefore their own destruction, we’ll suffer you to bleed America to death, we’ll strengthen our enemies - but not too much - and assist you to be raped. But don’t worry, we’ll never let you disappear. Oh, no! Never. You’re far too valuable.
“PLOs are arrogant and full of themselves,” a tall student said darkly, “and never polite and never conscious of Iran’s importance in the world and know nothing of our ancient history.”
“True! They’re peasants and they’ve parasited themselves throughout the Middle East and our Gulf, taking
