"i'm sorry, highness," he said apologetically, "but the mullah said i was to
lead him here by this trail and not by the main path and so "
"what do you want, parasite?" she said, turning on the mullah.
"show respect, woman," the mullah said even more angrily. "soon we'll be in command. the koran has laws for nakedness and loose living: stoning and the lash."
"the koran has laws for trespass and bandits and threatening peaceful people, and rebellion against their chiefs and liege lords. i'm not one of your frightened illiterates! i know you for what you are and what you've always been, the parasites of the villages and the people. what do you want?"
from the base, people were hurrying up with flashlights. at their head were the two bleary-eyed mechanics, dibble and arberry, with ali dayati carefully in tow. all were sleep ruffled, hastily dressed, and anxious. "what's going on?" dayati demanded, thick glasses on his nose, peering at them. his family had been protected by and had served the gorgon khans for years.
"these dogs," azadeh began hotly, "came out of the nigh "
"hold your tongue, woman," the mullah said angrily, then turned on dayati. "whotre you?"
when dayati saw the man was a mullah, his demeanor changed and at once he became deferential. "i'm... i'm iran-timber's manager here, excellency. what's the matter, please, what can i do for you?"
"the helicopter. at dawn i want it for a flight around the camps."
"i'm sorry, excellency, the machine is in pieces for an overhaul. it's the foreigner's policy an "
azadeh interrupted angrily, "mullah, by what right do you dare to come here in the middle of the night to "
"imam khomeini has issued ord "
"imam?" she echoed, shocked. "by what right do you call ayatollah khomeini that?"
"he is imam. he has issued orders an "
"where does it say in the koran or the sharia that an ayatollah can claim to be imam, can order one of the faithful? where does it sa "
"aren't you shiite?" the mullah asked, enraged, conscious of his followers listening silently.
"yes, i'm shitite, but not an illiterate fool, mullah!" the way she used the word it was a curse. "answer!"
"please, highness," dayati said, pleading with her. "please leave this to me, please, i beg you."
but she began to rage and the mullah to rage back, and the others joined in, the mood becoming ugly, until erikki raised his ax and let out a bellow of rage, infuriated that he could not understand what was being said. the silence was sudden, then another man cocked his machine pistol.
"what's this bastard want, azadeh?" erikki said.
she told him.
"dayati, tell him he can't have my 212 and to get off our land now or i'll send for the police."
"please, captain, please allow me to deal with it, captain," dayati said, sweating with anxiety, before azadeh could interrupt. "please, highness, please leave now." then turned to the two mechanics. "it's all right, you can go back to bed. i'll deal with it."
it was then that erikki noticed azadeh was still barefoot. he scooped her up into his arms. "dayati, you tell that matyeryebyets and all of them if they come here again at night i'll break their necks and if he or anyone touches one hair of my woman's head i'll crawl into hell after him if need be." he went off, massive in his rage, the two mechanics following.
a voice in russian stopped him. "captain yokkonen, perhaps i could have a word with you in a moment'?"
erikki looked back. azadeh, still in his arms, was tense. the man stood at the back of the pack, difficult to see, seemingly not very different from the others, wearing a nondescript parka. "yes," erikki told him in russian, "but don't bring a gun into my house, or a knife." he stalked off.
the mullah went closer to dayati, his eyes stony. "what did the foreign devil say, oh?"
"he was rude, all foreigners are rude, her high the woman was rude too."
the mullah spat in the snow. "the prophet set laws and punishments against such conduct, the people have laws against hereditary wealth and stealing lands, the land belongs to the people. soon correct laws and punishments will govern us all, at long last, and iran will be at peace." he turned to the others. "naked in the snow! flaunting herself in the open against all the laws of modesty. harlot! what are the gorgons but lackeys of the traitor shah and his dog bakhtiar, eh?" his eyes went back to dayati. "what lies are you telling about the helicopter?"
trying to hide his fear, dayati said at once that the fifteen-hundred-hour check was according to foreign regulations imposed upon him and the aircraft and further ordered by the shah and the government.
"illegal government," the mullah interrupted.
"of course, of course illegal," dayati agreed at once and nervously led them into the hangar and lit the lights the base had its own small generating system and was self-contained. the engines of the 212 were laid out neatly, piece by piece, in regimented lines. "it's nothing to do with me, excellency, the foreigners do what they like." then he added quickly, "and although we all know iran-timber belongs to the people, the shah took all the money. i've no authority over them, foreign devils or their regulations. there's nothing i can do."
"when will it be airworthy?" the russian-speaking man asked in perfect turkish.
"the mechanics promise two days," dayati said and prayed silently, very afraid, though he tried hard not to show it. it was clear to him now that these men were leftist mujhadin believers in the soviet-sponsored theory that islam and marx were compatible. "it's in the hands of god. two days; the foreign mechanics are waiting for some spares thattre overdue."
"what are they?"
nervously he told him. they were some minor parts and a tail rotor blade.
"how many hours do you have on the rotor blade?"
dayati checked the logbook, his fingers trembling. "one thousand seventy-three."
"god is with us," the man said, then turned to the mullah. "we could safely use the old one for fifty hours at least."
"but the life of the blade... the airworthy certificate's invalidated," dayati said without thinking. "the pilot wouldn't fly because air regulations requi "
"satan's regulations."
"true," the russian speaker interrupted, "some of them. but laws for safety are important to the people, and even more important, god laid down rules in the koran for camels and horses and how to care for them, and these rules can apply equally to airplanes which also are the gift of god and also carry us to do god's work. we must therefore care for them correctly. don't you agree, mahmud?"
"of course," the mullah said impatiently and his eyes bore into dayati who began to tremble. "i will return in two days, at dawn. let the helicopter be ready and the pilot ready to do god's work for the people. i will visit every camp in the mountains. are there other women here?"
"just... just two wives of the laborers and... my wife."
"do they wear chador and veil?"
"of course," dayati lied instantly. to wear the veil was against the law of iran. reza shah had outlawed the veil in 1936, made the chador a matter of choice and mohammed shah had further enfranchised women in '64.
"good. remind them god and the people watch, even in the foreigner's vile domain." mahmud turned on his heel and stomped off, the others going with him.
when he was alone, dayati wiped his brow, thankful that he was one of the faithful and that now his wife would wear the chador, would be obedient, and act as his mother acted with modesty and not wear jeans like her highness. what did the mullah call her to her face? god protect him if abdollah khan
hears about it... even though, of course, the mullah's right, and of course khomeini's right, god protect him.
in erikki's cabin: 11:23 p.m. the two men sat at the table opposite each other in the main room of the cabin. when the man had knocked on the door, erikki had told azadeh to go into the bedroom but he had left the inner door open so that she could hear. he had given her the rifle that he used for hunting. "use it without fear. if he comes into the bedroom, i am already dead," he had said, his pakoh knife sheathed under his belt in the center of his back. the pukoh knife was a heft knife and the weapon of all finns. it was considered unlucky and dangerous for a man not to carry one. in finland it was against the law to wear one openly that might be considered a challenge. but everyone carried one, and always in the mountains. erikki yokkonen's matched his size.
"so, captain, i apologize for the intrusion." the man was dark-haired, a little under six feet, in his thirties' his face weather-beaten, his eyes dark and slavic mongol blood somewhere in his heritage. "my name is fedor rak
oczy."
"rakoczy was a hungarian revolutionary," erikki said cunly. "and from your accent you're georgian. rakoczy's not georgian. what's your real name and kgb rank?"
the man laughed. "it is true my accent is georgian and that i am russian from georgia, from tbilisi. my grandfather came from hungary but he was no relation to the revolutionary who in ancient times became prince of transylvania. nor was he muslim, like my father and me. there, you see, we both know a little of our history, thanks be to god," he said pleasantly. "i'm an engineer on the iran-soviet natural gas pipeline, based just over the border at astara on the caspian and pro-iran, pro- khomeini, blessings be upon him, anti-shah and anti-american."
he was glad that he had been briefed about erikki yokkonen. pan of his cover story was true. he certainly came from georgia, from tbilisi, but he was not a muslim, nor was his real name rakoczy. his real name was igor mzytryk and he was a captain in the kgb, a specialist attached to the 116th airborne division that was deployed just across the border, north of tabriz, one of the hundreds of undercover agents who had infiltrated northern iran for months and now operated almost freely. he was thiny-four' a kgb career officer like his father, and he had been in azerbaijan for six months. his english was good, his farsi and turkish fluent, and although he could not fly, he knew much about the piston- driven soviet army close-support helicopters
of his division. "as to my rank," he added in his most gentle voice, "it is friend. we russians are good friends of finns, aren't we?"
"yes, yes, that's true. russians are not party members. holy russia was a friend in the past, yes, when we were a grand duchy of russia. soviet russia was friendly after '17 when we became independent. soviet russia is now. yes, now. but not in '39. not in the winter war. no, not then."
"nor were you in '41," rakoczy said sharply. "in '41 you went to war against us with the stinking nazis; you sided with them against us."
"true, but only to take back our land, our karelian, our province you'd stolen from us. we didn't walk on to leningrad as we could have done." erikki could feel the knife in the center of his back and he was very glad of it. "are you armed?"
"no. you said not to come armed. my gun is outside the door. i have no pukoh knife nor need to use one. by allah, i'm a friend."
"good. a man has need of friends." erikki watched the man, loathing what he represented: the soviet russia that, unprovoked, had invaded finland in '39 the moment stalin had signed the soviet-german nonaggression pact. finland's little army had fought back alone. they had beaten off the soviet hordes for one hundred days in the winter war and then they had been overrun. erikki's father had been killed defending karelian, the southern and eastern province, where the yokkonens had lived for centuries. at once soviet russia had annexed the province. at once all finns left. all of them. not one would stay under a soviet flag, so the land became barren of finns. erikki was just ten months old then and in that exodus thousands died. his mother had died. it was the worst winter in living memory.
and in '45, erikki thought, bottling his rage, in '45 america and england betrayed us and gave our lands to the aggressor. but we've not forgotten. nor have the estonians, latvians, lithuanians, east germans, czechs, hungarians, bulgars, slavs, romanians the list endless. there will be a day of reckoning with the soviets, oh, yes, one day there will surely be a day of reckoning with the soviets most of all by russians who suffer their lash most of all. "for a georgian you know a lot about finland," he said calmly.
"finland is important to russia. the detente between us works, is safe, and a lesson to the world that anti-soviet american imperialistic propaganda is a myth."
erikki smiled. "this is not the time for politics, eh? it's late. what do you want with me?"
"friendship."
"ah, that's easily asked, but as you would know, for a finn, given with difficulty." erikki reached over to the sideboard for an almost empty vodka bottle and two glasses. "are you shiite?"
"yes, but not a good one, god forgive me. i drink vodka sometimes if that's what you ask."
