his head, motioning that he would prefer to stay alongside. he pointed ahead. once more in their headsets: "al shargaz, this is agha siamaki in tehran, do you read?" then more farsi. "al shargaz..."
at al shargaz hq: "... this is agha siamaki..." then another splurge of farsi. gavallan's fingers drummed on the desktop, outwardly calm, inwardly not. he had not been able to reach pettikin before he left for the hospital and there was nothing he could do to choke siamaki and numir off the air. scot adjusted the volume slightly, lessening the harangue, pretending with nogger to be nonchalant. manuela said throatily, "he's plenty mad, andy."
at lengeh: 9:26 a.m. scragger had the nozzle gushing gasoline into the police car. it frothed, overflowing, staining him. muttering a curse he let the lever go, hung the nozzle back on the pump. two green bands were nearby, watching closely. the corporal screwed the tank cap back into place. qeshemi spoke to ali pash a moment. "his excellency asks if you could spare him some five-gallon cans, captain. of course full ones."
"sure, why not? how many does he want?"
"he says he could take three in the trunk and two inside. five."
"five it is."
scragger found the cans and filled them and together they loaded the police car. she's a bloody molotov cocktail, he thought. storm clouds were building quickly. a flash of lightning in the mountains. "tell him best not to smoke in the car."
"his excellency thanks you."
"anytime." thunder came down from the mountains. more lightning. scragger watched qeshemi leisurely look around the camp. the two green bands were waiting. a few others were squatting in the lee of the wind, watching idly. now he could stand it no longer. "well, agha, i better be off," he said, pointing at the 212 then into the sky. "okay?"
qeshemi looked at him strangely. "okay? what okay, agha?"
"i go now." scragger motioned with his hand, pantomiming flying away, and kept his glazed smile. "mamnoon am, khoda haefez." thank you, goodbye. he held out his hand to him.
the sergeant stared at the hand then looked up at him, the shrewd hard eyes boring into him. then the sergeant said, "okay. good-bye, agha," and firmly shook hands.
the sweat was running down scragger's face, and he forced himself not to wipe it away. "mamnoon am. khoda haefez, agha." he nodded at ali pash,
wanting to make it a good farewell, wanting to shake hands too but not daring to stretch their luck, so he just clapped him on the back in passing. "see you, me son. happy days."
"good landings, agha." ali pash watched scragger climb into the cockpit and get airborne and wave as he flew away. he waved back, then saw qeshemi looking at him. "if i may be permitted, if you will excuse me, excellency sergeant, i will lock up and then go to the mosque."
qeshemi nodded and turned back to the departing 212. how obvious they are, he was thinking, the old pilot and this young fool. so easy to read the minds of men if you're patient and watch for clues. very dangerous to fly off illegally. even more dangerous to help foreigners fly off illegally and stay behind. madness! men are very strange. as god wants.
one of the green bands, a barely bearded youth with an ak47, wandered closer, pointedly looked at the cans of gasoline in the back of the car. qeshemi said nothing, just nodded to him. the youth nodded back, eyes hard, strolled off insolently to join the others.
the sergeant got into the driver's seat. leprous sons of dogs, he thought sardonically, you're not the law in lengeh yet thanks be to god. "time to go, achmed, time to go." as the corporal climbed in beside him qeshemi saw the helicopter go over the rise and vanish. still so easy to catch you, old man, he told himself, bemused. so easy to alert the net, our phones are working and we've a direct link with kish fighter base. are a few gallons pishkesh enough for your freedom? i haven't decided yet.
"i'll drop you at the station, achmed, then i'm off duty till tomorrow. i'll keep the car for the day."
qeshemi let in the clutch. perhaps we should have gone with the foreigners easy to force them to take us, my family and i, but then that would have meant living on the wrong side of our persian gulf, living among arabs. i've never liked arabs, never trusted them. no, my plan's better. quietly down the old coast road all today and all tonight, then my cousin's chow to pakistan with plenty of spare gasoline for pishkesh. many of our people are there already. i'll make a good life for my wife and my son and little sousan until, with the help of god, we can come home again. too much hatred here now, too many years serving the shah. good years. as shahs go he was fine for us. we were always paid.
north of lengeh: 9:23 a.m. the cabbage patch was ten kilometers northeast of the base, a desolate, barren rocky area in the foothills of mountains, and the two helicopters were parked, side by side, engines ticking over. ed vossi was standing at willi's cockpit window. "i feel like throwing up, willi."
"me too." willi shifted his headset slightly, the vhf on but, according to plan, not to be used unless in emergency, only listened to.
"you got something, willi?" vossi asked.
"no, just static."
"shit. he must be in dead trouble. another minute then i go look, willi."
"we go look together." willi watched the lightning in the hills, visibility about a mile with the clouds black and closing in. "no day for joy riding, ed."
"no."
then willi's face lit up like a rocket and he pointed, "there he is!" scragger's 212 was approaching at about seven hundred feet, dawdling along. vossi took to his heels for his cockpit and got in. now in their headphones: "how's your torque counter, willi?"
"not good, scrag," willi said happily, following their plan in case anyone was listening. "i asked ed to take a look at her and he's not sure either his radio's out."
"i'll land and we'll have a conference. scragger to base, do you read?" no answer. "scragger to base, we'll be on the ground awhile." no answer.
willi gave the thumbs-up to vossi. both opened their throttles, concentrating on scragger who was coming down in a leisurely landing approach.
at ground level scragger checked his descent, and led the rush for the coast. now the exhilaration was extreme, vossi was shouting with glee, and even willi was smiling. "by god harry..."
scragger went up over the ridge and down the other side and now he could see the coast and their small van parked on the rocky foreshore just above the waves. his heart missed a beat. a herd of goats with three herdsmen dotted his landing area. fifty yards up the beach was a car with some people and children playing where never before had they seen anyone. just out to sea a small powerboat was cruising along. could be a fishing boat, could be one of the regular patrols against smugglers or escapees, for here with oman and the pirate coast so close, historically there had always been great coastal vigilance.
can't change now, he thought, heart racing. he saw benson and the other two mechanics spot him, jump into the van, and drive toward his landing area. behind him willi and vossi had throttled back to give him time. without hesitation he went into his landing fast, goats scattering, herdsmen and picnickers transfixed. the moment his skids touched he shouted, "come on!"
the mechanics needed no urging. benson rushed for the cabin door and hurled it open, charged back to help the other two who had unlocked the van's tailgate. together they pulled out suitcases and satchels and baggage and stumbled over to begin loading the cabin already stuffed with spares. scragger looked around and saw that willi and vossi had gone into hover, on guard. "so far so good," he said out loud, concentrating on the onlookers who were
over their astonishment and were coming closer. his eyes searched all around. no real danger yet. nonetheless he made sure his very pistol was ready just in case, and willed the mechanics to hurry, worried that any moment the police car would come hurrying down the road. a second load. then another, then the last, all three mechanics sweating, and now two clambered into the cabin, slammed the door. benson fell into the front seat beside him, swore, and began to get out. "i forgot to switch off the van."
"to hell with that, here we go." scragger opened up the throttles and got airborne, benson locking the door, fixing his seat belt, and they were over the waves out into the haze of the gulf. scragger looked left and right. willi and vossi were flanking him tightly, and he wished he was hf equipped so he could report
"lima three" to gavallan. never mind, we'll be there in a jiffy!
once past the first of the rigs, he began to breathe easier. hate leaving young ali pash like that, he thought, hate leaving georges de plessey and his lads, hate leaving the two 206s, hate leaving. well, i've done me best. i've left recommendations and job promises for when we come back, if we come back, for ali pash and the others in the clerk's top drawer with all the money i had left.
he checked his course, heading southwest for siri as though on their milk run in case they were on radar. near siri he would turn southeast for al shargaz and home. all being well, he thought, and touched the rabbit's foot nell had given him so many years ago for luck. past another rig to port, siri six. the electrical storm was crackling his headphones, then mixed with it loud and clear was: "hey, scragger, you and les gars, you're low, n'est-ce pas?"
it was the voice of frangois menange, the manager of the rig they had just passed, and he cursed the man's vigilance. to close him down, he clicked on the transmit: "mum's the word, franc ois, quiet, eh? practicing. be quiet, eh?"
now the voice was laughing. "bien stir, but you're crazy to practice low on a day like today. adieu."
sweat was beginning again. four more rigs to pass before he could turn into the open sea.
they went through the first squall line, the wind buffeting them, rain loud on the windows, streaking them, plenty of sheet lightning all around. willi and vossi were tight on station and he was pleased to be flying with them. forty times i thought qeshemi was going to say, "you comealongame" and take me down to the pokey. but then he didn't and here we are and in an hour forty-odd minutes we'll be home and iran only a memory.
at kowiss air base hq: 9:46 a.m. the mullah hussain said patiently, "tell me more about minister kia, captain." he sat behind the desk in the base commander's office. a hard-faced green band guarded the door.
"i've told you everything i know," mciver said exhaustedly.
"then please tell me about captain starke." polite, insistent, and unhurried as though there were all day and all night and all tomorrow.
"i've told you about him, too, agha. i've told you about them both for almost a couple of hours. i'm tired and there's nothing more to tell." mciver got up from his chair and stretched and sat down again. no use trying to leave. he had done that once and the green band had silently motioned him back. "unless you have something specific i can't think of anything to add."
he had not been surprised at the mullah probing about kia and had repeated over and over how a few weeks ago kia had suddenly been made a director out of nowhere, about his own limited dealings with him in the last few weeks, though not about the checks on banks in switzerland that had greased the way for the 125 and got three 212s out of the cauldron. damned if i'm going to do a wazari on kia, he had told himself.
kia's understandable, but why duke starke? where duke went to school, what he eats, how long he's been married, one wife or more, how long with the company, is he catholic or protestant anything and everything and then tell it all again. insatiable. and always the same quiet, evasive answer to his question, why?
"because he interests me, captain."
mciver looked out of the window. a speckle of rain. clouds low. distant thunder. there'd be updrafts and a few real whirlwinds in the thunderclouds eastward great cover for the dash across the gulf. what's happening with scrag and rudi and their lads? rushed back into the forefront of his mind. with an effort he pushed that away for later and his weariness, and worry and what the hell he was going to do when this interrogation finished. if it finished. beware! concentrate! you'll make a mistake if you're not a hundred percent, then you'll all be lost.
he knew his reserves were badly depleted. last night he had slept badly and that had not helped. nor had lochart's enormous sadness over sharazad. difficult for tom to face the truth, impossible to say it to him: wasn't it bound to fall apart, tom, old friend? she's muslim, she's rich, you'll never be, her heritage's bound in steel, yours in gossamer, her family's her lifeblood, yours
isn't, she can stay, you can't, and the final sword hanging over you, hbc. so sad, he thought. did it ever have a chance? with the shah, maybe. with the inflexibility of the new?
what would i do if i were tom? with an effort he stopped his mind wandering. he could feel the mullah's eyes boring into him. they had hardly wavered once since changiz had brought him here and had gone away.
ah, yes, colonel bloody changiz. in the car coming over here and during the waiting he too had been probing. but his probing was just to establish exactly when and how often their 125 was scheduled for kowiss, how many green bands were stationed on their side of the base, when they arrived, how many stayed on the base, and did they surround and guard the 125 all the time she was on the ground. the questioning had been casual, nothing asked that could not be more than just interest, but mciver was certain the real reason was to erect an escape route if necessary. the final cement, the barter: "even in a revolution mistakes happen, captain. friends are needed in high places more than ever, sad but true." you scratch my back or i'll claw yours.
