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  “Five by five,” Ayre had said. “Starke’s still at Bandar Delam and we’ve had no contact with them other than a snafu half an hour ago.”

  “Rudi sent that?” McIver had tried to keep his voice level.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep in touch with them and with us. What happened to your radio op this morning? I tried calling for a couple of hours but no joy.”

  There had been a long pause. “He’s been detained.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “I don’t know, Mac—Captain McIver. As soon as I know I’ll report it. Also, as soon as I can I’ll get Marc Dubois back to Bandar Delam, but, well, it’s a bit off here. We’ve all been confined to base, there’s…there’s a charming and friendly armed guard here in the tower, all flights are grounded except for CASEVACs and even then we’ve been ordered to take guards along—and no flights’re authorized out of our area.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “I don’t know. Our revered base commander, Colonel Peshadi, assured me it was temporary, just for today, perhaps tomorrow. By the way, at 1516 hours we had a brief call from Captain Scragger in Charlie Echo Zulu Zulu en route with a special charter for Bandar Delam.”

  “What the hell’s he going there for?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Old Scr—Captain Scragger said it’s been requested by de Plessey at Siri. I, er, I don’t think I’ve much more time. Our friendly guard’s getting nervous but if you can get the 125 here Peshadi said he’d clear her to land. I’ll try to send Manuela off but don’t expect much, she’s as nervous as a rabbit in a kennel full of beagles without real news of Starke.”

  “I can imagine. Tell her I’m sending Gen. I’ll sign off now, God knows how long it’ll take me to get to the airport.” He had turned his attention to Genny. “Gen, pack a b—”

  “What do you want to take with you, Duncan?” she had asked sweetly.

  “I’m not going, you are!”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. If you’re going to meet the 125 you’d better hurry, but do be careful and don’t forget the photos! Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that while you were trying to get into your office, Sharazad sent one of her servants over asking us to dinner.”

  “Gen, you are leaving with the 125 and that’s that!”

  The argument had lasted no time at all. He had left and had used back roads, most of the main intersections clogged with milling crowds. Every time he was stopped he would hold up the Khomeini photograph with LONG LIVE THE AYATOLLAH in Farsi on the bottom and he would be waved through. He saw no troops, gendarmes, or police so he did not need the photo of the Shah with LONG LIVE GLORIOUS IRAN on the bottom. It still took two and a half hours for a journey that would normally take an hour, his anxiety about being late growing minute by minute.

  But the 125 wasn’t on either of the parallel runways, or the freight area apron, or near the terminal building across the field. Again he glanced at his watch: 5:17 P.M. Another hour of light. She’s cutting it fine, he told himself, if she arrives at all. God knows, they may have already turned her back.

  Near the terminal building several civilian jets were still grounded. One of them, a Royal Iranian Air 747, was a twisted wreck, gutted by fire. The others seemed all right—he was too far away to see all their markings but among them would be the still-grounded Alitalia flight. Paula Giancani was still staying with them, Nogger Lane very much in attendance. She’s a nice girl that one, he thought absently.

  Ahead now was the gate of the freight area and depot. The depot had been closed since last Wednesday—automatically on Thursday and Friday (the Muslim Holy Day) being the Iranian weekend—and there had been no way he or any of his staff could have got there Saturday or Sunday. The gate was open and unguarded. He swung through it into the forecourt. In front of him was the customs freight shed and barriers, signs everywhere in English and Farsi: NO ADMITTANCE, INBOUND, OUTBOUND, KEEP OUT, and company signs of the various international carriers and helicopter companies that had permanent offices here. Normally it was almost impossible to drive into the forecourt. There was work around the clock for half a thousand men, handling the enormous quantity of goods, military and civilian, that poured into Iran in exchange for part of the $90 million daily oil revenue. But now the area was deserted. Hundreds of crates and cartons of all sizes were scattered in the snow—many broken open and looted, most sodden. A few abandoned cars and trucks, some derelict, and one truck burned out. Bullet holes in the sheds.

  The customs gate that barred the way to the apron was closed, held only by a bolt. The sign, in English and Farsi, read: NO ENTRY WITHOUT CUSTOMS APPROVAL. He waited, then honked and waited again. No one answered him so he got out, opened the gate wide, and got back into his car. A few yards the other side he stopped, rebolted the gate, then drove down the tarmac to the S-G stores and office shed and allied hangars and repair shop with space for four 212s and five 206s now containing three 206s, and one 212.

  To his relief the main doors were still closed and locked. He had been afraid the stores and hangar might have been broken into and looted or wrecked. This was their main depot for repairs and spares in Iran. Over $2 million worth of spares and specialized tools were on the inventory, along with their own refueling pumps and underground tanks containing a highly secret cache of 50,000 gallons of helicopter fuel that McIver had “lost” when the troubles began in earnest.

  He scanned the sky. The wind told him the 125 would land from the west on runway 29 left but there was no sign of it. He unlocked the door, closed it after him, and hurried through the chilly foyer to the main office to the telex. It was switched off. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered out loud. Standing orders were for it to be on at all times. When he turned it on, nothing happened. He tried the lights but they didn’t work either. “Bloody country.” Irritably he went over to the HF and UHF receiver-transmitters and switched them on. Both were battery-operated for emergencies. Their hum comforted him.

  “Echo Tango Lima Lima,” he said crisply into the mike, giving the 125’s registration letters: ETLL. “This is McIver, do you read?”

  “Echo Tango Lima Lima—we certainly do, old boy,” the laconic answer came back at once. “It’s rather lonely up here—we’ve been calling for half an hour. Where are you?”

  “At the freight office. Sorry, Johnny,” he said, recognizing the voice of their senior fixed-wing captain. “Had a hell of a time getting here—I’ve just arrived. Where are you?”

  “Seventeen miles due south—in the soup—passing through nine thousand on standard approach, expecting final on runway 29 left. What’s going on, Mac? We can’t raise Tehran Tower—in fact we haven’t had a single callback ever since we came into Iran airspace.”

  “Good God! Not even from Kish radar?”

  “Not even from them, old boy. What’s amiss?”

  “I don’t know. The tower was operating yesterday—up to midnight last night. The military gave us a clearance for a flight south.” McIver was astonished, knowing Kish radar was punctilious about all traffic inbound or outbound, particularly trans-Gulf. “The whole airfield’s deserted which is pretty hairy. Coming here there were crowds all over town, a few roadblocks, but nothing out of the ordinary, no riots or anything.”

  “Any problem for a landing?”

  “I doubt if any landing aids are functional but cloud cover is about four thousand, visibility ten miles. Runway looks all right.”

  “What do you think?”

  McIver weighed the pros and cons of a landing—without tower assistance or approval. “You’ve enough fuel for the return trip?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ve a no-fuel capability?”

  “Unless an emergency—for the moment.”

  “I’m through the cloud cover at forty-seven hundred and have you in sight.”

  “Okay, Echo Tango Lima Lima. Wind’s from the east at about ten knots. Normally you’d land on 29 left. The military base seems closed down and deserted so there should be no other t
raffic—all civilian flights in- and outbound have been canceled. Suggest you make a pass and if it looks okay to you, come straight in—don’t hang around in the sky, there’re too many trigger-happy jokers about. Once you’ve landed, turn around for a quick takeoff just in case. I’ll drive out to meet you.”

  “Echo Tango Lima Lima.”

  McIver took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and forehead. But when he got up, his heart seemed to turn in his chest.

  Standing in the open doorway was a customs officer, his hand casually on his holstered gun. His uniform was soiled and crumpled, his roundish face grizzled with three or four days’ growth of beard.

  “Oh,” McIver said, fighting to appear calm. “Salaam, Agha.” He did not recognize him as one of their regulars.

  The man shifted his gun hand ominously, his eyes going from McIver to the radio sets and back to McIver.

  Haltingly, for McIver spoke very little Farsi, he said, “Inglissi me danid, Agha? Be bahk shid man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam.” Do you speak English, sir? Please excuse me but I don’t speak your language.

  The customs officer grunted. “What you do here?” he said in halting English, his teeth tobacco-stained.

  “I’m… I’m Captain McIver, head of S-G Helicopters,” he replied, carefully and slowly. “I’m just…just checking my telex and here to meet an incoming plane.”

  “Plane—what plane? Wh—”

  At that moment the 125 came directly over the airport at one thousand feet. The Customs man hurried out of the office onto the tarmac, closely followed by McIver. They saw the lovely clean lines of the twin-engined jet against the murky overcast and watched a moment as she hurtled away to go into a steep bank to join the landing pattern.

  “What plane? Eh?”

  “It’s our regular flight—regular flight from Al Shargaz.”

  The name sent the man into a paroxysm of invective.

  “Be bahk shid nana dhan konan.” Sorry, I don’t understand.

  “No land…no land, understand?” The man angrily pointed from the plane to the office with the HF. “Tell plane!”

  McIver nodded calmly, not feeling calm, and beckoned him back into the office. He counted out 10,000 rials, about $110, and offered it. “Please accept the landing fee—landing money.”

  The man spurned it with more unintelligible Farsi. McIver put the money on the table, then walked past the man into the storeroom. He unlocked a door. In the small room, put there for just this purpose, were odds and ends of spares, and three full five-gallon cans of gasoline. He picked up one can and put it outside the door, remembering what General Valik had said: a pishkesh was not a bribe but a gift and a good Iranian custom. After a second, McIver decided to leave the door but left it open—three cans would more than guarantee no problem. “Be bahk shid, Agha.” Please excuse me, Excellency. Then he added in English, “I must meet my masters.”

  He went out of the building and got into his car and did not look back. “Bloody bastard, damn near gave me a heart attack!” he muttered, then put the man out of his mind, drove on to the taxi runway, and headed for the intercept point. The snow was only a few inches deep and not too bad. His were the only tracks, the main runways equally virgin. The wind had picked up, increasing the chill factor. He did not notice it, concentrating on the airplane.

  The 125 came around in a tight turn, gear and flaps down, sideslipping deftly to lose height and cut down the approach distance. John Hogg flared and touched down, letting her roll until it was safe and even then using brakes with great caution. He turned onto the taxi runway and increased power to meet McIver. Near the first access path back to the runway, he stopped.

  By the time McIver came alongside, the door was open, the steps down, John Hogg waiting at the foot, bundled in a parka, stamping his feet against the cold.

  “Hi, Mac!” he called out—a neat, spare man with a lean face and mustache. “Great to see you. Come on in—it’ll be warmer for you.”

  “Good idea.” McIver hastily switched off and followed him up the steps. Inside it was snug, lights on, coffee ready, London newspapers in the rack. McIver knew there would be wine and beer in the refrigerator, a sit-down toilet with soft paper in the back—civilization again. He shook hands warmly with Hogg and waved at the copilot. “I’m so glad to see you, Johnny. His mouth dropped open. Seated in one of the swivel chairs in the eight-place airplane, beaming at him, was Andy Gavallan.

  “Hello, Mac!”

  “My God! My God, Chinaboy, it’s good to see you,” McIver said, pummeling his hand. “What the hell are you doing—why didn’t you tell me you were coming—what’s the id—”

  “Slow down, laddie. Coffee?”

  “My God, yes.” McIver sat opposite him. “How’s Maureen—and little Electra?”

  “Great—wonderful! Her second birthday coming and already she’s a holy terror! Thought we’d better have a chat so I got on the bird and here I am.”

  “Can’t tell you how glad I am. You’re looking great,” McIver said.

  And he was. “Thank you, laddie, you’re not so bad yoursel’. How are you, really, Mac?” Gavallan asked more pointedly.

  “Excellent.” Hogg put down the coffee in front of McIver. With a small tot of whisky and another for Gavallan. “Ah, thanks, Johnny,” McIver said, brightening. “Health!” He touched glasses with Gavallan and swallowed the spirit gratefully. “I’m cold as charity. Just had a run-in with a bloody Customs man! Why’re you here? Any problem, Andy? Oh, but what about the 125? Both the revs and loyalists are all very twitchy—either of them could arrive in force and impound her.”

  “Johnny Hogg’s keeping an eye out for them. We’ll talk about my problems in a minute but I decided that I’d better come and see for myself. We’ve too much at risk now, here and outside, with all our new, upcoming contracts and aircraft. The X63’s a total smash, Mac, everything and better!”

  “Great, wonderful. When do we get her?”

  “Next year—more about her later. Iran’s my top priority now. We have to have some contingency plans, how to keep in touch and so on. Yesterday I spent hours in Al Shargaz trying to get an Iranian clearance for Tehran but no joy on that. Even their embassy was closed; I went to their Al Mullah building myself but it was closed tighter than a gnat’s arse. I got our rep to call the ambassador’s home but he was out to lunch—all day. Eventually I went to Al Shargaz Air Traffic Control and chatted them up. They suggested we wait but I talked them into clearing us out and having a stab and here we are. First what’s the state of our ops?”

  McIver related what he knew.

  Much of Gavallan’s good humor vanished. “So Charlie’s vanished, Tom Lochart’s risking his neck and our whole Iranian venture—stupidly or bravely depending on your point of view—Duke Starke’s up the creek in Bandar Delam with Rudi, Kowiss is in a state of siege, and we’ve been tossed out of our offices.”

  “Yes.” McIver added gruffly. “I authorized Tom’s flight.”

  “I’d’ve done the same, probably, if I’d been on the spot, though it doesn’t excuse the danger to him, to us, or poor bloody Valik and his family. But I agree, SAVAK’s too smelly for anyone’s taste.” Gavallan was distinctly rattled though he showed none of it on his face. “Ian was right again.”

  “Ian? Dunross? You saw him? How is the old bugger?”

  “He called from Shanghai.” Gavallan told him what he had said. “What’s the latest on the political situation here?”

  “You should know more than we do—we only get real news through the BBC or VOA. There’re still no newspapers and only rumors,” McIver said, but he was remembering the good times he had had with Dunross in Hong Kong. He had taught him to fly a small chopper the year before joining Gavallan in Aberdeen, and though they had not socialized very much, McIver had enjoyed his company greatly. “Bakhtiar’s still top man with the forces behind him, but Bazargan and Khomeini’re gnawing at his heels… Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you, Boss Kyabi’s been m
urdered.”

  “Christ Almighty, that’s terrible! But why?”

  “We don’t know the why or how or by whom. Freddy Ayre told us obliqu—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” came over the loudspeaker, a thread of urgency under Hogg’s placid voice. “There’re three cars stuffed with men and guns heading our way, coming from the terminal area.”

  Both men peered out of the small round windows. They could see the cars now. Gavallan picked up his binoculars and trained them. “Five or six men in each car. There’s a mullah in the front of the first car. Khomeini’s people!” He slung the binoculars around his neck and was out of his seat quickly. “Johnny!”

  Hogg was already at the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Plan B!” At once Hogg gave the thumbs-up to his copilot who immediately started to open the throttles as Gavallan struggled into a parka and picked up a light travel bag on the run. “Come on, Mac!” He led the way down the steps two at a time, McIver just behind him. The moment they were clear, the steps pulled back, the door slammed closed, the engines picked up, and the 125 taxied away, gathering speed. “Put your back to the cars, Mac—don’t watch them, watch her leave!”

  It had all happened so rapidly McIver hardly had time to zip his parka. One of the cars peeled off to intercept but by now the 125 was careening down the runway. In seconds it took off and was away. Now they faced the oncoming cars.

  “Now what, Andy?”

  “That depends on the welcoming committee.”

  “What the hell was Plan B?”

  Gavallan laughed. “Better than Plan C, laddie. That was a shit or bust. Plan B: I get out, Johnny takes off at once, and tells no one he had to leave in a hurry, tomorrow he comes back to pick me up at the same time; if there’s no contact, visually or by radio, then Johnny skips a day and comes an hour earlier—and so on for four days. Then he sits on his tail in Al Shargaz and waits for further instructions.”

  “Plan A?”

  “That’s if we could have safely stayed overnight—them on guard in the plane, me with you.”

  The cars skidded to a stop, the mullah and Green Bands surrounding them, guns trained on them, everyone shouting. Suddenly Gavallan bellowed, “Allah-u Akbar,” and everyone stopped, startled. With a flourish he lifted his hat to the mullah who was also armed, took out an official-looking document—written in Farsi—that was heavily sealed with red wax at the bottom. He handed it to him. “It’s permission to land in Tehran from the ‘new’ ambassador in London,” he told McIver airily as men crowded around the mullah peering at the paper. “I stopped off in London to collect it. It says I’m a VIP—on official business and I can arrive and leave without harm.”