Whirlwind Page 34

  “How the devil did you manage that?” McIver asked, admiringly.

  “Influence, laddie. Influence and a large heung yau.” He carefully added the Cantonese equivalent of pishkesh.

  “You will come with us,” a bearded youth near the mullah said, his accent American. “You are under arrest!”

  “For what, my dear sir?”

  “Illegal landings without permiss—”

  Gavallan stabbed at the paper. “Here is an official permission from your very own ambassador in London! Up the revolution! Long live Ayatollah Khomeini!”

  The youth hesitated, then translated for the mullah. There was an angry exchange and mutterings among them. “You will together come with us!”

  “We will follow in our car! Come on, Mac,” Gavallan said firmly and got into the passenger seat. McIver turned on the ignition. For a moment the men were nonplussed, then the man who could speak English and another got into the back. Both carried an AK47.

  “Go to terminal! You under arrest.”

  In the terminal, near the Immigration barrier, were more hostile men and a very nervous Immigration official. At once McIver showed his airport pass, work permit, explained who he and Gavallan were and how they worked under license for IranOil and tried to talk them past but he was imperiously waved into silence. Meticulously and ponderously the official examined the paper and Gavallan’s passport—all the while the youths crowding them, the smell of bodies heavy. Then he opened Gavallan’s bag and searched it roughly but it contained just shaving gear, a spare shirt, underclothes, and night clothes. And a fifth of whisky. At once the bottle was confiscated by one of the young men, opened, and poured on the floor.

  “Dew neh loh moh,” Gavallan said sweetly in Cantonese, and McIver nearly choked. “Up the revolution.”

  The mullah questioned the official, and they could see the sweat and the fear in him. At length the youth who could speak English said, “The authorities will keep paper and passport and you explain more later.”

  “I will keep my passport,” Gavallan said easily.

  “The authorities keep. Enemies will suffer. Those who break the laws—illegal landings and comings here—will suffer Islamic punishments. His Excellency wants to know who on the airplane with you?”

  “Just my crew of two. They’re on the manifest attached to the Permission to Land. Now, my passport, please, and that document.”

  “The authorities keep. Where you stay?”

  McIver gave his address.

  The man translated. Again there was a heated discussion. “I am to tell you: now your airplanes may not fly or landings without permissions first. All Iran airplanes—all airplanes now in Iran belong to the state an—”

  “Airplanes belong to their legal owners. Legal owners,” McIver said.

  “Yes,” the man said with a sneer, “our Islamic state is owners. You not like laws, leave. Leave Iran. We not ask you here.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong. We, in S-G Helicopters, were invited here. We work for your government and have served IranOil for years.”

  The man spat on the floor. “IranOil Shah company. Islamic state owns oil not foreigners. You soon arrested with all others for great crime: stealing Iran oil!”

  “Rubbish! We’ve stolen nothing!” McIver said. “We’ve helped Iran into the twentieth century! We’ve b—”

  “Leave Iran if you want,” the spokesman said again, paying no attention to him. “Now all orders come from Imam Khomeini, Allah protect him! He says no landings or takeoffs without permission. Each time, one Khomeini guard goes with each airplane. Understand?”

  “We understand what you say,” Gavallan replied politely. “May I ask that we have this in writing, as the Bakhtiar government may not agree.”

  The man translated this and there was a roar of laughter. “Bakhtiar is gone,” the man said through his own laughter. “That dog of a Shah man is in hiding. Hiding, you understand? The Imam is the government! Him alone.”

  “Yes, of course,” Gavallan said, not believing him. “We can go, then?”

  “Go. Tomorrow report the authorities.”

  “Where—and what authorities?”

  “Tehran authorities.” The man translated for the others and again everyone laughed. The mullah pocketed the passport and paper and strode off importantly. Guards went with him, taking along the sweating Immigration officer. Most of the others wandered off, seemingly aimlessly. A few stayed watching them, lounging against the wall, smoking—their U.S. Army rifles slung carelessly. It was very cold in the terminal. And very empty.

  “He’s quite right you know,” a voice said. Gavallan and McIver looked around. It was George Talbot of the British embassy, a short dry man of fifty-five, wearing a heavy raincoat and a Russian-style fur hat. He stood in the doorway of a customs office. Beside him was a tall, broad-shouldered man of sixty with hard, pale blue eyes, his mustache gray as his hair and clipped, and dressed casually, scarf, soft hat, and an old raincoat. Both were smoking.

  “Oh, hello, George, nice to see you.” Gavallan went over to him, offering his hand. He had known him over the years, both in Iran and Malaya—Talbot’s previous posting—where S-G also had an extensive oil support operation. “How long have you been here?”

  “Just a few minutes.” Talbot stubbed out his cigarette, coughed absently. “Hello, Duncan! Well, this is a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” Gavallan glanced at the other man.

  “Ah, may I introduce Mr. Armstrong?”

  Gavallan shook hands. “Hello,” he said, wondering where he’d seen him before and who he was—the hardness to the eyes and strong face. Fifty pounds to a bent button he’s CIA if he’s American, he thought. “You’re embassy too?” he asked casually to find out.

  The man smiled and shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Gavallan had turned his ears and did not detect a pure English or American accent. Might be either, or Canadian, he thought, difficult to tell on two words.

  “You’re here on official business, George?” McIver asked.

  “Yes and no.” Talbot strolled over to the door that led back to the airport apron where McIver’s car was parked, guiding them away from prying ears. “Actually the moment we heard your incoming jet on the air, we, er, we hurried out here hoping you could take out some er, some dispatches for Her Majesty’s Government. The ambassador would have been most grateful, but, well, we were here just in time to see your plane take off. Pity!”

  “I’d be glad to help in any way,” Gavallan said as quietly. “Perhaps tomorrow?” He saw the sudden glance between the two men and wondered even more what was amiss.

  “Is that possible, Mr. Gavallan?” Armstrong asked.

  “It’s possible.” Gavallan pegged him to be English, though not all English.

  Talbot smiled, coughed without noticing it. “You’ll leave with or without Iranian permission, an official permit—or a passport?”

  “I, er, do have a copy of the paper. And another passport—I applied for a spare, officially, against this eventuality.”

  Talbot sighed. “Irregular but wise. Yes. Oh, by the way, I would very much like a copy of your Official Permission to Land.”

  “Perhaps that’s not such a good idea—officially. You never know what larceny some people are up to these days.”

  Talbot laughed. Then he said, “If you, er, do leave tomorrow we would appreciate it if you’d kindly take Mr. Armstrong—I presume Al Shargaz will be your first port of call.”

  Gavallan hesitated. “This is a formal request?”

  Talbot smiled. “Formally informal.”

  “With or without Iranian permission, permit, or passport?”

  Talbot chuckled. “You’re perfectly correct to ask. I guarantee that Mr. Armstrong’s papers will be perfectly in order.” He added pointedly to finish the conversation, “As you so correctly pointed out there’s no accounting for the larceny some people will get up to these days.”

 
Gavallan nodded. “Very well, Mr. Armstrong. I’ll be with Captain McIver. It’ll be up to you to stay in touch. The earliest ETD’d be about 5:00 P.M. but I won’t wait around for you. All right?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Again Gavallan had been listening carefully but still could not decide. “George, when we started talking, you said of that arrogant little bastard, ‘He’s quite right, you know.’ Right about what? That now I’ve to find or report to some nebulous authorities in Tehran?”

  “No. That Bakhtiar’s resigned and in hiding.”

  Both men gaped at him. “God Almighty, are you sure?”

  “Bakhtiar formally resigned a couple of hours ago and has, somewhat wisely, vanished.” Talbot’s voice was soft and calm, cigarette smoke punctuating his words. “Actually the situation’s suddenly rather dicey, hence our, er, anxiety to, er, well, never mind that. Last night the chief of staff, General Ghara-Baghi, supported by the generals, ordered all troops back into their barracks, declaring the armed forces were now ‘neutral,’ thus leaving their legal prime minister defenseless and the state to Khomeini.”

  “‘Neutral?’” Gavallan echoed with disbelief. “That’s not possible—not possible—they’d be committing suicide.”

  “I agree. But it is true.”

  “Christ!”

  “Of course, only some of the units will obey, others will fight,” Talbot said. “Certainly the police and SAVAK aren’t affected; they won’t give up though now their battle will be lost eventually. Insha’Allah, old boy. Meanwhile blood will fill the jolly gutters, rest assured.”

  McIver broke the silence. “But…if Bakhtiar…doesn’t that mean it’s over? It’s over,” he said with growing excitement. “The civil war’s over and thank God for that. The generals have stopped the real bloodbath—the total bloodbath. Now we can all get back to normal. The trouble’s over.”

  “Oh, no, my dear chap,” Talbot said even more calmly. “The trouble’s just begun.”

  AT RIG BELLISSIMA: 6:35 P.M. The sunset was glorious, red-tinged clouds low on the horizon, clean clear sky, the evening star brilliant, a three-quarter moon. But it was very cold here at twelve thousand five hundred feet, and already dark in the east and Jean-Luc had difficulty in picking out the incoming 212.

  “Here she comes, Gianni,” Jean-Luc shouted at the driller.

  This would complete Scot Gavallan’s third round-trip. Everyone—riggers cooks, laborers, three cats and four dogs and a canary belonging to Gianni Salubrio—had already been safely transported to Rig Rosa, with the exception of Mario Guineppa who had insisted on waiting till last, in spite of Jean-Luc’s pleadings, and Gianni, Pietro, and two others who were still shutting down the rig.

  Jean-Luc kept a wary eye on the overhang that worked from time to time, sending shivers down his spine. When the chopper had come back the first time, everyone had held their breath at the noise even though Pietro had assured them all that was just an old wives’ tale—only dynamite would start an avalanche, or an Act of God. And then as if to prove him wrong the overhang shifted again, only a little but enough to nauseate those still left on the rig.

  Pietro pulled the last switch and the turbines of the diesel generators began to slow. He wiped his face tiredly and left an oil smear. His back ached and his hands hurt in the cold but the well was sealed and as safe as he could make it. Out over the abyss he saw the chopper beginning her careful approach. “Let’s leave,” he said to the others in Italian. “There’s nothing more that we can do here—nothing more to do except blow that shit roll above to hell!”

  The others irritably crossed themselves and trudged off toward the helipad and left him. He looked up at the crest. “You look as though you’re alive,” he muttered, “a shit-roll monster waiting to get me and my beautiful wells. But you won’t, you motherless whore!”

  He went to the little dynamite storeroom and picked up the two exploders that he had made—six sticks of dynamite in each, wrapped around a thirty-second fuse. Carefully he put them in a small carrying bag, with a lighter and matches as a backup. “Mother of God,” he prayed simply, “make these fornicators work.”

  “Pietro! Hey, Pietro!”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming, there’s plenty of time!” Outside he saw the white, pinched face of Gianni. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Guineppa—better take a look!”

  Mario Guineppa lay on his back, his breath rattling in his throat, eyelids flickering. Jean-Luc was beside the bed, his hand on the man’s pulse. “It’s rapid…then I can’t feel it at all,” he said uneasily.

  “Mario had a serious medical four weeks ago, his annual—cardiogram, everything. Very serious. He was perfect!” Pietro spat on the floor. “Doctors!”

  “He was a fool to insist on waiting,” Gianni said.

  “He’s the boss, he does what he likes. Let’s put him on the stretcher and get going.” Pietro was grave. “There’s nothing we can do for him here. The hell with the dynamite, we’ll do it later or tomorrow.”

  Carefully they lifted him, wrapped him warmly, and carried him out of the trailer, through the snow, toward the waiting helicopter. Just as they reached the helipad, the mountain groaned. They looked up. Snow and ice began tumbling, gathering weight. In seconds the avalanche was in full flood. There was no time to run, nothing to do but wait. The roar increased. Snow poured down the mountain to carry the far trailer hut and one of the vast steel mud tanks into the abyss. Then it ceased.

  “Mamma mia,” Gianni gasped, crossing himself. “I thought we were gone that time.”

  Jean-Luc, too, had crossed himself. Now the overhang was even more ominous, thousands of tons poised over the site, part of the rock face exposed. Dribbles of snow fell continuously.

  “Jean-Luc!” It was Guineppa. His eyes were open. “Don’t…don’t wait…dynamite now…must…must.”

  Pietro said, “He’s right, it’s now or never.”

  “Please… I’m fine… Mamma mia, do it now! I’m fine.”

  They hurried for the chopper. The stretcher went across the forward bank of seats and was quickly lashed into place. The others put on their seat belts. Jean-Luc got into the cockpit left seat and put on his headset. “Okay, Scot?”

  “Terrific, old chap,” Scot Gavallan said. “How’s Guineppa?”

  “Not good.” Jean-Luc checked the instruments. Everything was in the Green and plenty of fuel. “Merde! The overhang’s going any second; let’s watch the up and down drafts, they’re liable to be rough. Allons-y!”

  “Here—I rigged it for Pietro while I was waiting at Rosa.” Scot gave Jean-Luc the spare headset that was now linked with theirs.

  “I’ll give it to him when we’re airborne. I don’t feel safe here! Take off!” At once Scot opened the throttles and eased the 212 off the ground, backed off a little, turned, and was over the abyss. As he started to climb, Jean-Luc crawled back into the cabin. “Here, put these on, Pietro, now you’re connected with us up front.”

  “Good, very good.” Pietro had taken the seat nearest the door.

  “When we begin, for the sake of God, my health, and your mother, don’t fall out.”

  Pietro laughed nervously. Jean-Luc checked Guineppa who seemed more comfortable now, went forward again, and put on his headset. “You hear me, Pietro?”

  “Sì. Sì, amico.”

  The chopper labored in a circling climb. Now they were on a level with the crest. From this angle the overhang did not seem so dangerous. They were beginning to bounce a little. “Go higher, another hundred feet, amico,” came through the headsets, “and more north.”

  “Roger, Pietro. You’re navigator now.” Scot said.

  The two pilots concentrated. Pietro showed them the spot on the north face where the dynamite would undercut the overhang and create an avalanche away from the rig. “It might work,” Scot muttered.

  They circled once to make sure. “Amico, when we’re over that spot at a hundred feet, hover; I’ll light the fuse and thr
ow her out. Buono?” They could hear a tremble in Pietro’s voice.

  “Don’t forget to open the door, old chap,” Scot said dryly. There was a stream of Italian expletives in reply. Scot smiled, then a downdraft took them fifty feet before he caught it. In a minute they were to altitude and in position. “Good, amico, keep her there.”

  Jean-Luc turned around to watch. Behind in the cabin the other men stared at Pietro, fascinated. He took out the first charge and caressed the fuse straight, humming Aida.

  “Mother of God, Pietro,” Gianni said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Pietro clenched his left fist, put his right with the fused dynamite on his left bicep, and gestured with significance. “Get ready, up front,” he said into the boom mike, and unlocked his seat belt. He checked the position below, then nodded. “Good, keep her steady. Gianni, ready on the door. Open the fornicator a crack and I’ll do the rest.”

  The airplane was pitching with the gyrating air currents, as Gianni unlocked his belt and went to the door. “Hurry up,” he said, feeling very unsafe, then added to the nearest man, “hold on to my belt!”

  “Open the door, Gianni!” Gianni fought it open a foot and held it there, the sick man on the stretcher forgotten. A roar of air filled the cabin. The airplane swirled, the added suction from the open door making it more difficult for Scot to control her. Pietro held up the fuse and thumbed the lighter. It failed. Again and again, each time more anxious than the last.

  “Mother of God, come on!” Sweat was pouring off Pietro’s face when the lighter finally caught. The fuse spluttered into life. Holding on with one hand he leaned toward the door, wind eddies tugging at him. The airplane lurched and both men wished they had had the foresight to bring a safety harness. Carefully Pietro tossed the exploder through the opening. At once Gianni slammed the door closed and locked it. Then he began to swear.