Whirlwind Page 53

  The volley was not accurate. The man in charge leisurely used a revolver to silence one of the condemned, then Bakravan. “I wouldn’t have recognized him,” the man said shortly. “It shows how foul and what liars newspapers are.”

  “This isn’t Hassen Turlak,” Ahmed said, “he comes next.”

  The man stared at him. “Then who’s this one?”

  “A bazaari,” Ahmed said. “Bazaaris are usurers and godless. I know. For years I worked there for Farazan, collecting night soil like my father before me, until I became a bricklayer with Yusuf. But this one…” He belched. “He was the richest usurer. I don’t remember much about him except how rich he was, but I remember everything about Ms women; he never curbed or taught his women who never wore chador, flaunting themselves. I remember everything about his devil daughter who’d visit the Street of the Moneylenders from time to time, half naked, skin like fresh cream, her hair flowing, breasts moving, buttocks inviting—the one called Sharazad who looks like the promised houris must look. I remember everything about her and how I cursed her for putting evil in my head, maddening me, how we all did—for tempting us.” He scratched his scrotum, feeling himself hardening. God curse her and all women who disobey God’s law and create evil thoughts in us against the Word of God. Oh, God, let me penetrate her or make me a martyr and go straight to heaven and do it there. “He was guilty of every crime,” he said, turning away.

  “But—but was he condemned?” the man in charge of the firing squad called out after him.

  “God condemned him, of course He did. The post was waiting and you told me to hurry. It was the Will of God. God is Great, God is Great. Now I will fetch Turlak, the blasphemer.” Ahmed shrugged. “It was the Will of God.”

  NEAR BANDAR DELAM: 11:58 A.M. It was the time of noon prayer and the ancient, rickety, overladen bus stopped on the shoulder of the road. Obediently, following the lead of a mullah who was also a passenger, all Muslims disembarked, spread their prayer mats and now were committing their souls to God. Except for the Indian Hindu family who were afraid of losing their seats, most of the other non-Muslim passengers had also disembarked—Tom Lochart among them—glad for the opportunity to stretch their legs or to relieve themselves. Christian Armenians, Oriental Jews, a nomadic Kash’kai couple who, though Muslim, were precluded by ancient custom from the need of the noonday prayer, or their women from the veil or chador, two Japanese, some Christian Arabs—all of them aware of the lone European.

  The day was warm, hazy, and humid from the nearby waters of the Gulf. Tom Lochart leaned tiredly against the hood that was steaming, the engine overheated, head aching, joints aching, muscles aching from his forced march out from the Dez Dam—now almost two hundred miles to the north—and from the cramped, bone-grinding, noisy discomfort of the bus. All the way from Ahwaz where he had managed to talk himself past Green Bands and onto the bus, he had been squeezed into a seat with barely enough room for two, let alone three men, one of them a young Green Band who cradled his M14 along with his child for his pregnant wife who stood in the narrow corridor crammed against thirty others in space for fifteen. Every seat was equally packed with men, women, and children of all ages. The air fetid, voices babbling in a multitude of tongues. Overhead and underfoot, bags and bundles and cases, crates packed with vegetables or half-dead chickens, a small, undernourished, hobbled goat or two—the luggage racks outside on the roof equally laden.

  But I’m damned lucky to be here, he thought, his misery returning, half listening to the lilting chant of the Shahada.

  Yesterday, near sunset, when he had heard the 212 take off from Dez, he had come out from under the little wharf, blessing God for his escape. The water had been very cold and he was trembling, but he had picked up the automatic, checked the action, and then gone up to the house. It was open. There was food and drink in the refrigerator that still hummed nicely, powered by a generator. It was warm inside the house. He took off his clothes and dried them over a heater, cursing Valik and Seladi and consigning them to hell. “Sonsofbitches! What the hell’d I do to them but save their goddamn necks?”

  The warmth and the luxury of the house were tempting. His tiredness ached him. Last night at Isfahan had been almost sleepless. I could sleep and leave at dawn, he thought. I’ve a compass and I know the way more or less: skirt the airfield Ali Abbasi mentioned, then head almost due east to pick up the main Kermanshah-Ahwaz-Abadan road. Should be no trouble to get a bus or hitch a ride. Or I could go now—the moon’ll light my way and then I won’t be trapped here if the air base has sent a patrol—Ali was just as nervous about that as Seladi and we could easily have been spotted. Easily. But either way, when you get stopped, what’s your story?

  He thought about that while he fixed himself a brandy and soda and some food. Valik and the others had opened two half-kilo cans of the best beluga gray caviar and had left them carelessly on the sitting-room table, still partially full. He ate it with relish, then threw the cans into the garbage pail that was outside the back door. Then he locked the house and left.

  The forced march over the mountains had been bad but not as bad as he had expected. Just after dawn he had come down to the main Kermanshah-Ahwaz-Abadan road. Almost at once he had been given a ride by some Korean construction workers evacuating the steel mill they were building under contract at Kermanshah—it was almost custom that expats helped expats on the road. They were heading for Abadan Airport where they had been told transport to fly them back to Korea would be waiting for them. “Much fighting at Kermanshah,” they had told him in halting English. “Everyone guns. Iranians killing each others. All mad, barbarians—worse than Japanese.” They had dropped him off at the Ahwaz bus terminal. Miraculously he had managed to talk his way onto the next bus that went past Bandar Delam.

  Yes. But now what? Gloomily he remembered how, after throwing the empty caviar cans into the garbage, on reflection he had retrieved them and buried them, then gone back and wiped the glass that he had used and even the door handle. You need your head examined, as if they’d check for fingerprints! Yes, but at the time I thought it best not to leave traces I’d been there.

  You’re crazy! You’re on the flight clearance at Tehran, there’s your unauthorized pickup of Valik and his family, the breakout from Isfahan, and flying “enemies of the state and helping them escape” to account for—whether it’s from SAVAK or Khomeini! And how does S-G or McIver account for a missing Iranian helicopter that ends up in Kuwait or Baghdad or where the hell ever that’s bound to be reported?

  What a goddamn mess!

  Yes. Then there’s Sharazad…

  “Don’t worry, Agha,” broke into his thoughts, “we’re all in God’s hands.”

  It was the mullah and he was smiling up at him. He was a youngish man, bearded, and he had joined the bus at Ahwaz with his wife and three children. Over his shoulder was a rifle. “The driver says you speak Farsi and that you’re from Canada and a person of the Book?”

  “Yes, yes, I am, Agha,” Lochart replied, collecting his wits. He saw that prayer had finished and now everyone crowded the bus doorway.

  “Then you too will go to heaven as the Prophet promised if you are found worthy, though not to our part.” The mullah smiled shyly. “Iran will be the first real Islamic state in the world since the time of the Prophet.” Again the shy smile. “You’re—you’re the first person of the Book that I’ve met or spoken to. You learned to speak Farsi at school?”

  “I went to a school, Excellency, but mostly I had private teachers.” Lochart picked up his flight bag that he had taken off with him for safety and moved to join the line. His own seat was already taken. Beside the road several passengers were relieving themselves or defecating, men, women, and children.

  “And the Excellency works in the oil business?” The mullah moved into line beside him, and at once people stepped aside to let him take preference. Inside the bus passengers were already quarreling, a few shouting to the driver to hurry.

  “Y
es, for your great IranOil,” Lochart said, very conscious that those nearby were listening also, jostling to get closer to hear better. Not long to go now, he thought, the airport can’t be more than a few miles ahead. Just before noon he had caught a glimpse of a 212 heading in from the Gulf. She was too far away to see if she was civilian or military but she was heading in the general direction of the airport. It’ll be great to see Rudi and the others, to sleep and…

  “The driver says you were on holiday near Kermanshah?”

  “In Luristan, south of Kermanshah.” Lochart concentrated. He retold the story he had decided upon, the same that he had told the ticket seller at Ahwaz, and the Green Bands who also wanted to know who he was and why he was in Ahwaz. “I was on a hiking holiday north of Luristan, in the mountains, and got trapped there in a village by a snowfall—for a week. You are going to Shiraz?” This was the final destination of the bus.

  “Shiraz is where my mosque is and the place of my birth. Come, we will sit together.” The mullah took the nearest seat beside an old man, put one of his children on his knee, cradled his gun, and left Lochart just enough room on the aisle. Reluctantly Lochart obeyed, not wanting to sit beside a talkative and inquisitive mullah, but at the same time thankful for a place. The bus was filling up quickly. People shoved past, trying to get space or to move farther back. “Your country Canada borders the Great Satan, does it not?”

  “Canada and America have common borders,” Lochart said, his bile rising. “The vast majority of Americans are People of the Book.”

  “Ah, yes, but many are Jews and Zionists, and Jews and Zionists and Christians are against Islam, the enemy of Islam, and therefore against God. Isn’t it true that Jews and Zionists rule the Great Satan?”

  “If you mean America, no, Agha, no it is not.”

  “But if the Imam says it, it is so.” The mullah was quite confident and gentle and quoted from the Koran, ‘“For God is angry with them, and in torment shall they abide forever.’” Then he added, “If the Im—”

  There was a flurry in the back of the bus, and they turned to see one of the Iranians angrily tug the turbaned Indian out of his seat to take his place. The Indian forced a smile and stayed standing. By custom it was always the first one seated who had the right to stay seated unharmed. The torrent of voices began again and now another man, jammed in the aisle, began cursing all foreigners loudly. He was roughly dressed, aimed, and stood alongside the two Japanese who were crammed into a seat with a ragged old Kurd and glared down at them.

  “Why should foreigner Infidels sit while we stand? With the Help of God, we’re no longer lackeys of Infidels!” the man said even more angrily and jerked his thumb at them. “Move!”

  Neither Japanese moved. One of them took off his glasses and smiled at the man. The man hesitated, began to bluster but thought better of it, then turned and shouted at the driver to hurry up. Just before the Japanese put back his glasses he caught Lochart’s eye, nodded and smiled.

  Lochart smiled back. At Ahwaz, while they were all pushing their way onto the bus, one of the Japanese had said to Lochart in passable English, “Follow us, sir, at rush hour Tokyo buses and trains are much worse.” With a great display of politeness the two quickly cleared a path, found him a seat and places at the back for themselves. During the noon stop they had chatted briefly, telling him they were engineers coming back from leave, heading for Iran-Toda.

  “Ah,” the mullah said happily, seeing the driver squeeze back into his seat, “now we continue, thanks be to God.”

  With a great flourish the driver started the engine and the bus lumbered on its way. “Next stop Bandar Delam,” he called out. “God willing.”

  “God willing.” The mullah was very content. Once more he turned his attention to Lochart and shouted above the noise, “Agha, you were saying about the Great Satan?”

  Lochart had his eyes closed and he pretended not to hear.

  The mullah touched him. “You were saying, Agha, about the Great Satan?”

  “I was saying nothing, Agha.”

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  Lochart kept his face polite, knowing the danger he was in, and said louder, “I was saying nothing, Agha. Traveling is tiring, isn’t it?” He closed his eyes again. “I think I will sleep a little.”

  “Why say nothing?” a young man standing alongside in the aisle shouted down at him over the grinding engine. “America is responsible for all our troubles. If it wasn’t for America, there’d be peace in the whole world!”

  Grimly Lochart kept his eyes closed and tried to shut his ears, knowing he was near snapping—half of him wishing he had the automatic in his pocket, the other half thankful it was in his bag. He felt the mullah shake him.

  “Before you sleep, Agha, don’t you agree the world would be much better without the American evil?”

  Lochart fought down his anger and just kept his eyes closed. Another shake, much rougher, this time from the aisle, and the man shouted in his ear, “Answer His Excellency!”

  He was suddenly sick to death of all the anti-American propaganda and lies continually fed to them. White with rage, he opened his eyes and shoved the man’s hand away and exploded in English. “Well, I’ll tell you, mullah, you’d better thank God America exists because without it there’d be goddamn nothing in the world and we’d all be in a goddamn gulag or under the goddamn ground, you, me, this jerk, and even Khomeini!”

  “What?”

  He saw the mullah gaping at him—and realized he had been speaking English. Taking a tight rein on his mouth, he said in Farsi, knowing there was no way he could explain logically, “I was quoting the Holy Bible in English,” he said, making it up. “I was quoting Abraham when he was very angry. Didn’t Abraham say: ‘Evil stalks the earth in many guises—it is the duty of the Believer to…to guard against evil, any evil—all evil!’ Isn’t it?”

  The mullah was looking at him strangely and quoted from the Koran: “ ‘And God said to Abraham, I will make you a leader to mankind, and Abraham said, of my offspring also! God said, My covenant embraceth not the evil-doers.’”

  “I agree,” Lochart said. “And now I must think about God—the One God, the God of Abraham and Moses and Jesus and Mohammed, whose Name be praised!” Lochart closed his eyes. His heart was pounding. Any moment he expected the angry youth’s rifle butt in his face or the mullah to shout for the bus to stop. He expected no mercy. But the moment passed and they left him to his supposed prayers.

  The mullah sighed, lack of space pressing him against this Infidel. I wonder how an Infidel prays, he was thinking. What does he say to God—even a person of the Book? How pitiful they are!

  AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 12:32 P.M. The Iranian Air Force car swung past the sleepy guards on the gate, its green Khomeini flag fluttering, and pulled up in a swirl of dust outside Rudi’s office trailer. Two smartly uniformed officers got out. With them were three Green Bands.

  Rudi Lutz went out to meet the officers—a major and a captain. When he recognized the captain, his face lit up. “Hello, Hushang. I’ve been wondering how you were do—”

  The older officer interrupted him angrily, “I’m Major Qazani, Air Force Intelligence. What’s an Iranian chopper under your control doing trying to leave Iranian airspace, repeatedly disobeying instructions from an intercept, and totally disregarding orders from ground control?”

  Rudi stared at them blankly. “There’s only one of my choppers airborne, and she’s on a CASEVAC requested by Abadan radar control.”

  “What’s her registration?”

  “EP-HXX. What’s this all about?”

  “That’s what I want to know.” Major Qazani walked past him into the trailer and sat down. His Green Bands waited. “Come on!” the major said irritably. “Sit down, Captain Lutz.”

  Rudi hesitated, then sat at his desk. A few bullet holes in the wall let in light behind him. The Green Bands and the other officer came in and shut the door.

  “What’s HXX?
A 206 or 212?” the major asked.

  “It’s a 206. What’s th—”

  “How many 212s have you here?”

  “Two. HXX and HGC. Abadan radar cleared HXX on a CASEVAC yesterday to Kowiss with wounded from the fedayeen attack at dawn yester—”

  “Yes, we heard about that. And that you helped the Guards blow them to the hell they deserve, for which many thanks. Is EP-HBC an S-G 212 registration?”

  Rudi hesitated. “I don’t know offhand, Major. I don’t have records here of all our 212s, but I could find out—if I can raise our base in Kowiss. Radio’s been out for a day. Now, please, I’ll help all I can, but what’s this about?”

  Major Qazani lit a cigarette, offered one to Rudi who shook his head. “It’s about a 212, EP-HBC, we believe an S-G-operated 212, with an unknown number of persons aboard that went over the Iraqi border just before sunset last night—with no clearances, disregarding, as I’ve said, disregarding explicit radio orders to land.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.” Rudi’s mind was racing. Got to be someone making an escape, he thought. “She’s not our bird. We can’t even start engines without Abadan Control’s okay. That’s SOP.”

  “How would you explain HBC then?”

  “She could be a Guerney aircraft taking some of their personnel away, or Bell, or any one of the other chopper companies. It’s been hard, sometimes impossible, to file a flight plan recently. You know how, er, how fluid radar’s been the last few weeks.”

  “Fluid’s not a good word,” Captain Hushang Abbasi said. He was a lithe, very handsome man with a clipped mustache and dark glasses, and wore wings on his uniform. All of last year he had been based at Kharg where he and Rudi had got to know each other. “And if she was an S-G aircraft?”