Whirlwind Page 65

  Kia frowned. Anything that cost the Iranian partnership money came partially out of his own pocket now. “How soon could they be repaired and brought back?”

  “If I can get them out within a couple of days, two weeks, maybe more, maybe less.”

  Again Kia hesitated. The Guerney contracts, added to existing IHC contracts, helicopters, equipment, fixtures, and fittings were worth millions of which he now had a sixth share—for no investment, he chortled deep inside. Particularly if everything was provided, without cost, by these foreigners! Exit permits for three helicopters? He glanced at his watch. It was Cartier and bejeweled—a pishkesh from a banker who, two weeks ago, had needed a private half an hour access to a working telex. In a few minutes he had an appointment with the chairman of Air Traffic Control and could easily embroil him in this decision.

  “Very well,” he said, delighted to be so powerful, an official on the rise, to be able to assist the implementation of government oil policy, and save the partnership money at the same time. “Very well, but the exit permits will only be valid for two weeks, the license will”—he thought a moment—“will be $5,000 per aircraft in cash prior to exit, and they must be back in two weeks.”

  “I, I can’t get that money in cash in time. I could give you a note, or checks payable on a Swiss bank—for $2,000 per aircraft.”

  They haggled for a moment and settled on $3,100. “Thank you, Agha McIver,” Ali Kia said politely. “Please leave downcast lest you encourage those rascals waiting outside.”

  When McIver was once more in his car he took out the papers and stared at the signatures and official stamps. “It’s almost too good to be true,” he muttered out loud. The 125’s legal now, Kia says the suspension won’t apply to us, we’ve exit permits for three 212s that’re needed in Nigeria—$9,310 against their value of 3 million’s more than fair! I never thought I’d get away with it! “McIver,” he said happily, “you deserve a Scotch! A very large Scotch!”

  IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS: 6:50 P.M. Tom Lochart got out of the battered old cab and gave the man a $20 note. His raincoat and flight uniform were crumpled and he was very tired and unshaven and dirty and felt soiled, but his happiness at being outside his own apartment building and near Sharazad at long last took away all of it. A few flakes of snow were falling but he hardly noticed them as he hurried inside and up the staircase—no need to try the elevator, it had not worked for months.

  The car that he had borrowed from one of the pilots at Bandar Delam had run out of gas yesterday, halfway to Tehran, the gas gauge defective. He had left it at a garage and fought onto the next bus and then another and, after breakdowns and delays and diversions, had reached the main terminal in Tehran two hours ago. Nowhere to wash, no running water, the toilets just the usual festering, clogged, flyblown holes in the ground.

  No cabs at the cab rank or on the streets. No buses running anywhere near his home. Too far to walk. Then a cab appeared and he stopped it even though it was almost full, following custom, he pulled open a door and forced his way in, beseeching the other passengers to allow him to share their transport. A reasonable compromise was reached. They would be honored if he would stay and he would be honored to pay for all of them, and be last, and to pay the driver in cash. American cash. It was his last bill.

  He got out his keys and turned the lock but the door was bolted from the inside, so he pressed the bell, waiting impatiently for the maid to open the door; Sharazad would never have opened it herself. His fingers drummed a happy beat, his heart filled with love for her. His excitement grew as he heard the maid’s footsteps approach, the bolts being pulled back, the door inched open. A strange chadored face stared at him. “What do you want, Agha?” Her voice was as coarse as her Farsi.

  His excitement vanished and left a sickening hole. “Who’re you?” he said, as rudely. The woman started to close the door, but he put his foot out and shoved it open. “What’re you doing in my house? I’m Excellency Lochart and this is my house! Where’s Her Highness, my wife? Eh?”

  The woman glowered at him, then padded away across his hallway toward his living room door and opened it. Lochart saw strangers there, men and women—and guns leaning against his wall. “What the hell’s going on?” he muttered in English and strode into his living room. Two men and four women stared up at him from his carpets, cross-legged or leaning against his cushions, in the middle of a meal in front of his fireplace, a fire burning merrily, eating off his plates that were spread carelessly, their shoes off, their feet dirty. One man older than the other, in his late thirties, had his hand on an automatic that was stuck in his belt.

  Blinding rage soared through Lochart, the presence of these aliens a rape and a sacrilege. “Who’re you? Where’s my wife? By God, you get out of m—” He stopped. The gun was pointing at him.

  “Who’re you, Agha?”

  With a supreme effort Lochart dominated his fury, his chest hurting him. “I’m—I’m—this is—is my house—I’m the owner.”

  “Ah, the owner! You’re the owner?” the man called Teymour interrupted with a short laugh. “The foreigner, the husband of the Bakravan woman? Yo—” The automatic cocked as Lochart readied a lunge at him. “Don’t! I can shoot quickly and very accurately. Search him,” he told the other man who was on his feet instantly. Expertly this man ran his hands over him, pulled the flight bag out of his hands, and looked through it.

  “No guns. Flight manuals, compass—you’re the pilot Lochart?”

  “Yes,” Lochart said, his heart pumping.

  “Sit down over there! Now!”

  Lochart sat in the chair, far away from the fire. The man put the gun on the carpet beside him and took out a paper. “Give it to him.” The other man did as he was told. The paper was in Farsi. They all watched him carefully. It took Lochart a little time to decipher the writing: “Confiscation Order. For crimes against the Islamic State, all property of Jared Bakravan is confiscated except his family house and his shop in the bazaar.” It was signed on behalf of a komiteh by a name he could not read and dated two days ago.

  “This’s—this’s ridiculous,” Lochart began helplessly. “His—His Excellency Bakravan was a huge supporter of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Huge. There must be some mistake!”

  “There isn’t. He was jailed, found guilty of usury, and shot.”

  Lochart gaped at him. “There…there’s got to be a mistake!”

  “There’s none, Agha. None,” Teymour said, his voice not unkind, watching Lochart carefully, seeing the danger in him. “We know you’re Canadian, a pilot, that you’ve been away, that you’re married to one of the traitor’s daughters and not responsible for his crimes, or hers if she’s committed any.” His hand went to the gun, seeing Lochart flush. “I said ‘if,’ Agha, control your anger.” He waited and did not pick up the dull, well-kept Luger, though completely ready. “We’re not untrained rabble, we’re Freedom Fighters, professionals, and we’ve been given these quarters to guard for VIPs who arrive later. We know you’re not a hostile, so be calm. Of course this must be a shock to you—we understand, of course we understand, but we have the right to take what is ours.”

  “Right? What right do y—”

  “Right of conquest, Agha—has it ever been different? You British should know that more than any.” His voice stayed level. The women watched with cold, hard eyes. “Calm yourself. None of your possessions have been touched. Yet.” He waved his hand. “See for yourself.”

  “Where is my wife?”

  “I don’t know, Agha. There was no one here when we arrived. We arrived this morning.”

  Lochart was nearly demented with worry. If her father’s been found guilty, will the family suffer? Everyone? Wait a minute! Everything confiscated “…except his family house,” wasn’t that what the paper said? She’s got to be there… Christ, that’s miles away and I’ve no car…

  He was trying to get his mind working. “You said, you said nothing’s been touched—‘yet.’ You mean it will be
touched soon?”

  “A wise man protects his own possessions. It would be wise to take your possessions to a safe place. Everything of Bakravan stays here, but your possessions?” He shrugged. “Of course you may take them, we’re not thieves.”

  “And my wife’s possessions?”

  “Hers too. Of course. Personal things. I told you we aren’t thieves.”

  “How—how long do I have?”

  “Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow.”

  “That’s not enough time. Perhaps the day after?”

  “Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow. Would you like some food?”

  “No, no, thank you.”

  “Then good-bye, Agha, but first please give me your keys.”

  Lochart flushed in spite of his resolve. He took them out and the other man who was nearby accepted them. “You said VIPs. What VIPs?”

  “VIPs, Agha. This place belonged to an enemy of the state; now it is the property of the state for whomever it chooses. Sorry, but of course you understand.”

  Lochart looked at him, then at the other man and back again. His weariness weighed him down. And his helplessness. “I, er, before I leave I want to change and—and shave. Okay?”

  After a pause Teymour said, “Yes. Hassan, go with him.”

  Lochart walked out, hating him and them and everything that was happening, the man Hassan following him. Along the corridor and into his own room. Nothing had been touched though all the cupboards were open, and the drawers, and there was a smell of tobacco smoke but no sign of a hasty departure or of violence. The bed had been used. Get yourself together and make a plan. I can’t. All right, then shave and shower and change and go to Mac, he’s not far away, and you can walk there and he’ll help you, he’ll lend you money and a car and you’ll find her at her family house—and don’t think of Jared, just don’t.

  NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 8:10 P.M. Rakoczy moved the oil lamp nearer to the bundle of papers, diaries, files, and documents he had stolen from the upstairs safe in the U.S. embassy, continuing to sort them out. He was alone in a small tenement room—one of a warren of similar rooms, mostly for students, that had been rented for him by Farmad, the student Tudeh leader who had been killed the night of the riot. The room was dingy, without heat, just a bed and rickety table and chair and one tiny window. The panes were cracked and half covered with cardboard.

  He laughed out loud. So much achieved and at so little cost. Such good planning. Our covering riot perfectly staged outside the embassy gates—then sudden firing from the opposite rooftops, creating panic, quickly breaking down the gates and rushing the compound—our only opposition marines armed with shotguns and even then ordered not to fire—just enough time before Khomeini supporters could arrive to subdue the riot, kill us, or capture us. Covered by the pandemonium, rushing around the back of the building, smashing the side door, then up the back stairs alone while my cadre outside created more diversions, firing into the air, shouting, careful not to kill anyone but lots of noise and screaming. One landing and then the next, then running along the corridor shouting at the Americans, two frightened old women and a young man, “Get on the floor, lie down, or you’ll all be killed!”

  Frantically they obeyed and all the others—I don’t blame them, the attack so sudden and they unprepared, unarmed, and carefully panicked. Into the bedroom. Empty but for a paralyzed Iranian servant, arms over his head, half under the bed. Blowing the safe quickly, everything into the carryall, then out again and down the stairs three at a time, then away into the milling crowds, Ibrahim Kyabi and the others covering me, retreating perfectly, every objective achieved.

  Source’s got to be impressed, he thought again, my promotion to major’s got to be assured, and Father’ll be so proud of me. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he said involuntarily as another surge of ecstasy swept him—not noticing what he had said. “I’ve never felt so fullfilled.”

  Happily he went back to his work. So far the safe had revealed no treasures, but lots of documents about CIA involvement in Iran, some private ambassador rubber stamps, one cipher book that could be special, private accounts, some jewelry of little value, a few ancient coins. Never mind, he thought. There’s lots to go through yet, diaries and personal papers.

  Time passed for him easily. Soon Ibrahim Kyabi would be here to discuss the Women’s March. He wanted to know how to disrupt it to further Tudeh objectives and to damage Khomeini and Shi’ism. Khomeini’s the real danger, he thought, the only danger. That strange old man, him and his granite inflexibility. The quicker he’s brought before the No God the better.

  A current of freezing air came through the broken panes. It did not disturb him. He was warm for he wore his heavy leather jacket and sweater and shirt and underwear and good socks and strong shoes: “Always have good socks and shoes in case you’ve got to run,” his teachers had said. “Always be prepared to run…”

  He remembered, amused, running away from Erikki Yokkonen, leading him into the maze and losing him near the Deathhouse of the Lepers. I’m sure I’m going to have to kill him one day, he thought. And his hellcat wife. What about Azadeh? What about the daughter of the Abdollah Khan, Abdollah the Cruel who though valuable as a double agent, is becoming too arrogant, too independent, and too important for our safety? Yes, but now I’d like both husband and wife back in Tabriz, doing what we require of them. And as for me, I’d like to be on leave again, once more home again, safe again, Igor Mzytryk, captain KGB again, safe at home with Delaurah, my arms around her, in our fine bed with the finest linens from Ireland, her green eyes sparkling, skin like cream, and oh so beautiful. Only seven more weeks and our firstborn arrives. Oh, I hope it’s a son…

  With half an ear—as always most of his hearing tuned to detect danger—he heard the muezzins calling for evening prayer. He began clearing the little table. Very soon now Ibrahim Kyabi would be here and there was no need for the young man to know what did not concern him. Everything went quickly into the carryall. He lifted the floorboard and put the carryall into the hollow beneath that also contained a loaded, spare automatic, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, and half a dozen British fragmentary grenades. A little dirt scuffed into the cracks and now no sign of a hiding place. He doused the oil lamp until the wick was just alight and pulled the curtains back. A little snow had collected on the inside of the sill. Contentedly he began to wait. Half an hour passed. Not like Kyabi to be late.

  Then he heard footsteps. His automatic covered the door. The code of the knock was flawless; even so when he unlocked the door he slid into ambush in the comparative safety of the wall and swung the door open, ready to blast the hostile if it was a hostile. But it was Ibrahim Kyabi, bundled up and pleased to be here. “Sorry, Dimitri,” he said, stamping his feet, a little snow in his curling black hair, “but buses are almost nonexistent.”

  Rakoczy relocked the door. “Punctuality’s important. You wanted to know who the mullah was in the Bandar Delam helicopter when your father was murdered, poor man—I’ve got his name for you.” He saw the youth’s eyes light up and hid a smile. “His name’s Hussain Kowissi and he’s the mullah of Kowiss. Do you know it?”

  “No, no, I’ve never been there. Hussain Kowissi? Good, thank you.”

  “I checked him out for you. He appears to be a fanatic anti-Communist, fanatic for Khomeini, but in reality, he’s secretly CIA.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” Rakoczy said, the disinformation perfectly justified. “He spent a number of years in the U.S., sent there by the Shah, speaks fluent English, and was secretly turned by them when he was a student. His anti-Americanism’s as false as his fanaticism.”

  “How d’you do it, Dimitri? How do you know so much so fast—without phones, or telex, or anything?”

  “You forget every bus contains some of our people, every taxi, truck, village, post office. Don’t forget,” he added, believing it, “don’t forget the Masses are on our side. We are the Masses.”

  “Yes.”

  He saw th
e young man’s zeal and he knew Ibrahim was the correct instrument, and ready. “The mullah Hussain ordered the Green Bands to shoot your father, accusing him of being a plant and dupe of foreigners.”

  All color left Kyabi’s face. “Then—then I want him. He’s mine.”

  “He should be left to professionals. I’ll arrange a t—”

  “No. Please. I must have revenge.”

  Rakoczy pretended to think about that, hiding his content. Hussain Kowissi had been marked for extinction for some time. “In a few days I’ll arrange weapons, a car, and a team to go with you.”

  “Thank you. But all I need will be this.” Kyabi pulled out a pocket knife, his fingers shaking. “This, and an hour or two, and some barbed wire and I’ll show him the extent of a son’s revenge.”

  “Good. Now the Women’s March. It’s definitely scheduled in three days. Wh—” He stopped aghast, abruptly leaped for the side wall, pulled a half-seen knot. A section of the wall swung open to give access to the unlit rickety fire-exit staircase. “Come on,” he ordered and raced down it to freedom, Kyabi blindly following in a panic run. At that moment without warning the door burst open, almost torn off its hinges, and the two men who had shouldered it open almost fell into the room, others on their heels. All were Iranian, all wore Green Bands, and they charged in pursuit, guns out.

  Down the stairs three at a time, hunted and hunters, stumbling and almost falling, scrambling up and rushing out into the street and the night, into the crowds and then Rakoczy went straight into the ambush and into their arms. Ibrahim Kyabi did not hesitate, just changed direction and fled across the street and into the crowded alley and was swallowed up in the darkness.

  In an old parked car across the street from the side exit, Robert Armstrong had seen their men go in and Rakoczy caught and Kyabi escape. Rakoczy had been quickly bundled into a waiting van before many people in the street knew what was happening. Two of the Green Bands strode over toward Armstrong, both better dressed than usual. Both had holsters on their belts for their Mausers. People moved out of their way uneasily, watching without watching, wanting no trouble. The two men got into the car and Armstrong let out the clutch and eased away, the remaining Green Bands mixing with the pedestrians.