Whirlwind Page 77

  “God Almighty,” he muttered. “Can you trust him?”

  “Oh, yes. Ali is…he’s been with Father for years. I’ve known him since I was seven and I gave him a pishkesh of some jewelry, enough for him and his family for years. But, Johnny, about Erikki… I’m so worried.”

  “No need to worry, Azadeh. Didn’t Erikki say they might send him near to Turkey?” he said encouraging her, anxious to get her back safely. “I can’t thank you enough for warning us. Come on, first we’d better get you back an—”

  “Oh, no, I can’t,” she burst out. “Don’t you understand? Father’ll take me north and I’ll never get away, never—my father hates me and he’ll leave me with Mzytryk, I know he will, I know he will.”

  “But what about Erikki?” he said shocked. “You can’t just run away!”

  “Oh, yes, I have to, Johnny, I have to. I daren’t wait, I daren’t go to Tbilisi, it’s much safer for Erikki that I run away now. Much safer.”

  “What’re you talking about? You can’t run away just like that! That’s madness! Say Erikki comes back tonight and finds you gone? Wh—”

  “I left him a note—we made an arrangement that in an emergency I’d leave a note in a secret place in our room. We had no way of telling what Father would do while he was away. Erikki’ll know. There’s something else. Father’s going to the airport today, around noon. He has to meet a plane, someone from Tehran, I don’t know who or what about but I thought perhaps you could…you could persuade them to take us back to Tehran or we could sneak aboard or you…you could force them to take us.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said angrily. “This’s all crazy, Azadeh. It’s madness to run off and leave Erikki—how do you know it’s not just as your father says, for God’s sake? You say the Khan hates you—my God, if you run off like this, whether he does or doesn’t he’ll blow a gasket. Either way you put Erikki into more danger.”

  “How can you be so blind? Don’t you see? So long as I’m here Erikki has no chance, none. If I’m not here he has to think only of himself. If he knows I’m in Tbilisi he’ll go there and be lost forever. Don’t you see? I’m the bait. In the Name of God, Johnny, open your eyes! Please help me!”

  He heard her crying now, softly but still crying, and this only increased his fury. Christ Almighty, we can’t take her along. There’s no way I could do that. That’d be murder—if what she says about the Khan’s true the dragnet’ll be out for us in a couple of hours and we’ll be lucky if we see sunset—the dragnet’s already out for God’s sake, think clearly! Bloody nonsense about running away! “You have to go back. It’s better,” he said.

  The crying stopped. “Insha’Allah,” she said in a different voice. “Whatever you say, Johnny. It’s better you leave quickly. You’ve not much time. Which way will you go?”

  “I—I don’t know.” He was glad for the darkness that hid his face from her. My God, why must it be Azadeh? “Come on, I’ll see you safely back.”

  “There’s no need. I’ll… I’ll stay here for a while.”

  He heard the falsehood and his nerves jangled even more. “You’re going to go back. You’ve got to.”

  “No,” she said defiantly. “I can never go back. I’m staying here. He won’t find me, I’ve hidden here before. Once I was here two days. I’m safe here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. You go on. That’s what you’ve got to do.”

  Exasperated, he managed to control his urge to drag her to her feet, and instead sat back against the wall of the cave. I can’t leave her, can’t carry her back against her will, can’t take her. Can’t leave her, can’t take her. Oh you can take her with you but for how long and then, when she’s captured, she’s mixed up with saboteurs and Christ only knows what else they’d accuse her of and they stone women for that. “When we’re found missing—if you are too—the Khan’ll know you tipped us off. If you stay here, eventually you’ll be found and anyway the Khan’ll know you gave us the tip and that’ll make it worse than ever for you, and worse for your husband. You must go back.”

  “No, Johnny. I’m in the Hands of God and not afraid.”

  “For God’s sake, Azadeh, use your head!”

  “I am. I’m in God’s hands, you know that. Didn’t we talk about that in our High Country a dozen times? I’m not afraid. Just leave me a grenade like the one you gave to Erikki. I’m safe in God’s hands. Please go now.”

  In the other time they had talked about God often. On a Swiss mountaintop it was easy and ordinary and nothing to be shy about—not with your beloved who knew the Koran and could read Arabic and felt very close to the Infinite and believed in Islam absolutely. Here in the darkness of the small cave it was not the same. Nothing was the same.

  “Insha’Allah it is,” he said and decided. “We’ll go back, you and I, and I’ll send Gueng on.” He got up.

  “Wait.” He heard her get up too and felt her breath and nearness. Her hand touched his arm. “No, my darling,” she said, her voice as it used to be. “No, my darling, that would destroy my Erikki—and you and your soldier. Don’t you see, I’m the lodestone to destroy Erikki. Remove the lodestone and he has a chance. Outside my father’s walls, you too have a chance. When you see Erikki, tell him…tell him.”

  What should I tell him? he was asking himself. In the darkness he took her hand in his and, feeling its warmth, was back in time again in the darkness together in the great bed, a vast summer storm lashing the windows, the two of them counting the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunder that bounced off the sides of the high valley—sometimes only one or two seconds, oh, Johnny it must be almost overhead, Insha’Allah if it hits us, never mind we’re together—holding hands together just like this. But not like this, he thought sadly. He put her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You can tell him yourself,” he said. “We’ll give it a go—together. Ready?”

  “You mean go on—together?”

  “Yes.”

  After a pause she said, “First ask Gueng.”

  “He does what I say.”

  “Yes, of course. But please ask him. Another favor. Please?”

  He went to the neck of the cleft. Gueng was leaning against the rocks outside. Before he could say anything Gueng said softly in Gurkhali, “No danger yet, sahib. Outside.”

  “Ah, you heard?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “What do you think?”

  Gueng smiled. “What I think, sahib, has no weight, affects nothing. Karma is karma. I do what you say.”

  AT TABRIZ AIRPORT: 12:40 P.M. Abdollah Khan stood beside his bulletproof Rolls on the snow-covered concrete apron near the airport terminal. He was flushed with rage, watching the 125 turn onto final, praying it would crash. Yesterday a telex relayed through police HQ had been brought by his nephew, Colonel Mazardi, the chief of police, “Please meet jet G-ETLL, ETA 1240 tomorrow Tuesday, [signed] Colonel Hashemi Fazir.” The name had sent an immediate shudder through him and everyone else who had access to the message. Inner Intelligence had always been above the law and Colonel Hashemi Fazir its grand inquisitor, a man whose ruthlessness was legend even in Iran where ruthlessness was expected and admired.

  “What does he want here, Highness?” Mazardi had asked, very afraid.

  “To discuss Azerbaijan,” he had said, hiding his dread and seething at the curtness of the telex, completely thrown by this unexpected and unwanted arrival. “Of course to ask how he can assist me—he’s been a secret friend for years,” he added, lying automatically.

  “I’ll order an honor guard and welcoming komiteh and ma—”

  “Don’t be a fool! Colonel Fazir likes secrecy. Do nothing, don’t go near the airport, just make sure the streets are quiet and…ah, yes, increase pressure on the Tudeh. In fact, implement Khomeini’s orders to crush them. Burn their headquarters tonight and arrest their known leaders.” That will be a perfect pishkesh should I need one, he had thought, delighted with his cleverness. Isn’t Fazir fanatically anti-Tudeh? God be
thanked that Petr Oleg gave his approval.

  Then he had sent Mazardi away and cursed everyone near him and sent them away too. Now what does that son of a dog Fazir want with me?

  Over the years they had met several times and had exchanged information, to their mutual advantage. But Colonel Hashemi Fazir was one of those who believed that Iran’s only protection lay in absolute centralized government, ruled from Tehran, and that tribal chieftains were archaic and a danger to the state—and also Fazir was a Tehrani with the power to uncover too many secrets, secrets that could be used against him. God curse all Tehranis and send them to hell. And Azadeh, and her God-cursed husband!

  Azadeh! Did I truly sire that demon? It’s not possible! Someone must have… God forgive me that I suspect my Beloved Napthala! Azadeh’s Satan-possessed. But she won’t escape, oh no, I swear I’ll take her to Tbilisi and I’ll let Petr use her…

  Blood began roaring in his ears again and the clawing started in his chest again, a grasping pain. Stop it, he told himself desperately, calm yourself. Put her aside, you’ll get your revenge later. Stop it or you’ll kill yourself! Stop it and put her aside and think of Fazir, you’ll need all your cunning to deal with him. She can’t escape.

  When, just after dawn, petrified guards had rushed in to tell him the two prisoners had vanished and, almost at the same time she was also discovered missing, his violence had known no bounds. At once he had sent men to search her hiding place in the rocks that he had known about for years and ordered them not to come back without her or the saboteurs. He had had the nose of the night guard cut off, the rest of the guards flogged and shoved into jail, charged with conspiracy, her maids whipped. At length he had stormed off to the airport, leaving a pall of terror over the whole palace.

  God curse them all, he thought, making a great effort to calm himself, his eyes never leaving the jet. The sky was patchy blue with ominous clouds and a bad wind that swept the snow-covered runway. He wore an Astrakhan hat and fur-collared winter coat and fur-lined boots, the cold misting his glasses. In his pocket was a small revolver. Behind him, the small terminal building was empty but for his men who had secured it and the access road beyond. Above, on the roof, he had put a sniper into ambush with instructions to shoot Fazir if he took out a white handkerchief and blew his nose. I’ve done all I can, he thought, now it is up to God. Crash, you son of a burnt father!

  But the 125 made a perfect touchdown, snow flaring from her wheels in a vast spray. His dread increased. And the sound of his own heartbeat. “As God wants,” he muttered and got into the back of the car, partitioned from the chauffeur and Ahmed, his most trusted counselor and bodyguard, by the movable, bulletproof glass. “Intercept it,” he ordered and checked the revolver, leaving the safety off.

  The 125 came off the far end of the runway into the feeder area, turned into the wind and stopped. It was bleak here, just snowdrifts and empty space. The big black Rolls pulled up alongside, and the door of the jet swung open. He saw Hashemi Fazir standing there, beckoning him, “Salaam! Peace be upon you, Highness, come aboard.”

  Abdollah Khan opened the window and called back, “Salaam, peace be upon you, Excellency, join me here.” You must think me a fool to put my head in such a trap, he thought. “Ahmed, go aboard, go armed and pretend you don’t speak English.”

  Ahmed Dursak was a Muslim Turkoman, very strong, very quick with a knife or gun. He got out, the submachine gun loose in one hand, and ran nimbly up the steps, the wind pulling at his long coat. “Salaam, Excellency Colonel,” he said in Farsi, standing outside on the top step. “My Master begs you to please join him in the car—cabins of small jets make him disquieted. In the car you can talk in private and in peace, totally alone if you wish. He asks if you will honor his poor house and stay with him during your stay here.”

  Hashemi was shocked that Abdollah had had the effrontery—and confidence—to send the emissary armed. Going to the car did not suit him either, too easy to be bugged, or booby-trapped. “Tell His Highness I sometimes have car sickness and I beg him to come here. Here we can speak in private, be alone also and it would be a favor to me. Of course you should search the cabin in case a foul alien sneaked aboard.”

  “My Master would prefer, Excellency, that you j—”

  Hashemi came closer to him and now his lips were a thin line and his voice as tight. “Search the airplane! Now! And do it quickly, Ahmed Dursak, three times murderer—one a woman called Najmeh—and do what I order or you will not last one more week on this earth.”

  “Then all the sooner I will be in Paradise because serving the Khan I do God’s work,” Ahmed Dursak said, “but I will search as you wish.” He stepped through the doorway and saw the two pilots in the cockpit. In the cabin was Armstrong. His eyes narrowed but he said nothing, just went past politely and opened the lavatory door making sure it was empty. There was nowhere else that anyone could hide. “Should what you suggest be possible, Excellency, the pilots will leave?”

  Earlier Hashemi had asked the captain, John Hogg, if he would oblige, should it become necessary.

  “Sorry, sir,” Hogg had said, “but I don’t like that idea at all.”

  “It would only be for a few minutes. You can take the ignition key with you—and the circuit breakers,” Robert Armstrong had said. “I will personally guarantee no one gets into the cockpit or touches anything.”

  “I still don’t like that idea, sir.”

  “I know,” Armstrong had said. “But Captain McIver told you you were to do what we asked. Within reason. And this’s within reason.”

  Hashemi saw the arrogance in Ahmed’s face and he wanted to smash it off. That comes later, he promised himself. “The pilots will wait in the car.”

  “And the Infidel?”

  “This Infidel speaks better Farsi than you, lice, and if you’re wise, lice, you’ll be polite to him and call him Excellency for I can assure you and your dog Turkoman ancestors he has as long a memory as me and can be more cruel than you can imagine.”

  Ahmed’s mouth smiled. “And His Excellency, the Infidel, he waits on the runway also?”

  “He stays here. The pilots wait in the car. Should His Highness want one guard with him—to make sure no assassins wait in ambush—he is of course welcome. If this arrangement does not suit him, then perhaps we should meet in police headquarters. Now take your foul manners away.”

  Ahmed thanked him politely and strode back and told the Khan what had been said, adding, “I think that dog’s turd must be very sure of himself to be so rude.” And in the airplane Hashemi was saying in English, “Robert, that son of a dog must be very sure of himself to have such arrogant servants.”

  “You’d really haul the Khan of all the Gorgons down to police HQ?”

  “I could try.” Hashemi lit another cigarette. “I don’t think I’d succeed. His nephew Mazardi’s still chief of police and police here still hold most of their power—Green Bands and komitehs aren’t dominant. Yet.”

  “Because of Abdollah?”

  “Of course Abdollah. For months, on his orders, the Tabrizi police covertly supported Khomeini. The only difference from Shah days to Khomeini days is that Shah pictures have been replaced with Khomeini pictures, Shah emblems taken off all uniforms, and now Abdollah’s grasp is tighter than ever.” A chill draft came through the half-open door. “Azerbaijanis are a treacherous breed, and cruel—the Qajar Shahs came from Tabriz—so did Shah Abbas, who built Isfahan and tried to ensure his longevity by murdering his eldest son and blinding another…”

  Hashemi Fazir was watching the car out of the window, willing Abdollah Khan to concede. He was feeling better now and more confident that he would see Holy Day this week than he had been on Sunday evening when General Janan had burst into his HQ with orders for the dissolution of Inner Intelligence and had taken possession of the cassettes and Rakoczy. All that night he had been at his wits’ end, then at dawn yesterday when he had left his house he had found men tailing him and, during the mor
ning, his wife and children were jostled on the streets. It had taken him until early afternoon to lose those who followed him. By that time one of his secret Group Four leaders was waiting at a safe house and that evening when General Janan got out of his bulletproof limousine to go into his home, a nearby parked car filled with plastic explosive blew him and two of his most trusted assistants to pieces, totally wrecking his house, obliterating his wife and three children and seven servants—and his elderly, bedridden father. Men shouting leftist mujhadin slogans were heard running away. In their wake they left crudely written pamphlets: “Death to SAVAK now SAVAMA.”

  In the early hours of this morning, half an hour after Abrim Pahmudi had discreetly left the bed of his very secret mistress, cruel men had paid her a visit. More leftist slogans were heard and the same message daubed on her walls, using her blood and vomit and feces for paint. At nine this morning he had gone by appointment to give his condolences to Abrim Pahmudi for both tragedies—of course Inner Intelligence had informed him of them. As a pishkesh he brought part of Rakoczy’s testimony as though it was information that had come into his hands from another source—just enough to be of value. “I’m sure, Excellency, if I were allowed to resume my work I could gather much more. And if my department was to be honored with your confidence and allowed to operate as before—but to report solely to you and no other power—I could prevent such foul deeds and perhaps smash these terrorist dogs off the earth.”

  While he was there an aide had rushed in, distraught, to say that more terrorists had assassinated one of the most important ayatollahs in Tehran—another car bomb—and the Revolutionary Komiteh required Pahmudi’s immediate presence. At once Pahmudi had got up but before he left he rescinded his previous order. “I agree, Excellency Colonel. For thirty days. You have thirty days to prove your value.”

  “Thank you, Excellency, your confidence overwhelms me, you may be sure of my loyalty. May I have Rakoczy back, please?”

  “That dog, General Janan, allowed him to escape.”